SIR JOHN BOWRING.

GO where the waves run rather Holborn-hilly,And tempests make a soda-water sea,Almost as rough as our rough Piccadilly,And think of me!Go where the mild Madeira ripensherjuice,—A wine more praised than it deserves to be!Go pass the Cape, just capable of ver-juice,And think of me!Go where the Tiger in the darkness prowleth,Making a midnight meal of he and she;Go where the Lion in his hunger howleth,And think of me!Go where the serpent dangerously coileth,Or lies along at full length like a tree,Go where the Suttee in her own soot broileth,And think of me!Go where with human notes the Parrot dealethIn mono-polly-logue with tongue as free,And like a woman, all she can revealeth,And think of me!Go to the land of muslin and nankeening,And parasols of straw where hats should be,Go to the land of slaves and palankeening,And think of me!Go to the land of Jungles and of vast hills,And tall bamboos—may nonebamboozlethee!Go gaze upon their Elephants and Castles,And think of me!Go where a cook must always be a currier,And parch the pepper’d palate like a pea,Go where the fierce musquito is a worrier,And think of me!Go where the maiden on a marriage plan goes,Consign’d for wedlock to Calcutta’s quay,Where woman goes for mart, the same as mangoes,And think of me!Go where the sun is very hot and fervent,Go to the land of pagod and rupee,Where every black will be your slave and servant,And think of me!

GO where the waves run rather Holborn-hilly,And tempests make a soda-water sea,Almost as rough as our rough Piccadilly,And think of me!

Go where the mild Madeira ripensherjuice,—A wine more praised than it deserves to be!Go pass the Cape, just capable of ver-juice,And think of me!

Go where the Tiger in the darkness prowleth,Making a midnight meal of he and she;Go where the Lion in his hunger howleth,And think of me!

Go where the serpent dangerously coileth,Or lies along at full length like a tree,Go where the Suttee in her own soot broileth,And think of me!

Go where with human notes the Parrot dealethIn mono-polly-logue with tongue as free,And like a woman, all she can revealeth,And think of me!

Go to the land of muslin and nankeening,And parasols of straw where hats should be,Go to the land of slaves and palankeening,And think of me!

Go to the land of Jungles and of vast hills,And tall bamboos—may nonebamboozlethee!Go gaze upon their Elephants and Castles,And think of me!

Go where a cook must always be a currier,And parch the pepper’d palate like a pea,Go where the fierce musquito is a worrier,And think of me!

Go where the maiden on a marriage plan goes,Consign’d for wedlock to Calcutta’s quay,Where woman goes for mart, the same as mangoes,And think of me!

Go where the sun is very hot and fervent,Go to the land of pagod and rupee,Where every black will be your slave and servant,And think of me!

TO Bowring, man of many tongues,(All over tongues like rumour)This tributary verse belongsTo paint his learned humour;All kinds of gabs he talks, I wis,From Latin down to Scottish;As fluent as a parrot is,But far morePolly-glottish!No grammar too abstruse he meetsHowever dark and verby,—He gossips Greek about the streets,And oftenRuss—in urbe—:Strange tongues whate’er you do them call,In short the man is ableTo tell you what’so’clockin allThedialectsof Babel.Take him on ‘Change; try Portuguese,The Moorish and the Spanish,Polish, Hungarian, Tyrolese,The Swedish and the Danish;Try him with these and fifty such,His skill will ne’er diminish,Although you should begin in DutchAnd end (like me) inFinnish.

“Let us take to the road!”—Beggar’s Opera.

MADAM, hail!Hail, Roadian! hail, Collossus! who dost standStriding ten thousand turnpikes on the land!Oh universal Leveller! all hail!To thee, a good, yet stony-hearted man,The kindest one, and yet the flintiest going,—To thee,—how much for thy commodious plan,Lanark Reformer of the Ruts, is Owing!The Bristol mailGliding o’er ways, hitherto deem’d invincible,When carrying Patriots, now shall never failThose of the most “unshakenpublic principle.”Hail to thee, Scot of Scots!Thou northern light, amid those heavy men!Foe to Stonehenge, yet friend to all beside,Thou scatter’st flints and favours far and wide,From palaces to cots;—Dispenser of coagulated good!Distributor of granite and of food!Long may thy fame its even path march on,E’en when thy sons are dead!Best benefactor! though thou giv’st a stoneTo those who ask for bread!Thy first great trial in this mighty townWas, if I rightly recollect, uponThat gentle hill which goethDown from “the County” to the Palace gate,And, like a river, thanks to thee, now flowethPast the Old Horticultural Society,—The chemist Cobb’s, the house of Howell and James,Where ladies play high shawl and satin games—A littleHellof lace!And past the Athenæum, made of late,Severs a sweet varietyOf milliners and booksellers who graceWaterloo Place,Making division, the Muse fears and guesses,’Twixt Mr. Rivington’s and Mr Hessey’s.Thou stood’st thy trial, Mac! and shaved the roadFrom Barber Beaumont’s to the King’s abodeSo well, that paviours threw their rammers by,Let down their tuck’d shirt sleeves, and with a sighPrepared themselves, poor souls, to chip or die!Next, from the palace to the prison, thouDidst go, the highway’s watchman, to thy beat,—Preventing though therattlingin the street,Yet kicking up a row,Upon the stones—ah! truly watchman-like,Encouraging thy victims all to strike,To further thy own purpose, Adam, daily;—Thou hast smoothed, alas, the path to the Old Bailey!And to the stony bowersOf Newgate, to encourage the approach,By caravan or coach,—Hast strewed the way with flints as soft as flowers.Who shall dispute thy name!Insculpt in stone in every street,We soon shall greetThy trodden down, yet all unconquered fame!Where’er we take, even at this time, our way,Nought see we, but mankind in open air,Hammering thy fame, as Chantrey would not dare;—And with a patient careChipping thy immortality all day!Demosthenes, of old,—that rare old man,—Propheticallyfollowed, Mac! thy plan:—For he, we know,(History says so,)Putpebblesin his mouth when he would speakThesmoothestGreek!It is “impossible, and cannot be,”But that thy genius hath,Besides the turnpike, many another pathTrod, to arrive at popularity.O’er Pegasus, perchance, thou hast thrown a thigh,Nor ridden a roadster only;—mighty Mac!And ‘faith I’d swear, when on that wingèd hack,Thou hast observed the highways in the sky!Is the path up Parnassus rough and steep,And “hard to climb,” as Dr. B. would say?Dost think it best for Sons of Song to keepThe noiselesstenorof their way? (see Gray.)What line of roadshouldpoets take to bringThemselves unto those waters, loved the first!—Those waters which can wet a man to sing!Which, like thy fame, “fromgranitebasins burst,Leap into life, and, sparkling, woo the thirst?”That thou’rt a proser, even thy birthplace mightVouchsafe;—and Mr. Cadellmay, God wot,Have paid thee many a pound for many a blot,—Cadell’s a wayward wight!Although no Walter, still thou art a Scot,And I can throw, I think, a little lightUpon some works thou hast written for the town,—And published, like a Lilliput Unknown!“Highways and Byeways” is thy book, no doubt,(One whole edition’s out,)And next, for it is fairThat Fame,Seeing her children, should confess she had ’em;—“SomePassagesfrom the life of Adam Blair,”—(Blair is a Scottish name,)What are they, but thy own good roads, M‘Adam?O! indefatigable labourerIn the paths of men! when thou shalt die, ’twill beA mark of thy surpassing industry,That of the monument, which men shall rearOver thy most inestimable bone,Thou didst thy very self lay the first stone!—Of a right ancient line thou comest,—throughEach crook and turn we trace the unbroken clue,Until we see thy sire before our eyes,—Rolling his gravel walks in Paradise!But he, our great Mac Parent, erred, and ne’erHave our walks since been fair?Yet Time, who, like the merchant, lives on ‘Change,For ever varying, through his varying range,Time maketh all things even!In this strange world, turning beneath high heaven,He hath redeemed the Adams, and contrived,—(How are time’s wonders hived!)In pity to mankind, and to befriend ’em,—(Time is above all praise,)That he, who first did make our evil ways,Reborn in Scotland, should be first to mend ’em!

Thy first great trial in this mighty townWas, if I rightly recollect, uponThat gentle hill which goethDown from “the County” to the Palace gate,And, like a river, thanks to thee, now flowethPast the Old Horticultural Society,—The chemist Cobb’s, the house of Howell and James,Where ladies play high shawl and satin games—A littleHellof lace!And past the Athenæum, made of late,Severs a sweet varietyOf milliners and booksellers who graceWaterloo Place,Making division, the Muse fears and guesses,’Twixt Mr. Rivington’s and Mr Hessey’s.Thou stood’st thy trial, Mac! and shaved the roadFrom Barber Beaumont’s to the King’s abodeSo well, that paviours threw their rammers by,Let down their tuck’d shirt sleeves, and with a sighPrepared themselves, poor souls, to chip or die!

Next, from the palace to the prison, thouDidst go, the highway’s watchman, to thy beat,—Preventing though therattlingin the street,Yet kicking up a row,Upon the stones—ah! truly watchman-like,Encouraging thy victims all to strike,To further thy own purpose, Adam, daily;—Thou hast smoothed, alas, the path to the Old Bailey!And to the stony bowersOf Newgate, to encourage the approach,By caravan or coach,—Hast strewed the way with flints as soft as flowers.

Who shall dispute thy name!Insculpt in stone in every street,We soon shall greetThy trodden down, yet all unconquered fame!Where’er we take, even at this time, our way,Nought see we, but mankind in open air,Hammering thy fame, as Chantrey would not dare;—And with a patient careChipping thy immortality all day!Demosthenes, of old,—that rare old man,—Propheticallyfollowed, Mac! thy plan:—For he, we know,(History says so,)Putpebblesin his mouth when he would speakThesmoothestGreek!It is “impossible, and cannot be,”But that thy genius hath,Besides the turnpike, many another pathTrod, to arrive at popularity.O’er Pegasus, perchance, thou hast thrown a thigh,Nor ridden a roadster only;—mighty Mac!And ‘faith I’d swear, when on that wingèd hack,Thou hast observed the highways in the sky!Is the path up Parnassus rough and steep,And “hard to climb,” as Dr. B. would say?Dost think it best for Sons of Song to keepThe noiselesstenorof their way? (see Gray.)What line of roadshouldpoets take to bringThemselves unto those waters, loved the first!—Those waters which can wet a man to sing!Which, like thy fame, “fromgranitebasins burst,Leap into life, and, sparkling, woo the thirst?”

That thou’rt a proser, even thy birthplace mightVouchsafe;—and Mr. Cadellmay, God wot,Have paid thee many a pound for many a blot,—Cadell’s a wayward wight!Although no Walter, still thou art a Scot,And I can throw, I think, a little lightUpon some works thou hast written for the town,—And published, like a Lilliput Unknown!“Highways and Byeways” is thy book, no doubt,(One whole edition’s out,)And next, for it is fairThat Fame,Seeing her children, should confess she had ’em;—“SomePassagesfrom the life of Adam Blair,”—(Blair is a Scottish name,)What are they, but thy own good roads, M‘Adam?

O! indefatigable labourerIn the paths of men! when thou shalt die, ’twill beA mark of thy surpassing industry,That of the monument, which men shall rearOver thy most inestimable bone,Thou didst thy very self lay the first stone!—Of a right ancient line thou comest,—throughEach crook and turn we trace the unbroken clue,Until we see thy sire before our eyes,—Rolling his gravel walks in Paradise!But he, our great Mac Parent, erred, and ne’erHave our walks since been fair?Yet Time, who, like the merchant, lives on ‘Change,For ever varying, through his varying range,Time maketh all things even!In this strange world, turning beneath high heaven,He hath redeemed the Adams, and contrived,—(How are time’s wonders hived!)In pity to mankind, and to befriend ’em,—(Time is above all praise,)That he, who first did make our evil ways,Reborn in Scotland, should be first to mend ’em!

“Sermons in stones.”—As You Like It.“Out! out! damned spot!”—Macbeth.

ILIKE you, Mrs. Fry! I like your name!It speaks the very warmth you feel in pressingIn daily act round Charity’s great flame—I like the crisp brown way you have of dressing,Good Mrs. Fry! I like the placid claimYou make to Christianity,—professingLove, and goodworks—of course you buy of Barton,Beside the youngfry’sbookseller, Friend Darton!I like, good Mrs. Fry, your brethren mute—Those serious, solemn gentlemen that sport—I should have said, thatwear, the sober suitShaped like a court dress—but for heaven’s court.I like your sisters too,—sweet Rachel’s fruit—Protestant nuns! I like their stiff supportOf virtue—and I like to see them cladWith such a difference—just like good from bad!I like the sober colours—not the wet;Those gaudy manufactures of the rainbow—Green, orange, crimson, purple, violet—In which the fair, the flirting, and the vain, go—The others are a chaste, severer set,In which the good, the pious, and the plain, go—They’re moralstandards, to know Christians by—In short, they are yourcolours, Mrs. Fry!As for the naughty tinges of the prism—Crimson’s the cruel uniform of war—Blue—hue of brimstone! minds no catechism;And green is young and gay—not noted forGoodness, or gravity, or quietism,Till it is saddened down to tea-green, orOlive—and purple’s given to wine, I guess;And yellow is a convict by its dress!They’re all the devil’s liveries, that menAnd women wear in servitude to sin—But how will they come off; poor motleys, whenSin’s wages are paid down, and they stand inThe Evil presence? You and I know, thenHow all the party colours will beginTo part—thePittite hues will sadden there,Whereas theFoxite shades will all show fair!Witness their goodly labours one by one!Russetmakes garments for the needy poor—Dove-colourpreaches love to all—anddunCalls every day at Charity’s street-door—Brownstudies scripture, and bids woman shunAll gaudy furnishing—olivedoth pourOil into wounds: anddrabandslatesupplyScholar and book in Newgate, Mrs. Fry!Well! Heaven forbid that I should discommendThe gratis, charitable, jail-endeavour!When all persuasions in your praises blend—The Methodist’s creed and cry are,Fryfor ever!No—I will be your friend—and, like a friend,Point out your very worst defect—Nay, neverStart at that word!—But Imustask you whyYou keep your schoolinNewgate, Mrs. Fry?Too well I know the price our mother EvePaid forherschooling: but must all her daughtersCommit a petty larceny, and thieve—Pay down a crime for “entrance” to your “quarters?”Your classes may increase, but I must grieveOver your pupils at their bread-and-waters!Oh, tho’ it cost you rent—(and rooms run high!)Keep your schooloutof Newgate, Mrs. Fry!O save the vulgar soul before it’s spoiled!Set up your mounted signwithoutthe gate—And there inform the mind before ’tis soiled!’Tis sorry writing on a greasy slate!Nay, if you would not have your labours foiled,Take itincliningtow’rds a virtuous state,Not prostrate and laid flat—else, woman meek!Theuprightpencil will but hop and shriek!Ah, who can tell how hard it is to drainThe evil spirit from the heart it preys in,—To bring sobriety to life again,Choked with the vile Anacreontic raisin,—To wash Black Betty when her black’s ingrain,—To stick a moral lacquer on Moll Brazen,Of Suky Tawdry’s habits to deprive her;To tame the wild-fowl-ways of Jenny Diver!Ah, who can tell how hard it is to teachMiss Nancy Dawson on her bed of straw—To make Long Sal sew up the endless breachShe made in manners—to write heaven’s own lawOn hearts of granite.—Nay, how hard to preach,In cells, that are not memory’s—to drawThe moral thread, through the immoral eyeOf blunt Whitechapel natures, Mrs. Fry!In vain you teach them baby-work within:’Tis but a clumsy botchery of crime;’Tis but a tedious darning of old sin—Come out yourself, and stitch up souls in time—It is too late for scouring to beginWhen virtue’s ravelled out, when all the primeIs worn away, and nothing sound remains;You’ll fret the fabric out before the stains!I like your chocolate, good Mrs. Fry!I like your cookery in every way;I like your shrove-tide service and supply;

I like, good Mrs. Fry, your brethren mute—Those serious, solemn gentlemen that sport—I should have said, thatwear, the sober suitShaped like a court dress—but for heaven’s court.I like your sisters too,—sweet Rachel’s fruit—Protestant nuns! I like their stiff supportOf virtue—and I like to see them cladWith such a difference—just like good from bad!

I like the sober colours—not the wet;Those gaudy manufactures of the rainbow—Green, orange, crimson, purple, violet—In which the fair, the flirting, and the vain, go—The others are a chaste, severer set,In which the good, the pious, and the plain, go—They’re moralstandards, to know Christians by—In short, they are yourcolours, Mrs. Fry!

As for the naughty tinges of the prism—Crimson’s the cruel uniform of war—Blue—hue of brimstone! minds no catechism;And green is young and gay—not noted forGoodness, or gravity, or quietism,Till it is saddened down to tea-green, orOlive—and purple’s given to wine, I guess;And yellow is a convict by its dress!

They’re all the devil’s liveries, that menAnd women wear in servitude to sin—But how will they come off; poor motleys, whenSin’s wages are paid down, and they stand inThe Evil presence? You and I know, thenHow all the party colours will beginTo part—thePittite hues will sadden there,Whereas theFoxite shades will all show fair!

Witness their goodly labours one by one!Russetmakes garments for the needy poor—Dove-colourpreaches love to all—anddunCalls every day at Charity’s street-door—Brownstudies scripture, and bids woman shunAll gaudy furnishing—olivedoth pourOil into wounds: anddrabandslatesupplyScholar and book in Newgate, Mrs. Fry!

Well! Heaven forbid that I should discommendThe gratis, charitable, jail-endeavour!When all persuasions in your praises blend—The Methodist’s creed and cry are,Fryfor ever!No—I will be your friend—and, like a friend,Point out your very worst defect—Nay, neverStart at that word!—But Imustask you whyYou keep your schoolinNewgate, Mrs. Fry?

Too well I know the price our mother EvePaid forherschooling: but must all her daughtersCommit a petty larceny, and thieve—Pay down a crime for “entrance” to your “quarters?”Your classes may increase, but I must grieveOver your pupils at their bread-and-waters!Oh, tho’ it cost you rent—(and rooms run high!)Keep your schooloutof Newgate, Mrs. Fry!

O save the vulgar soul before it’s spoiled!Set up your mounted signwithoutthe gate—And there inform the mind before ’tis soiled!’Tis sorry writing on a greasy slate!Nay, if you would not have your labours foiled,Take itincliningtow’rds a virtuous state,Not prostrate and laid flat—else, woman meek!Theuprightpencil will but hop and shriek!

Ah, who can tell how hard it is to drainThe evil spirit from the heart it preys in,—To bring sobriety to life again,Choked with the vile Anacreontic raisin,—To wash Black Betty when her black’s ingrain,—To stick a moral lacquer on Moll Brazen,Of Suky Tawdry’s habits to deprive her;To tame the wild-fowl-ways of Jenny Diver!

Ah, who can tell how hard it is to teachMiss Nancy Dawson on her bed of straw—To make Long Sal sew up the endless breachShe made in manners—to write heaven’s own lawOn hearts of granite.—Nay, how hard to preach,In cells, that are not memory’s—to drawThe moral thread, through the immoral eyeOf blunt Whitechapel natures, Mrs. Fry!

In vain you teach them baby-work within:’Tis but a clumsy botchery of crime;’Tis but a tedious darning of old sin—Come out yourself, and stitch up souls in time—It is too late for scouring to beginWhen virtue’s ravelled out, when all the primeIs worn away, and nothing sound remains;You’ll fret the fabric out before the stains!

I like your chocolate, good Mrs. Fry!I like your cookery in every way;I like your shrove-tide service and supply;

“A CHILD’ScallTO BE DISPOSED OF.”

“TO LADIES’ EYES A ROUND, BOYS!”

I like to hear your sweetPandeansplay;I like the pity in your full-brimmed eye;I like your carriage, and your silken grey,Your dove-like habits, and your silent preaching;But I don’t like your Newgatory teaching.Come out of Newgate, Mrs. Fry! RepairAbroad, and find your pupils in the streets.O, come abroad into the wholesome air,And take your moral place, before Sin seatsHer wicked self in the Professor’s chair.Suppose some morals raw! the true receipt’sTo dress them in the pan, but do not tryTo cook them in the fire, good Mrs. Fry!Put on your decent bonnet, and come out!Good lack! the ancients did not set up schoolsIn jail—but at thePorch! hinting, no doubt,That Vice should have a lesson in the rulesBefore ’twas whipt by law.—O come about,Good Mrs. Fry! and set up forms and stoolsAll down the Old Bailey, and thro’ Newgate-street,But not in Mr. Wontner’s proper seat!Teach Lady Barrymore, if, teaching, youThat peerless Peeress can absolve from dolour;Teach her it is not virtue to pursueRuin of blue, or any other colour;Teach her it is not Virtue’s crown to rue,Month after month, the unpaid drunken dollar;Teach her that “flooring Charleys” is a gameUnworthy one that bears a Christian name.O come and teach our children—that ar’n’tours—That heaven’s straight pathway is a narrow way,Not Broad St. Giles’s, where fierce Sin devoursChildren, like Time—or rather they both preyOn youth together—meanwhile Newgate low’rsEv’n like a black cloud at the close of day,To shut them out from any more blue sky:Think of these hopeless wretches, Mrs. Fry!You are not nice—go into their retreats,And make them Quakers, if you will.—’Twere bestThey wore straight collars, and their shirts sanspleats;That they had hatswithbrims,—that they were drestIn garbs withoutlappels—than shame the streetsWith so much raggedness.—You may investMuch cash this way—but it will cost its price,To give a good, round, realchequeto Vice!In brief,—Oh teach the child its moral rote,Notinthe way from which ’twill not depart,—Butout—out—out! Oh, bid it walk remote!And if the skies are closed against the smart,Ev’n let him wear the single-breasted coat,For that ensureth singleness of heart.—Do what you will, his every want supply,Keephim—butoutof Newgate, Mrs. Fry!

Come out of Newgate, Mrs. Fry! RepairAbroad, and find your pupils in the streets.O, come abroad into the wholesome air,And take your moral place, before Sin seatsHer wicked self in the Professor’s chair.Suppose some morals raw! the true receipt’sTo dress them in the pan, but do not tryTo cook them in the fire, good Mrs. Fry!

Put on your decent bonnet, and come out!Good lack! the ancients did not set up schoolsIn jail—but at thePorch! hinting, no doubt,That Vice should have a lesson in the rulesBefore ’twas whipt by law.—O come about,Good Mrs. Fry! and set up forms and stoolsAll down the Old Bailey, and thro’ Newgate-street,But not in Mr. Wontner’s proper seat!

Teach Lady Barrymore, if, teaching, youThat peerless Peeress can absolve from dolour;Teach her it is not virtue to pursueRuin of blue, or any other colour;Teach her it is not Virtue’s crown to rue,Month after month, the unpaid drunken dollar;Teach her that “flooring Charleys” is a gameUnworthy one that bears a Christian name.

O come and teach our children—that ar’n’tours—That heaven’s straight pathway is a narrow way,Not Broad St. Giles’s, where fierce Sin devoursChildren, like Time—or rather they both preyOn youth together—meanwhile Newgate low’rsEv’n like a black cloud at the close of day,To shut them out from any more blue sky:Think of these hopeless wretches, Mrs. Fry!

You are not nice—go into their retreats,And make them Quakers, if you will.—’Twere bestThey wore straight collars, and their shirts sanspleats;That they had hatswithbrims,—that they were drestIn garbs withoutlappels—than shame the streetsWith so much raggedness.—You may investMuch cash this way—but it will cost its price,To give a good, round, realchequeto Vice!

In brief,—Oh teach the child its moral rote,Notinthe way from which ’twill not depart,—Butout—out—out! Oh, bid it walk remote!And if the skies are closed against the smart,Ev’n let him wear the single-breasted coat,For that ensureth singleness of heart.—Do what you will, his every want supply,Keephim—butoutof Newgate, Mrs. Fry!

“—— Arma Virumque cano!”—Virgil.

MR. DYMOKE! Sir Knight! if I may be so bold—(I’m a poor simple gentleman just come to town,)Is your armour put by, like the sheep in a fold?—Is your gauntlet ta’en up, which you lately flung down?Are you—whothatday rode so mail’d and admired,Now sitting at ease in a library chair?Have you sent back to Astley the war-horse you hired,With a cheque upon Chambers to settle the fare?What’s become of the cup? Great tin-plate worker! say!Cup and ball is a game which some people deem fun!Oh:three golden ballshaven’t lured you to playRather false, Mr. D., to all pledges but one?How defunct is the show that was chivalry’s mimic!The breastplate—the feathers—the gallant array!So fades, so grows dim, and so dies, Mr. Dymoke!The day of brass breeches! as Wordsworth would say!Perchance in some village remote, with a cot,And a cow, and a pig, and a barndoor, and all;—You show to the parish that peace is your lot,And plenty,—though absent from Westminster Hall!And of course you turn every accoutrement nowTo its separate use, that your wants may be well-met;—You toss in your breastplate your pancakes, and growA salad of mustard and cress in your helmet.And you delve the fresh earth with your falchion, less brightSince hung up in sloth from its Westminster task;And you bake your own bread in your tin; and, Sir Knight,Instead of your brow, put your beer in the casque!How delightful to sit by your beans and your peas,With a goblet of gooseberry gallantly clutched,And chat of the blood that had deluged the PleasAnd drenched the King’s Bench,—if the glove had been touched!If Sir Columbine Daniel, with knightly pretensionsHad snatched your “best doe,”—he’d have flooded the floor;—Nor would even the best of his crafty inventions,“Life Preservers,” have floated him out of his gore!Oh, you and your horse! what a couple was there!The man and hisbacker,—to win a great fight!Though the trumpet was loud,—you’d an undisturbed air!And the nag snuffed the feast and the fraysansaffright!Yet strange was the course which the good Cato boreWhen he waddled tail-wise with the cup to his stall;—For though his departure was at the front door,Still he went the back way out of Westminster Hall.He went,—and ’twould puzzle historians to say,When they trust Time’s conveyance to carry yourmail,—Whether caution or courage inspired him that day,For though he retreated, he never turned tail.By my life, he’s a wonderful charger!—The best!Though not for a Parthian corps!—yet for you!—Distinguished alike at a fray and a feast,What a horse for a grand Retrospective Review!What a creature to keep a hot warrior coolWhen the sun’s in the face, and the shade’s far aloof!—What atailpiecefor Bewick!—or piebald for Poole,To bear him in safety from Elliston’s hoof!Well! hail to old Cato! the hero of scenesMay Astley or age ne’er his comforts abridge;—Oh, long may he munch Amphitheatre beans,Well “pent up in Utica” over the Bridge!And to you, Mr. Dymoke, Cribb’s rival, I keepWishing all country pleasures, the bravest and best!And oh! when you come to the Hummums to sleep,May you lie “like a warrior taking his rest!”

Are you—whothatday rode so mail’d and admired,Now sitting at ease in a library chair?Have you sent back to Astley the war-horse you hired,With a cheque upon Chambers to settle the fare?

What’s become of the cup? Great tin-plate worker! say!Cup and ball is a game which some people deem fun!Oh:three golden ballshaven’t lured you to playRather false, Mr. D., to all pledges but one?

How defunct is the show that was chivalry’s mimic!The breastplate—the feathers—the gallant array!So fades, so grows dim, and so dies, Mr. Dymoke!The day of brass breeches! as Wordsworth would say!

Perchance in some village remote, with a cot,And a cow, and a pig, and a barndoor, and all;—You show to the parish that peace is your lot,And plenty,—though absent from Westminster Hall!

And of course you turn every accoutrement nowTo its separate use, that your wants may be well-met;—You toss in your breastplate your pancakes, and growA salad of mustard and cress in your helmet.

And you delve the fresh earth with your falchion, less brightSince hung up in sloth from its Westminster task;And you bake your own bread in your tin; and, Sir Knight,Instead of your brow, put your beer in the casque!

How delightful to sit by your beans and your peas,With a goblet of gooseberry gallantly clutched,And chat of the blood that had deluged the PleasAnd drenched the King’s Bench,—if the glove had been touched!

If Sir Columbine Daniel, with knightly pretensionsHad snatched your “best doe,”—he’d have flooded the floor;—Nor would even the best of his crafty inventions,“Life Preservers,” have floated him out of his gore!

Oh, you and your horse! what a couple was there!The man and hisbacker,—to win a great fight!Though the trumpet was loud,—you’d an undisturbed air!And the nag snuffed the feast and the fraysansaffright!

Yet strange was the course which the good Cato boreWhen he waddled tail-wise with the cup to his stall;—For though his departure was at the front door,Still he went the back way out of Westminster Hall.

He went,—and ’twould puzzle historians to say,When they trust Time’s conveyance to carry yourmail,—Whether caution or courage inspired him that day,For though he retreated, he never turned tail.

By my life, he’s a wonderful charger!—The best!Though not for a Parthian corps!—yet for you!—Distinguished alike at a fray and a feast,What a horse for a grand Retrospective Review!

What a creature to keep a hot warrior coolWhen the sun’s in the face, and the shade’s far aloof!—What atailpiecefor Bewick!—or piebald for Poole,To bear him in safety from Elliston’s hoof!

Well! hail to old Cato! the hero of scenesMay Astley or age ne’er his comforts abridge;—Oh, long may he munch Amphitheatre beans,Well “pent up in Utica” over the Bridge!

And to you, Mr. Dymoke, Cribb’s rival, I keepWishing all country pleasures, the bravest and best!And oh! when you come to the Hummums to sleep,May you lie “like a warrior taking his rest!”

“This fellow’s wise enough to play the fool,And to do that well craves a kind of wit.”—Twelfth Night.

JOSEPH! they say thou’st left the stage,To toddle down the hill of life,And taste the flannell’d ease of age,Apart from pantomimic strife—“Retired—[for Young would call it so]—The world shut out”—in Pleasant Row!And hast thou really wash’d at lastFrom each white cheek the red half-moon!And all thy public Clownship cast,To play the private Pantaloon?All youth—all ages yet to beShall have a heavy miss of thee!Thou didst not preach to make us wise—Thou hadst no finger in our schooling—Thou didst not “lure us to the skies”—Thy simple, simple trade was—Fooling!And yet, Heav’n knows! we could—we canMuch “better spare a better man!”Oh, had it pleased the gout to takeThe reverend Croly from the stage,Or Southey, for our quiet’s sake,Or Mr. Fletcher, Cupid’s sage,Or, damme! namby pamby Poole,—Or any other clown or fool!Go, Dibdin—all that bear the name,Go Byeway Highway man! go! go!Go, Skeffy—man of painted fame,But leave thy partner, painted Joe!I could bear Kirby on the wane,Or Signor Paulo with a sprain!Had Joseph Wilfred Parkins madeHis grey hairs scarce in private peace—Had Waithman sought a rural shade—Or Cobbett ta’en a turnpike lease—Or Lisle Bowles gone toBalaamHill—I think I could be cheerful still!Had Medwin left off, to his praise,Dead-lion-kicking, like—a friend!—Had long, long Irving gone his waysTo muse on death atPonder’s End—Or Lady Morgan taken leaveOf Letters—still I might not grieve!But, Joseph—everybody’s Joe!—Is gone—and grieve I will and must!As Hamlet did for Yorick, soWill I for thee (though not yet dust),And talk as he did when he miss’dThe kissing-crust that he had kiss’d!Ah, where is now thy rolling head!Thy winking, reeling,drunkeneyes,(As old Catullus would have said,)Thy oven-mouth, that swallow’d pies—Enormous hunger—monstrous drouth!—Thy pockets greedy as thy mouth!Ah, where thy ears, so often cuff’d!—Thy funny, flapping, filching hands!—Thy partridge body, always stuff’dWith waifs, and strays, and contrabands!—Thy foot—like Berkeley’sFoote—for why?’Twas often made to wipe an eye!Ah, where thy legs—that witty pair!For “great wits jump”—and so did they!Lord! how they leap’d in lamplight air!Caper’d—and bounced—and strode away!—That years should tame the legs—alack!I’ve seen spring through an Almanack!But bounds will have their bound—the shocksOf Time will cramp the nimblest toes;And those that frisk’d in silken clocksMay look to limp in fleecy hose—One only—(Champion of the ring)Could ever make his Winter—Spring!And gout, that owns no odds betweenThe toe of Czar and toe of Clown,Will visit—but I did not meanTo moralize, though I am grownThus sad,—Thy going seem’d to beatA muffled drum for Fun’s retreat!And, may be—’tis no time to smotherA sigh, when two prime wags of LondonAre gone—thou, Joseph, one,—the other,A Joe!—“sic transit gloriaMunden!”A third departure some insist on,—Stage-apoplexy threatens Liston!—Nay, then, let Sleeping Beauty sleepWith ancient “Dozey” to the dregs,—Let Mother Goose wear mourning deep,And put a hatchment o’er her eggs!Let Farley weep—for Magic’s manIs gone—his Christmas Caliban!Let Kemble, Forbes, and Willet rain,As though they walk’d behind thy bier,—For since thou wilt not play again,What matters,—if in heav’n or here!Or in thy grave, or in thy bed!—There’sQuickmight just as well be dead!Oh, how will thy departure cloudThe lamplight of the little breast!The Christmas child will grieve aloudTo miss his broadest friend and best,—Poor urchin! what avails to himThe cold New Monthly’sGhost of Grimm?For who like thee could ever stride!Some dozen paces to the mile!The motley, medley coach provide—Or like Joe Frankenstein compileThevegetable mancomplete!—A properCovent Gardenfeat!Oh, who like thee could ever drink,Or eat,—swill—swallow—bolt—and choke!Nod, weep, and hiccup—sneeze and wink?—Thy very yawn was quite a joke!Though Joseph, Junior, acts not ill,“There’s no Fool like the old Fool” still!Joseph, farewell! dear funny Joe!We met with mirth,—we part in pain!For many a long, long year must goEre Fun can see thy like again—For Nature does not keep great storesOf perfect Clowns—that are notBoors!

And hast thou really wash’d at lastFrom each white cheek the red half-moon!And all thy public Clownship cast,To play the private Pantaloon?All youth—all ages yet to beShall have a heavy miss of thee!

Thou didst not preach to make us wise—Thou hadst no finger in our schooling—Thou didst not “lure us to the skies”—Thy simple, simple trade was—Fooling!And yet, Heav’n knows! we could—we canMuch “better spare a better man!”

Oh, had it pleased the gout to takeThe reverend Croly from the stage,Or Southey, for our quiet’s sake,Or Mr. Fletcher, Cupid’s sage,Or, damme! namby pamby Poole,—Or any other clown or fool!

Go, Dibdin—all that bear the name,Go Byeway Highway man! go! go!Go, Skeffy—man of painted fame,But leave thy partner, painted Joe!I could bear Kirby on the wane,Or Signor Paulo with a sprain!

Had Joseph Wilfred Parkins madeHis grey hairs scarce in private peace—Had Waithman sought a rural shade—Or Cobbett ta’en a turnpike lease—Or Lisle Bowles gone toBalaamHill—I think I could be cheerful still!

Had Medwin left off, to his praise,Dead-lion-kicking, like—a friend!—Had long, long Irving gone his waysTo muse on death atPonder’s End—Or Lady Morgan taken leaveOf Letters—still I might not grieve!

But, Joseph—everybody’s Joe!—Is gone—and grieve I will and must!As Hamlet did for Yorick, soWill I for thee (though not yet dust),And talk as he did when he miss’dThe kissing-crust that he had kiss’d!

Ah, where is now thy rolling head!Thy winking, reeling,drunkeneyes,(As old Catullus would have said,)Thy oven-mouth, that swallow’d pies—Enormous hunger—monstrous drouth!—Thy pockets greedy as thy mouth!

Ah, where thy ears, so often cuff’d!—Thy funny, flapping, filching hands!—Thy partridge body, always stuff’dWith waifs, and strays, and contrabands!—Thy foot—like Berkeley’sFoote—for why?’Twas often made to wipe an eye!

Ah, where thy legs—that witty pair!For “great wits jump”—and so did they!Lord! how they leap’d in lamplight air!Caper’d—and bounced—and strode away!—That years should tame the legs—alack!I’ve seen spring through an Almanack!

But bounds will have their bound—the shocksOf Time will cramp the nimblest toes;And those that frisk’d in silken clocksMay look to limp in fleecy hose—One only—(Champion of the ring)Could ever make his Winter—Spring!

And gout, that owns no odds betweenThe toe of Czar and toe of Clown,Will visit—but I did not meanTo moralize, though I am grownThus sad,—Thy going seem’d to beatA muffled drum for Fun’s retreat!

And, may be—’tis no time to smotherA sigh, when two prime wags of LondonAre gone—thou, Joseph, one,—the other,A Joe!—“sic transit gloriaMunden!”A third departure some insist on,—Stage-apoplexy threatens Liston!—

Nay, then, let Sleeping Beauty sleepWith ancient “Dozey” to the dregs,—Let Mother Goose wear mourning deep,And put a hatchment o’er her eggs!Let Farley weep—for Magic’s manIs gone—his Christmas Caliban!

Let Kemble, Forbes, and Willet rain,As though they walk’d behind thy bier,—For since thou wilt not play again,What matters,—if in heav’n or here!Or in thy grave, or in thy bed!—There’sQuickmight just as well be dead!

Oh, how will thy departure cloudThe lamplight of the little breast!The Christmas child will grieve aloudTo miss his broadest friend and best,—Poor urchin! what avails to himThe cold New Monthly’sGhost of Grimm?

For who like thee could ever stride!Some dozen paces to the mile!The motley, medley coach provide—Or like Joe Frankenstein compileThevegetable mancomplete!—A properCovent Gardenfeat!

Oh, who like thee could ever drink,Or eat,—swill—swallow—bolt—and choke!Nod, weep, and hiccup—sneeze and wink?—Thy very yawn was quite a joke!Though Joseph, Junior, acts not ill,“There’s no Fool like the old Fool” still!

Joseph, farewell! dear funny Joe!We met with mirth,—we part in pain!For many a long, long year must goEre Fun can see thy like again—For Nature does not keep great storesOf perfect Clowns—that are notBoors!

“Dost thou not suspect my years?”—Much Ado about Nothing.

OH! Mr. Urban! never mustthoulurchA sober age made serious drunk by thee;Hop in thy pleasant way from church to church,And nurse thy little bald Biography.Oh, my Sylvanus! what a heart is thine!And what a page attends thee! Long may IHang in demure confusion o’er each lineThat asks thy little questions with a sigh!Old tottering years have nodded to their falls,Like pensioners that creep about and die;—But thou, Old Parr of periodicals,Livest in monthly immortality!How sweet!—as Byron ofhisinfant said,—“Knowledge of objects” in thine eye to trace;To see the mild no-meanings of thy head,Taking a quiet nap upon thy face!How dear through thy Obituary to roam,And not a name of any name to catch!To meet thy Criticism walking homeAverse from rows, and never calling “Watch!”Rich is thy page in soporific things,—Composing compositions,—lulling men,—Faded old posies of unburied rings,—Confessions dozing from an opiate pen:—Lives of Right Reverends that have never lived,—Deaths of good people that have really died,—Parishioners,—hatched,—husbanded,—and wived,—Bankrupts and Abbots breaking side by side!The sacred query,—the remote response,—The march of serious mind, extremely slow,—The graver’s cut at some right agèd sconce,Famous for nothing many years ago!B. asks of C. if Milton e’er did write“Comus,” obscured beneath some Ludlow lid;—And C., next month, an answer doth indite,Informing B. that Mr. Milton did!X. sends the portrait of a genuine flea,Caught upon Martin Luther years agone;—And Mr. Parkes, of Shrewsbury, draws a bee,Long dead, that gathered honey for King John.There is no end of thee,—there is no end,Sylvanus, of thy A, B, C, D-merits!Thou dost, with alphabets, old walls attend,And poke the letters into holes, like ferrets.Go on, Sylvanus!—Bear a wary eye,The churches cannot yet be quite run out!Some parishes must yet have been passed by,—There’s Bullock-Smithy has a church no doubt!Go on—and close the eyes of distant ages!Nourish the names of the undoubted dead!So Epicures shall pick thy lobster-pages,Heavy and lively, though but seldomred.Go on! and thrive! Demurest of odd fellows!Bottling up dulness in an ancient binn!Still live! still prose!—continue still to tell usOld truths! no strangers, though we take them in!

OH! Mr. Urban! never mustthoulurchA sober age made serious drunk by thee;Hop in thy pleasant way from church to church,And nurse thy little bald Biography.

Oh, my Sylvanus! what a heart is thine!And what a page attends thee! Long may IHang in demure confusion o’er each lineThat asks thy little questions with a sigh!

Old tottering years have nodded to their falls,Like pensioners that creep about and die;—But thou, Old Parr of periodicals,Livest in monthly immortality!

How sweet!—as Byron ofhisinfant said,—“Knowledge of objects” in thine eye to trace;To see the mild no-meanings of thy head,Taking a quiet nap upon thy face!

How dear through thy Obituary to roam,And not a name of any name to catch!To meet thy Criticism walking homeAverse from rows, and never calling “Watch!”

Rich is thy page in soporific things,—Composing compositions,—lulling men,—Faded old posies of unburied rings,—Confessions dozing from an opiate pen:—

Lives of Right Reverends that have never lived,—Deaths of good people that have really died,—Parishioners,—hatched,—husbanded,—and wived,—Bankrupts and Abbots breaking side by side!

The sacred query,—the remote response,—The march of serious mind, extremely slow,—The graver’s cut at some right agèd sconce,Famous for nothing many years ago!

B. asks of C. if Milton e’er did write“Comus,” obscured beneath some Ludlow lid;—And C., next month, an answer doth indite,Informing B. that Mr. Milton did!

X. sends the portrait of a genuine flea,Caught upon Martin Luther years agone;—And Mr. Parkes, of Shrewsbury, draws a bee,Long dead, that gathered honey for King John.

There is no end of thee,—there is no end,Sylvanus, of thy A, B, C, D-merits!Thou dost, with alphabets, old walls attend,And poke the letters into holes, like ferrets.

Go on, Sylvanus!—Bear a wary eye,The churches cannot yet be quite run out!Some parishes must yet have been passed by,—There’s Bullock-Smithy has a church no doubt!

Go on—and close the eyes of distant ages!Nourish the names of the undoubted dead!So Epicures shall pick thy lobster-pages,Heavy and lively, though but seldomred.

Go on! and thrive! Demurest of odd fellows!Bottling up dulness in an ancient binn!Still live! still prose!—continue still to tell usOld truths! no strangers, though we take them in!

AUTHOR OF “THE COOK’S ORACLE,” “OBSERVATIONS ON VOCAL MUSIC,” “THE ART OF INVIGORATING AND PROLONGING LIFE,” “PRACTICAL OBSERVATIONS ON TELESCOPES, OPERA-GLASSES, AND SPECTACLES,” “THE HOUSEKEEPER’S LEDGER,” AND “THE PLEASURE OF MAKING A WILL.”

“I rule the roast, as Milton says!”—Caleb Quotem.

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