It is with pleasure that we announce our ability to offer to the public the papers of the Re-Echo Club. This club, somewhat after the order of the Echo Club, late of Boston, takes pleasure in trying to better what is done. On the occasion of the meeting of which the following gems of poesy are the result, the several members of the club engaged to write up the well-known tradition of the Purple Cow in more elaborate form than the quatrain made famous by Mr. Gelett Burgess:
"I never saw a Purple Cow,I never hope to see one;But I can tell you, anyhow,I'd rather see than be one."
The first attempt here cited is the production of Mr. John Milton:
Hence, vain, deluding cows.The herd of folly, without colour bright,How little you delight,Or fill the Poet's mind, or songs arouse!But, hail! thou goddess gay of feature!Hail, divinest purple creature!Oh, Cow, thy visage is too brightTo hit the sense of human sight.And though I'd like, just once, to see thee,I never, never, never'd be thee!
MR. P. BYSSHE SHELLEY:
Hail to thee, blithe spirit!Cow thou never wert;But in life to cheer itPlayest thy full partIn purple lines of unpremeditated art.The pale purple colourMelts around thy sightLike a star, but duller,In the broad daylight.I'd see thee, but I would not be thee if I might.We look before and afterAt cattle as they browse;Our most hearty laughterSomething sad must rouse.Our sweetest songs are those that tell of Purple Cows.
Mr. W. WORDSWORTH:
She dwelt among the untrodden waysBeside the springs of Dee;A Cow whom there were few to praiseAnd very few to see.A violet by a mossy stoneGreeting the smiling EastIs not so purple, I must own,As that erratic beast.She lived unknown, that Cow, and soI never chanced to see;But if I had to be one, oh,The difference to me!
MR. T. GRAY:
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea;I watched them slowly wend their weary way,But, ah, a Purple Cow I did not see.Full many a cow of purplest ray sereneIs haply grazing where I may not see;Full many a donkey writes of her, I ween,But neither of these creatures would I be.
MR. J. W. RILEY:
There, little Cow, don't cry!You are brindle and brown, I know.And with wild, glad huesOf reds and blues,You never will gleam and glow.But though not pleasing to the eye,There, little Cow, don't cry, don't cry.
LORD A. TENNYSON:
Ask me no more. A cow I fain would seeOf purple tint, like to a sun-soaked grape—Of purple tint, like royal velvet cape—But such a creature I would never be—Ask me no more.
MR. R. BROWNING:
All that I knowOf a certain CowIs it can throw,Somewhere, somehow,Now a dart of red,Now a dart of blue(That makes purple, 'tis said).I would fain see, too.This Cow that darkles the red and the blue!
MR. J. KEATS:
A cow of purple is a joy forever.Its loveliness increases. I have neverSeen this phenomenon. Yet ever keepA brave lookout; lest I should be asleepWhen she comes by. For, though I would not be one,I've oft imagined 'twould be joy to see one.
MR. D. G. ROSSETTI:
The Purple Cow strayed in the glade;(Oh, my soul! but the milk is blue!)She strayed and strayed and strayed and strayed(And I wail and I cry Wa-hoo!)I've never seen her—nay, not I;(Oh, my soul! but the milk is blue!)Yet were I that Cow I should want to die.(And I wail and I cry Wa-hoo!)But in vain my tears I strew.
MR. T. ALDRICH:
Somewhere in some faked nature place,In Wonderland, in Nonsense Land,Two darkling shapes met face to face,And bade each other stand."And who are you?" said each to each;"Tell me your title, anyhow."One said, "I am the Papal Bull,""And I the Purple Cow."
MR. E. ALLAN POE:
Open then I flung a shutter,And, with many a flirt and flutter,In there stepped a Purple Cow which gayly tripped around my floor.Not the least obeisance made she,Not a moment stopped or stayed she,But with mien of chorus lady perched herself above my door.On a dusty bust of Dante perched and sat above my door.And that Purple Cow unflittingStill is sitting—still is sittingOn that dusty bust of Dante just above my chamber door,And her horns have all the seemingOf a demon's that is screaming,And the arc-light o'er her streamingCasts her shadow on the floor.And my soul from out that pool of Purple shadow on the floor,Shall be lifted Nevermore!
MR. H. LONGFELLOW:
The day is done, and the darknessFalls from the wing of nightAs ballast is wafted downwardFrom an air-ship in its flight.I dream of a purple creatureWhich is not as kine are now;And resembles cattle onlyAs Cowper resembles a cow.Such cows have power to quietOur restless thoughts and rude;They come like the BenedictineThat follows after food.
MR. A. SWINBURNE:
Oh, Cow of rare rapturous vision,Oh, purple, impalpable Cow,Do you browse in a Dream Field Elysian,Are you purpling pleasantly now?By the side of wan waves do you languish?Or in the lithe lush of the grove?While vainly I search in my anguish,O Bovine of mauve!Despair in my bosom is sighing,Hope's star has sunk sadly to rest;Though cows of rare sorts I am buying,Not one breathes a balm to my breast.Oh, rapturous rose-crowned occasion,When I such a glory might see!But a cow of a purple persuasionI never would be.
MR. A. DOBSON:
I'd love to seeA Purple Cow,Oh, Goodness me!I'd love to seeBut not to beOne. Anyhow,I'd love to seeA Purple Cow.
MR. O. HERFORD:
Children, observe the Purple Cow,You cannot see her, anyhow;And, little ones, you need not hopeYour eyes will e'er attain such scope.But if you ever have a choiceTo be, or see, lift up your voiceAnd choose to see. For surely youDon't want to browse around and moo.
MR. H. C. BUNNER:
Oh, what's the way to Arcady,Where all the cows are purple?Ah, woe is me! I never hopeOn such a sight my eyes to ope;But as I sing in merry gleeAlong the road to Arcady,Perchance full soon I may espyA Purple Cow come dancing by.Heigho! I then shall see one.Her horns bedecked with ribbons gay,And garlanded with rosy may,—A tricksy sight. Still I must sayI'd rather see than be one.
MR. A. SWINBURNE:
(Who was so enthused that he made a second attempt.)
Only in dim, drowsy depths of a dream do I dare to delight in deliciously dreaming
Cows there may be of a passionate purple,—cows of a violent violet hue;
Ne'er have I seen such a sight, I am certain it is but a demi-delirious dreaming—
Ne'er may I happily harbour a hesitant hope in my heart that my dream may come true.
Sad is my soul, and my senses are sobbing so strong is my strenuous spirit to see one.
Dolefully, drearily doomed to despair as warily wearily watching I wait;
Thoughts thickly thronging are thrilling and throbbing; toseeis a glorious gain—but tobeone!
That were a darker and direfuller destiny, that were a fearfuller, frightfuller fate!
MR R. KIPLING:
In the old ten-acre pasture,Lookin' eastward toward a tree,There's a Purple Cow a-settin'And I know she thinks of me.For the wind is in the gum-tree,And the hay is in the mow,And the cow-bells are a-calling"Come and see a Purple Cow!"But I am not going now,Not at present, anyhow,For I am not fond of purple, andI can't abide a cow;No, I shall not go to-day,Where the Purple Cattle play.But I think I'd rather see oneThan to be one, anyhow.
Carolyn Wells.
ALICE BEN BOLT
I couldn't help weeping with delightWhen the boys kissed me and called me sweet.It was foolish, I know,To weep when I was glad;But I was young and I wasn't very well.I was nervous, weak, anemic,A sort of human mimosa; and I hadn't much brains,And my mind wouldn't jell, anyhow.That's why I trembled with fear when they frowned.But they didn't frown often,For I was sweetly pretty and most pliable.But, oh, the grim joke of asking Ben Bolt if he remembered me!Me!Why, it was Ben Bolt who—Well, never mind. He paid for this granite slab,And it's as stylish as any in the church yard.But I wish I had a more becoming shroud.
THE BLESSED DAMOZEL
I was one of those long, lanky, loose-jointed girlsWho fool people into believingThey are willowy and psychic and mysterious.I was always hungry; I never ate enough to satisfy me,For fear I'd get fat.Oh, how little the world knows of the bitterness of lifeTo a woman who tries to keep thin!Many thought I died of a broken heart,But it was an empty stomach.Then Mr. Rossetti wrote about me.He described me all dolled up in some ladies' wearing apparelThat I wore at a fancy ball.I had fasted all day, and had had my hair marcelledAnd my face corrected.And Iwasa dream.But he seemed to think he really saw me,Seemed to think I appeared to him after my death.Oh, fudge!Those spiritualists are always seeing things!
ENOCH ARDEN
Yes, it was the eternal triangle,Only they didn't call it that then.Of course everybody thought I was all broken upWhen I found Annie wed to Philip,But, as a matter of fact,I didn't care so much;For she was one of those self-starting weepers,And a man can't stand blubbering all the time.And, then, of course,When I was off on that long sea trip—Oh, well, you know what sailors are.
LITTLE EVA
To be honest,I didn't mind dying,For I hadOne of these here nowDressy deaths.It was staged, you know,And, like Samson,My death brought down the house.I was a smarty kid,And they were less frequent then than later.Oh, I was the Mary Pickford of my time,And I rest contentWith my notoriety.
LUCY
Yes, I am in my grave,And you bet it makes a difference to him!For we were to be married,—at least, I think we were,And he'd made me promise to deed him the house.But I had to go and get appendicitis,And they took me to the hospital.It was a nice hospital, clean,And Tables Reserved For Ladies.Well, my heart gave out.He came and stood over my grave,And registered deep concern.And now, he's going round with thatHen-minded Hetty What's-her-name!Her with her Whistler's Mother and her Baby StuartOn her best-room wall!And I hate her, and I'm glad she squints.Well, I suppose I lived my life,But it was Life in name only.And I'm mad at the whole world!
OPHELIA
No, it wasn't suicide,But I had heard so much of those mud baths,I thought I'd try one.Ugh! it was a mess!Weeds, slime, and tangled vines! Oh, me!Had I been Annette KellermanOr even a real mermaid,I had lived to tell the tale.But I slid down and under,And so Will Shaxpur told it for me.Just as well.But I think my death scene is unexcelledBy any in cold print.It beats that scrawny, red-headed old thing of Tom Hood'sAll hollow!
CASABLANCA
I played to the Grand Stand!Sure I did,And I made good.Ain't I in McGuffey's Third Reader?Don't they speak pieces about me Friday afternoons?Don't everybody know the first two lines of my story,—And no more?Say, I was there with the goods,Wasn't I?And it paid.But I wish Movin' Pitchers had been invented then!
ANNABEL LEE
They may say all they likeAbout germs and micro-crocuses,—Or whatever they are!But my set opinion is,—If you want to get a good, old-fashioned chills and fever,Just poke aroundIn a damp, messy place by the sea,Without rubbers on.A good cold wind,Blowing out of a cloud, by night,Will give you a harder shaking agueThan all the bacilli in the Basilica.It did me.
ANGUS MCPHAIRSON
Oh, of course,It's always some dratted petticoat!Just because that little flibbertigibbet, Annie LaurieHad a white throat and a blue e'e,She played the very devil with my peace of mind.She'd dimple at meTill I was aboot crazy;And then laugh at me through her dimples!She was my bespoke.And I'd beg her to have the banns called,—But there was no pinning her down.Well, she was so bonnyThat like a fool, I said I'd lay me doonAnd dee for her.And,—like a fool,—I did.
Carolyn Wells.
Shall I, mine affections slack,'Cause I see a woman's black?Or myself, with care cast down,'Cause I see a woman brown?Be she blacker than the night,Or the blackest jet in sight!If she be not so to me,What care I how black she be?Shall my foolish heart be burst,'Cause I see a woman's curst?Or a thwarting hoggish natureJoinèd in as bad a feature?Be she curst or fiercer thanBrutish beast, or savage man!If she be not so to me,What care I how curst she be?Shall a woman's vices makeMe her vices quite forsake?Or her faults to me made known,Make me think that I have none?Be she of the most accurst,And deserve the name of worst!If she be not so to me,What care I how bad she be?'Cause her fortunes seem too low,Shall I therefore let her go?He that bears an humble mindAnd with riches can be kind,Think how kind a heart he'd have,If he were some servile slave!And if that same mind I seeWhat care I how poor she be?Poor, or bad, or curst, or black,I will ne'er the more be slack!If she hate me (then believe!)She shall die ere I will grieve!If she like me when I wooI can like and love her too!If that she be fit for me!What care I what others be?
Ben Jonson.
O Season supposed of all free flowers,Made lovely by light of the sun,Of garden, of field, and of tree-flowers,Thy singers are surely in fun!Or what is it wholly unsettlesThy sequence of shower and shine,And maketh thy pushings and petalsTo shrivel and pine?Why is it that o'er the wild watersThat beastly North-Easter still blows,Dust-dimming the eyes of our daughters,Blue-nipping each nice little nose?Why is it these sea-skirted islandsAre plagued with perpetual chills,Driving men to Italian or Nile-landsFrom Albion's ills?Happy he, O Springtide, who hath found thee,All sunlit, in luckier lands,With thy garment of greenery round thee,And belted with blossomy bands.From us by the blast thou art drifted,All brag of thy beauties is bosh;When the songs of thy singers are sifted,They simply won't wash.What lunatic lune, what vain vision,Thy laureate, Springtide, may moveTo sing thee,—oh, bitter derision!A season of laughter and love?You make a man mad beyond measure,O Spring, and thy lauders like thee:Thy flowers, thy pastimes and pleasures,Are fiddlededee!
Unknown.
Half a bar, half a bar,Half a bar onward!Into an awful ditchChoir and precentor hitch,Into a mess of pitch,They led the Old Hundred.Trebles to right of them,Tenors to left of them,Basses in front of them,Bellowed and thundered.Oh, that precentor's look,When the sopranos tookTheir own time and hookFrom the Old Hundred!Screeched all the trebles here,Boggled the tenors there,Raising the parson's hair,While his mind wandered;Theirs not to reason whyThis psalm was pitched too high:Theirs but to gasp and cryOut the Old Hundred.Trebles to right of them,Tenors to left of them,Basses in front of them,Bellowed and thundered.Stormed they with shout and yell,Not wise they sang nor well,Drowning the sexton's bell,While all the church wondered.Dire the percenter's glare,Flashed his pitchfork in airSounding fresh keys to bearOut the Old Hundred.Swiftly he turned his back,Reached he his hat from rack,Then from the screaming pack,Himself he sundered.Tenors to right of him,Tenors to left of him,Discords behind him,Bellowed and thundered.Oh, the wild howls they wrought:Right to the end they fought!Some tune they sang, but not,Not the Old Hundred.
Unknown.
John Alcohol, my foe, John,When we were first acquaint,I'd siller in my pockets, John,Which noo, ye ken, I want;I spent it all in treating, John,Because I loved you so;But mark ye, how you've treated me,John Alcohol, my foe.John Alcohol, my foe, John,We've been ower lang together,Sae ye maun tak' ae road, John,And I will take anither;For we maun tumble down, John,If hand in hand we go;And I shall hae the bill to pay,John Alcohol, my foe.John Alcohol, my foe, John,Ye've blear'd out a' my een,And lighted up my nose, John,A fiery sign atween!My hands wi' palsy shake, John,My locks are like the snow;Ye'll surely be the death of me,John Alcohol, my foe.John Alcohol, my foe, John,'Twas love to you, I ween,That gart me rise sae ear', John,And sit sae late at e'en;The best o' friens maun part, John,It grieves me sair, ye know;But "we'll nae mair to yon town,"John Alcohol, my foe.John Alcohol, my foe, John,Ye've wrought me muckle skaith;And yet to part wi' you, John,I own I'm unko' laith;But I'll join the temperance ranks, John,Ye needna say me no;It's better late than ne'er do weel,John Alcohol, my foe.
Unknown.
Singee a songee sick a pence,Pockee muchee lye;Dozen two time blackee birdCookee in e pie.When him cutee topsideBirdee bobbery sing;Himee tinkee nicey dish.Setee foree King!Kingee in a talkee loomCountee muchee money;Queeny in e kitchee,Chew-chee breadee honey.Servant galo shakee,Hangee washee clothes;Cho-chop comee blackie bird,Nipee off her nose!
Unknown.
"You are old, Father William," the young man said,"And your nose has a look of surprise;Your eyes have turned round to the back of your head,And you live upon cucumber pies.""I know it, I know it," the old man replied,"And it comes from employing a quack,Who said if I laughed when the crocodile diedI should never have pains in my back.""You are old, Father William," the young man said,"And your legs always get in your way;You use too much mortar in mixing your bread,And you try to drink timothy hay.""Very true, very true," said the wretched old man,"Every word that you tell me is true;And it's caused by my having my kerosene canPainted red where it ought to be blue.""You are old, Father William," the young man said,"And your teeth are beginning to freeze,Your favorite daughter has wheels in her head,And the chickens are eating your knees.""You are right," said the old man, "I cannot deny,That my troubles are many and great,But I'll butter my ears on the Fourth of July,And then I'll be able to skate."
Unknown.
It was many and many a year ago,On an island near the sea,That a maiden lived whom you mightn't knowBy the name of Cannibalee;And this maiden she lived with no other thoughtThan a passionate fondness for me.I was a child, and she was a child—Tho' her tastes were adult Feejee—But she loved with a love that was more than love,My yearning Cannibalee;With a love that could take me roast or friedOr raw, as the case might be.And that is the reason that long ago,In that island near the sea,I had to turn the tables and eatMy ardent Cannibalee—Not really because I was fond of her,But to check her fondness for me.But the stars never rise but I think of the sizeOf my hot-potted Cannibalee,And the moon never stares but it brings me nightmaresOf my spare-rib Cannibalee;And all the night-tide she is restless inside,Is my still indigestible dinner-belle bride,In her pallid tomb, which is Me,In her solemn sepulcher, Me.
C. F. Lummis.
How do the daughtersCome down at Dunoon?Daintily,Tenderly,Fairily,Gingerly,Glidingly,Slidingly,Slippingly,Skippingly,Trippingly,Clippingly,Bumpingly,Thumpingly,Stumpingly,Clumpingly,Starting and bolting,And darting and jolting,And tottering and staggering,And lumbering and slithering,And hurrying and scurrying,And worrying and flurrying,And rushing and leaping and crushing and creeping;Feathers a-flying all—bonnets untying all—Petticoats rapping and flapping and slapping all,Crinolines flowing and blowing and showing allBalmorals, dancing and glancing, entrancing all;Feats of activity—Nymphs on declivity—Mothers in extacies—Fathers in vextacies—Lady-loves whisking and frisking and clinging onTrue-lovers puffing and blowing and springing on,Dashing and clashing and shying and flying on,Blushing and flushing and wriggling and giggling on,Teasing and pleasing and squeezing and wheezing on,Everlastingly falling and bawling and sprawling on,Tumbling and rumbling and grumbling and stumbling on,Any fine afternoon,About July or June—That's just how the DaughtersCome down at Dunoon!
H. Cholmondeley Pennell.
Ask me no more: I've had enough Chablis;The wine may come again, and take the shape,From glass to glass, of "Mountain" or of "Cape;"But, my dear boy, when I have answered thee,Ask me no more.Ask me no more: what answer should I give,I love not pickled pork nor partridge pie;I feel if I took whisky I should die!Ask me no more—for I prefer to live:Ask me no more.Ask me no more: unless my fate is sealed,And I have striven against you all in vain.Let your good butler bring me Hock again:Then rest, dear boy. If for this once I yield,Ask me no more!
Unknown.
To Urn, or not to Urn? that is the question:Whether 'tis nobler for our frames to sufferThe shows and follies of outrageous custom,Or to take fire—against a sea of zealots—And by consuming, end them? To Urn—to keep—No more: and while we keep, to say we endContagion and the thousand graveyard illsThat flesh is heir to—'tis a consume-ationDevoutly to be wished! To burn—to keep—To keep! Perchance to lose—aye, there's the rub:For in the course of things what duns may come,Or who may shuffle off our Dresden urn,Must give us pause. There's the respectThat makes inter-i-ment of so long use.For who would have the pall and plumes of hire,The tradesman's prize—a proud man's obsequies,The chaffering for graves, the legal fee,The cemetery beadle and the rest,When he himself might his few ashes makeWith a mere furnace? Who would tombstones bear,And lie beneath a lying epitaph,But that the dread of simmering after death—That uncongenial furnace from whose burnNo incremate returns—weakens the will,And makes us rather bear the graves we haveThan fly to ovens that we know not of?This, Thompson, does make cowards of us all.And thus the wisdom of incinerationIs thick-laid o'er with the pale ghost of nought,And incremators of great pith and courageWith this regard their faces turn awry,And shudder at cremation.
William Sawyer.
There is a river clear and fair,'Tis neither broad nor narrow;It winds a little here and there—It winds about like any hare;And then it takes as straight a courseAs on the turnpike road a horse,Or through the air an arrow.The trees that grow upon the shore,Have grown a hundred years or more;So long there is no knowing.Old Daniel Dobson does not knowWhen first these trees began to grow;But still they grew, and grew, and grew,As if they'd nothing else to do,But ever to be growing.The impulses of air and skyHave rear'd their stately heads so high,And clothed their boughs with green;Their leaves the dews of evening quaff,—And when the wind blows loud and keen,I've seen the jolly timbers laugh,And shake their sides with merry glee—Wagging their heads in mockery.Fix'd are their feet in solid earth,Where winds can never blow;But visitings of deeper birthHave reach'd their roots below.For they have gain'd the river's brink,And of the living waters drink.There's little Will, a five years child—He is my youngest boy:To look on eyes so fair and wild,It is a very joy:—He hath conversed with sun and showerAnd dwelt with every idle flower,As fresh and gay as them.He loiters with the briar rose,—The blue-belles are his play-fellows,That dance upon their slender stem.And I have said, my little Will,Why should not he continue stillA thing of Nature's rearing?A thing beyond the world's control—A living vegetable soul,—No human sorrow fearing.It were a blessed sight to seeThat child become a Willow-tree,His brother trees among.He'd be four times as tall as me,And live three times as long.
Catharine M. Fanshawe.
Comrades, you may pass the rosy. With permission of the chair,I shall leave you for a little, for I'd like to take the air.Whether 'twas the sauce at dinner, or that glass of ginger-beer,Or these strong cheroots, I know not, but I feel a little queer.Let me go. Now, Chuckster, blow me, 'pon my soul, this is too bad!When you want me, ask the waiter, he knows where I'm to be had!Whew! This is a great relief now! Let me but undo my stock;Resting here beneath the porch, my nerves will steady like a rock.In my ears I hear the singing of a lot of favourite tunes—Bless my heart, how very odd! Why, surely, there's a brace of moons!See—the stars! How bright they twinkle, winking with a frosty glare,Like my faithless cousin Amy when she drove me to despair.Oh, my cousin, spider-hearted! Oh, my Amy! No, confound it!I must wear the mournful willow—all around my hat I've bound it.Falser than the Bank of Fancy, frailer than a shilling glove,Puppet to a father's anger, minion to a nabob's love!Is it well to wish thee happy? Having known me, could you everStoop to marry half a heart, and little more than half a liver?Happy! Damme! Thou shalt lower to his level day by day,Changing from the best of china to the commonest of clay.As the husband is, the wife is. He is stomach-plagued and old,And his curry soups will make thy cheek the colour of his gold.When his feeble love is sated, he will hold thee surely thenSomething lower than his hookah, something less than his cayenne.What is this? His eyes are pinky. Was't the claret? Oh, no, no—Bless your soul, it was the salmon—salmon always makes him so.Take him to thy dainty chamber, soothe him with thy lightest fancies,He will understand thee, won't he—pay thee with a lover's glances?Louder than the loudest trumpet, harsh as harshest ophicleide,Nasal respirations answer the endearments of his bride.Sweet response, delightful music! Gaze upon thy noble chargeTill the spirit fill thy bosom that inspired the meek Lafarge.Better thou wert dead before me, better, better that I stoodLooking on thy murdered body, like the injured Daniel Good!Better thou and I were lying, cold and limber-stiff and dead,With a pan of burning charcoal underneath our nuptial bed!Cursed be the Bank of England's notes, that tempt the soul to sin!Cursed be the want of acres—doubly cursed the want of tin!Cursed be the marriage contract, that enslaved thy soul to greed!Cursed be the sallow lawyer, that prepared and drew the deed!Cursed be his foul apprentice, who the loathsome fees did earn!Cursed be the clerk and parson—cursed be the whole concern!Oh, 'tis well that I should bluster; much I'm like to make of that.Better comfort have I found in singing "All Around My Hat."But that song, so wildly plaintive, palls upon my British ears.'Twill not do to pine for ever: I am getting up in years.Can't I turn the honest penny, scribbling for the weekly press,And in writing Sunday libels drown my private wretchedness?Oh, to feel the wild pulsation that in manhood's dawn I knew,When my days were all before me, and my years were twenty-two;When I smoked my independent pipe along the Quadrant wide,With the many larks of London flaring up on every side;When I went the pace so wildly, caring little what might come,Coffee-milling care and sorrow, with a nose-adapted thumb;Felt the exquisite enjoyment, tossing nightly off, oh, heavens!Brandy at the Cider Cellars, kidneys smoking-hot at Evans';Or in the Adelphi sitting, half in rapture, half in tears,Saw the glorious melodrama conjure up the shades of years—Saw Jack Sheppard, noble stripling, act his wondrous feats again,Snapping Newgate's bars of iron, like an infant's daisy chain;Might was right, and all the terrors which had held the world in aweWere despised and prigging prospered, spite of Laurie, spite of law.In such scenes as these I triumphed, ere my passion's edge was rusted,And my cousin's cold refusal left me very much disgusted!Since, my heart is sore and withered, and I do not care a curseWhether worse shall be the better, or the better be the worse.Hark! my merry comrades call me, bawling for another jorum;They would mock me in derision, should I thus appear before 'em.Womankind no more shall vex me, such, at least, as go arrayedIn the most expensive satins, and the newest silk brocade.I'll to Afric, lion-haunted, where the giant forest yieldsRarer robes and finer tissue than are sold at Spitalfields.Or to burst all chains of habit, flinging habit's self aside,I shall walk the tangled jungle in mankind's primeval pride;Feeding on the luscious berries and the rich casava root,Lots of dates and lots of guavas, clusters of forbidden fruit.Never comes the trader thither, never o'er the purple mainSounds the oath of British commerce, or the accents of Cockaigne.There, methinks, would be enjoyment, where no envious rule prevents;Sink the steamboats! Cuss the railways! Rot, oh, rot the Three per Cents!There the passions, cramped no longer, shall have space to breathe, my cousin!I will take some savage woman—nay, I'll take at least a dozen.There I'll rear my young mulattoes, as no Bond Street brats are reared:They shall dive for alligators, catch the wild goats by the beard,Whistle to the cockatoos, and mock the hairy-faced baboon,Worship mighty Mumbo Jumbo, in the mountains of the Moon.I, myself, in far Timbuctoo, leopard's blood will daily quaff,Ride a-tiger-hunting, mounted on a thorough-bred giraffe.Fiercely shall I shout the war-whoop, as some sullen stream he crosses,Startling from their noon-day slumbers iron-bound rhinoceroses.Fool! Again, the dream, the fancy! But I know my words are mad,For I hold the gray barbarian lower than the Christian cad.I, the swell, the city dandy! I to seek such horrid places,I to haunt with squalid Negroes, blubber-lips, and monkey faces!I to wed with Coromantees! I, who managed—very near—To secure the heart and fortune of the widow Shillibeer!Stuff and nonsense! Let me never fling a single chance away.Maids ere now, I know, have loved me, and another maiden may.Morning Post(The Timeswon't trust me), help me, as I know you can;I will pen an advertisement—that's a never-failing plan:"Wanted—By a bard in wedlock, some young interesting woman.Looks are not so much an object, if the shiners be forthcoming!"Hymen's chains, the advertiser vows, shall be but silken fetters.Please address to A. T., Chelsea. N.B.—You must pay the letters."That's the sort of thing to do it. Now I'll go and taste the balmy.Rest thee with thy yellow nabob, spider-hearted cousin Amy!
AytounandMartin.
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 answered with a groan,"I've got a pain inside!"I thought it would have sent me madLast night about eleven."Said I, "What is it makes you bad?How many apples have you had?"She answered, "Only seven!""And are you sure you took no more,My little maid?" quoth I;"Oh, please, sir, mother gave me four,Buttheywere 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 sentFor telling taradiddles."Now, if you won'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!"
POSTSCRIPT
To borrow Wordsworth's name was wrong,Or slightly misapplied;And so I'd better call my song,"Lines after Ache-Inside."
Henry S. Leigh.
I never rear'd a young gazelle,(Because, you see, I never tried);But had it known and loved me well,No doubt the creature would have died.My rich and aged Uncle JohnHas known me long and loves me wellBut still persists in living on—I would he were a young gazelle.I never loved a tree or flower;But, if I had, I beg to sayThe blight, the wind, the sun, or showerWould soon have withered it away.I've dearly loved my Uncle John,From childhood to the present hour,And yet he will go living on—I would he were a tree or flower!
Henry S. Leigh.
O nymph with the nicest of noses;And finest and fairest of forms;Lips ruddy and ripe as the rosesThat sway and that surge in the storms;O buoyant and blooming Bacchante,Of fairer than feminine face,Rush, raging as demon of Dante—To this, my embrace!The foam and the fangs and the flowers,The raving and ravenous rageOf a poet as pinion'd in powersAs a condor confined in a cage!My heart in a haystack I've hidden,As loving and longing I lie,Kiss open thine eyelids unbidden—I gaze and I die!I've wander'd the wild waste of slaughter,I've sniffed up the sepulchre's scent,I've doated on devilry's daughter,And murmur'd much more than I meant;I've paused at Penelope's portal,So strange are the sights that I've seen,And mighty's the mind of the mortalWho knows what I mean.
Walter Parke.
There were three sailors of Bristol CityWho took a boat and went to sea,But first with beef and captain's biscuits,And pickled pork they loaded she.There was gorging Jack, and guzzling Jimmy,And the youngest he was little Billee.Now when they'd got as far as the EquatorThey'd nothing left but one split pea.Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy,"I am extremely hungaree."To gorging Jack says guzzling Jimmy,"We've nothing left, us must eat we."Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy,"With one another we shouldn't agree!There's little Bill, he's young and tender,"We're old and tough, so let's eat he.""O Billy! we're going to kill and eat you,So undo the button of your chemie."When Bill received this information,He used his pocket-handkerchie."First let me say my catechism,Which my poor mother taught to me.""Make haste! make haste!" says guzzling Jimmy,While Jack pulled out his snicker-snee.Then Bill went up to the main-top-gallant-mast,And down he fell on his bended knee,He scarce had come to the Twelfth CommandmentWhen up he jumps—"There's land I see!""Jerusalem and Madagascar,And North and South Amerikee,There's the British flag a-riding at anchor,With Sir Admiral Napier, K.C.B."So when they got aboard of the Admiral's,He hanged fat Jack and flogged Jimmee,But as for little Bill, he made himThe captain of a Seventy-three.
W. M. Thackeray.
With ganial foireThransfuse me loyre,Ye sacred nymphs of Pindus,The whoile I singThat wondthrous thing,The Palace made o' windows!Say, Paxton, truth,Thou wondthrous youth,What sthroke of art celistial,What power was lintYou to invintThis combineetion cristial.O would beforeThat Thomas Moore,Likewoise the late Lord Boyron,Thim aigles sthrongOf godlike song,Cast oi on that cast oiron!And saw thim walls,And glittering halls,Thim rising slendther columns,Which I, poor pote,Could not denote,No, not in twinty vollums.My Muse's wordsIs like the bird'sThat roosts beneath the panes there;Her wings she spoils'Gainst them bright toiles,And cracks her silly brains there.This Palace tall,This Cristial Hall,Which Imperors might covet,Stands in High ParkLike Noah's Ark,A rainbow bint above it.The towers and fanes,In other scaynes,The fame of this will undo,Saint Paul's big doom,Saint Payther's, Room.And Dublin's proud Rotundo.'Tis here that roams,As well becomesHer dignitee and stations,Victoria Great,And houlds in stateThe Congress of the Nations.Her subjects poursFrom distant shores,Her Injians and Canajians,And also we,Her kingdoms three,Attind with our allagiance.Here come likewiseHer bould allies,Both Asian and Europian;From East and WestThey send their bestTo fill her Coornucopean.I seen (thank Grace!)This wondthrous place(His Noble Honour MistherH. Cole it wasThat gave the pass,And let me see what is there).With conscious proideI stud insoideAnd look'd the World's Great Fair in,Until me sightWas dazzled quite,And couldn't see for staring.There's holy saintsAnd window paints,By maydiayval Pugin;Alhamborough JonesDid paint the tones,Of yellow and gambouge in.There's fountains thereAnd crosses fair;There's water-gods with urrns;There's organs three,To play, d'ye see,"God save the Queen," by turrns.There's statues brightOf marble white,Of silver, and of copper;And some in zinc,And some, I think,That isn't over proper.There's staym injynes,That stands in lines,Enormous and amazing,That squeal and snortLike whales in sport,Or elephants a-grazing.There's carts and gigs,And pins for pigs,There's dibblers and there's harrows,And ploughs like toysFor little boys,And illigant wheelbarrows.For thim genteelsWho ride on wheels,There's plenty to indulge 'em:There's droskys snugFrom Paytersbug,And vayhycles from Bulgium.There's cabs on standsAnd shandthrydanns;There's wagons from New York here;There's Lapland sleighsHave cross'd the seas,And jaunting cyars from Cork here.Amazed I passFrom glass to glass,Deloighted I survey 'em;Fresh wondthers growsBefore me noseIn this sublime Musayum!Look, here's a fanFrom far Japan,A sabre from Damasco:There's shawls ye getFrom far Thibet,And cotton prints from Glasgow.There's German flutes,Marocky boots,And Naples macaronies;BohaymiaHas sent Behay;Polonia her polonies.There's granite flintsThat's quite imminse,There's sacks of coals and fuels,There's swords and guns,And soap in tuns,And gingerbread and jewels.There's taypots there,And cannons rare;There's coffins fill'd with roses;There's canvas tints,Teeth insthrumints,And shuits of clothes by Moses.There's lashins moreOf things in store,But thim I don't remimber;Nor could discloseDid I composeFrom May time to Novimber!Ah, Judy thru!With eyes so blue,That you were here to view it!And could I screwBut tu pound tu,'Tis I would thrait you to it!So let us raiseVictoria's praise,And Albert's proud conditionThat takes his ayseAs he surveysThis Cristial Exhibition.
W. M. Thackeray.
An igstrawnary tail I vill tell you this veek—I stood in the Court of A'Beckett the Beak,Vere Mrs. Jane Roney, a vidow, I see,Who charged Mary Brown with a robbin' of she.This Mary was pore and in misery once,And she came to Mrs. Roney it's more than twelve monceShe adn't got no bed, nor no dinner, nor no tea,And kind Mrs. Roney gave Mary all three.Mrs. Roney kep Mary for ever so many veeks(Her conduct disgusted the best of all Beax),She kept her for nothink, as kind as could be,Never thinking that this Mary was a traitor to she."Mrs. Roney, O Mrs. Roney, I feel very ill;Will you jest step to the doctor's for to fetch me a pill?""That I will, my pore Mary," Mrs. Roney says she:And she goes off to the doctor's as quickly as may be.No sooner on this message Mrs. Roney was sped,Than hup gits vicked Mary, and jumps out a bed;She hopens all the trunks without never a key—She bustes all the boxes, and vith them makes free.Mrs. Roney's best linning gownds, petticoats, and close,Her children's little coats and things, her boots and her hose,She packed them, and she stole 'em, and avay vith them did fleeMrs. Roney's situation—you may think vat it vould be!Of Mary, ungrateful, who had served her this vay,Mrs. Roney heard nothink for a long year and a day,Till last Thursday, in Lambeth, ven whom should she see?But this Mary, as had acted so ungrateful to she.She was leaning on the helbo of a worthy young man;They were going to be married, and were walkin hand in hand;And the church-bells was a ringing for Mary and he,And the parson was ready, and a waitin' for his fee.When up comes Mrs. Roney, and faces Mary Brown,Who trembles, and castes her eyes upon the ground.She calls a jolly pleaseman, it happens to be me;I charge this young woman, Mr. Pleaseman, says she.Mrs. Roney, o, Mrs. Roney, o, do let me go,I acted most ungrateful I own, and I know,But the marriage bell is ringin, and the ring you may see,And this young man is a waitin, says Mary, says she.I don't care three fardens for the parson and clark,And the bell may keep ringing from noon day to dark.Mary Brown, Mary Brown, you must come along with me.And I think this young man is lucky to be free.So, in spite of the tears which bejewed Mary's cheek,I took that young gurl to A'Beckett the Beak;That exlent justice demanded her plea—But never a sullable said Mary said she.On account of her conduck so base and so vile,That wicked young gurl is committed for trile,And if she's transpawted beyond the salt sea,It's a proper reward for such willians as she.Now, you young gurls of Southwark for Mary who veep,From pickin and stealin your ands you must keep,Or it may be my dooty, as it was Thursday veekTo pull you all hup to A'Beckett the Beak.
W. M. Thackeray.