I devise to end my days—in a tavern drinking,May some Christian hold for me—the glass when I am shrinking.That the cherubim may cry—when they see me sinking,God be merciful to a soul—of this gentleman's way of thinking.A glass of wine amazingly—enlighteneth one's intervals;'Tis wings bedewed with nectar—that fly up to supernals;Bottles cracked in taverns—have much the sweeter kernels,Than the sups allowed to us—in the college journals.
Every one by nature hath—a mold which he was cast in;I happen to be one of those—who never could write fasting;By a single little boy—I should be surpass'd inWriting so: I'd just as lief—be buried; tomb'd and grass'd in.
Every one by nature hath—a gift too, a dotation:I, when I make verses—do get the inspirationOf the very best of wine—that comes into the nation:It maketh sermons to astound—for edification.
Just as liquor floeth good—floweth forth my lay so;But I must moreover eat—or I could not say so;Naught it availeth inwardly—should I write all day so;But with God's grace after meat—I beat Ovidius Naso.
Neither is there given to me—prophetic animation,Unless when I have eat and drank—yea, ev'n to saturation,Then in my upper story—hath Bacchus dominationAnd Phoebus rushes into me, and beggareth all relation.
AIR—"Oh, Mary, heave a sigh for me."
O MARE aeva si forme;Forme ure tonitru;Iambicum as amandum,Olet Hymen promptu;Mihi is vetas an ne se,As humano erebi;Olet mecum marito te,Or eta beta pi.
Alas, plano more meretrix,Mi ardor vel uno;Inferiam ure artis base,Tolerat me urebo.Ah me ve ara silicet,Vi laudu vimin thus?Hiatu as arandum sex—Illuc Ionicus.
Heu sed heu vix en imago,My missis mare sta;O cantu redit in mihiHibernas arida?A veri vafer heri si,Mihi resolves indu:Totius olet Hymen cum—Accepta tonitru.
Dic, heris agro at, an da quar to fine ale,Fora ringat ure nos, an da stringat ure tale.[Footnote: Dick, here is a groat, a quart o' fine ale.For a ring at your nose, and a string at your tail.]
Mollis abuti,Has an acuti,No lasso finis,Molli divinis.[Footnote: Moll is a beauty,Has an acute eye;No lass so fine is,Molly divine is.]
O mi de armis tres,Imi na dis tres.Cantu disco verMeas alo ver?[Footnote: O my dear mistressI am in a distress.Can't you discoverMe as a lover?]
Apud in is almi de si re,Mimis tres I ne ver re qui re,Alo veri findit a gestis,His miseri ne ver at restis.[Footnote: A pudding is all my desire,My mistress I never require;A lover I find it a jest is,His misery never at rest is.]
Shepherd. Echo, I ween, will in the woods reply,And quaintly answer questions: shall I try?Echo. Try.Shepherd. What must we do our passion to express?Echo. Press.Shepherd. How shall I please her, who ne'er loved before?Echo. Before.Shepherd. What most moves women when we them address?Echo. A dress.Shepherd. Say, what can keep her chaste whom I adore?Echo. A door.Shepherd. If music softens rocks, love tunes my lyre.Echo. Liar.Shepherd. Then teach me, Echo, how shall I come by her?Echo. Buy her.Shepherd. When bought, no question I shall be her dear?Echo. Her deer.Shepherd. But deer have horns: how must I keep her under?Echo. Keep her under.Shepherd. But what can glad me when she's laid on bier?Echo. Beer.Shepherd. What must I do when women will be kind?Echo. Be kind.Shepherd. What must I do when women will be cross?Echo. Be cross.Shepherd. Lord, what is she that can so turn and wind?Echo. Wind.Shepherd. If she be wind, what stills her when she blows?Echo. Blows.Shepherd. But if she bang again, still should I bang her?Echo. Bang her.Shepherd. Is there no way to moderate her anger?Echo. Hang her.Shepherd. Thanks, gentle Echo! right thy answers tellWhat woman is and how to guard her well.Echo. Guard her well.
Knows he that never took a pinch,Nosey! the pleasure thence which flows?Knows he the titillating joyWhich my nose knows?
Oh, nose! I am as fond of theeAs any mountain of its snows!I gaze on thee, and feel that prideA Roman knows!
Young Roger came tapping at Dolly's window—Thumpaty, thumpaty, thump;He begg'd for admittance—she answered him no—Glumpaty, glumpaty, glump.No, no, Roger, no—as you came you may go—Stumpaty, stumpaty, stump.O what is the reason, dear Dolly? he cried—Humpaty, humpaty, hump—That thus I'm cast off and unkindly denied?—Trumpaty, trumpaty, trump—Some rival more dear, I guess, has been here—Crumpaty, crumpaty, crump—Suppose there's been two, sir, pray what's that to you, sirNumpaty, numpaty, nump—Wi' a disconsolate look his sad farewell he took—Trumpaty, trumputy, trump—And all in despair jump'd into a brook—Jumpaty, jumpaty, jump—His courage did cool in a filthy green pool—Slumpaty, slumpaty, slump—So he swam to the shore, but saw Dolly no more—Dumpaty, dumpaty, dump—He did speedily find one more fat and more kind—Plumpaty, plumpaty, plump—But poor Dolly's afraid she must die an old maid—Mumpaty, mumpaty, mump.
There was a lady lived at Leith,A lady very stylish, man,And yet, in spite of all her teeth,She fell in love with an Irishman,A nasty, ugly Irishman,A wild tremendous Irishman,A tearing, swearing, thumping, bumping, ranting, roaring Irishman.
His face was no ways beautiful,For with small-pox 't was scarred across:And the shoulders of the ugly dogWere almost doubled a yard across.O the lump of an Irishman,The whiskey devouring Irishman—The great he-rogue with his wonderful brogue, the fighting, riotingIrishman.
One of his eyes was bottle green,And the other eye was out, my dear;And the calves of his wicked-looking legsWere more than two feet about, my dear,O, the great big Irishman,The rattling, battling Irishman—The stamping, ramping, swaggering, staggering, leathering swash of anIrishman.
He took so much of Lundy-foot,That he used to snort and snuffle—O,And in shape and size the fellow's neckWas as bad as the neck of a buffalo.O, the horrible Irishman,The thundering, blundering Irishman—The slashing, dashing, smashing, lashing, thrashing, hashing Irishman.
His name was a terrible name, indeed,Being Timothy Thady Mulligan;And whenever he emptied his tumbler of punch,He'd not rest till he fill'd it full again,The boozing, bruising Irishman,The 'toxicated Irishman—The whiskey, frisky, rummy, gummy, brandy, no dandy Irishman.
This was the lad the lady loved,Like all the girls of quality;And he broke the skulls of the men of Leith,Just by the way of jollity,O, the leathering Irishman,The barbarous, savage Irishman—The hearts of the maids and the gentlemen's heads were botheredI'm sure by this Irishman.
A CAT I sing, of famous memory,Though CATachrestical my song may be;In a small garden CATacomb she lies,And CATaclysms fill her comrades' eyes;Borne on the air, the CATacoustic songSwells with her virtues' CATalogue along;No CATaplasm could lengthen out her years,Though mourning friends shed CATaracts of tears.Once loud and strong her CATachist-like voiceIt dwindled to a CATcall's squeaking noise;Most CATegorical her virtues shone,By CATenation join'd each one to one;—But a vile CATchpoll dog, with cruel bite,Like CATling's cut, her strength disabled quite;Her CATerwauling pierced the heavy air,As CATaphracts their arms through legions bear;'Tis vain! as CATerpillars drag awayTheir lengths, like CATtle after busy day,She ling'ring died, nor left in kit KAT theEmbodyment of this CATastrophe.
My passion is as mustard strong;I sit all sober sad;Drunk as a piper all day long,Or like a March-hare mad.
Round as a hoop the bumpers flow;I drink, yet can't forget her;For though as drunk as David's sowI love her still the better.
Pert as a pear-monger I'd be,If Molly were but kind;Cool as a cucumber could seeThe rest of womankind.
Like a stuck pig I gaping stare,And eye her o'er and o'er;Lean as a rake, with sighs and care,Sleek as a mouse before.
Plump as a partridge was I known,And soft as silk my skin;My cheeks as fat as butter grown,But as a goat now thin!
I melancholy as a cat,Am kept awake to weep;But she, insensible of that,Sound as a top can sleep.
Hard is her heart as flint or stone,She laughs to see me pale;And merry as a grig is grown,And brisk as bottled ale.
The god of Love at her approachIs busy as a bee;Hearts sound as any bell or roach,Are smit and sigh like me.
Ah me! as thick as hops or hailThe fine men crowd about her;But soon as dead as a door-nailShall I be, if without her.
Straight as my leg her shape appears,O were we join'd together!My heart would be scot-free from caresAnd lighter than a feather.
As fine as five-pence is her mien,No drum was ever tighter;Her glance is as the razor keen,And not the sun is brighter
As soft as pap her kisses are,Methinks I taste them yet;Brown as a berry is her hair,Her eyes as black as jet.
As smooth as glass, as white as curdsHer pretty hand invites;Sharp as her needle are her words,Her wit like pepper bites.
Brisk as a body-louse she trips,Clean as a penny drest;Sweet as a rose her breath and lips,Round as the globe her breast.
Full as an egg was I with glee,And happy as a king:Good Lord! how all men envied me!She loved like any thing.
But false as hell, she, like the wind,Chang'd, as her sex must do;Though seeming as the turtle kind,And like the gospel true.
If I and Molly could agree,Let who would take Peru!Great as an Emperor should I be,And richer than a Jew.
Till you grow tender as a chick,I'm dull as any post;Let us like burs together stick,And warm as any toast.
You'll know me truer than a die,And wish me better sped;Flat as a flounder when I lie,And as a herring dead.
Sure as a gun she'll drop a tearAnd sigh, perhaps, and wish,When I am rotten as a pear,And mute as any fish.
"My TABLES! MEAT it is,ISET IT down!"—Hamlet
I think it was Spring—but not certain I am—When my passion began first to work;But I know we were certainly looking for lamb,And the season was over for pork.
'T was at Christmas, I think, when I met with Miss Chase,Yes—for Morris had asked me to dine—And I thought I had never beheld such a face,Or so noble a turkey and chine.
Placed close by her side, it made others quite wildWith sheer envy, to witness my luck;How she blushed as I gave her some turtle, and smiledAs I afterward offered some duck.
I looked and I languished, alas! to my cost,Through three courses of dishes and meats;Getting deeper in love—but my heart was quite lostWhen it came to the trifle and sweets.
With a rent-roll that told of my houses and land,To her parents I told my designs—And then to herself I presented my hand,With a very fine pottle of pines!
I asked her to have me for weal or for woe,And she did not object in the least;—I can't tell the date—but we married I knowJust in time to have game at the feast.
We went to ——, it certainly was the sea-side;For the next, the most blessed of morns,I remember how fondly I gazed at my bride,Sitting down to a plateful of prawns.
O, never may memory lose sight of that year,But still hallow the time as it ought!That season the "grass" was remarkably dear,And the peas at a guinea a quart.
So happy, like hours, all our days seemed to haste,A fond pair, such as poets have drawn,So united in heart—so congenial in taste—We were both of us partial to brawn!
A long life I looked for of bliss with my bride,But then Death—I ne'er dreamt about that!O, there's nothing is certain in life, as I criedWhen my turbot eloped with the cat!
My dearest took ill at the turn of the year,But the cause no physician could nab;But something, it seemed like consumption, I fear—It was just after supping on crab.
In vain she was doctored, in vain she was dosed,Still her strength and her appetite pined;She lost relish for what she had relished the most,Even salmon she deeply declined!
For months still I lingered in hope and in doubt,While her form it grew wasted and thin;But the last dying spark of existence went out.As the oysters were just coming in!
She died, and she left me the saddest of men,To indulge in a widower's moan;Oh! I felt all the power of solitude then,As I ate my first "natives" alone!
But when I beheld Virtue's friends in their cloaks,And with sorrowful crape on their hats,O my grief poured a flood! and the out-of-door folksWere all crying—I think it was sprats!
Ben Battle was a soldier bold,And used to war's alarms;But a cannon-ball took off his legs,So he laid down his arms!
Now, as they bore him off the field,Said he, "Let others shoot,For here I leave my second leg,And the Forty-second Foot!"
The army-surgeons made him limbs:Said he, "they're only pegs:But there's as wooden members quiteAs represent my legs!"
Now, Ben he loved a pretty maid,Her name was Nelly Gray;So he went up to pay his devours,When he devoured his pay!
But when he called on Nelly Gray,She made him quite a scoff;And when she saw his wooden legs,Began to take them off!
"O, Nelly Gray! O, Nelly GrayIs this your love so warm?The love that loves a scarlet coatShould be more uniform!"
Said she, "I loved a soldier onceFor he was blithe and braveBut I will never have a manWith both legs in the grave!
"Before you had those timber toes,Your love I did allow,But then, you know, you stand uponAnother footing now!"
"O, Nelly Gray! O, Nelly Gray!For all your jeering speeches,At duty's call I left my legs,In Badajos's BREACHES!"
"Why then," said she, "you've lost the feetOf legs in war's alarms,And now you can not wear your shoesUpon your feats of arms!"
"O, false and fickle Nelly Gray!I know why you refuse:—Though I've no feet—some other manIs standing in my shoes!
"I wish I ne'er had seen your face;But now, a long farewell!For you will be my death;—alasYou will not be my NELL!"
Now, when he went from Nelly Gray,His heart so heavy got,And life was such a burden grown,It made him take a knot!
So round his melancholy neckA rope he did entwine,And, for his second time in life,Enlisted in the Line.
One end he tied around a beam,And then removed his pegs,And, as his legs were off—of course,He soon was off his legs!
And there he hung, till he was deadAs any nail in town—For, though distress had cut him up,It could not cut him down!
A dozen men sat on his corpse,To find out why he died—And they buried Ben in four cross-roads,With a STAKE in his inside!
No sun—no moon!No morn—no noon—No dawn—no dusk—no proper time of day—No sky—no earthly view—No distance looking blue—No road—no street—no "t' other side the way"—No end to any Row—No indications where the Crescents go—No top to any steeple—No recognitions of familiar people—No courtesies for showing 'em—No knowing 'em!To traveling at all—no locomotion,No inkling of the way—no notion—No go—by land or ocean—No mail—no post—No news from any foreign coast—No park—no ring—no afternoon gentility—No company—no nobility—No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,No comfortable feel in any member—No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees.No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds.November!
One sees in Viteall Yard,Vere pleacemen do resort.A wenerable hinstitute,'Tis called the Pallis CourtA gent as got his i on it,I think will make some sport
The natur of this CourtMy hindignation riles:A few fat legal spidersHere set & spin their viles;To rob the town theyr privlege is,In a hayrea of twelve miles.
The Judge of this year CourtIs a mellitary beak.He knows no more of LorThan praps he does of Greek,And prowides hisself a deputyBecause he can not speak.
Four counsel in this Court—Misnamed of Justice—sits;These lawyers owes their places toTheir money, not their wits;And there's six attornies under them,As here their living gits.
These lawyers, six and four,Was a livin at their ease,A sendin of their writs abowt,And droring in the fees,When their erose a cirkimstanceAs is like to make a breeze.It now is some monce since,A gent both good and trewPossest a ansum oss vith vichHe didn know what to do:Peraps he did not like the oss,Perhaps he was a scru.
This gentleman his ossAt Tattersall's did lodge;There came a wulgar oss-dealer,This gentleman's name did fodge,And took the oss from Tattersall's:Wasn that a artful dodge?
One day this gentleman's groomThis willain did spy out,A mounted on this oss,A ridin him about;"Get out of that there oss, you rogue,"Speaks up the groom so stout.
The thief was cruel whex'dTo find hisself so pinn'd;The oss began to whinny,The honest groom he grinn'd;And the raskle thief got off the ossAnd cut avay like vind.
And phansy with what joyThe master did regardHis dearly bluvd lost oss againTrot in the stable yard!
Who was this master goodOf whomb I makes these rhymes?His name is Jacob Homnium, Exquire;And ifI'd committed crimes,Good Lord! I wouldn't ave that mannAttack me in the TIMES!
Now, shortly after the groombHis master's oss did take up,There came a livery-manThis gentleman to wake up;And he handed in a little bill,Which hanger'd Mr. Jacob.
For two pound seventeenThis livery-man eplied,For the keep of Mr. Jacob's oss,Which the thief had took to ride."Do you see any think green in me?"Mr. Jacob Homnium cried.
"Because a raskle chewsMy oss away to robb,And goes tick at your MewsFor seven-and-fifty bobb,ShallIbe called to pay?—It isA iniquitious Jobb."
Thus Mr. Jacob cutThe conwasation short;The livery-man went ome,Detummingd to ave sport,And summingsd Jacob Homnium, Exquire,Into the Pallis Court
Pore Jacob went to Court,A Counsel for to fix,And choose a barrister out of the four,An attorney of the six;And there he sor these men of Lor,And watched 'em at their tricks.The dreadful day of trileIn the Pallis Court did come;The lawyers said their say,The Judge looked wery glum,And then the British Jury castPore Jacob Hom-ni-um.
O, a weary day was thatFor Jacob to go through;The debt was two seventeen(Which he no mor owed than you).And then there was the plaintives costs,Eleven pound six and two.
And then there was his own,Which the lawyers they did fixAt the wery moderit figgarOf ten pound one and six.Now Evins bless the Pallis Court,And all its bold ver-dicks!
I can not settingly tellIf Jacob swaw and cust,At aving for to pay this sumb,But I should think he must,And av drawm a cheque for L24 4s. 8d.With most igstreme disgust.
O Pallis Court, you moveMy pitty most profound.A most emusing sportYou thought it, I'll be bound,To saddle hup a three-pound debt,With two-and-twenty pound.
Good sport it is to you,To grind the honest pore;To puy their just or unjust debtsWith eight hundred per cent, for Lor;Make haste and git your costes in,They will not last much mor!
Come down from that tribewn,Thou Shameless and Unjust;Thou Swindle, picking pockets inThe name of Truth, august;Come down, thou hoary Blasphemy,For die thou shalt and must.
And go it, Jacob Homnium,And ply your iron pen,And rise up Sir John Jervis,And shut me up that den;That sty for fattening lawyers in,On the bones of honest men.
An igstrawnary tail I vill tell you this veek—I stood in the Court of A'Beckett the Beak,Vere Mrs. Jane Roney, a vidow, I see,Who charged Mary Brown with a robbin' of she.
This Mary was pore and in misery once,And she came to Mrs. Roney it's more than twelve monceShe adn't got no bed, nor no dinner, nor no tea,And kind Mrs. Roney gave Mary all three.
Mrs. Roney kep Mary for ever so many veeks(Her conduct disgusted the best of all Beax),She kept her for nothink, as kind as could be,Never thinking that this Mary was a traitor to she.
"Mrs. Roney, O Mrs. Roney, I feel very ill;Will you jest step to the doctor's for to fetch me a pill?""That I will, my pore Mary," Mrs. Roney says she:And she goes off to the doctor's as quickly as may be.
No sooner on this message Mrs. Roney was sped,Than hup gits vicked Mary, and jumps out a bed;She hopens all the trunks without never a key—She bustes all the boxes, and vith them makes free.
Mrs. Roney's best linning gownds, petticoats, and close,Her children's little coats and things, her boots and her hose,She packed them, and she stole 'em, and avay vith them did fleeMrs. Roney's situation—you may think vat it vould be!
Of Mary, ungrateful, who had served her this vay,Mrs. Roney heard nothink for a long year and a day,Till last Thursday, in Lambeth, ven whom should she see?But this Mary, as had acted so ungrateful to she.
She was leaning on the helbo of a worthy young man;They were going to be married, and were walkin hand in hand;And the church-bells was a ringing for Mary and he,And the parson was ready, and a waitin' for his fee.
When up comes Mrs. Roney, and faces Mary Brown,Who trembles, and castes her eyes upon the ground.She calls a jolly pleaseman, it happens to be me;I charge this young woman, Mr. Pleaseman, says she.
Mrs. Roney, o, Mrs. Roney, o, do let me go,I acted most ungrateful I own, and I know,But the marriage bell is a ringin, and the ring you may see,And this young man is a waitin, says Mary, says she.
I don't care three fardens for the parson and clark,And the bell may keep ringing from noon day to dark.Mary Brown, Mary Brown, you must come along with me.And I think this young man is lucky to be free.
So, in spite of the tears which bejewed Mary's cheek,I took that young gurl to A'Beckett the Beak;That exlent justice demanded her plea—But never a sullable said Mary said she.
On account of her conduck so base and so vile,That wicked young gurl is committed for trile,And if she's transpawted beyond the salt sea,It's a proper reward for such willians as she.
Now, yon young gurls of Southwark for Mary who veep,From pickin and stealin your ands you must keep,Or it may be my dooty, as it was Thursday veekTo pull you all hup to A'Beckett the Beak.PLEACEMAN X
Galliant gents and lovely ladies,List a tail vich late befel,Vich I heard it, bein on duty,At the Pleace Hoffice, Clerkenwell.
Praps you know the Fondling Chapel,Vere the little children sings:(Lord I likes to hear on SundiesThem there pooty little things!)
In this street there lived a housemaid,If you particklarly ask me where—Vy, it was at four-and-tventy,Guilford Street, by Brunsvick Square
Vich her name was Eliza Davis,And she went to fetch the beer:In the street she met a partyAs was quite surprized to see her.
Vich he vas a British Sailor,For to judge him by his look:Tarry jacket, canvas trowsies,Ha-la Mr. T. P. Cooke.
Presently this Mann accostesOf this hinnocent young gal—Pray, saysee, Excuse my freedom,You're so like my Sister Sal!
You're so like my Sister Sally,Both in valk and face and size;Miss, that—dang my old lee scuppers,It brings tears into my hyes!
I'm a mate on board a wessel,I'm a sailor bold and true;Shiver up my poor old timbers,Let me be a mate for you!
What's your name, my beauty, tell me?And she faintly hansers, "Lore,Sir, my name's Eliza Davis,And I live at tventy-four."
Hofttimes came this British seaman,This deluded gal to meet:And at tventy-four was welcome,Tventy-four in Guilford Street
And Eliza told her Master(Kinder they than Missuses are),How in marridge he had ast her,Like a galliant Brittish Tar.
And he brought his landlady vith him(Vich vas all his hartful plan),And she told how Charley ThompsonReely was a good young man.
And how she herself had lived inMany years of union sweet,Vith a gent she met promiskous,Valkin in the public street.
And Eliza listened to them,And she thought that soon their bandsVould be published at the Fondlin.Hand the clergyman jine their ands.
And he ast about the lodgers(Vich her master let some rooms),likevise vere they kep their things, andVere her master kep his spoons.
Hand this vicked Charley ThompsonCame on Sundy veek to see her,And he sent Eliza DavisHout to vetch a pint of beer.
Hand while poor Eliza vent toFetch the beer, devoid of sin,This etrocious Charley ThompsonLet his wile accomplish him.
To the lodgers, their apartments,This abandingd female goes,Prigs their shirts and umberellas:Prigs their boots, and hats, and clothes
Vile the scoundrle Charley Thompson,Lest his wictim should escape,Hocust her vith rum and vater,Like a fiend in huming shape.
But a hi was fixt upon 'emVich these raskles little sore;Namely, Mr. Hide, the landlordOf the house at tventy-four.
He vas valkin in his garden,Just afore he vent to sup;And on looking up he sor theLodger's vinders lighted hup.
Hup the stairs the landlord tumbled;Something's going wrong, he said;And he caught the vicked vomanUnderneath the lodger's bed.
And he called a brother Pleaseman,Vich vas passing on his beat,Like a true and galliant feller,Hup and down in Guildford Street.
And that Pleaseman, able-bodied,Took this voman to the cell;To the cell vere she was quodded,In the Close of Clerkenwell.
And though vicked Charley ThompsonBoulted like a miscrant base,Presently another PleasemanTook him to the self-same place.
And this precious pair of rasklesTuesday last came up for doom;By the beak they was committed,Vich his name was Mr. Combe.
Has for poor Eliza Davia,Simple gurl of tventy-four,She, I ope, will never listenIn the streets to sailors moar.
But if she must ave a sweet-art(Vich most every gurl expex),Let her take a jolly Pleaseman,Vich is name peraps is—X.
LINES ON A LATE HOSPICIOUS EWENT.[Footnote: The Birth of Prince Arthur]BY A GENTLEMAN OF THE FOOT-GUARDS (BLUE).W. MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.
I paced upon my beatWith steady step and slow,All huppandownd of Ranelagh-street;Ran'lagh, St. Pimlico.
While marching huppandowndUpon that fair May morn,Beold the booming cannings sound,A royal child is born!
The Ministers of StateThen presnly I sor,They gallops to the Pallis gate,In carridges and for.
With anxious looks intent,Before the gate they stop,There comes the good Lord President,And there the Archbishopp.
Lord John he next elights;And who comes here in haste?'Tis the ero of one underd fights,The caudle for to taste.
Then Mrs. Lily, the nuss,Toward them steps with joy;Say the brave old Duke, "Come tell to usIs it a gal or a boy?"
Says Mrs. L. to the Duke,"Your Grace, it is a PRINCE."And at that nuss's bold rebuke,He did both laugh and wince.
He vews with pleasant lookThis pooty flower of May,Then says the wenerable Duke,"Egad, its my buthday."
By memory backards borne,Peraps his thoughts did strayTo that old place where he was bornUpon the first of May.
Peraps he did recalThe ancient towers of Trim;And County Meath and Dangan HallThey did rewisit him.
I phansy of him soHis good old thoughts employin;Fourscore years and one agoBeside the flowin' Boyne.
His father praps he sees,Most musicle of Lords,A playing maddrigles and gleesUpon the Arpsicords.
Jest phansy this old EroUpon his mother's knee!Did ever lady in this landAve greater sons than she?
And I shouldn be surpriseWhile this was in his mind,If a drop there twinkled in his eyesOf unfamiliar brind.
* * * *
To Hapsly Ouse next dayDrives up a Broosh and for,A gracious prince sits in that Shay(I mention him with Hor!)
They ring upon the bell,The Porter shows his ed,(He fought at Vaterloo as vell,And vears a veskit red.)
To see that carriage comeThe people round it press:"And is the galliant Duke at ome?""Your Royal Ighness, yes."
He stepps from out the BrooshAnd in the gate is gone,And X, although the people push,Says wery kind "Move hon."
The Royal Prince untoThe galliant Duke did say,"Dear Duke, my little son and youWas born the self-same day.
"The lady of the land,My wife and Sovring dear,It is by her horgust commandI wait upon you here.
"That lady is as wellAs can expected be;And to your Grace she bid me tellThis gracious message free.
"That offspring of our race,Whom yesterday you see,To show our honor for your Grace,Prince Arthur he shall be.
"That name it rhymes to fame;All Europe knows the sound;And I couldn't find a better nameIf you'd give me twenty pound.
"King Arthur had his knightsThat girt his table round,But you have won a hundred fights,Will match 'em, I'll be bound.
"You fought with Bonypart,And likewise Tippoo Saib;I name you then, with all my heart,The Godsire of this babe."
That Prince his leave was took,His hinterview was done.So let us give the good old DukeGood luck of his god-son,
And wish him years of joyIn this our time of Schism,And hope he'll hear the royal boyHis little catechism.
And my pooty little PrinceThat's come our arts to cheer,Let me my loyal powers ewinceA welcomin of you ere.
And the Poit-Laureat's crownd,I think, in some respex,Egstremely shootable might be foundFor honest Pleaseman X.
Come, all ye Christian people, and listen to my tail,It is all about a Doctor was traveling by the rail,By the Heastern Counties Railway (vich the shares don't desire),From Ixworth town in Suffolk, vich his name did not transpire.
A traveling from Bury this Doctor was employedWith a gentleman, a friend of his, vich his name was Captain Loyd;And on reaching Marks Tey Station, that is next beyond Colchester,a lady entered into them most elegantly dressed.
She entered into the carriage all with a tottering step,And a pooty little Bayby upon her bussum slep;The gentlemen received her with kindness and siwillaty,Pitying this lady for her illness and debillaty.
She had a fust-class ticket, this lovely lady said,Because it was so lonesome she took a secknd instead.Better to travel by secknd class than sit alone in the fust,And the pooty little Baby upon her breast she nust.
A seein of her cryin, and shiverin and pail,To her spoke this surging, the Ero of my tail;Saysee you look unwell, ma'am, I'll elp you if I can,And you may tell your case to me, for I'm a meddicle man.
"Thank you, sir," the lady said, "I only look so pale,Because I ain't accustom'd to traveling on the rale;I shall be better presnly, when I've ad some rest:"And that pooty little Baby she squeeged it to her breast.
So in conwersation the journey they beguiled,Capting Loyd and the medical man, and the lady and the child,Till the warious stations along the line was passed,For even the Heastern Counties' trains must come in at last.
When at Shorediteh tumminus at lenth stopped the train,This kind meddicle gentleman proposed his aid again."Thank you, sir," the lady said, "for your kyindness dear;My carridge and my osses is probbibly come here.
"Will you old this baby, please, vilst I step and see?"The Doctor was a famly man: "That I will," says he.Then the little child she kist, kist it very gently,Vich was sucking his little fist, sleeping innocently.
With a sigh from her art, as though she would have bust it,Then she gave the Doctor the child—wery kind he nust it;Hup then the lady jumped hoff the bench she sat from,Tumbled down the carridge steps and ran along the platform.
Vile hall the other passengers vent upon their vays,The Capting and the Doctor sat there in a maze;Some vent in a Homminibus, some vent in a Cabby,The Capting and the Doctor vaited with the babby.
There they sat looking queer, for an hour or more,But their feller passinger neather on 'em sore:Never, never back again did that lady comeTo that pooty sleeping Hinfant a suckin of his Thum!
What could this pore Doctor do, bein treated thus,When the darling baby woke, cryin for its nuss?Off he drove to a female friend, vich she was both kind and mild,And igsplained to her the circumstance of this year little child.
That kind lady took the child instantly in her lap,And made it very comforable by giving it some pap;And when she took its close off, what d'you think she found?A couple of ten pun notes sown up, in its little gownd!
Also, in its little close, was a note which did conwey,That this little baby's parents lived in a handsome way:And for its Headucation they reglary would pay,And sirtingly like gentle-folks would claim the child one day,If the Christian people who'd charge of it would say,Per adwertisement in the TIMES, where the baby lay.
Pity of this baby many people took,It had such pooty ways and such a pooty look;And there came a lady forrard (I wish that I could seeAny kind lady as would do as much for me,
And I wish with all my art, some night in MY night gownd,I could find a note stitched for ten or twenty pound)—There came a lady forrard, that most honorable did say,She'd adopt this little baby, which her parents cast away.
While the Doctor pondered on this hoffer fair,Comes a letter from Devonshire, from a party there,Hordering the Doctor, at its Mar's desire,To send the little infant back to Devonshire.
Lost in apoplexity, this pore meddicle man,Like a sensable gentleman, to the Justice ran;Which his name was Mr. Hammill, a honorable beak,That takes his seat in Worship-street four times a week.
"O Justice!" says the Doctor, "Instrugt me what to do,I've come up from the country, to throw myself on you;My patients have no doctor to tend them in their ills,(There they are in Suffolk without their draffts and pills!)
"I've come up from the country, to know how I'll disposeOf this pore little baby, and the twenty-pun note, and the clothes,And I want to go back to Suffolk, dear Justice, if you please,And my patients wants their Doctor, and their Doctor wants his feez."
Up spoke Mr. Hammill, sittin at his desk,"This year application does me much perplesk;What I do adwise you, is to leave this babbyIn the Parish where it was left, by its mother shabby."
The Doctor from his Worship sadly did depart—He might have left the baby, but he hadn't got the heartTo go for to leave that Hinnocent, has the laws allows,To the tender mussies of the Union House.
Mother who left this little one on a stranger's knee,Think how cruel you have been, and how good was he!Think, if you've been guilty, innocent was she;And do not take unkindly this little word of me:Heaven be merciful to us all, sinners as we be!
With ganial foireThransfuse me loyre,Ye sacred nymphths of Pindus,The whoile I singThat wondthrous thingThe Palace made o' windows!
Say, Paxton, truth,Thou wondthrous youth,What sthroke of art celistialWhat power was lintYou to invintThis combineetion cristial
O would beforeThat Thomas MooreLikewoise the late Lord Boyron,Thim aigles sthrongOf Godlike song,Cast oi on that cast oiron!
And saw thim walls,And glittering halls,Thim rising slendther columns,Which I, poor pote,Could not denote,No, not in twinty vollums.
My Muse's wordsIs like the birdsThat roosts beneath the panes there;Her wings she spoils'Gainst them bright toiles,And cracks her silly brains there.
This Palace tall,This Cristial Hall,Which imperors might covet,Stands in Hide ParkLike Noah's ArkA rainbow bint above it.
The towers and faynes,In other scaynes,The fame of this will undo,Saint Paul's big doom,St. Payther's Room,And Dublin's proud Rotundo.
'Tis here that roams,As well becomesHer dignitee and stations,Victoria great,And houlds in stateThe Congress of the Nations.
Her subjects poursFrom distant shores.Her Injians and Canajians;And also we,Her kingdoms three,Attind with our allagiance.
Here comes likewiseHer bould allies,Both Asian and Europian;From East and WestThey sent their bestTo fill her Coornocopean.
I seen (thank Grace!)This wondthrous place(His Noble Honor MisteerH. Cole it wasThat gave the pass,And let me see what is there.)
With conscious proideI stud insoideAnd look'd the World's Great Fair in.Until me sightWas dazzled quite,And couldn't see for staring.
There's holy saintsAnd window paints,By Maydiayval Pugin;Alhamborough JonesDid paint the tonesOf yellow and gambouge in.
There's fountains thereAnd crosses fair;There's water-gods with urrns;There's organs three,To play, d'ye see,"God save the Queen," by turns.
There's statues brightOf marble white,Of silver and of copper,And some in zink,And some, I think,That isn't over proper.
There's staym Ingynes,That stand in lines,Enormous and amazing,That squeal and snort,Like whales in sport,Or elephants a-grazing.
There's carts and gigs,And pins for pigs;There's dibblers and there's harrows,And plows like toys,For little boys,And illegant wheel-barrows.
For them genteelsWho ride on wheels,There a plenty to indulge 'em,There's Droskys snugFrom PaytersbugAnd vayhycles from Belgium.
There's Cabs on Stands,And Shandthry danns;There's wagons from New York here;There's Lapland Sleighs,Have cross'd the seas,And Jaunting Cars from Cork here.
Amazed I passProm glass to glass,Deloighted I survey 'em;Fresh wondthers growsBeneath me noseIn this sublime Musayum,
Look, here's a fanFrom far Japan,A saber from Damasco;There's shawls ye getFrom far Thibet,And cotton prints from Glasgow.
There's German flutes,Marcoky boots,And Naples Macaronies;BohaymiaHas sent Bohay,Polonia her polonies.
There's granite flintsThat's quite imminse,There's sacks of coals and fuels,There's swords and guns,And soap in tuns,And Ginger-bread and Jewels.
There's taypots there,And cannons rare;There's coffins filled with roses.There 'a canvas tints,Teeth instruments,And shuits of clothes by Moses.
There's lashins moreOf things in store,But thim I don't remimber;Nor could discloseDid I composeFrom May time to Novimber.
Ah, JUDY thru!With eyes so blue,That you were here to view it!And could I screwBut tu pound tu'Tis I would thrait you to it.
So let us raiseVictoria's praise,And Albert's proud condition,That takes his ayseAs he surveysThis Crystal Exhibition.
[Illustration: THACKERAY]
The night was stormy and dark, The town was shut up in sleep: Only those were abroad who were out on a lark, Or those who'd no beds to keep.
I pass'd through the lonely street, The wind did sing and blow; I could hear the policeman's feet Clapping to and fro.
There stood a potato-man In the midst of all the wet; He stood with his 'tato-can In the lonely Haymarket.
Two gents of dismal mien. And dark and greasy rags, Came out of a shop for gin Swaggering over the flags:
Swaggering over the stones,These snabby bucks did walkAnd I went and followed those seedy ones,And listened to their talk.
Was I sober or awake?Could I believe my ears?Those dismal beggars spakeOf nothing but railroad shares.
I wondered more and more:Says one—"Good friend of mine,How many shares have you wrote forIn the Diddlesee Junction line?"
"I wrote for twenty," says Jim,"But they wouldn't give me one;"His comrade straight rebuked himFor the folly he had done:
"O Jim, you are unawaresOf the ways of this bad town;Ialways write for five hundred shares,And THEN they put me down."
"And yet you got no shares,"Says Jim, "for all your boast;""I WOULD have wrote," says Jack, "but whereWas the penny to pay the post?"
"I lost, for I couldn't payThat first instalment up;But here's taters smoking hot—I sayLet's stop, my boy, and sup."
And at this simple feastThe while they did regale,I drew each ragged capitalistDown on my left thumb-nail.
Their talk did me perplex,All night I tumbled and toss'dAnd thought of railroad specs,And how money was won and lost.
"Bless railroads everywhere,"I said, "and the world's advance;Bless every railroad shareIn Italy, Ireland, France,
For never a beggar need now despair,And every rogue has a chance."
Mister Buckinum, the follerin Billet was writ hum by a Yung feller of Our town that wuz cussed fool enuff to goe atrottin inter Miss Chiff arter a Drum and fife. It ain't Nater for a feller to let on that he's sick o' any bizness that He went intu off his own free will and a Cord, but I rather callate he's middlin tired o' voluntearin By this Time. I bleeve u may put dependunts on his statemence. For I never heered nothin bad on him let Alone his havin what Parson Wilbur cals a PONGSHONG for cocktales, and he ses it wuz a soshiashun of idees sot him agoin arter the Crootin Sargient cos he wore a cocktale onto his hat.
his Folks gin the letter to me and I shew it to parson Wilbur and he ses it oughter Bee printed, send It to mister Buckinum, ses he, I don't ollers agree with him, ses he, but by Time, says he, I DU like a feller that ain't a Feared.
I have intusspussed a Few refleckshuns hear and thair. We're kind o'Prest with Hayin.Ewers respecflyHOSEA BIGLOW.
This kind o' sogerin' aint a mite like our October trainin',A chap could clear right out from there ef 't only looked likerainin'.An' th' Cunnles, tu, could kiver up their shappoes with bandanners,An' send the insines skootin' to the bar-room with their banners,(Fear o' gittin' on 'em spotted), an' a feller could cry quarterEf he fired away his ramrod arter tu much rum an' water.Recollect wut fun we hed, you 'n I an' Ezry Hollis,Up there to Waltham plain last fall, ahavin' the Cornwallis?[Footnote: i halt the Site of a feller with a muskit as I do plze Buttheir is fun to a Cornwallis I ain't agoin to deny it.—H.B.]This sorto' thing aint JEST like thet—I wish thet I wuz furder-[Footnote: he means Not quite so fur i guess.—H.B.]Nimepunce a day ferkillin' folks comes kind o' low fer murder(Wy I've worked out to slarterin' some for Deacon Cephas Billins,An' in the hardest times there wuz I ollers tetched ten shillins),There's sutthin' gits into my throat thet makes it hard to swaller,It comes so nateral to think about a hempen collar;It's glory—but, in spite o' all my tryin to git callous,I feel a kind o' in a cart, aridin' to the gallus.But when it comes to BEIN' killed—I tell ye I felt streakedThe fust time ever I found out wy baggonets wuz peaked,Here's how it wuz: I started out to go to a fandango,The sentinul he ups an' sez, "Thet's furder 'an you can go""None o' your sarse," sez I; sez he, "Stan' back!" "Aint you a buster.Sez I, "I'm up to all thet air, I guess I've ben to muster;I know wy sentinuls air sot; you aint agoin' to eat us;Caleb haint to monopoly to court the seenoreetas;My folks to hum air full ez good ez hisn be, by golly!"An' so ez I wuz goin' by, not thinkin'; wut would folly,The everlatin' cus he stuck his one-pronged pitchfork in meAn' made a hole right thru my close ez ef I wuz an in'my.Wal, it beats all how big I felt hoorawin' in ole FunnelWen Mister Bolles he gin the sword to our Leftenant Cunnle(It's Mister Secondary Bolles,* thet writ the prize peace essay,*[Footnote: the ignerant creeter means Sekketary; but he ollers stuckto his books like cobbler's wax to an ile-stone.—H. B.]Thet's wy he didn't list himself along o' us, I dessay),An' Rantoul, tu, talked pooty loud, but dont' put HIS foot in it,Coz human life's so sacred thet he's principled agin'it—Though I myself can't rightly see it's any wus achokin' on 'emThan puttin' bullets thru their lights, or with a bagnet pokin' on'em;How dreffle slick he reeled it off (like Blitz at our lyceumAhaulin' ribbins from his chops so quick you skeercely see 'em),About the Anglo-Saxon race (an' saxons would be handyTo do the buryin' down here upon the Rio Grandy),About our patriotic pas an' our star-spangled banner,Our country's bird alookin' on an' singin' out hosanner,An' how he (Mister B himself) wuz happy fer Ameriky—I felt, ez sister Patience sez, a leetle mite histericky.I felt, I swon, ez though it wuz a dreffle kind o' privilegeAtrampin' round thru Boston streets among the gutter's drivelage;I act'lly thought it wuz a treat to hear a little drummin,An' it did bonyfidy seem millanyum wuz acomin'Wen all on us got suits (darned like them wore in the state prison)An' every feller felt ez though all Mexico wuz hisn.[Footnote: It must be aloud that thare's a streak o' nater in lovin'sho, but it sartinly is of the curusest things in nater to see arispecktable dri goods dealer (deekon off a chutch mayby) a riggin'himself out in the Weigh they du and struttin' round in the Reignaspilin' his trowsis and makin' wet goods of himself. E fanythin's foolisher and moor dicklus than militerry gloary it is milishygloary.—H. B]This 'ere's about the meanest place a skunk could wal diskiver(Saltillo's Mexican, I b'lieve, fer wut we call Saltriver).The sort o' trash a feller gits to eat doos beat all nater,I'd give a year's pay fer a smell o' one good bluenose tater;The country here thet Mister Bolles declared to be so charmin'Throughout is swarmin' with the most alarmin' kind o' varmin'.He talked about delishis froots, but then it wuz a wopper all,The holl on't 's mud an' prickly pears, with here an' there achapparal;You see a feller peekin' out, an', fust you know, a lariatIs round your throat en' you a copse, 'fore you can say, "Wutair ye at?"[Footnote: these fellers are verry proppilly called Rank Heroes, andthe more tha kill the ranker and more Herowick tha bekum.—H. B.]You never see sech darned gret bugs (it may not be irrelevantTo say I've seen a SCARABAEUS PILULARIUS big ez a year old elephant),[Footnote: It wuz "tumblebug" as he Writ it, but the parson put theLatten instid. I sed tother maid better meeter, but he said tha waseddykated peepl to Boston and tha wouldn't stan' it no how. Idnow astha WOOOD and idnow as tha wood.—H. B.]The rigiment come up one day in time to stop a red bugFrom runnin' off with Cunnle Wright—'t wuz jest a commonCIMEX LECTULARIUS.One night I started up on eend an' thought I wuz to hum agin,I heern a horn, thinks I it's Sol the fisherman hez come agin,HIS bellowses is sound enough—ez I'm a livin' creeter,I felt a thing go thru my leg—'t wuz nothin' more 'n a skeeter!Then there's the yaller fever, tu, they call it here el vomito—(Come, thet wun't du, you landcrab there, I tell ye to le' GO my toe!My gracious! it's a scorpion thet's took a shine to play with 't,I darsn't skeer the tarnal thing fer fear he'd run away with 't).Afore I come away from hum I hed a strong persuasionThet Mexicans worn't human beans*—an ourang outang nation,*[Footnote: he means human beins, that's wut he means. I spose hekinder thought tha wuz human beans ware the Xisle Poles comesfrom.—H. B.]A sort o' folks a chap could kill an' never dream on't arter,No more'n a feller'd dream o' pigs thet he hed hed to slarter;I'd an idee thet they were built arter the darkle fashion all,An' kickin' colored folks about, you know, 's a kind o' nationalBut when I jined I worn't so wise ez thet air queen o' Sheby,Fer, come to look at 'em, they aint much diff'rent from wut we beAn' here we air ascrougin' 'em out o' thir own dominions,Ashelterin' 'em, ez Caleb sez, under our eagle's pinions,"Wich means to take a feller up jest by the slack o' 's trowsisAn' walk him Spanish clean right out o' all his homes an' housesWal, it doos seem a curus way, but then hooraw fer Jackson!It must be right, fer Caleb sez it's reg'lar Anglo-Saxon.The Mex'cans don't fight fair, they say, they piz'n all the water,An' du amazin' lots o' things thet isn't wut they ough' ter;Bein' they haint no lead, they make their bullets out o' copperAn' shoot the darned things at us, tu, which Caleb sez aint proper;He sez they'd ough' to stan' right up an' let us pop 'em fairly(Guess wen he ketches 'em at thet he'll hev to git up airly),Thet our nation's bigger 'n theirn an' so its rights air bigger,An thet it's all to make 'em free that we air pullin' trigger,Thet Anglo Saxondom's idee's abreakin' 'em to pieces,An' thet idee's thet every man doos jest wut he damn pleases;Ef I don't make his meanin' clear, perhaps in some respex I can,I know that "every man" don't mean a nigger or a Mexican;An' there's another thing I know, an' thet is, ef these creeturs,Thet stick an Anglo-saxon mask onto State-prison feeturs,Should come to Jaalam Center fer to argify an' spout on't,The gals 'ould count the silver spoons the minnit they clearedout on't
This goin' ware glory waits ye haint one agreeable feetur,An' ef it worn't fer wakin' snakes, I'd home agin short meter;O, wouldn't I be off, quick time, ef't worn't thet I wuz sartinThey'd let the daylight into me to pay me fer desartin!I don't approve o' tellin' tales, but jest to you I may stateOur ossifers aint wut they wuz afore they left the BaystateThen it wuz "Mister Sawin, sir, you're middlin' well now, be ye?Step up an' take a nipper, sir; I'm dreffle glad to see ye;"But now it's "Ware's my eppylet? here, Sawin, step an fetch it!An' mind your eye, be thund'rin' spry, or, damn ye, you shallketch it!"Wal, ez the Doctor sez, some pork will bile so, but by mighty,Ef I bed some on 'em to hum, I'd give 'em linkum vity,I'd play the rogue's march on their hides an' other [illeg] follerin'—But I must close my letter here, for one on 'em's a-hollerin',These Anglosaxon ossifers—wal, taint no use ajawin',I'm safe enlisted fer the war,Yourn,BIRDOFREEDOM SAWIN