A Hardware dealer?—that might please,But if his trade’s foundation leansOn spikes and nails, he won’t have easeWhen he retires upon his means.
A Hardware dealer?—that might please,But if his trade’s foundation leansOn spikes and nails, he won’t have easeWhen he retires upon his means.
A Hardware dealer?—that might please,But if his trade’s foundation leansOn spikes and nails, he won’t have easeWhen he retires upon his means.
A Soldier?—there he has not nerves;A Sailor seldom lays up pelf:A Baker?—no, a baker servesHis customer before himself.
A Soldier?—there he has not nerves;A Sailor seldom lays up pelf:A Baker?—no, a baker servesHis customer before himself.
A Soldier?—there he has not nerves;A Sailor seldom lays up pelf:A Baker?—no, a baker servesHis customer before himself.
Dresser of hair?—that’s not the sort;A joiner jars with his desire—A Churchman?—James is very short,And cannot to a church aspire.
Dresser of hair?—that’s not the sort;A joiner jars with his desire—A Churchman?—James is very short,And cannot to a church aspire.
Dresser of hair?—that’s not the sort;A joiner jars with his desire—A Churchman?—James is very short,And cannot to a church aspire.
A Lawyer?—that’s a hardish term!A Publisher might give him ease,If he could into Longman’s firmJust plunge at once “in medias Rees.”
A Lawyer?—that’s a hardish term!A Publisher might give him ease,If he could into Longman’s firmJust plunge at once “in medias Rees.”
A Lawyer?—that’s a hardish term!A Publisher might give him ease,If he could into Longman’s firmJust plunge at once “in medias Rees.”
A shop for pot, and pan, and cup,Such brittle Stock I can’t advise;A Builder running houses up,Their gains are stories—maybe lies!
A shop for pot, and pan, and cup,Such brittle Stock I can’t advise;A Builder running houses up,Their gains are stories—maybe lies!
A shop for pot, and pan, and cup,Such brittle Stock I can’t advise;A Builder running houses up,Their gains are stories—maybe lies!
A Coppersmith I can’t endure—Nor petty Usher A, B, C-ing;A Publican? no father, sure,Would be the author of his being!
A Coppersmith I can’t endure—Nor petty Usher A, B, C-ing;A Publican? no father, sure,Would be the author of his being!
A Coppersmith I can’t endure—Nor petty Usher A, B, C-ing;A Publican? no father, sure,Would be the author of his being!
A Paper-maker?—come he mustTo rags before he sells a sheet—A Miller?—all his toil is justTo make a meal—he does not eat.
A Paper-maker?—come he mustTo rags before he sells a sheet—A Miller?—all his toil is justTo make a meal—he does not eat.
A Paper-maker?—come he mustTo rags before he sells a sheet—A Miller?—all his toil is justTo make a meal—he does not eat.
A Currier?—that by favour goes—A Chandler gives me great misgiving—An Undertaker?—one of thoseThat do not hope to get their living!
A Currier?—that by favour goes—A Chandler gives me great misgiving—An Undertaker?—one of thoseThat do not hope to get their living!
A Currier?—that by favour goes—A Chandler gives me great misgiving—An Undertaker?—one of thoseThat do not hope to get their living!
Three Golden Balls?—I like them not;An Auctioneer I never did—The victim of a slavish lot,Obliged to do as he is bid!
Three Golden Balls?—I like them not;An Auctioneer I never did—The victim of a slavish lot,Obliged to do as he is bid!
Three Golden Balls?—I like them not;An Auctioneer I never did—The victim of a slavish lot,Obliged to do as he is bid!
A Broker watching fall and riseOf Stock?—I’d rather deal in stone,—A Printer?—there his toils compriseAnother’s work beside his own.
A Broker watching fall and riseOf Stock?—I’d rather deal in stone,—A Printer?—there his toils compriseAnother’s work beside his own.
A Broker watching fall and riseOf Stock?—I’d rather deal in stone,—A Printer?—there his toils compriseAnother’s work beside his own.
A Cooper?—neither I nor JemHave any taste or turn for that,—A fish-retailer?—but with him,One part of trade is always flat.
A Cooper?—neither I nor JemHave any taste or turn for that,—A fish-retailer?—but with him,One part of trade is always flat.
A Cooper?—neither I nor JemHave any taste or turn for that,—A fish-retailer?—but with him,One part of trade is always flat.
A Painter?—long he would not live,—An Artist’s a precarious craft—In trade Apothecaries give,But very seldom take, a draught.
A Painter?—long he would not live,—An Artist’s a precarious craft—In trade Apothecaries give,But very seldom take, a draught.
A Painter?—long he would not live,—An Artist’s a precarious craft—In trade Apothecaries give,But very seldom take, a draught.
A Glazier?—what if he should smash!A Crispin he shall not be made—A Grazier may be losing cash,Although he drives a “roaring trade.”
A Glazier?—what if he should smash!A Crispin he shall not be made—A Grazier may be losing cash,Although he drives a “roaring trade.”
A Glazier?—what if he should smash!A Crispin he shall not be made—A Grazier may be losing cash,Although he drives a “roaring trade.”
Well, something must be done! to lookOn all my little works around—James is too big a boy, like book,To leave upon the shelf unbound.
Well, something must be done! to lookOn all my little works around—James is too big a boy, like book,To leave upon the shelf unbound.
Well, something must be done! to lookOn all my little works around—James is too big a boy, like book,To leave upon the shelf unbound.
But what to do?—my temples acheFrom evening’s dew till morning’s pearl,What course to take my boy to make—Oh could I make my boy—a girl!
But what to do?—my temples acheFrom evening’s dew till morning’s pearl,What course to take my boy to make—Oh could I make my boy—a girl!
But what to do?—my temples acheFrom evening’s dew till morning’s pearl,What course to take my boy to make—Oh could I make my boy—a girl!
“Clubs! Clubs! part ’em! part ’em! Clubs! Clubs!”—Ancient Cries of London.
“Clubs! Clubs! part ’em! part ’em! Clubs! Clubs!”—Ancient Cries of London.
OF all the modern schemes of Man,That time has brought to bear,A plague upon the wicked planThat parts the wedded pair!My female friends they all agreeThey hardly know their hubs;And heart and voice unite with me,“We hate the name of Clubs!”One selfish course the Wretches keep;They come at morning chimes,To snatch a few short hours of sleep—Rise—breakfast—read the Times—Then take their hats, and post away,Like Clerks or City scrubs,And no one sees them all the day,—They live, eat, drink, at Clubs!On what they say, and what they do,They close the Club-House gates;But one may guess a speech or two,Though shut from their debates:“The Cook’s ahasher—nothing more—The Children noisy grubs—A Wife’s a quiz, and home’s a bore”—Yes,—that’s the style at Clubs!With Rundle, Dr. K., or Glasse,And such Domestic Books,They once put up—but now, alas!It’s hey! for foreign cooks!“Whenwillyou dine at home, my Dove?”I say to Mister Stubbs,—“When Cook can make an omelette, love,—An omelette like the Clubs!”Time was, their hearts were only placedOn snug domestic schemes,The book for two—united taste,—And such connubial dreams,—Friends dropping in at close of dayTo singles, doubles, rubs,—A little music—then the tray—And not a word of Clubs!But former comforts they condemn;French kickshaws they discuss,They take their wine, the wine takes them,And then they favour us:—From some offence they can’t digest,As cross as bears with cubs,Or sleepy, dull, and queer, at best—That’s how they come from Clubs!It’s very fine to say “SubscribeTo Andrews’—can’t you read?”When Wives, the poor neglected tribe,Complain how they proceed!They’d better recommend at oncePhilosophy and tubs,—A woman need not be a dunceTo feel the wrong of Clubs.A set of savage Goths and Picts,Would seek us now and then—They’re pretty pattern-BenedictsTo guide our single men!Indeed my daughters both declare“Their Beaux shall not be subs.To White’s, or Black’s, or anywhere,—They’ve seen enough of Clubs!”They say, “withoutthe marriage ties,They can devote their hoursTo catechize or botanize—Shells, Sunday Schools, and flow’rs—Or teach a Pretty Poll new words,Tend Covent-Garden shrubs,Nurse dogs and chirp to little birds—As Wives do since the Clubs.”Alas! for those departed daysOf social wedded life,When married folks had married ways,And lived like Man and Wife!Oh! Wedlock then was pick’d by none—As safe a lock as Chubb’s!But couples, that should be as one,Are now the Two of Clubs!Of all the modern schemes of manThat time has brought to bear,A plague upon the wicked planThat parts the wedded pair!My female friends they all allowThey meet with slights, and snubs,And say, “They have no husbands now,—They’re married to their Clubs!”
OF all the modern schemes of Man,That time has brought to bear,A plague upon the wicked planThat parts the wedded pair!My female friends they all agreeThey hardly know their hubs;And heart and voice unite with me,“We hate the name of Clubs!”One selfish course the Wretches keep;They come at morning chimes,To snatch a few short hours of sleep—Rise—breakfast—read the Times—Then take their hats, and post away,Like Clerks or City scrubs,And no one sees them all the day,—They live, eat, drink, at Clubs!On what they say, and what they do,They close the Club-House gates;But one may guess a speech or two,Though shut from their debates:“The Cook’s ahasher—nothing more—The Children noisy grubs—A Wife’s a quiz, and home’s a bore”—Yes,—that’s the style at Clubs!With Rundle, Dr. K., or Glasse,And such Domestic Books,They once put up—but now, alas!It’s hey! for foreign cooks!“Whenwillyou dine at home, my Dove?”I say to Mister Stubbs,—“When Cook can make an omelette, love,—An omelette like the Clubs!”Time was, their hearts were only placedOn snug domestic schemes,The book for two—united taste,—And such connubial dreams,—Friends dropping in at close of dayTo singles, doubles, rubs,—A little music—then the tray—And not a word of Clubs!But former comforts they condemn;French kickshaws they discuss,They take their wine, the wine takes them,And then they favour us:—From some offence they can’t digest,As cross as bears with cubs,Or sleepy, dull, and queer, at best—That’s how they come from Clubs!It’s very fine to say “SubscribeTo Andrews’—can’t you read?”When Wives, the poor neglected tribe,Complain how they proceed!They’d better recommend at oncePhilosophy and tubs,—A woman need not be a dunceTo feel the wrong of Clubs.A set of savage Goths and Picts,Would seek us now and then—They’re pretty pattern-BenedictsTo guide our single men!Indeed my daughters both declare“Their Beaux shall not be subs.To White’s, or Black’s, or anywhere,—They’ve seen enough of Clubs!”They say, “withoutthe marriage ties,They can devote their hoursTo catechize or botanize—Shells, Sunday Schools, and flow’rs—Or teach a Pretty Poll new words,Tend Covent-Garden shrubs,Nurse dogs and chirp to little birds—As Wives do since the Clubs.”Alas! for those departed daysOf social wedded life,When married folks had married ways,And lived like Man and Wife!Oh! Wedlock then was pick’d by none—As safe a lock as Chubb’s!But couples, that should be as one,Are now the Two of Clubs!Of all the modern schemes of manThat time has brought to bear,A plague upon the wicked planThat parts the wedded pair!My female friends they all allowThey meet with slights, and snubs,And say, “They have no husbands now,—They’re married to their Clubs!”
OF all the modern schemes of Man,That time has brought to bear,A plague upon the wicked planThat parts the wedded pair!My female friends they all agreeThey hardly know their hubs;And heart and voice unite with me,“We hate the name of Clubs!”
One selfish course the Wretches keep;They come at morning chimes,To snatch a few short hours of sleep—Rise—breakfast—read the Times—Then take their hats, and post away,Like Clerks or City scrubs,And no one sees them all the day,—They live, eat, drink, at Clubs!
On what they say, and what they do,They close the Club-House gates;But one may guess a speech or two,Though shut from their debates:“The Cook’s ahasher—nothing more—The Children noisy grubs—A Wife’s a quiz, and home’s a bore”—Yes,—that’s the style at Clubs!
With Rundle, Dr. K., or Glasse,And such Domestic Books,They once put up—but now, alas!It’s hey! for foreign cooks!“Whenwillyou dine at home, my Dove?”I say to Mister Stubbs,—“When Cook can make an omelette, love,—An omelette like the Clubs!”
Time was, their hearts were only placedOn snug domestic schemes,The book for two—united taste,—And such connubial dreams,—Friends dropping in at close of dayTo singles, doubles, rubs,—A little music—then the tray—And not a word of Clubs!
But former comforts they condemn;French kickshaws they discuss,They take their wine, the wine takes them,And then they favour us:—From some offence they can’t digest,As cross as bears with cubs,Or sleepy, dull, and queer, at best—That’s how they come from Clubs!
It’s very fine to say “SubscribeTo Andrews’—can’t you read?”When Wives, the poor neglected tribe,Complain how they proceed!They’d better recommend at oncePhilosophy and tubs,—A woman need not be a dunceTo feel the wrong of Clubs.
A set of savage Goths and Picts,Would seek us now and then—They’re pretty pattern-BenedictsTo guide our single men!Indeed my daughters both declare“Their Beaux shall not be subs.To White’s, or Black’s, or anywhere,—They’ve seen enough of Clubs!”
They say, “withoutthe marriage ties,They can devote their hoursTo catechize or botanize—Shells, Sunday Schools, and flow’rs—Or teach a Pretty Poll new words,Tend Covent-Garden shrubs,Nurse dogs and chirp to little birds—As Wives do since the Clubs.”
Alas! for those departed daysOf social wedded life,When married folks had married ways,And lived like Man and Wife!Oh! Wedlock then was pick’d by none—As safe a lock as Chubb’s!But couples, that should be as one,Are now the Two of Clubs!
Of all the modern schemes of manThat time has brought to bear,A plague upon the wicked planThat parts the wedded pair!My female friends they all allowThey meet with slights, and snubs,And say, “They have no husbands now,—They’re married to their Clubs!”
“We stick at nine.”—Mrs. Battle.
“We stick at nine.”—Mrs. Battle.
“We stick at nine.”—Mrs. Battle.
“Thrice to thineAnd thrice to mine,And thrice again,To make up nine.”—The Weird Sisters in Macbeth.
“Thrice to thineAnd thrice to mine,And thrice again,To make up nine.”—The Weird Sisters in Macbeth.
“Thrice to thineAnd thrice to mine,And thrice again,To make up nine.”—The Weird Sisters in Macbeth.
HOW oft in families intrudesThe demon of domestic feuds,One liking this, one hating that,Each snapping each, like dog and cat,With divers bents and tastes perverse,One’s bliss, in fact, another’s curse.How seldom anything we seeLike our united family!Miss Brown of chapels goes in search,Her sister Susan likes the church;One plays at cards, the other don’t;One will be gay, the other won’t:In pray’r and preaching one persists,The other sneers at Methodists;On Sundays ev’n they can’t agreeLike our united family.There’s Mr. Bell, a Whig at heart,His lady takes the Tories’ part,While William, junior, nothing loth,Spouts Radical against them both.One likes the News, one takes the Age,Another buys the unstamped page;They all sayI, and neverwe,Like our united family.Not so with us;—with equal zealWe all support Sir Robert Peel;
HOW oft in families intrudesThe demon of domestic feuds,One liking this, one hating that,Each snapping each, like dog and cat,With divers bents and tastes perverse,One’s bliss, in fact, another’s curse.How seldom anything we seeLike our united family!Miss Brown of chapels goes in search,Her sister Susan likes the church;One plays at cards, the other don’t;One will be gay, the other won’t:In pray’r and preaching one persists,The other sneers at Methodists;On Sundays ev’n they can’t agreeLike our united family.There’s Mr. Bell, a Whig at heart,His lady takes the Tories’ part,While William, junior, nothing loth,Spouts Radical against them both.One likes the News, one takes the Age,Another buys the unstamped page;They all sayI, and neverwe,Like our united family.Not so with us;—with equal zealWe all support Sir Robert Peel;
HOW oft in families intrudesThe demon of domestic feuds,One liking this, one hating that,Each snapping each, like dog and cat,With divers bents and tastes perverse,One’s bliss, in fact, another’s curse.How seldom anything we seeLike our united family!
Miss Brown of chapels goes in search,Her sister Susan likes the church;One plays at cards, the other don’t;One will be gay, the other won’t:In pray’r and preaching one persists,The other sneers at Methodists;On Sundays ev’n they can’t agreeLike our united family.
There’s Mr. Bell, a Whig at heart,His lady takes the Tories’ part,While William, junior, nothing loth,Spouts Radical against them both.One likes the News, one takes the Age,Another buys the unstamped page;They all sayI, and neverwe,Like our united family.
Not so with us;—with equal zealWe all support Sir Robert Peel;
LOVE AND A COTTAGE.
LOVE AND A COTTAGE.
LOVE AND A COTTAGE.
SINGLE BLESSEDNESS.
SINGLE BLESSEDNESS.
SINGLE BLESSEDNESS.
Of Wellington our mouths are full,We dote on Sundays on John Bull,With Pa and Ma on selfsame side,Ourhouse has never to divide—No opposition members beIn our united family.Miss Pope her “Light Guitar” enjoys,Her father “cannot bear the noise,”Her mother’s charm’d with all her songs,Her brother jangles with the tongs.Thus discord out of music springs,The most unnatural of things,Unlike the genuine harmonyIn our united family!Weallon vocal music dote;To each belongs a tuneful throat,And all prefer that Irish boonOf melody—“The Young May Moon”—By choice we all select the harp,Nor is the voice of one too sharp,Another flat—all in one keyIs our united family.Miss Powell likes to draw and paint,But then it would provoke a saint,Her brother takes her sheep for pigs,And says her trees are periwigs.Pa praises all, black, blue, or brown;And so does Ma—but upside down!They cannot with the same eye see,Like our united family.Miss Patterson has been to France,Her heart’s delight is in a dance;The thing her brother cannot bear,So she must practise with a chair.Then at a waltz her mother winks;But Pa says roundly what he thinks,All dos-à-dos, not vis-à-vis,Like our united family.We none of us that whirling love,Which both our parents disapprove,A hornpipe we delight in more,Or graceful Minuet de la Cour—A special favourite with Mamma,Who used to dance it with Papa,In this we still keep step, you see,In our united family.Then books—to bear the Cobb’s debates!One worships Scott—another hates,Monk Lewis Ann fights stoutly for,And Jane likes “Bunyan’s Holy War.”The father on Macculloch pores,The mother saysallbooks are bores;But blue serene as heav’n are we,In our united family.We never wrangle to exaltScott, Banim, Bulwer, Hope, or Galt,We care not whether Smith or Hook,So that a novel be the book,And in one point we all are fast,Of novels we prefer the last,—In that the very heads agreeOf our united family!To turn to graver matters still,How much we see of sad self-will!Miss Scrope, with brilliant views in life,Would be a poor lieutenant’s wife.A lawyer has her Pa’s good word,Her Ma has looked her out a Lord,What would they not all give to beLike our united family!By one congenial taste allied,Our dreams of bliss all coincide,We’re all for solitudes and cots,And love, if we may choose our lots.As partner in the rural planEach paints the same dear sort of man;One heart alone there seems to beIn our united family.One heart, one hope, one wish, one mind,—One voice, one choice, all of a kind,—And can there be a greater bliss—A little heav’n on earth—than this?The truth to whisper in your ear,It must be told!—we are not nearThe happiness that ought to beIn our united family!Alas! ’tis our congenial tasteThat lays our little pleasures waste—We all delight, no doubt, to sing,We all delight to touch the string,But where’s the heart that nine may touch?And nine “May Moons” are eight too much—Just fancy nine, all in one key,Of our united family!The play—Oh how we love a play,But half the bliss is shorn away;On winter nights we venture nigh,But think of houses in July!Nine crowded in a private box,Is apt to pick the stiffest locks—Our curls would all fall out, though weAre one united family!In art the self-same line we walk,We all are fond of heads in chalk,We one and all our talent strainAdelphi prizes to obtain;Nine turban’d Turks are duly sent,But can the royal Duke presentNine silver palettes—no, not he—To our united family.Our eating shows the very thing,We all prefer the liver-wing,Asparagus when scarce and thin,And peas directly they come in,The marrow-bone—if there be one—The ears of hare when crisply done,The rabbit’s brain—we all agreeIn our united family.In dress the same result is seen,We all so doat on apple-green;But nine in green would seem a schoolOf charity to quizzing fool—We cannot all indulge our willWith “that sweet silk on Ludgate Hill,”Noremnantcan sufficient beFor our united family.In reading hard is still our fate,One cannot read o’erlooked by eight,And nine “Disowned”—nine “Pioneers,”Nine “Chaperons,” nine “Buccaneers,”Nine “Maxwells,” nine “Tremaines,” and such,Would dip into our means too much—Three months are spent o’er volumes three,In our united family.Unhappy Muses! if the NineAbove in doom with us combine,—In vain we breathe the tender flame,Our sentiments are all the same,And nine complaints address’d to HopeExceed the editorial scope,One in, and eightput out, must beOf our united family!But this is nought—of deadlier kind,A ninefold woe remains behind.O why were we so art and part?So like in taste, so one in heart?Nine cottages may be to let,But here’s the thought to make us fret,We cannot each add Frederick B.To our united family.
Of Wellington our mouths are full,We dote on Sundays on John Bull,With Pa and Ma on selfsame side,Ourhouse has never to divide—No opposition members beIn our united family.Miss Pope her “Light Guitar” enjoys,Her father “cannot bear the noise,”Her mother’s charm’d with all her songs,Her brother jangles with the tongs.Thus discord out of music springs,The most unnatural of things,Unlike the genuine harmonyIn our united family!Weallon vocal music dote;To each belongs a tuneful throat,And all prefer that Irish boonOf melody—“The Young May Moon”—By choice we all select the harp,Nor is the voice of one too sharp,Another flat—all in one keyIs our united family.Miss Powell likes to draw and paint,But then it would provoke a saint,Her brother takes her sheep for pigs,And says her trees are periwigs.Pa praises all, black, blue, or brown;And so does Ma—but upside down!They cannot with the same eye see,Like our united family.Miss Patterson has been to France,Her heart’s delight is in a dance;The thing her brother cannot bear,So she must practise with a chair.Then at a waltz her mother winks;But Pa says roundly what he thinks,All dos-à-dos, not vis-à-vis,Like our united family.We none of us that whirling love,Which both our parents disapprove,A hornpipe we delight in more,Or graceful Minuet de la Cour—A special favourite with Mamma,Who used to dance it with Papa,In this we still keep step, you see,In our united family.Then books—to bear the Cobb’s debates!One worships Scott—another hates,Monk Lewis Ann fights stoutly for,And Jane likes “Bunyan’s Holy War.”The father on Macculloch pores,The mother saysallbooks are bores;But blue serene as heav’n are we,In our united family.We never wrangle to exaltScott, Banim, Bulwer, Hope, or Galt,We care not whether Smith or Hook,So that a novel be the book,And in one point we all are fast,Of novels we prefer the last,—In that the very heads agreeOf our united family!To turn to graver matters still,How much we see of sad self-will!Miss Scrope, with brilliant views in life,Would be a poor lieutenant’s wife.A lawyer has her Pa’s good word,Her Ma has looked her out a Lord,What would they not all give to beLike our united family!By one congenial taste allied,Our dreams of bliss all coincide,We’re all for solitudes and cots,And love, if we may choose our lots.As partner in the rural planEach paints the same dear sort of man;One heart alone there seems to beIn our united family.One heart, one hope, one wish, one mind,—One voice, one choice, all of a kind,—And can there be a greater bliss—A little heav’n on earth—than this?The truth to whisper in your ear,It must be told!—we are not nearThe happiness that ought to beIn our united family!Alas! ’tis our congenial tasteThat lays our little pleasures waste—We all delight, no doubt, to sing,We all delight to touch the string,But where’s the heart that nine may touch?And nine “May Moons” are eight too much—Just fancy nine, all in one key,Of our united family!The play—Oh how we love a play,But half the bliss is shorn away;On winter nights we venture nigh,But think of houses in July!Nine crowded in a private box,Is apt to pick the stiffest locks—Our curls would all fall out, though weAre one united family!In art the self-same line we walk,We all are fond of heads in chalk,We one and all our talent strainAdelphi prizes to obtain;Nine turban’d Turks are duly sent,But can the royal Duke presentNine silver palettes—no, not he—To our united family.Our eating shows the very thing,We all prefer the liver-wing,Asparagus when scarce and thin,And peas directly they come in,The marrow-bone—if there be one—The ears of hare when crisply done,The rabbit’s brain—we all agreeIn our united family.In dress the same result is seen,We all so doat on apple-green;But nine in green would seem a schoolOf charity to quizzing fool—We cannot all indulge our willWith “that sweet silk on Ludgate Hill,”Noremnantcan sufficient beFor our united family.In reading hard is still our fate,One cannot read o’erlooked by eight,And nine “Disowned”—nine “Pioneers,”Nine “Chaperons,” nine “Buccaneers,”Nine “Maxwells,” nine “Tremaines,” and such,Would dip into our means too much—Three months are spent o’er volumes three,In our united family.Unhappy Muses! if the NineAbove in doom with us combine,—In vain we breathe the tender flame,Our sentiments are all the same,And nine complaints address’d to HopeExceed the editorial scope,One in, and eightput out, must beOf our united family!But this is nought—of deadlier kind,A ninefold woe remains behind.O why were we so art and part?So like in taste, so one in heart?Nine cottages may be to let,But here’s the thought to make us fret,We cannot each add Frederick B.To our united family.
Of Wellington our mouths are full,We dote on Sundays on John Bull,With Pa and Ma on selfsame side,Ourhouse has never to divide—No opposition members beIn our united family.
Miss Pope her “Light Guitar” enjoys,Her father “cannot bear the noise,”Her mother’s charm’d with all her songs,Her brother jangles with the tongs.Thus discord out of music springs,The most unnatural of things,Unlike the genuine harmonyIn our united family!
Weallon vocal music dote;To each belongs a tuneful throat,And all prefer that Irish boonOf melody—“The Young May Moon”—By choice we all select the harp,Nor is the voice of one too sharp,Another flat—all in one keyIs our united family.
Miss Powell likes to draw and paint,But then it would provoke a saint,Her brother takes her sheep for pigs,And says her trees are periwigs.Pa praises all, black, blue, or brown;And so does Ma—but upside down!They cannot with the same eye see,Like our united family.
Miss Patterson has been to France,Her heart’s delight is in a dance;The thing her brother cannot bear,So she must practise with a chair.Then at a waltz her mother winks;But Pa says roundly what he thinks,All dos-à-dos, not vis-à-vis,Like our united family.
We none of us that whirling love,Which both our parents disapprove,A hornpipe we delight in more,Or graceful Minuet de la Cour—A special favourite with Mamma,Who used to dance it with Papa,In this we still keep step, you see,In our united family.
Then books—to bear the Cobb’s debates!One worships Scott—another hates,Monk Lewis Ann fights stoutly for,And Jane likes “Bunyan’s Holy War.”The father on Macculloch pores,The mother saysallbooks are bores;But blue serene as heav’n are we,In our united family.
We never wrangle to exaltScott, Banim, Bulwer, Hope, or Galt,We care not whether Smith or Hook,So that a novel be the book,And in one point we all are fast,Of novels we prefer the last,—In that the very heads agreeOf our united family!
To turn to graver matters still,How much we see of sad self-will!Miss Scrope, with brilliant views in life,Would be a poor lieutenant’s wife.A lawyer has her Pa’s good word,Her Ma has looked her out a Lord,What would they not all give to beLike our united family!
By one congenial taste allied,Our dreams of bliss all coincide,We’re all for solitudes and cots,And love, if we may choose our lots.As partner in the rural planEach paints the same dear sort of man;One heart alone there seems to beIn our united family.
One heart, one hope, one wish, one mind,—One voice, one choice, all of a kind,—And can there be a greater bliss—A little heav’n on earth—than this?The truth to whisper in your ear,It must be told!—we are not nearThe happiness that ought to beIn our united family!
Alas! ’tis our congenial tasteThat lays our little pleasures waste—We all delight, no doubt, to sing,We all delight to touch the string,But where’s the heart that nine may touch?And nine “May Moons” are eight too much—Just fancy nine, all in one key,Of our united family!
The play—Oh how we love a play,But half the bliss is shorn away;On winter nights we venture nigh,But think of houses in July!Nine crowded in a private box,Is apt to pick the stiffest locks—Our curls would all fall out, though weAre one united family!
In art the self-same line we walk,We all are fond of heads in chalk,We one and all our talent strainAdelphi prizes to obtain;Nine turban’d Turks are duly sent,But can the royal Duke presentNine silver palettes—no, not he—To our united family.
Our eating shows the very thing,We all prefer the liver-wing,Asparagus when scarce and thin,And peas directly they come in,The marrow-bone—if there be one—The ears of hare when crisply done,The rabbit’s brain—we all agreeIn our united family.
In dress the same result is seen,We all so doat on apple-green;But nine in green would seem a schoolOf charity to quizzing fool—We cannot all indulge our willWith “that sweet silk on Ludgate Hill,”Noremnantcan sufficient beFor our united family.
In reading hard is still our fate,One cannot read o’erlooked by eight,And nine “Disowned”—nine “Pioneers,”Nine “Chaperons,” nine “Buccaneers,”Nine “Maxwells,” nine “Tremaines,” and such,Would dip into our means too much—Three months are spent o’er volumes three,In our united family.
Unhappy Muses! if the NineAbove in doom with us combine,—In vain we breathe the tender flame,Our sentiments are all the same,And nine complaints address’d to HopeExceed the editorial scope,One in, and eightput out, must beOf our united family!
But this is nought—of deadlier kind,A ninefold woe remains behind.O why were we so art and part?So like in taste, so one in heart?Nine cottages may be to let,But here’s the thought to make us fret,We cannot each add Frederick B.To our united family.
“Here’s that will sack a city.”—Henry the IVth.
“Here’s that will sack a city.”—Henry the IVth.
“Here’s that will sack a city.”—Henry the IVth.
OF all the causes that induce mankindTo strike against themselves a mortal docket,Two eminent above the rest we find—To be in love, or to be out of pocket:Both have made many melancholy martyrs,But p’rhaps, of all the felonies de se,By ponds, and pistols, razors, ropes, and garters,Two-thirds have been through want of£. s. d.!Thus happen’d it with Peter Bunce;Both in thedumpsand out of them at once,From always drawing blanks in Fortune’s lottery,At last, impatient of the light of day,He made his mind up to return his clayBack to the pottery.Feigning a raging tooth that drove him mad,From twenty divers druggists’ shopsHe begg’d enough of laudanum by dropsT’ effect the fatal purpose that he had;He drank them, died, and while old Charon ferried him,The Coroner convened a dozen men,Who found his death wasphial-ent—and thenThe Parish buried him!Unwatch’d, unwept,As commonly a Pauper sleeps, he slept;There could not be a better opportunityFor bodies to steal a body so ill kept,With all impunity.In fact, when Night o’er human vice and follyHad drawn her very necessary curtains,Down came a fellow with a sack and spade,Accustom’d many years to drive a trade,With that Anatomy more MelancholyThan Burton’s!The Watchman in his box was dozing;The Sexton drinking at the Cheshire Cheese;No fear of any creature interposing,The human Jackal work’d away at ease:He toss’d the mould to left and right,The shabby coffin came in sight,And soon it open’d to his double-knocks,—When lo! the stiff’un that he thought to meet,Starts sudden up, like Jacky-in-a-box,Upon his seat!Awaken’d from his trance,For so the laudanum had wrought by chance,Bunce stares up at the moon, next looking level,He spies a shady Figure, tall and bony,Then shudders out these words “Are—you—the—Devil?”“The Devil a bit of him,” says Mike Mahoney,“I’m only com’d here, hoping no affront,To pick up honestly a little blunt—”“Blunt!” echoes Bunce, with a hoarse croak of laughter,—“Why, man, I turn’d life’s candle in the socket,Without a rap in either pocket,For want of that same blunt you’re looking after!”“That’s true,” says Mike, “and many a pretty manHas cut his stick upon your very plan,Not worth a copper, him and all his trumps,And yet he’s fetch’d a dacent lot of stuff,Provided he was sound and fresh enough,And dead as dumps.”“I take,” quoth Bunce, with a hard wink, “the fact is,You mean a subject for a surgeon’s practice,—I hope the question is not out of reason,But just suppose a lot of flesh and bone,For instance, like my own,What might it chance to fetch now, at this season?”“Fetch, is it?” answers Mike, “why prices differ,—But taking this same small bad job of ours,I reckon, by the pow’rs!I’ve lost ten pound by your not being stiffer!”“Ten pounds!” Bunce echoes in a sort of flurry,“Odd zounds!Ten pounds,How sweet it sounds,Ten pounds!”And on his feet upspringing in a hurry—It seem’d the operation of a minute—A little scuffle—then a whack—And then he took the Body Snatcher’s sackAnd poked him in it!Such is this life!A very pantomime for tricks and strife!See Bunce, so lately in Death’s passive stock,Invested, now as active as a griffin,Walking—no ghost—in velveteens and smock,To sell a stiff’un!A flash of red, then one of blue,At last, like lighthouse, came in view;Bunce rang the nightbell; wiped his highlows muddy;His errand told; the sack produced;And by a sleepy boy was introducedTo Dr. Oddy, writing in his studyThe bargain did not take long time to settle,“Ten pounds,Odd zounds!How well it sounds,Ten pounds,”Chink’d into Bunce’s palm in solid metal.With joy half-crazed,It seem’d some trick of sense, some airy gammon,He gazed and gazed,At last, possess’d with the old lust of Mammon,Thought he, “With what a very little trouble,This little capital I now might double——”Another scuffle of its usual brevity,—And Doctor Oddy, in his suit of black,Was finishing, within the sack,His “Thoughts upon Longevity!”The trick was done. Without a doubt,The sleepy boy let Bunce and burthen out;Who coming to a lone convenient place,The body stripp’d; hid all the clothes; and then,Still favoured by the luck of evil men,Found a new customer in Dr. Case.All more minute particulars to smother,Let it suffice,Nine guineas was the priceFor which one doctor bought the other;As once I heard a Preacher say in Guinea,“You see how one black sin bring on anudder,Like little nigger pickaninny,A-riding pick-a-back upon him mudder!”“Humph!” said the Doctor, with a smile sarcastic,Seeming to traceSome likeness in the face,“So death at last has taken old Bombastic!”But in the very middle of his joking,—Thesubject, still unconscious of the scoff—Seized all at once with a bad fit of choking,He too wastaken of!Leaving a fragment “On the Hooping Cough.”Satan still sending luck,Another body found another buyer:For ten pounds ten the bargain next was struck,Dead doctors going higher.“Here,” said the purchaser, with smile quite pleasant,Taking a glimpse at his departed brother,“Here’s half a guinea in the way of present—Subjects are scarce, and when you get another,Letmebe first.”—Bunce took him at his word,And suddenly his old atrocious trick did,Sacking M.D. the third,Ere he could furnish “Hints to the Afflicted.”Flush’d with success,Beyond all hope or guess,His new dead robbery upon his back,Bunce plotted—such high flights ambition takes,—To treat the Faculty like ducks and drakes,And sell them all ere they could utter “Quack!”But fate opposed. According to the schools,When men become insufferably bad,The gods confer to drive them mad;March hairs upon the heads of April fools!Tempted by the old demon avaricious,Bunce traded on too far into the morning;Till nods, and winks, and looks, and signs suspicious,Ev’n words malicious,Forced on him rather an unpleasant warning.Glad was he to perceive, beside a wicket,A porter, ornamented with a ticket,Who did not seem to be at all too busy—“Here, my good man,Just show me, if you can,A doctor’s—if you want to earn a tizzy!”Away the porter marches,And with grave face, obsequious precedes him,Down crooked lanes, round corners, under arches;At last, up an old-fashion’d staircase leads him,Almost impervious to the morning ray,Then shows a door—“There, that’s a doctor’s reckon’d,A rare Top-Sawyer, let who will come second—Good day.”“I’m right,” thought Bunce, “as any trivet;Another venture—and then up I give it!”He rings—the door, just like a fairy portal,Opens untouch’d by mortal——He gropes his way into a dingy room,And hears a voice come growling through the gloom,“Well—eh?—Who? What?—Speak out at once!”“I will,” says Bunce.“I’ve got a sort of article to sell;Medical gemmen knows me very well—”But think Imagination how it shock’d herTo hear the voice roar out, “Death! Devil! d—n!Confound the vagabond, he thinks I amA rhubarb-and-magnesia Doctor!”“No Doctor!” exclaim’d Bunce, and dropp’d his jaw,But louder still the voice began to bellow,“Yes,—yes,—odd zounds!—Iama Doctor, fellow,At law!”The word sufficed.—Of things Bunce feared the most(Next to a ghost)Was law,—or any of the legal corps,—He dropp’d at once his load of flesh and bone,And, caring for no body, save his own,Bolted,—and lived securely till fourscore,From never troubling Doctors any more!
OF all the causes that induce mankindTo strike against themselves a mortal docket,Two eminent above the rest we find—To be in love, or to be out of pocket:Both have made many melancholy martyrs,But p’rhaps, of all the felonies de se,By ponds, and pistols, razors, ropes, and garters,Two-thirds have been through want of£. s. d.!Thus happen’d it with Peter Bunce;Both in thedumpsand out of them at once,From always drawing blanks in Fortune’s lottery,At last, impatient of the light of day,He made his mind up to return his clayBack to the pottery.Feigning a raging tooth that drove him mad,From twenty divers druggists’ shopsHe begg’d enough of laudanum by dropsT’ effect the fatal purpose that he had;He drank them, died, and while old Charon ferried him,The Coroner convened a dozen men,Who found his death wasphial-ent—and thenThe Parish buried him!Unwatch’d, unwept,As commonly a Pauper sleeps, he slept;There could not be a better opportunityFor bodies to steal a body so ill kept,With all impunity.In fact, when Night o’er human vice and follyHad drawn her very necessary curtains,Down came a fellow with a sack and spade,Accustom’d many years to drive a trade,With that Anatomy more MelancholyThan Burton’s!The Watchman in his box was dozing;The Sexton drinking at the Cheshire Cheese;No fear of any creature interposing,The human Jackal work’d away at ease:He toss’d the mould to left and right,The shabby coffin came in sight,And soon it open’d to his double-knocks,—When lo! the stiff’un that he thought to meet,Starts sudden up, like Jacky-in-a-box,Upon his seat!Awaken’d from his trance,For so the laudanum had wrought by chance,Bunce stares up at the moon, next looking level,He spies a shady Figure, tall and bony,Then shudders out these words “Are—you—the—Devil?”“The Devil a bit of him,” says Mike Mahoney,“I’m only com’d here, hoping no affront,To pick up honestly a little blunt—”“Blunt!” echoes Bunce, with a hoarse croak of laughter,—“Why, man, I turn’d life’s candle in the socket,Without a rap in either pocket,For want of that same blunt you’re looking after!”“That’s true,” says Mike, “and many a pretty manHas cut his stick upon your very plan,Not worth a copper, him and all his trumps,And yet he’s fetch’d a dacent lot of stuff,Provided he was sound and fresh enough,And dead as dumps.”“I take,” quoth Bunce, with a hard wink, “the fact is,You mean a subject for a surgeon’s practice,—I hope the question is not out of reason,But just suppose a lot of flesh and bone,For instance, like my own,What might it chance to fetch now, at this season?”“Fetch, is it?” answers Mike, “why prices differ,—But taking this same small bad job of ours,I reckon, by the pow’rs!I’ve lost ten pound by your not being stiffer!”“Ten pounds!” Bunce echoes in a sort of flurry,“Odd zounds!Ten pounds,How sweet it sounds,Ten pounds!”And on his feet upspringing in a hurry—It seem’d the operation of a minute—A little scuffle—then a whack—And then he took the Body Snatcher’s sackAnd poked him in it!Such is this life!A very pantomime for tricks and strife!See Bunce, so lately in Death’s passive stock,Invested, now as active as a griffin,Walking—no ghost—in velveteens and smock,To sell a stiff’un!A flash of red, then one of blue,At last, like lighthouse, came in view;Bunce rang the nightbell; wiped his highlows muddy;His errand told; the sack produced;And by a sleepy boy was introducedTo Dr. Oddy, writing in his studyThe bargain did not take long time to settle,“Ten pounds,Odd zounds!How well it sounds,Ten pounds,”Chink’d into Bunce’s palm in solid metal.With joy half-crazed,It seem’d some trick of sense, some airy gammon,He gazed and gazed,At last, possess’d with the old lust of Mammon,Thought he, “With what a very little trouble,This little capital I now might double——”Another scuffle of its usual brevity,—And Doctor Oddy, in his suit of black,Was finishing, within the sack,His “Thoughts upon Longevity!”The trick was done. Without a doubt,The sleepy boy let Bunce and burthen out;Who coming to a lone convenient place,The body stripp’d; hid all the clothes; and then,Still favoured by the luck of evil men,Found a new customer in Dr. Case.All more minute particulars to smother,Let it suffice,Nine guineas was the priceFor which one doctor bought the other;As once I heard a Preacher say in Guinea,“You see how one black sin bring on anudder,Like little nigger pickaninny,A-riding pick-a-back upon him mudder!”“Humph!” said the Doctor, with a smile sarcastic,Seeming to traceSome likeness in the face,“So death at last has taken old Bombastic!”But in the very middle of his joking,—Thesubject, still unconscious of the scoff—Seized all at once with a bad fit of choking,He too wastaken of!Leaving a fragment “On the Hooping Cough.”Satan still sending luck,Another body found another buyer:For ten pounds ten the bargain next was struck,Dead doctors going higher.“Here,” said the purchaser, with smile quite pleasant,Taking a glimpse at his departed brother,“Here’s half a guinea in the way of present—Subjects are scarce, and when you get another,Letmebe first.”—Bunce took him at his word,And suddenly his old atrocious trick did,Sacking M.D. the third,Ere he could furnish “Hints to the Afflicted.”Flush’d with success,Beyond all hope or guess,His new dead robbery upon his back,Bunce plotted—such high flights ambition takes,—To treat the Faculty like ducks and drakes,And sell them all ere they could utter “Quack!”But fate opposed. According to the schools,When men become insufferably bad,The gods confer to drive them mad;March hairs upon the heads of April fools!Tempted by the old demon avaricious,Bunce traded on too far into the morning;Till nods, and winks, and looks, and signs suspicious,Ev’n words malicious,Forced on him rather an unpleasant warning.Glad was he to perceive, beside a wicket,A porter, ornamented with a ticket,Who did not seem to be at all too busy—“Here, my good man,Just show me, if you can,A doctor’s—if you want to earn a tizzy!”Away the porter marches,And with grave face, obsequious precedes him,Down crooked lanes, round corners, under arches;At last, up an old-fashion’d staircase leads him,Almost impervious to the morning ray,Then shows a door—“There, that’s a doctor’s reckon’d,A rare Top-Sawyer, let who will come second—Good day.”“I’m right,” thought Bunce, “as any trivet;Another venture—and then up I give it!”He rings—the door, just like a fairy portal,Opens untouch’d by mortal——He gropes his way into a dingy room,And hears a voice come growling through the gloom,“Well—eh?—Who? What?—Speak out at once!”“I will,” says Bunce.“I’ve got a sort of article to sell;Medical gemmen knows me very well—”But think Imagination how it shock’d herTo hear the voice roar out, “Death! Devil! d—n!Confound the vagabond, he thinks I amA rhubarb-and-magnesia Doctor!”“No Doctor!” exclaim’d Bunce, and dropp’d his jaw,But louder still the voice began to bellow,“Yes,—yes,—odd zounds!—Iama Doctor, fellow,At law!”The word sufficed.—Of things Bunce feared the most(Next to a ghost)Was law,—or any of the legal corps,—He dropp’d at once his load of flesh and bone,And, caring for no body, save his own,Bolted,—and lived securely till fourscore,From never troubling Doctors any more!
OF all the causes that induce mankindTo strike against themselves a mortal docket,Two eminent above the rest we find—To be in love, or to be out of pocket:Both have made many melancholy martyrs,But p’rhaps, of all the felonies de se,By ponds, and pistols, razors, ropes, and garters,Two-thirds have been through want of£. s. d.!Thus happen’d it with Peter Bunce;Both in thedumpsand out of them at once,From always drawing blanks in Fortune’s lottery,At last, impatient of the light of day,He made his mind up to return his clayBack to the pottery.
Feigning a raging tooth that drove him mad,From twenty divers druggists’ shopsHe begg’d enough of laudanum by dropsT’ effect the fatal purpose that he had;He drank them, died, and while old Charon ferried him,The Coroner convened a dozen men,Who found his death wasphial-ent—and thenThe Parish buried him!Unwatch’d, unwept,As commonly a Pauper sleeps, he slept;There could not be a better opportunityFor bodies to steal a body so ill kept,With all impunity.In fact, when Night o’er human vice and follyHad drawn her very necessary curtains,Down came a fellow with a sack and spade,Accustom’d many years to drive a trade,With that Anatomy more MelancholyThan Burton’s!
The Watchman in his box was dozing;The Sexton drinking at the Cheshire Cheese;No fear of any creature interposing,The human Jackal work’d away at ease:He toss’d the mould to left and right,The shabby coffin came in sight,And soon it open’d to his double-knocks,—When lo! the stiff’un that he thought to meet,Starts sudden up, like Jacky-in-a-box,Upon his seat!Awaken’d from his trance,For so the laudanum had wrought by chance,Bunce stares up at the moon, next looking level,He spies a shady Figure, tall and bony,Then shudders out these words “Are—you—the—Devil?”“The Devil a bit of him,” says Mike Mahoney,“I’m only com’d here, hoping no affront,To pick up honestly a little blunt—”“Blunt!” echoes Bunce, with a hoarse croak of laughter,—“Why, man, I turn’d life’s candle in the socket,Without a rap in either pocket,For want of that same blunt you’re looking after!”“That’s true,” says Mike, “and many a pretty manHas cut his stick upon your very plan,Not worth a copper, him and all his trumps,And yet he’s fetch’d a dacent lot of stuff,Provided he was sound and fresh enough,And dead as dumps.”“I take,” quoth Bunce, with a hard wink, “the fact is,You mean a subject for a surgeon’s practice,—I hope the question is not out of reason,But just suppose a lot of flesh and bone,For instance, like my own,What might it chance to fetch now, at this season?”“Fetch, is it?” answers Mike, “why prices differ,—But taking this same small bad job of ours,I reckon, by the pow’rs!I’ve lost ten pound by your not being stiffer!”
“Ten pounds!” Bunce echoes in a sort of flurry,“Odd zounds!Ten pounds,How sweet it sounds,Ten pounds!”And on his feet upspringing in a hurry—It seem’d the operation of a minute—A little scuffle—then a whack—And then he took the Body Snatcher’s sackAnd poked him in it!Such is this life!A very pantomime for tricks and strife!See Bunce, so lately in Death’s passive stock,Invested, now as active as a griffin,Walking—no ghost—in velveteens and smock,To sell a stiff’un!
A flash of red, then one of blue,At last, like lighthouse, came in view;Bunce rang the nightbell; wiped his highlows muddy;His errand told; the sack produced;And by a sleepy boy was introducedTo Dr. Oddy, writing in his studyThe bargain did not take long time to settle,“Ten pounds,Odd zounds!How well it sounds,Ten pounds,”Chink’d into Bunce’s palm in solid metal.With joy half-crazed,It seem’d some trick of sense, some airy gammon,He gazed and gazed,At last, possess’d with the old lust of Mammon,Thought he, “With what a very little trouble,This little capital I now might double——”Another scuffle of its usual brevity,—And Doctor Oddy, in his suit of black,Was finishing, within the sack,His “Thoughts upon Longevity!”
The trick was done. Without a doubt,The sleepy boy let Bunce and burthen out;Who coming to a lone convenient place,The body stripp’d; hid all the clothes; and then,Still favoured by the luck of evil men,Found a new customer in Dr. Case.All more minute particulars to smother,Let it suffice,Nine guineas was the priceFor which one doctor bought the other;As once I heard a Preacher say in Guinea,“You see how one black sin bring on anudder,Like little nigger pickaninny,A-riding pick-a-back upon him mudder!”“Humph!” said the Doctor, with a smile sarcastic,Seeming to traceSome likeness in the face,“So death at last has taken old Bombastic!”But in the very middle of his joking,—Thesubject, still unconscious of the scoff—Seized all at once with a bad fit of choking,He too wastaken of!Leaving a fragment “On the Hooping Cough.”
Satan still sending luck,Another body found another buyer:For ten pounds ten the bargain next was struck,Dead doctors going higher.“Here,” said the purchaser, with smile quite pleasant,Taking a glimpse at his departed brother,“Here’s half a guinea in the way of present—Subjects are scarce, and when you get another,Letmebe first.”—Bunce took him at his word,And suddenly his old atrocious trick did,Sacking M.D. the third,Ere he could furnish “Hints to the Afflicted.”
Flush’d with success,Beyond all hope or guess,His new dead robbery upon his back,Bunce plotted—such high flights ambition takes,—To treat the Faculty like ducks and drakes,And sell them all ere they could utter “Quack!”But fate opposed. According to the schools,When men become insufferably bad,The gods confer to drive them mad;March hairs upon the heads of April fools!Tempted by the old demon avaricious,Bunce traded on too far into the morning;Till nods, and winks, and looks, and signs suspicious,Ev’n words malicious,Forced on him rather an unpleasant warning.Glad was he to perceive, beside a wicket,A porter, ornamented with a ticket,Who did not seem to be at all too busy—“Here, my good man,Just show me, if you can,A doctor’s—if you want to earn a tizzy!”
Away the porter marches,And with grave face, obsequious precedes him,Down crooked lanes, round corners, under arches;At last, up an old-fashion’d staircase leads him,Almost impervious to the morning ray,Then shows a door—“There, that’s a doctor’s reckon’d,A rare Top-Sawyer, let who will come second—Good day.”
“I’m right,” thought Bunce, “as any trivet;Another venture—and then up I give it!”He rings—the door, just like a fairy portal,Opens untouch’d by mortal——He gropes his way into a dingy room,And hears a voice come growling through the gloom,“Well—eh?—Who? What?—Speak out at once!”“I will,” says Bunce.“I’ve got a sort of article to sell;Medical gemmen knows me very well—”But think Imagination how it shock’d herTo hear the voice roar out, “Death! Devil! d—n!Confound the vagabond, he thinks I amA rhubarb-and-magnesia Doctor!”“No Doctor!” exclaim’d Bunce, and dropp’d his jaw,But louder still the voice began to bellow,“Yes,—yes,—odd zounds!—Iama Doctor, fellow,At law!”The word sufficed.—Of things Bunce feared the most(Next to a ghost)Was law,—or any of the legal corps,—He dropp’d at once his load of flesh and bone,And, caring for no body, save his own,Bolted,—and lived securely till fourscore,From never troubling Doctors any more!
THOU happy, happy elf!(But stop,—first let me kiss away that tear)—Thou tiny image of myself!(My love, he’s poking peas into his ear!)Thou merry, laughing sprite!With spirits feather-light,Untouch’d by sorrow, and unsoil’d by sin—(Good heavn’s! the child is swallowing a pin!)Thou little tricksy Puck!With antic toys so funnily bestuck,Light as the singing bird that wings the air—(The door! the door! he’ll tumble down the stair!)Thou darling of thy sire!(Why, Jane! he’ll set his pinafore a-fire!)Thou imp of mirth and joy!In Love’s dear chain so strong and bright a link,Thou idol of thy parents—(Drat the boy!There goes my ink!)Thou cherub—but of earth;Fit playfellow for Fays, by moonlight pale,In harmless sport and mirth,(That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail!)Thou human humming-bee, extracting honeFrom ev’ry blossom in the world that blows,Singing in Youth’s Elysium ever sunny,(Another tumble!—that’s his precious nose!)Thy father’s pride and hope!(He’ll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!)
THOU happy, happy elf!(But stop,—first let me kiss away that tear)—Thou tiny image of myself!(My love, he’s poking peas into his ear!)Thou merry, laughing sprite!With spirits feather-light,Untouch’d by sorrow, and unsoil’d by sin—(Good heavn’s! the child is swallowing a pin!)Thou little tricksy Puck!With antic toys so funnily bestuck,Light as the singing bird that wings the air—(The door! the door! he’ll tumble down the stair!)Thou darling of thy sire!(Why, Jane! he’ll set his pinafore a-fire!)Thou imp of mirth and joy!In Love’s dear chain so strong and bright a link,Thou idol of thy parents—(Drat the boy!There goes my ink!)Thou cherub—but of earth;Fit playfellow for Fays, by moonlight pale,In harmless sport and mirth,(That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail!)Thou human humming-bee, extracting honeFrom ev’ry blossom in the world that blows,Singing in Youth’s Elysium ever sunny,(Another tumble!—that’s his precious nose!)Thy father’s pride and hope!(He’ll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!)
THOU happy, happy elf!(But stop,—first let me kiss away that tear)—Thou tiny image of myself!(My love, he’s poking peas into his ear!)Thou merry, laughing sprite!With spirits feather-light,Untouch’d by sorrow, and unsoil’d by sin—(Good heavn’s! the child is swallowing a pin!)Thou little tricksy Puck!With antic toys so funnily bestuck,Light as the singing bird that wings the air—(The door! the door! he’ll tumble down the stair!)Thou darling of thy sire!(Why, Jane! he’ll set his pinafore a-fire!)Thou imp of mirth and joy!In Love’s dear chain so strong and bright a link,Thou idol of thy parents—(Drat the boy!There goes my ink!)
Thou cherub—but of earth;Fit playfellow for Fays, by moonlight pale,In harmless sport and mirth,(That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail!)
Thou human humming-bee, extracting honeFrom ev’ry blossom in the world that blows,Singing in Youth’s Elysium ever sunny,(Another tumble!—that’s his precious nose!)
Thy father’s pride and hope!(He’ll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!)
ARTHUR’S SEAT.
ARTHUR’S SEAT.
ARTHUR’S SEAT.
A TOTAL ECLIPSE OF THE SON.
A TOTAL ECLIPSE OF THE SON.
A TOTAL ECLIPSE OF THE SON.
With pure heart newly stamp’d from Nature’s mint—(Wheredidhe learn that squint?)Thou young domestic dove!(He’ll have that jug off, with another shove!)Dear nurseling of the hymeneal nest!(Are those torn clothes his best?)Little epitome of man!(He’ll climb upon the table, that’s his plan!)Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life—(He’s got a knife!)Thou enviable being!No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing,Play on, play on,My elfin John!Toss the light ball—bestride the stick—(I knew so many cakes would make him sick!)With fancies, buoyant as the thistle-down,Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk,With many a lamb-like frisk,(He’s got the scissors, snipping at your gown!)Thou pretty opening rose!(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!)Balmy and breathing music like the South,(He really brings my heart into my mouth!)Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star,—(I wish that window had an iron bar!)Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove,(I tell you what, my love,I cannot write unless he’s sent above!)
With pure heart newly stamp’d from Nature’s mint—(Wheredidhe learn that squint?)Thou young domestic dove!(He’ll have that jug off, with another shove!)Dear nurseling of the hymeneal nest!(Are those torn clothes his best?)Little epitome of man!(He’ll climb upon the table, that’s his plan!)Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life—(He’s got a knife!)Thou enviable being!No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing,Play on, play on,My elfin John!Toss the light ball—bestride the stick—(I knew so many cakes would make him sick!)With fancies, buoyant as the thistle-down,Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk,With many a lamb-like frisk,(He’s got the scissors, snipping at your gown!)Thou pretty opening rose!(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!)Balmy and breathing music like the South,(He really brings my heart into my mouth!)Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star,—(I wish that window had an iron bar!)Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove,(I tell you what, my love,I cannot write unless he’s sent above!)
With pure heart newly stamp’d from Nature’s mint—(Wheredidhe learn that squint?)Thou young domestic dove!(He’ll have that jug off, with another shove!)Dear nurseling of the hymeneal nest!(Are those torn clothes his best?)Little epitome of man!(He’ll climb upon the table, that’s his plan!)Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life—(He’s got a knife!)
Thou enviable being!No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing,Play on, play on,My elfin John!Toss the light ball—bestride the stick—(I knew so many cakes would make him sick!)With fancies, buoyant as the thistle-down,Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk,With many a lamb-like frisk,(He’s got the scissors, snipping at your gown!)
Thou pretty opening rose!(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!)Balmy and breathing music like the South,(He really brings my heart into my mouth!)Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star,—(I wish that window had an iron bar!)Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove,(I tell you what, my love,I cannot write unless he’s sent above!)
“Lullaby, oh, lullaby!”Thus I heard a father cry,“Lullaby, oh, lullaby!The brat will never shut an eye;Hither come, some power divine!Close his lids or open mine!”“Lullaby, oh, lullaby!”What the devil makes him cry?“Lullaby, oh, lullaby!”Still he stares—I wonder why?Why are not the sons of earthBlind, like puppies, from the birth?“Lullaby, oh, lullaby!”Thus I heard the father cry;“Lullaby, oh, lullaby!Mary, you must come and try!—Hush, oh, hush, for mercy’s sake—The more I sing, the more you wake!”“Lullaby, oh, lullaby!Fie, you little creature, fie;Lullaby, oh, lullaby!Is no poppy-syrup nigh?Give him some, or give him all,I am nodding to his fall!”“Lullaby, oh, lullaby!Two such nights, and I shall die!Lullaby, oh, lullaby!He’ll be bruised, and so shall I,—How can I from bedposts keep,When I’m walking in my sleep?”“Lullaby, oh, lullaby!Sleep his very looks deny—Lullaby, oh, lullaby!Nature soon will stupify—My nerves relax,—my eyes grow dim—Who’s that fallen—me or him?”
“Lullaby, oh, lullaby!”Thus I heard a father cry,“Lullaby, oh, lullaby!The brat will never shut an eye;Hither come, some power divine!Close his lids or open mine!”“Lullaby, oh, lullaby!”What the devil makes him cry?“Lullaby, oh, lullaby!”Still he stares—I wonder why?Why are not the sons of earthBlind, like puppies, from the birth?“Lullaby, oh, lullaby!”Thus I heard the father cry;“Lullaby, oh, lullaby!Mary, you must come and try!—Hush, oh, hush, for mercy’s sake—The more I sing, the more you wake!”“Lullaby, oh, lullaby!Fie, you little creature, fie;Lullaby, oh, lullaby!Is no poppy-syrup nigh?Give him some, or give him all,I am nodding to his fall!”“Lullaby, oh, lullaby!Two such nights, and I shall die!Lullaby, oh, lullaby!He’ll be bruised, and so shall I,—How can I from bedposts keep,When I’m walking in my sleep?”“Lullaby, oh, lullaby!Sleep his very looks deny—Lullaby, oh, lullaby!Nature soon will stupify—My nerves relax,—my eyes grow dim—Who’s that fallen—me or him?”
“Lullaby, oh, lullaby!”Thus I heard a father cry,“Lullaby, oh, lullaby!The brat will never shut an eye;Hither come, some power divine!Close his lids or open mine!”
“Lullaby, oh, lullaby!”What the devil makes him cry?“Lullaby, oh, lullaby!”Still he stares—I wonder why?Why are not the sons of earthBlind, like puppies, from the birth?
“Lullaby, oh, lullaby!”Thus I heard the father cry;“Lullaby, oh, lullaby!Mary, you must come and try!—Hush, oh, hush, for mercy’s sake—The more I sing, the more you wake!”
“Lullaby, oh, lullaby!Fie, you little creature, fie;Lullaby, oh, lullaby!Is no poppy-syrup nigh?Give him some, or give him all,I am nodding to his fall!”
“Lullaby, oh, lullaby!Two such nights, and I shall die!Lullaby, oh, lullaby!He’ll be bruised, and so shall I,—How can I from bedposts keep,When I’m walking in my sleep?”
“Lullaby, oh, lullaby!Sleep his very looks deny—Lullaby, oh, lullaby!Nature soon will stupify—My nerves relax,—my eyes grow dim—Who’s that fallen—me or him?”
COME, all conflagrating fellows,Let us have a glorious rig:Sing old Rose, and burn the bellows!Burn me, but I’ll burn my wig!Christmas time is all before us:Burn all puddings, north and south.Burn the Turkey—Burn the Devil!Burn snap-dragon! burn your mouth!Burn the coals! they’re up at sixty!Burn Burn’s Justice—burn Old Coke.Burn the chestnuts! Burn the shovel!Burn a fire, and burn the smoke!Burn burnt almonds. Burn burnt brandy.Let all burnings have a turn.Burn Chabert, the Salamander,—Burn the man that wouldn’t burn!Burn the old year out, don’t ring it;Burn the one that must begin.Burn Lang Syne; and, whilst you’re burning,Burn the burn he paidled in.Burn the boxing! Burn the Beadle!Burn the baker! Burn his man!Burn the butcher—Burn the dustman,Burn the sweeper, if you can!Burn the Postman! burn the postage,Burn the knocker—burn the bell!Burn the folks that come for money!Burn the bills—and burn ’em well.Burn the Parish! Burn the rating!Burn all taxes in a mass.Burn the Paving! Burn the lightning!Burn the burners! Burn the gas!Burn all candles, white or yellow—Burn for war, and not for peace;Burn the Czar of all the Tallow!Burn the King of all the Greece!Burn all canters—burn in Smithfield.Burn Tea-Total hum and bug.Burn his kettle, burn his water,Burn his muffin, burn his mug!Burn the breeks of meddling vicars,Picking holes in Anna’s Urns!Burn all Steers’s Opodeldoc,Just for being good for burns.Burn all Swindlers! Burn Asphaltum!Burn the money-lenders down—Burn all schemes that burn one’s fingers!Burn the Cheapest House in town!Burn all bores and boring topics;Burn Brunel—aye, in his hole!Burn allsubjectsthat are Irish!Burn the niggers black as coal!Burn all Boz’s imitators!Burn all tales without a head!Burn a candle near the curtain!Burn your Burns, and burn your bed!Burn all wrongs that won’t be righted,Poor poor Soup, and Spanish claims—Burn that Bell, and burn his Vixen!Burn all sorts of burning shames!Burn the Whigs! and burn the Tories!Burn all parties, great and small!Burn that everlasting Poynder—Burn his Suttees once for all!Burn the fop that burns tobacco.Burn a Critic that condemns.—Burn Lucifer and all his matches!Burn the fool that burns the Thames!Burn all burning agitators—Burn all torch-parading elves!And oh! burn Parson Stephen’s speeches,If they haven’t burnt themselves.
COME, all conflagrating fellows,Let us have a glorious rig:Sing old Rose, and burn the bellows!Burn me, but I’ll burn my wig!Christmas time is all before us:Burn all puddings, north and south.Burn the Turkey—Burn the Devil!Burn snap-dragon! burn your mouth!Burn the coals! they’re up at sixty!Burn Burn’s Justice—burn Old Coke.Burn the chestnuts! Burn the shovel!Burn a fire, and burn the smoke!Burn burnt almonds. Burn burnt brandy.Let all burnings have a turn.Burn Chabert, the Salamander,—Burn the man that wouldn’t burn!Burn the old year out, don’t ring it;Burn the one that must begin.Burn Lang Syne; and, whilst you’re burning,Burn the burn he paidled in.Burn the boxing! Burn the Beadle!Burn the baker! Burn his man!Burn the butcher—Burn the dustman,Burn the sweeper, if you can!Burn the Postman! burn the postage,Burn the knocker—burn the bell!Burn the folks that come for money!Burn the bills—and burn ’em well.Burn the Parish! Burn the rating!Burn all taxes in a mass.Burn the Paving! Burn the lightning!Burn the burners! Burn the gas!Burn all candles, white or yellow—Burn for war, and not for peace;Burn the Czar of all the Tallow!Burn the King of all the Greece!Burn all canters—burn in Smithfield.Burn Tea-Total hum and bug.Burn his kettle, burn his water,Burn his muffin, burn his mug!Burn the breeks of meddling vicars,Picking holes in Anna’s Urns!Burn all Steers’s Opodeldoc,Just for being good for burns.Burn all Swindlers! Burn Asphaltum!Burn the money-lenders down—Burn all schemes that burn one’s fingers!Burn the Cheapest House in town!Burn all bores and boring topics;Burn Brunel—aye, in his hole!Burn allsubjectsthat are Irish!Burn the niggers black as coal!Burn all Boz’s imitators!Burn all tales without a head!Burn a candle near the curtain!Burn your Burns, and burn your bed!Burn all wrongs that won’t be righted,Poor poor Soup, and Spanish claims—Burn that Bell, and burn his Vixen!Burn all sorts of burning shames!Burn the Whigs! and burn the Tories!Burn all parties, great and small!Burn that everlasting Poynder—Burn his Suttees once for all!Burn the fop that burns tobacco.Burn a Critic that condemns.—Burn Lucifer and all his matches!Burn the fool that burns the Thames!Burn all burning agitators—Burn all torch-parading elves!And oh! burn Parson Stephen’s speeches,If they haven’t burnt themselves.
COME, all conflagrating fellows,Let us have a glorious rig:Sing old Rose, and burn the bellows!Burn me, but I’ll burn my wig!
Christmas time is all before us:Burn all puddings, north and south.Burn the Turkey—Burn the Devil!Burn snap-dragon! burn your mouth!
Burn the coals! they’re up at sixty!Burn Burn’s Justice—burn Old Coke.Burn the chestnuts! Burn the shovel!Burn a fire, and burn the smoke!
Burn burnt almonds. Burn burnt brandy.Let all burnings have a turn.Burn Chabert, the Salamander,—Burn the man that wouldn’t burn!
Burn the old year out, don’t ring it;Burn the one that must begin.Burn Lang Syne; and, whilst you’re burning,Burn the burn he paidled in.
Burn the boxing! Burn the Beadle!Burn the baker! Burn his man!Burn the butcher—Burn the dustman,Burn the sweeper, if you can!
Burn the Postman! burn the postage,Burn the knocker—burn the bell!Burn the folks that come for money!Burn the bills—and burn ’em well.
Burn the Parish! Burn the rating!Burn all taxes in a mass.Burn the Paving! Burn the lightning!Burn the burners! Burn the gas!
Burn all candles, white or yellow—Burn for war, and not for peace;Burn the Czar of all the Tallow!Burn the King of all the Greece!
Burn all canters—burn in Smithfield.Burn Tea-Total hum and bug.Burn his kettle, burn his water,Burn his muffin, burn his mug!
Burn the breeks of meddling vicars,Picking holes in Anna’s Urns!Burn all Steers’s Opodeldoc,Just for being good for burns.
Burn all Swindlers! Burn Asphaltum!Burn the money-lenders down—Burn all schemes that burn one’s fingers!Burn the Cheapest House in town!
Burn all bores and boring topics;Burn Brunel—aye, in his hole!Burn allsubjectsthat are Irish!Burn the niggers black as coal!
Burn all Boz’s imitators!Burn all tales without a head!Burn a candle near the curtain!Burn your Burns, and burn your bed!
Burn all wrongs that won’t be righted,Poor poor Soup, and Spanish claims—Burn that Bell, and burn his Vixen!Burn all sorts of burning shames!
Burn the Whigs! and burn the Tories!Burn all parties, great and small!Burn that everlasting Poynder—Burn his Suttees once for all!
Burn the fop that burns tobacco.Burn a Critic that condemns.—Burn Lucifer and all his matches!Burn the fool that burns the Thames!
Burn all burning agitators—Burn all torch-parading elves!And oh! burn Parson Stephen’s speeches,If they haven’t burnt themselves.