MORAL.

ONCE on a time—no matter where—A lark took such a fancy to the air,That though he often gazed beneath,Watching the breezy down, or heath,Yet very, very seldom he was foundTo perch upon the ground.Hour after hour,Through ev’ry change of weather hard or soft,Through sun and shade, and wind and show’r,Still fluttering aloft;In silence now, and now in song,Up, up in cloudland all day long,On weary wing, yet with unceasing flight,Like to those Birds of Paradise, so rare,Fabled to live, and love, and feed in air,But never to alight.It caused, of course, much speculationAmong the feather’d generation;Who tried to guess the riddle that was in it—The robin puzzled at it, and the wren,The swallows, cock and hen,The wagtail, and the linnet,The yellowhammer, and the finch as well—The sparrow ask’d the tit, who couldn’t tell,The jay, the pie—but all were in the dark,Till out of patience with the common doubt,The Rook at last resolved to worm it out,And thus accosted the mysterious Lark:—“Friend, prithee, tell me whyYou keep this constant hovering so high,As if you had some castle in the air,That you are always poising there,A speck against the sky—Neglectful of each old familiar featureOf Earth that nursed you in your callow state—You think you’re only soaring at heaven’s gate,Whereas you’re flying in the face of Nature!”“Friend,” said the Lark, with melancholy tone,And in each little eye a dewdrop shone,“No creature of my kind was ever fonderOf that dear spot of earthWhich gave it birth—And I was nestled in the furrow yonder!Sweet is the twinkle of the dewy heath,And sweet that thymy down I watch beneath,Saluted often with a living sonnet:But Men, vile Men, have spread so thick a scurfOf dirt and infamy about the Turf,I do not like to settle on it!”

It caused, of course, much speculationAmong the feather’d generation;Who tried to guess the riddle that was in it—The robin puzzled at it, and the wren,The swallows, cock and hen,The wagtail, and the linnet,The yellowhammer, and the finch as well—The sparrow ask’d the tit, who couldn’t tell,The jay, the pie—but all were in the dark,Till out of patience with the common doubt,The Rook at last resolved to worm it out,And thus accosted the mysterious Lark:—

“Friend, prithee, tell me whyYou keep this constant hovering so high,As if you had some castle in the air,That you are always poising there,A speck against the sky—Neglectful of each old familiar featureOf Earth that nursed you in your callow state—You think you’re only soaring at heaven’s gate,Whereas you’re flying in the face of Nature!”

“Friend,” said the Lark, with melancholy tone,And in each little eye a dewdrop shone,“No creature of my kind was ever fonderOf that dear spot of earthWhich gave it birth—And I was nestled in the furrow yonder!Sweet is the twinkle of the dewy heath,And sweet that thymy down I watch beneath,Saluted often with a living sonnet:But Men, vile Men, have spread so thick a scurfOf dirt and infamy about the Turf,I do not like to settle on it!”

Alas! how Nobles of another raceAppointed to the bright and lofty wayToo willingly descend to haunt a placePolluted by the deeds of Birds of Prey!

EVEN is come; and from the dark Park, hark,The signal of the setting sun—one gun!And six is sounding from the chime, prime timeTo go and see the Drury-Lane Dane slain,—Or hear Othello’s jealous doubt spout out,—Or Macbeth raving at that shade-made blade,Denying to his frantic clutch much touch;—Or else to see Ducrow with wide stride rideFour horses as no other man can span;Or in the small Olympic Pit, sit splitLaughing at Liston, while you quiz his phiz.Anon Night comes, and with her wings brings things,Such as, with his poetic tongue, Young sung;The gas up-blazes with its bright white light,And paralytic watchmen prowl, howl, growl,About the streets and take up Pall-Mall Sal,Who, hasting to her nightly jobs, robs fobs.Now thieves to enter for your cash, smash, crash,Past drowsy Charley, in a deep sleep, creep,But frighten’d by Policeman B 3, flee,And while they’re going, whisper low, “No go!”Now puss, while folks are in their beds, treads leads,And sleepers waking, grumble—“Drat that cat!”Who in the gutter caterwauls, squalls, maulsSome feline foe, and screams in shrill ill-will.Now Bulls of Bashan, of a prize size, riseIn childish dreams, and with a roar gore poorGeorgy, or Charley, or Billy, willy-nilly;—But Nursemaid in a nightmare rest, chest-press’d,Dreameth of one of her old flames, James Games,And that she hears—what faith is man’s—Ann’s bannsAnd his, from Reverend Mr. Rice, twice, thrice:White ribbons flourish, and a stout shout out,That upward goes, shows Rose knows those bows’ woes!

Anon Night comes, and with her wings brings things,Such as, with his poetic tongue, Young sung;The gas up-blazes with its bright white light,And paralytic watchmen prowl, howl, growl,About the streets and take up Pall-Mall Sal,Who, hasting to her nightly jobs, robs fobs.

Now thieves to enter for your cash, smash, crash,Past drowsy Charley, in a deep sleep, creep,But frighten’d by Policeman B 3, flee,And while they’re going, whisper low, “No go!”

Now puss, while folks are in their beds, treads leads,And sleepers waking, grumble—“Drat that cat!”Who in the gutter caterwauls, squalls, maulsSome feline foe, and screams in shrill ill-will.

Now Bulls of Bashan, of a prize size, riseIn childish dreams, and with a roar gore poorGeorgy, or Charley, or Billy, willy-nilly;—But Nursemaid in a nightmare rest, chest-press’d,Dreameth of one of her old flames, James Games,

And that she hears—what faith is man’s—Ann’s bannsAnd his, from Reverend Mr. Rice, twice, thrice:White ribbons flourish, and a stout shout out,That upward goes, shows Rose knows those bows’ woes!

“I really take it very kindThis visit, Mrs. Skinner!I have not seen you such an age—(The wretch has come to dinner!)“Your daughters, too, what loves of girls—What heads for painters’ easels!Come here and kiss the infant, dears,—(And give it p’rhaps the measles!)“Your charming boys I see are homeFrom Reverend Mr. Russel’s;’Twas very kind to bring them both,—(What boots for my new Brussels!)“What! little Clara left at home?Well, now, I call that shabby:I should have loved to kiss her so,—(A flabby, dabby babby!)“And Mr. S., I hope he’s well;Ah! though he lives so handy,He never now drops in to sup,—(The better for our brandy!)“Come, take a seat—I long to hearAbout Matilda’s marriage;You’re come of course to spend the day!—(Thank Heav’n, I hear the carriage!)“What, must you go? next time I hopeYou’ll give me longer measure;Nay—I shall see you down the stairs—(With most uncommon pleasure!)“Good-bye! good-bye! remember all,Next time you’ll take your dinners!(Now, David, mind I’m not at homeIn future to the Skinners!”)

“I really take it very kindThis visit, Mrs. Skinner!I have not seen you such an age—(The wretch has come to dinner!)

“Your daughters, too, what loves of girls—What heads for painters’ easels!Come here and kiss the infant, dears,—(And give it p’rhaps the measles!)

“Your charming boys I see are homeFrom Reverend Mr. Russel’s;’Twas very kind to bring them both,—(What boots for my new Brussels!)

“What! little Clara left at home?Well, now, I call that shabby:I should have loved to kiss her so,—(A flabby, dabby babby!)

“And Mr. S., I hope he’s well;Ah! though he lives so handy,He never now drops in to sup,—(The better for our brandy!)

“Come, take a seat—I long to hearAbout Matilda’s marriage;You’re come of course to spend the day!—(Thank Heav’n, I hear the carriage!)

“What, must you go? next time I hopeYou’ll give me longer measure;Nay—I shall see you down the stairs—(With most uncommon pleasure!)

“Good-bye! good-bye! remember all,Next time you’ll take your dinners!(Now, David, mind I’m not at homeIn future to the Skinners!”)

“A Day after the Fair.”—Old Proverb.

JOHN DAY he was the biggest manOf all the coachman-kind,With back too broad to be conceivedBy any narrow mind.The very horses knew his weightWhen he was in the rear,And wished his box a Christmas-boxTo come but once a year.Alas! against the shafts of loveWhat armour can prevail?Soon Cupid sent an arrow throughHis scarlet coat of mail.The barmaid of the Crown he loved,From whom he never ranged,For tho’ he changed his horses there,His love he never changed.He thought her fairest of all fares,So fondly love prefers;And often, among twelve outsides,Deemed no outside like hers.One day as she was sitting downBeside the porter-pump—He came, and knelt with all his fat,And made an offer plump.Said she, my taste will never learnTo like so huge a man,So I must beg you will come hereAs little as you can.But still he stoutly urged his suit,With vows, and sighs, and tears,Yet could not pierce her heart, altho’He drove the Dart for years.In vain he wooed, in vain he sued;The maid was cold and proud,And sent him off to Coventry,While on his way to Stroud.He fretted all the way to Stroud,And thence all back to town;The course of love was never smooth,So his went up and down.At last her coldness made him pineTo merely bones and skin;But still he loved like one resolvedTo love through thick and thin.Oh, Mary, view my wasted back,And see my dwindled calf;Tho’ I have never had a wife,I’ve lost my better half.Alas, in vain he still assail’dHer heart withstood the dint;Though he had carried sixteen stoneHe could not move a flint.Worn out, at last he made a vowTo break his being’s link;For he was so reduced in sizeAt nothing he could shrink.Now some will talk in water’s praiseAnd waste a deal of breath,But John, tho’ he drank nothing else—He drank himself to death.The cruel maid that caused his love,Found out the fatal close,For, looking in the butt, she sawThe butt-end of his woes.Some say his spirit haunts the Crown,But that is only talk—For after riding all his life,His ghost objects to walk.

JOHN DAY he was the biggest manOf all the coachman-kind,With back too broad to be conceivedBy any narrow mind.

The very horses knew his weightWhen he was in the rear,And wished his box a Christmas-boxTo come but once a year.

Alas! against the shafts of loveWhat armour can prevail?Soon Cupid sent an arrow throughHis scarlet coat of mail.

The barmaid of the Crown he loved,From whom he never ranged,For tho’ he changed his horses there,His love he never changed.

He thought her fairest of all fares,So fondly love prefers;And often, among twelve outsides,Deemed no outside like hers.

One day as she was sitting downBeside the porter-pump—He came, and knelt with all his fat,And made an offer plump.

Said she, my taste will never learnTo like so huge a man,So I must beg you will come hereAs little as you can.

But still he stoutly urged his suit,With vows, and sighs, and tears,Yet could not pierce her heart, altho’He drove the Dart for years.

In vain he wooed, in vain he sued;The maid was cold and proud,And sent him off to Coventry,While on his way to Stroud.

He fretted all the way to Stroud,And thence all back to town;The course of love was never smooth,So his went up and down.

At last her coldness made him pineTo merely bones and skin;But still he loved like one resolvedTo love through thick and thin.

Oh, Mary, view my wasted back,And see my dwindled calf;Tho’ I have never had a wife,I’ve lost my better half.

Alas, in vain he still assail’dHer heart withstood the dint;Though he had carried sixteen stoneHe could not move a flint.

Worn out, at last he made a vowTo break his being’s link;For he was so reduced in sizeAt nothing he could shrink.

Now some will talk in water’s praiseAnd waste a deal of breath,But John, tho’ he drank nothing else—He drank himself to death.

The cruel maid that caused his love,Found out the fatal close,For, looking in the butt, she sawThe butt-end of his woes.

Some say his spirit haunts the Crown,But that is only talk—For after riding all his life,His ghost objects to walk.

IT’S very hard!—and so it is,To live in such a row,And witness this that every MissBut me, has got a Beau.For Love goes calling up and down,But here he seems to shun;I’m sure he has been asked enoughTo call at Number One!I’m sick of all the double knocksThat come to Number Four!At Number Three, I often seeA Lover at the door:And one in blue, at Number Two,Calls daily like a dun,—It’s very hard they come so near,And not to Number One!Miss Bell I hear has got a dearExactly to her mind,By sitting at the window paneWithout a bit of blind;But I go in the balcony,Which she has never done,Yet arts that thrive at Number FiveDon’t take at Number One!’Tis hard with plenty in the street,And plenty passing by,—There’s nice young men at Number Ten,But only rather shy;And Mrs. Smith across the wayHas got a grown-up son,But la! he hardly seems to knowThere is a Number One!There’s Mr. Wick at Number Nine,But he’s intent on pelf,And though he’s pious, will not loveHis neighbour as himself.At Number Seven there was a sale—The goods had quite a run!And here I’ve got my single lotOn hand at Number One!My mother often sits at workAnd talks of props and stays,And what a comfort I shall beIn her declining days.The very maids about the houseHave set me down a nun;The sweethearts all belong to themThat call at Number One!Once only when the flue took fire,One Friday afternoon,Young Mr. Long came kindly inAnd told me not to swoon:Why can’t he come again withoutThe Phœnix and the Sun!We cannot always have a flueOn fire at Number One!I am not old! I am not plain!Nor awkward in my gait—I am not crooked, like the brideThat went from Number Eight:I’m sure white satin made her lookAs brown as any bun—But even beauty has no chance,I think, at Number One!At Number Six they say Miss RoseHas slain a score of hearts,And Cupid, for her sake, has beenQuite prodigal of darts.The Imp they show with bended bow,I wish he had a gun!But if he had, he’d never deignTo shoot with Number One.It’s very hard, and so it is,To live in such a row!And here’s a ballad singer comeTo aggravate my woe.Oh take away your foolish songAnd tones enough to stun—There is “Nae luck about the house,”I know, at Number One!

I’m sick of all the double knocksThat come to Number Four!At Number Three, I often seeA Lover at the door:And one in blue, at Number Two,Calls daily like a dun,—It’s very hard they come so near,And not to Number One!

Miss Bell I hear has got a dearExactly to her mind,By sitting at the window paneWithout a bit of blind;But I go in the balcony,Which she has never done,Yet arts that thrive at Number FiveDon’t take at Number One!

’Tis hard with plenty in the street,And plenty passing by,—There’s nice young men at Number Ten,But only rather shy;And Mrs. Smith across the wayHas got a grown-up son,But la! he hardly seems to knowThere is a Number One!

There’s Mr. Wick at Number Nine,But he’s intent on pelf,And though he’s pious, will not loveHis neighbour as himself.At Number Seven there was a sale—The goods had quite a run!And here I’ve got my single lotOn hand at Number One!

My mother often sits at workAnd talks of props and stays,And what a comfort I shall beIn her declining days.The very maids about the houseHave set me down a nun;The sweethearts all belong to themThat call at Number One!

Once only when the flue took fire,One Friday afternoon,Young Mr. Long came kindly inAnd told me not to swoon:Why can’t he come again withoutThe Phœnix and the Sun!We cannot always have a flueOn fire at Number One!

I am not old! I am not plain!Nor awkward in my gait—I am not crooked, like the brideThat went from Number Eight:I’m sure white satin made her lookAs brown as any bun—But even beauty has no chance,I think, at Number One!

At Number Six they say Miss RoseHas slain a score of hearts,And Cupid, for her sake, has beenQuite prodigal of darts.The Imp they show with bended bow,I wish he had a gun!But if he had, he’d never deignTo shoot with Number One.

It’s very hard, and so it is,To live in such a row!And here’s a ballad singer comeTo aggravate my woe.Oh take away your foolish songAnd tones enough to stun—There is “Nae luck about the house,”I know, at Number One!

AMONGST the sights that Mrs. BondEnjoyed, yet grieved at more than others—Were little ducklings in the pond,Swimming about beside their mothers—Small things like living water lilies,But yellow as the daffo-dillies.“It’s very hard,” she used to moan,“That other people have their ducklingsTo grace their waters—mine aloneHave never any pretty chucklings.”For why!—each little yellow navyWent down—all downy—to old Davy!She had a lake—a pond I mean—It’s wave was rather thick than pearly—She had two ducks, their napes were green—She had a drake, his tail was curly,—Yet spite of drake, and ducks, and pond,No little ducks had Mrs. Bond!The birds were both the best of mothers—The nests had eggs—the eggs had luck—The infant D.’s came forth like others—But there, alas! the matter stuck!They might as well have all died addle,As die when they began to paddle!For when, as native instinct taught her,The mother set her brood afloat,They sank ere long right under water,Like any overloaded boat;They were web-footed too to see,As ducks and spiders ought to be!No peccant humour in a ganderBrought havoc on her little folks,—No poaching cook—a frying panderTo appetite,—destroyed their yolks,—Beneath her very eyes, Od’ rot ’em!They went like plummets to the bottom.The thing was strange—a contradictionIt seemed of nature and her works!For little ducks, beyond conviction,Should float without the help of corks:Great Johnson it bewildered him!To hear of chicks that could not swim.Poor Mrs. Bond! what could she doBut change the breed—and she tried divers,Which dived as all seemed born to do;No little ones were e’er survivors—Like those that copy gems, I’m thinking,They all were given to die-sinking!In vain their downy coats were shorn:They floundered still;—Batch after batch went!The little fools seemed only bornAnd hatched for nothing but a hatchment!Whene’er they launched—oh sight of wonder!Like fires the water “got them under!”No woman ever gave their lucksA better chance than Mrs. Bond did;At last quite out of heart and ducks,She gave her pond up and desponded;For Death among the water lilies,Cried “Ducad me,” to all her dillies.But though resolved to breed no more,She brooded often on this riddle—Alas! twas darker than before!At last, about the summer’s middle,What Johnson, Mrs. Bond, or none did,To clear the matter up the sun did!The thirsty Sirius, dog-like, drankSo deep his furious tongue to cool,The shallow waters sank and sank,And lo, from out the wasted pool,Too hot to hold them any longer,There crawled some eels as big as conger!I wish all folks would look a bit,In such a case below the surface;But when the eels were caught and splitBy Mrs. Bond, just think ofherface,In each inside at once to spyA duckling turned to giblet pie!The sight at once explained the case,Making the Dame look rather silly,The tenants of thatEely PlaceHad found the way toPick a dilly,And so by under-water suction,Had wrought the little ducks abduction.

“It’s very hard,” she used to moan,“That other people have their ducklingsTo grace their waters—mine aloneHave never any pretty chucklings.”For why!—each little yellow navyWent down—all downy—to old Davy!

She had a lake—a pond I mean—It’s wave was rather thick than pearly—She had two ducks, their napes were green—She had a drake, his tail was curly,—Yet spite of drake, and ducks, and pond,No little ducks had Mrs. Bond!

The birds were both the best of mothers—The nests had eggs—the eggs had luck—The infant D.’s came forth like others—But there, alas! the matter stuck!They might as well have all died addle,As die when they began to paddle!

For when, as native instinct taught her,The mother set her brood afloat,They sank ere long right under water,Like any overloaded boat;They were web-footed too to see,As ducks and spiders ought to be!

No peccant humour in a ganderBrought havoc on her little folks,—No poaching cook—a frying panderTo appetite,—destroyed their yolks,—Beneath her very eyes, Od’ rot ’em!They went like plummets to the bottom.

The thing was strange—a contradictionIt seemed of nature and her works!For little ducks, beyond conviction,Should float without the help of corks:Great Johnson it bewildered him!To hear of chicks that could not swim.

Poor Mrs. Bond! what could she doBut change the breed—and she tried divers,Which dived as all seemed born to do;No little ones were e’er survivors—Like those that copy gems, I’m thinking,They all were given to die-sinking!

In vain their downy coats were shorn:They floundered still;—Batch after batch went!The little fools seemed only bornAnd hatched for nothing but a hatchment!Whene’er they launched—oh sight of wonder!Like fires the water “got them under!”

No woman ever gave their lucksA better chance than Mrs. Bond did;At last quite out of heart and ducks,She gave her pond up and desponded;For Death among the water lilies,Cried “Ducad me,” to all her dillies.

But though resolved to breed no more,She brooded often on this riddle—Alas! twas darker than before!At last, about the summer’s middle,What Johnson, Mrs. Bond, or none did,To clear the matter up the sun did!

The thirsty Sirius, dog-like, drankSo deep his furious tongue to cool,The shallow waters sank and sank,And lo, from out the wasted pool,Too hot to hold them any longer,There crawled some eels as big as conger!

I wish all folks would look a bit,In such a case below the surface;But when the eels were caught and splitBy Mrs. Bond, just think ofherface,In each inside at once to spyA duckling turned to giblet pie!

The sight at once explained the case,Making the Dame look rather silly,The tenants of thatEely PlaceHad found the way toPick a dilly,And so by under-water suction,Had wrought the little ducks abduction.

Isteamedfrom the Downs in the Nancy,My jib how shesmokedthrough the breeze.She’s a vessel as tight to my fancyAs everboil’dthrough the salt seas.* * * * * *When up thefluethe sailor goesAnd ventures on thepot,The landsman, he no better knows,But thinks hard is his lot.Bold Jack with smiles each danger meets,Weighs anchor, lights the log;Trims up the fire, picks out the slates,And drinks his can of grog.* * * * * *Go patter to lubbers and swabs, do you see,‘Bout danger, and fear, and the like;But aBoulton and Wattand goodWall’s endgive me;And it an’t too a little I’ll strike.Though the tempest ourchimneysmack smooth shall down smite,And shiver eachbundleof wood;Clear the wreck,stir the fire, and stow everything tight,Andboiling a gallopwe’ll scud.

Bold Jack with smiles each danger meets,Weighs anchor, lights the log;Trims up the fire, picks out the slates,And drinks his can of grog.* * * * * *Go patter to lubbers and swabs, do you see,‘Bout danger, and fear, and the like;But aBoulton and Wattand goodWall’s endgive me;And it an’t too a little I’ll strike.

Though the tempest ourchimneysmack smooth shall down smite,And shiver eachbundleof wood;Clear the wreck,stir the fire, and stow everything tight,Andboiling a gallopwe’ll scud.

HARK, the boatswain hoarsely bawling,By shovel, tongues, and poker stand;Down the scuttle quick be hauling,Down your bellows, hand, boys, hand;Now it freshens,—blow like blazes;Now unto the coal-hole go;Stir, boys, stir, don’t mind black faces,Up your ashes nimbly throw.Ply your bellows, raise the wind, boys,See the valve is clear of course;Let the paddles spin, don’t mind, boys,Though the weather should be worse.Fore and aft a proper draft get,Oil the engines, see all clear;Hands up, each a sack of coal get,Man the boiler, cheer, lads, cheer.Now the dreadful thunder’s roaring,Peal on peal contending clash;On our heads fierce rain falls pouring,In our eyes the paddles splash.One wide water all around us,All above one smoke-black sky:Different deaths at once surround us;Hark! what means that dreadful cry?The funnel’s gone! cries ev’ry tongue out,The engineer’s washed off the deck;A leak beneath the coal-hole’s sprung outCall all hands to clear the wreck.Quick, some coal, some nubbly pieces;Come, my hearts, be stout and bold;Plumb the boiler, speed decreases,Four feet water getting cold.While o’er the ship wild waves are beating,We for wives or children mourn;Alas! from hence there’s no retreating;Alas! to them there’s no return.The fire is out—we’ve burst the bellows,The tinder-box is swamped below;Heaven have mercy on poor fellows,For only that can serve us now!

Ply your bellows, raise the wind, boys,See the valve is clear of course;Let the paddles spin, don’t mind, boys,Though the weather should be worse.Fore and aft a proper draft get,Oil the engines, see all clear;Hands up, each a sack of coal get,Man the boiler, cheer, lads, cheer.

Now the dreadful thunder’s roaring,Peal on peal contending clash;On our heads fierce rain falls pouring,In our eyes the paddles splash.One wide water all around us,All above one smoke-black sky:Different deaths at once surround us;Hark! what means that dreadful cry?

The funnel’s gone! cries ev’ry tongue out,The engineer’s washed off the deck;A leak beneath the coal-hole’s sprung outCall all hands to clear the wreck.Quick, some coal, some nubbly pieces;Come, my hearts, be stout and bold;Plumb the boiler, speed decreases,Four feet water getting cold.

While o’er the ship wild waves are beating,We for wives or children mourn;Alas! from hence there’s no retreating;Alas! to them there’s no return.The fire is out—we’ve burst the bellows,The tinder-box is swamped below;Heaven have mercy on poor fellows,For only that can serve us now!

“Double, single, and the rub.”—Hoyle.“This, this is Solitude.”—Byron.

WELL, I confess, I did not guessA simple marriage vowWould make me find all womenkindSuch unkind women now!They need not, sure, asdistantbeAs Javo or Japan,—Yet every Miss reminds me this—I’m not a single man!

Once they made choice of my bass voiceTo share in each duett;

SEA CONSUMPTION—WAISTING AWAY.

A STRANGE BIRD.

So well I danced, I somehow chancedTo stand in every set:They now declare I cannot sing,And dance on Bruin’s plan;Me draw!—me paint!—me anything!—I’m not a single man!

Once I was asked advice, and task’dWhat works to buy or not,And “would I read that passage outI so admired in Scott?”They then could bear to hear one read;But if I now began,How they would snub “My pretty page,”I’m not a single man!

One used to stitch a collar then,Another hemmed a frill;I had more purses netted thenThan I could hope to fill.I once could get a button on,But now I never can—My buttons then were Bachelor’s—I’m not a single man!

Oh how they hated politicsThrust on me by papa:But now my chat—they all leave thatTo entertain mamma.Mamma, who praises her own self,Instead of Jane or Ann,And lays “her girls” upon the shelf—I’m not a single man!

Ah me, how strange it is the change,In parlour and in hall!They treat me so, if I but goTo make a morning call.If they had hair in papers once,Bolt up the stairs they ran;They now sit still in dishabille—I’m not a single man!

Miss Mary Bond was once so fondOf Romans and of Greeks;She daily sought my cabinet,To study my antiques.Well, now she doesn’t care a dumpFor ancient pot or pan,Her taste at once is modernised—I’m not a single man!

My spouse is fond of homely life,And all that sort of thing;I go to balls without my wife,And never wear a ring:And yet each Miss to whom I come,As strange as Genghis Khan,Knows by some sign, I can’t divine,—I’m not a single man!

Go where I will, I but intrude;I’m left in crowded rooms,Like Zimmerman on Solitude,Or Hervey at his tombs.From head to heel, they make me feelOf quite another clan;Compelled to own, though left alone,I’m not a single man!

Miss Towne the toast, though she can boastA nose of Roman line,Will turn up even that in scornOf compliments of mine:She should have seen that I have beenHer sex’s partisan,And really married all I could—I’m not a single man!

’Tis hard to see how others fare,Whilst I rejected stand,—Will no one take my arm becauseThey cannot have my hand?Miss Parry, that for some would goA trip to Hindostan,With me don’t care to mount a stair—I’m not a single man!

Some change, of course, should be in forceBut, surely, not so much—There may be hands I may not squeezeBut must I never touch?—Must I forbear to hand a chairAnd not pick up a fan?But I have been myself picked up—I’m not a single man!

Others may hint a lady’s tintIs purest red and white—May say her eyes are like the skies,So very blue and bright,—Imust not say that shehas eyes;Or if I so began,I have my fears about my ears,—I’m not a single man!

I must confess I did not guessA simple marriage vow,Would make me find all women-kindSuch unkind women now;—I might be hash’d to death, or smash’dBy Mr. Pickford’s van,Without, I fear, a single tear.I’m not a single man!

“I’ll be your second.”—Liston.

IN Middle Row, some years ago,There lived one Mr. Brown;And many folks considered himThe stoutest man in town.But Brown and stout will both wear out,One Friday he died hard,And left a widow’d wife to mournAt twenty pence a yard.Now widow B. in two short monthsThought mourning quite a tax;And wished, like Mr. Wilberforce,Tomanumither blacks.With Mr. Street she soon was sweet;The thing thus came about:She asked him in at home, and thenAt church he asked her out!Assurance such as this the manIn ashes could not stand;So like a Phœnix he rose upAgainst the Hand in Hand.One dreary night the angry spriteAppeared before her view;It came a little after one,But she was after two“Oh Mrs. B., oh Mrs. B.!Are these your sorrow’s deeds,Already getting up a flame,To burn your widow’s weeds?“It’s not so long since I have leftFor aye the mortal scene;My memory—like Rogers’s,Should still be bound in green!“Yet if my face you still retraceI almost have a doubt—I’m like an old Forget-Me-Not,With all the leaves torn out!“To think that on that finger-joint,Another pledge should cling;Oh Bess! upon my very soul,It struck like ‘Knock and Ring.’“A ton of marble on my breastCan’t hinder my return;Your conduct, Ma’am, has set my bloodA-boiling in my urn!“Remember, oh! remember howThe marriage rite did run,—If ever we one flesh should be,’Tis now—when I have none!“And you, Sir—once a bosom friend—Of perjured faith convict,As ghostly toe can give no blow,Consider you are kick’d.“A hollow voice is all I have,But this I tell you plain,Marry come up!—you marry, Ma’am,And I’ll come up again.”More he had said, but chanticleerThe spritely shade did shockWith sudden crow, and off he went,Like fowling-piece at cock!

IN Middle Row, some years ago,There lived one Mr. Brown;And many folks considered himThe stoutest man in town.

But Brown and stout will both wear out,One Friday he died hard,And left a widow’d wife to mournAt twenty pence a yard.

Now widow B. in two short monthsThought mourning quite a tax;And wished, like Mr. Wilberforce,Tomanumither blacks.

With Mr. Street she soon was sweet;The thing thus came about:She asked him in at home, and thenAt church he asked her out!

Assurance such as this the manIn ashes could not stand;So like a Phœnix he rose upAgainst the Hand in Hand.

One dreary night the angry spriteAppeared before her view;It came a little after one,But she was after two“Oh Mrs. B., oh Mrs. B.!Are these your sorrow’s deeds,Already getting up a flame,To burn your widow’s weeds?

“It’s not so long since I have leftFor aye the mortal scene;My memory—like Rogers’s,Should still be bound in green!

“Yet if my face you still retraceI almost have a doubt—I’m like an old Forget-Me-Not,With all the leaves torn out!

“To think that on that finger-joint,Another pledge should cling;Oh Bess! upon my very soul,It struck like ‘Knock and Ring.’

“A ton of marble on my breastCan’t hinder my return;Your conduct, Ma’am, has set my bloodA-boiling in my urn!

“Remember, oh! remember howThe marriage rite did run,—If ever we one flesh should be,’Tis now—when I have none!

“And you, Sir—once a bosom friend—Of perjured faith convict,As ghostly toe can give no blow,Consider you are kick’d.

“A hollow voice is all I have,But this I tell you plain,Marry come up!—you marry, Ma’am,And I’ll come up again.”

More he had said, but chanticleerThe spritely shade did shockWith sudden crow, and off he went,Like fowling-piece at cock!

RAT-TAT it went upon the lion’s chin,“That hat, I know it!” cried the joyful girl:“Summer’s it is, I know him by his knock,Comers like him are welcome as the day!Lizzy! go down and open the street-door,Busy I am to any one buthim.Know him you must—he has been often here;Show him up stairs, and tell him I’m alone.”Quickly the maid went tripping down the stair;Thickly the heart of Rose Matilda beat;“Sure he has brought me tickets for the play—Drury—or Covent Garden—darling man!—Kemble will play—or Kean who makes the soulTremble; in Richard or the frenzied Moor—Farren, the stay and prop of many a farceBarren beside—or Liston, Laughter’s Child—Kelly the natural, to witness whomJelly is nothing to the public’s jam—Cooper, the sensible—and Walter KnowlesSuper, in William Tell—now rightly told.Better—perchance, from Andrews, brings a box,Letter of boxes for the Italian stage—Brocard! Donzelli! Taglioni! Paul!No card,—thank Heaven—engages me to-night!Feathers, of course, no turban, and no toque—Weather’s against it, but I’ll go in curls.Dearly I dote on white—my satin dress,Merely one night—it won’t be much the worse—Cupid—the New Ballet I long to see—Stupid! why don’t she go and ope the door?”Glisten’d her eye as the impatient girlListen’d, low bending o’er the topmost stair.Vainly, alas! she listens and she bends,Plainly she hears this question and reply:“Axes your pardon, Sir, but what d’ye want?”“Taxes,” says he, “and shall not call again!”

Quickly the maid went tripping down the stair;Thickly the heart of Rose Matilda beat;“Sure he has brought me tickets for the play—Drury—or Covent Garden—darling man!—Kemble will play—or Kean who makes the soulTremble; in Richard or the frenzied Moor—Farren, the stay and prop of many a farceBarren beside—or Liston, Laughter’s Child—Kelly the natural, to witness whomJelly is nothing to the public’s jam—Cooper, the sensible—and Walter KnowlesSuper, in William Tell—now rightly told.Better—perchance, from Andrews, brings a box,Letter of boxes for the Italian stage—Brocard! Donzelli! Taglioni! Paul!No card,—thank Heaven—engages me to-night!Feathers, of course, no turban, and no toque—Weather’s against it, but I’ll go in curls.Dearly I dote on white—my satin dress,Merely one night—it won’t be much the worse—Cupid—the New Ballet I long to see—Stupid! why don’t she go and ope the door?”Glisten’d her eye as the impatient girlListen’d, low bending o’er the topmost stair.Vainly, alas! she listens and she bends,Plainly she hears this question and reply:“Axes your pardon, Sir, but what d’ye want?”“Taxes,” says he, “and shall not call again!”

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