THE WEE MAN.A ROMANCE.

O dear! what a beautiful flash!How it shone thro’ the window and door;We shall soon hear a scream and a crash,When the woman falls thro’ with the floor!There! there! what a volley of flame,And then suddenly all is obscured!—Well—I’m glad in my heart that I came;—But I hope the poor man is insured!

A HARD ROE.

DOES YOUR MOTHER KNOW YOU’RE OUT

“DOES YOUR MOTHER KNOW YOU’RE OUT?”

It was a merry company,And they were just afloat,When lo! a man, of dwarfish span,Came up and hail’d the boat.“Good morrow to ye, gentle folks,And will you let me in?—A slender space will serve my case,For I am small and thin.”They saw he was a dwarfish man,And very small and thin;Not seven such would matter much,And so they took him in.They laugh’d to see his little hat,With such a narrow brim;They laugh’d to note his dapper coatWith skirts so scant and trim.But barely had they gone a mile,When, gravely, one and all,At once began to think the manWas not so very small.His coat had got a broader skirt,His hat a broader brim,His leg grew stout, and soon plump’d outA very proper limb.Still on they went, and as they went,More rough the billows grew,—And rose and fell, a greater swell,And he was swelling too!And lo! where room had been for seven,For six there scarce was space!For five!—for four!—for three!—not moreThan two could find a place!There was not even room for one!They crowded by degrees—Aye—closer yet, till elbows met,And knees were jogging knees.“Good sir, you must not sit a-stern,The wave will else come in!”Without a word he gravely stirr’d,Another seat to win.“Good sir, the boat has lost her trim,You must not sit a-lee!”With smiling face, and courteous grace,The middle seat took he.But still, by constant quiet growth,His back became so wide,Each neighbour wight, to left and right,Was thrust against the side.Lord! how they chided with themselves,That they had let him in;To see him grow so monstrous now,That came so small and thin.On every brow a dew-drop stood,They grew so scared and hot,—“I’ the name of all that’s great and tall,Who are ye, sir, and what?”Loud laugh’d the Gogmagog, a laughAs loud as giant’s roar—“When first I came, my proper nameWas Little—now I’mMoore!”

It was a merry company,And they were just afloat,When lo! a man, of dwarfish span,Came up and hail’d the boat.

“Good morrow to ye, gentle folks,And will you let me in?—A slender space will serve my case,For I am small and thin.”They saw he was a dwarfish man,And very small and thin;Not seven such would matter much,And so they took him in.

They laugh’d to see his little hat,With such a narrow brim;They laugh’d to note his dapper coatWith skirts so scant and trim.

But barely had they gone a mile,When, gravely, one and all,At once began to think the manWas not so very small.

His coat had got a broader skirt,His hat a broader brim,His leg grew stout, and soon plump’d outA very proper limb.

Still on they went, and as they went,More rough the billows grew,—And rose and fell, a greater swell,And he was swelling too!

And lo! where room had been for seven,For six there scarce was space!For five!—for four!—for three!—not moreThan two could find a place!

There was not even room for one!They crowded by degrees—Aye—closer yet, till elbows met,And knees were jogging knees.

“Good sir, you must not sit a-stern,The wave will else come in!”Without a word he gravely stirr’d,Another seat to win.

“Good sir, the boat has lost her trim,You must not sit a-lee!”With smiling face, and courteous grace,The middle seat took he.

But still, by constant quiet growth,His back became so wide,Each neighbour wight, to left and right,Was thrust against the side.

Lord! how they chided with themselves,That they had let him in;To see him grow so monstrous now,That came so small and thin.

On every brow a dew-drop stood,They grew so scared and hot,—“I’ the name of all that’s great and tall,Who are ye, sir, and what?”

Loud laugh’d the Gogmagog, a laughAs loud as giant’s roar—“When first I came, my proper nameWas Little—now I’mMoore!”

’Twas in the year two thousand and one,A pleasant morning of May,I sat on the gallows-tree all alone,A-chanting a merry lay,—To think how the pest had spared my life,To sing with the larks that day!When up the heath came a jolly knave,Like a scarecrow, all in rags:It made me crow to see his old dudsAll abroad in the wind, like flags:—So up he came to the timbers’ footAnd pitch’d down his greasy bags.—Good Lord! how blithe the old beggar was!At pulling out his scraps,—The very sight of his broken ortsMade a work in his wrinkled chaps:“Come down,” says he, “you Newgate-bird,And have a taste of my snaps!”——Then down the rope, like a tar from the mast,I slided, and by him stood;But I wished myself on the gallows againWhen I smelt that beggar’s food,A foul beef-bone and a mouldy crust;“Oh!” quoth he, “the heavens are good!”Then after this grace he cast him down:Says I, “You’ll get sweeter airA pace or two off, on the windward side,”For the felons’ bones lay there.But he only laugh’d at the empty skulls,And offered them part of his fare.“I never harm’dthem, and they won’t harm me:Let the proud and the rich be cravens!”I did not like that strange beggar man,He look’d so up at the heavens.Anon he shook out his empty old poke;“There’s the crumbs,” saith he, “for the ravens!”It made me angry to see his face,It had such a jesting look;But while I made up my mind to speak,A small case-bottle he took:Quoth he, “though I gather the green water-cressMy drink is not of the brook!”Full manners-like he tender’d the dram;Oh, it came of a dainty cask!But, whenever it came to his turn to pull,“Your leave, good Sir, I must ask;But I always wipe the brim with my sleeve,When a hangman sups at my flask!”And then he laugh’d so loudly and long,The churl was quite out of breath;I thought the very Old One was comeTo mock me before my death,And wish’d I had buried the dead men’s bonesThat were lying about the heath!But the beggar gave me a jolly clap—“Come, let us pledge each other,For all the wide world is dead beside,And we are brother and brother—I’ve a yearning for thee in my heart,As if we had come of one mother.“I’ve a yearning for thee in my heartThat almost makes me weep,For as I pass’d from town to townThe folks were all stone-asleep,—But when I saw thee sitting aloft,It made me both laugh and leap!”Now a curse (I thought) be on his love,And a curse upon his mirth,—An’ it were not for that beggar manI’d be the King of the earth,—But I promis’d myself an hour should comeTo make him rue his birth—So down we sat and bous’d againTill the sun was in mid-sky,When, just as the gentle west-wind came,We hearken’d a dismal cry;“Up, up, on the tree,” quoth the beggar man,“Till these horrible dogs go by!”And, lo! from the forest’s far off skirts,They came all yelling for gore,A hundred hounds pursuing at once,And a panting hart before,Till he sunk adown at the gallows’ foot,And there his haunches they tore!His haunches they tore, without a hornTo tell when the chase was done;And there was not a single scarlet coatTo flaunt it in the sun!—I turn’d, and look’d at the beggar man,And his tears dropt one by one!And with curses sore he chid at the houndsTill the last dropt out of sight,Anon, saith he, “let’s down again,And ramble for our delight,For the world’s all free, and we may chooseA right cozie barn for to-night!”With that, he set up his staff on end,And it fell with the point due West;So we far’d that way to a city great,Where the folks had died of the pest—It was fine to enter in house and hall,Wherever it liked me best;For the porters all were stiff and cold,And could not lift their heads;And when we came where their masters lay,The rats leapt out of the beds;The grandest palaces in the landWere as free as workhouse sheds.But the beggar man made a mumping face,And knock’d at every gate:It made me curse to hear how he whin’d,So our fellowship turn’d to hate,And I bade him walk the world by himself,For I scorn’d so humble a mate!Soheturn’d right andIturn’d left,As if we had never met;And I chose a fair stone house for myself,For the city was all to let;And for three brave holydays drank my fillOf the choicest that I could get.And because my jerkin was coarse and worn,I got me a properer vest;It was purple velvet, stitch’d o’er with gold,And a shining star at the breast!—’Twas enough to fetch old Joan from her graveTo see me so purely drest!—But Joan was dead and under the mould,And every buxom lass;In vain I watch’d, at the window pane,For a Christian soul to pass!But sheep and kine wander’d up the street,And browz’d on the new-come grass.—When lo! I spied the old beggar man,And lustily he did sing!—His rags were lapp’d in a scarlet cloak,And a crown he had like a King;So he stept right up before my gateAnd danc’d me a saucy fling!Heaven mend us all!—but, within my mind,I had kill’d him then and there;To see him lording so braggart-likeThat was born to his beggar’s fare;And how he had stol’n the royal crownHis betters were meant to wear.But God forbid that a thief should dieWithout his share of the laws!So I nimbly whipt my tackle out,And soon tied up his claws,—I was judge myself, and jury, and all,And solemnly tried the cause.But the beggar man would not plead, but criedLike a babe without its corals,For he knew how hard it is apt to go,When the law and a thief have quarrels,—There was not a Christian soul aliveTo speak a word for his morals.Oh, how gaily I doff’d my costly gear,And put on my work-day clothes;I was tired of such a long Sunday life,—And never was one of the sloths;But the beggar man grumbled a weary deal,And made many crooked mouths.So I haul’d him off to the gallows’ foot,And blinded him in his bags;’Twas a weary job to heave him up,For a doom’d man always lags;But by ten of the clock he was off his legsIn the wind, and airing his rags!So there he hung, and there I stood,TheLAST MANleft alive,To have my own will of all the earth:Quoth I, now I shall thrive!But when was ever honey madeWith one bee in a hive!My conscience began to gnaw my heart,Before the day was done,For other men’s lives had all gone out,Like candles in the sun!—But it seem’d as if I had broke, at last,A thousand necks in one!So I went and cut his body downTo bury it decentlie;God send there were any good soul aliveTo do the like by me!But the wild dogs came with terrible speed,And bay’d me up the tree!My sight was like a drunkard’s sight,And my head began to swim,To see their jaws all white with foam,Like the ravenous ocean brim;—But when the wild dogs trotted awayTheir jaws were bloody and grim!Their jaws were bloody and grim, good Lord!But the beggar man, where was he?—There was nought of him but some ribbons of ragsBelow the gallow’s tree!—I know the Devil, when I am dead,Will send his hounds for me!—I’ve buried my babies one by one,And dug the deep hole for Joan,And cover’d the faces of kith and kin,And felt the old churchyard stoneGo cold to my heart, full many a time,But I never felt so lone!For the lion and Adam were company,And the tiger him beguil’d;But the simple kine are foes to my life,And the household brutes are wild.If the veriest cur would lick my hand,I could love it like a child!And the beggar man’s ghost besets my dream,At night to make me madder,—And my wretched conscience within my breast,Is like a stinging adder:—I sigh when I pass the gallows’ foot,And look at the rope and ladder!—For hanging looks sweet,—but alas! in vainMy desperate fancy begs,—I must turn my cup of sorrows quite up,And drink it to the dregs,—For there’s not another man alive,In the world, to pull my legs!

When up the heath came a jolly knave,Like a scarecrow, all in rags:It made me crow to see his old dudsAll abroad in the wind, like flags:—So up he came to the timbers’ footAnd pitch’d down his greasy bags.—

Good Lord! how blithe the old beggar was!At pulling out his scraps,—The very sight of his broken ortsMade a work in his wrinkled chaps:“Come down,” says he, “you Newgate-bird,And have a taste of my snaps!”——

Then down the rope, like a tar from the mast,I slided, and by him stood;But I wished myself on the gallows againWhen I smelt that beggar’s food,A foul beef-bone and a mouldy crust;“Oh!” quoth he, “the heavens are good!”

Then after this grace he cast him down:Says I, “You’ll get sweeter airA pace or two off, on the windward side,”For the felons’ bones lay there.But he only laugh’d at the empty skulls,And offered them part of his fare.

“I never harm’dthem, and they won’t harm me:Let the proud and the rich be cravens!”I did not like that strange beggar man,He look’d so up at the heavens.Anon he shook out his empty old poke;“There’s the crumbs,” saith he, “for the ravens!”

It made me angry to see his face,It had such a jesting look;But while I made up my mind to speak,A small case-bottle he took:Quoth he, “though I gather the green water-cressMy drink is not of the brook!”

Full manners-like he tender’d the dram;Oh, it came of a dainty cask!But, whenever it came to his turn to pull,“Your leave, good Sir, I must ask;But I always wipe the brim with my sleeve,When a hangman sups at my flask!”

And then he laugh’d so loudly and long,The churl was quite out of breath;I thought the very Old One was comeTo mock me before my death,And wish’d I had buried the dead men’s bonesThat were lying about the heath!

But the beggar gave me a jolly clap—“Come, let us pledge each other,For all the wide world is dead beside,And we are brother and brother—I’ve a yearning for thee in my heart,As if we had come of one mother.

“I’ve a yearning for thee in my heartThat almost makes me weep,For as I pass’d from town to townThe folks were all stone-asleep,—But when I saw thee sitting aloft,It made me both laugh and leap!”

Now a curse (I thought) be on his love,And a curse upon his mirth,—An’ it were not for that beggar manI’d be the King of the earth,—But I promis’d myself an hour should comeTo make him rue his birth—

So down we sat and bous’d againTill the sun was in mid-sky,When, just as the gentle west-wind came,We hearken’d a dismal cry;“Up, up, on the tree,” quoth the beggar man,“Till these horrible dogs go by!”

And, lo! from the forest’s far off skirts,They came all yelling for gore,A hundred hounds pursuing at once,And a panting hart before,Till he sunk adown at the gallows’ foot,And there his haunches they tore!

His haunches they tore, without a hornTo tell when the chase was done;And there was not a single scarlet coatTo flaunt it in the sun!—I turn’d, and look’d at the beggar man,And his tears dropt one by one!

And with curses sore he chid at the houndsTill the last dropt out of sight,Anon, saith he, “let’s down again,And ramble for our delight,For the world’s all free, and we may chooseA right cozie barn for to-night!”

With that, he set up his staff on end,And it fell with the point due West;So we far’d that way to a city great,Where the folks had died of the pest—It was fine to enter in house and hall,Wherever it liked me best;

For the porters all were stiff and cold,And could not lift their heads;And when we came where their masters lay,The rats leapt out of the beds;The grandest palaces in the landWere as free as workhouse sheds.

But the beggar man made a mumping face,And knock’d at every gate:It made me curse to hear how he whin’d,So our fellowship turn’d to hate,And I bade him walk the world by himself,For I scorn’d so humble a mate!

Soheturn’d right andIturn’d left,As if we had never met;And I chose a fair stone house for myself,For the city was all to let;And for three brave holydays drank my fillOf the choicest that I could get.

And because my jerkin was coarse and worn,I got me a properer vest;It was purple velvet, stitch’d o’er with gold,And a shining star at the breast!—’Twas enough to fetch old Joan from her graveTo see me so purely drest!—

But Joan was dead and under the mould,And every buxom lass;In vain I watch’d, at the window pane,For a Christian soul to pass!But sheep and kine wander’d up the street,And browz’d on the new-come grass.—

When lo! I spied the old beggar man,And lustily he did sing!—His rags were lapp’d in a scarlet cloak,And a crown he had like a King;So he stept right up before my gateAnd danc’d me a saucy fling!

Heaven mend us all!—but, within my mind,I had kill’d him then and there;To see him lording so braggart-likeThat was born to his beggar’s fare;And how he had stol’n the royal crownHis betters were meant to wear.

But God forbid that a thief should dieWithout his share of the laws!So I nimbly whipt my tackle out,And soon tied up his claws,—I was judge myself, and jury, and all,And solemnly tried the cause.

But the beggar man would not plead, but criedLike a babe without its corals,For he knew how hard it is apt to go,When the law and a thief have quarrels,—There was not a Christian soul aliveTo speak a word for his morals.

Oh, how gaily I doff’d my costly gear,And put on my work-day clothes;I was tired of such a long Sunday life,—And never was one of the sloths;But the beggar man grumbled a weary deal,And made many crooked mouths.

So I haul’d him off to the gallows’ foot,And blinded him in his bags;’Twas a weary job to heave him up,For a doom’d man always lags;But by ten of the clock he was off his legsIn the wind, and airing his rags!

So there he hung, and there I stood,TheLAST MANleft alive,To have my own will of all the earth:Quoth I, now I shall thrive!But when was ever honey madeWith one bee in a hive!

My conscience began to gnaw my heart,Before the day was done,For other men’s lives had all gone out,Like candles in the sun!—But it seem’d as if I had broke, at last,A thousand necks in one!

So I went and cut his body downTo bury it decentlie;God send there were any good soul aliveTo do the like by me!But the wild dogs came with terrible speed,And bay’d me up the tree!

My sight was like a drunkard’s sight,And my head began to swim,To see their jaws all white with foam,Like the ravenous ocean brim;—But when the wild dogs trotted awayTheir jaws were bloody and grim!

Their jaws were bloody and grim, good Lord!But the beggar man, where was he?—There was nought of him but some ribbons of ragsBelow the gallow’s tree!—I know the Devil, when I am dead,Will send his hounds for me!—

I’ve buried my babies one by one,And dug the deep hole for Joan,And cover’d the faces of kith and kin,And felt the old churchyard stoneGo cold to my heart, full many a time,But I never felt so lone!

For the lion and Adam were company,And the tiger him beguil’d;But the simple kine are foes to my life,And the household brutes are wild.If the veriest cur would lick my hand,I could love it like a child!

And the beggar man’s ghost besets my dream,At night to make me madder,—And my wretched conscience within my breast,Is like a stinging adder:—I sigh when I pass the gallows’ foot,And look at the rope and ladder!—

For hanging looks sweet,—but alas! in vainMy desperate fancy begs,—I must turn my cup of sorrows quite up,And drink it to the dregs,—For there’s not another man alive,In the world, to pull my legs!

OH a pistol, or a knife!For I’m weary of my life,—My cup has nothing sweet left to flavour it;My estate is out at nurse,And my heart is like my purse—And all through backing of the Favourite!At dear O’Neil’s first start,I sported all my heart,—Oh, Becher, he never marr’d a braver hit!For he cross’d her in her race,And made her lose her place,And there was an end of that Favourite!Anon, to mend my chance,For the Goddess of the Dance[10]I pin’d and told my enslaver it;But she wedded in a canter,And made me a Levanter,In foreign lands to sigh for the Favourite!Then next Miss M. A. TreeI adored, so sweetly sheCould warble like a nightingale and quaver it;But she left that course of lifeTo be Mr. Bradshaw’s wife,And all the world lost on the Favourite!But out of sorrow’s surfSoon I leap’d upon the turf,Where fortune loves to wanton it and waver it;But standing on the pet,“Oh my bonny, bonny Bet!”Black and yellow pull’d short up with the Favourite!Thus flung by all the crack,I resolved to cut the pack,—The second-raters seem’d then a safer hit!So I laid my little oddsAgainst Memnon! Oh, ye Gods!Am I always to be floored by the Favourite!

OH a pistol, or a knife!For I’m weary of my life,—My cup has nothing sweet left to flavour it;My estate is out at nurse,And my heart is like my purse—And all through backing of the Favourite!

At dear O’Neil’s first start,I sported all my heart,—Oh, Becher, he never marr’d a braver hit!For he cross’d her in her race,And made her lose her place,And there was an end of that Favourite!

Anon, to mend my chance,For the Goddess of the Dance[10]I pin’d and told my enslaver it;But she wedded in a canter,And made me a Levanter,In foreign lands to sigh for the Favourite!

Then next Miss M. A. TreeI adored, so sweetly sheCould warble like a nightingale and quaver it;But she left that course of lifeTo be Mr. Bradshaw’s wife,And all the world lost on the Favourite!

But out of sorrow’s surfSoon I leap’d upon the turf,Where fortune loves to wanton it and waver it;But standing on the pet,“Oh my bonny, bonny Bet!”Black and yellow pull’d short up with the Favourite!

Thus flung by all the crack,I resolved to cut the pack,—The second-raters seem’d then a safer hit!So I laid my little oddsAgainst Memnon! Oh, ye Gods!Am I always to be floored by the Favourite!

Ihavenever been vainer of any verses than of my part in the following Ballad. Dr. Watts, amongst evangelical nurses, has an enviable renown—and Campbell’s Ballads enjoy a snug genteel popularity. “Sally Brown” has been favoured, perhaps, with as wide a patronage as the Moral Songs, though its circle may not have been of so select a class as the friends of “Hohenlinden.” But I do not desire to see it amongst what are called Elegant Extracts. The lamented Emery, drest as Tom Tug, sang it at his last mortal Benefit at Covent Garden;—and, ever since, it has been a great favourite with the watermen of Thames, who time their oars to it, as the wherry-men of Venice time theirs to the lines of Tasso. With the watermen, it went naturally to Vauxhall:—and, over land, to Sadler’s Wells. The Guards, not the mail coach, but the Life Guards,—picked it out from a fluttering hundred of others—all going to one air—against the dead wall at Knightsbridge. Cheap Printers of Shoe Lane, and Cowcross, (all pirates!) disputed about the Copyright, and published their own editions,—and, in the meantime, the Authors, to have made bread of their song, (it was poor old Homer’s hard ancient case!) must have sung it about the streets. Such is the lot of Literature! the profits of “Sally Brown” were divided by the Ballad Mongers:—it has cost, but has never brought me, a half-penny.

AN OLD BALLAD.

YOUNG BEN he was a nice young man,A carpenter by trade;And he fell in love with Sally Brown,That was a lady’s maid.

But as they fetch’d a walk one day,They met a press-gang crew;And Sally she did faint away,While Ben he was brought to.

The Boatswain swore with wicked words,Enough to shock a saint,That though she did seem in a fit,’Twas nothing but a feint.

“Come, girl,” said he, “hold up your head,He’ll be as good as me;For when your swain is in our boat,A boatswain he will be.”

So when they’d made their game of her,And taken off her elf,She rous’d, and found she only wasA coming to herself.

“And is he gone, and is he gone?”She cried, and wept outright:“Then I will to the water side,And see him out of sight.”

A waterman came up to her,—“Now, young woman,” said he,“If you weep on so, you will makeEye-water in the sea.”

“Alas! they’ve taken my beau BenTo sail with old Benbow;”And her woe began to run afresh,As if she’d said, Gee woe!

Says he, “They’ve only taken himTo the Tender-ship, you see;”“The Tender-ship,” cried Sally Brown,“What a hard-ship that must be!

“Oh! would I were a mermaid now,For then I’d follow him;But oh!—I’m not a fish-woman,And so I cannot swim.

“Alas! I was not born beneathThe virgin and the scales,So I must curse my cruel stars,And walk about in Wales.”

Now Ben had sail’d to many a placeThat’s underneath the world;But in two years the ship came homeAnd all her sails were furl’d.

But when he call’d on Sally Brown,To see how she got on,He found she’d got another Ben,Whose Christian-name was John.

“O Sally Brown, O Sally Brown,How could you serve me so?I’ve met with many a breeze before,But never such a blow!”

Then reading on his ‘bacco box,He heav’d a bitter sigh,And then began to eye his pipe,And then to pipe his eye.

And then he tried to sing “All’s Well,”But could not though he tried;His head was turn’d and so he chew’dHis pigtail till he died.

His death, which happen’d in his birth,At forty-odd befell:They went and told the sexton, andThe sexton toll’d the bell.

OLOVE! what art thou, Love? the ace of hearts,Trumping earth’s kings and queens, and all its suits;A player, masquerading many partsIn life’s odd carnival;—a boy that shoots,From ladies’ eyes, such mortal woundy darts;A gardener pulling heart’s-ease up by the roots;The Puck of Passion—partly false—part real—A marriageable maiden’s “beau ideal.”O Love! what art thou, Love? a wicked thing,Making green misses spoil their work at school;A melancholy man, cross-gartering?Grave ripe-fac’d wisdom made an April fool?A youngster, tilting at a wedding ring?A sinner, sitting on a cuttie stool?A Ferdinand de Something in a hovel,Helping Matilda Rose to make a novel?O Love! what art thou, Love? one that is badWith palpitations of the heart—like mine—A poor bewilder’d maid, making so sadA necklace of her garters—fell design!A poet, gone unreasonably mad,Ending his sonnets with a hempen line?O Love!—but whither, now? forgive me, pray;I’m not the first that Love hath led astray.

O Love! what art thou, Love? a wicked thing,Making green misses spoil their work at school;A melancholy man, cross-gartering?Grave ripe-fac’d wisdom made an April fool?A youngster, tilting at a wedding ring?A sinner, sitting on a cuttie stool?A Ferdinand de Something in a hovel,Helping Matilda Rose to make a novel?

O Love! what art thou, Love? one that is badWith palpitations of the heart—like mine—A poor bewilder’d maid, making so sadA necklace of her garters—fell design!A poet, gone unreasonably mad,Ending his sonnets with a hempen line?O Love!—but whither, now? forgive me, pray;I’m not the first that Love hath led astray.

OH! what’s befallen Bessy Brown,She stands so squalling in the street;She’s let her pitcher tumble down,And all the water’s at her feet!The little school-boys stood about,And laughed to see her pumping, pumping;Now with a curtsey to the spout,And then upon her tiptoes jumping.Long time she waited for her neighbours,To have their turns:—but she must loseThe watery wages of her labours,—Except a little in her shoes!Without a voice to tell her tale,And ugly transport in her face;All like a jugless nightingale,She thinks of her bereaved case.At last she sobs—she cries—she screams!—And pours her flood of sorrows out,From eyes and mouth, in mingled streams,Just like the lion on the spout.For well poor Bessy knows her motherMust lose her tea, for water’s lack,That Sukey burns—and baby-brotherMust be dry-rubb’d with huck-a-back!

OH! what’s befallen Bessy Brown,She stands so squalling in the street;She’s let her pitcher tumble down,And all the water’s at her feet!

The little school-boys stood about,And laughed to see her pumping, pumping;Now with a curtsey to the spout,And then upon her tiptoes jumping.

Long time she waited for her neighbours,To have their turns:—but she must loseThe watery wages of her labours,—Except a little in her shoes!

Without a voice to tell her tale,And ugly transport in her face;All like a jugless nightingale,She thinks of her bereaved case.

At last she sobs—she cries—she screams!—And pours her flood of sorrows out,From eyes and mouth, in mingled streams,Just like the lion on the spout.

For well poor Bessy knows her motherMust lose her tea, for water’s lack,That Sukey burns—and baby-brotherMust be dry-rubb’d with huck-a-back!

ON Hounslow heath—and close beside the road,As western travellers may oft have seen,—A little house some years ago there stood,A minikin abode;And built like Mr. Birkbeck’s, all of wood:The walls of white, the window shutters green;—Four wheels it had at North, South, East, and West.(Tho’ now at rest)On which it used to wander to and fro’,Because its master ne’er maintain’d a rider,Like those who trade in Paternoster Row;But made his business travel for itself,Till he had made his pelf,And then retired—if one may call it so,Of a roadsider.Perchance, the very race and constant riotOf stages, long and short, which thereby ran,Made him more relish the repose and quietOf his now sedentary caravan;Perchance, he lov’d the ground because ’twas common,And so he might impale a strip of soil,That furnish’d, by his toil,Some dusty greens, for him and his old woman;—And five tall hollyhocks, in dingy flower:Howbeit, the thoroughfare did no ways spoilHis peace, unless, in some unlucky hour,A stray horse came and gobbled up his bow’r!But tired of always looking at the coaches,The same to come,—when they had seen them one day!And, used to brisker life, both man and wifeBegan to suffer N U E’s approaches,And feel retirement like a long wet Sunday:—So, having had some quarters of school breeding,They turn’d themselves, like other folks, to reading;But setting out where others nigh have done,And being ripen’d in the seventh stage,The childhood of old age,Began, as other children have begun,—Not with the pastorals of Mr. Pope,Or Bard of Hope,Or Paley ethical, or learned Porson,—But spelt, on Sabbaths, in St. Mark, or John,And then relax’d themselves with Whittington,Or Valentine and Orson—But chiefly fairy tales they loved to con,And being easily melted in their dotage,Slobber’d,—and keptReading,—and weptOver the white Cat, in their wooden cottage.Thus reading on—the longerThey read, of course, their childish faith grew strongerIn Gnomes, and Hags, and Elves, and Giants grim,—If talking Trees and Birds reveal’d to him,She saw the flight of Fairyland’s fly-waggons,And magic-fishes swimIn puddle ponds, and took old crows for dragons.—Both were quite drunk from the enchanted flagons;When, as it fell upon a summer’s day,As the old man sat a feedingOn the old babe-reading,Beside his open street-and-parlour door,A hideous roarProclaim’d a drove of beasts was coming by the way.Long-horn’d, and short, of many a different breed,Tall, tawny brutes, from famous Lincoln-levelsOr Durham feed;With some of those unquiet black dwarf devilsFrom neither side of Tweed,Or Firth of Forth;Looking half wild with joy to leave the North,—With dusty hides, all mobbing on together,—When,—whether from a fly’s malicious commentUpon his tender flank, from which he shrank;Or whetherOnly in some enthusiastic moment,—However, one brown monster, in a frisk,Giving his tail a perpendicular whisk,Kick’d out a passage thro’ the beastly rabble;And after a pas seul,—or, if you will, aHornpipe before the Basket-maker’s villa,Leapt o’er the tiny pale,—Back’d his beef-steaks against the wooden gable,And thrust his brawny bell-rope of a tailRight o’er the page,Wherein the sageJust then was spelling some romantic fable.The old man, half a scholar, half a dunce,Could not peruse,—who could?—two tales at once;And being huff’dAt what he knew was none of Riquet’s Tuft,Bang’d-to the door,But most unluckily enclosed a morselOf the intruding tail, and all the tassel:—The monster gave a roar,And bolting off with speed, increased by pain,The little house became a coach once more,And, like Macheath, “took to the road” again!Just then, by fortune’s whimsical decree,The ancient woman stooping with her crupperTowards sweet home, or where sweet home should be,Was getting up some household herbs for supper;Thoughtful of Cinderella, in the tale,And quaintly wondering if magic shiftsCould o’er a common pumpkin so prevail,To turn it to a coach;—what pretty giftsMight come of cabbages, and curly kale;Meanwhile she never heard her old man’s wail,Nor turn’d, till home had turn’d a corner, quiteGone out of sight!At last, conceive her, rising from the ground,Weary of sitting on her russet clothing;And looking roundWhere rest was to be found,There was no house—no villa there—no nothing!No house!The change was quite amazing;It made her senses stagger for a minute,The riddle’s explication seem’d to harden;But soon her superannuatednousExplained the horrid mystery;—and raisingHer hand to heaven, with the cabbage in it,On which she meant to sup,—“Well! thisisFairy Work! I’ll bet a farden,Little Prince Silverwings has ketch’d me up,And set me down in some one else’s garden!”

Perchance, the very race and constant riotOf stages, long and short, which thereby ran,Made him more relish the repose and quietOf his now sedentary caravan;Perchance, he lov’d the ground because ’twas common,And so he might impale a strip of soil,That furnish’d, by his toil,Some dusty greens, for him and his old woman;—And five tall hollyhocks, in dingy flower:Howbeit, the thoroughfare did no ways spoilHis peace, unless, in some unlucky hour,A stray horse came and gobbled up his bow’r!

But tired of always looking at the coaches,The same to come,—when they had seen them one day!And, used to brisker life, both man and wifeBegan to suffer N U E’s approaches,And feel retirement like a long wet Sunday:—So, having had some quarters of school breeding,They turn’d themselves, like other folks, to reading;But setting out where others nigh have done,And being ripen’d in the seventh stage,The childhood of old age,Began, as other children have begun,—Not with the pastorals of Mr. Pope,Or Bard of Hope,Or Paley ethical, or learned Porson,—But spelt, on Sabbaths, in St. Mark, or John,And then relax’d themselves with Whittington,Or Valentine and Orson—But chiefly fairy tales they loved to con,And being easily melted in their dotage,Slobber’d,—and keptReading,—and weptOver the white Cat, in their wooden cottage.

Thus reading on—the longerThey read, of course, their childish faith grew strongerIn Gnomes, and Hags, and Elves, and Giants grim,—If talking Trees and Birds reveal’d to him,She saw the flight of Fairyland’s fly-waggons,And magic-fishes swimIn puddle ponds, and took old crows for dragons.—Both were quite drunk from the enchanted flagons;When, as it fell upon a summer’s day,As the old man sat a feedingOn the old babe-reading,Beside his open street-and-parlour door,A hideous roarProclaim’d a drove of beasts was coming by the way.

Long-horn’d, and short, of many a different breed,Tall, tawny brutes, from famous Lincoln-levelsOr Durham feed;With some of those unquiet black dwarf devilsFrom neither side of Tweed,Or Firth of Forth;Looking half wild with joy to leave the North,—With dusty hides, all mobbing on together,—When,—whether from a fly’s malicious commentUpon his tender flank, from which he shrank;Or whetherOnly in some enthusiastic moment,—However, one brown monster, in a frisk,Giving his tail a perpendicular whisk,Kick’d out a passage thro’ the beastly rabble;And after a pas seul,—or, if you will, aHornpipe before the Basket-maker’s villa,Leapt o’er the tiny pale,—Back’d his beef-steaks against the wooden gable,And thrust his brawny bell-rope of a tailRight o’er the page,Wherein the sageJust then was spelling some romantic fable.

The old man, half a scholar, half a dunce,Could not peruse,—who could?—two tales at once;And being huff’dAt what he knew was none of Riquet’s Tuft,Bang’d-to the door,But most unluckily enclosed a morselOf the intruding tail, and all the tassel:—The monster gave a roar,And bolting off with speed, increased by pain,The little house became a coach once more,And, like Macheath, “took to the road” again!

Just then, by fortune’s whimsical decree,The ancient woman stooping with her crupperTowards sweet home, or where sweet home should be,Was getting up some household herbs for supper;Thoughtful of Cinderella, in the tale,And quaintly wondering if magic shiftsCould o’er a common pumpkin so prevail,To turn it to a coach;—what pretty giftsMight come of cabbages, and curly kale;Meanwhile she never heard her old man’s wail,Nor turn’d, till home had turn’d a corner, quiteGone out of sight!

At last, conceive her, rising from the ground,Weary of sitting on her russet clothing;And looking roundWhere rest was to be found,There was no house—no villa there—no nothing!No house!The change was quite amazing;It made her senses stagger for a minute,The riddle’s explication seem’d to harden;But soon her superannuatednousExplained the horrid mystery;—and raisingHer hand to heaven, with the cabbage in it,On which she meant to sup,—“Well! thisisFairy Work! I’ll bet a farden,Little Prince Silverwings has ketch’d me up,And set me down in some one else’s garden!”

NOW the loud Crye is up, and harke!The barkye Trees give back the Bark;The House Wife heares the merrie rout,And runnes,—and lets the beere run out,Leaving her Babes to weepe,—for why?She likes to heare the Deer Dogges crye,And see the wild Stag how he stretchesThe naturall Buck-skin of his Breeches,Running like one of Human kindDogged by fleet Bailiffes close behind—As if he had not payde his BillFor Ven’son, or was owing stillFor his two Hornes, and soe did getOver his Head and Ears in Debt;—Wherefore he strives to paye his WayeWith his long Legges the while he maye:—But he is chased, like Silver Dish,As well as anye Hart may wishExcept that one whose Heart doth beatSo faste it hasteneth his feet;—And runninge soe, he holdeth DeathFour Feet from him,—till his BreathFaileth, and slacking Pace at last,From runninge slow he standeth faste,With hornie Bayonettes at baye,To Baying Dogges around, and theyPushing him sore, he pusheth sore,And goreth them that seeke his Gore,Whatever Dogge his Horne doth riveIs dead—as sure as he’s alive!Soe that courageous Hart doth fightWith Fate, and calleth up his might,And standeth stout that he maye fallBravelye, and be avenged of all,Nor like a craven yeeld his BreathUnder the Jawes of Dogges and Death!

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