Blind Thamyris, and blind Mæonides,Pursue the triumph and partake the gale!Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees,To point a moral or adorn a tale.Full many a gem of purest ray serene,Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears,Like angels' visits, few and far between,Deck the long vista of departed years.Man never is, but always to be bless'd;The tenth transmitter of a foolish face,Like Aaron's serpent, swallows up the rest,And makes a sunshine in the shady place.For man the hermit sigh'd, till woman smiled,To waft a feather or to drown a fly,(In wit a man, simplicity a child,)With silent finger pointing to the sky.But fools rush in where angels fear to treadFar out amid the melancholy main;As when a vulture on Imaus bred,Dies of a rose in aromatic pain.
Laman Blanchard.
In his chamber, weak and dying,While the Norman Baron lay,Loud, without, his men were crying,"Shorter hours and better pay."Know you why the ploughman, fretting,Homeward plods his weary wayEre his time? He's after gettingShorter hours and better pay.See! theHesperusis swingingIdle in the wintry bay,And the skipper's daughter's singing,"Shorter hours and better pay."Where's the minstrel boy? I've found himJoining in the labour frayWith his placards slung around him,"Shorter hours and better pay."Oh, young Lochinvar is coming;Though his hair is getting grey,Yet I'm glad to hear him humming,"Shorter hours and, better pay."E'en the boy upon the burningDeck has got a word to say,Something rather cross concerningShorter hours and better pay.Lives of great men all remind usWe can make as much as they,Work no more, until they find usShorter hours and better pay.Hail to thee, blithe spirit! (Shelley)Wilt thou be a blackleg? Nay.Soaring, sing above the mélée,"Shorter hours and better pay."
Unknown.
Lives there a man with soul so deadWho never to himself has said,"Shoot folly as it flies"?Oh! more than tears of blood can tell,Are in that word, farewell, farewell!'Tis folly to be wise.And what is friendship but a name,That boils on Etna's breast of flame?Thus runs the world away,Sweet is the ship that's under sailTo where yon taper cheers the vale,With hospitable ray!Drink to me only with thine eyesThrough cloudless climes and starry skies!My native land, good night!Adieu, adieu, my native shore;'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more—Whatever is, is right!
Laman Blanchard.
Mysterious Nothing! how shall I defineThy shapeless, baseless, placeless emptiness?Nor form, nor colour, sound, nor size is thine,Nor words nor fingers can thy voice express;But though we cannot thee to aught compare,A thousand things to thee may likened be,And though thou art with nobody nowhere,Yet half mankind devote themselves to thee.How many books thy history contain;How many heads thy mighty plans pursue;What labouring hands thy portion only gain;What busy bodies thy doings only do!To thee the great, the proud, the giddy bend,And—like my sonnet—all in nothing end.
Richard Porson.
To the memory of Miss Ellen Gee, of Kew, who died in consequence of being stung in the eye.
Peerless yet hapless maid of Q!Accomplish'd LN G!Never again shall I and UTogether sip our T.For, ah! the Fates I know not Y,Sent 'midst the flowers a B,Which ven'mous stung her in the I,So that she could not C.LN exclaim'd, "Vile spiteful B!If ever I catch UOn jess'mine, rosebud, or sweet P,I'll change your singing Q."I'll send you like a lamb or UAcross th' Atlantic C.From our delightful village QTo distant O Y E."A stream runs from my wounded I,Salt as the briny CAs rapid as the X or Y,The OIO or D."Then fare thee ill, insensate B!Who stung, nor yet knew Y,Since not for wealthy Durham's CWould I have lost my I."They bear with tears fair LN GIn funeral R A,A clay-cold corse now doom'd to BWhilst I mourn her DK.Ye nymphs of Q, then shun each B,List to the reason Y;For should A B C U at T,He'll surely sting your I.Now in a grave L deep in Q,She's cold as cold can B,Whilst robins sing upon A UHer dirge and LEG.
Unknown.
"True 'tis P T, and P T 'tis, 'tis true."In I V Lane, of C T fame,There lived a man D C,And A B I 6 was his name,Now mark his history.Long time his conduct free from blameDid merit L O G,Until an evil spirit cameIn the shape of O D V."O! that a man into his mouthShould put an N M ETo steal away his brains"—no drouthSuch course from sin may free.Well, A B drank, the O T loon!And learned to swear, sans ruth;And then he gamed, and U Z soonTo D V 8 from truth.An hourly glass with him was play,He'd swallow that with phlegm;Judge what he'd M T in a day,"X P DHerculem."Of virtue none to sots, I trow,With F E K C prate;And O of N R G could nowFrom A B M N 8.Who on strong liquor badly dote,Soon poverty must know;Thus A B in a C D coatWas shortly forced to go.From poverty D C T he caught,And cheated not A F U,For what he purchased paying O,Or but an "I O U."Or else when he had tried B 4,To shirk a debt, his wits,He'd cry, "You shan't wait N E more,I'll W or quits."So lost did I 6 now A P R,That said his wife, said she,"F U act so, your fate quite clearIs for 1 2 4 C."His inside soon was out and outMore fiery than K N;And while his state was thereaboutA cough C V R came.He I P K Q N A tried,And linseed T and rue;But O could save him, so he diedAs every 1 must 2.Poor wight! till black in' the face he raved,'Twas P T S 2 CHis latest spirit "spirit" craved—His last words, "O D V."
MORAL
I'll not S A to preach and prate,But tell U if U doDrink O D V at such R 8,Death will 4 stall U 2.O U then who A Y Z have,Shun O D V as a wraith,For 'tis a bonus to the grave,An S A unto death.
Unknown.
A man of words and not of deeds,Is like a garden full of weeds;And when the weeds begin to grow,It's like a garden full of snow;And when the snow begins to fall,It's like a bird upon the wall;And when the bird away does fly,It's like an eagle in the sky;And when the sky begins to roar,It's like a lion at the door;And when the door begins to crack,It's like a stick across your back;And when your back begins to smart,It's like a penknife in your heart;And when your heart begins to bleed,You're dead, and dead, and dead indeed.
Unknown.
As wet as a fish—as dry as a bone;As live as a bird—as dead as a stone;As plump as a partridge—as poor as a rat;As strong as a horse—as weak as a cat;As hard as a flint—as soft as a mole;As white as a lily—as black as a coal;As plain as a pike-staff—as rough as a bear;As light as a drum—as free as the air;As heavy as lead—as light as a feather;As steady as time—uncertain as weather;As hot as an oven—as cold as a frog;As gay as a lark—as sick as a dog;As slow as the tortoise—as swift as the wind;As true as the Gospel—as false as mankind;As thin as a herring—as fat as a pig;As proud as a peacock—as blithe as a grig;As savage as tigers—as mild as a dove;As stiff as a poker—as limp as a glove;As blind as a bat—as deaf as a post;As cool as a cucumber—as warm as a toast;As flat as a flounder—as round as a ball;As blunt as a hammer—as sharp as an awl;As red as a ferret—as safe as the stocks;As bold as a thief—as sly as a fox;As straight as an arrow—as crook'd as a bow;As yellow as saffron—as black as a sloe;As brittle as glass—as tough as gristle;As neat as my nail—as clean as a whistle;As good as a feast—as had as a witch;As light as is day—as dark as is pitch;As brisk as a bee—as dull as an ass;As full as a tick—as solid as brass.
Unknown.
No sun—no moon!No morn—no noon—No dawn—no dusk—no proper time of day—No sky—no earthly view—No distance looking blue—No road—no street—no "t'other side the way"—No end to any Row—No indications where the Crescents go—No top to any steeple—No recognitions of familiar people—No courtesies for showing 'em—No knowing 'em!No travelling at all—no locomotion,No inkling of the way—no notion—"No go"—by land or ocean—No mail—no post—No news from any foreign coast—No park—no ring—no afternoon gentility—No company—no nobility—No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,No comfortable feel in any member—No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds, November!
Thomas Hood.
Young Ben he was a nice young man,A carpenter by trade;And he fell in love with Sally Brown,That was a lady's maid.But as they fetched a walk one day,They met a press-gang crew;And Sally she did faint away,Whilst Ben he was brought to.The boatswain swore with wicked words,Enough to shock a saint,That though she did seem in a fit,'Twas nothing but a feint."Come, girl," said he, "hold up your head,He'll be as good as me;For when your swain is in our boat,A boatswain he will be."So when they'd made their game of her,And taken off her elf,She roused, and found she only wasA coming to herself."And is he gone, and is he gone?"She cried, and wept outright:"Then I will to the water side,And see him out of sight."A waterman came up to her,—"Now, young woman," said he,"If you weep on so, you will makeEye-water in the sea.""Alas! they've taken my beau, Ben,To sail with old Benbow;"And her woe began to run afresh,As if she'd said, "Gee woe!"Says he, "They've only taken himTo the Tender-ship, you see;""The Tender-ship," cried Sally Brown,"What a hard-ship that must be!"O! would I were a mermaid now,For then I'd follow him;But, O!—I'm not a fish-woman,And so I cannot swim."Alas! I was not born beneathThe virgin and the scales,So I must curse my cruel stars,And walk about in Wales."Now Ben had sailed to many a placeThat's underneath the world;But in two years the ship came home,And all her sails were furled.But when he called on Sally Brown,To see how she got on,He found she'd got another Ben,Whose Christian name was John."O, Sally Brown, O, Sally Brown,How could you serve me so?I've met with many a breeze before,But never such a blow!"Then reading on his 'bacco-box,He heaved a heavy sigh,And then began to eye his pipe,And then to pipe his eye.And then he tried to sing "All's Well,"But could not, though he tried;His head was turned, and so he chewedHis pigtail till he died.His death, which happened in his berth,At forty-odd befell:They went and told the sexton, andThe sexton tolled the bell.
Thomas Hood.
Tim Turpin he was gravel blind,And ne'er had seen the skies:For Nature, when his head was made,Forgot to dot his eyes.So, like a Christmas pedagogue,Poor Tim was forced to do,—Look out for pupils, for he hadA vacancy for two.There's some have specs to help their sightOf objects dim and small;But Tim hadspeckswithin his eyes,And could not see at all.Now Tim he wooed a servant maid,And took her to his arms;For he, like Pyramus, had castA wall-eye on her charms.By day she led him up and downWhere'er he wished to jog,A happy wife, although she ledThe life of any dog.But just when Tim had lived a monthIn honey with his wife,A surgeon oped his Milton eyes,Like oysters, with a knife.But when his eyes were opened thus,He wished them dark again;For when he looked upon his wife,He saw her very plain.Her face was bad, her figure worse,He couldn't bear to eat;For she was anything but likeA Grace before his meat.Now Tim he was a feeling man:For when his sight was thick,It made him feel for everything,—But that was with a stick.So, with a cudgel in his hand,—It was not light or slim,—He knocked at his wife's head untilIt opened unto him.And when the corpse was stiff and cold,He took his slaughtered spouse,And laid her in a heap with allThe ashes of her house.But, like a wicked murderer,He lived in constant fearFrom day to day, and so he cutHis throat from ear to ear.The neighbors fetched a doctor in:Said he, "This wound I dreadCan hardly be sewed up,—his lifeIs hanging on a thread."But when another week was gone,He gave him stronger hope,—Instead of hanging on a thread,Of hanging on a rope.Ah! when he hid his bloody work,In ashes round about,How little he supposed the truthWould soon be sifted out!But when the parish dustman came,His rubbish to withdraw,He found more dust within the heapThan he contracted for!A dozen men to try the fact,Were sworn that very day;But though they all were jurors, yetNo conjurors were they.Said Tim unto those jurymen,"You need not waste your breath,For I confess myself, at once,The author of her death."And O, when I reflect uponThe blood that I have spilt,Just like a button is my soul,Inscribed with doubleguilt!"Then turning round his head againHe saw before his eyesA great judge, and a little judge,The judges of a-size!The great judge took his judgment-cap,And put it on his head,And sentenced Tim by law to hangTill he was three times dead.So he was tried, and he was hung(Fit punishment for such)On Horsham drop, and none can sayIt was a drop too much.
Thomas Hood.
Ben Battle was a soldier bold,And used to war's alarms:But a cannon-ball took off his legs,So he laid down his arms!Now, as they bore him off the field,Said he, "Let others shoot,For here I leave my second leg,And the Forty-second Foot!"The army surgeons made him limbs:Said he, "They're only pegs;But there's as wooden members quite,As represent my legs!"Now Ben he loved a pretty maid,Her name was Nelly Gray;So he went to pay her his devoursWhen he'd devoured his pay!But when he called on Nelly Gray,She made him quite a scoff;And when she saw his wooden legs,Began to take them off!"O Nelly Gray! O Nelly Gray!Is this your love so warm?The love that loves a scarlet coat,Should be more uniform!"Said she, "I loved a soldier once,For he was blithe and brave;But I will never have a manWith both legs in the grave!"Before you had those timber toes,Your love I did allow,But then you know, you stand uponAnother footing now!""O Nelly Gray! O Nelly Gray!For all your jeering speeches,At duty's call I left my legsIn Badajos's breaches!""Why, then," said she, "you've lost the feetOf legs in war's alarms,And now you cannot wear your shoesUpon your feats of arms!""Oh, false and fickle Nelly Gray;I know why you refuse:Though I've no feet—some other manIs standing in my shoes!"I wish I ne'er had seen your face;But now a long farewell!For you will be my death—alas!You will not be my Nell!"Now, when he went from Nelly Gray,His heart so heavy got—And life was such a burden grown,It made him take a knot!So round his melancholy neckA rope he did entwine,And, for his second time in lifeEnlisted in the Line!One end he tied around a beam,And then removed his pegs,And as his legs were off,—of course,He soon was off his legs!And there he hung till he was deadAs any nail in town,—For though distress had cut him up,It could not cut him down!A dozen men sat on his corpse,To find out why he died—And they buried Ben in four cross-roads,With a stake in his inside!
Thomas Hood.
"Oh! what is that comes gliding in,And quite in middling haste?It is the picture of my Jones,And painted to the waist."It is not painted to the life,For where's the trousers blue?O Jones, my dear!—Oh, dear! my Jones,What is become of you?""O Sally, dear, it is too true,—The half that you remarkIs come to say my other halfIs bit off by a shark!"O Sally, sharks do things by halves,Yet most completely do!A bite in one place seems enough,But I've been bit in two."You know I once was all your own,But now a shark must share!But let that pass—for now to youI'm neither here nor there."Alas! death has a strange divorceEffected in the sea,It has divided me from you,And even me from me!"Don't fear my ghost will walk o' nightsTo haunt, as people say;My ghostcan'twalk, for, oh! my legsAre many leagues away!"Lord! think when I am swimming round,And looking where the boat is,A shark just snaps away ahalf,Without 'aquarter's notice.'"One half is here, the other halfIs near Columbia placed;O Sally, I have got the wholeAtlantic for my waist."But now, adieu—a long adieu!I've solved death's awful riddle,And would say more, but I am doomedTo break off in the middle!"
Thomas Hood.
One day the dreary old King of DeathInclined for some sport with the carnal,So he tied a pack of darts on his back,And quietly stole from his charnel.His head was bald of flesh and of hair,His body was lean and lank;His joints at each stir made a crack, and the curTook a gnaw, by the way, at his shank.And what did he do with his deadly darts,This goblin of grisly bone?He dabbled and spilled man's blood, and he killedLike a butcher that kills his own.The first he slaughtered it made him laugh(For the man was a coffin-maker),To think how the mutes, and men in black suits,Would mourn for an undertaker.Death saw two Quakers sitting at church;Quoth he, "We shall not differ."And he let them alone, like figures of stone,For he could not make them stiffer.He saw two duellists going to fight,In fear they could not smother;And he shot one through at once—for he knewThey never would shoot each other.He saw a watchman fast in his box,And he gave a snore infernal;Said Death, "He may keep his breath, for his sleepCan never be more eternal."He met a coachman driving a coachSo slow that his fare grew sick;But he let him stray on his tedious way,For Death only wars on thequick.Death saw a tollman taking a toll,In the spirit of his fraternity;But he knew that sort of man would extort,Though summoned to all eternity.He found an author writing his life,But he let him write no further;For Death, who strikes whenever he likes,Is jealous of all self-murther!Death saw a patient that pulled out his purse,And a doctor that took the sum;But he let them be—for he knew that the "fee"Was a prelude to "faw" and "fum."He met a dustman ringing a bell,And he gave him a mortal thrust;For himself, by law, since Adam's flaw,Is contractor for all our dust.He saw a sailor mixing his grog,And he marked him out for slaughter;For on water he scarcely had cared for death,And never on rum-and-water.Death saw two players playing at cards,But the game wasn't worth a dump,For he quickly laid them flat with a spade,To wait for the final trump!
Thomas Hood.
That man must lead a happy lifeWho's free from matrimonial chains,Who is directed by a wifeIs sure to suffer for his pains.Adam could find no solid peaceWhen Eve was given for a mate;Until he saw a woman's faceAdam was in a happy state.In all the female race appearHypocrisy, deceit, and pride;Truth, darling of a heart sincere,In woman never did reside.What tongue is able to unfoldThe failings that in woman dwell?The worth in woman we beholdIs almost imperceptible.Confusion take the man, I say,Who changes from his singleness,Who will not yield to woman's swayIs sure of earthly blessedness.
Unknown.
I saw a peacock with a fiery tailI saw a blazing comet pour down hailI saw a cloud all wrapt with ivy roundI saw a lofty oak creep on the groundI saw a beetle swallow up a whaleI saw a foaming sea brimful of aleI saw a pewter cup sixteen feet deepI saw a well full of men's tears that weepI saw wet eyes in flames of living fireI saw a house as high as the moon and higherI saw the glorious sun at deep midnightI saw the man who saw this wondrous sight.I saw a pack of cards gnawing a boneI saw a dog seated on Britain's throneI saw King George shut up within a boxI saw an orange driving a fat oxI saw a butcher not a twelvemonth oldI saw a great-coat all of solid goldI saw two buttons telling of their dreamsI saw my friends who wished I'd quit these themes.
Unknown.
Men once were surnamed for their shape or estate(You all may from history worm it),There was Louis the bulky, and Henry the Great,John Lackland, and Peter the Hermit:But now, when the doorplates of misters and damesAre read, each so constantly varies;From the owner's trade, figure, and calling, surnamesSeem given by the rule of contraries.Mr. Wise is a dunce, Mr. King is a whig,Mr. Coffin's uncommonly sprightly,And huge Mr. Little broke down in a gigWhile driving fat Mrs. Golightly.At Bath, where the feeble go more than the stout(A conduct well worthy of Nero),Over poor Mr. Lightfoot, confined with the gout,Mr. Heavyside danced a bolero.Miss Joy, wretched maid, when she chose Mr. Love,Found nothing but sorrow await her;She now holds in wedlock, as true as a dove,That fondest of mates, Mr. Hayter.Mr. Oldcastle dwells in a modern-built hut;Miss Sage is of madcaps the archest;Of all the queer bachelors Cupid e'er cut,Old Mr. Younghusband's the starchest.Mr. Child, in a passion, knock'd down Mr. Rock;Mr. Stone like an aspen-leaf shivers;Miss Pool used to dance, but she stands like a stockEver since she became Mrs. Rivers.Mr. Swift hobbles onward, no mortal knows how,He moves as though cords had entwined him;Mr. Metcalf ran off upon meeting a cow,With pale Mr. Turnbull behind him.Mr. Barker's as mute as a fish in the sea,Mr. Miles never moves on a journey,Mr. Gotobed sits up till half after three,Mr. Makepeace was bred an attorney.Mr. Gardener can't tell a flower from a root,Mr. Wild with timidity draws back,Mr. Ryder performs all his journeys on foot,Mr. Foot all his journeys on horseback.Mr. Penny, whose father was rolling in wealth,Consumed all the fortune his dad won;Large Mr. Le Fever's the picture of health;Mr. Goodenough is but a bad one;Mr. Cruikshank stept into three thousand a yearBy showing his leg to an heiress:Now I hope you'll acknowledge I've made it quite clearSurnames ever go by contraries.
James Smith.
A little saint best fits a little shrine,A little prop best fits a little vine;As my small cruse best fits my little wine.A little seed best fits a little soil,A little trade best fits a little toil;As my small jar best fits my little oil.A little bin best fits a little bread,A little garland fits a little head;As my small stuff best fits my little shed.A little hearth best fits a little fire,A little chapel fits a little choir;As my small bell best fits my little spire.A little stream best fits a little boat,A little lead best fits a little float;As my small pipe best fits my little note.A little meat best fits a little belly,As sweetly, lady, give me leave to tell ye,This little pipkin fits this little jelly.
Robert Herrick.
Marry, I lent my gossip my mare, to fetch home coals,And he her drownéd into the quarry holes;And I ran to the Consistory, for to 'plain,And there I happened among a greedy meine.They gave me first a thing they call Citandum;Within eight days, I got but Libellandum;Within a month, I got Ad oppenendum;In half a year, I got Interloquendum;And then I got—how call ye it?—Ad replicandum.But I could never one word yet understand them;And then, they caused me cast out many placks,And made me pay for four-and-twenty acts.But, ere they came half gait to Concludendum,The fiend one plack was left for to defend him.Thus they postponed me two years, with their train,Then, hodie ad octo, bade me come again,And then, these rooks, they roupit wonder fast,For sentence silver, they criéd at the last.Of Pronunciandum they made me wonder fain;But I got never my good grey mare again.
Sir David Lindesay.
The oft'ner seen, the more I lust,The more I lust, the more I smart,The more I smart, the more I trust,The more I trust, the heavier heart,The heavy heart breeds mine unrest,Thy absence therefore I like best.The rarer seen, the less in mind,The less in mind, the lesser pain,The lesser pain, less grief I find,The lesser grief, the greater gain,The greater gain, the merrier I,Therefore I wish thy sight to fly.The further off, the more I joy,The more I joy, the happier life,The happier life, less hurts annoy,The lesser hurts, pleasure most rife,Such pleasures rife shall I obtainWhen distance doth depart us train.
Barnaby Googe.
John Bull for pastime took a prance,Some time ago, to peep at France;To talk of sciences and arts,And knowledge gain'd in foreign parts.Monsieur, obsequious, heard him speak,And answer'd John in heathen Greek:To all he ask'd, 'bout all he saw,'Twas,Monsieur, je vous n'entends pas.John, to the Palais-Royal come,Its splendor almost struck him dumb."I say, whose house is that there here?""House!Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur.""What, Nongtongpaw again!" cries John;"This fellow is some mighty Don:No doubt he's plenty for the maw,I'll breakfast with this Nongtongpaw."John saw Versailles from Marli's height,And cried, astonish'd at the sight,"Whose fine estate is that there here?""State!Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur.""His? what! the land and houses, too?The fellow's richer than a Jew:Oneverythinghe lays his claw!I'd like to dine with Nongtongpaw."Next tripping came a courtly fair,John cried, enchanted with her air,"What lovely wench is that there here?""Ventch!Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur.""What, he again? Upon, my life!A palace, lands, and then a wifeSir Joshua might delight to draw!I'd like to sup with Nongtongpaw.""But hold! whose funeral's that?" cries John."Je vous n'entends pas."—"What! is he gone?Wealth, fame, and beauty could not savePoor Nongtongpaw then from the grave!His race is run, his game is up,—I'd with him breakfast, dine, and sup;But since he chooses to withdraw,Good night t'ye, Mounseer Nongtongpaw!"
Charles Dibdin.
I said, "This horse, sir, will you shoe?"And soon the horse was shod.I said, "This deed, sir, will you do?"And soon the deed was dod!I said, "This stick, sir, will you break?"At once the stick he broke.I said, "This coat, sir, will you make?"And soon the coat he moke!
Unknown.
I have a copper penny and another copper penny,Well, then, of course, I have two copper pence;I have a cousin Jenny and another cousin Jenny,Well, pray, then, do I have two cousin Jence?
Unknown.
A Persian penman named Aziz,Remarked, "I think I know my biz.For when I write my name as is,It is Aziz as is Aziz."
Unknown.
What is earth, sexton?—A place to dig graves;What is earth, rich men?—A place to work slaves,What is earth, grey-beard?—A place to grow old;What is earth, miser?—A place to dig gold;What is earth, school-boy?—A place for my play;What is earth, maiden?—A place to be gay;What is earth, seamstress?—A place where I weep;What is earth, sluggard?—A good place to sleep;What is earth, soldier?—A place for a battle;What is earth, herdsman?—A place to raise cattle;What is earth, widow?—A place of true sorrow;What is earth, tradesman?—I'll tell you to-morrow;What is earth, sick man?—'Tis nothing to me;What is earth, sailor?—My home is the sea;What is earth, statesman?—A place to win fame;What is earth, author?—I'll write there my name;What is earth, monarch?—For my realm 'tis given;What is earth, Christian?—The gateway of heaven.
Unknown.
Dear maid, let me speakWhat I never yet spoke:You have made my heart squeakAs it never yet squoke,And for sight of you, both my eyes ache as they ne'er before oak.With your voice my ears ring,And a sweeter ne'er rung,Like a bird's on the wingWhen at morn it has wung.And gladness to me it doth bring, such as never voice brung.My feelings I'd write,But they cannot be wrote,And who can inditeWhat was never indote!And my love I hasten to plight—the first that I plote.Yes, you would I choose,Whom I long ago chose,And my fond spirit suesAs it never yet sose,And ever on you do I muse, as never man mose.The house where you bideIs a blessed abode;Sure, my hopes I can't hide,For they will not be hode,And no person living has sighed, as, darling, I've sode.Your glances they shineAs no others have shone,And all else I'd resignThat a man could resone,And surely no other could pine as I lately have pone.And don't you forgetYou will ne'er be forgot,You never should fretAs at times you have frot,I would chase all the cares that beset, if they ever besot.For you I would weaveSongs that never were wove,And deeds I'd achieveWhich no man yet achove,And for me you never should grieve, as for you I have grove.I'm as worthy a catchAs ever, was caught.O, your answer I watchAs a man never waught,And we'd make the most elegant match as ever was maught.Let my longings not sink;I would die if they sunk.O, I ask you to thinkAs you never have thunk,And our fortunes and lives let us link, as no lives could be lunk.
A. W. Bellow.
Sally Salter, she was a young lady who taught,
And her friend Charley Church was a preacher who praught!
Though his enemies called him a screecher who scraught.
His heart when he saw her kept sinking and sunk,
And his eye, meeting hers, began winking and wunk;
While she in her turn fell to thinking, and thunk.
He hastened to woo her, and sweetly he wooed,
For his love grew until to a mountain it grewed,
And what he was longing to do then he doed.
In secret he wanted to speak, and he spoke,
To seek with his lips what his heart long had soke;
So he managed to let the truth leak, and it loke.
He asked her to ride to the church, and they rode,
They so sweetly did glide, that they both thought they glode,
And they came to the place to be tied, and were tode.
Then, "homeward" he said, "let us drive" and they drove,
And soon as they wished to arrive, they arrove;
For whatever he couldn't contrive she controve.
The kiss he was dying to steal, then he stole:
At the feet where he wanted to kneel, then he knole,
And said, "I feel better than ever I fole."
So they to each other kept clinging, and clung;
While time his swift circuit was winging, and wung;
And this was the thing he was bringing, and brung:
The man Sally wanted to catch, and had caught—
That she wanted from others to snatch, and had snaught—
Was the one that she now liked to scratch and she scraught.
And Charley's warm love began freezing and froze,
While he took to teasing, and cruelly toze
The girl he had wished to be squeezing and squoze.
"Wretch!" he cried, when she threatened to leave him, and left,
"How could you deceive me, as you have deceft?"
And she answered, "I promised to cleave, and I've cleft!"
Unknown.
An Austrian army, awfully array'd,Boldly by battery besiege Belgrade;Cossack commanders cannonading come,Deal devastation's dire destructive doom;Ev'ry endeavour engineers essay,For fame, for freedom, fight, fierce furious fray.Gen'rals 'gainst gen'rals grapple,—gracious God!How honors Heav'n heroic hardihood!Infuriate, indiscriminate in ill,Just Jesus, instant innocence instill!Kinsmen kill kinsmen, kindred kindred kill.Labour low levels longest, loftiest lines;Men march 'midst mounds, motes, mountains, murd'rous mines.Now noisy, noxious numbers notice nought,Of outward obstacles o'ercoming ought;Poor patriots perish, persecution's pest!Quite quiet Quakers "Quarter, quarter," quest;Reason returns, religion, right, redounds,Suwarow stop such sanguinary sounds!Truce to thee, Turkey, terror to thy train!Unwise, unjust, unmerciful Ukraine!Vanish vile vengeance, vanish victory vain!Why wish we warfare? wherefore welcome wonXerxes, Nantippus, Navier, Xenophon?Yield, ye young Yaghier yeomen, yield your yell!Zimmerman's, Zoroaster's, Zeno's zealAgain attract; arts against arms appeal.All, all ambitious aims, avaunt, away!Et cetera, et cetera, et ceterae.
Unknown.
La Galisse now I wish to touch;Droll air! if I can strike it,I'm sure the song will please you much;That is, if you should like it.La Galisse was, indeed, I grant,Not used to any dainty,When he was born; but could not wantAs long as he had plenty.Instructed with the greatest care,He always was well bred,And never used a hat to wearBut when 'twas on his head.His temper was exceeding good,Just of his father's fashion;And never quarrels boiled his bloodExcept when in a passion.His mind was on devotion bent;He kept with care each high day,And Holy Thursday always spentThe day before Good Friday.He liked good claret very well,I just presume to think it;For ere its flavour he could tellHe thought it best to drink it.Than doctors more he loved the cook,Though food would make him gross,And never any physic tookBut when he took a dose.Oh, happy, happy is the swainThe ladies so adore;For many followed in his trainWhene'er he walked before.Bright as the sun his flowing hairIn golden ringlets shone;And no one could with him compare,If he had been alone.His talents I cannot rehearse,But every one allowsThat whatsoe'er he wrote in verse,No one could call it prose.He argued with precision nice,The learned all declare;And it was his decision wise,No horse could be a mare.His powerful logic would surprise,Amaze, and much delight:He proved that dimness of the eyesWas hurtful to the sight.They liked him much—so it appearsMost plainly—who preferred him;And those did never want their earsWho any time had heard him.He was not always right, 'tis true,And then he must be wrong;But none had found it out, he knew,If he had held his tongue.Whene'er a tender tear he shed,'Twas certain that he wept;And he would lie awake in bed,Unless, indeed, he slept.In tilting everybody knewHis very high renown;Yet no opponents he o'erthrewBut those that he knocked down.At last they smote him in the head,—What hero ever fought all?And when they saw that he was dead,They knew the wound was mortal.And when at last he lost his breath,It closed his every strife;For that sad day that sealed his deathDeprived him of his life.
Gilles Ménage.
Oh, it's H-A-P-P-Y I am, and it's F-R-double-E,And it's G-L-O-R-Y to know that I'm S-A-V-E-D.Once I was B-O-U-N-D by the chains of S-I-NAnd it's L-U-C-K-Y I am that all is well again.Oh, the bells of Hell go ting-a-ling-a-lingFor you, but not for me.The bells of Heaven go sing-a-ling-a-lingFor there I soon shall be.Oh, Death, where is thy sting-a-ling-a-lingOh, Grave, thy victorie-e.No Ting-a-ling-a-ling, no sting-a-ling-a-lingBut sing-a-ling-a-ling for me.
Unknown.
He took her fancy when he came,He took her hand, he took a kiss,He took no notice of the shameThat glowed her happy cheek at this.He took to come of afternoons,He took an oath he'd ne'er deceive,He took her master's silver spoons,And after that he took his leave.
Thomas Hood, Jr.
Do you think I'd marry a womanThat can neither cook nor sew,Nor mend a rent in her glovesOr a tuck in her furbelow;Who spends her time in readingThe novels that come and go;Who tortures heavenly music,And makes it a thing of woe;Who deems three-fourths of my incomeToo little, by half, to showWhat a figure she'd make, if I'd let her,'Mid the belles of Rotten Row;Who has not a thought in her headWhere thoughts are expected to grow,Except of trumpery scandalsToo small for a man to know?Do you think I'd wed withthat,Because both high and lowAre charmed by her youthful gracesAnd her shoulders white as snow?Ah no! I've a wish to be happy,I've a thousand a year or so,'Tis all I can expectThat fortune will bestow!So, pretty one, idle one, stupid one!You're not for me, I trow,To-day, nor yet to-morrow,No, no! decidedly no!
Charlts Mackay.
How hard, when those who do not wishTo lend, that's lose, their books,Are snared by anglers—folks that fishWith literary hooks;Who call and take some favourite tome,But never read it through;They thus complete their set at home,By making one at you.Behold the bookshelf of a dunceWho borrows—never lends;Yon work, in twenty volumes, onceBelonged to twenty friends.New tales and novels you may shutFrom view—'tis all in vain;They're gone—and though the leaves are "cut"They never "come again."For pamphlets lent I look around,For tracts my tears are spilt;But when they take a book that's bound,'Tis surely extra guilt.A circulating libraryIs mine—my birds are flown;There's one odd volume left, to beLike all the rest, a-lone.I, of my "Spenser" quite bereft,Last winter sore was shaken;Of "Lamb" I've but a quarter left,Nor could I save my "Bacon."My "Hall" and "Hill" were levelled flat,But "Moore" was still the cry;And then, although I threw them "Sprat,"They swallowed up my "Pye."O'er everything, however slight,They seized some airy trammel;They snatched my "Hogg" and "Fox" one night,And pocketed my "Campbell."And then I saw my "Crabbe" at last,Like Hamlet's, backward go;And as my tide was ebbing fast,Of course I lost my "Rowe."I wondered into what balloonMy books their course had bent;And yet, with all my marvelling, soonI found my "Marvell" went.My "Mallet" served to knock me down,Which makes me thus a talker;And once, while I was out of town,My "Johnson" proved a "Walker."While studying o'er the fire one dayMy "Hobbes" amidst the smoke;They bore my "Colman" clean away,And carried off my "Coke."They picked my "Locke," to me far moreThan Bramah's patent's worth;And now my losses I deplore,Without a "Home" on earth.If once a book you let them lift,Another they conceal,For though I caught them stealing "Swift,"As swiftly went my "Steele.""Hope" is not now upon my shelf,Where late he stood elated;But, what is strange, my "Pope" himselfIs excommunicated.My little "Suckling" in the graveIs sunk, to swell the ravage;And what 'twas Crusoe's fate to save'Twas mine to lose—a "Savage."Even "Glover's" works I cannot putMy frozen hands upon;Though ever since I lost my "Foote,"My "Bunyan" has been gone.My "Hoyle" with "Cotton" went; oppressed,My "Taylor" too must fail;To save my "Goldsmith" from arrest,In vain I offered "Bayle."I "Prior," sought, but could not seeThe "Hood" so late in front;And when I turned to hunt for "Lee,"Oh! where was my "Leigh Hunt!"I tried to laugh, old care to tickle,Yet could not "Tickell" touch;And then, alas! I missed my "Mickle,"And surely mickle's much.'Tis quite enough my griefs to feed,My sorrows to excuse,To think I cannot read my "Reid,"Nor even use my "Hughes."To "West," to "South," I turn my head,Exposed alike to odd jeers;For since my "Roger Ascham's" fled,I ask 'em for my "Rogers."They took my "Horne"—and "Horne Tooke" too,And thus my treasures flit;I feel when I would "Hazlitt" view,The flames that it has lit.My word's worth little, "Wordsworth" gone,If I survive its doom;How many a bard I doted onWas swept off—with my "Broome."My classics would not quiet lie,A thing so fondly hoped;Like Dr. Primrose, I may cry,"My 'Livy' has eloped!"My life is wasting fast away—I suffer from these shocks;And though I fixed a lock on "Grey"There's grey upon my locks.I'm far from young—am growing pale—I see my "Butter" fly;And when they ask about myail,'Tis "Burton" I reply.They still have made me slight returns,And thus my griefs divide;For oh! they've cured me of my "Burns,"And eased my "Akenside."But all I think I shall not say,Nor let my anger burn;For as they never found me "Gay,"They have not left me "Sterne."
Laman Blanchard.