TO A BAD RIDER.

MARY, you know I’ve no love-nonsense,And, though I pen on such a day,I don’t mean flirting, on my conscience,Or writing in the courting way.Though Beauty hasn’t form’d your feature,It saves you, p’rhaps, from being vain,And many a poor unhappy creatureMay wish that she was half as plain.Your virtues would not rise an inch,Although your shape was two foot taller,And wisely you let others pinchGreat waists and feet to make them smaller.You never try to spare your handsFrom getting red by household duty,But, doing all that it commands,Their coarseness is a moral beauty.Let Susan flourish her fair armsAnd at your old legs sneer and scoff,But let her laugh, for you have charmsThat nobody knows nothing of.

MARY, you know I’ve no love-nonsense,And, though I pen on such a day,I don’t mean flirting, on my conscience,Or writing in the courting way.

Though Beauty hasn’t form’d your feature,It saves you, p’rhaps, from being vain,And many a poor unhappy creatureMay wish that she was half as plain.

Your virtues would not rise an inch,Although your shape was two foot taller,And wisely you let others pinchGreat waists and feet to make them smaller.

You never try to spare your handsFrom getting red by household duty,But, doing all that it commands,Their coarseness is a moral beauty.

Let Susan flourish her fair armsAnd at your old legs sneer and scoff,But let her laugh, for you have charmsThat nobody knows nothing of.

WHY, Mr. Rider, whyYour nag so ill indorse, man?To make observers cry,You’re mounted, but no horseman?

With elbows out so far,This thought you can’t debar me—Though no Dragoon—Hussar—You’re surely of the army!

I hope to turn M.P.You have not any notion,So awkward you would beAt “seconding a motion!”

OCRUEL One! How littel dost thou knoweHow manye poetes with UnhappyenesseThou mayest have slaine; are they beganne to bloweLike to yonge Buddes in theyre firste sappyenesse!Even as Pinkes from littel Pipinges groweGreat Poetes yet maye come of singinges smalle,Which, if an hungrede Worme doth gnawe belowe,Fold up theyre strypëd leaves, and dye withalle.Alake, that pleasaunt Flowre must fayde and falleBecause a Grubbe hath ete into yts Hede,—That els had growne soe fayre and eke soe talleTo-wardes the Heaven, and opened forthe and spredeIts blossomes to the Sunne for Menne to redeIn soe brighte hues of Lovelinesse indeede!

“Sweets to the sweet—farewell.”—Hamlet.

TIME was I liked a cheesecake well enough—All human children have a sweetish taste;I used to revel in a pie, or puff;Or tart—we all wereTartarsin our youthTo meet with jam or jelly was good luck,All candies most complacently I crumped,A stick of liquorice was good to suck,And sugar was as often liked as lumped!On treacle’s “linkèd sweetness long drawn out,”Or honey I could feast like any fly;I thrilled when lollipops were hawked about;How pleased to compass hard-bake or bull’s-eye;How charmed if Fortune in my power castElecampane—but that campaign is past.

WHEN little people go abroad, wherever they may roam,They will not just be treated as they used to be at home;So take a few promiscuous hints, to warn you in advance,Of how a little English girl will perhaps be served in France.Of course you will be Frenchified; and first, it’s my belief,They’ll dress you in their foreign style as à-la-mode as beef,With a little row of beehives, as a border to your frock,And a pair of frilly trousers, like a little bantam cock.But first they’ll seize your bundle (if you have one) in a crack,And tie it with a tape by way of bustle on your back;And make your waist so high or low, your shape will be a riddle,For anyhow you’ll never have your middle in the middle.Your little English sandals for a while will hold together,But woe betide you when the stones have worn away the leather;For they’ll poke your little pettitoes (and there will be a hobble!)In such a pair of shoes as none but carpenters can cobble!What next?—to fill your head with French to match the native girlsIn scraps ofGalignanithey’ll screw up your little curls;And they’ll take their nouns and verbs, and some bits of verse and prose,And pour them in your ears that you may spout them through your nose.You’ll have to learn achouis quite another sort of thingTo that you put your foot in; that abelleis not to ring;That acorneis not the nubble that brings trouble to your toes;Norpeut-êtrea potato, as some Irish folks suppose.No, no, they have no murphies there, for supper or for lunch,But you may get in course of time apomme de terreto munch,With which, as you perforce must do as Calais folks are doing,You’ll maybe have to gobble up the frog that went a wooing!But pray at meals, remember this, the French are so polite,No matter what you eat or drink, “whatever is, is right!”So when you’re told at dinner-time that some delicious stewIs cat instead of rabbit, you must answer “Tant mi—eux!”For little folks who go abroad, wherever they may roam,They cannot just be treated as they used to be at home;So take a few promiscuous hints, to warn you in advance,Of how a little English girl will perhaps be served in France!

Of course you will be Frenchified; and first, it’s my belief,They’ll dress you in their foreign style as à-la-mode as beef,With a little row of beehives, as a border to your frock,And a pair of frilly trousers, like a little bantam cock.

But first they’ll seize your bundle (if you have one) in a crack,And tie it with a tape by way of bustle on your back;And make your waist so high or low, your shape will be a riddle,For anyhow you’ll never have your middle in the middle.

Your little English sandals for a while will hold together,But woe betide you when the stones have worn away the leather;For they’ll poke your little pettitoes (and there will be a hobble!)In such a pair of shoes as none but carpenters can cobble!

What next?—to fill your head with French to match the native girlsIn scraps ofGalignanithey’ll screw up your little curls;And they’ll take their nouns and verbs, and some bits of verse and prose,And pour them in your ears that you may spout them through your nose.

You’ll have to learn achouis quite another sort of thingTo that you put your foot in; that abelleis not to ring;That acorneis not the nubble that brings trouble to your toes;Norpeut-êtrea potato, as some Irish folks suppose.

No, no, they have no murphies there, for supper or for lunch,But you may get in course of time apomme de terreto munch,With which, as you perforce must do as Calais folks are doing,You’ll maybe have to gobble up the frog that went a wooing!

But pray at meals, remember this, the French are so polite,No matter what you eat or drink, “whatever is, is right!”So when you’re told at dinner-time that some delicious stewIs cat instead of rabbit, you must answer “Tant mi—eux!”

For little folks who go abroad, wherever they may roam,They cannot just be treated as they used to be at home;So take a few promiscuous hints, to warn you in advance,Of how a little English girl will perhaps be served in France!

OH, pleasing, teasing, Mr. Pry,Dear Paul—but not Virginia’s Paul,As some might haply deem, to spyThe umbrella thou art arm’d withal,Cool hat, and ample pantaloons,Proper for hot and tropic noons;—Oh no! for thou wert never bornTo watch the barren sea and cloudIn any desert isle forlorn—Thy home is always in a crowdDrawn nightly, such is thy stage luck,By Liston—that dramatic Buck.True as the evening’s primrose flower,True as the watchman to his beat,Thou dost attend upon the hourAnd house, in old Haymarket Street.Oh, surely thou art much miscall’d,Still Paul—yet we are never pall’d!Friend of the keyhole and the crack,That lets thee pry within and pore,Thy very nose betrays the knack—Upturn’d through kissing with the door;A peeping trick that each dear friendSends thee to Coventry, to mend!Thy bended body shows thy bent,Inclined to news in every place;Thy gossip mouth and eyes intent,Stand each a query in thy face;Thy hat a curious hat appears,Pricking its brims up like thy ears;Thy pace, it is an ambling trot,To post thee sooner here and there,To every house where thou shouldst not;In gait, in garb, in face, and air,The true eavesdropper we perceive,Not merely dropping in at eve,—But morn and noon, through all the spanOf day,—to disconcert and fret,Unwelcome guest to every man,A kind of dun, without a debt,Well cursed by porter in the hall,For calling when there is no call.Harm-watching, harm thou still dost catch—That rule should save thee many a sore;But watch thou wilt, and, like a watch,A box attends thee at the door—The household menials e’en beginTo show thee out ere thou art in!Old Grasp regards thee with a frown,Old Hardy marks thee for a shot,Young Stanley longs to knock thee down,And Subtle mourns her ruin’d plot,And bans thy bones—alas! for why!A tender curiosity!Oh leave the Hardys to themselves—Leave Mrs. Subtle to her dreams—’Tis true that they were laid on shelves—Leave Stanley, junior, to his schemes;More things there are, the public sighTo know the rights of, Mr. Pry!There’s Lady L—— the late Miss P——,Miss P—— and lady both were late,And two in ten can scarce agree,For why the title had to wait;But thou mightst learn from her own lipsWhat wind detain’d the lady-ship?Or Mr. P.!—the sire that nursedThy youth, and made thee what thou art,Who form’d thy prying genius first—(Thou wottest his untender part),’Twould be a friendly call and fit,To know “how soon he hopes to sit.”Some people long to know the truthWhether Miss T. does mean to tryFor Gibbon once again—in sooth,Thou mightst indulge them, Mr. Pry;A verbal extract from the briefWould give some spinsters great relief!Suppose, dear Pry, thou wert to dodgeThe porter’s glance, and just drop inAt Windsor’s shy sequester’d lodge,(Thou wilt, if any man can winHis way so far)—and kindly bringPoor Cob’s petition to the king.There’s Mrs. Coutts—hath she outgrownThe compass of a prying eye?And, ah! there is the Great Unknown,A man that makes the curious sigh;’Twere worthy of your genius quiteTo bring that lurking man to light.O, come abroad, with curious hat,And patch’d umbrella, curious too—To poke with this, and pry with that—Search all our scandal through and through,And treat the whole world like a pieMade for thy finger, Mr. Pry!

Oh no! for thou wert never bornTo watch the barren sea and cloudIn any desert isle forlorn—Thy home is always in a crowdDrawn nightly, such is thy stage luck,By Liston—that dramatic Buck.

True as the evening’s primrose flower,True as the watchman to his beat,Thou dost attend upon the hourAnd house, in old Haymarket Street.Oh, surely thou art much miscall’d,Still Paul—yet we are never pall’d!

Friend of the keyhole and the crack,That lets thee pry within and pore,Thy very nose betrays the knack—Upturn’d through kissing with the door;A peeping trick that each dear friendSends thee to Coventry, to mend!

Thy bended body shows thy bent,Inclined to news in every place;Thy gossip mouth and eyes intent,Stand each a query in thy face;Thy hat a curious hat appears,Pricking its brims up like thy ears;

Thy pace, it is an ambling trot,To post thee sooner here and there,To every house where thou shouldst not;In gait, in garb, in face, and air,The true eavesdropper we perceive,Not merely dropping in at eve,—

But morn and noon, through all the spanOf day,—to disconcert and fret,Unwelcome guest to every man,A kind of dun, without a debt,Well cursed by porter in the hall,For calling when there is no call.

Harm-watching, harm thou still dost catch—That rule should save thee many a sore;But watch thou wilt, and, like a watch,A box attends thee at the door—The household menials e’en beginTo show thee out ere thou art in!

Old Grasp regards thee with a frown,Old Hardy marks thee for a shot,Young Stanley longs to knock thee down,And Subtle mourns her ruin’d plot,And bans thy bones—alas! for why!A tender curiosity!

Oh leave the Hardys to themselves—Leave Mrs. Subtle to her dreams—’Tis true that they were laid on shelves—Leave Stanley, junior, to his schemes;More things there are, the public sighTo know the rights of, Mr. Pry!

There’s Lady L—— the late Miss P——,Miss P—— and lady both were late,And two in ten can scarce agree,For why the title had to wait;But thou mightst learn from her own lipsWhat wind detain’d the lady-ship?

Or Mr. P.!—the sire that nursedThy youth, and made thee what thou art,Who form’d thy prying genius first—(Thou wottest his untender part),’Twould be a friendly call and fit,To know “how soon he hopes to sit.”

Some people long to know the truthWhether Miss T. does mean to tryFor Gibbon once again—in sooth,Thou mightst indulge them, Mr. Pry;A verbal extract from the briefWould give some spinsters great relief!

Suppose, dear Pry, thou wert to dodgeThe porter’s glance, and just drop inAt Windsor’s shy sequester’d lodge,(Thou wilt, if any man can winHis way so far)—and kindly bringPoor Cob’s petition to the king.

There’s Mrs. Coutts—hath she outgrownThe compass of a prying eye?And, ah! there is the Great Unknown,A man that makes the curious sigh;’Twere worthy of your genius quiteTo bring that lurking man to light.

O, come abroad, with curious hat,And patch’d umbrella, curious too—To poke with this, and pry with that—Search all our scandal through and through,And treat the whole world like a pieMade for thy finger, Mr. Pry!

IWISH I livd a Thowsen year AgoWurking for Sober six and Seven milersAnd dubble Stages runnen safe and sloThe Orsis cum in Them days to the BilersBut Now by means of Powers of Steam forcesA-turning Coches into Smoakey KettelsThe Bilers seam a Cumming to the OrsesAnd Helps and naggs Will sune be out of VittelsPoor Bruits I wunder How we bee to LivWhen sutch a change of Orses is our FaitsNo nothink need Be sifted in a SivMay them Blowd ingins all Blow up their GratesAnd Theaves of Oslers crib the Coles and GivTheir blackgard Hannimuls a Feed of Slaits!

IHAD a Gig-Horse, and I called him Pleasure,Because on Sundays, for a little jaunt,He was so fast and showy, quite a treasure;Although he sometimes kicked, and shied aslant.I had a Chaise, and christened it Enjoyment,With yellow body, and the wheels of red,Because ’twas only used for one employment,Namely, to go wherever Pleasure led.I had a wife, her nickname was Delight;A son called Frolic, who was never still:Alas! how often dark succeeds to bright!Delight was thrown, and Frolic had a spill,Enjoyment was upset and shattered quite,And Pleasure fell a splitter onPaine’s Hill!

“A change came o’er the spirit of my dream.”—Byron.

METHOUGHT—for Fancy is the strangest gadderWhen sleep all homely Mundane ties hath riven—Methought that I ascended Jacob’s ladder,With heartfelt hope of getting up to Heaven:Some bell, I knew not whence, was sounding sevenWhen I set foot upon that long one-pair;And still I climbed when it had chimed eleven,Nor yet of landing-place became aware;Step after step in endless flight seem’d there;But on, with steadfast hope, I struggled still,To gain that blessed haven from all care,Where tears are wiped, and hearts forget their ill,When, lo! I wakened on a sadder stair—Tramp—tramp—tramp—tramp—upon the Brixton Mill!

“The English Garden.”—Mason.

THE cold transparent ham is on my fork—It hardly rains—and hark the bell!—ding-dingle—Away! Three thousand feet at gravel work,Mocking a Vauxhall shower!—Married and SingleCrush—rush;—Soak’d Silks with wet white Satin mingle.Hengler! Madame! round whom all bright sparks lurk,Calls audibly on Mr. and Mrs. PringleTo study the Sublime, &c.—(vide Burke)All Noses are upturn’d!—Whish—ish—! On highThe rocket rushes—trails—just steals in sight—Then droops and melts in bubbles of blue light—And Darkness reigns—Then balls flare up and die—Wheels whiz—smack crackers—serpents twist—and thenBack to the cold transparent ham again!

WELL done and wetly, thou Fair Maid of Perth,Thou mak’st a washing picture well deservingThe pen and pencilling of Washington Irving:Like dripping Naiad, pearly from her birth,Dashing about the water of the Firth,To cleanse the calico of Mrs. Skirving,And never from thy dance of duty swervingAs there were nothing else than dirt on earth!Yet what is thy reward? Nay, do not start!I do not mean to give thee a new damper,But while thou fillest this industrious partOf washer, wearer, mangler, presser, stamper,Deserving better character—thou artWhat Bodkin would but call—“a common tramper.”

HAIL! seventy-four cut down! Hail, Top and Lop!Unless I’m much mistaken in my notion,Thou wast a stirring Tar, before that hopBecame so fatal to thy locomotion;—Now, thrown on shore, like a mere weed of ocean,Thou readest still to men a lesson good,To King and Country showing thy devotion,By kneeling thus upon a stump of wood!Still is thy spirit strong as alcohol;Spite of that limb, begot of acorn-egg,—Methinks,—thou Naval History in one Vol.—A virtue shines, e’en in that timber leg,For unlike others that desert their Poll,Thou walkest ever with thy “Constant Peg!”

I’m fond of partridges, I’m fond of snipes,I’m fond of black cocks, for they’re very good cocks—I’m fond of wild ducks, and I’m fond of woodcocks—And grouse that set up such strange moorish pipes.I’m fond of pheasants with their splendid stripes—I’m fond of hares, whether from Whig or Tory—I’m fond of capercailzies in their glory,—Teal, widgeons, plovers, birds in all their types:All these are in your care, Law-giving Peer,And when you next address your Lordly Babel,Some clause put in your Bill, precise and clear,With due and fit provision to enableA man that holds all kinds of game so dearTo keep, like Crockford, a good Gaming Table.

THE TOP OF HIS PROFESSION.

JOINING IN A CATCH.

ALL you that are too fond of wine,Or any other stuff,Take warning by the dismal fateOf one Lieutenant Luff.A sober man he might have been,Except in one regard,He did not likesoftwater,So he took todrinking hard!Said he, “Let others fancy slops,And talk in praise of Tea,But I am noBohemian,So do not likeBohea.If wine’s a poison, so is Tea,Though in another shape;What matter whether one is kill’dBycanisterorgrape!”According to this kind of tasteDid he indulge his drouth,And being fond ofPort, he madeAport-hole of his mouth!A single pint he might have sipp’dAnd not been out of sorts,In geologic phrase—the rockHe split upon wasquarts!To “hold the mirror up to vice”With him was hard, alas!The worse for wine he often was,But not “before a glass.”No kind and prudent friend had heTo bid him drink no more,—The onlychequersin his courseWere at a tavern door!Full soon the sad effects of thisHis frame began to show,For that old enemy the goutHad taken him intoe!And join’d with this an evil cameOf quite another sort,—For while he drank, himself, his purseWas getting “something short.”For want of cash he soon had pawn’dOne half that he possess’d,And drinking show’d himduplicatesBeforehand of the rest!So now his creditors resolvedTo seize on his assets;For why,—they found that hishalf-payDid nothalf-payhis debts.But Luff contrived a novel modeHis Creditors to chouse;For his ownexecutionhePut into his own house!A pistol to the muzzle chargedHe took devoid of fear;Said he, “Thisbarrelis my last,So now for my lastbier!”Against his lungs he aimed the slugs,And not against his brain,So he blew out hislights—and noneCould blow them in again!A Jury for a Verdict metAnd gave it in these terms:—“We find as how as certainslugsHas sent him to theworms!”

Said he, “Let others fancy slops,And talk in praise of Tea,But I am noBohemian,So do not likeBohea.If wine’s a poison, so is Tea,Though in another shape;What matter whether one is kill’dBycanisterorgrape!”

According to this kind of tasteDid he indulge his drouth,And being fond ofPort, he madeAport-hole of his mouth!A single pint he might have sipp’dAnd not been out of sorts,In geologic phrase—the rockHe split upon wasquarts!

To “hold the mirror up to vice”With him was hard, alas!The worse for wine he often was,But not “before a glass.”No kind and prudent friend had heTo bid him drink no more,—The onlychequersin his courseWere at a tavern door!

Full soon the sad effects of thisHis frame began to show,For that old enemy the goutHad taken him intoe!And join’d with this an evil cameOf quite another sort,—For while he drank, himself, his purseWas getting “something short.”

For want of cash he soon had pawn’dOne half that he possess’d,And drinking show’d himduplicatesBeforehand of the rest!So now his creditors resolvedTo seize on his assets;For why,—they found that hishalf-payDid nothalf-payhis debts.

But Luff contrived a novel modeHis Creditors to chouse;For his ownexecutionhePut into his own house!A pistol to the muzzle chargedHe took devoid of fear;Said he, “Thisbarrelis my last,So now for my lastbier!”

Against his lungs he aimed the slugs,And not against his brain,So he blew out hislights—and noneCould blow them in again!A Jury for a Verdict metAnd gave it in these terms:—“We find as how as certainslugsHas sent him to theworms!”

OF all the poor old Tobits a-groping in the street,A Lover is the blindest that ever I did meet,For he’s blind, he’s blind, he’s very blind,—He’s as blind as any mole!He thinks his love the fairest that ever yet was clasp’d,Though her clay is overbaked, and it never has been rasp’d.For he’s blind,&c.He thinks her face an angel’s, although it’s quite a frump’s,Like a toad a-taking physic, or a monkey in the mumps.For he’s blind, &c.Upon her graceful figure then how he will insist,Though she’s all so much awry, she can only eat a twist!For he’s blind, &c.He’ll swear that in her dancing she cuts all others out,Though like aGalthat’s galvanised, she throws her legs about.For he’s blind, &c.If he should have a letter in answer to his sighs,He’ll put it to his lips up, instead of to his eyes.For he’s blind, &c.Then if he has a meeting the question for to put,In suing for her hand he’ll be kneeling at her foot.For he’s blind, &c.Oh Love is like a furnace wherein a Lover lies,And like a pig before the fire, he scorches out his eyes.Till he’s blind, &c.

OF all the poor old Tobits a-groping in the street,A Lover is the blindest that ever I did meet,For he’s blind, he’s blind, he’s very blind,—He’s as blind as any mole!

He thinks his love the fairest that ever yet was clasp’d,Though her clay is overbaked, and it never has been rasp’d.For he’s blind,&c.

He thinks her face an angel’s, although it’s quite a frump’s,Like a toad a-taking physic, or a monkey in the mumps.For he’s blind, &c.

Upon her graceful figure then how he will insist,Though she’s all so much awry, she can only eat a twist!For he’s blind, &c.

He’ll swear that in her dancing she cuts all others out,Though like aGalthat’s galvanised, she throws her legs about.For he’s blind, &c.

If he should have a letter in answer to his sighs,He’ll put it to his lips up, instead of to his eyes.For he’s blind, &c.

Then if he has a meeting the question for to put,In suing for her hand he’ll be kneeling at her foot.For he’s blind, &c.

Oh Love is like a furnace wherein a Lover lies,And like a pig before the fire, he scorches out his eyes.Till he’s blind, &c.

“If the affairs of this world did not make us so sad,’Twould be easy enough to be merry.”—Old Song.

THERE is nothing but plague in this house!There’s the turbot is stole by the cat,The Newfoundland has eat up the grouse,And the haunch has been gnawed by a rat!It’s the day of all days when I wishThat our friends should enjoy our good cheer;Mr. Wiggins—our dinner is dished—But I wish you a happy New Year!Mr. Fudge has not called, but he will,For his Rates, Church, and Highway, and Poor;And the butcher has brought in his bill—Twice as much as the quarter before.Little Charles is come home with the mumps,And Matilda with measles, I fear;And I’ve taken two sov’reigns like dumps—But I wish you a happy New Year!Your poor brother is in the Gazette,And your banker is off to New York;Mr. Bigsby has died in your debt,And the “Wiggins” has foundered near Cork.Mr. Merrington’s bill is come back;You are chosen to serve overseer;The new wall is beginning to crack—But I wish you a happy New Year!The best dinner-set’s fallen to the ground;The militia’s called out, and you’re drawn;Not a piece of our plate can be found,And there’s marks of men’s feet on the lawn:Two anonymous letters have come,That declare you shall die like a Weare;And it may—or may not—be a hum—But I wish you a happy New Year!The old law-suit with Levy is lost;You are fined for not cleansing the street;And the water-pipe’s burst with the frost,And the roof lets the rain in and sleet.Your old tenant at seventy-fourHas gone off in the night with his gear,And has taken the key of the door—But I wish you a happy New Year!There’s the “Sun” and the “Phœnix” to pay,For the chimney has blazed like Old Nick;The new gig has been jammed by a dray,And the old horse has taken to kick.We have hardly a bushel of small,And now coal is extravagant dear;Your great coat is stole out of the hall—But I wish you a happy New Year!The whole greenhouse is smashed by the hail,And the plants have all died in the night;The magnolia’s blown down by the gale,And the chimney looks far from upright;And—the deuce take the man from the shop,That hung up the new glass chandelier!—It has come, in the end, to one drop—But I wish you a happy New Year!There’s misfortune wherever we dodge—It’s the same in the country and town;There’s the porter has burned down his lodge,While he went off to smoke at the Crown.The fat butler makes free with your wine,And the footman has drunk the strong beer,And the coachman can’t walk in a line—But I wish you a happy New Year!I have doubts if your clerk is correct—There are hints of a mistress at Kew,And some day he’ll abscond, I expect;Mr. Brown has built out your back view;The new housemaid’s the greatest of flirts—She has men in the house, that is clear;And the laundress has pawned all your shirts—But I wish you a happy New Year!Your “Account of a Visit to Rome”Not a critic on earth seems to laud;And old Huggins has lately come home,And will swear that your Claude isn’t Claude;Your election is far from secure,Though it’s likely to cost very dear;You’re come out in a caricature—But I wish you a happy New Year!You’ve been christened an ass in the Times,And the Chronicle calls you a fool;And that dealer in boys, Dr. Ghrimes,Has engaged the next house for a school;And the playground will run by the bowerWhich you took so much trouble to rear;We shall never have one quiet hour—But I wish you a happy New Year!Little John will not take to his book,He’s come home black and blue from the cane;There’s your uncle is courting his cook,And your mother has married again!Jacob Jones will be tried with his wife,And against them you’ll have to appear;If they’re hung you’ll be wretched for life—But I wish you a happy New Year!

Mr. Fudge has not called, but he will,For his Rates, Church, and Highway, and Poor;And the butcher has brought in his bill—Twice as much as the quarter before.Little Charles is come home with the mumps,And Matilda with measles, I fear;And I’ve taken two sov’reigns like dumps—But I wish you a happy New Year!

Your poor brother is in the Gazette,And your banker is off to New York;Mr. Bigsby has died in your debt,And the “Wiggins” has foundered near Cork.Mr. Merrington’s bill is come back;You are chosen to serve overseer;The new wall is beginning to crack—But I wish you a happy New Year!

The best dinner-set’s fallen to the ground;The militia’s called out, and you’re drawn;Not a piece of our plate can be found,And there’s marks of men’s feet on the lawn:Two anonymous letters have come,That declare you shall die like a Weare;And it may—or may not—be a hum—But I wish you a happy New Year!

The old law-suit with Levy is lost;You are fined for not cleansing the street;And the water-pipe’s burst with the frost,And the roof lets the rain in and sleet.Your old tenant at seventy-fourHas gone off in the night with his gear,And has taken the key of the door—But I wish you a happy New Year!

There’s the “Sun” and the “Phœnix” to pay,For the chimney has blazed like Old Nick;The new gig has been jammed by a dray,And the old horse has taken to kick.We have hardly a bushel of small,And now coal is extravagant dear;Your great coat is stole out of the hall—But I wish you a happy New Year!

The whole greenhouse is smashed by the hail,And the plants have all died in the night;The magnolia’s blown down by the gale,And the chimney looks far from upright;And—the deuce take the man from the shop,That hung up the new glass chandelier!—It has come, in the end, to one drop—But I wish you a happy New Year!

There’s misfortune wherever we dodge—It’s the same in the country and town;There’s the porter has burned down his lodge,While he went off to smoke at the Crown.The fat butler makes free with your wine,And the footman has drunk the strong beer,And the coachman can’t walk in a line—But I wish you a happy New Year!

I have doubts if your clerk is correct—There are hints of a mistress at Kew,And some day he’ll abscond, I expect;Mr. Brown has built out your back view;The new housemaid’s the greatest of flirts—She has men in the house, that is clear;And the laundress has pawned all your shirts—But I wish you a happy New Year!

Your “Account of a Visit to Rome”Not a critic on earth seems to laud;And old Huggins has lately come home,And will swear that your Claude isn’t Claude;Your election is far from secure,Though it’s likely to cost very dear;You’re come out in a caricature—But I wish you a happy New Year!

You’ve been christened an ass in the Times,And the Chronicle calls you a fool;And that dealer in boys, Dr. Ghrimes,Has engaged the next house for a school;And the playground will run by the bowerWhich you took so much trouble to rear;We shall never have one quiet hour—But I wish you a happy New Year!

Little John will not take to his book,He’s come home black and blue from the cane;There’s your uncle is courting his cook,And your mother has married again!Jacob Jones will be tried with his wife,And against them you’ll have to appear;If they’re hung you’ll be wretched for life—But I wish you a happy New Year!

PURE water it plays a good part inThe swabbing the decks and all that—And it finds its own level for sartin—For it sartinly drinks very flat:—For my part a drop of the creaturI never could think was a fault,For if Tars should swig water by natureThe sea would have never been salt!—Then off with it into a jorum,And make it strong, sharpish, or sweet,For if I’ve any sense of decorumIt never was meant to be neat!—One day when I was but half sober,—Half measures I always disdain—I walk’d into a shop that sold Soda,And ax’d for some Water Champagne;—Well, the lubber he drew and he drew, boys,Till I’d shipped my six bottles or more,And blow off my last limb but it’s true, boys,Why, I warn’t half so drunk as afore!—Then off with it into a jorum,And make it strong, sharpish, or sweet,For if I’ve any sense of decorumIt never was meant to be neat.

One day when I was but half sober,—Half measures I always disdain—I walk’d into a shop that sold Soda,And ax’d for some Water Champagne;—Well, the lubber he drew and he drew, boys,Till I’d shipped my six bottles or more,And blow off my last limb but it’s true, boys,Why, I warn’t half so drunk as afore!—Then off with it into a jorum,And make it strong, sharpish, or sweet,For if I’ve any sense of decorumIt never was meant to be neat.

YES, yes, it’s very true, and very clear!By way of compliment and common chat,It’s very well to wish me a New Year;But wish me a new hat!Although not spent in luxury and ease,In course a longer life I won’t refuse;But while you’re wishing, wish me, if you please,A newer pair of shoes!Nay, while new things and wishes are afloat,I own to one that I should not rebut—Instead of this old rent, to have a coatWith more of the New Cut!O yes, ’tis very pleasant, though I’m poor,To hear the steeple make that merry din;Except I wish one bell was at the door,To ring new trousers in.To be alive is very nice indeed,Although another year at last departs;Only with twelve new months I rather needA dozen of new shirts.Yes, yes, it’s very true, and very clear,By way of compliment and common chat,It’s very well to wish me a New Year,But wish me a new hat!

YES, yes, it’s very true, and very clear!By way of compliment and common chat,It’s very well to wish me a New Year;But wish me a new hat!

Although not spent in luxury and ease,In course a longer life I won’t refuse;But while you’re wishing, wish me, if you please,A newer pair of shoes!

Nay, while new things and wishes are afloat,I own to one that I should not rebut—Instead of this old rent, to have a coatWith more of the New Cut!

O yes, ’tis very pleasant, though I’m poor,To hear the steeple make that merry din;Except I wish one bell was at the door,To ring new trousers in.

To be alive is very nice indeed,Although another year at last departs;Only with twelve new months I rather needA dozen of new shirts.

Yes, yes, it’s very true, and very clear,By way of compliment and common chat,It’s very well to wish me a New Year,But wish me a new hat!

ALAS! of all the noxious thingsThat wait upon the poor,Most cruel is that Felon-FearThat haunts the “Debtor’s Door!”Saint Sepulchre’s begins to toll,The Sheriffs seek the cell—So I expect their officers,And tremble at the bell!I look forbeer, and yet I quakeWith fright at everytap;And dread adouble-knock, for oh!I’ve not asingle rap!

ALAS! of all the noxious thingsThat wait upon the poor,Most cruel is that Felon-FearThat haunts the “Debtor’s Door!”

Saint Sepulchre’s begins to toll,The Sheriffs seek the cell—So I expect their officers,And tremble at the bell!

I look forbeer, and yet I quakeWith fright at everytap;And dread adouble-knock, for oh!I’ve not asingle rap!

WHEN I reflect with serious sense,While years and years run on,How soon I may be summon’d hence—There’s cook a-calling John.Our lives are built so frail and poor,On sand and not on rocks,We’re hourly standing at Death’s door—There’s some one double-knocks.All human days have settled terms,Our fates we cannot force;This flesh of mine will feed the worms—They’re come to lunch of course.And when my body’s turn’d to clayAnd dear friends hear my knell,O let them give a sigh and say—I hear the up-stairs bell.

WHEN I reflect with serious sense,While years and years run on,How soon I may be summon’d hence—There’s cook a-calling John.

Our lives are built so frail and poor,On sand and not on rocks,We’re hourly standing at Death’s door—There’s some one double-knocks.

All human days have settled terms,Our fates we cannot force;This flesh of mine will feed the worms—They’re come to lunch of course.

And when my body’s turn’d to clayAnd dear friends hear my knell,O let them give a sigh and say—I hear the up-stairs bell.

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