THE KANGAROOS.A FABLE.

“The Admiral compelled them all to strike.”—Life of Nelson.

HUSH! silence in School—not a noise!You shall soon see there’s nothing to jeer at,Master Marsh, most audacious of boys!Come!—“Palmam qui meruit ferat!”So this morn in the midst of the Psalm,The Miss Siffkin’s school you must leer at,You’re complained of—Sir! hold out your palm,—There!—“Palmam qui meruit ferat!”You wilful young rebel, and dunce!This offence all your sins shall appear at,You shall have a good caning at once—There!—“Palmam qui meruit ferat!”You are backward, you know, in each verb,And your pronouns you are not more clear at,But you’re forward enough to disturb,—There!—“Palmam qui meruit ferat!”You said Master Twigg stole the plums,When the orchard he never was near at,I’ll not punish wrong fingers or thumbs,—There!—“Palmam qui meruit ferat!”You make Master Taylor your butt,And this morning his face you threw beer at,And you struck him—do you like a cut?There!—“Palmam qui meruit ferat!”Little Biddle you likewise distress,You are always his hair, or his ear at,—He’s myOpt, Sir, and you are myPess:There!—“Palmam qui meruit ferat!”Then you had a pitcht fight with young Rous,An offence I am always severe at!You discredit to Cicero-House!There!—“Palmam qui meruit ferat!”You have made too a plot in the night,To run off from the school that you rear at!Come, your other hand, now, Sir,—the right,There!—“Palmam qui meruit ferat!”I’ll teach you to draw, you young dog!Such pictures as I’m looking here at!“Old Mounseer making soup of a frog,”There!—“Palmam qui meruit ferat!”You have run up a bill at a shop,That in paying you’ll be a whole year at,—You’ve but twopence a week, Sir, to stop!There!—“Palmam qui meruit ferat!”Then at dinner you’re quite cock-a-hoop,And the soup you are certain to sneer at—I have sipped it—it’s very good soup,—There!—“Palmam qui meruit ferat!”T’other day when I fell o’er the form,Was my tumble a thing, Sir, to cheer at?Well for you that my temper’s not warm,—There!—“Palmam qui meruit ferat!”Why, you rascal! you insolent brat!All my talking you don’t shed a tear at,There—take that, Sir! and that! that! and that!There!—“Palmam qui meruit ferat!”

HUSH! silence in School—not a noise!You shall soon see there’s nothing to jeer at,Master Marsh, most audacious of boys!Come!—“Palmam qui meruit ferat!”

So this morn in the midst of the Psalm,The Miss Siffkin’s school you must leer at,You’re complained of—Sir! hold out your palm,—There!—“Palmam qui meruit ferat!”

You wilful young rebel, and dunce!This offence all your sins shall appear at,You shall have a good caning at once—There!—“Palmam qui meruit ferat!”

You are backward, you know, in each verb,And your pronouns you are not more clear at,But you’re forward enough to disturb,—There!—“Palmam qui meruit ferat!”

You said Master Twigg stole the plums,When the orchard he never was near at,I’ll not punish wrong fingers or thumbs,—There!—“Palmam qui meruit ferat!”

You make Master Taylor your butt,And this morning his face you threw beer at,And you struck him—do you like a cut?There!—“Palmam qui meruit ferat!”

Little Biddle you likewise distress,You are always his hair, or his ear at,—He’s myOpt, Sir, and you are myPess:There!—“Palmam qui meruit ferat!”

Then you had a pitcht fight with young Rous,An offence I am always severe at!You discredit to Cicero-House!There!—“Palmam qui meruit ferat!”

You have made too a plot in the night,To run off from the school that you rear at!Come, your other hand, now, Sir,—the right,There!—“Palmam qui meruit ferat!”

I’ll teach you to draw, you young dog!Such pictures as I’m looking here at!“Old Mounseer making soup of a frog,”There!—“Palmam qui meruit ferat!”

You have run up a bill at a shop,That in paying you’ll be a whole year at,—You’ve but twopence a week, Sir, to stop!There!—“Palmam qui meruit ferat!”

Then at dinner you’re quite cock-a-hoop,And the soup you are certain to sneer at—I have sipped it—it’s very good soup,—There!—“Palmam qui meruit ferat!”

T’other day when I fell o’er the form,Was my tumble a thing, Sir, to cheer at?Well for you that my temper’s not warm,—There!—“Palmam qui meruit ferat!”

Why, you rascal! you insolent brat!All my talking you don’t shed a tear at,There—take that, Sir! and that! that! and that!There!—“Palmam qui meruit ferat!”

APAIR of married kangaroos(The case is oft a human one too)Were greatly puzzled once to chooseA trade to put their eldest son to:A little brisk and busy chap,As all the little K.’s just then are—About some two months off the lap,—They’re not so long in arms as men are.A twist in each parental muzzleBetray’d the hardship of the puzzle—So much the flavour of life’s cupIs framed by early wrong or right,And Kangaroos we know are quiteDependent on their “rearing up.”The question, with its ins and outs,Was intricate and full of doubts;And yet they had no squeamish caringsFor trades unfit or fit for gentry,Such notion never had an entry,For they had no armorial bearings.Howbeit they’re not the last on earthThat might indulge in pride of birth;Whoe’er has seen their infant youngBob in and out their mother’s pokes,Would own, with very ready tongue,They are not born like common folks.Well, thus the serious subject stood,It kept the old pair watchful nightly,Debating for young hopeful’s good,That he might earn his livelihood,And go through life (like them) uprightly.Arms would not do at all; no, marry,In that line all his race miscarry;And agriculture was not proper,Unless they meant the lad to tarryFor ever as a mere clod-hopper.He was not well cut out for preachingAt least in any striking style;And as for being mercantile—He was not form’d for over-reaching.The law—why there still fate ill-starr’d him,And plainly from the bar debarr’d him:A doctor—who would ever fee him?In music he could scarce engage,And as for going on the stageIn tragic socks I think I see him.He would not make a rigging-mounter;A haberdasher had some merit,But there the counter still ran counter,For just supposeA lady choseTo ask him for a yard of ferret!A gardener digging up his beds,The puzzled parents shook their heads.“A tailor would not do because—”They paused and glanced upon his paws.Some parish post, though fate should place itBefore him, how could he embrace it?In short each anxious KangarooDiscuss’d the matter through and throughBy day they seem’d to get no nearer,’Twas posing quite—And in the nightOf course they saw their way no clearer!At last thus musing on their knees—Or hinder elbows if you please—It came—no thought was ever brighter!In weighing every why and whether,They jump’d upon it both together—“Let’s make the imp ashort-hand writer!”

A twist in each parental muzzleBetray’d the hardship of the puzzle—So much the flavour of life’s cupIs framed by early wrong or right,And Kangaroos we know are quiteDependent on their “rearing up.”The question, with its ins and outs,Was intricate and full of doubts;And yet they had no squeamish caringsFor trades unfit or fit for gentry,Such notion never had an entry,For they had no armorial bearings.Howbeit they’re not the last on earthThat might indulge in pride of birth;Whoe’er has seen their infant youngBob in and out their mother’s pokes,Would own, with very ready tongue,They are not born like common folks.Well, thus the serious subject stood,It kept the old pair watchful nightly,Debating for young hopeful’s good,That he might earn his livelihood,And go through life (like them) uprightly.Arms would not do at all; no, marry,In that line all his race miscarry;And agriculture was not proper,Unless they meant the lad to tarryFor ever as a mere clod-hopper.He was not well cut out for preachingAt least in any striking style;And as for being mercantile—He was not form’d for over-reaching.The law—why there still fate ill-starr’d him,And plainly from the bar debarr’d him:A doctor—who would ever fee him?In music he could scarce engage,And as for going on the stageIn tragic socks I think I see him.

He would not make a rigging-mounter;A haberdasher had some merit,But there the counter still ran counter,For just supposeA lady choseTo ask him for a yard of ferret!

A gardener digging up his beds,The puzzled parents shook their heads.

“A tailor would not do because—”They paused and glanced upon his paws.

Some parish post, though fate should place itBefore him, how could he embrace it?

In short each anxious KangarooDiscuss’d the matter through and throughBy day they seem’d to get no nearer,’Twas posing quite—And in the nightOf course they saw their way no clearer!At last thus musing on their knees—Or hinder elbows if you please—It came—no thought was ever brighter!In weighing every why and whether,They jump’d upon it both together—“Let’s make the imp ashort-hand writer!”

I wish all human parents soWould argue what their sons are fit for;Some would-be critics that I knowWould be in trades they have more wit for.

“Timidity is generally reckoned an essential attribute of the fair sex, and this absurd notion gives rise to more false starts than a race for the Leger. Hence screams at mice, fits at spiders, faces at toads, jumps at lizards, flights from daddy longlegs, panics at wasps,sauve qui peutat sight of a gun. Surely, when the military exercise is made a branch of education at so many ladies’ academies, the use of the musket would only be a judicious step further in the march of mind. I should not despair, in a month’s practice, of making the most timid British female fond of small-arms.”—Hints by a Corporal.

IT can’t be minced, I’m quite convincedAll girls are full of flam,Their feelings fine and feminineAre nothing else but sham.On all their tricks I need not fix,I’ll only mention one,How many a Miss will tell you this,“I cannot bear a gun!”There’s cousin Bell can’t ‘bide the smellOf powder—horrid stuff!A single pop will make her drop,She shudders at a puff.My Manton near, with aspen fearWill make her scream and run:“It’s always so, you brute, you knowI cannot bear a gun!”About my flask I must not ask,I must not wear a belt,I must not take a punch to makeMy pellets, card or felt;And if I just allude to dust,Or speak of number one,“I beg you’ll not—don’t talk of shot,I cannot bear a gun!”Percussion cap I dare not snap,I may not mention Hall,

There’s cousin Bell can’t ‘bide the smellOf powder—horrid stuff!A single pop will make her drop,She shudders at a puff.My Manton near, with aspen fearWill make her scream and run:“It’s always so, you brute, you knowI cannot bear a gun!”

About my flask I must not ask,I must not wear a belt,I must not take a punch to makeMy pellets, card or felt;And if I just allude to dust,Or speak of number one,“I beg you’ll not—don’t talk of shot,I cannot bear a gun!”

Percussion cap I dare not snap,I may not mention Hall,

A MINOR CANNON.

“JAMES’S POWDER.”

Or raise my voice for Mr. Joyce,His wadding to recall;At Hawker’s book I must not look,All shooting I must shun,Or else—“It’s hard, you’ve no regard,I cannot bear a gun!”The very dress I wear no lessMust suit her timid mind,A blue or black must clothe my back,With swallow-tails behind;By fustian, jean, or velveteen,Her nerves are overdone:“Oh do not, John, put gaiters on,I cannot bear a gun!”E’en little James she snubs, and blamesHis Liliputian train,Two inches each from mouth to breach,And charged with half a grain—His crackers stopp’d, his squibbing dropp’d,He has no fiery fun,And all thro’ her “How dare you, Sir?I cannot bear a gun!”Yet Major Flint,—the Devil’s in’t!May talk from morn to night,Of springing mines, and twelves and nines,And volleys left and right,Of voltigeurs and tirailleurs,And bullets by the ton:She never dies of fright, or cries“I cannot bear a gun!”It stirs my bile to see her smileAt all his bang and whiz,But if I talk of morning walk,And shots as good as his,I must not name the fallen game:As soon as I’ve begun,She’s in her pout, and crying out,“I cannot bear a gun!”Yet, underneath the rose, her teethAre false, to match her tongue:Grouse, partridge, hares, she never spares,Or pheasants, old or young—On widgeon, teal, she makes a meal,And yet objects to none:“What have I got, it’s full of shot!I cannot bear a gun!”At pigeon-pie she is not shy,Her taste it never shocks,Though they should be from Battersea,So famous for blue rocks;Yet when I bring the very thingMy marksmanship has won,She cries “Lock up that horrid cup,I cannot bear a gun!”Like fool and dunce I got her onceA box at Drury Lane,And by her side I felt a prideI ne’er shall feel again:To read the bill it made her ill,And this excuse she spun,“Der Freyschütz, oh, seven shots; you know,I cannot bear a gun!”Yet at a hint from Major Flint,Her very hands she rubs,And quickly drest in all her best,Is off to Wormwood Scrubbs.The whole review she sits it through,With noise enough to stun,And never winks, or even thinks,“I cannot bear a gun!”She thus may blind the Major’s mindIn mock-heroic strife,But let a bout at war break out,And where’s the soldier’s wife,To take his kit and march a bitBeneath a broiling sun?Or will she cry, “My dear, good-bye,I cannot bear a gun?”If thus she doats on army coats,And regimental cuffs,The yeomanry might surely beSecure from her rebuffs;But when I don my trappings on,To follow Captain Dunn,My carbine’s gleam provokes a scream,“I cannot bear a gun!”It can’t be minced, I’m quite convinced,All girls are full of flam,Their feelings fine, and feminine,Are nothing else but sham;On all their tricks I need not fix,I’ll only mention one,How many a Miss will tell you this,“I cannot bear a gun!”

Or raise my voice for Mr. Joyce,His wadding to recall;At Hawker’s book I must not look,All shooting I must shun,Or else—“It’s hard, you’ve no regard,I cannot bear a gun!”

The very dress I wear no lessMust suit her timid mind,A blue or black must clothe my back,With swallow-tails behind;By fustian, jean, or velveteen,Her nerves are overdone:“Oh do not, John, put gaiters on,I cannot bear a gun!”

E’en little James she snubs, and blamesHis Liliputian train,Two inches each from mouth to breach,And charged with half a grain—His crackers stopp’d, his squibbing dropp’d,He has no fiery fun,And all thro’ her “How dare you, Sir?I cannot bear a gun!”

Yet Major Flint,—the Devil’s in’t!May talk from morn to night,Of springing mines, and twelves and nines,And volleys left and right,Of voltigeurs and tirailleurs,And bullets by the ton:She never dies of fright, or cries“I cannot bear a gun!”

It stirs my bile to see her smileAt all his bang and whiz,But if I talk of morning walk,And shots as good as his,I must not name the fallen game:As soon as I’ve begun,She’s in her pout, and crying out,“I cannot bear a gun!”

Yet, underneath the rose, her teethAre false, to match her tongue:Grouse, partridge, hares, she never spares,Or pheasants, old or young—On widgeon, teal, she makes a meal,And yet objects to none:“What have I got, it’s full of shot!I cannot bear a gun!”

At pigeon-pie she is not shy,Her taste it never shocks,Though they should be from Battersea,So famous for blue rocks;Yet when I bring the very thingMy marksmanship has won,She cries “Lock up that horrid cup,I cannot bear a gun!”

Like fool and dunce I got her onceA box at Drury Lane,And by her side I felt a prideI ne’er shall feel again:To read the bill it made her ill,And this excuse she spun,“Der Freyschütz, oh, seven shots; you know,I cannot bear a gun!”

Yet at a hint from Major Flint,Her very hands she rubs,And quickly drest in all her best,Is off to Wormwood Scrubbs.The whole review she sits it through,With noise enough to stun,And never winks, or even thinks,“I cannot bear a gun!”

She thus may blind the Major’s mindIn mock-heroic strife,But let a bout at war break out,And where’s the soldier’s wife,To take his kit and march a bitBeneath a broiling sun?Or will she cry, “My dear, good-bye,I cannot bear a gun?”

If thus she doats on army coats,And regimental cuffs,The yeomanry might surely beSecure from her rebuffs;But when I don my trappings on,To follow Captain Dunn,My carbine’s gleam provokes a scream,“I cannot bear a gun!”

It can’t be minced, I’m quite convinced,All girls are full of flam,Their feelings fine, and feminine,Are nothing else but sham;On all their tricks I need not fix,I’ll only mention one,How many a Miss will tell you this,“I cannot bear a gun!”

HERE, come, Master Timothy Todd,Before we have done you’ll look grimmer,You’ve been spelling some time for the rod,And your jacket shall know I’m a Trimmer.You don’t know your A from your B,So backward you are in your Primer;Don’t kneel—you shall go onmyknee,For I’ll have you to know I’m a Trimmer.This morning you hinder’d the cook,By melting your dumps in the skimmer;Instead of attending your book,—But I’ll have you to know I’m a Trimmer.To-day, too, you went to the pond,And bathed, though you are not a swimmer:And with parents so doting and fond—But I’ll have you to know I’m a Trimmer.After dinner you went to the wine,And help’d yourself—yes, to a brimmer;You couldn’t walk straight in a line,But I’ll make you to know I’m a Trimmer.You kick little Tomkins about,Because he is slighter and slimmer;Are the weak to be thump’d by the stout?But I’ll have you to know I’m a Trimmer.Then you have a sly pilfering trick,Your school-fellows call you the nimmer,—I will cut to the bone if you kick!For I’ll have you to know I’m a Trimmer.To-day you made game at my back:You think that my eyes are grown dimmer,But I watch’d you, I’ve got a sly nack!And I’ll have you to know I’m a Trimmer.Don’t think that my temper is hot,It’s never beyond a slow simmer;I’ll teach you to call me Dame TrotBut I’ll have you to know I’m a Trimmer.Miss Edgeworth, or Mrs. Chapone,Might melt to behold your tears glimmer;Mrs. Barbauld would let you alone,But I’ll have you to know I’m a Trimmer.

HERE, come, Master Timothy Todd,Before we have done you’ll look grimmer,You’ve been spelling some time for the rod,And your jacket shall know I’m a Trimmer.

You don’t know your A from your B,So backward you are in your Primer;Don’t kneel—you shall go onmyknee,For I’ll have you to know I’m a Trimmer.

This morning you hinder’d the cook,By melting your dumps in the skimmer;Instead of attending your book,—But I’ll have you to know I’m a Trimmer.

To-day, too, you went to the pond,And bathed, though you are not a swimmer:And with parents so doting and fond—But I’ll have you to know I’m a Trimmer.

After dinner you went to the wine,And help’d yourself—yes, to a brimmer;You couldn’t walk straight in a line,But I’ll make you to know I’m a Trimmer.

You kick little Tomkins about,Because he is slighter and slimmer;Are the weak to be thump’d by the stout?But I’ll have you to know I’m a Trimmer.

Then you have a sly pilfering trick,Your school-fellows call you the nimmer,—I will cut to the bone if you kick!For I’ll have you to know I’m a Trimmer.

To-day you made game at my back:You think that my eyes are grown dimmer,But I watch’d you, I’ve got a sly nack!And I’ll have you to know I’m a Trimmer.

Don’t think that my temper is hot,It’s never beyond a slow simmer;I’ll teach you to call me Dame TrotBut I’ll have you to know I’m a Trimmer.

Miss Edgeworth, or Mrs. Chapone,Might melt to behold your tears glimmer;Mrs. Barbauld would let you alone,But I’ll have you to know I’m a Trimmer.

“Archer.How many are there,Scrub?Scrub.Five-and-forty, sir.”—Beaux Stratagem.

“For shame—let the linen alone!”—Merry Wives of Windsor.

MR. SCRUB—Mr. Slop—or whoever you be!The Cock of Steam Laundries,—the head PatenteeOf Associate Cleansers,—Chief founder and prime

FANCY PORTRAIT—MRS. TRIMMER.

PALMAM QUI MERUIT FERAT.

Of the firm for the wholesale distilling of grime—Co-partners and dealers, in linen’s propriety—That make washing public—and wash in society—O lend me your ear! if that ear can foregoFor a moment the music that bubbles below,—From your new Surrey Geysers[11]all foaming and hot,—That soft “simmer’ssang” so endear’d to the Scot—If your hands may stand still, or your steam without danger—If your suds will not cool, and a mere simple stranger,Both to you and to washing, may put in a rub,—O wipe out your Amazon arms from the tub,—And lend me your ear,—Let me modestly pleadFor a race that your labours may soon supersede—For a race that, now washing no living affords—Like Grimaldi must leave their aquatic old boards,Not with pence in their pockets to keep them at ease,Not with bread in the funds—or investments of cheese,But to droop like sad willows that lived by a stream,Which the sun has suck’d up into vapour and steam.All, look at the laundress, before you begrudgeHer hard daily bread to that laudable drudge—When chanticleer singeth his earliest matins,She slips her amphibious feet in her pattens,And beginneth her toil while the morn is still grey,As if she was washing the night into day—Not with sleeker or rosier fingers AuroraBeginneth to scatter the dewdrops before her;Not Venus that rose from the billow so early,Look’d down on the foam with a forehead morepearly[12]—Her head is involved in an aërial mist,And a bright-beaded bracelet encircles her wrist;Her visage glows warm with the ardour of duty;She’s Industry’s moral—she’s all moral beauty!Growing brighter and brighter at every rub—Would any man ruin her?—No, Mr. Scrub!No man that is manly would work her mishap—No man that is manly would covet her cap—Nor her apron—her hose—nor her gown made of stuff—Nor her gin—nor her tea—nor her wet pinch of snuff!Alas! soshethought—but that slippery hopeHas betray’d her—as though she had trod on her soap!And she,—whose support,—like the fishes that fly,Was to have her fins wet, must now drop from her sky—She whose living it was, and a part of her fare,To be damp’d once a day, like the great white sea bear,With her hands like a sponge, and her head like a mop—Quite a living absorbent that revell’d in slop—She that paddled in water, must walk upon sand,And sigh for her deeps like a turtle on land!Lo, then, the poor laundress, all wretched she stands,Instead of a counterpane, wringing her hands!All haggard and pinch’d, going down in life’s vale,With no faggot for burning, like Allan-a-Dale!No smoke from her flue—and no steam from her pane,Where once she watch’d heaven, fearing God and the rain—Or gazed o’er her bleach-field so fairly engross’d,Till the lines wander’d idle from pillar to post!Ah, where are the playful young pinners—ah, whereThe harlequin quilts that cut capers in air—The brisk waltzing stockings—the white and the black,That danced on the tight-rope, or swung on the slack—The light sylph-like garments, so tenderly pinn’d,That blew into shape, and embodied the wind!There was white on the grass—there was white on the spray—Her garden—it look’d like a garden of May!But now all is dark—not a shirt’s on a shrub—You’ve ruined her prospects in life, Mr. Scrub!You’ve ruin’d her custom—now families drop her—From her silver reduced—nay, reduced from hercopper!The last of her washing is done at her eye,One poor little kerchief that never gets dry!From mere lack of linen she can’t lay a cloth,And boils neither barley nor alkaline broth,—But her children come round her as victuals grow scant,And recal, with foul faces, the source of their want—When she thinks of their poor little mouths to be fed,And then thinks of her trade that is utterly dead,And even its pearlashes laid in the grave—Whilst her tub is a-dry-rotting, stave after stave,And the greatest of Coopers, ev’n he that they dubSir Astley, can’t bind up her heart or her tub,—Need you wonder she curses your bones, Mr. Scrub!Need you wonder, when steam has deprived her of bread,If she prays that the evil may visityourhead—Nay, scald all the heads of your Washing Committee,If she wishes you all the soot blacks of the City—In short, not to mention all plagues without number,If she wishes you all in theWashat the Humber!Ah, perhaps, in some moment of drowth and despair,When her linen got scarce, and her washing grew rare—When the sum of her suds might be summ’d in a bowl,And the rusty cold iron quite enter’d her soul—When, perhaps, the last glance of her wandering eyeHad caught “the Cock Laundresses’ Coach” going by,Or her lines that hung idle, to waste the fine weather,And she thought of her wrongs and her rights both together,In a lather of passion that froth’d as it rose,Too angry for grammar, too lofty for prose,On her sheet—if a sheet were still left her—to write,Some remonstrance like this then, perchance, saw the light—

Lo, then, the poor laundress, all wretched she stands,Instead of a counterpane, wringing her hands!All haggard and pinch’d, going down in life’s vale,With no faggot for burning, like Allan-a-Dale!No smoke from her flue—and no steam from her pane,Where once she watch’d heaven, fearing God and the rain—Or gazed o’er her bleach-field so fairly engross’d,Till the lines wander’d idle from pillar to post!Ah, where are the playful young pinners—ah, whereThe harlequin quilts that cut capers in air—The brisk waltzing stockings—the white and the black,That danced on the tight-rope, or swung on the slack—The light sylph-like garments, so tenderly pinn’d,That blew into shape, and embodied the wind!There was white on the grass—there was white on the spray—Her garden—it look’d like a garden of May!But now all is dark—not a shirt’s on a shrub—You’ve ruined her prospects in life, Mr. Scrub!You’ve ruin’d her custom—now families drop her—From her silver reduced—nay, reduced from hercopper!The last of her washing is done at her eye,One poor little kerchief that never gets dry!From mere lack of linen she can’t lay a cloth,And boils neither barley nor alkaline broth,—But her children come round her as victuals grow scant,And recal, with foul faces, the source of their want—When she thinks of their poor little mouths to be fed,And then thinks of her trade that is utterly dead,And even its pearlashes laid in the grave—Whilst her tub is a-dry-rotting, stave after stave,And the greatest of Coopers, ev’n he that they dubSir Astley, can’t bind up her heart or her tub,—Need you wonder she curses your bones, Mr. Scrub!Need you wonder, when steam has deprived her of bread,If she prays that the evil may visityourhead—Nay, scald all the heads of your Washing Committee,If she wishes you all the soot blacks of the City—In short, not to mention all plagues without number,If she wishes you all in theWashat the Humber!

Ah, perhaps, in some moment of drowth and despair,When her linen got scarce, and her washing grew rare—When the sum of her suds might be summ’d in a bowl,And the rusty cold iron quite enter’d her soul—When, perhaps, the last glance of her wandering eyeHad caught “the Cock Laundresses’ Coach” going by,Or her lines that hung idle, to waste the fine weather,And she thought of her wrongs and her rights both together,In a lather of passion that froth’d as it rose,Too angry for grammar, too lofty for prose,On her sheet—if a sheet were still left her—to write,Some remonstrance like this then, perchance, saw the light—

It’sa shame, so it is—men can’t Let aloneJobs as is Woman’s right to do—and go about there Own—Theirs Reforms enuff Alreddy without your new schoolsFor washing to sit Up,—and push the Old Tubs from their stools!But your just like the Raddicals,—for upsetting of the SuddsWhen the world wagg’d well enuff—and Wommen wash’d your old dirty duds,I’m Certain sure Enuff your Ann Sisters had no steam Indins, that’s Flat,—But I Warrant your Four Fathers went as Tidy and gentlemanny for all that—I suppose your the Family as lived in the Great KittleI see on Clapham Commun, some times a very considerable period back when I were little,And they Said it went with Steem,—But that was a joke!For I never see none come of it,—that’s out of it—but only sum Smoak—And for All your Power of Horses about your Indians you never had but TwoIn my time to draw you About to Fairs—and hang you, you know that’s true!And for All your fine Perspectuses,—howsomever you bewhich ’em,Theirs as Pretty ones off Primerows Hill, as ever a one at Mitchum,Thof I cant sea What Prospectives and washing has with one another to Do—It ant as if a Bird’seye Hankicher can take a Birds-high view!But Thats your look-out—I’ve not much to do with that—But pleas God to hold up fine,Id show you caps and pinners and small things as lillywhit as Ever crosst the LineWithout going any Father off than Little Parodies Place,And Thats more than you Can—and Ill say it behind your face—But when Folks talks of washing, it ant for you too Speak,—As kept Dockter Pattyson out of his Shirt for a Weak!Thinks I, when I heard it—Well thear’s a Pretty go!That comes o’ not marking of things or washing out the marks, and Huddling ’em up so!Till Their frends comes and owns them, like drownded corpeses in a Vault,But may Hap you havint Larn’d to spel—and That ant your Fault,Only you ought to leafe the Linnins to them as has Larn’d,—For if it warnt for Washing,—and whare Bills is concarnd,What’s the Yuse, of all the world, for a Wommans Headication,And Their Being maid Schollards of Sundays—fit for any Cityation?Well, what I says is this—when every Kittle has its spout,Theirs no nead for Companys to puff steam about!To be sure its very Well, when Their ant enuff WindFor blowing up Boats with,—but not to hurt human kind,Like that Pearkins with his Blunderbush, that’s loaded with hot water,Thof a xSherrif might know Better, than make things for slaughtter,As if War warnt Cruel enuff—wherever it befalls,Without shooting poor sogers, with sich scalding hot washing[13]balls,—But thats not so Bad as a Sett of Bear Faced ScrubbsAs joins their Sopes together, and sits up Steam rubbing Clubs,For washing Dirt Cheap,—and eating other Peple’s grubs!Which is all verry Fine for you and your Patent Tea,But I wonders How Poor Wommen is to get Their Beau-He!They must drink Hunt wash (the only wash God nose there will be!)And their Little drop of Somethings as they takes for their Goods,When you and your Steam has ruined (G—d forgive mee) their lively Hoods,Poor Women as was born to Washing in their youth!And now must go and Larn other Buisnesses Four Sooth!But if so be They leave their Lines what are they to go at—They won’t do for Angell’s—nor any Trade like That,Nor we cant Sow Babby Work,—for that’s all Bespoke,—For the Queakers in Bridle! and a vast of the confind FolkDo their own of Themselves—even the bettermost of em—aye, and evn them of middling degrees—Why—Lauk help you—Babby Linen and Bread ant Cheese!Nor we can’t go a hammering the roads into Dust,But we must all go and be Bankers, Like Mr. Marshes and Mr. Chamber, and that’s what we must!God nose you oght to have more Concern for our Sects,When you nose you have suck’d us and hanged round our Mutherly necks,And remembers what you Owes to Wommen Besides washing—You ant, blame you, like Men to go a slushing and sloshingIn mob caps, and pattins, adoing of Females LabersAnd prettily jear’d At, you great Horse God-meril things, ant you now by your next door nayhbours—Lawk, I thinks I see you with your Sleaves tuckt upNo more like Washing than is drownding of a Pupp—And for all Your Fine Water Works going round and roundThey’ll scruntch your Bones some day—I’ll be boundAnd no more nor be a gudgement,—for it cant come to goodTo sit up agin Providence, which your a doing,—nor not fit It should,For man warnt maid for Wommens starvation,Nor to do away Laundrisses as is Links of Creation—And cant be dun without in any Country But a naked Hottinpot Nation.Ah, I wish our Minister would take one of your TubbsAnd preach a Sermon in it, and give you some good rubs—But I warrants you reads (for you cant spel we nose) nyther Bybills or Good Tracks,Or youd no better than Taking the Close off one’s Backs—And let your neighbours Oxin an Asses alone,—And every Thing thats hern,—and give every one their Hone!Well, its God for us All, and every Washer Wommen for herself,And so you might, without shoving any on us off the shelf,But if you warnt Noddis youd Let wommen a-beAnd pull off your Pattins,—and leave the washing to weThat nose what’s what—Or mark what I say,Youl make a fine Kittle of fish of Your Close some Day—When the Aulder men wants Their Bibs and their ant nun at all,And Crismass cum—and never a Cloth to lay in Gild Hall,Or send a damp shirt to his Woship the MareTill hes rumatiz Poor Man, and cant set uprite to do good in his Harm Chare—Besides Miss-Matching Larned Ladys Hose, as is sent for you not to wash (for you dont wash) but to stewAnd make Peples Stockins yeller as oght to be Blew,With a vast more like That,—and all along of SteemWhich warnt meand by Nater for any sich skeam—But thats your Losses and youl have to make It Good,And I cant say I’m sorry, afore God, if you shoud,For men mought Get their Bread a great many waysWithout taking ourn,—aye, and Moor to your Prays,You might go and skim the creme off Mr. Mack-Adam’s milky ways—that’s what you might,Or bete Carpets—or get into Parleamint,—or drive crabrolays from morning to night,Or, if you must be of our sects, be Watchemen, and slepe upon a poste!(Which is an od way of sleping I must say,—and a very hard pillow at most,)Or you might be any trade, as we are not on that I’m awares,Or be Watermen now, (not Water wommen) and roe people up and down Hungerford stares.If You Was even to Turn Dust Men a dry sifting Dirt,But you oughtint to Hurt Them as never Did You no Hurt!Yourn with Anymocity,Bridget Jones.

Well, what I says is this—when every Kittle has its spout,Theirs no nead for Companys to puff steam about!To be sure its very Well, when Their ant enuff WindFor blowing up Boats with,—but not to hurt human kind,Like that Pearkins with his Blunderbush, that’s loaded with hot water,Thof a xSherrif might know Better, than make things for slaughtter,As if War warnt Cruel enuff—wherever it befalls,Without shooting poor sogers, with sich scalding hot washing[13]balls,—But thats not so Bad as a Sett of Bear Faced ScrubbsAs joins their Sopes together, and sits up Steam rubbing Clubs,For washing Dirt Cheap,—and eating other Peple’s grubs!Which is all verry Fine for you and your Patent Tea,But I wonders How Poor Wommen is to get Their Beau-He!They must drink Hunt wash (the only wash God nose there will be!)And their Little drop of Somethings as they takes for their Goods,When you and your Steam has ruined (G—d forgive mee) their lively Hoods,Poor Women as was born to Washing in their youth!And now must go and Larn other Buisnesses Four Sooth!But if so be They leave their Lines what are they to go at—They won’t do for Angell’s—nor any Trade like That,Nor we cant Sow Babby Work,—for that’s all Bespoke,—For the Queakers in Bridle! and a vast of the confind FolkDo their own of Themselves—even the bettermost of em—aye, and evn them of middling degrees—Why—Lauk help you—Babby Linen and Bread ant Cheese!Nor we can’t go a hammering the roads into Dust,But we must all go and be Bankers, Like Mr. Marshes and Mr. Chamber, and that’s what we must!God nose you oght to have more Concern for our Sects,When you nose you have suck’d us and hanged round our Mutherly necks,And remembers what you Owes to Wommen Besides washing—You ant, blame you, like Men to go a slushing and sloshingIn mob caps, and pattins, adoing of Females LabersAnd prettily jear’d At, you great Horse God-meril things, ant you now by your next door nayhbours—Lawk, I thinks I see you with your Sleaves tuckt upNo more like Washing than is drownding of a Pupp—And for all Your Fine Water Works going round and roundThey’ll scruntch your Bones some day—I’ll be boundAnd no more nor be a gudgement,—for it cant come to goodTo sit up agin Providence, which your a doing,—nor not fit It should,For man warnt maid for Wommens starvation,Nor to do away Laundrisses as is Links of Creation—And cant be dun without in any Country But a naked Hottinpot Nation.Ah, I wish our Minister would take one of your TubbsAnd preach a Sermon in it, and give you some good rubs—But I warrants you reads (for you cant spel we nose) nyther Bybills or Good Tracks,Or youd no better than Taking the Close off one’s Backs—And let your neighbours Oxin an Asses alone,—And every Thing thats hern,—and give every one their Hone!

Well, its God for us All, and every Washer Wommen for herself,And so you might, without shoving any on us off the shelf,But if you warnt Noddis youd Let wommen a-beAnd pull off your Pattins,—and leave the washing to weThat nose what’s what—Or mark what I say,Youl make a fine Kittle of fish of Your Close some Day—When the Aulder men wants Their Bibs and their ant nun at all,And Crismass cum—and never a Cloth to lay in Gild Hall,Or send a damp shirt to his Woship the MareTill hes rumatiz Poor Man, and cant set uprite to do good in his Harm Chare—Besides Miss-Matching Larned Ladys Hose, as is sent for you not to wash (for you dont wash) but to stewAnd make Peples Stockins yeller as oght to be Blew,With a vast more like That,—and all along of SteemWhich warnt meand by Nater for any sich skeam—But thats your Losses and youl have to make It Good,And I cant say I’m sorry, afore God, if you shoud,For men mought Get their Bread a great many waysWithout taking ourn,—aye, and Moor to your Prays,You might go and skim the creme off Mr. Mack-Adam’s milky ways—that’s what you might,Or bete Carpets—or get into Parleamint,—or drive crabrolays from morning to night,Or, if you must be of our sects, be Watchemen, and slepe upon a poste!(Which is an od way of sleping I must say,—and a very hard pillow at most,)Or you might be any trade, as we are not on that I’m awares,Or be Watermen now, (not Water wommen) and roe people up and down Hungerford stares.If You Was even to Turn Dust Men a dry sifting Dirt,But you oughtint to Hurt Them as never Did You no Hurt!Yourn with Anymocity,Bridget Jones.

’Tis known to man, ’tis known to woman,’Tis known to all the world in common,How politics and party strifeVex public, even private, life;But, till some days ago, at leastThey never worried brutal beast.I wish you could have seen the creature,A tame domestic boar by nature,Gone wild as boar that ever grunted,By Baron Hoggerhausen hunted.His back was up, and on its ledgeThe bristles rose like quickset hedge;His eye was fierce and red as coal,Like furnace, shining through a hole,And restless turn’d for mischief seeking;His very hide with rage was reeking;And oft he gnash’d his crooked tusks,Chewing his tongue instead of husks,Till all his jaw was white and yesty,Showing him savage, fierce, and resty.And what had caused this mighty vapour?A dirty fragment of a paper,That in his rambles he had found,Lying neglected on the ground;A relic of the Morning Post,Two tattered columns at the most,But which our irritated swine(Derived from Learned Toby’s line)Digested easy as his meals,Like any quidnunc Cit at Peel’s.He read, and mused, and pored and read,His shoulders shrugg’d, and shook his head;Now at a line he gave a grunt,Now at a phrase took sudden stunt,And snorting turn’d his back upon it,But always came again to con it;In short he petted up his passion,After a very human fashion,When Temper’s worried with a boneShe’ll neither like nor let alone.At last his fury reach’d the pitchOf that most irritating itch,When mind and will, in fever’d faction,Prompt blood and body into action;No matter what, so bone and muscleMay vent the frenzy in a bustle;But whether by a fight or danceIs left to impulse and to chance.So stood the Boar, in furious moodMade up for any thing but good;He gave his tail a tighter twist,As men in anger clench the fist,And threw fresh sparkles in his eyeFrom the volcano in his fry—Ready to raze the parish pound,To pull the pigsty to the ground,To lay Squire Giles, his master, level,Ready, indeed, to play the devil.So, stirr’d by raving demagogues,I’ve seen men rush, like rabid dogs,Stark staring from the Pig and Whistle,And like his Boarship, in a bristle,Resolved unanimous on rumpusFrom any quarter of the compass;But whether to duck Aldgate Pump,(For wits in madness never jump)To liberate the beasts from Cross’s;Or hiss at all the Wigs in Ross’s;On Waithman’s column hang a weeper;Or tar and feather the old sweeper;Or break the panes of landlord scurvy,And turn the King’s Head topsy-turvy;Rebuild, or pull down, London Wall;Or take his cross from old Saint Paul;Or burn those wooden Highland fellows,The snuff-men’s idols, ‘neath the gallows!None fix’d or cared—but all were loyalTo one design—a battle royal.Thus stood the Boar, athirst for blood,Trampling the Morning Post to mud,With tusks prepared to run a muck;—And sorrow for the mortal’s luckThat came across him Whig or Tory,It would have been a tragic story—But fortune interposing now,Brought Bessy into play—a Sow;—A fat, sleek, philosophic beastThat never fretted in the least,Whether her grains were sour or sweet,For grains are grains, and she could eat.Absorb’d in two great schemes capacious,The farrow and the farinaceous,If cares she had, they could not stay,She drank, andwash’dthem all away.In fact this philosophic sowWas very like a German frow;In brief—as wit should be and fun,—If sows turn Quakers, she was one;Clad from the duckpond, thick and slab,In bran-new muddy suit of drab.To still the storm of such a lubber,She came like oil—at least like blubber—Her pigtail of as passive shapeAs ever droop’d o’er powder’d nape;Her snout, scarce turning up—her deepSmall eyes half settled into sleep;Her ample ears, dependent, meek,Like fig-leaves shading either cheek;Whilst, from the corner of her jaw,A sprout of cabbage, green and raw,Protruded,—as the Dove, so stanchFor Peace, supports an olive branch,—Her very grunt, so low and mild,Like the soft snoring of a child,Inquiring into his disquiets,Served like the Riot Act, at riots,—He laid his restive bristles flatter,And took to arguefy the matter.“O Bess, O Bess, here’s heavy news!They mean to ‘mancipate the Jews!Just as they turn’d the blacks to whites,They want to give them equal rights,And, in the twinkling of a steeple,Make Hebrews quite like other people.Here, read—but I forget your fetters,You’ve studied litters more than letters.”“Well,” quoth the Sow, “and no great miss,I’m sure my ignorance is bliss;Contentedly I bite and sup,And never let my flare flare-up;Whilst you get wild and fuming hot—What matters Jews be Jews or not?Whether they go with beards like Moses,Or barbers take them by the noses,Whether they live, permitted dwellers,In Cheapside shops, or Rag Fair cellars,Or climb their way to civic perches,Or go to synagogues or churches?”“Churches!—ay, there the question grapples,No, Bess, the Jews will go to Chappell’s!”“To chapel—well—what’s that to you?A Berkshire Boar, and not a Jew?We pigs,—remember the remarkOf our old drover Samuel Slark,When trying, but he tried in vain,To coax me into Sermon Lane,Or Paternoster’s pious Row,—But still I stood and grunted No!Of Lane of Creed an equal scorner,Till bolting off, at Amen Corner,He cried, provoked at my evasion,‘Pigs, blow ’em! ar’n’t of no persuasion!’”“The more’s the pity, Bess—the more—”Said, with sardonic grin, the Boar;“If Pigs were Methodists and Bunyans,They’d make a sin of sage and onions;The curse of endless flames endorseOn every boat of apple-sauce;Give brine to Satan, and assessBlackpuddings with bloodguiltiness;Yea, call down heavenly fire and smokeTo burn all Epping into coke!”“Ay,” cried the Sow, extremely placid,In utter contrast to his acid,“Ay, that would be a Sect indeed!And every swine would like the creed,The sausage-making curse and all;And should some brother have a call,To thump a cushion to that measure,I would sit under him with pleasure;Nay, put down half my private fortuneT’ endow a chapel at Hog’s Norton.—But what has this to do, my deary,With their new Hebrew whigmaleery?”“Sow that you are! this Bill, if current,Would be as good as our death-warrant;—And, with its legislative friskings,Loose twelve new tribes upon our griskins!Unjew the Jews, what follows then?Why, they’ll eat pork like other men,And you shall see a Rabbi dish upA chine as freely as a Bishop!Thousands of years have pass’d, and porkWas never stuck on Hebrew fork;But now, suppose that relish rareFresh added to their bill of fare,Fry, harslet, pettitoes, and chine,Leg, choppers, bacon, ham, and loin,And then, beyond all goose or duckling”—“Yes, yes—a little tender suckling!It must be held the aptest savourTo make the eager mouth to slaver!Merely to look on such a gruntling,A plump, white, sleek and sappy runtling,It makes one—ah! remembrance bitter!It made me eat my own dear litter!”“Think, then, with this new waken’d fury,How we should fare if tried byJewry!A pest upon the meddling Whigs!There’ll be a pretty run on pigs!This very morn a Hebrew brotherWith three hats stuck on one another,And o’er his arm a bag, or poke,A thing pigs never find a joke,Stopp’d—rip the fellow!—though he knewI’ve neither coat to sell nor shoe,And cock’d his nose—right at me, lovey!Just like a pointer at a covey!To set our only friends agin us!That neither care to fat nor thin us!To boil, to broil, to roast, or fry us,But act like real Christians by us!—A murrain on all legislators!Thin wash, sour grains, and rotten ’taters!A bulldog at their ears and tails!The curse of empty troughs and pailsFamish their flanks as thin as weasels!May all their children have the measles;Or in the straw untimely smother,Or make a dinner for the mother!A cartwhip for all law inventors!And rubbing-posts stuck full of tenters!Yokes, rusty rings, and gates, to hitch inAnd parish pounds to pine the flitch in,Cold, and high winds, the Devil send ’em—And then may Sam the Sticker end ’em!”’Twas strange to hear him how he swore!A Boar will curse, though like a boar,While Bess, like Pity, at his sideHer swine-subduing voice supplied!She bade him such a rage discard;That anger is a foe to lard;’Tis bad for sugar to get wet,And quite as bad for fat to fret;“Besides,”—she argued thus at last—“The Bill you fume at has not pass’d,For why, the Commons and the PeersHave come together by the ears:Or rather, as we pigs repose,One’s tail beside the other’s nose,And thus, of course, take adverse viewsWhether of Gentiles or of Jews.Who knows? They say the Lords’ ill-willHas thrown out many a wholesome Bill,And p’rhaps some Peer to Pigs propitiousMay swamp a measure soJew-dish-us!”The Boar was conquer’d: at a glance,He saw there really was a chance—That as the Hebrew nose is hooked,The Bill was equally as crooked;And might outlast, thank party embers,A dozen tribes of Christian members;—So down he settled in the mud,With smoother back, and cooler blood,As mild, as quiet, a Blue Boar,As any over tavern-door.

I wish you could have seen the creature,A tame domestic boar by nature,Gone wild as boar that ever grunted,By Baron Hoggerhausen hunted.His back was up, and on its ledgeThe bristles rose like quickset hedge;His eye was fierce and red as coal,Like furnace, shining through a hole,And restless turn’d for mischief seeking;His very hide with rage was reeking;And oft he gnash’d his crooked tusks,Chewing his tongue instead of husks,Till all his jaw was white and yesty,Showing him savage, fierce, and resty.

And what had caused this mighty vapour?A dirty fragment of a paper,That in his rambles he had found,Lying neglected on the ground;A relic of the Morning Post,Two tattered columns at the most,But which our irritated swine(Derived from Learned Toby’s line)Digested easy as his meals,Like any quidnunc Cit at Peel’s.

He read, and mused, and pored and read,His shoulders shrugg’d, and shook his head;Now at a line he gave a grunt,Now at a phrase took sudden stunt,And snorting turn’d his back upon it,But always came again to con it;In short he petted up his passion,After a very human fashion,When Temper’s worried with a boneShe’ll neither like nor let alone.At last his fury reach’d the pitchOf that most irritating itch,When mind and will, in fever’d faction,Prompt blood and body into action;No matter what, so bone and muscleMay vent the frenzy in a bustle;But whether by a fight or danceIs left to impulse and to chance.So stood the Boar, in furious moodMade up for any thing but good;He gave his tail a tighter twist,As men in anger clench the fist,And threw fresh sparkles in his eyeFrom the volcano in his fry—Ready to raze the parish pound,To pull the pigsty to the ground,To lay Squire Giles, his master, level,Ready, indeed, to play the devil.

So, stirr’d by raving demagogues,I’ve seen men rush, like rabid dogs,Stark staring from the Pig and Whistle,And like his Boarship, in a bristle,Resolved unanimous on rumpusFrom any quarter of the compass;But whether to duck Aldgate Pump,(For wits in madness never jump)To liberate the beasts from Cross’s;Or hiss at all the Wigs in Ross’s;On Waithman’s column hang a weeper;Or tar and feather the old sweeper;Or break the panes of landlord scurvy,And turn the King’s Head topsy-turvy;Rebuild, or pull down, London Wall;Or take his cross from old Saint Paul;Or burn those wooden Highland fellows,The snuff-men’s idols, ‘neath the gallows!None fix’d or cared—but all were loyalTo one design—a battle royal.

Thus stood the Boar, athirst for blood,Trampling the Morning Post to mud,With tusks prepared to run a muck;—And sorrow for the mortal’s luckThat came across him Whig or Tory,It would have been a tragic story—But fortune interposing now,Brought Bessy into play—a Sow;—A fat, sleek, philosophic beastThat never fretted in the least,Whether her grains were sour or sweet,For grains are grains, and she could eat.Absorb’d in two great schemes capacious,The farrow and the farinaceous,If cares she had, they could not stay,She drank, andwash’dthem all away.In fact this philosophic sowWas very like a German frow;In brief—as wit should be and fun,—If sows turn Quakers, she was one;Clad from the duckpond, thick and slab,In bran-new muddy suit of drab.To still the storm of such a lubber,She came like oil—at least like blubber—Her pigtail of as passive shapeAs ever droop’d o’er powder’d nape;Her snout, scarce turning up—her deepSmall eyes half settled into sleep;Her ample ears, dependent, meek,Like fig-leaves shading either cheek;Whilst, from the corner of her jaw,A sprout of cabbage, green and raw,Protruded,—as the Dove, so stanchFor Peace, supports an olive branch,—Her very grunt, so low and mild,Like the soft snoring of a child,Inquiring into his disquiets,Served like the Riot Act, at riots,—He laid his restive bristles flatter,And took to arguefy the matter.

“O Bess, O Bess, here’s heavy news!They mean to ‘mancipate the Jews!Just as they turn’d the blacks to whites,They want to give them equal rights,And, in the twinkling of a steeple,Make Hebrews quite like other people.Here, read—but I forget your fetters,You’ve studied litters more than letters.”

“Well,” quoth the Sow, “and no great miss,I’m sure my ignorance is bliss;Contentedly I bite and sup,And never let my flare flare-up;Whilst you get wild and fuming hot—What matters Jews be Jews or not?Whether they go with beards like Moses,Or barbers take them by the noses,Whether they live, permitted dwellers,In Cheapside shops, or Rag Fair cellars,Or climb their way to civic perches,Or go to synagogues or churches?”“Churches!—ay, there the question grapples,No, Bess, the Jews will go to Chappell’s!”

“To chapel—well—what’s that to you?A Berkshire Boar, and not a Jew?We pigs,—remember the remarkOf our old drover Samuel Slark,When trying, but he tried in vain,To coax me into Sermon Lane,Or Paternoster’s pious Row,—But still I stood and grunted No!Of Lane of Creed an equal scorner,Till bolting off, at Amen Corner,He cried, provoked at my evasion,‘Pigs, blow ’em! ar’n’t of no persuasion!’”

“The more’s the pity, Bess—the more—”Said, with sardonic grin, the Boar;“If Pigs were Methodists and Bunyans,They’d make a sin of sage and onions;The curse of endless flames endorseOn every boat of apple-sauce;Give brine to Satan, and assessBlackpuddings with bloodguiltiness;Yea, call down heavenly fire and smokeTo burn all Epping into coke!”

“Ay,” cried the Sow, extremely placid,In utter contrast to his acid,“Ay, that would be a Sect indeed!And every swine would like the creed,The sausage-making curse and all;And should some brother have a call,To thump a cushion to that measure,I would sit under him with pleasure;Nay, put down half my private fortuneT’ endow a chapel at Hog’s Norton.—But what has this to do, my deary,With their new Hebrew whigmaleery?”

“Sow that you are! this Bill, if current,Would be as good as our death-warrant;—And, with its legislative friskings,Loose twelve new tribes upon our griskins!Unjew the Jews, what follows then?Why, they’ll eat pork like other men,And you shall see a Rabbi dish upA chine as freely as a Bishop!Thousands of years have pass’d, and porkWas never stuck on Hebrew fork;But now, suppose that relish rareFresh added to their bill of fare,Fry, harslet, pettitoes, and chine,Leg, choppers, bacon, ham, and loin,And then, beyond all goose or duckling”—

“Yes, yes—a little tender suckling!It must be held the aptest savourTo make the eager mouth to slaver!Merely to look on such a gruntling,A plump, white, sleek and sappy runtling,It makes one—ah! remembrance bitter!It made me eat my own dear litter!”

“Think, then, with this new waken’d fury,How we should fare if tried byJewry!A pest upon the meddling Whigs!There’ll be a pretty run on pigs!This very morn a Hebrew brotherWith three hats stuck on one another,And o’er his arm a bag, or poke,A thing pigs never find a joke,Stopp’d—rip the fellow!—though he knewI’ve neither coat to sell nor shoe,And cock’d his nose—right at me, lovey!Just like a pointer at a covey!

To set our only friends agin us!That neither care to fat nor thin us!To boil, to broil, to roast, or fry us,But act like real Christians by us!—A murrain on all legislators!Thin wash, sour grains, and rotten ’taters!A bulldog at their ears and tails!The curse of empty troughs and pailsFamish their flanks as thin as weasels!May all their children have the measles;Or in the straw untimely smother,Or make a dinner for the mother!A cartwhip for all law inventors!And rubbing-posts stuck full of tenters!Yokes, rusty rings, and gates, to hitch inAnd parish pounds to pine the flitch in,Cold, and high winds, the Devil send ’em—And then may Sam the Sticker end ’em!”

’Twas strange to hear him how he swore!A Boar will curse, though like a boar,While Bess, like Pity, at his sideHer swine-subduing voice supplied!She bade him such a rage discard;That anger is a foe to lard;’Tis bad for sugar to get wet,And quite as bad for fat to fret;“Besides,”—she argued thus at last—“The Bill you fume at has not pass’d,For why, the Commons and the PeersHave come together by the ears:Or rather, as we pigs repose,One’s tail beside the other’s nose,And thus, of course, take adverse viewsWhether of Gentiles or of Jews.Who knows? They say the Lords’ ill-willHas thrown out many a wholesome Bill,And p’rhaps some Peer to Pigs propitiousMay swamp a measure soJew-dish-us!”

The Boar was conquer’d: at a glance,He saw there really was a chance—That as the Hebrew nose is hooked,The Bill was equally as crooked;And might outlast, thank party embers,A dozen tribes of Christian members;—So down he settled in the mud,With smoother back, and cooler blood,As mild, as quiet, a Blue Boar,As any over tavern-door.

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