A FLYING VISIT.

The chance is small that any measureWill give all classes equal pleasure;Since Tory Ministers or Whigs,Sometimes can’t even “please the Pigs.”

“A Calendar! a Calendar! look in the Almanac, find out moonshine—find out moonshine!”—Midsummer Night’s Dream.

THE by-gone September,As folks may remember,At least if their memory saves but an ember,One fine afternoon,There went up a Balloon,Which did not return to the Earth very soon.For, nearing the sky,At about a mile high,The Aëronaut bold had resolved on a fly;So cutting his string,In a Parasol thing,Down he came in a field like a lark from the wing.Meanwhile, thus adrift,The Balloon made a shiftTo rise very fast, with no burden to lift;It got very small,Then to nothing at all;And then rose the question of where it would fall?Some thought that, for lackOf the man and his pack,’Twould rise to the Cherub that watches Poor Jack;Some held, but in vain,With the first heavy rain,’Twould surely come down to the Gardens again!But still not a wordFor a month could be heardOf what had become of the Wonderful Bird:The firm Gye and Hughes,Wore their boots out and shoes,In running about and inquiring for news.Some thought it must beTumbled into the Sea;Some thought it had gone off to High Germanie:For Germans, as shownBy their writings, ’tis knownAre always delighted with what is high-flown.Some hinted a bilk,And that maidens who milk,In far distant Shires would be walking in silk:Some swore that it must,“As they said at thefust,Have gone again’ flashes of lightning andbust!”However, at last,When six weeks had gone past,Intelligence came of a plausible cast;A wondering clown,At a hamlet near town,Had seen “like a moon of green cheese” coming down.Soon spread the alarm,And from cottage and farm,The natives buzz’d out like the bees when they swarm;And off ran the folk,—It is such a good jokeTo see the descent of a bagful of smoke.And lo! the machine,Dappled yellow and green,Was plainly enough in the clouds to be seen:“Yes, yes,” was the cry,“It’s the old one, surely,Wherecanit have been such a time in the sky?“Lord! where will it fall?It can’t find out Vauxhall,Without any pilot to guide it at all!”Some wager’d that KentWould behold the event,Debrett had been posed topredictits “descent.”Some thought it would pitchIn the old Tower Ditch,Some swore on the Cross of St. Paul’s it would hitch,And Farmers cried “Zounds!If it drops on our grounds,We’ll try if Balloons can’t be put into pounds!”But still to and froIt continued to go,As if looking out for soft places below—No difficult job,It had only to bobSlap-dash down at once on the heads of the mob:Who, too apt to stareAt some castle in air,Forget that the earth is their proper affair;Till, watching the fallOf some soap-bubble ball,They tumble themselves with a terrible sprawl.Meanwhile, from its heightStooping downward in flight,The Phenomenon came more distinctly in sight:Still bigger and bigger,And strike me a niggerUnfreed, if there was not a live human figure!Yes, plain to be seen,Underneath the machine,There dangled a mortal—some swore it was Green;Some Mason could spy;Others named Mr. Gye;Or Hollond, compell’d by the Belgians to fly.’Twas Graham the flighty,Whom the Duke high and mighty,Resign’d to take care of his own lignum-vitæ;’Twas Hampton, whose whimWas in Cloudland to swim,Till e’en Little Hampton look’d little to him!But all were at fault;From the heavenly vaultThe falling balloon came at last to a halt;And bounce! with the jarOf descending so far,An outlandish Creature was thrown from the car!At first with the joltAll his wits made a bolt,As if he’d been flung by a mettlesome colt;And while in his faint,To avoid all complaint,The Muse shall endeavour his portrait to paint.The face of this elf,Round as platter of delf,Was pale as if only a cast of itself:His head had a rareFleece of silvery hair,Just like the Albino at Bartlemy Fair.His eyes they were odd,Like the eyes of a cod,And gave him the look of a watery God.His nose was a snub;Under which for his grub,Was a round open mouth like to that of a chub.His person was small,Without figure at all,A plump little body as round as a ball:With two little fins,And a couple of pins,With what has been christen’d a bow in the shins.His dress it was new,A full suit of sky-blue—With bright silver buckles in each little shoe—Thus painted complete,From his head to his feet,Conceive him laid flat in Squire Hopkins’s wheat.Fine text for the crowd!Who disputed aloudWhat sort of a creature had dropp’d from the cloud—“He’s come from o’er seas,He’s a Cochin Chinese—By jingo! he’s one of the wild Cherookees!”“Don’t nobody know?”“He’s a young Esquimaux,Turn’d white like the hares by the Arctical snow.”“Some angel, my dear,Sent from some upperspearFor Plumtree or Agnew, too good for this-here!”Meanwhile, with a sigh,Having open’d one eye,The Stranger rose up on his seat by and by;And finding his tongue,Thus he said, or he sung,“Mi criky bo biggamy kickery bung!”“Lord! what does he speak?”“It’s Dog-Latin—it’s Greek!”“It’s some sort of slang for to puzzle a Beak!”“It’s no like the Scotch,”Said a Scot on the watch,“Phoo! it’s nothing at all but a kind of hotch-potch!”“It’s not parly voo,”Cried a schoolboy or two,“Nor Hebrew at all,” said a wandering Jew.Some held it was sprungFrom the Irvingite tongue,The same that is used by a child very young.Some guess’d it high Dutch,Others thought it had muchIn sound of the true Hoky-poky-ish touch;But none could be poz,What the Dickens (not Boz),No mortal could tell what the Dickens it was!When who should come pat,In a moment like that,But Bowring, to see what the people were at—A Doctor well able,Without any fable,To talk and translate all the babble of Babel.So just drawing near,With a vigilant ear,That took ev’ry syllable in, very clear,Before one could sipUp a tumbler of flip,He knew the whole tongue from the root to the tip!Then stretching his hand,As you see Daniel stand,In the Feast of Belshazzar, that picture so grand!Without more delay,In the Hamilton wayHe English’d whatever the Elf had to say.“Krak kraziboo ban,I’m the Lunatic Man,Confined in the Moon since creation began—Sit muggy bigog,Whom, except in a fog,You see with a Lantern, a Bush, and a Dog.“Lang sinery lear,For this many a year,I’ve long’d to drop in at your own little sphere,—Och, pad-mad aroon,Till one fine afternoon,I found that Wind-Coach on the horns of the Moon.“Cush quackery go,But, besides you must know,I’d heard of a profiting Prophet below;Big botherum blether,Who pretended to gatherThe tricks that the Moon meant to play with the weather.“So Crismus an crash,Being shortish of cash,I thought I’d a right to partake of the hash—Slik mizzle an smak,So I’m come with a pack,To sell to the trade, of my own Almanack.“Fiz, bobbery pershal,Besides aims commercial,Much wishing to honour my friend Sir John Herschel,Cum puddin and tame,It’s inscribed to his name,Which is now at the full in celestial fame.“Wept wepton wish wept,Pray this Copy accept”—But here on the Stranger some Kidnappers leapt:For why? a shrewd manHad devis’d a sly planThe Wonder to grab for a show Caravan.So plotted, so done—With a fight as in fun,While mock pugilistical rounds were begun,A knave who could box,And give right and left knocks,Caught hold of the Prize by his silvery locks.And hard he had fared,But the people were scaredBy what the Interpreter roundly declared:“You ignorant Turks!You will be your own Burkes—He holds all the keys of the lunary works!“You’d best let him go—If you keep him below,The Moon will not change, and the tides will not flow;He left her at full,And with such a long pull,Zounds! ev’ry man Jack will run mad like a bull!”So awful a threatTook effect on the set;The fright, tho’, was more than their Guest could forget;So taking a jump,In the car he came plump,And threw all the ballast right out in a lump.Up soar’d the machine,With its yellow and green;But still the pale face of the Creature was seen,Who cried from the car,“Dam in yooman bi gar!”That is,—“What a sad set of villains you are!”Howbeit, at some height,He threw down quite a flightOf Almanacks, wishing to set us all right—And, thanks to the boon,We shall see very soonIf Murphy knows most, or the Man in the Moon!

THE by-gone September,As folks may remember,At least if their memory saves but an ember,One fine afternoon,There went up a Balloon,Which did not return to the Earth very soon.

For, nearing the sky,At about a mile high,The Aëronaut bold had resolved on a fly;So cutting his string,In a Parasol thing,Down he came in a field like a lark from the wing.

Meanwhile, thus adrift,The Balloon made a shiftTo rise very fast, with no burden to lift;It got very small,Then to nothing at all;And then rose the question of where it would fall?

Some thought that, for lackOf the man and his pack,’Twould rise to the Cherub that watches Poor Jack;Some held, but in vain,With the first heavy rain,’Twould surely come down to the Gardens again!

But still not a wordFor a month could be heardOf what had become of the Wonderful Bird:The firm Gye and Hughes,Wore their boots out and shoes,In running about and inquiring for news.

Some thought it must beTumbled into the Sea;Some thought it had gone off to High Germanie:For Germans, as shownBy their writings, ’tis knownAre always delighted with what is high-flown.

Some hinted a bilk,And that maidens who milk,In far distant Shires would be walking in silk:Some swore that it must,“As they said at thefust,Have gone again’ flashes of lightning andbust!”

However, at last,When six weeks had gone past,Intelligence came of a plausible cast;A wondering clown,At a hamlet near town,Had seen “like a moon of green cheese” coming down.

Soon spread the alarm,And from cottage and farm,The natives buzz’d out like the bees when they swarm;And off ran the folk,—It is such a good jokeTo see the descent of a bagful of smoke.

And lo! the machine,Dappled yellow and green,Was plainly enough in the clouds to be seen:“Yes, yes,” was the cry,“It’s the old one, surely,Wherecanit have been such a time in the sky?

“Lord! where will it fall?It can’t find out Vauxhall,Without any pilot to guide it at all!”Some wager’d that KentWould behold the event,Debrett had been posed topredictits “descent.”

Some thought it would pitchIn the old Tower Ditch,Some swore on the Cross of St. Paul’s it would hitch,And Farmers cried “Zounds!If it drops on our grounds,We’ll try if Balloons can’t be put into pounds!”

But still to and froIt continued to go,As if looking out for soft places below—No difficult job,It had only to bobSlap-dash down at once on the heads of the mob:

Who, too apt to stareAt some castle in air,Forget that the earth is their proper affair;Till, watching the fallOf some soap-bubble ball,They tumble themselves with a terrible sprawl.

Meanwhile, from its heightStooping downward in flight,The Phenomenon came more distinctly in sight:Still bigger and bigger,And strike me a niggerUnfreed, if there was not a live human figure!

Yes, plain to be seen,Underneath the machine,There dangled a mortal—some swore it was Green;Some Mason could spy;Others named Mr. Gye;Or Hollond, compell’d by the Belgians to fly.

’Twas Graham the flighty,Whom the Duke high and mighty,Resign’d to take care of his own lignum-vitæ;’Twas Hampton, whose whimWas in Cloudland to swim,Till e’en Little Hampton look’d little to him!

But all were at fault;From the heavenly vaultThe falling balloon came at last to a halt;And bounce! with the jarOf descending so far,An outlandish Creature was thrown from the car!

At first with the joltAll his wits made a bolt,As if he’d been flung by a mettlesome colt;And while in his faint,To avoid all complaint,The Muse shall endeavour his portrait to paint.

The face of this elf,Round as platter of delf,Was pale as if only a cast of itself:His head had a rareFleece of silvery hair,Just like the Albino at Bartlemy Fair.

His eyes they were odd,Like the eyes of a cod,And gave him the look of a watery God.His nose was a snub;Under which for his grub,Was a round open mouth like to that of a chub.

His person was small,Without figure at all,A plump little body as round as a ball:With two little fins,And a couple of pins,With what has been christen’d a bow in the shins.

His dress it was new,A full suit of sky-blue—With bright silver buckles in each little shoe—Thus painted complete,From his head to his feet,Conceive him laid flat in Squire Hopkins’s wheat.

Fine text for the crowd!Who disputed aloudWhat sort of a creature had dropp’d from the cloud—“He’s come from o’er seas,He’s a Cochin Chinese—By jingo! he’s one of the wild Cherookees!”

“Don’t nobody know?”“He’s a young Esquimaux,Turn’d white like the hares by the Arctical snow.”“Some angel, my dear,Sent from some upperspearFor Plumtree or Agnew, too good for this-here!”

Meanwhile, with a sigh,Having open’d one eye,The Stranger rose up on his seat by and by;And finding his tongue,Thus he said, or he sung,“Mi criky bo biggamy kickery bung!”

“Lord! what does he speak?”“It’s Dog-Latin—it’s Greek!”“It’s some sort of slang for to puzzle a Beak!”“It’s no like the Scotch,”Said a Scot on the watch,“Phoo! it’s nothing at all but a kind of hotch-potch!”

“It’s not parly voo,”Cried a schoolboy or two,“Nor Hebrew at all,” said a wandering Jew.Some held it was sprungFrom the Irvingite tongue,The same that is used by a child very young.

Some guess’d it high Dutch,Others thought it had muchIn sound of the true Hoky-poky-ish touch;But none could be poz,What the Dickens (not Boz),No mortal could tell what the Dickens it was!

When who should come pat,In a moment like that,But Bowring, to see what the people were at—A Doctor well able,Without any fable,To talk and translate all the babble of Babel.

So just drawing near,With a vigilant ear,That took ev’ry syllable in, very clear,Before one could sipUp a tumbler of flip,He knew the whole tongue from the root to the tip!

Then stretching his hand,As you see Daniel stand,In the Feast of Belshazzar, that picture so grand!Without more delay,In the Hamilton wayHe English’d whatever the Elf had to say.

“Krak kraziboo ban,I’m the Lunatic Man,Confined in the Moon since creation began—Sit muggy bigog,Whom, except in a fog,You see with a Lantern, a Bush, and a Dog.

“Lang sinery lear,For this many a year,I’ve long’d to drop in at your own little sphere,—Och, pad-mad aroon,Till one fine afternoon,I found that Wind-Coach on the horns of the Moon.

“Cush quackery go,But, besides you must know,I’d heard of a profiting Prophet below;Big botherum blether,Who pretended to gatherThe tricks that the Moon meant to play with the weather.

“So Crismus an crash,Being shortish of cash,I thought I’d a right to partake of the hash—Slik mizzle an smak,So I’m come with a pack,To sell to the trade, of my own Almanack.

“Fiz, bobbery pershal,Besides aims commercial,Much wishing to honour my friend Sir John Herschel,Cum puddin and tame,It’s inscribed to his name,Which is now at the full in celestial fame.

“Wept wepton wish wept,Pray this Copy accept”—But here on the Stranger some Kidnappers leapt:For why? a shrewd manHad devis’d a sly planThe Wonder to grab for a show Caravan.

So plotted, so done—With a fight as in fun,While mock pugilistical rounds were begun,A knave who could box,And give right and left knocks,Caught hold of the Prize by his silvery locks.

And hard he had fared,But the people were scaredBy what the Interpreter roundly declared:“You ignorant Turks!You will be your own Burkes—He holds all the keys of the lunary works!

“You’d best let him go—If you keep him below,The Moon will not change, and the tides will not flow;He left her at full,And with such a long pull,Zounds! ev’ry man Jack will run mad like a bull!”

So awful a threatTook effect on the set;The fright, tho’, was more than their Guest could forget;So taking a jump,In the car he came plump,And threw all the ballast right out in a lump.

Up soar’d the machine,With its yellow and green;But still the pale face of the Creature was seen,Who cried from the car,“Dam in yooman bi gar!”That is,—“What a sad set of villains you are!”

Howbeit, at some height,He threw down quite a flightOf Almanacks, wishing to set us all right—And, thanks to the boon,We shall see very soonIf Murphy knows most, or the Man in the Moon!

“Glorious Apollo, from on high behold us.”—Old Song.

AS latterly I chanced to passA Public House, from which, alas!The Arms of Oxford dangle!My ear was startled by a din,That made me tremble in my skin,A dreadful hubbub from within,Of voices in a wrangle—Voices loud, and voices high,With now and then a party-cry,Such as used in times gone byTo scare the British border;When foes from North and South of Tweed—Neighbours—and of Christian creed—Met in hate to fight and bleed,Upsetting Social Order.Surprised, I turn’d me to the crowd,Attracted by that tumult loud,And ask’d a gazer, beetle-brow’d,The cause of such disquiet.When lo! the solemn-looking man,First shook his head on Burleigh’s plan,And then, with fluent tongue, beganHis version of the riot:

Voices loud, and voices high,With now and then a party-cry,Such as used in times gone byTo scare the British border;When foes from North and South of Tweed—Neighbours—and of Christian creed—Met in hate to fight and bleed,Upsetting Social Order.

Surprised, I turn’d me to the crowd,Attracted by that tumult loud,And ask’d a gazer, beetle-brow’d,The cause of such disquiet.When lo! the solemn-looking man,First shook his head on Burleigh’s plan,And then, with fluent tongue, beganHis version of the riot:

A row!—why yes,—a pretty row, you might hear from this to Garmany,And what is worse, it’s all got up among the Sons of Harmony,The more’s the shame for them as used to be in time and tune,And all unite in chorus like the singing-birds in June!Ah! many a pleasant chant I’ve heard in passing here along,When Swiveller was President a-knocking down a song;But Dick’s resign’d the post, you see, and all them shouts and hollersIs ‘cause two other candidates, some sort of larned scholars,Are squabbling to be Chairman of the Glorious Apollers!Lord knows their names, I’m sure I don’t, no more than any yokel,But I never heard of either as connected with the vocal;Nay, some do say, although of course the public rumour varies,They’ve no more warble in ’em than a pair of hen canaries,Though that might pass if they were dabs at t’other sort of thing,For a man may make a song, you know, although he cannot sing;But lork! it’s many folk’s belief they’re only good at prosing,For Catnach swears he never saw a verse of their composing;And when a piece of poetry has stood its public trials,If pop’lar, it gets printed off at once in Seven Dials,And then about all sorts of streets, by every little monkey,It’s chanted like the “Dog’s Meat Man,” or “If I had a Donkey.”Whereas, as Mr. Catnach says, and not a bad judge neither,No ballad—worth a ha’penny—has ever come from either,And him as writ “Jim Crow,” he says, and got such lots of dollars,Would make a better Chairman for the Glorious Apollers.Howsomever that’s the meaning of the squabble that arouses,This neighbourhood, and quite disturbs all decent Heads of Houses,Who want to have their dinners and their parties, as is reasonIn Christian peace and charity according to the season.But from Number Thirty-Nine—since this electioneering job,Ay, as far as Number Ninety, there’s an everlasting mob;Till the thing is quite a nuisance, for no creature passes by,But he gets a card, a pamphlet, or a summut in his eye;And a pretty noise there is!—what with canvassers and spouters,For in course each side is furnish’d with its backers and its touters;And surely among the Clergy to such pitches it is carried,You can hardly find a Parson to get buried or get married;Or supposing any accident that suddenly alarms,If you’re dying for a surgeon, you must fetch him from the “Arms;”While the Schoolmasters and Tooters are neglecting of their scholars,To write about a Chairman for the Glorious Apollers.Well, that, sir, is the racket; and the more the sin and shameOf them that help to stir it up, and propagate the same;Instead of vocal ditties, and the social flowing cup,—But they’ll be the House’s ruin, or the shutting of it up,With their riots and their hubbubs, like a garden full of bears,While they’ve damaged many articles and broken lots of squares,And kept their noble Club Room in a perfect dust and smother,By throwingMorning Heralds,Times, andStandardsat each other;Not to name the ugly language Gemmen oughtn’t to repeat,And the names they call each other—for I’ve heard ’em in the street—Such as Traitors, Guys, and Judases, and Vipers, and what not,For Pasley and his divers ain’t so blowing-up a lot.And then such awful swearing!—for there’s one of them that cussesEnough to shock the cads that hang on opposition ‘busses;For he cusses every member that’s agin him at the poll,As I wouldn’t cuss a donkey, tho’ it hasn’t got a soul;And he cusses all their families, Jack, Harry, Bob or Jim,To the babby in the cradle, if they don’t agree with him.Whereby, altho’ as yet they have not took to use their fives,Or, according as the fashion is, to sticking with their knives,I’m bound there’ll be some milling yet, and shakings by the collars,Afore they choose a Chairman for the Glorious Apollers!To be sure it is a pity to be blowing such a squall,Instead of clouds, and every man his song, and then his call—And as if there wasn’t Whigs enough and Tories to fall out,Besides politics in plenty for our splits to be about,—Why, a Cornfield is sufficient, sir, as anybody knows,For to furnish them in plenty who are fond of picking crows—Not to name the Maynooth Catholics, and other Irish stews,To agitate society and loosen all its screws;And which all may be agreeable and proper to their spheres,—But it’s not the thing for musicals to set us by the ears.And as to College larning, my opinion for to broach,And I’ve had it from my cousin, and he driv a college coach,And so knows the University, and all as there belongs,And he says that Oxford’s famouser for sausages than songs,And seldom turns a poet out like Hudson that can chant,As well as make such ditties as the Free and Easies want,Or other Tavern Melodists I can’t just call to mind—But it’s not the classic system for to propagate the kind,Whereby it so may happen as that neither of them ScholarsMay be the proper Chairman for the Glorious Apollers!For my part in the matter, if so be I had a voice,It’s the best among the vocalists I’d honour with the choice;Or a Poet as could furnish a new Ballad to the bunch;Or at any rate the surest hand at mixing of the punch;Cause why, the members meet for that and other tuneful frolics—And not to say, like Muffincaps, their Catichiz and Collec’s.But you see them there Itinerants that preach so long and loud,And always takes advantage like the prigs of any crowd,Have brought their jangling voices, as far as they can compass,Have turn’d a tavern shindy to a seriouser rumpus,And him as knows most hymns—altho’ I can’t see how it follers—They want to be the Chairman of the Glorious Apollers!Well, that’s the row—and who can guess the upshot after all?Whether Harmony will ever make the “Arms” her House of call,Or whether this here mobbing—as some longish heads foretel it,Will grow to such a riot that the Oxford Blues must quell it.Howsomever, for the present, there’s no sign of any peace,For the hubbub keeps a growing, and defies the New Police;—But ifIwas in the Vestry, and a leading sort of Man,Or a Member of the Vocals, to get backers for my plan,Why, I’d settle all the squabble in the twinkle of a needle,For I’d have another candidate—and that’s the Parish Beadle,Who makes such lots of Poetry, himself, or else by proxy,And no one never has no doubts about his orthodoxy;Whereby—if folks was wise—instead of either of them Scholars,And straining their own lungs along of contradictious hollers,They’ll lend their ears to reason, and take my advice as follers,Namely—Bumble for the Chairman of the Glorious Apollers!

Howsomever that’s the meaning of the squabble that arouses,This neighbourhood, and quite disturbs all decent Heads of Houses,Who want to have their dinners and their parties, as is reasonIn Christian peace and charity according to the season.But from Number Thirty-Nine—since this electioneering job,Ay, as far as Number Ninety, there’s an everlasting mob;Till the thing is quite a nuisance, for no creature passes by,But he gets a card, a pamphlet, or a summut in his eye;And a pretty noise there is!—what with canvassers and spouters,For in course each side is furnish’d with its backers and its touters;And surely among the Clergy to such pitches it is carried,You can hardly find a Parson to get buried or get married;Or supposing any accident that suddenly alarms,If you’re dying for a surgeon, you must fetch him from the “Arms;”While the Schoolmasters and Tooters are neglecting of their scholars,To write about a Chairman for the Glorious Apollers.

Well, that, sir, is the racket; and the more the sin and shameOf them that help to stir it up, and propagate the same;Instead of vocal ditties, and the social flowing cup,—But they’ll be the House’s ruin, or the shutting of it up,With their riots and their hubbubs, like a garden full of bears,While they’ve damaged many articles and broken lots of squares,And kept their noble Club Room in a perfect dust and smother,By throwingMorning Heralds,Times, andStandardsat each other;Not to name the ugly language Gemmen oughtn’t to repeat,And the names they call each other—for I’ve heard ’em in the street—Such as Traitors, Guys, and Judases, and Vipers, and what not,For Pasley and his divers ain’t so blowing-up a lot.And then such awful swearing!—for there’s one of them that cussesEnough to shock the cads that hang on opposition ‘busses;For he cusses every member that’s agin him at the poll,As I wouldn’t cuss a donkey, tho’ it hasn’t got a soul;And he cusses all their families, Jack, Harry, Bob or Jim,To the babby in the cradle, if they don’t agree with him.Whereby, altho’ as yet they have not took to use their fives,Or, according as the fashion is, to sticking with their knives,I’m bound there’ll be some milling yet, and shakings by the collars,Afore they choose a Chairman for the Glorious Apollers!

To be sure it is a pity to be blowing such a squall,Instead of clouds, and every man his song, and then his call—And as if there wasn’t Whigs enough and Tories to fall out,Besides politics in plenty for our splits to be about,—Why, a Cornfield is sufficient, sir, as anybody knows,For to furnish them in plenty who are fond of picking crows—Not to name the Maynooth Catholics, and other Irish stews,To agitate society and loosen all its screws;And which all may be agreeable and proper to their spheres,—But it’s not the thing for musicals to set us by the ears.And as to College larning, my opinion for to broach,And I’ve had it from my cousin, and he driv a college coach,And so knows the University, and all as there belongs,And he says that Oxford’s famouser for sausages than songs,And seldom turns a poet out like Hudson that can chant,As well as make such ditties as the Free and Easies want,Or other Tavern Melodists I can’t just call to mind—But it’s not the classic system for to propagate the kind,Whereby it so may happen as that neither of them ScholarsMay be the proper Chairman for the Glorious Apollers!

For my part in the matter, if so be I had a voice,It’s the best among the vocalists I’d honour with the choice;Or a Poet as could furnish a new Ballad to the bunch;Or at any rate the surest hand at mixing of the punch;Cause why, the members meet for that and other tuneful frolics—And not to say, like Muffincaps, their Catichiz and Collec’s.But you see them there Itinerants that preach so long and loud,And always takes advantage like the prigs of any crowd,Have brought their jangling voices, as far as they can compass,Have turn’d a tavern shindy to a seriouser rumpus,And him as knows most hymns—altho’ I can’t see how it follers—They want to be the Chairman of the Glorious Apollers!

Well, that’s the row—and who can guess the upshot after all?Whether Harmony will ever make the “Arms” her House of call,Or whether this here mobbing—as some longish heads foretel it,Will grow to such a riot that the Oxford Blues must quell it.Howsomever, for the present, there’s no sign of any peace,For the hubbub keeps a growing, and defies the New Police;—But ifIwas in the Vestry, and a leading sort of Man,Or a Member of the Vocals, to get backers for my plan,Why, I’d settle all the squabble in the twinkle of a needle,For I’d have another candidate—and that’s the Parish Beadle,Who makes such lots of Poetry, himself, or else by proxy,And no one never has no doubts about his orthodoxy;Whereby—if folks was wise—instead of either of them Scholars,And straining their own lungs along of contradictious hollers,They’ll lend their ears to reason, and take my advice as follers,Namely—Bumble for the Chairman of the Glorious Apollers!

WELL! thanks be to heaven,The summons is given;It’s only gone sevenAnd should have been six;There’s fine overdoingIn roasting and stewing,And victuals past chewingTo rags and to sticks!How dreadfully chilly!I shake, willy-nilly;That John is so sillyAnd never will learn!This plate is a cold one,That cloth is an old one,I wish they had told oneThe lamp wouldn’t burn.Now then for some blunder,For nerves to sink under;I never shall wonderWhatever goes ill.That fish is a riddle!It’s broke in the middle,A Turbot! a fiddle!It’s only a Brill!It’s quite over-boil’d too,The butter is oil’d too,The soup is all spoil’d too,It’s nothing but slop.The smelts looking flabby,The soles are as dabby,It all is so shabbyThat Cook shall not stop!As sure as the morning,She gets a month’s warning,My orders for scorning—There’s nothing to eat!I hear such a rushing,I feel such a flushing,I know I am blushingAs red as a beet!Friends flatter and flatter,I wish they would chatter;Whatcanbe the matterThat nothing comes next?How very unpleasant!Lord! there is the pheasant!Not wanted at present,I’m born to be vext!The pudding brought on tooAnd aiming at ton too!And where is that John too,The plague that he is?He’s off on some ramble:And there is Miss Campbell,Enjoying the scramble,Detestable Quiz!The veal they all eye it,But no one will try it,An Ogre would shy itSo ruddy as that!And as for the mutton,The cold dish it’s put on,Converts to a buttonEach drop of the fat.The beef without mustard!My fate’s to be fluster’d,And there comes the custardTo eat with the hare!Such flesh, fowl, and fishing,Such waiting and dishing,I cannot help wishingA woman might swear!Oh dear! did I ever—But no, I did never—Well, come, that is clever,To send up the brawn!That cook, I could scold her,Gets worse as she’s older;I wonder who told herThat woodcocks are drawn!It’s really audacious!I cannot look gracious,Lord help the voraciousThat came for a cram!There’s Alderman FullerGets duller and duller.Those fowls, by the colour,Were boil’d with the ham!Well, where is the curry?I’m all in a flurry,No, cook’s in no hurry—A stoppage again!And John makes it wider,A pretty provider!By bringing up ciderInstead of champagne!My troubles come faster!There’s my lord and masterDetects each disaster,And hardly can sit:He cannot help seeing,All things disagreeing;Ifhebegins d—ingI’m off in a fit!This cooking?—it’s messing!The spinach wants pressing,And salads in dressingAre best with good eggs.And John—yes, already—Has had something heady,That makes him unsteadyIn keeping his legs.HowshallI get through it!I never can do it,I’m quite looking to it,To sink by and by.Oh! would I were dead now,Or up in my bed now,To cover my head nowAnd have a good cry!

WELL! thanks be to heaven,The summons is given;It’s only gone sevenAnd should have been six;There’s fine overdoingIn roasting and stewing,And victuals past chewingTo rags and to sticks!

How dreadfully chilly!I shake, willy-nilly;That John is so sillyAnd never will learn!This plate is a cold one,That cloth is an old one,I wish they had told oneThe lamp wouldn’t burn.

Now then for some blunder,For nerves to sink under;I never shall wonderWhatever goes ill.That fish is a riddle!It’s broke in the middle,A Turbot! a fiddle!It’s only a Brill!

It’s quite over-boil’d too,The butter is oil’d too,The soup is all spoil’d too,It’s nothing but slop.The smelts looking flabby,The soles are as dabby,It all is so shabbyThat Cook shall not stop!

As sure as the morning,She gets a month’s warning,My orders for scorning—There’s nothing to eat!I hear such a rushing,I feel such a flushing,I know I am blushingAs red as a beet!

Friends flatter and flatter,I wish they would chatter;Whatcanbe the matterThat nothing comes next?How very unpleasant!Lord! there is the pheasant!Not wanted at present,I’m born to be vext!

The pudding brought on tooAnd aiming at ton too!And where is that John too,The plague that he is?He’s off on some ramble:And there is Miss Campbell,Enjoying the scramble,Detestable Quiz!

The veal they all eye it,But no one will try it,An Ogre would shy itSo ruddy as that!And as for the mutton,The cold dish it’s put on,Converts to a buttonEach drop of the fat.

The beef without mustard!My fate’s to be fluster’d,And there comes the custardTo eat with the hare!Such flesh, fowl, and fishing,Such waiting and dishing,I cannot help wishingA woman might swear!

Oh dear! did I ever—But no, I did never—Well, come, that is clever,To send up the brawn!That cook, I could scold her,Gets worse as she’s older;I wonder who told herThat woodcocks are drawn!

It’s really audacious!I cannot look gracious,Lord help the voraciousThat came for a cram!There’s Alderman FullerGets duller and duller.Those fowls, by the colour,Were boil’d with the ham!

Well, where is the curry?I’m all in a flurry,No, cook’s in no hurry—A stoppage again!And John makes it wider,A pretty provider!By bringing up ciderInstead of champagne!

My troubles come faster!There’s my lord and masterDetects each disaster,And hardly can sit:He cannot help seeing,All things disagreeing;Ifhebegins d—ingI’m off in a fit!

This cooking?—it’s messing!The spinach wants pressing,And salads in dressingAre best with good eggs.And John—yes, already—Has had something heady,That makes him unsteadyIn keeping his legs.

HowshallI get through it!I never can do it,I’m quite looking to it,To sink by and by.Oh! would I were dead now,Or up in my bed now,To cover my head nowAnd have a good cry!

TOM SIMPSON was as nice a kind of manAs ever lived—at least at number Four,In Austin Friars, in Mrs. Brown’s first floor,At fifty pounds,—or thereabouts,—per ann.The Lady reckon’d him her best of lodgers,His rent so punctually paid each quarter,—He did not smoke like nasty foreign codgers—Nor play French horns like Mr. Rogers—Or talk his flirting nonsense to her daughter—Not that the girl was light behaved or courtable—Still on one failing tenderly to touch,The Gentleman did like a drop too much,(Tho’ there are many such)And took more Port than was exactly portable.In fact,—to put the cap upon the nipple,And try the charge,—Tom certainlydidtipple.He thought the motto was but sorry stuffOn Cribb’s Prize Cup—Yes, wrong in ev’ry letter—That “D——d be he who first criesHold Enough!”The more cups hold, and if enough, the better.And so to set example in the eyesOf Fancy’s lads, and give a broadish hint to them,All his cups were of such ample sizeThat he got into them.Once in the company of merry mates,In spite of Temperance’s ifs and buts,So sure as Eating is set off withplates,His Drinking always was bound up withcuts!Howbeit, such Bacchanalian revelsBring very sad catastrophes about;Palsy, Dyspepsy, Dropsy, and Blue Devils,Not to forget the Gout.Sometimes the liver takes a spleenful whimTo grow to Strasbourg’s regulation size,As if for those hepatical goose pies—Or out of depth the head begins to swim—Poor Simpson! what a thing occurred to him!’Twas Christmas—he had drunk the night before,—Like Baxter, who “so went beyond his last”—Onebottle more, and thenonebottle more,Till, oh! the red-wineRuby-conwas pass’d!And homeward, by the short small chimes of day,With many a circumbendibus to spare,For instance, twice round Finsbury Square,To use a fitting phrase, hewoundhis way.Then comes the rising, with repentance bitter,And all the nerves—(and sparrows)—in a twitter,Till settled by the sober Chinese cup:The hands, o’er all, are members that make motions,A sort of wavering just like the ocean’s,Which has its swell, too, when it’s getting up—An awkward circumstance enough for elvesWho shave themselves;And Simpson just was ready to go thro’ itWhen lo! the first short glimpse within the glass—He jump’d—and who alive would fail to do it?—To see, however it had come to pass,One section of his face as green as grass!In vain each eager wipe,With soap—without—wet—hot or cold—or dry,Still, still, and still, to his astonished eyeOne cheek was green, the other cherry ripe!Plump in the nearest chair he sat him down,Quaking, and quite absorb’d in a deep study,—But verdant and not brown,What could have happened to a tint so ruddy?Indeed it was a very novel case,By way of penalty for being jolly,To have that evergreen stuck in his face,Just like the windows with their Christmas holly.“All claret marks,”—thought he—Tom knew his forte—“Are red—this colourCANNOTcome from Port!”One thing was plain; with such a face as his,’Twas quite impossible to ever greetGood Mrs. Brown; nay, any party meet,Altho’ ’twas such a parti-coloured phiz!As for the public, fancy Sarcy Ned,The coachman, flying, dog-like, at his head,With “Ax your pardon, Sir, but if you please—Unless it comes too high—Vere ought a fellow, now, to go to buyThe t’other half, Sir, of that ‘ere green cheese?”His mind recoil’d—so he tied up his head,As with a raging tooth, and took to bed;Of course with feelings far from the serene,For all his future prospects seemed to be,To match his customary tea,Black mixt with green.Meanwhile, good Mrs. BrownWondered at Mr. S. not coming down,And sent the maid up-stairs to learn the why;To whom poor Simpson, half delirious,Returned an answer so mysteriousThat curiosity began to fry;The more, as Betty, who had caught a snatchBy peeping in upon the patient’s bed,Reported a most bloody, tied-up head,Got over-night of course—“Harm watch, harm catch,”From Watchmen in a boxing-match.So, liberty or not,—Good lodgers are too scarce to let them off inA suicidal coffin—The dame ran up as fast as she could trot;“Appearance,—fiddlesticks!” should not deterFrom going to the bed,And looking at the head:“La! Mister S——, he need not care for her!A married woman that had hadNine boys and gals, and none had turned out bad—Her own dear late would come home late at night,And liquor always got him in a fight,She’d been in Hospitals—she wouldn’t faintAt gores and gashes fingers wide and deep;She knew what’s good for bruises and what ain’t—Turlington’s Drops she made a p’int to keep.Cases she’d seen beneath the surgent’s hand—Such skulls japann’d—she meant to say trepann’d!Poor wretches! you would think they’d been in battle,And hadn’t hours to live,From tearing horses’ kicks or Smithfield cattle,Shamefully over-driv!—Heads forced to have a silver plate atop,To get the brains to stop.At imputations of the legs she’d been,And neither screech’d nor cried—Hereat she pluck’d the white cravat aside,And lo! the whole phenomenon was seen—“Preserve us all! He’s going to gangrene!”Alas! through Simpson’s brainShot the remark, like ball, with mortal pain;It tallied truly with his own misgiving,And brought a groan,To move a heart of stone—A sort of farewell to the land of living!And as the case was imminent and urgent,He did not make a shadow of objectionTo Mrs. B.’s proposal for a “surgent,”But merely gave a sight of deep dejection,While down the verdant cheek a tear of griefStole, like a dew-drop on a cabbage-leaf.Swift flew the summons,—it was life or death!And in as short a time as he could race it,Came Doctor Puddicome as short of breath,To try his Latin charms againstHic Jacet.He took a seat beside the patient’s bed,Saw tongue—felt pulse—examined the bad cheek,—Poked, stroked, pinch’d, kneaded it—hemm’d—shook his head—Took a long solemn pause the cause to seek,(Thinking, it seem’d, in Greek,)Then ask’d—‘twas Christmas—“Had he eaten grass,Or greens—and if the cook was so improperTo boil them up with copper,Or farthings made of brass;Or if he drank his Hock from dark green glass,Or dined at City Festivals, whereatThere’s turtle, and green fat?”To all of which, with serious tone of woe,Poor Simpson answered “No.”Indeed he might have said in form auricular,Supposing Puddicome had been a monk—He had not eaten (he had only drunk)Of any thing “Particular.”The Doctor was at fault;A thing so new quite brought him to a halt.Cases of other colours came in crowds,He could have found their remedy, and soon;But green—it sent him up among the clouds,As if he had gone up with Green’s balloon!Black with Black Jaundice he had seen the skin;From Yellow Jaundice yellow,From saffron tints to sallow;—Then retrospective memory lugg’d inOld Purple Face, the Host at Kentish Town—East Indians, without number,He knew familiarly, by heat done Brown,From tan to a burnt umber,Ev’n those eruptions he had never seenOf which the Caledonian Poet spoke,As “rashesgrowing green!”“Pooh! pooh! a rash grow green!Nothing of course but a broad Scottish joke!”Then as to flaming visages, for thoseThe Scarlet Fever answer’d, or the Rose—But verdant that was quite a novel stroke!Men turn’d to blue, by Cholera’s last stage,In common practice he had really seen;But green—he was too old, and grave, and sage,To think of the last stage to Turnham Green!So matters stood in-doors—meanwhile without,Growing in going like all other rumours,The modern miracle was buzz’d about,By People of all humours,Native or foreign in their dialecticals;Till all the neighbourhood, as if their nosesHad taken the odd gross from little Moses,Seem’d looking thro’ green spectacles.“Green faces!” so they all began to comment—“Yes—opposite to Druggist’s lighted shops,But that’s a flying colour—never stops—A bottle-green that’s vanished in a moment.Green! nothing of the sort occurs to mind,Nothing at all to match the present piece;Jack in the Green has nothing of the kind—Green-grocers are not green—nor yet green geese!”The oldest Supercargoes of Old SailorsOf such a case had never heard,From Emerald Isle to Cape de Verd;“Or Greenland!” cried the whalers.All tongues were full of the Green man, and stillThey could not make him out, with all their skill;No soul could shape the matter, head or tail—But truth steps in where all conjectures fail.A long half-hour, in needless puzzle,Our Galen’s cane had rubbed against his muzzle:He thought, and thought, and thought, and thought, and thought—And still it came to nought,When up rush’d Betty, loudest of Town Criers,“Lord, Ma’am, the new Police is at the door!It’s B, ma’am, Twenty-four,—As brought home Mr. S. to Austin Friars,And says there’s nothing but a simple case—He got that ‘ere green faceBy sleeping in the kennel near the Dyer’s!”

Howbeit, such Bacchanalian revelsBring very sad catastrophes about;Palsy, Dyspepsy, Dropsy, and Blue Devils,Not to forget the Gout.Sometimes the liver takes a spleenful whimTo grow to Strasbourg’s regulation size,As if for those hepatical goose pies—Or out of depth the head begins to swim—Poor Simpson! what a thing occurred to him!’Twas Christmas—he had drunk the night before,—Like Baxter, who “so went beyond his last”—Onebottle more, and thenonebottle more,Till, oh! the red-wineRuby-conwas pass’d!And homeward, by the short small chimes of day,With many a circumbendibus to spare,For instance, twice round Finsbury Square,To use a fitting phrase, hewoundhis way.

Then comes the rising, with repentance bitter,And all the nerves—(and sparrows)—in a twitter,Till settled by the sober Chinese cup:The hands, o’er all, are members that make motions,A sort of wavering just like the ocean’s,Which has its swell, too, when it’s getting up—An awkward circumstance enough for elvesWho shave themselves;And Simpson just was ready to go thro’ itWhen lo! the first short glimpse within the glass—He jump’d—and who alive would fail to do it?—To see, however it had come to pass,One section of his face as green as grass!In vain each eager wipe,With soap—without—wet—hot or cold—or dry,Still, still, and still, to his astonished eyeOne cheek was green, the other cherry ripe!Plump in the nearest chair he sat him down,Quaking, and quite absorb’d in a deep study,—But verdant and not brown,What could have happened to a tint so ruddy?Indeed it was a very novel case,By way of penalty for being jolly,To have that evergreen stuck in his face,Just like the windows with their Christmas holly.

“All claret marks,”—thought he—Tom knew his forte—“Are red—this colourCANNOTcome from Port!”

One thing was plain; with such a face as his,’Twas quite impossible to ever greetGood Mrs. Brown; nay, any party meet,Altho’ ’twas such a parti-coloured phiz!As for the public, fancy Sarcy Ned,The coachman, flying, dog-like, at his head,With “Ax your pardon, Sir, but if you please—Unless it comes too high—Vere ought a fellow, now, to go to buyThe t’other half, Sir, of that ‘ere green cheese?”His mind recoil’d—so he tied up his head,As with a raging tooth, and took to bed;Of course with feelings far from the serene,For all his future prospects seemed to be,To match his customary tea,Black mixt with green.Meanwhile, good Mrs. BrownWondered at Mr. S. not coming down,And sent the maid up-stairs to learn the why;To whom poor Simpson, half delirious,Returned an answer so mysteriousThat curiosity began to fry;The more, as Betty, who had caught a snatchBy peeping in upon the patient’s bed,Reported a most bloody, tied-up head,Got over-night of course—“Harm watch, harm catch,”From Watchmen in a boxing-match.

So, liberty or not,—Good lodgers are too scarce to let them off inA suicidal coffin—The dame ran up as fast as she could trot;“Appearance,—fiddlesticks!” should not deterFrom going to the bed,And looking at the head:“La! Mister S——, he need not care for her!A married woman that had hadNine boys and gals, and none had turned out bad—Her own dear late would come home late at night,And liquor always got him in a fight,She’d been in Hospitals—she wouldn’t faintAt gores and gashes fingers wide and deep;She knew what’s good for bruises and what ain’t—Turlington’s Drops she made a p’int to keep.Cases she’d seen beneath the surgent’s hand—Such skulls japann’d—she meant to say trepann’d!Poor wretches! you would think they’d been in battle,And hadn’t hours to live,From tearing horses’ kicks or Smithfield cattle,Shamefully over-driv!—Heads forced to have a silver plate atop,To get the brains to stop.At imputations of the legs she’d been,And neither screech’d nor cried—Hereat she pluck’d the white cravat aside,And lo! the whole phenomenon was seen—“Preserve us all! He’s going to gangrene!”

Alas! through Simpson’s brainShot the remark, like ball, with mortal pain;It tallied truly with his own misgiving,And brought a groan,To move a heart of stone—A sort of farewell to the land of living!And as the case was imminent and urgent,He did not make a shadow of objectionTo Mrs. B.’s proposal for a “surgent,”But merely gave a sight of deep dejection,While down the verdant cheek a tear of griefStole, like a dew-drop on a cabbage-leaf.Swift flew the summons,—it was life or death!And in as short a time as he could race it,Came Doctor Puddicome as short of breath,To try his Latin charms againstHic Jacet.He took a seat beside the patient’s bed,Saw tongue—felt pulse—examined the bad cheek,—Poked, stroked, pinch’d, kneaded it—hemm’d—shook his head—Took a long solemn pause the cause to seek,(Thinking, it seem’d, in Greek,)Then ask’d—‘twas Christmas—“Had he eaten grass,Or greens—and if the cook was so improperTo boil them up with copper,Or farthings made of brass;Or if he drank his Hock from dark green glass,Or dined at City Festivals, whereatThere’s turtle, and green fat?”To all of which, with serious tone of woe,Poor Simpson answered “No.”Indeed he might have said in form auricular,Supposing Puddicome had been a monk—He had not eaten (he had only drunk)Of any thing “Particular.”The Doctor was at fault;A thing so new quite brought him to a halt.Cases of other colours came in crowds,He could have found their remedy, and soon;But green—it sent him up among the clouds,As if he had gone up with Green’s balloon!Black with Black Jaundice he had seen the skin;From Yellow Jaundice yellow,From saffron tints to sallow;—Then retrospective memory lugg’d inOld Purple Face, the Host at Kentish Town—East Indians, without number,He knew familiarly, by heat done Brown,From tan to a burnt umber,Ev’n those eruptions he had never seenOf which the Caledonian Poet spoke,As “rashesgrowing green!”“Pooh! pooh! a rash grow green!Nothing of course but a broad Scottish joke!”Then as to flaming visages, for thoseThe Scarlet Fever answer’d, or the Rose—But verdant that was quite a novel stroke!Men turn’d to blue, by Cholera’s last stage,In common practice he had really seen;But green—he was too old, and grave, and sage,To think of the last stage to Turnham Green!

So matters stood in-doors—meanwhile without,Growing in going like all other rumours,The modern miracle was buzz’d about,By People of all humours,Native or foreign in their dialecticals;Till all the neighbourhood, as if their nosesHad taken the odd gross from little Moses,Seem’d looking thro’ green spectacles.“Green faces!” so they all began to comment—“Yes—opposite to Druggist’s lighted shops,But that’s a flying colour—never stops—A bottle-green that’s vanished in a moment.Green! nothing of the sort occurs to mind,Nothing at all to match the present piece;Jack in the Green has nothing of the kind—Green-grocers are not green—nor yet green geese!”The oldest Supercargoes of Old SailorsOf such a case had never heard,From Emerald Isle to Cape de Verd;“Or Greenland!” cried the whalers.All tongues were full of the Green man, and stillThey could not make him out, with all their skill;No soul could shape the matter, head or tail—But truth steps in where all conjectures fail.

A long half-hour, in needless puzzle,Our Galen’s cane had rubbed against his muzzle:He thought, and thought, and thought, and thought, and thought—And still it came to nought,When up rush’d Betty, loudest of Town Criers,“Lord, Ma’am, the new Police is at the door!It’s B, ma’am, Twenty-four,—As brought home Mr. S. to Austin Friars,And says there’s nothing but a simple case—He got that ‘ere green faceBy sleeping in the kennel near the Dyer’s!”

Back to Index Next