A TRUE STORY.

“Draw, Sir!”—Old Play.

WELL, something must be done for May,The time is drawing nigh,To figure in the catalogueAnd woo the public eye.Something I must invent and paint;But, oh! my wit is notLike one of those kind substantivesThe answer Who and What?Oh, for some happy hit! to throwThe gazer in a trance;Butposé là—there I am posed,As people say in France.In vain I sit and strive to think,I find my head, alack!Painfully empty, still, just likeA bottle “on the rack.”In vain I task my barren brainSome new idea to catch,And tease my hair—ideas are shyOf “coming to the scratch.”In vain I stare upon the air,No mental visions dawn;A blank my canvas still remains,And worse—a blank undrawn:An “aching void” that mars my restWith one eternal hint,For, like the little goblin page,It still keeps crying “Tint!”But what to tint? ay, there’s the rub,That plagues me all the while,As, Selkirk-like, I sit withoutA subject for myi’le.“Invention’s seventh heaven” the bardHas written—but my casePersuades me that the creature dwellsIn quite another place.Sniffing the lamp, the ancients thought,Demosthenesmusttoil;But works of art are works indeed,And always “smell of oil.”Yet painting pictures some folks think,Is merely play and fun;That what is on an easel setMust easily be done.But, zounds! if they could sit in thisUneasy easy-chair,They’d very soon be glad enoughTo cut the camel’s hair.Oh! who can tell the pang it isTo sit as I this day—With all my canvas spread, and yetWithout an inch of way.Till, mad at last to find I amAmongst such empty skullers,I feel that I could strike myself,But no—I’ll “strike my colours.”

WELL, something must be done for May,The time is drawing nigh,To figure in the catalogueAnd woo the public eye.

Something I must invent and paint;But, oh! my wit is notLike one of those kind substantivesThe answer Who and What?

Oh, for some happy hit! to throwThe gazer in a trance;Butposé là—there I am posed,As people say in France.

In vain I sit and strive to think,I find my head, alack!Painfully empty, still, just likeA bottle “on the rack.”

In vain I task my barren brainSome new idea to catch,And tease my hair—ideas are shyOf “coming to the scratch.”

In vain I stare upon the air,No mental visions dawn;A blank my canvas still remains,And worse—a blank undrawn:

An “aching void” that mars my restWith one eternal hint,For, like the little goblin page,It still keeps crying “Tint!”

But what to tint? ay, there’s the rub,That plagues me all the while,As, Selkirk-like, I sit withoutA subject for myi’le.

“Invention’s seventh heaven” the bardHas written—but my casePersuades me that the creature dwellsIn quite another place.

Sniffing the lamp, the ancients thought,Demosthenesmusttoil;But works of art are works indeed,And always “smell of oil.”

Yet painting pictures some folks think,Is merely play and fun;That what is on an easel setMust easily be done.

But, zounds! if they could sit in thisUneasy easy-chair,They’d very soon be glad enoughTo cut the camel’s hair.

Oh! who can tell the pang it isTo sit as I this day—With all my canvas spread, and yetWithout an inch of way.

Till, mad at last to find I amAmongst such empty skullers,I feel that I could strike myself,But no—I’ll “strike my colours.”

OF all our pains, since man was curst,I mean of body, not the mental,To name the worst, among the worst,The dental sure is transcendental;Some bit of masticating bone,That ought to help to clear a shelf,But let its proper work alone,And only seems to gnaw itself;In fact, of any grave attackOn victual there is little danger,’Tis so like coming to therack,As well as going to the manger.Old Hunks—it seemed a fit retortOf justice on his grinding ways—Possessed a grinder of the sort,That troubled all his latter days.The best of friends fall out, and soHis teeth had done some years ago,Save some old stumps with ragged root,And they took turn about to shoot;If he drank any chilly liquor,They made it quite a point to throb;But if he warmed it on the hob,Why then they only twitched the quicker.One tooth—I wonder such a toothHad never killed him in his youth—One tooth he had with many fangs,That shot at once as many pangs,It had an universal sting;One touch of that ecstatic stumpCould jerk his limbs, and make him jump,Just like a puppet on a string;And what was worse than all, it hadA way of making others bad.There is, as many know, a knack,With certain farming undertakers,And this same tooth pursued their track,By addingachersstill toachers!One way there is, that has been judgedA certain cure, but Hunks was lothTo pay the fee, and quite begrudgedTo lose his tooth and money both;In fact, a dentist and the wheelOf Fortune are a kindred cast,For after all is drawn, you feelIt’s paying for a blank at last;So Hunks went on from week to week,And kept his torment in his cheek.Oh! how it sometimes set him rocking,With that perpetual gnaw—gnaw—gnaw,His moans and groans were truly shockingAnd loud,—altho’ he held his jaw.Many a tug he gave his gum,And tooth, but still it would not come;Tho’ tied by string to some firm thing,He could not draw it, do his best,By draw’rs, although he tried a chest.At last, but after much debating,He joined a score of mouths in waiting,Like his, to have their troubles out.Sad sight it was to look aboutAt twenty faces making faces,With many a rampant trick and antic,For all were very horrid cases,And made their owners nearly frantic.A little wicket now and thenTook one of these unhappy men,And out again the victim rushed,While eyes and mouth together gushed;At last arrived our hero’s turn,Who plunged his hands in both his pockets,And down he sat, prepared to learnHow teeth are charmed to quit their sockets.Those who have felt such operations,Alone can guess the sort of ache,When his old tooth began to breakThe thread of old associations;It touched a string in every part,It had so many tender ties;One chord seemed wrenching at his heart,And two were tugging at his eyes;“Bone of his bone,” he felt of course,As husbands do in such divorce;At last the fangs gave way a littleHunks gave his head a backward jerk,And to! the cause of all this work,Went—where it used to send his victual!The monstrous pain of this proceedingHad not so numbed his miser wit,But in this slip he saw a hitTo save, at least, his purse from bleeding;So when the dentist sought his fees,Quoth Hunks, “Let’s finish, if you please.”“How, finish! why it’s out!”—“Oh! no—I’m none of your before-hand tippers,’Tis you are out, to argue so;My tooth is in my head no doubt,But as you say you pulled it out,Of course it’s there—between your nippers.”“Zounds! sir, d’ye think I’d sell the truthTo get a fee? no, wretch, I scorn it.”But Hunks still asked to see the tooth,And swore by gum! he had not drawn it.His end obtained, he took his leave,A secret chuckle in his sleeve;The joke was worthy to produce one,To think, by favour of his wit,How well a dentist had been bitBy one old stump, and that a loose one!The thing was worth a laugh, but mirthIs still the frailest thing on earth:Alas! how often when a jokeSeems in our sleeve, and safe enough,There comes some unexpected stroke,And hangs a weeper on the cuff!Hunks had not whistled half a mile,When, planted right against the stile,There stood his foeman, Mike Maloney,A vagrant reaper, Irish-born,That helped to reap our miser’s corn,But had not helped to reap his money,A fact that Hunks remembered quickly;His whistle all at once was quelled,And when he saw how Michael heldHis sickle, he felt rather sickly.Nine souls in ten, with half his fright,Would soon have paid the bill at sight,But misers (let observers watch it)Will never part with their delightTill well demanded by a hatchet—They live hard—and they die to match it.Thus Hunks, prepared for Mike’s attacking,Resolved not yet to pay the debt,But let him take it out in hacking;However, Mike began to stickleIn word before he used the sickle;But mercy was not long attendant:From words at last he took to blows,And aimed a cut at Hunks’s nose;That made it what some folks are not—A Member very independent.Heaven knows how far this cruel trickMight still have led, but for a tramperThat came in danger’s very nick,To put Maloney to the scamper.But still compassion met a damper;There lay the severed nose, alas!Beside the daisies on the grass,“Wee, crimson-tipt” as well as they,According to the poet’s lay:And there stood Hunks, no sight for laughter!Away ran Hodge to get assistance,With nose in hand, which Hunks ran after,But somewhat at unusual distance.In many a little country placeIt is a very common caseTo have but one residing doctor,Whose practice rather seems to beNo practice, but a rule of three,Physician—surgeon—drug-decocter;Thus Hunks was forced to go once moreWhere he had ta’en his tooth before.His mere name made the learnëd man hot—“What! Hunks again within my door!I’ll pull his nose;” quoth Hunks, “you cannot.”The doctor looked and saw the casePlain as the nosenoton his face.“O! hum—ha—yes—I understand.”But then arose a long demur,For not a finger would he stirTill he was paid his fee in hand;That matter settled, there they were,With Hunks well strapped upon his chair.The opening of a surgeon’s job—His tools, a chestful or a drawful—Are always something very awful,And give the heart the strangest throb;But never patient in his funksLooked half so like a ghost as Hunks,Or surgeon half so like a devilPrepared for some infernal revel:His huge black eye kept rolling, rolling,Just like a bolus in a box:His fury seemed above controlling,He bellowed like a hunted ox:“Now, swindling wretch, I’ll show thee howWe treat such cheating knaves as thou;Oh! sweet is this revenge to sup;I have thee by the nose—it’s nowMy turn—and I will turn it up.”Guess how the miser liked the scurvyAnd cruel way of venting passion;The snubbing folks in this new fashionSeemed quite to turn him topsy turvy;He uttered prayers, and groans, and curses,For things had often gone amissAnd wrong with him before, but thisWould be the worst of allreverses!In fancy he beheld his snoutTurned upward like a pitcher’s spout;There was another grievance yet,And fancy did not fail to show it,That he must throw a summerset,Or stand upon his head to blow it.And was there then no argumentTo change the doctor’s vile intent,And move his pity?—yes, in truth,And that was—paying for the tooth.“Zounds! pay for such a stump! I’d rather—”But here the menace went no farther,For with his other ways of pinching,Hunks had a miser’s love of snuff,A recollection strong enoughTo cause a very serious flinching;In short he paid and had the featureReplaced as it was meant by nature;For tho’ by this ’twas cold to handle,(No corpse’s could have felt more horrid,)And white just like an end of candle,The doctor deemed and proved it too,That noses from the nose will doAs well as noses from the forehead;So, fixed by dint of rag and lint,The part was bandaged up and muffled.The chair unfastened, Hunks arose,And shuffled out, for once unshuffled;And as he went, these words he snuffled—“Well, thisis‘paying thro’ the nose.’”

Old Hunks—it seemed a fit retortOf justice on his grinding ways—Possessed a grinder of the sort,That troubled all his latter days.The best of friends fall out, and soHis teeth had done some years ago,Save some old stumps with ragged root,And they took turn about to shoot;If he drank any chilly liquor,They made it quite a point to throb;But if he warmed it on the hob,Why then they only twitched the quicker.

One tooth—I wonder such a toothHad never killed him in his youth—One tooth he had with many fangs,That shot at once as many pangs,It had an universal sting;One touch of that ecstatic stumpCould jerk his limbs, and make him jump,Just like a puppet on a string;And what was worse than all, it hadA way of making others bad.There is, as many know, a knack,With certain farming undertakers,And this same tooth pursued their track,By addingachersstill toachers!

One way there is, that has been judgedA certain cure, but Hunks was lothTo pay the fee, and quite begrudgedTo lose his tooth and money both;In fact, a dentist and the wheelOf Fortune are a kindred cast,For after all is drawn, you feelIt’s paying for a blank at last;So Hunks went on from week to week,And kept his torment in his cheek.Oh! how it sometimes set him rocking,With that perpetual gnaw—gnaw—gnaw,His moans and groans were truly shockingAnd loud,—altho’ he held his jaw.Many a tug he gave his gum,And tooth, but still it would not come;Tho’ tied by string to some firm thing,He could not draw it, do his best,By draw’rs, although he tried a chest.

At last, but after much debating,He joined a score of mouths in waiting,Like his, to have their troubles out.Sad sight it was to look aboutAt twenty faces making faces,With many a rampant trick and antic,For all were very horrid cases,And made their owners nearly frantic.A little wicket now and thenTook one of these unhappy men,And out again the victim rushed,While eyes and mouth together gushed;At last arrived our hero’s turn,Who plunged his hands in both his pockets,And down he sat, prepared to learnHow teeth are charmed to quit their sockets.

Those who have felt such operations,Alone can guess the sort of ache,When his old tooth began to breakThe thread of old associations;It touched a string in every part,It had so many tender ties;One chord seemed wrenching at his heart,And two were tugging at his eyes;“Bone of his bone,” he felt of course,As husbands do in such divorce;At last the fangs gave way a littleHunks gave his head a backward jerk,And to! the cause of all this work,Went—where it used to send his victual!

The monstrous pain of this proceedingHad not so numbed his miser wit,But in this slip he saw a hitTo save, at least, his purse from bleeding;So when the dentist sought his fees,Quoth Hunks, “Let’s finish, if you please.”“How, finish! why it’s out!”—“Oh! no—I’m none of your before-hand tippers,’Tis you are out, to argue so;My tooth is in my head no doubt,But as you say you pulled it out,Of course it’s there—between your nippers.”“Zounds! sir, d’ye think I’d sell the truthTo get a fee? no, wretch, I scorn it.”But Hunks still asked to see the tooth,And swore by gum! he had not drawn it.

His end obtained, he took his leave,A secret chuckle in his sleeve;The joke was worthy to produce one,To think, by favour of his wit,How well a dentist had been bitBy one old stump, and that a loose one!The thing was worth a laugh, but mirthIs still the frailest thing on earth:Alas! how often when a jokeSeems in our sleeve, and safe enough,There comes some unexpected stroke,And hangs a weeper on the cuff!

Hunks had not whistled half a mile,When, planted right against the stile,There stood his foeman, Mike Maloney,A vagrant reaper, Irish-born,That helped to reap our miser’s corn,But had not helped to reap his money,A fact that Hunks remembered quickly;His whistle all at once was quelled,And when he saw how Michael heldHis sickle, he felt rather sickly.

Nine souls in ten, with half his fright,Would soon have paid the bill at sight,But misers (let observers watch it)Will never part with their delightTill well demanded by a hatchet—They live hard—and they die to match it.Thus Hunks, prepared for Mike’s attacking,Resolved not yet to pay the debt,But let him take it out in hacking;However, Mike began to stickleIn word before he used the sickle;But mercy was not long attendant:From words at last he took to blows,And aimed a cut at Hunks’s nose;That made it what some folks are not—A Member very independent.

Heaven knows how far this cruel trickMight still have led, but for a tramperThat came in danger’s very nick,To put Maloney to the scamper.But still compassion met a damper;There lay the severed nose, alas!Beside the daisies on the grass,“Wee, crimson-tipt” as well as they,According to the poet’s lay:And there stood Hunks, no sight for laughter!Away ran Hodge to get assistance,With nose in hand, which Hunks ran after,But somewhat at unusual distance.In many a little country placeIt is a very common caseTo have but one residing doctor,Whose practice rather seems to beNo practice, but a rule of three,Physician—surgeon—drug-decocter;Thus Hunks was forced to go once moreWhere he had ta’en his tooth before.His mere name made the learnëd man hot—“What! Hunks again within my door!I’ll pull his nose;” quoth Hunks, “you cannot.”

The doctor looked and saw the casePlain as the nosenoton his face.“O! hum—ha—yes—I understand.”But then arose a long demur,For not a finger would he stirTill he was paid his fee in hand;That matter settled, there they were,With Hunks well strapped upon his chair.

The opening of a surgeon’s job—His tools, a chestful or a drawful—Are always something very awful,And give the heart the strangest throb;But never patient in his funksLooked half so like a ghost as Hunks,Or surgeon half so like a devilPrepared for some infernal revel:His huge black eye kept rolling, rolling,Just like a bolus in a box:His fury seemed above controlling,He bellowed like a hunted ox:“Now, swindling wretch, I’ll show thee howWe treat such cheating knaves as thou;Oh! sweet is this revenge to sup;I have thee by the nose—it’s nowMy turn—and I will turn it up.”

Guess how the miser liked the scurvyAnd cruel way of venting passion;The snubbing folks in this new fashionSeemed quite to turn him topsy turvy;He uttered prayers, and groans, and curses,For things had often gone amissAnd wrong with him before, but thisWould be the worst of allreverses!In fancy he beheld his snoutTurned upward like a pitcher’s spout;There was another grievance yet,And fancy did not fail to show it,That he must throw a summerset,Or stand upon his head to blow it.

And was there then no argumentTo change the doctor’s vile intent,And move his pity?—yes, in truth,And that was—paying for the tooth.“Zounds! pay for such a stump! I’d rather—”But here the menace went no farther,For with his other ways of pinching,Hunks had a miser’s love of snuff,A recollection strong enoughTo cause a very serious flinching;In short he paid and had the featureReplaced as it was meant by nature;For tho’ by this ’twas cold to handle,(No corpse’s could have felt more horrid,)And white just like an end of candle,The doctor deemed and proved it too,That noses from the nose will doAs well as noses from the forehead;So, fixed by dint of rag and lint,The part was bandaged up and muffled.The chair unfastened, Hunks arose,And shuffled out, for once unshuffled;And as he went, these words he snuffled—“Well, thisis‘paying thro’ the nose.’”

“Metaphysics were a large field in which to exercise the weapons logic had put into their hands—“—Scriblerus.

SEE here two cavillers,Would-be unravellersOf abstruse theory and questions mysticalIn tête-à-tête,And deep debate,Wrangling according to form syllogistical.Glowing and ruddyThe light streams in upon their deep brown study,And settles on our bald logician’s skull:But still his meditative eye looks dullAnd muddy,For he is gazing inwardly, like Plato;But to the world withoutAnd things about,His eye is blind as that of a potato:In fact, logiciansSee but by syllogisms—taste and smellBy propositions;And never let the common dray-horse sensesDraw inferences.How wise his brow! how eloquent his nose!The feature of itself is a negation!How gravely double is his chin, that showsDouble deliberation;His scornful lip forestalls the confutation!O this is he that wisely with a majorAnd minor proves a greengage is no gauger!—By help of ergo,That cheese of sage will make no mite the sager,And Taurus is no bull to toss up Virgo!O this is he that logically tore hisDog into dogmas—following Aristotle—Cut up his cap into ten categories,And cork’d an abstract conjuror in a bottle!O this is he that disembodied matter,And proved that incorporeal corporationsPut nothing in no platter,And for mock turtle only supp’d sensations!O this is he that palpably decided,With grave and mathematical precisionHow often atoms may be subdividedBy long division;O this is he that show’d I is not I,And made a ghost of personal identity;Proved “Ipse” absent by an alibi,And frisking in some other person’s entity;He sounded all philosophies in truth,Whether old schemes or only supplemental;—And had, by virtue of his wisdom-tooth,A dental knowledge of the transcendental!The other is a shrewd severer wight,Sharp argument hath worn him nigh the bone:For why? he never let dispute alone,A logical knight-errant,That wrangled ever—morning, noon, and night,From night to morn; he had no wife apparentBut Barbara Celárent!Woe unto him he caught in a dilemma,For on the point of his two fingers fullHe took the luckless wight, and gave with them aMost deadly toss, like any baited bull.Woe unto him that ever dared to breatheA sophism in his angry ear! forthatHe took ferociously between his teeth,And shook it—like a terrier with a rat!—In fact old Controversy ne’er begatOne half so cruelAnd dangerous as he, in verbal duel!No one had ever so complete a fameAs a debater;And for art logical his name was greaterThan Dr. Watts’s name!—Look how they sit together!Two bitter desperate antagonists,Licking each other with their tongues, like fists,Merely to settle whetherThis world of ours had ever a beginning—Whether created,Vaguely undated,Or time had any finger in its spinning:When, lo!—for they are sitting at the basement—A hand, like that upon Belshazzar’s wall,Lets fallA written paper through the open casement.“O foolish wits! (thus runs the document)To twist your brains into a double knotOn such a barren question! Be contentThat there is such a fair and pleasant spotFor your enjoyment as this verdant earth.Go eat and drink, and give your hearts to mirth,For vainly ye contend;Before you can decide about its birth,The world will have an end!”

SEE here two cavillers,Would-be unravellersOf abstruse theory and questions mysticalIn tête-à-tête,And deep debate,Wrangling according to form syllogistical.

Glowing and ruddyThe light streams in upon their deep brown study,And settles on our bald logician’s skull:But still his meditative eye looks dullAnd muddy,For he is gazing inwardly, like Plato;But to the world withoutAnd things about,His eye is blind as that of a potato:In fact, logiciansSee but by syllogisms—taste and smellBy propositions;And never let the common dray-horse sensesDraw inferences.How wise his brow! how eloquent his nose!The feature of itself is a negation!How gravely double is his chin, that showsDouble deliberation;His scornful lip forestalls the confutation!O this is he that wisely with a majorAnd minor proves a greengage is no gauger!—By help of ergo,That cheese of sage will make no mite the sager,And Taurus is no bull to toss up Virgo!O this is he that logically tore hisDog into dogmas—following Aristotle—Cut up his cap into ten categories,And cork’d an abstract conjuror in a bottle!O this is he that disembodied matter,And proved that incorporeal corporationsPut nothing in no platter,And for mock turtle only supp’d sensations!O this is he that palpably decided,With grave and mathematical precisionHow often atoms may be subdividedBy long division;O this is he that show’d I is not I,And made a ghost of personal identity;Proved “Ipse” absent by an alibi,And frisking in some other person’s entity;He sounded all philosophies in truth,Whether old schemes or only supplemental;—And had, by virtue of his wisdom-tooth,A dental knowledge of the transcendental!

The other is a shrewd severer wight,Sharp argument hath worn him nigh the bone:For why? he never let dispute alone,A logical knight-errant,That wrangled ever—morning, noon, and night,From night to morn; he had no wife apparentBut Barbara Celárent!Woe unto him he caught in a dilemma,For on the point of his two fingers fullHe took the luckless wight, and gave with them aMost deadly toss, like any baited bull.Woe unto him that ever dared to breatheA sophism in his angry ear! forthatHe took ferociously between his teeth,And shook it—like a terrier with a rat!—In fact old Controversy ne’er begatOne half so cruelAnd dangerous as he, in verbal duel!No one had ever so complete a fameAs a debater;And for art logical his name was greaterThan Dr. Watts’s name!—

Look how they sit together!Two bitter desperate antagonists,Licking each other with their tongues, like fists,Merely to settle whetherThis world of ours had ever a beginning—Whether created,Vaguely undated,Or time had any finger in its spinning:When, lo!—for they are sitting at the basement—A hand, like that upon Belshazzar’s wall,Lets fallA written paper through the open casement.

“O foolish wits! (thus runs the document)To twist your brains into a double knotOn such a barren question! Be contentThat there is such a fair and pleasant spotFor your enjoyment as this verdant earth.Go eat and drink, and give your hearts to mirth,For vainly ye contend;Before you can decide about its birth,The world will have an end!”

IT was July the First, and the great hill of HowthWas bearing by compass sow-west and by south,And the name of the ship was the Peggy of Cork,Well freighted with bacon and butter and pork.Now, this ship had a captain, Macmorris by name,And little O’Patrick was mate of the same;For Bristol they sailed, but by nautical scope,They contrived to be lost by the Cape of Good Hope.Of all the Cork boys that the vessel could boast,Only little O’P. made a swim to the coast;And when he revived from a sort of a trance,He saw a big Black with a very long lance.Says the savage, says he, in some Hottentot tongue,“Bash Kuku my gimmel bo gumborry bung!”Then blew a long shell, to the fright of our elf,And down came a hundred as black as himself.They brought with themguattul, and pieces ofklam,The first was like beef, and the second like lamb;“Don’t I know,” said O’P., “what the wretches are at?They’re intending to eat me as soon as I’m fat!”In terror of coming to pan, spit, or pot,His rations ofjarbulhe suffered to rot;He would not touchpurryordoolberry-lik,But kept himselfgrowingas thin as a stick.Though broiling the climate, and parching with drouth,He would not letchobberyenter his mouth,But kicked down thekrugshell, tho’ sweetened withnatt,—“I an’t to be pisoned the likes of a rat!”At last the greatJoddrygot quite in a rage,And cried, “O mi pitticum dambally nage!Thechobberytake, and put back on the shelf,Or give me thekrugshell, I’ll drink it myself!Thedoolberry-likis the best to be had,And thepurry(I chewed it myself) is not bad;Thejarbulis fresh, for I saw it cut out,And theBokthat it came from is grazing about.Myjumbo! but run off to Billery Nang,And tell her to put on herjiggerandtang,And go with theBlossto the man of the sea,And say that she comes as hisWulwulfrom me.”Now Billery Nang was as Black as a sweep,With thick curly hair like the wool of a sheep,And the moment he spied her, said little O’P.,“Sure the Divil is dead, and his Widow’s at me!”But when, in the blaze of her Hottentot charms,She came to accept him for life in her arms,And stretched her thick lips to a broad grin of love,A Raven preparing to bill like a Dove,With a soul full of dread he declined the grim bliss,Stopped her Molyneux arms, and eluded her kiss;At last, fairly foiled, she gave up the attack,AndJoddrybegan to look blacker than black;“By Mumbo! by Jumbo!—why here is a man,That won’t be made happy, do all that I can;He will not be married, lodged, clad, and well fed,Let theRhamtake hisshangwangand chop off his head!”

PITY the sorrows of a class of men,Who, though they bow to fashion and frivolity;No fancied claims or woes fictitious pen,But wrongs ell-wide, and of a lasting quality.Oppress’d and discontented with our lot,Amongst the clamorous we take our stationA host of Ribbon Men—yet is there notOne piece of Irish in our agitation.We do revere Her Majesty the Queen;We venerate our Glorious Constitution:We joy King William’s advent should have been,And only want a Counter Resolution.Tis not Lord Russell and his final measure,’Tis not Lord Melbourne’s counsel to the throne,Tis not this Bill, or that, gives us displeasure,The measures we dislike are all our own.The Cash Law the “Great Western” loves to name,The tone our foreign policy pervading;The Corn Laws—none of these we care to blame,Our evils we refer to over-trading.By Tax or Tithe our murmurs are not drawn;We reverence the Church—but hang the cloth!We love her ministers—but curse the lawn!We have, alas! too much to do with both!We love the sex:—to serve them is a bliss!We trust they find us civil, never surly;All that we hope of female friends is this,That their last linen may be wanted early.Ah! who can tell the miseries of menThat serve the very cheapest shops in town?Till faint and weary, they leave off at ten,Knock’d up by ladies beating of ’em down!But has not Hamlet his opinion given—O Hamlet had a heart for Drapers’ servants!“That custom is”—say custom after seven—“More honour’d in the breach than the observance.”O come then, gentle ladies, come in time,O’erwhelm our counters, and unload our shelves;Torment us all until the seventh chime,But let us have the remnant to ourselves!We wish of knowledge to lay in a stock,And not remain in ignorance incurable;—To study Shakespeare, Milton, Dryden, Locke,And other fabrics that have proved so durable.We long for thoughts of intellectual kind,And not to go bewilder’d to our beds;With stuff and fustian taking up the mind,And pins and needles running in our heads!For oh! the brain gets very dull and dry,Selling from morn till night for cash or credit;Or with a vacant face and vacant eye,Watching cheap prints that Knight did never edit.Till sick with toil, and lassitude extreme,We often think when we are dull and vapoury,The bliss of Paradise was so supreme,Because that Adam did not deal in drapery.

PITY the sorrows of a class of men,Who, though they bow to fashion and frivolity;No fancied claims or woes fictitious pen,But wrongs ell-wide, and of a lasting quality.

Oppress’d and discontented with our lot,Amongst the clamorous we take our stationA host of Ribbon Men—yet is there notOne piece of Irish in our agitation.

We do revere Her Majesty the Queen;We venerate our Glorious Constitution:We joy King William’s advent should have been,And only want a Counter Resolution.

Tis not Lord Russell and his final measure,’Tis not Lord Melbourne’s counsel to the throne,Tis not this Bill, or that, gives us displeasure,The measures we dislike are all our own.

The Cash Law the “Great Western” loves to name,The tone our foreign policy pervading;The Corn Laws—none of these we care to blame,Our evils we refer to over-trading.

By Tax or Tithe our murmurs are not drawn;We reverence the Church—but hang the cloth!We love her ministers—but curse the lawn!We have, alas! too much to do with both!

We love the sex:—to serve them is a bliss!We trust they find us civil, never surly;All that we hope of female friends is this,That their last linen may be wanted early.

Ah! who can tell the miseries of menThat serve the very cheapest shops in town?Till faint and weary, they leave off at ten,Knock’d up by ladies beating of ’em down!

But has not Hamlet his opinion given—O Hamlet had a heart for Drapers’ servants!“That custom is”—say custom after seven—“More honour’d in the breach than the observance.”

O come then, gentle ladies, come in time,O’erwhelm our counters, and unload our shelves;Torment us all until the seventh chime,But let us have the remnant to ourselves!

We wish of knowledge to lay in a stock,And not remain in ignorance incurable;—To study Shakespeare, Milton, Dryden, Locke,And other fabrics that have proved so durable.

We long for thoughts of intellectual kind,And not to go bewilder’d to our beds;With stuff and fustian taking up the mind,And pins and needles running in our heads!

For oh! the brain gets very dull and dry,Selling from morn till night for cash or credit;Or with a vacant face and vacant eye,Watching cheap prints that Knight did never edit.

Till sick with toil, and lassitude extreme,We often think when we are dull and vapoury,The bliss of Paradise was so supreme,Because that Adam did not deal in drapery.

“An indifference to tears, and blood, and human suffering, that could only belong to aBoney-parte.—Life of Napoleon.

TIME was, I always had a dropFor any tale of sigh or sorrow;My handkerchief I used to sopTill often I was forced to borrow;I don’t know how it is, but nowMy eyelids seldom want a-drying;The doctor, p’rhaps, could tell me how—I fear my heart is ossifying!O’er Goethe how I used to weep,With turnip cheeks and nose of scarlet,When Werter put himself to sleepWith pistols kiss’d and clean’d by Charlotte;Self-murder is an awful sin,No joke there is in bullets flying,But now at such a tale I grin—I fear my heart is ossifying!The Drama once could shake and thrillMy nerves, and set my tears a-stealing,The Siddons then could turn at willEach plug upon the main of feeling;At Belvidera now I smile,And laugh while Mrs. Haller’s crying;’Tis odd, so great a change of style—I fear my heart is ossifying!That heart was such—some years ago,To see a beggar quite would shock it,And in his hat I used to throwThe quarter’s savings of my pocket:I never wish—as I didthen!—The means from my own purse supplying,To turn them all to gentlemen—I fear my heart is ossifying!We’ve had some serious things of late,Our sympathies to beg or borrow,

O’er Goethe how I used to weep,With turnip cheeks and nose of scarlet,When Werter put himself to sleepWith pistols kiss’d and clean’d by Charlotte;Self-murder is an awful sin,No joke there is in bullets flying,But now at such a tale I grin—I fear my heart is ossifying!

The Drama once could shake and thrillMy nerves, and set my tears a-stealing,The Siddons then could turn at willEach plug upon the main of feeling;At Belvidera now I smile,And laugh while Mrs. Haller’s crying;’Tis odd, so great a change of style—I fear my heart is ossifying!

That heart was such—some years ago,To see a beggar quite would shock it,And in his hat I used to throwThe quarter’s savings of my pocket:I never wish—as I didthen!—The means from my own purse supplying,To turn them all to gentlemen—I fear my heart is ossifying!

We’ve had some serious things of late,Our sympathies to beg or borrow,

“DOG-BERRY.”

THE LAST CUT.

New melo-drames, of tragic fate,And acts, and songs, and tales of sorrow;Miss Zouch’s case, our eyes to melt,And sundry actors sad good-bye-ing,But Lord!—so little have I felt,I’m sure my heart is ossifying!

ONE day—no matter for the month or year,Calais packet, just come over,And safely moor’d within the pier,Began to land her passengers at Dover;All glad to end a voyage long and rough.And during which,Through roll and pitch,The Ocean-King hadsickophants enough!Away, as fast as they could walk or run,Eager for steady rooms and quiet meals,With bundles, bags, and boxes at their heels,Away the passengers all went but one,A female, who from some mysterious check,Still linger’d on the steamer’s deck,As if she did not care for land a tittle,For horizontal rooms, and cleanly victual—Or nervously afraid to putHer footInto an Isle described as “tight and little.”In vain commissioner and touter,Porter and waiter throng’d about her;Boring, as such officials only bore—In spite of rope and barrow, knot and truck,Of plank and ladder, there she stuck,She couldn’t, no, she wouldn’t go on shore.“But, ma’am,” the steward interfered,“The wessel must be cleared.You mustn’t stay aboard, ma’am, no one don’t!It’s quite agin the orders so to do—And all the passengers is gone but you.”Says she, “I cannot go ashore and won’t!”“You ought to!”“But I can’t!”“You must!”“I shan’t!”At last, attracted by the racket,’Twixt gown and jacket,The captain came himself, and cap in hand,Begg’d very civilly to understandWherefore the lady could not leave the packet.“Why then,” the lady whispered with a shiver,That made the accents quiver,“I’ve got some foreign silks about me pinn’d,In short, so many things, all contraband,To tell the truth I am afraid to land,In such asearchingwind!”

Away, as fast as they could walk or run,Eager for steady rooms and quiet meals,With bundles, bags, and boxes at their heels,Away the passengers all went but one,A female, who from some mysterious check,Still linger’d on the steamer’s deck,As if she did not care for land a tittle,For horizontal rooms, and cleanly victual—Or nervously afraid to putHer footInto an Isle described as “tight and little.”

In vain commissioner and touter,Porter and waiter throng’d about her;Boring, as such officials only bore—In spite of rope and barrow, knot and truck,Of plank and ladder, there she stuck,She couldn’t, no, she wouldn’t go on shore.

“But, ma’am,” the steward interfered,“The wessel must be cleared.You mustn’t stay aboard, ma’am, no one don’t!It’s quite agin the orders so to do—And all the passengers is gone but you.”Says she, “I cannot go ashore and won’t!”“You ought to!”“But I can’t!”“You must!”“I shan’t!”

At last, attracted by the racket,’Twixt gown and jacket,The captain came himself, and cap in hand,Begg’d very civilly to understandWherefore the lady could not leave the packet.

“Why then,” the lady whispered with a shiver,That made the accents quiver,“I’ve got some foreign silks about me pinn’d,In short, so many things, all contraband,To tell the truth I am afraid to land,In such asearchingwind!”

Duncan Grant & Co., Printers, Edinburgh.

THOMAS HOOD’S WORKS.

HOOD’S WORKS.Complete in 10 vols. All the Writings of the Author of the “Song of the Shirt” (“Hood’s Own” First and Second Series included). With all the original Cuts by Cruikshank, Leech, &c. A complete re-issue. In 10 vols., crown 8vo, cloth, 50s.; half calf, 70s.; half morocco, 70s.

COMPLETE EDITION OF HOOD’S POETICAL WORKS IN TWO VOLUMES.

1.HOOD’S SERIOUS POEMS.A New and Complete Edition, with full-page Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 5s.

2.HOOD’S COMIC POEMS.A New and Complete Edition, with full-page Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 5s.

⁂These two volumes contain the entire poems of the lateThomas Hood, which are now collected and issued complete for the first time.

HOOD’S OWN;or, Laughter from Year to Year. First and Second Series in one vol., complete with all the original Illustrations by Cruikshank, Leech, &c. In entirely new and handsome binding. Now ready, new edition. Royal 8vo, cloth gilt, 10s. 6d.

HOOD’S OWN;or, Laughter from Year to Year. First Series. A new edition. In one vol. 8vo, illustrated by 350 Woodcuts. Cloth plain 7s. 6d.; gilt edges, 8s. 6d.

HOOD’S OWN.Second Series. In one vol., 8vo., illustrated by numerous Woodcuts. Cloth plain, 7s. 6d.; gilt edges, 8s. 6d.

HOOD’S POEMS.Twentieth Edition. In one vol., fcap. 8vo, cloth plain, 5s.

HOOD’S POEMS OF WIT AND HUMOUR.Sixteenth Edition. In one vol., fcap. 8vo, cloth plain, 3s. 6d.

HOOD’S WHIMS AND ODDITIES.In Prose and Verse. With 87 original designs. A new edition. In one vol., fcap. 8vo, cloth plain, 3s. 6d.

HOOD’S WHIMS AND ODDITIES AND WIT AND HUMOUR.With 87 original designs. In one vol., fcap. 8vo, 6s.

LONDON: E. MOXON, SON, & CO., 1Amen Corner, Paternoster Row, E. C.

New Books and New Editions.

Moxon’s Popular Poets.

Edited by WILLIAM MICHAEL ROSSETTI.

Crown 8vo, with Eight Illustrations, in elegant cloth gilt, gilt edges, 3s.6d.; morocco antique, 7s.6d.; ivory enamel, 7s.6d.; morocco extra, 10s.6d.; elegant tree calf, 10s.6d.

The Press and the Public, alike in Great Britain and her Colonies and in the United States, unite in their testimony to the immense superiority of Messrs. Moxon’s “Popular Poets” over any other similar Collections published by any other House. Their possession of the Copyright Works of Coleridge, Hood, Keats, Shelley, Wordsworth, and other great National Poets, places this Series above rivalry.

New Volume now ready.

21.HOOD’S POETICAL WORKS.Illustrated byGustave DoréandAlfred Thompson. Second Series.

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