A street there is in Paris famous,For which no rhyme our language yields,Rue Neuve des Petits Champs its name is—The New Street of the Little Fields.And here's an inn, not rich and splendid,But still in comfortable case;The which in youth I oft attended,To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse.This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is—A sort of soup, or broth, or brew,Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes,That Greenwich never could outdo:Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffron,Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace:All these you eat at Terré's tavernIn that one dish of Bouillabaisse.Indeed, a rich and savoury stew 'tis;And true philosophers, methinks,Who love all sorts of natural beauties,Should love good victuals and good drinks.And Cordelier or BenedictineMight gladly, sure, his lot embrace,Nor find a fast-day too afflicting,Which served him up a Bouillabaisse.I wonder if the house still there is?Yes, here the lamp is, as before;The smiling red-cheekedécaillèreisStill opening oysters at the door.Is Terré still alive and able?I recollect his droll grimace:He'd come and smile before your table,And hope you liked your Bouillabaisse.We enter—nothing's changed or older."How's Monsieur Terré, waiter, pray?"The waiter stares, and shrugs his shoulder—"Monsieur is dead this many a day.""It is the lot of saint and sinner,So honest Terré's run his race.""What will Monsieur require for dinner?""Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse?""Oh, oui, Monsieur," 's the waiter's answer;"Quel vin Monsieur désire-t-il?""Tell me a good one."—"That I can, Sir:The Chambertin with yellow seal.""So Terré's gone," I say, and sink inMy old accustom'd corner-place;"He's done with feasting and with drinking,With Burgundy and with Bouillabaisse."My old accustom'd corner here is,The table still is in the nook;Ah! vanished many a busy year isThis well-known chair since last I took.When first I saw ye,cari luoghi,I'd scarce a beard upon my face,And now a grizzled, grim old fogy,I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse.Where are you, old companions trustyOf early days here met to dine?Come, waiter! quick, a flagon crusty—I'll pledge them in the good old wine.The kind old voices and old facesMy memory can quick retrace;Around the board they take their places,And share the wine and Bouillabaisse.There's Jack has made a wondrous marriage;There's laughing Tom is laughing yet;There's brave Augustus drives his carriage;There's poor old Fred in theGazette;On James's head the grass is growing:Good Lord! the world has wagged apaceSince here we set the claret flowing,And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse.Ah me! how quick the days are flitting!I mind me of a time that's gone,When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting,In this same place—but not alone.A fair young form was nestled near me,A dear dear face looked fondly up,And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me—There's no one now to share my cup.
I drink it as the Fates ordain it.Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes:Fill up the lonely glass, and drain itIn memory of dear old times.Welcome the wine, whate'er the seal is;And sit you down and say your graceWith thankful heart, whate'er the meal is.—Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse!
W. M. Thackeray.
Ye may tramp the world overFrom Delhi to Dover,And sail the salt say from Archangel to Arragon,Circumvint backThrough the whole Zodiack,But to ould Docther Mack ye can't furnish a paragon.Have ye the dropsy,The gout, the autopsy?Fresh livers and limbs instantaneous he'll shape yez,No ways infariorIn skill, but suparior,And lineal postarior to Ould Aysculapius.
Chorus
He and his wig wid the curls so carroty,Aigle eye, and complexion clarety:Here's to his health,Honor and wealth,The king of his kind and the crame of all charity!How the rich and the poor,To consult for a cure,Crowd on to his doore in their carts and their carriages,Showin' their tonguesOr unlacin' their lungs,For divle one symptom the docther disparages.Troth, an' he'll tumble,For high or for humble,From his warm feather-bed wid no cross contrariety;Makin' as lightOf nursin' all nightThe beggar in rags as the belle of society.
Chorus—He and his wig, etc.
And as if by a meracle,Ailments hysterical,Dad, wid one dose of bread-pills he can smother,And quench the love-sicknessWid wonderful quickness,By prescribin' the right boys and girls to aich other.And the sufferin' childer—Your eyes 'twould bewilderTo see the wee craythurs his coat-tails unravellin',And aich of them fastOn some treasure at last,Well knowin' ould Mack's just a toy-shop out travellin'.
Chorus—He and his wig, etc.
Thin, his doctherin' done,In a rollickin' runWid the rod or the gun, he's the foremost to figure.By Jupiter Ammon,What jack-snipe or salmonE'er rose to backgammon his tail-fly or trigger!And hark! the view-hollo!'Tis Mack in full followOn black "Faugh-a-ballagh" the country-side sailin'.Och, but you'd think'Twas old Nimrod in pink,Wid his spurs cryin' chink over park-wall and palin'.
Chorus
He and his wig wid the curls so carroty,Aigle eye, and complexion clarety:Here's to his health,Honor and wealth!Hip, hip, hooray! wid all hilarity,Hip, hip, hooray! That's the way,All at once, widout disparity!One more cheerFor our docther dear,The king of his kind and the crame of all charity.Hip, hip, hooray!
Alfred Perceval Graves.
Of priests we can offer a charmin' variety,Far renowned for larnin' and piety;Still, I'd advance ye, widout impropriety,Father O'Flynn as the flower of them all.
Chorus
Here's a health to you, Father O'Flynn,Slainté, and slainté, and slainté agin;Powerfulest preacher, andTenderest teacher, andKindliest creature in ould Donegal.Don't talk of your Provost and Fellows of Trinity,Famous for ever at Greek and Latinity,Dad and the divels and all at Divinity,Father O'Flynn 'd make hares of them all!Come, I venture to give you my word,Never the likes of his logic was heard,Down from MythologyInto Thayology,Troth! and Conchology if he'd the call.
Chorus
Och! Father O'Flynn, you've the wonderful way wid you,All ould sinners are wishful to pray wid you,All the young childer are wild for to play wid you,You've such a way wid you, Father avick!Still for all you've so gentle a soul,Gad, you've your flock in the grandest control;Checking the crazy ones,Coaxin' onaisy ones,Liftin' the lazy ones on wid the stick.
Chorus
And though quite avoidin' all foolish frivolity,Still at all seasons of innocent jollity,Where was the play-boy could claim an equalityAt comicality, Father, wid you?Once the Bishop looked grave at your jest,Till this remark set him off wid the rest:"Is it lave gaietyAll to the laity?Cannot the clargy be Irishmen too?"
Chorus
Alfred Perceval Graves.
O the quietest home in earth had I,No thought of trouble, no hint of care;Like a dream of pleasure the days fled by,And Peace had folded her pinions there.But one day there joined in our household bandA bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land.Oh, the despot came in the dead of night,And no one ventured to ask him why;Like slaves we trembled before his might,Our hearts stood still when we heard him cry;For never a soul could his power withstand,That bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land.He ordered us here, and he sent us there—Though never a word could his small lips speak—With his toothless gums and his vacant stare,And his helpless limbs so frail and weak,Till I cried, in a voice of stern command,"Go up, thou bald-head from No-man's-land!"But his abject slaves they turned on me;Like the bears in Scripture, they'd rend me there,The while they worshiped with bended kneeThis ruthless wretch with the missing hair;For he rules them all with relentless hand,This bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land.Then I searched for help in every clime,For peace had fled from my dwelling now,Till I finally thought of old Father Time,And low before him I made my bow."Wilt thou deliver me out of his hand,This bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land?"Old Time he looked with a puzzled stare,And a smile came over his features grim."I'll take the tyrant under my care:Watch what my hour-glass does to him.The veriest humbug that ever was plannedIs this same bald-head from No-man's-land."Old Time is doing his work full well—Much less of might does the tyrant wield;But, ah! with sorrow my heart will swell,And sad tears fall as I see him yield.Could I stay the touch of that shriveled hand,I would keep the bald-head from No-man's-land.For the loss of peace I have ceased to care;Like other vassals, I've learned, forsooth,To love the wretch who forgot his hairAnd hurried along without a tooth,And he rules me too with his tiny hand,This bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land.
Mary E. Vandyne.
Barney McGee, there's no end of good luck in you,Will-o'-the-wisp, with a flicker of Puck in you,Wild as a bull-pup, and all of his pluck in you—Let a man tread on your coat and he'll see!Eyes like the lakes of Killarney for clarity,Nose that turns up without any vulgarity,Smile like a cherub, and hair that is carroty—Whoop, you're a rarity, Barney McGee!Mellow as Tarragon,Prouder than Aragon—Hardly a paragon,You will agree—Here's all that's fine to you!Books and old wine to you!Girls be divine to you,Barney McGee!Lucky the day when I met you unwittingly,Dining where vagabonds came and went flittingly.Here's someBarberato drink it befittingly,That day at Silvio's, Barney McGee!Many's the time we have quaffed our Chianti there,Listened to Silvio quoting us Dante there—Once more to drink Nebiolo Spumante there,How we'd pitch Pommery into the sea!There where the gang of usMet ere Rome rang of us,They had the hang of usTo a degree.How they would trust to you!That was but just to you.Here's o'er their dust to you,Barney McGee!Barney McGee, when you're sober you scintillate,But when you're in drink you're the pride of the intellect;Divil a one of us ever came in till late,Once at the bar where you happened to be—Every eye there like a spoke in you centering,You with your eloquence, blarney, and bantering—All Vagabondia shouts at your entering,King of the Tenderloin, Barney McGee!There's no satietyIn your societyWith the varietyOf youresprit.Here's a long purse to you,And a great thirst to you!Fate be no worse to you,Barney McGee!Och, and the girls whose poor hearts you deracinate,Whirl and bewilder and flutter and fascinate!Faith, it's so killing you are, you assassinate—Murder's the word for you, Barney McGee!Bold when they're sunny, and smooth when they're showery—Oh, but the style of you, fluent and flowery!Chesterfield's way, with a touch of the Bowery!How, would they silence you, Barney machree?Naught can your gab allay,Learned as Rabelais(You in his abbey layOnce on the spree).Here's to the smile of you,(Oh, but the guile of you!)And a long while of you,Barney McGee!Facile with phrases of length and Latinity,Like honorificabilitudinity,Where is the maid could resist your vicinity,Wiled by the impudent grace of your plea?Then your vivacity and pertinacityCarry the day with the divil's audacity;No mere veracity robs your sagacityOf perspicacity, Barney McGee.When all is new to them,What will you do to them?Will you be true to them?Who shall decree?Here's a fair strife to you!Health and long life to you!And a great wife to you, Barney McGee!Barney McGee, you're the pick of gentility;Nothing can phase you, you've such a facility;Nobody ever yet found your utility—There is the charm of you, Barney McGee;Under conditions that others would stammer in,Still unperturbed as a cat or a Cameron,Polished as somebody in the Decameron,Putting the glamour on price or Pawnee.In your meanderin',Love and philanderin',Calm as a mandarinSipping his tea!Under the art of you,Parcel and part of you,Here's to the heart of you,Barney McGee!You who were ever alert to befriend a man,You who were ever the first to defend a man,You who had always the money to lend a man,Down on his luck and hard up for a V!Sure, you'll be playing a harp in beatitude(And a quare sight you will be in that attitude)—Some day, where gratitude seems but a platitude,You'll find your latitude, Barney McGee.That's no flim-flam at all,Frivol or sham at all,Just the plain—Damn it all,Have one with me!Here's one and more to you!Friends by the score to you,True to the core to you,Barney MeGee!
Richard Hovey.
My curse upon your venom'd stang,That shoots my tortur'd gooms alang;An' thro' my lug gies monie a twang,Wi' gnawing vengeance,Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang,Like racking engines!A' down my beard the slavers trickle!I throw the wee stools o'er the mickle,While round the fire the giglets keckleTo see me loup;An', raving mad, I wish a heckleWere i' their doup!When fevers burn, or ague freezes,Rheumatics gnaw, or colic squeezes,Our neebors sympathize to ease usWi' pitying moan;But thee!—thou hell o' a' diseases,They mock our groan!Of a' the num'rous human dools,Ill-hairsts, daft bargains, cutty-stools,Or worthy frien's laid i' the mools,Sad sight to see!The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools,Thou bear'st the gree!Whare'er that place be priests ca' hell,Whare a' the tones o' misery yell,An' rankèd plagues their numbers tellIn dreadfu' raw,Thou, Toothache, surely bear'st the bellAmang them a'!O thou grim, mischief-making chiel,That gars the notes o' discord squeel,'Till humankind aft dance a reelIn gore a shoe-thick;—Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's wealA towmond's toothache!
Robert Burns.
May the Babylonish curseStraight confound my stammering verse,If I can a passage seeIn this word-perplexity,Or a fit expression find,Or a language to my mind,(Still the phrase is wide or scant)To take leave of thee,great plant!Or in any terms relateHalf my love, or half my hate:For I hate, yet love thee so,That, whichever thing I show,The plain truth will seem to beA contrain'd hyperbole,And the passion to proceedMore from a mistress than a weed.Sooty retainer to the vine,Bacchus' black servant, negro fine;Sorcerer, that mak'st us dote uponThy begrimed complexion,And, for thy pernicious sake,More and greater oaths to breakThan reclaimèd lovers take'Gainst women: thou thy siege dost layMuch too in the female way,While thou suck'st the laboring breathFaster than kisses or than death.Thou in such a cloud dost bind usThat our worst foes cannot find us,And ill-fortune, that would thwart us,Shoots at rovers, shooting at us;While each man, through thy height'ning steam,Does like a smoking Etna seem,And all about us does express(Fancy and wit in richest dress)A Sicilian fruitfulness.Thou through such a mist dost show usThat our best friends do not know us,And, for those allowèd features,Due to reasonable creatures,Liken'st us to fell Chimeras,Monsters,—that who see us, fear us;Worse than Cerberus or Geryon,Or, who first loved a cloud, Ixion.Bacchus we know, and we allowHis tipsy rites. But what art thouThat but by reflex canst showWhat his deity can do,As the false Egyptian spellAped the true Hebrew miracle?Some few vapors thou may'st raise,The weak brain may serve to amaze,But to the reins and nobler heartCanst nor life nor heat impart.Brother of Bacchus, later born,The old world was sure forlornWanting thee, that aidest moreThe god's victories than, before,All his panthers, and the brawlsOf his piping Bacchanals.These, as stale, we disallow,Or judge oftheemeant: only thouHis true Indian conquest art;And, for ivy round his dart,The reformèd god now weavesA finer thyrsus of thy leaves.Scent to match thy rich perfumeChemic art did ne'er presumeThrough her quaint alembic strain,None so sov'reign to the brain;Nature, that did in thee excel,Framed again no second smell,Roses, violets, but toysFor the smaller sort of boys,Or for greener damsels meant;Thou art the only manly scent.Stinkingest of the stinking kind!Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind!Africa, that brags her foison,Breeds no such prodigious poison!Henbane, nightshade, both together,Hemlock, aconite—Nay, rather,Plant divine, of rarest virtue;Blisters on the tongue would hurt you!'Twas but in a sort I blamed thee;None e'er prosper'd who defamed thee;Irony all, and feign'd abuse,Such as perplex'd lovers use,At a need, when, in despairTo paint forth their fairest fair,Or in part but to expressThat exceeding comelinessWhich their fancies doth so strike,They borrow language of dislike;And, instead of Dearest Miss,Jewel, Honey, Sweetheart, Bliss,And those forms of old admiring,Call her Cockatrice and Siren,Basilisk, and all that's evil,Witch, Hyena, Mermaid, Devil,Ethiop, Wench, and Blackamoor,Monkey, Ape, and twenty more;Friendly Trait'ress, loving Foe—Not that she is truly so,But no other way they knowA contentment to express,Borders so upon excess,That they do not rightly wotWhether it be from pain or not.Or, as men constrain'd to partWith what's nearest to their heart,While their sorrow's at the height,Lose discrimination quite,And their hasty wrath let fall,To appease their frantic gall,On the darling thing whatever,Whence they feel it death to severThough it be, as they, perforce,Guiltless of the sad divorce.For I must (nor let it grieve thee,Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave thee.For thy sake,tobacco, IWould do anything but die,And but seek to extend my daysLong enough to sing thy praise.But, as she who once hath beenA king's consort is a queenEver after, nor will bateAny tittle of her stateThough a widow, or divorced,So I, from thy converse forced,The old name and style retain,A right Katherine of Spain;And a seat, too, 'mongst the joysOf the blest Tobacco Boys;Where, though I, by sour physician,Am debarr'd the full fruitionOf thy favors, I may catchSome collateral sweets, and snatchSidelong odors, that give lifeLike glances from a neighbor's wife;And still live in the by-placesAnd the suburbs of thy graces;And in thy borders take delight,An unconquer'd Canaanite.
Charles Lamb.
There were three kings into the east,Three kings both great and high;And they hae sworn a solemn oathJohn Barleycorn should die.They took a plough and plough'd him down,Put clods upon his head;And they hae sworn a solemn oathJohn Barleycorn was dead.But the cheerful spring came kindly on,And showers began to fall:John Barleycorn got up again,And sore surprised them all.The sultry suns of summer came,And he grew thick and strong;His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears,That no one should him wrong.The sober autumn enter'd mild,When he grew wan and pale;His bending joints and drooping headShow'd he began to fail.His colour sicken'd more and more,He faded into age;And then his enemies beganTo show their deadly rage.They've ta'en a weapon, long and sharp,And cut him by the knee;Then tied him fast upon a cart,Like a rogue for forgerie.They laid him down upon his back,And cudgell'd him full sore;They hung him up before the storm,And turn'd him o'er and o'er.They fillèd up a darksome pitWith water to the brim:They heavèd in John Barleycorn,There let him sink or swim.They laid him out upon the floor,To work him further woe:And still, as signs of life appear'd,They toss'd him to and fro.They wasted o'er a scorching flameThe marrow of his bones;But a miller used him worst of all—He crush'd him 'tween two stones.And they hae ta'en his very heart's blood,And drank it round and round,And still the more and more they drank,Their joy did more abound.John Barleycorn was a hero bold,Of noble enterprise;For if you do but taste his blood,'Twill make your courage rise.'Twill make a man forget his woe;'Twill heighten all his joy:'Twill make the widow's heart to sing,Though the tear were in her eye.Then let us toast John Barleycorn,Each man a glass in hand;And may his great posterityNe'er fail in old Scotland!
Robert Burns.
Oh! I have loved thee fondly, everPreferr'd thee to the choicest wine;From thee my lips they could not severBy saying thou contain'dst strychnine.Did I believe the slander? Never!I held thee still to be divine.For me thy color hath a charm,Although 'tis true they call thee Pale;And be thou cold when I am warm,As late I've been—so high the scaleOfFahrenheit—and febrile harmAllay, refrigerating Ale!How sweet thou art!—yet bitter, tooAnd sparkling, like satiric fun;But how much better thee to brew,Than a conundrum or a pun,It is, in every point of view,Must be allow'd by every one.Refresh my heart and cool my throat,Light, airy child of malt and hops!That dost not stuff, engross, and bloatThe skin, the sides, the chin, the chops,And burst the buttons off the coat,Like stout and porter—fattening slops!
Unknown.
Thou who, when fears attack,Bidst them avaunt, and BlackCare, at the horseman's backPerching, unseatest;Sweet, when the morn is gray;Sweet, when they've cleared awayLunch; and at close of dayPossibly sweetest:I have a liking oldFor thee, though manifoldStories, I know, are told,Not to thy credit;How one (or two at most)Drops make a cat a ghost—Useless, except to roast—Doctors have said it:How they who use fuseesAll grow by slow degreesBrainless as chimpanzees,Meagre as lizards;Go mad, and beat their wives;Plunge (after shocking lives)Razors and carving knivesInto their gizzards.Confound such knavish tricks!Yet know I five or sixSmokers who freely mixStill with their neighbors;Jones—(who, I'm glad to say,Asked leave of Mrs. J.)—Daily absorbs a clayAfter his labors.Cats may have had their gooseCooked by tobacco-juice;Still why deny its useThoughtfully taken?We're not as tabbies are:Smith, take a fresh cigar!Jones, the tobacco-jar!Here's to thee, Bacon!
Charles Stuart Calverley.
Inglorious friend! most confident I amThy life is one of very little ease;Albeit men mock thee with their similesAnd prate of being "happy as a clam!"What though thy shell protects thy fragile headFrom the sharp bailiffs of the briny sea?Thy valves are, sure, no safety-valves to thee,While rakes are free to desecrate thy bed,And bear thee off—as foemen take their spoil—Far from thy friends and family to roam;Forced, like a Hessian, from thy native home,To meet destruction in a foreign broil!Though thou art tender yet thy humble bardDeclares, O clam! thy case is shocking hard!
John G. Saxe.
Ah! poor intoxicated little knave,Now senseless, floating on the fragrant wave;Why not content the cakes alone to munch?Dearly thou pay'st for buzzing round the bowl;Lost to the world, thou busy sweet-lipped soul—Thus Death, as well as Pleasure, dwells with Punch.Now let me take thee out, and moralize—Thus 'tis with mortals, as it is with flies,Forever hankering after Pleasure's cup:Though Fate, with all his legions, be at hand,The beasts, the draught of Circe can't withstand,But in goes every nose—they must, will sup.Mad are the passions, as a colt untamed!When Prudence mounts their backs to ride them mild.They fling, they snort, they foam, they rise inflamed,Insisting on their own sole will so wild.Gadsbud! my buzzing friend, thou art not dead;The Fates, so kind, have not yet snapped thy thread;By heavens, thou mov'st a leg, and now its brother.And kicking, lo, again, thou mov'st another!And now thy little drunken eyes unclose,And now thou feelest for thy little nose,And, finding it, thou rubbest thy two handsMuch as to say, "I'm glad I'm here again."And well mayest thou rejoice—'tis very plain,That near wert thou to Death's unsocial lands.And now thou rollest on thy back about,Happy to find thyself alive, no doubt—Now turnest—on the table making rings,Now crawling, forming a wet track,Now shaking the rich liquor from thy back,Now fluttering nectar from thy silken wings.Now standing on thy head, thy strength to find,And poking out thy small, long legs behind;And now thy pinions dost thou briskly ply;Preparing now to leave me—farewell, fly!Go, join thy brothers on yon sunny board,And rapture to thy family afford—There wilt thou meet a mistress, or a wife,That saw thee drunk, drop senseless in the stream.Who gave, perhaps, the wide-resounding scream,And now sits groaning for thy precious life.Yes, go and carry comfort to thy friends,And wisely tell them thy imprudence ends.Let buns and sugar for the future charm;These will delight, and feed, and work no harm—While Punch, the grinning, merry imp of sin,Invites th' unwary wanderer to a kiss,Smiles in his face, as though he meant him bliss,Then, like an alligator, drags him in.Then, like an alligator, drags him in.
John Wolcot.
Felis Infelix! Cat unfortunate,With nary narrative!Canst thou no tail relateOf how(Miaow!)Thy tail end came to terminate so bluntlyDidst wear it off bySedentary habitsAs do the rabbits?Didst go aFishing with it,Wishing with itTo "bob" for catfish,And get bobbed thyself?Curses on that fish!Didst lose it in kittenhood,Hungrily chawing it?Or, gaily pursuing it,Did it make tangentFrom thy swift circuit?Did some brother Greyback—YowlingAnd howlingIn nocturnal strife,Spitting and staringCursing and swearing,Ripping and tearing,Calling thee "Sausagetail,"Abbreviate thy suffix?Or did thy jealous wifeDetect yerIn some sly flirtation,And, after caudal lecture,Bite off thy termination?And sarve yer right!Did some mischievous boy,Some barbarous boy,Eliminate thy finis?(Probably!)The wretch!The villain!Cruelly spillin'Thy innocent blood!Furiously scratch himWhere'er yer may catch him!Well, Bob, this course now is left,Since thus of your tail you're bereft:Tell your friend that by letterFrom ParisYou have learned the style there isTo wear the tail short,And the briefer the better;Such is the passion,That every Grimalkin willFollow your fashion.
Unknown.
And so our royal relative is dead!And so he rests from gustatory labors!The white man was his choice, but when he fedHe'd sometimes entertain his tawny neighbors.He worshipped, as he said, his "Fe-fo-fum,"The goddess of the epigastrium.And missionaries graced his festive board,Solemn and succulent, in twos and dozens,And smoked before their hospitable lord,Welcome as if they'd been his second cousins.When cold, he warmed them as he would his kin—They came as strangers, and he took them in.And generous!—oh, wasn't he? I have known himExhibit a celestial amiability:—He'd eat an enemy, and then would own himOf flavor excellent, despite hostility.The crudest captain of the Turkish navyHe buried in an honorable grave—y.He had a hundred wives. To make things pleasantThey found it quite judicious to adore him;—And when he dined, the nymphs were always present—Sometimes beside him and sometimes—before him.When he was tired of one, he called her "sweet,"And told her she was "good enough to eat."He was a man of taste—and justice, too;He opened his mouth for e'en the humblest sinner,And three weeks stall-fed an emaciate JewBefore they brought him to the royal dinner.With preacher-men he shared his board and walletAnd let them nightly occupy his palate!We grow like what we eat. Bad food depresses;Good food exalts us like an inspiration,And missionary on themenublessesAnd elevates the Feejee population.A people who for years, saints, bairns, and women ateMust soon their vilest qualities eliminate.But the deceased could never hold a candleTo those prim, pale-faced people of proprietyWho gloat o'er gossip and get fat on scandal—The cannibals of civilized society;They drink the blood of brothers with their rations,And crunch the bones of living reputations.They kill the soul; he only claimed the dwelling.They take the sharpened scalpel of surmisesAnd cleave the sinews when the heart is swelling,And slaughter Fame and Honor for their prizes.They make the spirit in the body quiver;They quench the Light! He only took the—Liver!I've known some hardened customers, I wot,A few tough fellows—pagans beyond question—I wish had got into his dinner-pot;Although I'm certain they'd defy digestion,And break his jaw, and ruin his esophagus,Were he the chief of beings anthropophagous!How fond he was of children! To his breastThe tenderest nurslings gained a free admission.Rank he despised, nor, if they came well dressed,Cared if they were plebeian or patrician.Shade of Leigh Hunt! Oh, guide this laggard penTo write of one who loved his fellow men!
William Augustus Croffut.
Good people all, with one accord,Lament for Madam Blaize,Who never wanted a good word—From those who spoke her praise.The needy seldom pass'd her door,And always found her kind;She freely lent to all the poor—Who left a pledge behind.She strove the neighborhood to pleaseWith manners wondrous winning;And never follow'd wicked ways—Unless when she was sinning.At church, in silks and satins new,With hoop of monstrous size,She never slumber'd in her pew—But when she shut her eyes.Her love was sought, I do aver,By twenty beaux and more;The King himself has follow'd her—When she has walk'd before.But now, her wealth and finery fled,Her hangers-on cut short all;The doctors found, when she was dead—Her last disorder mortal.Let us lament, in sorrow sore,For Kent Street well may say,That had she lived a twelvemonth moreShe had not died to-day.
Oliver Goldsmith.
A quiet home had Parson Gray,Secluded in a vale;His daughters all were feminine,And all his sons were male.How faithfully did Parson GrayThe bread of life dispense—Well "posted" in theology,And post and rail his fence.'Gainst all the vices of the ageHe manfully did battle;His chickens were a biped breed,And quadruped his cattle.No clock more punctually went,He ne'er delayed a minute—Nor ever empty was his purse,When he had money in it.His piety was ne'er denied;His truths hit saint and sinner;At morn he always breakfasted;He always dined at dinner.He ne'er by any luck was grieved,By any care perplexed—No filcher he, though when he preached,He always "took" a text.As faithful characters he drewAs mortal ever saw;But ah! poor parson! when he died,His breath he could not draw!
Oliver Goldsmith.
There was a lady liv'd at Leith,
A lady very stylish, man;
And yet, in spite of all her teeth,
She fell in love with an Irishman—
A nasty, ugly Irishman,
A wild, tremendous Irishman,
A tearing, swearing, thumping, bumping, ranting, roaring Irishman.
His face was no ways beautiful,
For with small-pox 'twas scarr'd across;
And the shoulders of the ugly dog
Were almost double a yard across.
Oh, the lump of an Irishman,
The whiskey-devouring Irishman,
The great he-rogue with his wonderful brogue—the fighting, rioting Irishman!
One of his eyes was bottle-green,
And the other eye was out, my dear;
And the calves of his wicked-looking legs
Were more than two feet about, my dear.
Oh, the great big Irishman,
The rattling, battling Irishman—
The stamping, ramping, swaggering, staggering, leathering swash of an Irishman!
He took so much of Lundy-foot
That he used to snort and snuffle—O!
And in shape and size the fellow's neck
Was as bad as the neck of a buffalo.
Oh, the horrible Irishman,
The thundering, blundering Irishman—
The slashing, dashing, smashing, lashing, thrashing, hashing Irishman!
His name was a terrible name, indeed,
Being Timothy Thady Mulligan;
And whenever he emptied his tumbler of punch
He'd not rest till he fill'd it full again.
The boosing, bruising Irishman,
The 'toxicated Irishman—
The whiskey, frisky, rummy, gummy, brandy, no dandy Irishman!
This was the lad the lady lov'd,
Like all the girls of quality;
And he broke the skulls of the men of Leith,
Just by the way of jollity.
Oh, the leathering Irishman,
The barbarous, savage Irishman—
The hearts of the maids, and the gentlemen's heads, were bothered, I'm sure, by this Irishman!
William Maginn.
"How does the waterCome down at Lodore?"My little boy asked meThus, once on a time;And moreover he tasked meTo tell him in rhyme.Anon at the word,There first came one daughter,And then came another,To second and thirdThe request of their brother,And to hear how the waterComes down at Lodore,With its rush and its roar,As many a timeThey had seen it before.So I told them in rhyme,For of rhymes I had store;And 'twas in my vocationFor their recreationThat so I should sing;Because I was LaureateTo them and the King.From its sources which wellIn the tarn on the fell;From its fountainsIn the mountains,Its rills and its gills;Through moss and through brake,It runs and it creepsFor a while till it sleepsIn its own little lake.And thence at departing,Awakening and starting,It runs through the reeds,And away it proceeds,Through meadow and glade,In sun and in shade,And through the wood-shelter,Among crags in its flurry,Helter-skelter,Hurry-skurry,Here it comes sparkling,And there it lies darkling;Now smoking and frothingIts tumult and wrath in,Till, in this rapid raceOn which it is bent,It reaches the placeOf its steep descent.The cataract strongThen plunges along,Striking and ragingAs if a war wagingIts caverns and rocks among;Rising and leaping,Sinking and creeping,Swelling and sweeping,Showering and springing,Flying and flinging,Writhing and wringing,Eddying and whisking,Spouting and frisking,Turning and twistingAround and aroundWith endless rebound:Smiting and fighting,A sight to delight in;Confounding, astounding,Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound.Collecting, projecting,Receding and speeding,And shocking and rocking,And darting and parting,And threading and spreading,And whizzing and hissing,And dripping and skipping,And hitting and splitting,And shining and twining,And rattling and battling,And shaking and quaking,And pouring and roaring,And waving and raving,And tossing and crossing,And flowing and going,And running and stunning,And foaming and roaming,And dinning and spinning,And dropping and hopping,And working and jerking,And guggling and struggling,And heaving and cleaving,And moaning and groaning;And glittering and frittering,And gathering and feathering,And whitening and brightening,And quivering and shivering,And hurrying and skurrying,And thundering and floundering;Dividing and gliding and sliding,And falling and brawling and sprawling,And driving and riving and striving,And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling,And sounding and bounding and rounding,And bubbling and troubling and doubling,And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling,And clattering and battering and shattering;Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting,Delaying and straying and playing and spraying.Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing,Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling,And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming,And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing,And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping,And curling and whirling and purling and twirling,And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping,And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing;And so never ending, but always descending,Sounds and motions forever and ever are blending,All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar,—And this way the water comes down at Lodore.
Robert Southey.
Doe, doe!I shall dever see her bore!Dever bore our feet shall roveThe beadows as of yore!Dever bore with byrtle boughsHer tresses shall I twide—Dever bore her bellow voiceBake bellody with bide!Dever shall we lidger bore,Abid the flow'rs at dood,Dever shall we gaze at dightUpon 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 plucked at dood,Our beetigs by the tedtder stars.Our gazigs at the bood.Ad I shall dever see agaidThe Lily and 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!!
H. Cholmondeley-Pennell.
Chilly Dovebber with his boadigg blastDow cubs add strips the beddow add the lawd,Eved October's suddy days are past—Add Subber's gawd!I kdow dot what it is to which I cliggThat stirs to sogg add sorrow, yet I trustThat still I sigg, but as the liddets sigg—Because I bust.Add dow, farewell to roses add to birds,To larded fields and tigkligg streablets eke;Farewell to all articulated wordsI faid would speak.Farewell, by cherished strolliggs od the sward,Greed glades add forest shades, farewell to you;With sorrowing heart I, wretched add forlord,Bid you—achew!!!
Unknown.
Singing through the forests,Rattling over ridges,Shooting under arches,Rumbling over bridges,Whizzing through the mountains,Buzzing o'er the vale—Bless me! this is pleasant,Riding on the Rail!Men of different "stations"In the eye of FameHere are very quicklyComing to the same.High and lowly people,Birds of every feather,On a common levelTravelling together.Gentleman in shorts,Looming very tall;Gentleman at large,Talking very small;Gentleman in tights,With a loose-ish mien;Gentleman in grey,Looking rather green;Gentleman quite old,Asking for the news;Gentleman in black,In a fit of blues;Gentleman in claret,Sober as a vicar;Gentleman in tweed,Dreadfully in liquor!Stranger on the right,Looking very sunny,Obviously readingSomething very funny.Now the smiles are thicker,Wonder what they mean?Faith, he's got theKnicker-BockerMagazine!Stranger on the left,Closing up his peepers;Now he snores again,Like the Seven Sleepers;At his feet a volumeGives the explanation,How the man grew stupidFrom "Association."Ancient maiden ladyAnxiously remarks,That there must be peril'Mong so many sparks;Roguish-looking fellow,Turning to the stranger,Says it's his opinionSheis out of danger!Woman with her baby,Sittingvis-à -vis,Baby keeps a-squalling,Woman looks at me;Asks about the distance,Says it's tiresome talking,Noises of the carsAre so very shocking!Market-woman, carefulOf the precious casket,Knowing eggs are eggs,Tightly holds her basket;Feeling that a smash,If it came, would surelySend her eggs to potRather prematurely.Singing through the forests,Rattling over ridges,Shooting under arches,Rumbling over bridges,Whizzing through the mountains,Buzzing o'er the vale;Bless me! this is pleasant,Riding on the Rail!
John G. Saxe.