The sun was slumbering in the west, my daily labors past;On Anna's soft and gentle breast my head reclined at last;The darkness closed around, so dear to fond congenial souls,And thus she murmured in my ear, "My love, we're out of coals.
"That Mister Bond has called again, insisting on his rent;And all the Todds are coming up to see us, out of Kent;I quite forgot to tell you John has had a tipsy fall;—I'm sure there's something going on with that vile Mary Hall!
"Miss Bell has bought the sweetest milk, and I have bought the rest—Of course, if we go out of town, Southend will be the best.I really think the Jones's house would be the thing for us;I think I told you Mrs. Pope had parted with her NUS—
"Cook, by the way, came up to-day, to bid me suit myself—And, what'd ye think? the rats have gnawed the victuals on the shelf.And, Lord! there's such a letter come, inviting you to fight!Of course you, don't intend to go—God bless you, dear, goodnight!"
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,Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin—(Good heavens! 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 afire!)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 honeyFrom every blossom in the world that blows,Singing in youth's elysium ever sunny,(Another tumb!—that's his precious nose!)
Thy father's pride and hope!(He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!)With pure heart newly stamped from Nature's mint—(Where did he learn that squint?)Thou young domestic dove!(He'll have that jug off, with another shove!)Dear nursling 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, andbrilliant as its star—(I wish that window had an iron bar!)Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove—(I'll tell you what, my love,I can not write, unless he's sent above!)
"LULLABY, O, lullaby!"Thus I heard a father cry,"Lullaby, O, lullaby!The brat will never shut an eye;Hither come, some power divine!Close his lids, or open mine!"
"Lullaby, O, lullaby!What the devil makes him cry?Lullaby, O, lullaby!Still he stares—I wonder why,Why are not the sons of earthBlind, like puppies, from their birth?"
"Lullaby, O, lullaby!"Thus I heard the father cry;"Lullaby, O, lullaby!Mary, you must come and try!—Hush, O, hush, for mercy's sake—The more I sing, the more you wake!"
"Lullaby, O, lullaby!Fie, you little creature, fie!Lullaby, O, lullaby!Is no poppy-syrup nigh?Give him some, or give him all,I am nodding to his fall!"
"Lullaby, O, lullaby!Two such nights and I shall die!Lullaby, O, lullaby!He'll be bruised, and so shall I—How can I from bed-posts keep,When I'm walking in my sleep!"
"Lullaby, O, lullaby!Sleep his very looks deny—Lullaby, O, lullaby!Nature soon will stupefy—My nerves relax—my eyes grow dim—Who's that fallen—me or him?"
"In this good work, Penn appears the greatest, usefullest of God's instruments. Firm and unbending when the exigency requires it—soft and yielding when rigid inflexibility is not a desideratum—fluent and flowing, at need, for eloquent rapidity—slow and retentive in cases of deliberation—never spluttering or by amplification going wide of the mark—never splitting, if it can be helped, with any one, but ready to wear itself out rather in their service—all things as it were with all men—ready to embrace the hand of Jew, Christian, or Mohammedan—heavy with the German, light with the Italian, oblique with the English, upright with the Roman, backward in coming forward with the Hebrew—in short, for flexibility, amiability, constitutional durability, general ability, and universal utility, It would be hard to find a parallel to the great Penn." —Perry's CHARACTERISATION OF A SETTLER.
O! Patent Pen-inventing Perrian Perry!Friend of the goose and gander,That now unplucked of their quill-feathers wander,Cackling, and gabbling, dabbling, making merry,About the happy fen,Untroubled for one penny-worth of pen,For which they chant thy praise all Britain through,From Goose-Green unto Gander-Cleugh!—
Friend to all Author-kind—Whether of Poet or of Proser—Thou art composer unto the composerOf pens—yea, patent vehicles for MindTo carry it on jaunts, or more extensivePERRYgrinations through the realms of thought;Each plying from the Comic to the Pensive,An Omnibus of intellectual sort;
Modern improvements in their course we feel,And while to iron railroads heavy wares,Dry goods and human bodies, pay their fares,Mind flies on steelTo Penrith, Penrhyn, even to Penzance;Nay, penetrates, perchance,To Pennsylvania, or, without rash vaunts,To where the Penguin haunts!
In times bygone, when each man cut his quill,With little Perryan skill,What horrid, awkward, bungling tools of tradeAppeared the writing implements home-made!What Pens were sliced, hewed, hacked, and haggled out,Slit or unslit, with many a various snout,Aquiline, Roman, crooked, square, and snubby.Stumpy and stubby;Some capable of ladye-billets neat,Some only fit for ledger-keeping clerk,And some to grub down Peter Stubbs his mark,Or smudge through some illegible receipt;Others in florid caligraphic plans,Equal to ships, and wiggy heads, and swans!
To try in any common inkstands, then,With all their miscellaneous stocks,To find a decent pen,Was like a dip into a lucky box:You drew—and got one very curly,And split like endive in some hurly-burly;The next unslit, and square at end, a spade,The third, incipient pop-gun, not yet made;The fourth a broom; the fifth of no avail,Turned upward, like a rabbit's tail;And last, not least, by way of a relief,A stump that Master Richard, James or John,Had tried his candle-cookery upon,Making "roast-beef!"
Not so thy Perryan Pens!True to their M's and N's,They do not with a whizzing zig-zag split,Straddle, turn up their noses, sulk, and spit,Or drop large dots,Hugh full-stop blots,Where even semicolons were unfit.
They will not frizzle up, or, broom-like, drudgeIn sable sludge—Nay, bought at proper "Patent Perryan" shops,They write good grammar, sense, and mind their stopsCompose both prose and verse, the sad and merry—For when the editor, whose pains compileThe grown-up Annual, or the Juvenile,Vaunteth his articles, not women's, men's,But lays "by the most celebrated Pens,"What means he but thy Patent Pens, my Perry?
Pleasant they are to feel!So firm! so flexible! composed of steelSo finely tempered—fit for tenderest MissTo give her passion breath,Or kings to sign the warrant stern of death—But their supremest merit still is this,Write with them all your days,Tragedy, Comedy, all kinds of plays—(No dramatist should ever be without 'em)—And, just conceive the bliss—There is so little of the goose about 'em,One's safe from any hiss!Ah! who can paint that first great awful night,Big with a blessing or a blight,When the poor dramatist, all fume and fret,Fuss, fidget, fancy, fever, funking, fright,Ferment, fault-fearing, faintness—more f's yet:Flushed, frigid, flurried, flinching, fitful, flat,Add famished, fuddled, and fatigued, to that,Funeral, fate-foreboding—sits in doubt,Or rather doubt with hope, a wretched marriageTo see his play upon the stage come out;No stage to him! it is Thalia's carriage,And he is sitting on the spikes behind it,Striving to look as if he didn't mind it!
Witness how Beazley vents upon his hatHis nervousness, meanwhile his fate is dealtHe kneads, molds, pummels it, and sits it flat,Squeezes and twists it up, until the felt,That went a beaver in, comes out a rat!
Miss Mitford had mis-givings, and in fright,Upon Rienzi's night,Gnawed up one long kid glove, and all her bag,Quite to a rag.Knowles has confessed he trembled as for life,Afraid of his own "Wife;"Poole told me that he felt a monstrous pailOf water backing him, all down his spine—"The ice-brook's temper"—pleasant to the chine!For fear that Simpson and his Co. should fail.Did Lord Glengall not frame a mental prayer,Wishing devoutly he was Lord knows where?Nay, did not Jerrold, in enormous drouth,While doubtful of Nell Gwynne's eventful luck,Squeeze out and suckMore oranges with his one fevered mouthThan Nelly had to hawk from north to south?Yea, Buckstone, changing color like a mullet,Refused, on an occasion, once, twice, thrice,From his best friend, an ice,Lest it should hiss in his own red-hot gullet.Doth punning Peake not sit upon the pointsOf his own jokes, and shake in all his joints,During their trial?'Tis past denial.And does not Pocock, feeling, like a peacock,All eyes upon him, turn to very meacock?And does not Planche, tremulous and blank,Meanwhile his personages tread the boards,Seem goaded by sharp swords,And called upon himself to "walk the plank?"As for the Dances, Charles and George to boot,What have they moreOf ease and rest, for sole of either foot,Than bear that capers on a hotted floor!
Thus pending—does not Matthews, at sad shiftFor voice, croak like a frog in waters fenny?—Serle seem upon the surly seas adrift?—And Kenny think he's going to Kilkenny?—Haynes Bayly feel Old ditto, with the noteOf Cotton in his ear, a mortal grappleAbout his arms, and Adam's appleBig as a fine Dutch codling in his throat?Did Rodwell, on his chimney-piece, desireOr not to take a jump into the fire?Did Wade feel as composed as music can?And was not Bernard his own Nervous Man?Lastly, don't Farley, a bewildered elf,Quake at the Pantomime he loves to cater,And ere its changes ring transform himself?A frightful mug of human delf?A spirit-bottle—empty of "the cratur"?A leaden-platter ready for the shelf?A thunderstruck dumb-waiter?
To clench the fact,Myself, once guilty of one small rash act,Committed at the Surrey,Quite in a hurry,Felt all this flurry,Corporal worry,And spiritual scurry,Dram-devil—attic curry!All going well,From prompter's bell,Until befellA hissing at some dull imperfect dunce—There's no denyingI felt in all four elements at once!My head was swimming, while my arms were flying!My legs for running—all the rest was frying!
Thrice welcome, then, for this peculiar use,Thy pens so innocent of goose!For this shall dramatists, when they make merry,Discarding port and sherry,Drink—"Perry!"Perry, whose fame, pennated, is let looseTo distant lands,Perry, admitted on all hands,Text, running, German, Roman,For Patent Perryans approached by no man!And when, ah me! far distant be the hour!Pluto shall call thee to his gloomy bower,Many shall be thy pensive mourners, many!And Penury itself shall club its pennyTo raise thy monument in lofty place,Higher than York's or any son of War;While time all meaner effigies shall bury,On due pentagonal baseShall stand the Parian, Perryan, periwigged Perry,Perched on the proudest peak of Penman Mawr!
Once in a barn theatric, deep in Kent,A famed tragedian—one of tuneful tongue—Appeared for that night only—'t was Charles Young.As Rolla he. And as that Innocent,The Child of hapless Cora, on there wentA smiling, fair-hair'd girl. She scarcely flungA shadow, as she walk'd the lamps among—So light she seem'd, and so intelligent!That child would Rolla bear to Cora's lap:Snatching the creature by her tiny gown,He plants her on his shoulder,—All, all clap!While all with praise the Infant Wonder crown,She lisps in Rolla's ear,—"LOOK OUT, OLD CHAP,OR ELSE I'M BLOW'D IF YOU DON'T HAVE ME DOWN!"
SIDDONS. I leave, and unreluctant, the repast;The herb of China is its crown at last.Maiden! hast thou a thimble in thy gear?MAID. Yes, missus, yes.SIDDONS. Then, maiden, place it here,With penetrated, penetrating eyes.MAID. Mine? missus! are they?SIDDONS. Child! thou art unwise,Of needles', not of woman's eyes, I spake.MAID. O dear me! missus, what a sad mistake!SIDDONS. Now canst thou tell me what was that which ledAthenian Theseus into labyrinth dread?MAID. He never told me: I can't say, not I,Unless, mayhap, 't was curiosity.SIDDENS. Fond maiden!MAID. No, upon my conscience, madam!If I was fond of 'em I might have had 'em.SIDDENS. Avoid! avaunt! beshrew me! 'tis in vainThat Shakspeare's language germinates again.
Oh! let me from the festive boardTo thee, my mother, flee;And be my secret sorrow sharedBy thee—by only thee!
In vain they spread the glitt'ring store,The rich repast, in vain;Let others seek enjoyment there,To me 'tis only pain.
There WAS a word of kind advice—A whisper soft and low,But oh! that ONE resistless smile!Alas! why was it so?
No blame, no blame, my mother dear.Do I impute to YOU,But since I ate that currant tartI don't know what to do!
Four be the elements,Here we assemble 'em,Each of man's worldAnd existence an emblem.
Press from the lemonThe slow flowing juices—Bitter is lifeIn its lessons and uses.
Bruise the fair sugar lumps—Nature intendedHer sweet and severeTo be everywhere blended.
Pour the still water—Unwarning by sound,Eternity's oceanIs hemming us round.
Mingle the spirit,The life of the bowl—Man is an earth-clodUnwarmed by a soul!
Drink of the streamEre its potency goes!—No bath is refreshingExcept while it glows!
She's not what fancy painted her—I'm sadly taken in:If some one else had won her, IShould not have cared a pin.
I thought that she was mild and goodAs maiden e'er could be;I wonder how she ever couldHave so much humbugg'd me.
They cluster round and shake my hand—They tell me I am blest:My case they do not understand—I think that I know best.
They say she's fairest of the fair—They drive me mad and madder.What do they mean by it? I swearI only wish they had her.
'Tis true that she has lovely locks,That on her shoulders fall;What would they say to see the boxIn which she keeps them all?Her taper fingers, it is true,'Twere difficult to match:What would they say if they but knewHow terribly they scratch?
Friend of my soul, this water sip,Its strength you need not fear;Tis not so luscious as egg-flip,Nor half so strong as beer.Like Jenkins when he writes,It can not touch the mind;Unlike what he indites,No nausea leaves behind.
ADDRESSED TO ** **** ***** ON THE 29TH Of SEPTEMBERWHEN WE PARTED FOR THE LAST TIME.PUNCH.
I have watch'd thee with rapture, and dwelt on thy charms,As link'd in Love's fetters we wander'd each day;And each night I have sought a new life in thy arms,And sigh'd that our union could last not for aye.
But thy life now depends on a frail silken thread,Which I even by kindness may cruelly sever,And I look to the moment of parting with dread,For I feel that in parting I lose thee forever.
Sole being that cherish'd my poor troubled heart!Thou know'st all its secrets—each joy and each grief;And in sharing them all thou did'st ever impartTo its sorrows a gentle and soothing relief.
The last of a long and affectionate race,As thy days are declining I love thee the more,For I feel that thy loss I can never replace—That thy death will but leave me to weep and deplore.
Unchanged, thou shalt live in the mem'ry of years,I can not—I will not—forget what thou wert!While the thoughts of thy love as they call forth my tears,In fancy will wash thee once more—MY LAST SHIRT.GRUB-STREET.
There is a madness of the heart, not head—That in some bosoms wages endless war;There is a throe when other pangs are dead,That shakes the system to its utmost core.
There is a tear more scalding than the brineThat streams from out the fountain of the eye,And like the lava leaves a scorched line,As in its fiery course it rusheth by.
What is that madness? Is it envy, hate,Or jealousy more cruel than the grave,With all the attendants that upon it waitAnd make the victim now despair, now rave?
It is when hunger, clam'ring for relief,Hears a shrill voice exclaim, "That graceless sinner,The cook, has been, and gone, and burnt the beef,And spilt the tart—in short, she's dish'd the dinner!"
He wore a brace of pistols the night when first we met,His deep-lined brow was frowning beneath his wig of jet,His footsteps had the moodiness, his voice the hollow tone,Of a bandit-chief, who feels remorse, and tears his hair alone—I saw him but at half-price, yet methinks I see him now,In the tableau of the last act, with the blood upon his brow.
A private bandit's belt and boots, when next we met, he woreHis salary, he told me, was lower than before;And standing at the O. P. wing he strove, and not in vain,To borrow half a sovereign, which he never paid.I saw it but a moment—and I wish I saw it now—As he buttoned up his pocket with a condescending bow.
And once again we met; but no bandit chief was there;His rouge was off, and gone that head of once luxuriant hairHe lodges in a two-pair back, and at the public near,He can not liquidate his "chalk," or wipe away his beer.I saw him sad and seedy, yet methinks I see him now,In the tableau of the last act, with the blood upon his brow.
Stiff are the warrior's muscles,Congeal'd, alas! his chyle;No more in hostile tusslesWill he excite his bile.Dry is the epidermis,A vein no longer bleeds—And the communis vermisUpon the warrior feeds.
Compress'd, alas! the thorax,That throbbed with joy or pain;Not e'en a dose of boraxCould make it throb again.Dried up the warrior's throat is,All shatter'd too, his head:Still is the epiglottis—The warrior is dead.
Though largely developed's my organ of order,And though I possess my destructiveness small,On suicide, dearest, you'll force me to border,If thus you are deaf to my vehement call
For thee veneration is daily extending,On a head that for want of it once was quite flat;If thus with my passion I find you contending,My organs will swell till they've knocked off my hat
I know, of perceptions, I've none of the clearest;For while I believe that by thee I'm beloved,I'm told at my passion thou secretly sneerest;But oh! may the truth unto me never be proved!
I'll fly to Deville, and a cast of my foreheadI'll send unto thee;—then upon thee I'll call.Rejection—alas! to the lover how horrid—When 'tis passion that SPURS-HIM, 'tis bitter as GALL.
I love thee, Mary, and thou lovest me—Our mutual flame is like th' affinityThat doth exist between two simple bodies:I am Potassium to thine Oxygen.'Tis little that the holy marriage vowShall shortly make us one. That unityIs, after all, but metaphysicalO, would that I, my Mary, were an acid,A living acid; thou an alkaliEndow'd with human sense, that, brought together,We both might coalesce into one salt,One homogeneous crystal. Oh! that thouWert Carbon, and myself were Hydrogen;We would unite to form olefiant gas,Or common coal, or naphtha—would to heavenThat I were Phosphorus, and thou wert Lime!And we of Lime composed a Phosphuret.I'd be content to be Sulphuric Acid,So that thou might be Soda. In that caseWe should be Glauber's Salt. Wert thou MagnesiaInstead we'd form that's named from Epsom.Couldst thou Potassa be, I Aqua-fortis,Our happy union should that compound form,Nitrate of Potash—otherwise Saltpeter.And thus our several natures sweetly blent,We'd live and love together, until deathShould decompose the fleshly TERTIUM QUID,Leaving our souls to all eternityAmalgamated. Sweet, thy name is BriggsAnd mine is Johnson. Wherefore should not weAgree to form a Johnsonate of Briggs?We will. The day, the happy day, is nigh,When Johnson shall with beauteous Briggs combine.
O, lady wake!—the azure moonIs rippling in the verdant skies,The owl is warbling his soft tune,Awaiting but thy snowy eyes.The joys of future years are past,To-morrow's hopes have fled away;Still let us love, and e'en at last,We shall be happy yesterday.
The early beam of rosy nightDrives off the ebon morn afar,While through the murmur of the lightThe huntsman winds his mad guitar.Then, lady, wake! my brigantinePants, neighs, and prances to be free;Till the creation I am thine,To some rich desert fly with me.
Pledge of a feather'd pair's affection,Kidnapped in thy downy nest,Soon for my breakfast—sad reflection!—Must thou in yon pot be drest.
What are the feelings of thy mother?Poor bereaved, unhappy hen!Though she may lay, perchance, another,Thee she ne'er will see again.
Yet do not mourn. Although above theeNever more shall parent brood.Know, dainty darling! that I love theeDearly as thy mother could.
His eye was stern and wild,—his cheek was pale and cold as clay;Upon his tightened lip a smile of fearful meaning lay;He mused awhile—but not in doubt—no trace of doubt was there;It was the steady solemn pause of resolute despair.Once more he look'd upon the scroll—once more its words he read—Then calmly, with unflinching hand, its folds before him spread.I saw him bare his throat, and seize the blue cold-gleaming steel,And grimly try the tempered edge he was so soon to feel!A sickness crept upon my heart, and dizzy swam my head,—I could not stir—I could not cry—I felt benumb'd and dead;Black icy horrors struck me dumb, and froze my senses o'er;I closed my eyes in utter fear, and strove to think no more.
* * * * * * *
Again I looked,—a fearful change across his face had pass'd—He seem'd to rave,—on cheek and lip a flaky foam was cast;He raised on high the glittering blade—then first I found a tongue—"Hold, madman! stay thy frantic deed!" I cried, and forth I sprung;He heard me, but he heeded not; one glance around he gave;And ere I could arrest his hand, he had begun to SHAVE!
Oh! carve me yet another slice,O help me to more gravy still,There's naught so sure as something niceTo conquer care, or grief to kill.
I always loved a bit of beef,When Youth and Bliss and Hope were mine;And now it gives my heart reliefIn sorrow's darksome hour—to dine!
A weakness seizes on my mind—I would more pudding take;But all in vain—I feel—I feel—my little head will ache.Oh! that I might alone be left, to rest where now I am,And finish with a piece of bread that pot of currant jam.
I gaze upon the cake with tears, and wildly I deploreThat I must take a powder if I touch a morsel more,Or oil of castor, smoothly bland, will offer'd be to me,In wave pellucid, floating on a cup of milkless tea.
It may be so—I can not tell—I yet may do without;They need not know, when left alone, what I have been about.I long to eat that potted beef—to taste that apple-pie;I long—I long to eat some more, but have not strength to try.
I gasp for breath, and now I know I've eaten far too much;Not one more crumb of all the feast before me can I touch.Susan, oh! Susan, ring the bell, and call for mother, dear,My brain swims round—I feel it all—mother, your child is queer!
Oh, solitude! thou wonder-working fay,Come nurse my feeble fancy in your arms,Though I, and thee, and fancy town-pent lay,Come, call around, a world of country charms.Let all this room, these walls dissolve away,And bring me Surrey's fields to take their place:This floor be grass, and draughts as breezes play;Yon curtains trees, to wave in summer's face;My ceiling, sky; my water-jug a stream;My bed, a bank, on which to muse and dream.The spell is wrought: imagination swellsMy sleeping-room to hills, and woods, and dells!I walk abroad, for naught my footsteps hinder,And fling my arms. Oh! mi! I've broke the WINDER!
My head is like a title-deed,Or abstract of the same:Wherein, my Bessy, thou may'st readThine own long-cherish'd name.
Against thee I my suit have brought,I am thy plaintiff lover,And for the heart that thou hast caught,An action lies—of trover.
Alas, upon me every dayThe heaviest costs you levy:Oh, give me back my heart—but nay!I feel I can't replevy.
I'll love thee with my latest breath,Alas, I can not YOU shun,Till the hard hand of SHERIFF deathTakes me in execution.
Say, BESSY dearest, if you willAccept me as a lover?Must true affection file a billThe secret to discover?
Is it my income's small amountThat leads to hesitation?Refer the question of accountTo CUPID'S arbitration.
Oh! take away my wig and gown,Their sight is mockery now to me.I pace my chambers up and down,Reiterating "Where is HE?"
Alas! wild echo, with a moan,Murmurs above my feeble head:In the wide world I am alone;Ha! ha! my only client's—dead!
In vain the robing-room I seek;The very waiters scarcely bow,Their looks contemptuously speak,"He's lost his only client now."
E'en the mild usher, who, of yore,Would hasten when his name I said,To hand in motions, comes no more,HE knows my only client's dead.
Ne'er shall I, rising up in court,Open the pleadings of a suit:Ne'er shall the judges cut me shortWhile moving them for a compute.
No more with a consenting briefShall I politely bow my head;Where shall I run to hide my grief?Alas! my only client's dead.
Imagination's magic powerBrings back, as clear, as clear as can be,The spot, the day, the very hour,When first I sign'd my maiden plea.
In the Exchequer's hindmost rowI sat, and some one touched my head,He tendered ten-and-six, but oh!That only client now is dead.
In vain I try to sing—I'm hoarse:In vain I try to play the flute,A phantom seems to flit across—It is the ghost of a compute.
I try to read,—but all in vain;My chamber listlessly I tread;Be still, my heart; throb less, my brain;Ho! ho! my only client's dead.
I think I hear a double knock:I did—alas! it is a dun.Tailor—avaunt! my sense you shock;He's dead! you know I had but one.
What's this they thrust into my hand?A bill returned!—ten pounds for bread!My butcher's got a large demand;I'm mad! my only client's dead.
They met, 't was in a stormOn the deck of a steamer;She spoke in language warm,Like a sentimental dreamer.He spoke—at least he tried;His position he altered;Then turned his face aside,And his deep-ton'd voice falter'd.
She gazed upon the wave,Sublime she declared it;But no reply he gave—He could not have dared it.A breeze came from the south,Across the billows sweeping;His heart was in his mouth,And out he thought 't was leaping.
"O, then, Steward!" he criedWith the deepest emotion;Then totter'd to the side,And leant o'er the ocean.The world may think him cold,But they'll pardon him with quickness,When the fact they shall be told,That he suffer'd from sea-sickness.
"OH! WILT THOU SEW MY BUTTONS ON?"[Footnote: "Wilt thou love me then as now" and "I will love thee thenas now" were two popular songs in 1849]AND"YES, I WILL SEW THY BUTTONS ON!"PUNCH.
[Just at present no lyrics have so eclatant a succes de societe as the charming companion ballads which, under the above pathetic titles, have made a fureur in the fashionable circles to which the fair composer, to whom they are attributed in the causeries of May Fair and Belgravia (The HON. MRS. N—T—N), belongs. The touching event to which they refer, is the romantic union of the HON. MISS BL—CHE DE F—TZ—FL—M to C—PT—N DE B—RS, of the C-DS—M G—DS, which took the beau monde by surprise last season. Previous to the eclaircissement, the gifted and lovely composer, at a ball given by the distinguished D—CH—SS of S—TH—D, accidentally overheard the searching question of the gallant but penniless Captain, and the passionate and self- devoted answer of his lovely and universally admired fiancee. She instantly rushed home and produced these pathetic and powerful ballads.]
"Oh! wilt thou sew my buttons on,When gayer scenes recallThat fairy face, that stately grace,To reign amid the ball?When Fulham's bowers their sweetest flowersFor fete-champetres shall don,Oh! say, wilt thou, of queenly brow,Still sew my buttons on?
"The noble, sweet, are at thy feet,To meet a freezing eye;The gay, the great, in camp and state,In vain around thee sigh.Thou turn'st away, in scorn of sway,To bless a younger son—But when we live in lodgings, say,Wilt sew his buttons on?"
"Yes I will sew thy buttons on,Though all look dark and drear;And scant, they say, lieutenant's pay,Two hundred pounds a year.Let HOW'LL and JAMES tempt wealthier dames,Of gauds and gems I'll none;Nor ask to roam, but sit at home,And sew thy buttons on!
"When ladies blush 'neath lusters' flush,And fast the waltzers fly,Though tame at tea I bide with thee,No tear shall dim my eye.When summer's close brings Chiswick shows—When all from town have gone,I'll sit me down, nor pout nor frown,But sew thy buttons on!"
THE PAID BILLA BALLAD OF DOMESTIC ECONOMY.PUNCHO fling not this receipt away,Given by one who trusted thee;Mistakes will happen every dayHowever honest folks may be.And sad it is, love, twice to pay;So cast not that receipt away!
Ah, yes; if e'er, in future hours,When we this bill have all forgot,They send it in again—ye powers!And swear that we have paid it not—How sweet to know, on such a dayWe've never cast receipts away!
The quality of bribery is deep stained;It droppeth from a hand behind the doorInto the voter's palm. It istwice dirty:It dirts both him that gives, and him that takes.'Tis basest in the basest, and becomesLow blacklegs more than servants of the Crown.Those swindlers show the force of venal power,The attribute to trick and roguery,Whereby 'tis managed that a bad horse wins:But bribery is below their knavish "lay."It is the vilest of dishonest things;It was the attribute to Gatton's self;And other boroughs most like Gatton showWhen bribery smothers conscience. Therefore, you,Whose conscience takes the fee, consider this—That in the cause of just reform, you allShould lose your franchise: we do dislike bribery;And that dislike doth cause us to object toThe deeds of W. B.
I met the waiter in his primeAt a magnificent hotel;His hair, untinged by care or time,Was oiled and brushed exceeding well.When "waiter," was the impatient cry,In accents growing stronger,He seem'd to murmur "By and by,Wait a little longer."
Within a year we met once more,'Twas in another part of town—An humbler air the waiter wore,I fancied he was going down.Still, when I shouted "Waiter, bread!"He came out rather stronger,As if he'd say with toss of head,"Wait a little longer."
Time takes us on through many a grace;Of "ups and downs" I've had my run,Passing full often through the shadeAnd sometimes loitering in the sun.I and the waiter met againAt a small inn at Ongar;Still, when I call'd, 't was almost vain—He bade me wait the longer.
Another time—years since the last—At eating-house I sought reliefFrom present care and troubles past,In a small plate of round of beef."One beef, and taturs," was the cry,In tones than mine much stronger;'T was the old waiter standing by,"Waiting a little longer."
I've marked him now for many a year;I've seen his coat more rusty grow;His linen is less bright and clear,His polished pumps are on the go.Torn are, alas! his Berlin gloves—They used to be much stronger,The waiter's whole appearance provesHe can not wait much longer.
I sometimes see the waiter still;'Gainst want he wages feeble strife;He's at the bottom of the hill,Downward has been his path through life.Of "waiter, waiter," there are cries,Which louder grow and stronger;'Tis to old Time he now replies,"Wait a little longer."
[Illustration: Oliver Wendell Holmes]
YANKEE DOODLE sent to TownHis goods for exhibition;Every body ran him down,And laugh'd at his position.They thought him all the world behind;A goney, muff, or noodle;Laugh on, good people—never mind—Says quiet YANKEE DOODLE.
Chorus.—YANKEE DOODLE, etc.
YANKEE DOODLE had a craft,A rather tidy clipper,And he challenged, while they laughed,The Britishers to whip her.Their whole yacht-squadron she outsped,And that on their own water;Of all the lot she went a-head,And they came nowhere arter.
Chorus.—YANKEE DOODLE, etc.
O'er Panama there was a schemeLong talk'd of, to pursue aShort route—which many thought a dream—By Lake Nicaragua.JOHN BULL discussed the plan on foot,With slow irresolution,While YANKEE DOODLE went and putIt into execution.
Chorus.—YANKEE DOODLE, etc.
A steamer of the COLLINS line,A YANKEE DOODLE'S notion,Has also quickest cut the brineAcross the Atlantic Ocean.And British agents, no ways slowHer merits to discover,Have been and bought her—just to towThe CUNARD packets over.
CHORUS.—YANKEE DOODLE, etc.
Your gunsmiths of their skill may crack,But that again don't mention:I guess that COLTS' revolvers whackTheir very first invention.By YANKEE DOODLE, too, you're beatDownright in Agriculture,With his machine for reaping wheat,Chaw'd up as by a vulture.
CHORUS.—YANKEE DOODLE, etc.
You also fancied, in your pride,Which truly is tarnation,Them British locks of yourn defiedThe rogues of all creation;But CHUBBS' and BRAMAH'S HOBBS has pick'd,And you must now be view'd allAs having been completely lickedBy glorious YANKEE DOODLE.
CHORUS.—YANKEE DOODLE, etc.
Come strike me the harp with its soul-stirring twang,The drum shall reply with its hollowest bang;Up, up in the air with the light tamborine,And let the dull ophecleide's groan intervene;For such is our life, lads, a chaos of sounds,Through which the gay traveler actively bounds.With the voice of the public the statesman must chime,And change the key-note, boys, exactly in time;The lawyer will coolly his client survey,As an instrument merely whereon he can play.Then harp, drum, and cymbals together shall clang,With a loud-tooral lira, right tooral, bang, bang!
MR. MEADOWS . . . . A Country Gentleman.PRIGWELL . . . . . With a heavy heart and light fingers.BROWN . . . . . . . Friends of each other.JONES . . . . . . . Friends of each other.BLIND VOCALIST . . Who will attempt the song of "Heythe Bonny Breast Knot."
The Scene represents Ludgate Hill in the middle of the day;Passengers, Omnibuses, etc., etc., passing to and fro.
MEADOWS enters, musing.
MEADOWS. I stand at last on Ludgate's famous hill;I've traversed Farringdon's frequented vale,I've quitted Holborn's heights—the slopes of Snow,Where Skinner's sinuous street, with tortuous track,Trepans the traveler toward the field of Smith;That field, whose scents burst on the offended noseWith foulest flavor, while the thrice shocked ear,Thrice shocked with bellowing blasphemy and blows,Making one compound of Satanic sound,Is stunned, in physical and moral sense.But this is Ludgate Hill—here commerce thrives;Here, merchants carry trade to such a heightThat competition, bursting builders' bonds,Starts from the shop, and rushing through the roof,Unites the basement with the floors above;Till, like a giant, that outgrows his strength,The whole concern, struck with abrupt collapse,In one "tremendous failure" totters down!—'Tis food on which philosophy may fatten.[Turns round, musing, and looks into a shop window
Enter PRIGWELL, talking to himself.
PRIGWELL. I've made a sorry day of it thus far;I've fathomed fifty pockets, all in vain;I've spent in omnibuses half-a-crown;I've ransacked forty female reticules—And nothing found—some business must be done.By Jove—I'd rather turn Lascar at once:Allow the walnut's devastating juiceTo track its inky course along my cheek,And stain my British brow with Indian brown.Or, failing that, I'd rather drape myselfIn cheap white cotton, or gay colored chintz—Hang roung my ear the massive curtain-ring—With strings of bold, effective glassy beadsCircle my neck—and play the Brahmin Priest,To win the sympathy of passing crowds,And melt the silver in the stranger's purse.But ah! (SEEING MEADOWS) the land of promise looms before meThe bulging skirts of that provincial coatTell tales of well-filled pocket-books within.[Goes behind Meadows and empties his pockets
This is indeed a prize![Meadows turns suddenly round,
Your pardon, sir;Is this, the way to Newgate?
MEADOWS. Why, indeedI scarce can say; I'm but a stranger here,I should not like to misdirect you.
PRIGWELL. Thank you,I'll find the way to Newgate by myself.[Exit.
MEADOWS (STILL MUSING). This is indeed a great Metropolis.
BLIND VOCALIST (SINGING). Hey, the bonny! (KNOCKS UP AGAINST MEADOWS,WHO EXIT). Ho! the bonny—(A PASSENGER KNOCKS UP AGAINST THE BLINDVOCALIST ON THE OTHER SIDE). Hey, the bonny—(A BUTCHER'S TRAY STRIKESTHE BLIND VOCALIST IN THE CHEST)—breast knot. AS HE CONTINUES SINGING"HEY, THE BONNY! HO, THE BONNY," THE BLIND VOCALIST ENCOUNTERS VARIOUSCOLLISIONS, AND HIS BREATH BEING TAKEN AWAY BY A POKE OR A PUSHBETWEEN EACH BAR, HE IS CARRIED AWAY BY THE STREAM OF PASSENGERS.
BROWN. How are you, JONES?
JONES. Why, BROWN, I do declare'Tis quite an age since you and I have met.
BROWN. I'm quite delighted.
JONES. I'm extremely glad.[An awkward pause
BROWN. Well! and how are you?
JONES. Thank you, very well;And you, I hope are well?
BROWN. Quite well, I thank you.[Another awkward pause.
JONES. Oh!—by the way—have you seen THOMSON lately?
BROWN. Not very lately. (After a pause, and as if struck with a happy idea). But I met with SMITH— A week ago.
JONES. Oh! did you though, indeed?And how was SMITH?
Brown. Why, he seemed pretty well [Another long pause; at the end of which both appear as if they were going to speak to each other.
JONES. I beg your pardon.
SMITH. You were going to speak?
JONES. Oh! nothing. I was only going to say—Good morning.
SMITH. Oh! and so was I. Good-day.[Both shake hands, and are going off in opposite directions,when Smith turns round. Jones turning round at the sametime they both return and look at each other.
JONES. I thought you wished to speak, by looking back.
BROWN. Oh no. I thought the same.
BOTH TOGETHER. Good-by! Good-by! [Exeunt finally; and the conversation and the curtain drop together.
PROCLIVIOR.(A slight Variation on LONGFELLOW'S "EXCELSIOR.")PUNCH.
The shades of night were falling fast,As tow'rd the Haymarket there pass'dA youth, whose look told in a triceThat his taste chose the queer device—PROCLIVIOR!
His hat, a wide-awake; beneathHe tapp'd a cane against his teeth;His eye was bloodshot, and there rung,Midst scraps of slang, in unknown tongue,PROCLIVIOR!
In calm first-floors he saw the lightOf circles cosy for the night;But far ahead the gas-lamps glow;He turn'd his head, and murmur'd "Slow,"PROCLIVIOR!
"Come early home," his Uncle said,"We all are early off to bed;The family blame you far and wide;"But loud that noisy youth replied—PROCLIVIOR!
"Stay," said his Aunt, "come home to sup,Early retire—get early up."A wink half quivered in his eye;He answered to the old dame's sigh—PROCLIVIOR!
"Mind how you meddle with that lamp!And mind the pavement, for it's damp!"Such was the Peeler's last good-nightA faint voice stutter'd out "All right."PROCLIVIOR!
At break of day, as far West-wardA cab roll'd o'er the highways hard,The early mover stopp'd to stareAt the wild shouting of the fare—PROCLIVIOR!
And by the bailiff's faithful hound,At breakfast-time, a youth was found,Upon three chairs, with aspect nice,True to his young life's queer device,PROCLIVIOR!
Thence, on a dull and muggy day,They bore him to the Bench away,And there for several months he lay,While friends speak gravely as they say—PROCLIVIOR!
Enter JONES, meeting OILY the barber.
JONES. I wish my hair cut.
OILY. Pray, sir, take a seat.
OILY puts a chair for JONES, who sits. During the following dialogueOILY continues cutting JONES'S hair.
OILY. We've had much wet, sir.
JONES. Very much, indeed.
OILY. And yet November's early days were fine.
JONES. They were.
OILY. I hoped fair weather might have lasted usUntil the end.
JONES. At one time—so did I.
OILY. But we have had it very wet.
JONES. We have.
[A pause of some minutes.
OILY. I know not, sir, who cut your hair last time;But this I say, sir, it was badly cut:No doubt 't was in the country.
JONES. No! in town!
OILY. Indeed! I should have fancied otherwise.
JONES. 'Twas cut in town—and in this very room.
OILY. Amazement!—but I now remember well.We had an awkward, new provincial hand,A fellow from the country. Sir, he didMore damage to my business in a weekThan all my skill can in a year repair.He must have cut your hair.
JONES (looking at him). No—'twas yourself.
OILY. Myself! Impossible! You must mistake.
JONES. I don't mistake—'twas you that cut my hair.
[A long pause, interrupted only by the clipping of the scissors.
OILY. Your hair is very dry, sir.
JONES. Oh! indeed.
OILY. Our Vegetable Extract moistens it.
JONES. I like it dry.
OILY. But, sir, the hair when dry.
Turns quickly gray.
JONES. That color I prefer,
OILY. But hair, when gray, will rapidly fall off,And baldness will ensue.
JONES. I would be bald.
OILY. Perhaps you mean to say you'd like a wig.—We've wigs so natural they can't be toldFrom real hair.
JONES. Deception I detest.
[Another pause ensues, during which OILY blows down JONES'S neck, and relieves him from the linen wrapper in which he has been enveloped during the process of hair-cutting.
OILY. We've brushes, soaps, and scent, of every kind.
JONES. I see you have. (Pays 6d.) I think you'll find thatright.OILY. If there is nothing I can show you, sir,
JONES. No: nothing. Yet—there may be something, too,That you may show me.
OILY. Name it, sir.
JONES. The door.
[EXIT JONES.OILY (to his man). That's a rum customer at any rate.Had I cut him as short as he cut me,How little hair upon his head would be!But if kind friends will all our pains requite,We'll hope for better luck another night.
[Shop-bell rings and curtain falls.
It may not be—go maidens, go,Nor tempt me to the mistletoe;I once could dance beneath its bough,But must not, will not, can not, now!
A weight—a load within I bear;It is not madness nor despair;But I require to be at rest,So that my burden may-digest!
SAPPHICS OF THE CABSTAND[Footnote: See The Friend of Humanity and the Knife-Grinder]PUNCH.
Seedy Cab-driver, whither art thou going?Sad is thy fate—reduced to law and order,Local self-government yielding to the gripe ofCentralization.
Victim of FITZROY! little think the M.P.s,Lording it o'er cab, 'bus, lodging-house, and grave-yard,Of the good times when every Anglo Saxon'sHouse was his castle.
Say, hapless sufferer, was it Mr. CHADWICK—Underground foe to the British Constitution—Or my LORD SHAFTESBURY, put up MR. FITZROYThus to assail you?
Was it the growth of Continental notions,Or was it the Metropolitan police-forcePrompted this blow at Laissez-faire, that free andEasiest of doctrines?
Have you not read Mr. TOULMIN SMITH'S great work onCentralization? If you haven't, buy it;Meanwhile I should be glad at once to hear yourView on the subject.
View on the subject? jiggered if I've got one;Only I wants no centrylisin', I don't—Which I suppose it's a crusher standin' sentryHover a cabstand.
Whereby if we gives e'er a word o' cheek toParties as rides, they pulls us up like winkin'—And them there blessed beaks is down upon usDead as an 'ammer!As for Mr. TOULMIN SMITH, can't say I knows him—But as you talks so werry like a gem'man,Perhaps you're goin in 'ansome style to stand aShillin' a mile, sir?
I give a shilling? I will see thee hanged first—Sixpence a mile—or drive me straight to Bow-street—Idle, ill-mannered, dissipated, dirty,Insolent rascal!
JUSTICE TO SCOTLAND.[Footnote: In this poem the Scottish words and phrases are allludicrously misapplied][AN UNPUBLISHED POEM BY BURNS.]COMMUNICATED BY THE EDINBURG SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING CIVILIZATION INENGLANDPUNCH.
O mickle yeuks the keckle doup,An' a' unsicker girns the graith,For wae and wae the crowdies loupO'er jouk an' hallan, braw an' baith.Where ance the coggie hirpled fair,And blithesome poortith toomed the loofThere's nae a burnie giglet rareBut blaws in ilka jinking coof.
The routhie bield that gars the gearIs gone where glint the pawky een.And aye the stound is birkin learWhere sconnered yowies wheepen yestreen.The creeshie rax wi' skelpin' kaesNae mair the howdie bicker whangs,Nor weanies in their wee bit claesGlour light as lammies wi' their sangs.
Yet leeze me on my bonnie byke!My drappie aiblins blinks the noo,An' leesome luve has lapt the dykeForgatherin' just a wee bit fou.And SCOTIA! while thy rantin' luntIs mirk and moop with gowans fine,I'll stowlins pit my unco brunt,An' cleek my duds for auld lang syne.
THE POETICAL COOKERY-BOOK.PUNCHTHE STEAK.Air.—"The Sea."
Of Steak—of Steak—of prime Rump Steak—A slice of half-inch thickness take,Without a blemish, soft and sound;In weight a little more than a pound.Who'd cook a Stake—who'd cook a Steak—Must a fire clear proceed to make:With the red above and the red below,In one delicious genial glow.If a coal should come, a blaze to make,Have patience! You mustn't put on your Steak.
First rub—yes, rub—with suet fat,The gridiron's bars, then on it flatImpose the meat; and the fire soonWill make it sing a delicious tune.And when 'tis brown'd by the genial glow,Just turn the upper side below.Both sides with brown being cover'd o'er,For a moment you broil your Steak no more,But on a hot dish let it rest,And add of butter a slice of the best;In a minute or two the pepper-box take,And with it gently dredge your Steak.
When seasoned quite, upon the fireSome further time it will require;And over and over be sure to turnYour Steak till done—nor let it burn;For nothing drives me half so wildAs a nice Rump Steak in the cooking spiled.I've lived in pleasure mixed with grief,On fish and fowl, and mutton and beef,With plenty of cash, and power to range,But my Steak I never wished to change:For a Steak was always a treat to me,At breakfast, luncheon, dinner, or tea.
ROASTED SUCKING-PIG.AIR—"Scots wha has."
Cooks who'd roast a Sucking-pig,Purchase one not over big;Coarse ones are not worth a fig;So a young one buy.See that he is scalded well(That is done by those who sell),Therefore on that point to dwell,Were absurdity.
Sage and bread, mix just enough,Salt and pepper quantum suff.,And the Pig's interior stuff,With the whole combined.To a fire that's rather high,Lay it till completely dry;Then to every part applyCloth, with butter lined.
Dredge with flour o'er and o'er,Till the Pig will hold no more;Then do nothing else before'Tis for serving fit.Then scrape off the flour with care;Then a butter'd cloth prepare;Rub it well; then cut—not tear—Off the head of it.
Then take out and mix the brainsWith the gravy it contains;While it on the spit remains,Cut the Pig in two.Chop the sage, and chop the breadFine as very finest shred;O'er it melted butter spread—Stinginess won't do.
When it in the dish appears,Garnish with the jaws and ears;And when dinner-hour nears,Ready let it be.Who can offer such a dishMay dispense with fowl and fish;And if he a guest should wish,Let him send for me!
BEIGNET DE POMME.AIR—"Home, Sweet Home."
'Mid fritters and lollipops though we may roam,On the whole, there is nothing like Beignet de Pomme.Of flour a pound, with a glass of milk share,And a half pound of butter the mixture will bear.Pomme! Pomme! Beignet de Pomme!Of Beignets there's none like the Beignet de Pomme!
A Beignet de Pomme, you will work at in vain,If you stir not the mixture again and again;Some beer, just to thin it, may into it fall;Stir up that, with three whites of eggs, added to all.Pomme! Pomme! Beignet de Pomme!Of Beignets there's none like the Beignet de Pomme!
Six apples, when peeled, you must carefully slice,And cut out the cores—if you 'll take my advice;Then dip them in batter, and fry till they foam,And you'll have in six minutes your Beignet de Pomme.Pomme! Pomme! Beignet de Pomme!Of Beignets there's none like the Beignet de Pomme!
CHERRY PIE.AIR—"Cherry Ripe."
Cherry Pie! Cherry Pie! Pie! I cry,Kentish cherries you may buy.If so be you ask me whereTo put the fruit, I'll answer "There!"In the dish your fruit must lie,When you make your Cherry Pie.Cherry Pie! Cherry Pie! etc.