THE DUEL.A SERIOUS BALLAD.

“The charge is prepared.”—Macheath.

IF I shoot any more I’ll be shot,For ill-luck seems determined to star me,I have march’d the whole dayWith a gun—for no pay—Zounds, I’d better have been in the army!What matters Sir Christopher’s leave?To his manor I’m sorry I came yet!With confidence fraught,My two pointers I brought,But we are not a point towards game yet!And that gamekeeper too, with advice!Of my course he has been a nice chalker,Not far, were his words,I could go without birds:If my legs could cry out, they’d cry “Walker!”Not Hawker could find out a flaw,—My appointments are modern and Mantony,And I’ve brought my own man,To mark down all he can,But I can’t find a mark for my Antony!The partridges,—where can they lie?I have promised a leash to Miss Jervas,As the least I could do;But without even twoTo brace me,—I’m getting quite nervous!To the pheasants—how well they’re preserved!My sport’s not a jot more beholden,As the birds are so shy,For my friends I must buy;—And so send “silver pheasants and golden.”I have tried ev’ry form for a hare,Every patch, every furze that could shroud her,With toil unrelax’d,Till my patience is tax’d,But I cannot be taxed for hare-powder.I’ve been roaming for hours in three flatsIn the hope of a snipe for a snap at;But still vainly I courtThe percussioning sport,I find nothing for “setting my cap at!”A woodcock,—this month is the time,—Right and left I’ve made ready my lock for,With well-loaded double,But spite of my trouble,Neither barrel can I find a cock for!A rabbit I should not despise,But they lurk in their burrows so lowly;This day’s the eleventh,It is not the seventh,But they seem to be keeping it hole-y.For a mallard I’ve waded the marsh,And haunted each pool, and each lake—oh!Mine is not the luck,To obtain thee, O Duck,Or to doom thee, O Drake, like a Draco!For a field-fare I’ve fared far a-field,Large or small I am never to sack bird,Not a thrush is so kindAs to fly, and I findI may whistle myself for a blackbird!I am angry, I’m hungry, I’m dry,Disappointed, and sullen, and goaded,And so weary an elf,I am sick of myself,And with Number One seem overloaded.As well one might beat round St. Paul’s,And look out for a cock or a hen there;I have search’d round and roundAll the Baronet’s ground,But Sir Christopher hasn’t a wren there!Joyce may talk of his excellent caps,But for nightcaps they set me desiring,And it’s really too bad,Not a shot I have hadWith Hall’s Powder, renown’d for “quick firing.”If this is what people call sport,Oh! of sporting I can’t have a high sense,And there still remains oneMore mischance on my gun—“Fined for shooting without any license.”

IF I shoot any more I’ll be shot,For ill-luck seems determined to star me,I have march’d the whole dayWith a gun—for no pay—Zounds, I’d better have been in the army!

What matters Sir Christopher’s leave?To his manor I’m sorry I came yet!With confidence fraught,My two pointers I brought,But we are not a point towards game yet!

And that gamekeeper too, with advice!Of my course he has been a nice chalker,Not far, were his words,I could go without birds:If my legs could cry out, they’d cry “Walker!”

Not Hawker could find out a flaw,—My appointments are modern and Mantony,And I’ve brought my own man,To mark down all he can,But I can’t find a mark for my Antony!

The partridges,—where can they lie?I have promised a leash to Miss Jervas,As the least I could do;But without even twoTo brace me,—I’m getting quite nervous!

To the pheasants—how well they’re preserved!My sport’s not a jot more beholden,As the birds are so shy,For my friends I must buy;—And so send “silver pheasants and golden.”

I have tried ev’ry form for a hare,Every patch, every furze that could shroud her,With toil unrelax’d,Till my patience is tax’d,But I cannot be taxed for hare-powder.

I’ve been roaming for hours in three flatsIn the hope of a snipe for a snap at;But still vainly I courtThe percussioning sport,I find nothing for “setting my cap at!”

A woodcock,—this month is the time,—Right and left I’ve made ready my lock for,With well-loaded double,But spite of my trouble,Neither barrel can I find a cock for!

A rabbit I should not despise,But they lurk in their burrows so lowly;This day’s the eleventh,It is not the seventh,But they seem to be keeping it hole-y.

For a mallard I’ve waded the marsh,And haunted each pool, and each lake—oh!Mine is not the luck,To obtain thee, O Duck,Or to doom thee, O Drake, like a Draco!

For a field-fare I’ve fared far a-field,Large or small I am never to sack bird,Not a thrush is so kindAs to fly, and I findI may whistle myself for a blackbird!

I am angry, I’m hungry, I’m dry,Disappointed, and sullen, and goaded,And so weary an elf,I am sick of myself,And with Number One seem overloaded.

As well one might beat round St. Paul’s,And look out for a cock or a hen there;I have search’d round and roundAll the Baronet’s ground,But Sir Christopher hasn’t a wren there!

Joyce may talk of his excellent caps,But for nightcaps they set me desiring,And it’s really too bad,Not a shot I have hadWith Hall’s Powder, renown’d for “quick firing.”

If this is what people call sport,Oh! of sporting I can’t have a high sense,And there still remains oneMore mischance on my gun—“Fined for shooting without any license.”

“Like the two Kings of Brentford smelling at one nosegay.”

IN Brentford town, of old renown,There lived a Mister Bray,Who fell in love with Lucy Bell,And so did Mr. Clay.To see her ride from Hammersmith,By all it was allow’d,Such fair outsides are seldom seen,Such Angels on a Cloud.Said Mr. Bray to Mr. Clay,“You choose to rival me,And court Miss Bell, but there your courtNo thoroughfare shall be.“Unless you now give up your suit,You may repent your love;I who have shot a pigeon match,Can shoot a turtle dove.“So pray before you woo her more,Consider what you do;If you pop aught to Lucy Bell,—I’ll pop it into you.”Said Mr. Clay to Mr. Bray,“Your threats I quite explode;One who has been a volunteerKnows how to prime and load.“And so I say to you unlessYour passion quiet keeps,I who have shot and hit bulls’ eyes,May chance to hit a sheep’s.”Now gold is oft for silver changed,And that for copper red;But these two went away to giveEach other change for lead.But first they sought a friend a-piece,This pleasant thought to give—When they were dead, they thus should haveTwo seconds still to live.To measure out the ground not longThe seconds then forbore,And having taken one rash stepThey took a dozen more.They next prepared each pistol-panAgainst the deadly strife,By putting in the prime of deathAgainst the prime of life.Now all was ready for the foes,But when they took their stands,Fear made them tremble so they foundThey both were shaking hands.Said Mr. C. to Mr. B.,“Here one of us may fall,And like St. Paul’s Cathedral now,Be doom’d to have a ball.“I do confess I did attachMisconduct to your name;If I withdraw the charge, will thenYour ramrod do the same?”Said Mr. B., “I do agree—But think of Honour’s Courts!If we go off without a shot,There will be strange reports.“But look, the morning now is bright,Though cloudy it begun;Why can’t we aim above, as ifWe had call’d out the sun?”So up into the harmless air,Their bullets they did send;And may all other duels haveThat upshot in the end!

IN Brentford town, of old renown,There lived a Mister Bray,Who fell in love with Lucy Bell,And so did Mr. Clay.

To see her ride from Hammersmith,By all it was allow’d,Such fair outsides are seldom seen,Such Angels on a Cloud.

Said Mr. Bray to Mr. Clay,“You choose to rival me,And court Miss Bell, but there your courtNo thoroughfare shall be.

“Unless you now give up your suit,You may repent your love;I who have shot a pigeon match,Can shoot a turtle dove.

“So pray before you woo her more,Consider what you do;If you pop aught to Lucy Bell,—I’ll pop it into you.”

Said Mr. Clay to Mr. Bray,“Your threats I quite explode;One who has been a volunteerKnows how to prime and load.

“And so I say to you unlessYour passion quiet keeps,I who have shot and hit bulls’ eyes,May chance to hit a sheep’s.”

Now gold is oft for silver changed,And that for copper red;But these two went away to giveEach other change for lead.

But first they sought a friend a-piece,This pleasant thought to give—When they were dead, they thus should haveTwo seconds still to live.

To measure out the ground not longThe seconds then forbore,And having taken one rash stepThey took a dozen more.

They next prepared each pistol-panAgainst the deadly strife,By putting in the prime of deathAgainst the prime of life.

Now all was ready for the foes,But when they took their stands,Fear made them tremble so they foundThey both were shaking hands.

Said Mr. C. to Mr. B.,“Here one of us may fall,And like St. Paul’s Cathedral now,Be doom’d to have a ball.

“I do confess I did attachMisconduct to your name;If I withdraw the charge, will thenYour ramrod do the same?”

Said Mr. B., “I do agree—But think of Honour’s Courts!If we go off without a shot,There will be strange reports.

“But look, the morning now is bright,Though cloudy it begun;Why can’t we aim above, as ifWe had call’d out the sun?”

So up into the harmless air,Their bullets they did send;And may all other duels haveThat upshot in the end!

“Hark! hark! the dogs do bark,The beggars are coming...”—Old Ballad.

OH what shall I do for a dog?Of sight I have not got a particle,Globe, Standard, or Sun,Times, Chronicle—noneCan givemea good leading article.A Mastiff once led me about,But people appeared so to fear him—I might have got penceWithout his defence,But Charity would not come near him.A Blood-hound was not much amiss,But instinct at last got the upper;And tracking Bill Soames,And thieves to their homes,I never could get home to supper.A Fox-hound once served me as guide,A good one at hill and at valley;But day after dayHe led me astray,To follow a milk-woman’s tally.A turnspit once did me good turnsAt going and crossing, and stopping;Till one day his breedWent off at full speed,To spit at a great fire in Wapping.A Pointer once pointed my way,But did not turn out quite so pleasant,Each hour I’d a stopAt a Poulterer’s shopTo point at a very high pheasant.A Pug did not suit me at all,The feature unluckily rose up;And folks took offenceWhen offering pence,Because of his turning his nose up.A Butcher once gave me a dog,That turn’d out the worst one of any;A Bull dog’s own pup,I got a toss up,Before he had brought me a penny.My next was a Westminster Dog,From Aistrop the regular cadger;But, sightless, I sawHe never would drawA blind man so well as a badger.A greyhound I got by a swop,But, Lord! we soon came to divorces:He treated my stripOf cord like a slip,And left me to go my own courses.A poodle once tow’d me along,But always we came to one harbour,To keep his curls smart,And shave his hind part,He constantly call’d on a barber.My next was a Newfoundland brute,As big as a calf fit for slaughter;But my old cataractSo truly he back’dI always fell into the water.I once had a sheep-dog for guide,His worth did not value a button;I found it no go,A Smithfield Ducrow,To stand on four saddles of mutton.My next was an Esquimaux dog,A dog that my bones ache to talk on,For picking his waysOn cold frosty daysHe pick’d out the slides for a walk on.Bijou was a lady-like dog,But vex’d me at night not a little,When tea-time was comeShe would not go home,Her tail had once trail’d a tin kettle.I once had a sort of a Shock,And kiss’d a street post like a brother,And lost every toothIn learning this truth—One blind cannot well lead another.A terrier was far from a trump,He had one defect, and a thorough,I never could stir,‘Od rabbit the cur!Without going into the Borough.My next was Dalmatian, the dog!And led me in danger, oh crikey!By chasing horse heels,Between carriage wheels,Till I came upon boards that were spiky.The next that I had was from Cross,And once was a favourite spanielWith Nero,[15]now dead,And so I was ledRight up to his den like a Daniel.A mongrel I tried, and he did,As far as the profit and lossing,Except that the kindEndangers the blind,The breed is so fond of a crossing.A setter was quite to my taste,In alleys or streets broad or narrow,Till one day I metA very dead set,At a very dead horse in a barrow.I once had a dog that went mad,And sorry I was that I got him;I came to a run,And a man with a gunPepper’dmewhen he ought to have shot him.My profits have gone to the dogs,My trade has been such a deceiver,I fear that my aimIs a mere losing game,Unless I can find a Retriever.

OH what shall I do for a dog?Of sight I have not got a particle,Globe, Standard, or Sun,Times, Chronicle—noneCan givemea good leading article.

A Mastiff once led me about,But people appeared so to fear him—I might have got penceWithout his defence,But Charity would not come near him.

A Blood-hound was not much amiss,But instinct at last got the upper;And tracking Bill Soames,And thieves to their homes,I never could get home to supper.

A Fox-hound once served me as guide,A good one at hill and at valley;But day after dayHe led me astray,To follow a milk-woman’s tally.

A turnspit once did me good turnsAt going and crossing, and stopping;Till one day his breedWent off at full speed,To spit at a great fire in Wapping.

A Pointer once pointed my way,But did not turn out quite so pleasant,Each hour I’d a stopAt a Poulterer’s shopTo point at a very high pheasant.

A Pug did not suit me at all,The feature unluckily rose up;And folks took offenceWhen offering pence,Because of his turning his nose up.

A Butcher once gave me a dog,That turn’d out the worst one of any;A Bull dog’s own pup,I got a toss up,Before he had brought me a penny.

My next was a Westminster Dog,From Aistrop the regular cadger;But, sightless, I sawHe never would drawA blind man so well as a badger.

A greyhound I got by a swop,But, Lord! we soon came to divorces:He treated my stripOf cord like a slip,And left me to go my own courses.

A poodle once tow’d me along,But always we came to one harbour,To keep his curls smart,And shave his hind part,He constantly call’d on a barber.

My next was a Newfoundland brute,As big as a calf fit for slaughter;But my old cataractSo truly he back’dI always fell into the water.

I once had a sheep-dog for guide,His worth did not value a button;I found it no go,A Smithfield Ducrow,To stand on four saddles of mutton.

My next was an Esquimaux dog,A dog that my bones ache to talk on,For picking his waysOn cold frosty daysHe pick’d out the slides for a walk on.

Bijou was a lady-like dog,But vex’d me at night not a little,When tea-time was comeShe would not go home,Her tail had once trail’d a tin kettle.

I once had a sort of a Shock,And kiss’d a street post like a brother,And lost every toothIn learning this truth—One blind cannot well lead another.

A terrier was far from a trump,He had one defect, and a thorough,I never could stir,‘Od rabbit the cur!Without going into the Borough.

My next was Dalmatian, the dog!And led me in danger, oh crikey!By chasing horse heels,Between carriage wheels,Till I came upon boards that were spiky.

The next that I had was from Cross,And once was a favourite spanielWith Nero,[15]now dead,And so I was ledRight up to his den like a Daniel.

A mongrel I tried, and he did,As far as the profit and lossing,Except that the kindEndangers the blind,The breed is so fond of a crossing.

A setter was quite to my taste,In alleys or streets broad or narrow,Till one day I metA very dead set,At a very dead horse in a barrow.

I once had a dog that went mad,And sorry I was that I got him;I came to a run,And a man with a gunPepper’dmewhen he ought to have shot him.

My profits have gone to the dogs,My trade has been such a deceiver,I fear that my aimIs a mere losing game,Unless I can find a Retriever.

WHY, Tourist, whyWith Passports have to do?Pr’ythee stay at home and passThe Port and Sherry too.Why, Tourist, whyEmbark for Rotterdam?Pr’ythee stay at home and takeThy Hollands in a dram.Why, Tourist, whyTo foreign climes repair?Pr’ythee take thy German Flute,And breathe a German air.Why, Tourist, whyThe Seven Mountains view?Any one at home can tintA hill with Prussian Blue.Why, Tourist, whyTo old Colonia’s walls?Sure, to see aWrenishDome,One needn’t leave St. Paul’s.

WHY, Tourist, whyWith Passports have to do?Pr’ythee stay at home and passThe Port and Sherry too.

Why, Tourist, whyEmbark for Rotterdam?Pr’ythee stay at home and takeThy Hollands in a dram.

Why, Tourist, whyTo foreign climes repair?Pr’ythee take thy German Flute,And breathe a German air.

Why, Tourist, whyThe Seven Mountains view?Any one at home can tintA hill with Prussian Blue.

Why, Tourist, whyTo old Colonia’s walls?Sure, to see aWrenishDome,One needn’t leave St. Paul’s.

“I cannot fill up a blank better than with a short history of this self-sameStarling.”—Sterne’s Sentimental Journey.

AMONGST professors of astronomy,Adepts in the celestial economy,The name of H******l’s very often cited;And justly so, for he is hand and gloveWith ev’ry bright intelligence above;Indeed, it was his custom so to stop,That once upon a time he got be-knightedIn his observatory thus coquettingWith Venus—or with Juno gone astray,All sublunary matters quite forgettingIn his flirtations with the winking stars,Acting the spy—it might be upon Mars—A new André;Or, like a Tom of Coventry, sly peeping,At Dian sleeping:Or ogling thro’ his glassSome heavenly lassTripping with pails along the Milky Way;Or Looking at that Wain of Charles the Martyr’s:—Thus he was sitting, watchman of the sky,When lo! a something with a tail of flameMade him exclaim,“Mystars!”—he always puts that stress onmy—“Mystars and garters!”“A comet, sure as I’m alive!A noble one as I should wish to view;It can’t be Halley’s though,thatis not dueTill eighteen thirty-five.Magnificent!—how fine his fiery trail!Zounds! ’tis a pity, though he comes unsought—Unask’d—unreckon’d,—in no human thought—He ought—he ought—he oughtTo have been caughtWith scientific salt upon his tail!”“I look’d no more for it, I do declare,Than the Great Bear!As sure as Tycho Brahe is dead,It really enter’d in my headNo more than Berenice’s Hair!”Thus musing, Heaven’s Grand InquisitorSat gazing on the uninvited visitorTill John, the serving-man, came to the upperRegions, with “Please your Honour, come to supper.”“Supper! good John, to-night I shall not supExcept on that phenomenon—look up!”“Not sup!” cried John, thinking with consternationThat supping on astarmust bestarvation,Or ev’n to battenOn Ignes Fatui would never fatten.His visage seem’d to say, “that very odd is,”But still his master the same tune ran on,“I can’t come down,—go to the parlour, John,And say I’m supping with the heavenly bodies.”“The heavenly bodies!” echoed John, “Ahem!”His mind still full of famishing alarms,“’Zooks, if your Honour sups withthem,In helping, somebody must make long arms!”He thought his master’s stomach was in danger,But still in the same tone replied the Knight,“Go down, John, go, I have no appetite,Say I’m engaged with a celestial stranger.”—Quoth John, not much au fait in such affairs,“Wouldn’t the stranger take a bit down stairs?”“No,” said the master, smiling and no wonder,At such a blunder,“The stranger is not quite the thing you think,He wants no meat or drink,And one may doubt quite reasonably whetherHe has a mouth,Seeing his head and tail are join’d together,Behold him,—there he is, John, in the South.”John look’d up with his portentous eyes,Each rolling like a marble in its socket.At last the fiery tad-pole spies,And, full of Vauxhall reminiscences, cries,“A rare good rocket!”“A what! A rocket, John! Far from it!What you behold, John, is a comet,One of those most eccentric thingsThat in all agesHave puzzled sagesAnd frighten’d kings;With fear of change that flaming meteor, John,Perplexes sovereigns, throughout its range”—“Do he?” cried John;“Well, let him flare on,Ihaven’t got no sovereigns to change!”

“A comet, sure as I’m alive!A noble one as I should wish to view;It can’t be Halley’s though,thatis not dueTill eighteen thirty-five.Magnificent!—how fine his fiery trail!Zounds! ’tis a pity, though he comes unsought—Unask’d—unreckon’d,—in no human thought—He ought—he ought—he oughtTo have been caughtWith scientific salt upon his tail!”

“I look’d no more for it, I do declare,Than the Great Bear!As sure as Tycho Brahe is dead,It really enter’d in my headNo more than Berenice’s Hair!”Thus musing, Heaven’s Grand InquisitorSat gazing on the uninvited visitorTill John, the serving-man, came to the upperRegions, with “Please your Honour, come to supper.”

“Supper! good John, to-night I shall not supExcept on that phenomenon—look up!”“Not sup!” cried John, thinking with consternationThat supping on astarmust bestarvation,Or ev’n to battenOn Ignes Fatui would never fatten.His visage seem’d to say, “that very odd is,”But still his master the same tune ran on,“I can’t come down,—go to the parlour, John,And say I’m supping with the heavenly bodies.”

“The heavenly bodies!” echoed John, “Ahem!”His mind still full of famishing alarms,“’Zooks, if your Honour sups withthem,In helping, somebody must make long arms!”He thought his master’s stomach was in danger,But still in the same tone replied the Knight,“Go down, John, go, I have no appetite,Say I’m engaged with a celestial stranger.”—Quoth John, not much au fait in such affairs,“Wouldn’t the stranger take a bit down stairs?”

“No,” said the master, smiling and no wonder,At such a blunder,“The stranger is not quite the thing you think,He wants no meat or drink,And one may doubt quite reasonably whetherHe has a mouth,Seeing his head and tail are join’d together,Behold him,—there he is, John, in the South.”

John look’d up with his portentous eyes,Each rolling like a marble in its socket.At last the fiery tad-pole spies,And, full of Vauxhall reminiscences, cries,“A rare good rocket!”

“A what! A rocket, John! Far from it!What you behold, John, is a comet,One of those most eccentric thingsThat in all agesHave puzzled sagesAnd frighten’d kings;With fear of change that flaming meteor, John,Perplexes sovereigns, throughout its range”—“Do he?” cried John;“Well, let him flare on,Ihaven’t got no sovereigns to change!”

“Loud as from numbers without number.”—Milton.

“You may do it extempore, for it’s nothing but roaring.”—Quince.

AMONGST the great inventions of this age,Which every other century surpasses,Is one,—just now the rage,—Called “Singing for all Classes —That is, for all the British millions,And billions,And quadrillions,Not to nameQuintilians,That now, alas! have no more ear than asses,To learn to warble like the birds in June,In time and tune,Correct as clocks, and musical as glasses!In fact, a sort of plan,Including gentleman as well as yokel,Public or private man,To call out a Militia,—only VocalInstead of Local,And not designed for military follies,But keeping still within the civil border,To form with mouths in open order,And sing in volleys.Whether this grand harmonic schemeWill ever get beyond a dream,And tend to British happiness and glory,Maybe no, and maybe yes,Is more than I pretend to guess—However, here’s my story.In one of those small, quiet streets,Where business retreats,To shun the daily bustle and the noiseThe shoppy Strand enjoys,But Law, Joint-Companies, and Life AssuranceFind past endurance—In one of those back streets, to Peace so dear,The other day, a ragged wightBegan to sing with all his might,“I have a silent sorrow here!”The place was lonely; not a creature stirredExcept some little dingy bird;Or vagrant cur that sniffed along,Indifferent to the Son of Song;No truant errand-boy, or Doctor’s lad,No idle filch or lounging cad,No Pots encumbered with diurnal beer,No printer’s devil with an author’s proof,Or housemaid on an errand far aloof,Lingered the tattered Melodist to hear—Who yet, confound him! bawled as loudAs if he had to charm a London crowd,Singing beside the public way,Accompanied—instead of violin,Flute, or piano, chiming in—By rumbling cab, and omnibus, and dray,A van with iron bars to playstaccato,Or engineobligato—In short, without one instrument vehicular(Not even a truck, to be particular),There stood the rogue and roared,Unasked and unencored,Enough to split the organs called auricular!Heard in that quiet place,Devoted to a still and studious race,The noise was quite appalling!To seek a fitting simile and spin it,Appropriate to his calling,His voice had all Lablache’sbodyin it;But oh! the scientific tone it lacked,And was, in fact,Only a forty-boatswain-power of bawling!’Twas said, indeed, for want of vocalnous,The stage had banished him when he attempted it,For tho’ his voice completely filled the house,It also emptied it.However, there he stoodVociferous—a ragged don!And with his iron pipes laid onA row to all the neighbourhood.In vain were sashes closedAnd doors against the persevering Stentor,Though brick, and glass, and solid oak opposed,Th’ intruding voice would enter,Heedless of ceremonial or decorum,Den, office, parlour, study, and sanctorum;Where clients and attorneys, rogues, and fools,Ladies, and masters who attended schools,Clerks, agents, all provided with their tools,Were sitting upon sofas, chairs, and stools,With shelves, pianos, tables, desks, before ’em—How it did bore ’em!Louder, and louder still,The fellow sang with horrible goodwill,Curses both loud and deep his sole gratuities,From scribes bewildered making many a flawIn deeds of lawThey had to draw;With dreadful incongruitiesIn posting ledgers, making up accountsTo large amounts,Or casting up annuities—Stunned by that voice, so loud and hoarse,Against whose overwhelming forceNo in-voice stood a chance, of course!The Actuary pshawed and pished,And knit his calculating brows, and wishedThe singer “a bad life”—a mental murther!The Clerk, resentful of a blot and blunderWished the musician further,Poles distant—and no wonder!For Law and Harmony tend far asunder—The Lady could not keep her temper calm,Because the sinner did not sing a psalm—The Fiddler in the very same positionAs Hogarth’s chafed musician(Such prints require but cursory reminders)Came and made faces at the wretch beneath,And wishing for his foe between his teeth,(Like all impatient elvesThat spite themselves)Ground his own grinders.But still with unrelenting note,Though not a copper came of it, in verity,The horrid fellow with the ragged coat,And iron throat,Heedless of present honour and prosperity,Sang like a Poet singing for posterity,In penniless reliance—And, sure, the most immortal Man of RhymeNever set TimeMore thoroughly at defiance!From room to room, from floor to floor,From Number One to Twenty-fourThe Nuisance bellowed, till all patience lost,Down came Miss Frost,Expostulating at her open door—“Peace, monster, peace!Whereisthe New Police!I vow I cannot work, or read, or pray,Don’t stand there bawling, fellow, don’t!You really send my serious thoughts astray,Do—there’s a dear good man—do go away.”Says he, “I won’t!”The spinster pulled her door to with a slam,That sounded like a wooden d—n,For so some moral people, strictly lothTo swear in words, however up,Will crash a curse in setting down a cup,Or through a doorpost vent a banging oath—In fact, this sort of physical transgressionIs really no more difficult to traceThan in a given faceA very bad expression.However, in she went,Leaving the subject of her discontentTo Mr. Jones’s Clerk at Number Ten;Who, throwing up the sash,With accents rash,Thus hailed the most vociferous of men:“Come, come, I say, old feller, stop your chant!I cannot write a sentence—no one can’t!So just pack up your trumps,And stir your stumps—”Says he, “I shan’t!”Down went the sashAs if devoted to “eternal smash,”(Another illustrationOf acted imprecation),While close at hand, uncomfortably near,The independent voice, so loud and strong,And clanging like a gong,Roared out again the everlasting song,“I have a silent sorrow here!”The thing was hard to stand!The Music-master could not stand it—But rushing forth with fiddle-stick in handAs savage as a bandit,Made up directly to the tattered man,And thus in broken sentences began—But playing first a prelude of grimace,Twisting his features to the strangest shapes,So that to guess his subject from his face,He meant to give a lecture upon apes—“Com—com—I say!You go away!Into two parts my head you split—My fiddle cannot hear himself a bit,When I do play—You have no bis’ness in a place so still!Can you not come another day?”Says he—“I will.”“No—no—you scream and bawl!You must not come at all!You have no rights, by rights, to beg—You have not one off-leg—You ought to work—you have not some complaint—You are not cripple in your back or bones—Your voice is strong enough to break some stones”—Says he—“It ain’t!”“I say you ought to labour!You are in a young case,You have not sixty years upon your face,To come and beg your neighbour,And discompose his music with a noiseMore worse than twenty boys—Look what a street it is for quiet!No cart to make a riot,No coach, no horses, no postilion,If you will sing, I say, it is not just,To sing so loud.”—Says he, “I must!I’m singing for the million!”

In fact, a sort of plan,Including gentleman as well as yokel,Public or private man,To call out a Militia,—only VocalInstead of Local,And not designed for military follies,But keeping still within the civil border,To form with mouths in open order,And sing in volleys.

Whether this grand harmonic schemeWill ever get beyond a dream,And tend to British happiness and glory,Maybe no, and maybe yes,Is more than I pretend to guess—However, here’s my story.

In one of those small, quiet streets,Where business retreats,To shun the daily bustle and the noiseThe shoppy Strand enjoys,But Law, Joint-Companies, and Life AssuranceFind past endurance—In one of those back streets, to Peace so dear,The other day, a ragged wightBegan to sing with all his might,“I have a silent sorrow here!”

The place was lonely; not a creature stirredExcept some little dingy bird;Or vagrant cur that sniffed along,Indifferent to the Son of Song;No truant errand-boy, or Doctor’s lad,No idle filch or lounging cad,No Pots encumbered with diurnal beer,No printer’s devil with an author’s proof,Or housemaid on an errand far aloof,Lingered the tattered Melodist to hear—Who yet, confound him! bawled as loudAs if he had to charm a London crowd,Singing beside the public way,Accompanied—instead of violin,Flute, or piano, chiming in—By rumbling cab, and omnibus, and dray,A van with iron bars to playstaccato,Or engineobligato—In short, without one instrument vehicular(Not even a truck, to be particular),There stood the rogue and roared,Unasked and unencored,Enough to split the organs called auricular!

Heard in that quiet place,Devoted to a still and studious race,The noise was quite appalling!To seek a fitting simile and spin it,Appropriate to his calling,His voice had all Lablache’sbodyin it;But oh! the scientific tone it lacked,And was, in fact,Only a forty-boatswain-power of bawling!

’Twas said, indeed, for want of vocalnous,The stage had banished him when he attempted it,For tho’ his voice completely filled the house,It also emptied it.However, there he stoodVociferous—a ragged don!And with his iron pipes laid onA row to all the neighbourhood.

In vain were sashes closedAnd doors against the persevering Stentor,Though brick, and glass, and solid oak opposed,Th’ intruding voice would enter,Heedless of ceremonial or decorum,Den, office, parlour, study, and sanctorum;Where clients and attorneys, rogues, and fools,Ladies, and masters who attended schools,Clerks, agents, all provided with their tools,Were sitting upon sofas, chairs, and stools,With shelves, pianos, tables, desks, before ’em—How it did bore ’em!

Louder, and louder still,The fellow sang with horrible goodwill,Curses both loud and deep his sole gratuities,From scribes bewildered making many a flawIn deeds of lawThey had to draw;With dreadful incongruitiesIn posting ledgers, making up accountsTo large amounts,Or casting up annuities—Stunned by that voice, so loud and hoarse,Against whose overwhelming forceNo in-voice stood a chance, of course!

The Actuary pshawed and pished,And knit his calculating brows, and wishedThe singer “a bad life”—a mental murther!The Clerk, resentful of a blot and blunderWished the musician further,Poles distant—and no wonder!For Law and Harmony tend far asunder—The Lady could not keep her temper calm,Because the sinner did not sing a psalm—The Fiddler in the very same positionAs Hogarth’s chafed musician(Such prints require but cursory reminders)Came and made faces at the wretch beneath,And wishing for his foe between his teeth,(Like all impatient elvesThat spite themselves)Ground his own grinders.

But still with unrelenting note,Though not a copper came of it, in verity,The horrid fellow with the ragged coat,And iron throat,Heedless of present honour and prosperity,Sang like a Poet singing for posterity,In penniless reliance—And, sure, the most immortal Man of RhymeNever set TimeMore thoroughly at defiance!

From room to room, from floor to floor,From Number One to Twenty-fourThe Nuisance bellowed, till all patience lost,Down came Miss Frost,Expostulating at her open door—“Peace, monster, peace!Whereisthe New Police!I vow I cannot work, or read, or pray,Don’t stand there bawling, fellow, don’t!You really send my serious thoughts astray,Do—there’s a dear good man—do go away.”Says he, “I won’t!”

The spinster pulled her door to with a slam,That sounded like a wooden d—n,For so some moral people, strictly lothTo swear in words, however up,Will crash a curse in setting down a cup,Or through a doorpost vent a banging oath—In fact, this sort of physical transgressionIs really no more difficult to traceThan in a given faceA very bad expression.

However, in she went,Leaving the subject of her discontentTo Mr. Jones’s Clerk at Number Ten;Who, throwing up the sash,With accents rash,Thus hailed the most vociferous of men:“Come, come, I say, old feller, stop your chant!I cannot write a sentence—no one can’t!So just pack up your trumps,And stir your stumps—”Says he, “I shan’t!”

Down went the sashAs if devoted to “eternal smash,”(Another illustrationOf acted imprecation),While close at hand, uncomfortably near,The independent voice, so loud and strong,And clanging like a gong,Roared out again the everlasting song,“I have a silent sorrow here!”

The thing was hard to stand!The Music-master could not stand it—But rushing forth with fiddle-stick in handAs savage as a bandit,Made up directly to the tattered man,And thus in broken sentences began—But playing first a prelude of grimace,Twisting his features to the strangest shapes,So that to guess his subject from his face,He meant to give a lecture upon apes—

“Com—com—I say!You go away!Into two parts my head you split—My fiddle cannot hear himself a bit,When I do play—You have no bis’ness in a place so still!Can you not come another day?”Says he—“I will.”

“No—no—you scream and bawl!You must not come at all!You have no rights, by rights, to beg—You have not one off-leg—You ought to work—you have not some complaint—You are not cripple in your back or bones—Your voice is strong enough to break some stones”—Says he—“It ain’t!”

“I say you ought to labour!You are in a young case,You have not sixty years upon your face,To come and beg your neighbour,And discompose his music with a noiseMore worse than twenty boys—Look what a street it is for quiet!No cart to make a riot,No coach, no horses, no postilion,If you will sing, I say, it is not just,To sing so loud.”—Says he, “I must!I’m singing for the million!”

ODAYS of old, O days of Knights,Of tourneys and of tilts,When love was balk’d and valour stalk’dOn high heroic stilts—Where are ye gone?—adventures cease,The world gets tame and flat,—We’ve nothing now but New Police—There’s no Romance in that!I wish I ne’er had learn’d to read,Or Radcliffe how to write!That Scott had been a boor on Tweed,And Lewis cloister’d quite!Would I had never drunk so deepOf dear Miss Porter’s vat;I only turn to life, and weep—There’s no Romance in that!No Bandits lurk—no turban’d TurkTo Tunis bears me off—I hear no noises in the nightExcept my mother’s cough,—No Bleeding Spectre haunts the house,No shape,—but owl or bat,Come flitting after moth or mouse,—There’s no Romance in that!I have not any grief profound,Or secrets to confess,My story would not fetch a poundFor A. K. Newman’s press;Instead of looking thin and pale,I’m growing red and fat,As if I lived on beef and ale—There’s no Romance in that!It’s very hard, by land or seaSome strange event I court,But nothing ever comes to meThat’s worth a pen’s report:It really made my temper chafe,Each coast that I was at,I vow’d, and rail’d, and came home safe,—There’s no Romance in that!The only time I had a chanceAt Brighton one fine day,My chestnut mare began to prance,Took fright, and ran away;Alas! no Captain of the TenthTo stop my steed came pat;A Butcher caught the rein at length,—There’s no Romance in that!Love—even love—goes smoothly onA railway sort of track—No flinty sire, no jealous Don!No hearts upon the rack;No Polydore, no Theodore—His ugly name is Mat,Plain Matthew Pratt and nothing more—There’s no Romance in that!He is not dark, he is not tall,His forehead’s rather low,He is not pensive—not at all,But smiles his teeth to show;He comes from Wales and yet in sizeIs really but a sprat;With sandy hair and greyish eyes—There’s no Romance in that!He wears no plumes or Spanish cloaks,Or long sword hanging down;He dresses much like other folks,And commonly in brown;His collar he will not discard,Or give up his cravat,Lord Byron-like—he’s not a Bard—There’s no Romance in that!He’s rather bald, his sight is weak,He’s deaf in either drum;Without a lisp he cannot speak,But then—he’s worth a plum.He talks of stocks and three per cents.By way of private chat,Of Spanish Bonds, and shares, and rents,—There’s no Romance in that!I sing—no matter what I sing,Di Tanti—or Crudel,Tom Bowling, or God save the King,Di piacer—All’s Well;He knows no more about a voiceFor singing than a gnat—And as to Music “has no choice,”There’s no Romance in that!Of light guitar I cannot boast,He never serenades;He writes, and sends it by the post,He doesn’t bribe the maids:No stealth, no hempen ladder—no!He comes with loud rat-tat,That startles half of Bedford Row—There’s no Romance in that!He comes at nine in time to chooseHis coffee—just two cups,And talks with Pa about the news,Repeats debates, and sups.John helps him with his coat aright,And Jenkins hands his hat;My lover bows, and says good-night—There’s no Romance in that!I’ve long had Pa’s and Ma’s consent,My aunt she quite approves,My Brother wishes joy from Kent,None try to thwart our loves;On Tuesday reverend Mr. MaceWill make me Mrs. Pratt,Of Number Twenty, Sussex Place—There’s no Romance in that!

I wish I ne’er had learn’d to read,Or Radcliffe how to write!That Scott had been a boor on Tweed,And Lewis cloister’d quite!Would I had never drunk so deepOf dear Miss Porter’s vat;I only turn to life, and weep—There’s no Romance in that!

No Bandits lurk—no turban’d TurkTo Tunis bears me off—I hear no noises in the nightExcept my mother’s cough,—No Bleeding Spectre haunts the house,No shape,—but owl or bat,Come flitting after moth or mouse,—There’s no Romance in that!

I have not any grief profound,Or secrets to confess,My story would not fetch a poundFor A. K. Newman’s press;Instead of looking thin and pale,I’m growing red and fat,As if I lived on beef and ale—There’s no Romance in that!

It’s very hard, by land or seaSome strange event I court,But nothing ever comes to meThat’s worth a pen’s report:It really made my temper chafe,Each coast that I was at,I vow’d, and rail’d, and came home safe,—There’s no Romance in that!

The only time I had a chanceAt Brighton one fine day,My chestnut mare began to prance,Took fright, and ran away;Alas! no Captain of the TenthTo stop my steed came pat;A Butcher caught the rein at length,—There’s no Romance in that!

Love—even love—goes smoothly onA railway sort of track—No flinty sire, no jealous Don!No hearts upon the rack;No Polydore, no Theodore—His ugly name is Mat,Plain Matthew Pratt and nothing more—There’s no Romance in that!

He is not dark, he is not tall,His forehead’s rather low,He is not pensive—not at all,But smiles his teeth to show;He comes from Wales and yet in sizeIs really but a sprat;With sandy hair and greyish eyes—There’s no Romance in that!

He wears no plumes or Spanish cloaks,Or long sword hanging down;He dresses much like other folks,And commonly in brown;His collar he will not discard,Or give up his cravat,Lord Byron-like—he’s not a Bard—There’s no Romance in that!

He’s rather bald, his sight is weak,He’s deaf in either drum;Without a lisp he cannot speak,But then—he’s worth a plum.He talks of stocks and three per cents.By way of private chat,Of Spanish Bonds, and shares, and rents,—There’s no Romance in that!

I sing—no matter what I sing,Di Tanti—or Crudel,Tom Bowling, or God save the King,Di piacer—All’s Well;He knows no more about a voiceFor singing than a gnat—And as to Music “has no choice,”There’s no Romance in that!

Of light guitar I cannot boast,He never serenades;He writes, and sends it by the post,He doesn’t bribe the maids:No stealth, no hempen ladder—no!He comes with loud rat-tat,That startles half of Bedford Row—There’s no Romance in that!

He comes at nine in time to chooseHis coffee—just two cups,And talks with Pa about the news,Repeats debates, and sups.John helps him with his coat aright,And Jenkins hands his hat;My lover bows, and says good-night—There’s no Romance in that!

I’ve long had Pa’s and Ma’s consent,My aunt she quite approves,My Brother wishes joy from Kent,None try to thwart our loves;On Tuesday reverend Mr. MaceWill make me Mrs. Pratt,Of Number Twenty, Sussex Place—There’s no Romance in that!

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