One day the dreary old King of DeathInclined for some sport with the carnal,So he tied a pack of darts on his back,And quietly stole from his charnel.
His head was bald of flesh and of hair,His body was lean and lank;His joints at each stir made a crack, and the curTook a gnaw, by the way, at his shank.
And what did he do with his deadly darts,This goblin of grisly bone?He dabbled and spilled man's blood, and he killedLike a butcher that kills his own.
The first he slaughtered it made him laugh(For the man was a coffin-maker),To think how the mutes, and men in black suits,Would mourn for an undertaker.
Death saw two Quakers sitting at church;Quoth he, "We shall not differ."And he let them alone, like figures of stone,For he could not make them stiffer.
He saw two duellists going to fight,In fear they could not smother;And he shot one through at once—for he knewThey never would shoot each other.
He saw a watchman fast in his box,And he gave a snore infernal;Said Death, "He may keep his breath, for his sleepCan never be more eternal."
He met a coachman driving a coachSo slow that his fare grew sick;But he let him stray on his tedious way,For Death only wars on the QUICK.
Death saw a tollman taking a toll,In the spirit of his fraternity;But he knew that sort of man would extort,Though summoned to all eternity.
He found an author writing his life,But he let him write no further;For Death, who strikes whenever he likes,Is jealous of all self-murther!
Death saw a patient that pulled out his purse,And a doctor that took the sum;But he let them be—for he knew that the "fee"Was a prelude to "faw" and "fum."
He met a dustman ringing a bell,And he gave him a mortal thrust;For himself, by law, since Adam's flaw,Is contractor for all our dust.
He saw a sailor mixing his grog,And he marked him out for slaughter;For on water he scarcely had cared for death,And never on rum-and-water.
Death saw two players playing at cards,But the game wasn't worth a dump,For he quickly laid them flat with a spade,To wait for the final trump!
My pipe is lit, my grog is mixed,My curtains drawn and all is snug;Old Puss is in her elbow chair,And Tray is sitting on the rug.Last night I had a curious dream,Miss Susan Bates was Mistress Mogg—What d'ye think of that, my cat?What d'ye think of that, my dog?
She look'd so fair, she sang so well,I could but woo and she was won;Myself in blue, the bride in white,The ring was placed, the deed was done!Away we went in chaise-and-four,As fast as grinning boys could flog—What d'ye think of that my cat?What d'ye think of that my dog?
What loving tete-a-tetes to come!What tete-a-tetes must still defer!When Susan came to live with me,Her mother came to live with her!With sister Belle she couldn't part,But all MY ties had leave to jog—What d'ye think of that, my cat?What d'ye think of that, my dog?
The mother brought a pretty Poll—A monkey, too, what work he made!The sister introduced a beau—My Susan brought a favorite maid.She had a tabby of her own,—A snappish mongrel christened Grog,—What d'ye think of that, my cat?What d'ye think of that, my dog?
The monkey bit—the parrot screamed,All day the sister strummed and sung,The petted maid was such a scold!My Susan learned to use her tongue;Her mother had such wretched health,She sat and croaked like any frog—What d'ye think of that, my cat?What d'ye think of that, my dog?
No longer Deary, Duck, and Love,I soon came down to simple "M!"The very servants crossed my wish,My Susan let me down to them.The poker hardly seemed my own,I might as well have been a log—What d'ye think of that, my cat?What d'ye think of that, my dog?
My clothes they were the queerest shape!Such coats and hats she never met!My ways they were the oddest ways!My friends were such a vulgar set!Poor Tompkinson was snubbed and huffed,She could not bear that Mister Blogg—What d'ye think of that, my cat?What d'ye think of that, my dog?
At times we had a spar, and thenMamma must mingle in the song—The sister took a sister's part—The maid declared her master wrong—The parrot learned to call me "Fool!"My life was like a London fog—What d'ye think of that, my cat?What d'ye think of that, my dog?
My Susan's taste was superfine,As proved by bills that had no end;Inever had a decent coat—Inever had a coin to spend!She forced me to resign my club,Lay down my pipe, retrench my grog—What d'ye think of that, my cat?What d'ye think of that, my dog?
Each Sunday night we gave a routTo fops and flirts, a pretty list;And when I tried to steal awayI found my study full of whist!Then, first to come, and last to go,There always was a Captain Hogg—What d'ye think of that, my cat?What d'ye think of that, my dog?
Now was not that an awful dreamFor one who single is and snug—With Pussy in the elbow-chair,And Tray reposing on the rug?—If I must totter down the hill'Tis safest done without a clog—What d'ye think of that, my cat?What d'ye think of that, my dog?
Question.
Nose and chin would shame a knocker,Wrinkles that would puzzle Cocker:Mouth which marks the envious scorner,With a scorpion in each corner,Turning its quick tail to sting youIn the place that most may wring you:Eyes of lead-like hue, and gummy;Carcass picked out from some mummyBowels (but they were forgotten,Save the liver, and that's rotten);Skin all sallow, flesh all sodden—Form the Devil would frighten God in.Is't a corpse stuck up for show,Galvanized at times to goWith the Scripture in connection,New proof of the resurrection?Vampyre, ghost, or ghoul, what is it?I would walk ten miles to miss it.
Answer.
Many passengers arrest one,To demand the same free question.Shorter's my reply, and franker—That's the Bard, the Beau, the Banker.Yet if you could bring about,Just to turn him inside out,Satan's self would seem less sooty,And his present aspect—Beauty.Mark that (as he masks the biliousAir, so softly supercilious)Chastened bow, and mock humility,Almost sickened to servility;Hear his tone, (which is to talkingThat which creeping is to walking—Now on all-fours, now on tiptoe),Hear the tales he lends his lip to;Little hints of heavy scandals,Every friend in turn he handles;All which women or which men do,Glides forth in an innuendo,Clothed in odds and ends of humor—Herald of each paltry rumor.From divorces down to dresses,Women's frailties, men's excesses,All which life presents of evilMake for him a constant revel.You're his foe—for that he fears you,And in absence blasts and sears you:You're his friend—for that he hates you,First caresses, and then baits you,Darting on the opportunityWhen to do it with impunity:You are neither—then he'll flatterTill he finds some trait for satire;Hunts your weak point out, then shows itWhere it injures to disclose it,In the mode that's most invidious,Adding every trait that's hideous,From the bile, whose blackening riverRushes through his Stygian liver.Then he thinks himself a lover:Why I really can't discoverIn his mind, age, face, or figure:Viper-broth might give him vigor.Let him keep the caldron steady,He the venom has already.For his faults, he has but ONE—'Tis but envy, when all's done.He but pays the pain he suffers;Clipping, like a pair of snuffers,Lights which ought to burn the brighterFor this temporary blighter.He's the cancer of his species,And will eat himself to pieces;Plague personified, and famine;Devil, whose sole delight is damning!
For his merits, would you know 'em?Once he wrote a pretty Poem.
At Cheltenham, where one drinks one's fillOf folly and cold water,I danced, last year, my first quadrilleWith old Sir Geoffrey's daughter.Her cheek with summer's rose might vie,When summer's rose is newest;Her eyes were blue as autumn's sky,When autumn's sky is bluest;And well my heart might deem her oneOf life's most precious flowers,For half her thoughts were of its sun,And half were of its showers.
I spoke of novels:—"Vivian Gray"Was positively charming,And "Almack's" infinitely gay,And "Frankenstein" alarming;I said "De Vere" was chastely told.Thought well of "Herbert Lacy,"Called Mr. Banim's sketches "bold,"And Lady Morgan's "racy;"I vowed the last new thing of Hook'sWas vastly entertaining;And Laura said—"I dote on books,Because it's always raining!"
I talked of music's gorgeous fane,I raved about Rossini,Hoped Ronzo would come back again,And criticized Paccini;I wished the chorus singers dumb.The trumpets more pacific,And eulogized Brocard's APLOMBAnd voted Paul "terrific."What cared she for Medea's prideOr Desdemona's sorrow?"Alas!" my beauteous listener sighed,"We MUST have storms to-morrow!"
I told her tales of other lands;Of ever-boiling fountains,Of poisonous lakes, and barren sands,Vast forests, trackless mountains;I painted bright Italian skies,I lauded Persian roses,Coined similes for Spanish eyes,And jests for Indian noses;I laughed at Lisbon's love of mass,And Vienna's dread of treason;And Laura asked me where the glassStood at Madrid last season.
I broached whate'er had gone its rounds,The week before, of scandal;What made Sir Luke lay down his houndsAnd Jane take up her Handel;Why Julia walked upon the heath,With the pale moon above her;Where Flora lost her false front teeth,And Anne her false lover;How Lord de B. and Mrs. L.Had crossed the sea together;My shuddering partner cried—"Oh, God!How could they in such weather?"
Was she a blue?—I put my trustIn strata, petals, gases;A boudoir pedant?—I discussedThe toga and the fasces;A cockney-muse?—I mouthed a dealOf folly from Endymion:A saint?—I praised the pious zealOf Messrs. Way and Simeon;A politician?—It was vainTo quote the morning paper;The horrid phantoms come again,Rain, hail, and snow, and vapor.
Flat flattery was my only chance,I acted deep devotion,Found magic in her every glance,Grace in her every motion;I wasted all a stripling's lore,Prayer, passion, folly, feeling;And wildly looked upon the floor,And wildly on the ceiling;I envied gloves upon her arm,And shawls upon her shoulder;And when my worship was most warm,She "never found it colder."
I don't object to wealth or landAnd she will have the givingOf an extremely pretty hand,Some thousands, and a living.She makes silk purses, broiders stools,Sings sweetly, dances finely,Paints screens, subscribes to Sunday-schools,And sits a horse divinely.But to be linked for life to her!—The desperate man who tried it,Might marry a barometer,And hang himself beside it!
Years—years ago—ere yet my dreamsHad been of being wise and witty;Ere I had done with writing themes,Or yawn'd o'er this infernal Chitty;Years, years ago, while all my joysWere in my fowling-piece and filly:In short, while I was yet a boy,I fell in love with Laura Lilly.
I saw her at a country ball;There when the sound of flute and fiddleGave signal sweet in that old hall,Of hands across and down the middle,Hers was the subtlest spell by farOf all that sets young hearts romancing:She was our queen, our rose, our star;And when she danced—oh, heaven, her dancing!
Dark was her hair, her hand was white;Her voice was exquisitely tender,Her eyes were full of liquid light;I never saw a waist so slender;Her every look, her every smile,Shot right and left a score of arrows;I thought't was Venus from her isle,I wondered where she'd left her sparrows.
She talk'd of politics or prayers;Of Southey's prose, or Wordsworth's sonnets;Of daggers or of dancing bears,Of battles, or the last new bonnets;By candle-light, at twelve o'clock,To me it matter'd not a tittle,If those bright lips had quoted Locke,I might have thought they murmured Little.
Through sunny May, through sultry June,I loved her with a love eternal;I spoke her praises to the moon,I wrote them for the Sunday Journal.My mother laughed; I soon found outThat ancient ladies have no feeling;My father frown'd; but how should goutFind any happiness in kneeling?
She was the daughter of a dean,Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic;She had one brother just thirteen.Whose color was extremely hectic;Her grandmother, for many a year,Had fed the parish with her bounty;Her second cousin was a peer,And lord-lieutenant of the county.
But titles and the three per cents,And mortgages, and great relations,And India bonds, and tithes and rents,Oh! what are they to love's sensations?Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks,Such wealth, such honors, Cupid chooses;He cares as little for the stocks,As Baron Rothschild for the muses.
She sketch'd; the vale, the wood, the beach,Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading;She botanized; I envied eachYoung blossom in her boudoir fading;She warbled Handel; it was grand—She made the Catalina jealous;She touch'd the organ; I could standFor hours and hours and blow the bellows.
She kept an album, too, at home,Well fill'd with all an album's glories;Paintings of butterflies and Rome,Patterns for trimming, Persian stories;Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo,Fierce odes to famine and to slaughter;And autographs of Prince Laboo,And recipes of elder water.
And she was flatter'd, worship'd, bored,Her steps were watch'd, her dress was noted,Her poodle dog was quite adored,Her sayings were extremely quoted.She laugh'd, and every heart was glad,As if the taxes were abolish'd;She frown'd, and every look was sad,As if the opera were demolishd.
She smil'd on many just for fun—I knew that there was nothing in it;I was the first the only oneHer heart thought of for a minute;I knew it, for she told me so,In phrase which was divinely molded;She wrote a charming hand, and oh!How sweetly all her notes were folded!
Our love was like most other loves—A little glow, a little shiver;A rosebud and a pair of gloves,And "Fly Not Yet," upon the river;Some jealousy of some one's heir,Some hopes of dying broken-hearted,A miniature, a lock of hair,The usual vows—and then we parted.
We parted—months and years roll'd by;We met again for summers after;Our parting was all sob and sigh—Our meeting was all mirth and laughter;For in my heart's most secret cell,There had been many other lodgers;And she was not the ball-room belle,But only Mrs.—Something—Rogers.
Werther had a love for CharlotteSuch as words could never utter;Would you know how first he met her?She was cutting bread and butter.
Charlotte was a married lady,And a moral man was Werther,And for all the wealth of Indies,Would do nothing for to hurt her.
So he sighed and pined and ogled,And his passion boiled and bubbled.Till he blew his silly brains out,And no more was by it troubled.
Charlotte, having seen his bodyBorne before her on a shutter,Like a well-conducted person,Went on cutting bread and butter.
["A surgeon of the United States army says, that on inquiring of the Captain of his company, he found THAT NINE-TENTHS of the men had enlisted on account of some female difficulty."]—Morning Paper.
Ye Yankee volunteers!It makes my bosom bleedWhen I your story read,Though oft 'tis told one.So—in both hemispheresThe woman are untrue,And cruel in the New,As in the Old one!
What—in this companyOf sixty sons of Mars,Who march 'neath Stripes and Stars,With fife and horn,Nine tenths of all we seeAlong the warlike lineHad but one cause to joinThis Hope Folorn?
Deserters from the realmWhere tyrant Venus reigns,You slipped her wicked chains,Fled and out-ran her.And now, with sword and helm,Together banded areBeneath the Stripe and Star-embroidered banner!
And so it is with allThe warriors ranged in line,With lace bedizened fineAnd swords gold-hilted—Yon lusty corporal,Yon color-man who gripesThe flag of Stars and Stripes—Has each been jilted?
Come, each man of this line,The privates strong and tall,"The pioneers and all,"The fifer nimble—Lieutenant and Ensign,Captain with epaulets,And Blacky there, who beatsThe clanging cymbal—
O cymbal-beating black,Tell us, as thou canst feel,Was it some Lucy NealWho caused thy ruin?O nimble fifing Jack,And drummer making dinSo deftly on the skin,With thy rat-tattooing.
Confess, ye volunteers,Lieutenant and Ensign,And Captain of the line,As bold as Roman—Confess, ye grenadiers,However strong and tall,The Conqueror of you allIs Woman, Woman!
No corselet is so proof,But through it from her bow,The shafts that she can throwWill pierce and rankle.No champion e'er so tough,But's in the struggle thrown,And tripped and trodden downBy her slim ankle.
Thus, always it has ruled,And when a woman smiled,The strong man was a child,The sage a noodle.Alcides was befooled,And silly Samson shorn,Long, long ere you were born,Poor Yankee Doodle!
Fairest of earth! if thou wilt hear my vow,Lo! at thy feet I swear to love thee ever;And by this kiss upon thy radiant brow,Promise afiection which no time shall sever;And love which e'er shall burn as bright as now,To be extinguished—never, dearest, never!Wilt thou that naughty, fluttering heart resign?CATHERINE! my own sweet Kate! wilt thou be mine?
Thou shalt have pearls to deck thy raven hair—Thou shalt have all this world of ours can bring,And we will live in solitude, nor careFor aught save for each other. We will flingAway all sorrow—Eden shall be there!And thou shalt be my queen, and I thy king!Still coy, and still reluctant? Sweetheart say,When shall we monarchs be? and which the day?
Now MRS. PRINGLE, once for all, I sayI will not such extravagance allow!Bills upon bills, and larger every day,Enough to drive a man to drink, I vow!Bonnets, gloves, frippery and trash—nay, nay,Tears, MRS. PRINGLE, will not gull me now—I say I won't allow ten pounds a week;I can't afford it; madam, do not speak!
In wedding you I thought I had a treasure;I find myself most miserably mistaken!You rise at ten, then spend the day in pleasure;—In fact, my confidence is slightly shaken.Ha! what's that uproar? This, ma'am, is my leisure;Sufficient noise the slumbering dead to waken!I seek retirement, and I find—a riot;Confound those children, but I'll make them quiet!
They looked so alike as they sat at their work,(What a pity it is that one isn't a Turk!)The same glances and smiles, the same habits and arts,The same tastes, the same frocks, and (no doubt) the same heartsThe same irresistible cut in their jibs,The same little jokes, and the same little fibs—That I thought the best way to get out of my painWas by—HEADS for Maria, and WOMAN for Jane;For hang ME if it seemed it could matter a straw,Which dear became wife, and which sister-in-law.
But now, I will own, I feel rather inclinedTo suspect I've some reason to alter my mind;And the doubt in my breast daily grows a more strong one,That they're not QUITE alike, and I've taken the wrong one.Jane is always so gentle, obliging, and cool;Never calls me a monster—not even a fool;All our little contentions, 'tis she makes them up,And she knows how much sugar to put in my cup:—Yes, I sometimes HAVE wished—Heav'n forgive me the flaw!—That my very dear wife was my sister-in-law.
Oh, your sister-in-law, is a dangerous thing!The daily comparisons, too, she will bring!Wife—curl-papered, slip-shod, unwashed and undressed;She—ringleted, booted, and "fixed in her best;"Wife—sulky, or storming, or preaching, or prating;She—merrily singing, or laughing, or chatting:Then the innocent freedom her friendship allowsTo the happy half-way between mother and spouse.In short, if the Devil e'er needs a cat's-paw,He can't find one more sure than a sister-in-law.
That no good upon earth can be had undilutedIs a maxim experience has seldom refuted;And preachers and poets have proved it is soWith abundance of tropes, more or less apropos.Every light has its shade, every rose has its thorn,The cup has its head-ache, its poppy the corn,There's a fly in the ointment, a spot on the sun—In short, they've used all illustrations—but one;And have left it to me the most striking to draw—Viz.: that none, without WIVES, can have SISTERS-IN-LAW.
THE LOBSTERS. [Footnote: Appeared at the time of the Anti-popery excitement, produced by the titles of Cardinal Wiseman, etc.] PUNCH.
As a young Lobster roamed about,Itself and mother being out,Their eyes at the same moment fellOn a boiled lobster's scarlet shell"Look," said the younger; "is it trueThat we might wear so bright a hue?No coral, if I trust mine eye,Can with its startling brilliance vie;While you and I must be contentA dingy aspect to present.""Proud heedless fool," the parent cried;"Know'st thou the penalty of pride?The tawdry finery you wish,Has ruined this unhappy fish.The hue so much by you desiredBy his destruction was acquired—So be contented with your lot,Nor seek to change by going to pot."
Silence, all! ye winged choir;Let not yon right reverend sireHear your happy symphony:'Tis too good for such as he.
On the day of rest divine,He poor townsfolk would confineIn their crowded streets and lanes,Where they can not hear your strains.
All the week they drudge away,Having but one holiday;No more time for you, than that—Unlike bishops, rich and fat.
Utter not your cheerful sounds,Therefore, in the bishop's grounds;Make him melody no more,Who denies you to the poor.Linnet, hist! and blackbird, hush!Throstle, be a songless thrush;Nightingale and lark, be mute,Never sing to such a brute.
Robin, at the twilight dim,Never let thine evening hymn,Bird of red and ruthful breast,Lend the bishop's Port a zest.
Soothe not, birds, his lonesome hours,Keeping us from fields and flowers,Who to pen us tries, instead,'Mong the intramural dead.
Only let the raven croakAt him from the rotten oak;Let the magpie and the jayChatter at him on his way.And when he to rest has laid him,Let his ears the screech-owl harry;And the night-jar serenade himWith a proper charivari.
Let other swains, upon the best cream-laidOr wire-wove note, their amorous strains indite;Or, in despair, invoke the limner's aidTo paint the sufferings they can not write:
Upon their page, transfixed with numerous darts,Let slender youths in agony expire;Or, on one spit, let two pale pink calves' heartsRoast at some fierce imaginary fire.
Let ANGELINA there, as in a bowerOf shrubs, unknown to LINDLEY, she reposes,See her own ALFRED to the old church towerLed on by CUPID, in a chain of roses;Or let the wreath, when raised, a cage reveal,Wherein two doves their little bills entwine;(A vile device, which always makes me feelMarriage would only add your bills to mine.)
For arts like these I've neither skill nor time;But if you'll seek the Diggings, dearest maid,And share my fortune in that happier clime,Your berth is taken, and your passage paid.For reading, lately, in my list of things,"Twelve dozen shirts! twelve dozen collars," too!The horrid host of buttons and of stringsFlashed on my spirit, and I thought—of you.
"Surely," I said, as in my chest I dived—That vast receptacle of all things known—"To teach this truth my outfit was contrived,It is not good for man to be alone!"Then fly with me! My bark is on the shore(Her mark A 1, her size eight hundred tons),And though she's nearly full, can take some moreDry goods, by measurement—say GREEN and SONS.
Yes, fly with me! Had all our friends been blind,We might have married, and been happy HERE;But since young married folks the means must findThe eyes of stern society to cheer,And satisfy its numerous demands,I think 'twill save us many a vain expense,If on our wedding cards this Notice stands,"At Home, at Ballarat, just three months hence!"
"Dey must not pass!" was the warning cry of the Austrian sentinelTo one whose little knapsack bore the books he loved so well"Thev must not pass? Now, wherefore not?" the wond'ring tourist cried;"No English book can pass mit me;" the sentinel replied.The tourist laughed a scornful laugh; quoth he, "Indeed, I hopeThere are few English books would please a Kaiser or a Pope;But these are books in common use: plain truths and facts they tell—""Der Teufel! Den dey MOST NOT pass!" said the startled sentinel.
"This Handbook to North Germany, by worthy Mr. MURRAY,Need scarcely put your government in such a mighty flurry;If tourists' handbooks be proscribed, pray have you ever triedTo find a treasonable page in Bradshaws Railway Guide?This map, again, of Switzerland—nay, man, you needn't start orLook black at such a little map, as if't were Magna Charta;I know it is the land of TELL, but, curb your idle fury—We've not the slightest hope, to-day, to find a TELL in your eye(Uri)."
"Sturmwetter!" said the sentinel, "Come! cease dis idle babbles!Was ist dis oder book I see? Das Haus mit sieben Gabbles?I nevvare heard of him bifor, ver mosh I wish I had,For now Ich kann nicht let him pass, for fear he should be bad.Das Haus of Commons it must be; Ja wohl! 'tis so, and denDie Sieben Gabbles are de talk of your chief public men;Potzmiekchen! it is dreadful books. Ja! Ja! I know him well;Hoch Himmel! here he most not pass:" said the learned sentinel.
"Dis PLATO, too, I ver mosh fear, he will corrupt the land,He has soch many long big words, Ich kann nicht onderstand.""My friend," the tourist said, "I fear you're really in the way toQuite change the proverb, and be friends will neither Truth nor PLATO.My books, 'tis true, are little worth, but they have served me long,And I regard the greatness less than the nature of the wrong;So, if the books must stay behind, I stay behind as well.""Es ist mir nichts, mein lieber Freund," said the courteous sentinel.
From what abysses of the unfathom'd seaTurnest thou up, Great Serpent, now and then,If we may venture to believe in thee,And affidavits of sea-faring men?
What whirlpool gulf to thee affords a home!Amid the unknown depths where dost thou dwell?If—like the mermaid, with her glass and comb—Thou art not what the vulgar call a Sell.
Art thou, indeed, a serpent and no sham?Or, if no serpent, a prodigious eel,An entity, though modified by flam,A basking shark, or monstrous kind of seal?
I'll think that thou a true Ophidian art;I can not say a reptile of the deep,Because thou dost not play a reptile's part;Thou swimmest, it appears, and dost not creep.
The Captain was not WALKER but M'QUHAE,I'll trust, by whom thou some time since wast seenAnd him who says he saw thee t'other day,I will not bid address the corps marine.
Sea-Serpent, art thou venomous or not?What sort of snake may be thy class and style?That of Mud-Python, by APOLLO shot,And mentioned—rather often—by CARLYLE?
Or, art thou but a serpent of the mind?Doubts, though subdued, will oft recur again—A serpent of the visionary kind,Proceeding from the grog-oppressed brain?
Art thou a giant adder, or huge asp,And hast thou got a rattle at thy tail?If of the Boa species, couldst thou claspWithin thy fold, and suffocate, a whale?
How long art thou?—Some sixty feet, they say,And more—but how much more they do not know:I fancy thou couldst reach across a bayFrom head to head, a dozen miles or so.
Scales hast thou got, of course—but what's thy weight?On either side 'tis said thou hast a fin,A crest, too, on thy neck, deponents state,A saw-shaped ridge of flabby, dabby skin.
If I could clutch thee—in a giant's grip—Could I retain thee in that grasp sublime?Wouldst thou not quickly through my fingers slip,Being all over glazed with fishy slime?
Hast thou a forked tongue—and dost thou hissIf ever thou art bored with Ocean's play?And is it the correct hypothesisThat thou of gills or lungs dost breathe by way?
What spines, or spikes, or claws, or nails, or fin,Or paddle, Ocean-Serpent, dost thou bear?What kind of teeth show'st thou when thou dost grin?—A set that probably would make one stare.
What is thy diet? Canst thou gulp a shoalOf herrings? Or hast thou the gorge and roomTo bolt fat porpoises and dolphins, whole,By dozens, e'en as oysters we consume?
Art thou alone, thou serpent, on the brine,The sole surviving member of thy race?Is there no brother, sister, wife, of thine,But thou alone, afloat on Ocean's face?
If such a calculation may be made,Thine age at what a figure may we take?When first the granite mountain-stones were laid,Wast thou not present there and then, old Snake?
What fossil Saurians in thy time have been?How many Mammoths crumbled into mold?What geologic periods hast thou seen,Long as the tail thou doubtless canst unfold?
As a dead whale, but as a whale, though dead,Thy floating bulk a British crew did strike;And, so far, none will question what they said,That thou unto a whale wast very like.
A flock of birds a record, rather loose,Describes as hovering o'er thy lengthy hull;Among them, doubtless, there was many a Goose,And also several of the genus Gull.
New Year comes,—so let's be jolly;On the board the Turnip smokes,While we sit beneath, the holly,Eating Greens and passing jokes
How the Cauliflower is steaming,Sweetest flower that ever blows.See, good old Sir Kidney, beaming,Shows his jovial famed red nose.
Here behold the reign of Plenty,—Help the Carrots, hand the Kail;Roots how nice, and herbs how dainty,Well washed down with ADAM'S Ale!
Feed your fill,—untasted onlyLet the fragrant onion go;Or, amid the revels lonely,Go not nigh the mistletoe!
I overheard two matrons grave, allied by close affinity(The name of one was PHYSIC, and the other's was DIVINITY),As they put their groans together, both so doleful and lugubrious:
Says PHYSIC, "To unload the heart of grief, ma'am, is salubrious:Here am I, at my time of life, in this year of our deliverance;My age gives me a right to look for some esteem and reverence.But, ma'am, I feel it is too true what every body says to me,—Too many of my children are a shame and a disgrace to me."
"Ah!" says DIVINITY, "my heart can suffer with another, ma'am;I'm sure I can well understand your feelings as a mother, ma'am.I've some, as well,—no doubt but what you're perfectly aware on't,ma'am,Whose doings bring derision and discredit on their parent, ma'am."
"There are boys of mine," says PHYSIC, "ma'am, such silly fancies nourishing, As curing gout and stomach-ache by pawing and by flourishing."
"Well," says DIVINITY, "I've those that teach that Heaven's beatitudesAre to be earned by postures, genuflexions, bows, and attitudes."
"My good-for-nothing sons," says PHYSIC, "some have turned hydropathists, Some taken up with mesmerism, or joined the homoeopathists."
"Mine," says DIVINITY, "pursue a system of gimcrackery,Called Puseyism, a pack of stuff, and quite as arrant quackery."
Says PHYSIC, "Mine have sleep-walkers, pretending through the hide ofyou,To look, although their eyes are shut, and tell you what's inside ofyou."
"Ah!" says DIVINITY, "so mine, with quibbling and with caviling, Would have you, ma'am, to blind yourself, to see the road to travel in."
"Mine," PHYSIC says, "have quite renounced their good old pills and potions, ma'am, For doses of a billionth of a grain, and such wild notions, ma'am."
"So," says DIVINITY, "have mine left wholesome exhortation, ma'am,For credence-tables, reredoses, rood-lofts, and maceration, ma'am."
"But hospitals," says PHYSIC, "my misguided boys are founding, ma'am."
"Well," says DIVINITY, "of mine, the chapels are abounding, ma'am."
"Mine are trifling with diseases, ma'am," says PHYSIC, "not attacking them."
"Mine," says DIVINITY, "instead of curing souls, are quacking them."
"Ah, ma'am," says PHYSIC, "I'm to blame, I fear, for these absurdities."
"That's my fear too," DIVINITY says; "ma'am, upon my word it is."
Says PHYSIC, "Fees, not science, have been far too much my wishes,ma'am."
"Truth," says DIVINITY, "I've loved much less than loaves and fishes,ma'am."
Says each to each, "We're simpletons, or sad deceivers, some of us;And I am sure, ma'am, I don't know whatever will become of us."
'T was business call'd a Father to travel by the Rail;His eye was calm, his hand was firm, although his cheek was pale.He took his little boy and girl, and set them on his knee;And their mother hung about his neck, and her tears flowed fast andfree.
I'm going by the Rail, my dears—ELIZA, love, don't cry—Now, kiss me both before I leave, and wish Papa good-by.I hope I shall be back again, this afternoon, to tea,And then, I hope, alive and well, that your Papa you'll see.
I'm going by the Rail, my dears, where the engines puff and hiss;And ten to one the chances are that something goes amiss;And in an instant, quick as thought—before you could cry "Ah!"An accident occurs, and—say good-by to poor Papa!
Sometimes from scandalous neglect, my dears, the sleepers sink,And then you have the carriages upset, as you may think.The progress of the train, sometimes, a truck or coal-box checks,And there's a risk for poor Papa's, and every body's necks.
Or there may be a screw loose, a hook, or bolt, or pin—Or else an ill-made tunnel may give way, and tumble in;And in the wreck the passengers and poor Papa remainConfined, till down upon them comes the next Excursion-train.
If a policeman's careless, dears, or if not over-bright,When he should show a red flag, it may be he shows a white;Between two trains, in consequence, there's presently a clash,If poor Papa is only bruised, he's lucky in the smash.
Points may be badly managed, as they were the other day,Because a stingy Company for hands enough won't pay;Over and over goes the train—the engine off the rail,And poor Papa's unable, when he's found, to tell the tale.
And should your poor Papa escape, my darlings, with his life,May he return on two legs, to his children and his wife—With both his arms, my little dears, return your fond embrace,And present to you, unalter'd, every feature of his face.
I hope I shall come back, my dears—but, mind, I am insured—So, in case the worst may happen, you are so far all secured.An action then will also lie for you and your Mamma—And don't forget to bring it—on account of poor Papa.
The Plague has come among us,Miserable sinners!Fear and remorse have stung us,Miserable sinners!We ask the State to fix a day,Whereon all men may fast and pray,That Heaven will please to turn awayThe Plague that works us sore dismay,Miserable sinners!
The Plague that comes among you,Miserable sinners!To effort hath it strung you?Miserable sinners!You ask that all should fast and pray;Better all wake and work, I say;Sloth and supineness put away,That so the Plague may cease to slay;Miserable sinners!
For Plagues, like other evils,Miserable sinners!Are GOD'S and not the Devil's,Miserable sinners!Scourges they are, but in a handWhich love and pity do command:And when the heaviest stripes do fall,'Tis where they're wanted most of all,Miserable sinners!
Look round about your city,Miserable sinners!Arouse to shame and pity,Miserable sinners!Pray: but use brush and limewash pail;Fast: but feed those for want who fail;Bow down, gude town, to ask for graceBut bow with cleaner hands and face,Miserable sinners!
All Time GOD'S Law hath spoken,Miserable sinners!That Law may not be broken,Miserable sinners!But he that breaks it must endureThe penalty which works the cure.To us, for GOD'S great laws transgressed,Is doomsman Pestilence addressed,Miserable sinners!
We can not juggle Heaven,Miserable sinners!With one day out of seven,Miserable sinners!Shall any force of fasts atoneFor years of duty left undone?How expiate with prayer or psalm,Deaf ear, blind eye, and folded palm?Miserable sinners!
Let us be up and stirring,Miserable sinners!'Mong ignorant and erring,Miserable sinners!Sloth and self-seeking from us cast,Believing this the fittest fast,For of all prayers prayed 'neath the sunThere is no prayer like work well done,Miserable sinners!
My son, a father's warning heed;I think my end is nigh:And then, you dog, you will succeedUnto my property.
But, seeing you are not, just yet.Arrived at man's estate,Before you full possession get,You'll have a while to wait.
A large allowance I allotYou during that delay;And I don't recommend you notTo throw it all away.
To such advice you'd ne'er attend;You won't let prudence ruleYour courses; but, I know, will spendYour money like a fool.
I do not ask you to eschewThe paths of vice and sin;You'll do as all young boobies, whoAre left, as you say, tin.
You'll sot, you'll bet; and, being green,At all that's right you'll joke;Your life will be a constant sceneOf billiards and of smoke.
With bad companions you'll consortWith creatures vile and base,Who'll rob you; yours will be, in short,The puppy's common case.
But oh, my son! although you mustThrough this ordeal pass,You will not be, I hope—I trust—A wholly senseless ass.
Of course at prudence you will sneer,On that theme I won't harp;Be good, I won't say—that's severe;But be a little sharp.
All rascally associates shunTo bid you were too much,But, oh I beware, my spooney son,Beware one kind of such.
It asks no penetrative mindTo know these fellows: whenYou meet them, you, unless you're blind,At once discern the men.
The turgid lip, the piggish eye,The nose in form of hook,The rings, the pins, you tell them by,The vulgar flashy look.
Spend every sixpence, if you please,But do not, I implore,Oh! I do not go, my son, to theseVultures to borrow more.
Live at a foolish wicked rate,My hopeful, if you choose,But don't your means anticipateThrough bill-discounting Jews.
[Illustration: CHAUCER]
Lot One, The well-known village, with bridge, and church, and green,Of half a score divertissements the well-remembered scene,Including six substantial planks, forming the eight-inch ridgeOn which the happy peasantry came dancing down the bridge.Lot Two, A Sheet of Thunder. Lot Three, A Box of PeasEmployed in sending storms of hail to rattle through the trees.Lot Four, A Canvas Mossy Bank for Cupids to repose.Lot Five, The old Stage Watering-pot, complete—except the nose.Lot Six, The favorite Water-mill, used for Amina's dream,Complete, with practicable wheel, and painted canvas stream.Lots Seven to Twelve, Some sundries—A Pair of Sylphide's Wings;Three dozen Druid's Dresses (one of them wanting strings).Lots Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen—Three Services of PlateIn real papier mache—all in a decent state;One of these services includes—its value to increase—A full dessert, each plate of fruit forming a single piece.Lot Seventeen, The Gilded Cup, from which Genarro quaffed,Mid loud applause, night after night, Lucrezia's poisoned draught.Lots Eighteen, Nineteen, Twenty, Three rich White Satin Skirts,Lot Twenty-one, A set of six Swiss Peasants' Cotton Shirts.Lot Twenty-two, The sheet that backed Mascaniello's tent.Lot Twenty-three, The Long White Wig—in wool—of Bide-the-Bent.Lots Twenty-three to Forty, The Fish—Soles, Cod, and Dace—For pelting the Vice-regal Guard in Naples' Market-place.Lot Forty-one, Vesuvius, rather the worse for wear.Lots Forty-two to Fifty, Priests' Leggings—at per pair.Lot Fifty-one, The well-known Throne, with canopy and seat,And plank in front, for courtiers to kneel at Sovereigns' feet.Lot Fifty-two, A Royal Robe of Flannel, nearly white,Warranted equal to Cashmere—upon the stage at night—With handsome ermine collar thrown elegantly back;The tails of twisted worsted—pale yellow, tipped with black.Lots Fifty-three to Sixty, Some Jewellery rare—The Crown of Semiramide—complete, with false back hair;The Order worn by Ferdinand, when he proceeds to flingHis sword and medals at the feet of the astonished king.Lot Sixty-one, The Bellows used in Cinderella's song.Lot Sixty-two, A Document. Lot Sixty-three, A Gong.Lots Sixty-four to Eighty, Of Wigs a large array,Beginning at the Druids down to the present day.Lot Eighty-one, The Bedstead on which Amina falls.Lots Eighty-two to Ninety, Some sets of Outer Walls.Lot Ninety-one, The Furniture of a Grand Ducal Room,Including Chair and Table. Lot Ninety-two, A Tomb.Lot Ninety-three, A set of Kilts. Lot Ninety-four, A Rill.Lot Ninety-five, A Scroll, To form death-warrant, deed, or will.Lot Ninety-six, An ample fall of best White Paper Snow.Lot Ninety-seven, A Drinking-cup, brimmed with stout extra tow.Lot Ninety-eight, A Set of Clouds, a Moon, to work on flat;Water with practicable boat. Lot Ninety-nine, A Hat.Lot Hundred, Massive Chandelier. Hundred and one, A Bower.Hundred and two, A Canvas Grove. Hundred and three, A Tower.Hundred and four, A Fountain. Hundred and five, Some Rocks.Hundred and six, The Hood that hides the Prompter in his box.
Our gracious Queen—long may she fill her throne—Has been to see Louis Napoleon.The Majesty of England—bless her heart!—Has cut her mutton with a Bonaparte;And Cousin Germans have survived the viewOf Albert taking luncheon at St. Cloud.
In our young days we little thought to seeSuch legs stretched under such mahogany;That British Royalty would ever shareAt a French Palace, French Imperial fare:Nor eat—as we should have believed at school—The croaking tenant of the marshy pool.At the Trois Freres we had not feasted then,As we have since, and hope to do again.
This great event of course could not take placeWithout fit prodigies for such a case;The brazen pig-tail of King George the ThirdThrice with a horizontal motion stirr'd,Then rose on end, and stood so all day long,Amid the cheers of an admiring throng.In every lawyer's office Eldon shedFrom plaster nose three heavy drops of red.Each Statue, too, of Pitt turn'd up the pointOf its proboscis—was that out of joint?While Charles James Fox's grinn'd from ear to ear,And Peel's emitted frequent cries of "Hear!"
It may be so—perhaps thou hastA warm and loving heart;I will not blame thee for thy face,Poor devil as thou art.
That thing, thou fondly deem'st a nose,Unsightly though it be,—In spite of all the cold world's scorn,It may be much to thee.
Those eyes,—among thine elder friendsPerhaps they pass for blue;—No matter,—if a man can see,What more have eyes to do?
Thy mouth—that fissure in thy faceBy something like a chin,—May be a very useful placeTo put thy victual in.
I know thou hast a wife at home,I know thou hast a child,By that subdued, domestic smileUpon thy features mild.
That wife sits fearless by thy side,That cherub on thy knee;They do not shudder at thy looks,They do not shrink from thee.
Above thy mantel is a hook,—A portrait once was there;It was thine only ornament,—Alas! that hook is bare.
She begged thee not to let it go,She begged thee all in vain:She wept,—and breathed a trembling prayerTo meet it safe again.
It was a bitter sight to seeThat picture torn away;It was a solemn thought to thinkWhat all her friends would say!
And often in her calmer hours,And in her happy dreams,Upon its long-deserted hookThe absent portrait seems.
Thy wretched infant turns his headIn melancholy wise,And looks to meet the placid stareOf those unbending eyes.
I never saw thee, lovely one,—Perchance I never may;It is not often that we crossSuch people in our way;
But if we meet in distant years,Or on some foreign shore,Sure I can take my Bible oathI've seen that face before.
My aunt! my dear unmarried aunt!Long years have o'er her flown;Yet still she strains the aching claspThat binds her virgin zone;I know it hurts her—though she looksAs cheerful as she can;Her waist is ampler than her life,For life is but a span.
My aunt! my poor deluded aunt!Her hair is almost gray;Why will she train that winter curlIn such a spring-like way?How can she lay her glasses down,And say she reads as well,When, through a double convex lens,She just makes out to spell?
Her father—grandpapa! forgiveThis erring lip its smiles—Vowed she should make the finest girlWithin a hundred miles;He sent her to a stylish school;'T was in her thirteenth June;And with her, as the rules required,"Two towels and a spoon."
They braced my aunt against a board,To make her straight and tall;They laced her up, they starved her down,To make her light and small.They pinched her feet, they singed her hair,They screwed it up with pins;—O never mortal suffered moreIn penance for her sins.
So, when my precious aunt was done,My grandsire brought her back;(By daylight, lest some rabid youthMight follow on the track;)"Ah!" said my grandsire, as he shookSome powder in his pan,"What could this lovely creature doAgainst a desperate man!"
Alas! nor chariot, nor barouche,Nor bandit cavalcade,Tore from the trembling father's armsHis all-accomplished maid.For her how happy had it been!And heaven had spared to meTo see one sad, ungathered roseOn my ancestral tree.
My dear young friend, whose shining witSets all the room a-blaze,Don't think yourself a "happy dog,"For all your merry ways;But learn to wear a sober phiz,Be stupid, if you can,It's such a very serious thingTo be a funny man!
You're at an evening party, withA group of pleasant folks,—You venture quietly to crackThe least of little jokes,—A lady doesn't catch the point,And begs you to explain—Alas for one that drops a jestAnd takes it up again!
You're talking deep philosophyWith very special force,To edify a clergymanWith suitable discourse,—You think you 've got him—when he callsA friend across the way,And begs you'll say that funny thingYou said the other day!
You drop a pretty jeu-de-motInto a neighbor's ears,Who likes to give you credit forThe clever thing he hears,And so he hawks your jest aboutThe old authentic one,Just breaking off the point of it,And leaving out the pun!
By sudden change in politics,Or sadder change in Polly,You, lose your love, or loaves, and fallA prey to melancholy,While every body marvels whyYour mirth is under ban,—They think your very grief "a joke,"You're such a funny man!
You follow up a stylish cardThat bids you come and dine,And bring along your freshest wit(To pay for musty wine),You're looking very dismal, whenMy lady bounces in,And wonders what you're thinking ofAnd why you don't begin!
You're telling to a knot of friendsA fancy-tale of woesThat cloud your matrimonial sky,And banish all repose—A solemn lady overhearsThe story of your strife,And tells the town the pleasant news:You quarrel with your wife!
My dear young friend, whose shining witSets all the room a-blaze,Don't think yourself "a happy dog,"For all your merry ways;But learn to wear a sober phiz,Be stupid, if you can,It's such a very serious thingTo be a funny man!
The impossibility of translating this now well-known expression (imperfectly rendered in a companion-work, "Ideas of Napoleonism"), will excuse the title and burden of the present ballad being left in the original French.—TRANSLATOR.
Come, listen all who wish to learnHow nations should be ruled,From one who from his youth has beenIn such-like matters school'd;From one who knows the art to please,Improve and govern men—Eh bien! Ecoutez, aux Idees,Napoleoniennes!
To keep the mind intently fixedOn number One alone—To look to no one's interest,But push along your own,Without the slightest referenceTo how, or what, or when—Eh bien! c'est la premiere IdeeNapoleonienne.
To make a friend, and use him well,By which, of course, I meanTo use him up—until he's drain'dCompletely dry and cleanOf all that makes him useful, andTo kick him over thenWithout remorse—c'est une IdeeNapoleonienne.
To sneak into a good man's houseWith sham credentials penn'd—to sneak into his heart and trust,And seem his children's friend—To learn his secrets, find out whereHe keeps his keys—and thenTo bone his spoons—c'est une IdeeNapoleonienne.
To gain your point in view—to wadeThrough dirt, and slime, and blood—To stoop to pick up what you wantThrough any depth of mud.But always in the fire to thrustSome helpless cat's-paw, whenYour chestnuts burn—c'est une IdeeNapoleonienne.
To clutch and keep the lion's share—To kill or drive awayThe wolves, that you upon the lambsMay, unmolested, prey—To keep a gang of jackals fierceTo guard and stock your den,While you lie down—c'est une IdeeNapoleonienne.
To bribe the base, to crush the good,And bring them to their knees—To stick at nothing, or to stickAt what or whom you please—To stoop, to lie, to brag, to swear,Forswear, and swear again—To rise—Ah! voia des IdeesNapoleoniennes.