If you say this was made for friend Dan, you belie it,I'll swear he's so like it that he was made by it.
Great wits to madness nearly are allied,This makes the Dean for kindred THUS provide.
TO A DUBLIN PUBLISHER.Who displayed a bust of Dean Swift in his window, while publishingLord Orrery's offensive remarks upon the Dean.
Faulkner! for once thou hast some judgment shown,By representing Swift transformed to stone;For could he thy ingratitude have known,Astonishment itself the work had done!
"God bless the King! God bless the faith's defender!God bless—no harm in blessing—the Pretender.But who that pretender is, and who that king,God bless us all, is quite another thing."
If the man who turnips cries,Cry not when his father dies,'Tis a proof that he had ratherHave a turnip than his father.
ON A FULL-LENGTH PORTRAIT OF BEAU MARSH.Placed between the busts of Newton and Pope.LORD CHESTERFIELD
"Immortal Newton never spokeMore truth than here you'll find;Nor Pope himself e'er penn'd a jokeMore cruel on mankind.
"The picture placed the busts between,Gives satire all its strength;Wisdom and Wit are little seen—But Folly at full length."
"Had Cain been Scot, God would have changed his doom;Nor forced him wander, but confined him home."
Poor Edmund sees poor Britain's setting sun:Poor Edmund GROANS—and Britain is UNDONE!
Reader! thou hast, I do presume (God knows though) been in a snugroom,By coals or wood made comfortably warm,And often fancied that a storm WITHOUT,Hath made a diabolic rout—Sunk ships, tore trees up—done a world of harm.
Yes, thou hast lifted up thy tearful eyes,Fancying thou heardst of mariners the cries;And sigh'd, "How wretched now must thousands be!Oh! how I pity the poor souls at sea!"When, lo! this dreadful tempest, and his roar,A ZEPHYR—in the key-hole of the door!
Now may not Edmund's howlings be a sighPressing through Edmund's lungs for loaves and fishes,On which he long hath looked with LONGING eyeTo fill poor Edmund's not o'erburden'd dishes?
Give Mun a sup—forgot will be complaint;Britain be safe, and Hastings prove a SAINT.
ON AN ARTISTWho boasted that his pictures had hung near those of Sir JoshuaReynolds in the Exhibition.
A shabby fellow chanc'd one day to meetThe British Roscius in the street,Garrick, on whom our nation justly brags—The fellow hugg'd him with a kind embrace—"Good sir, I do not recollect your face,"Quoth Garrick—"No!" replied the man of rags.
"The boards of Drury you and I have trodFull many a time together, I am sure—""When?" with an oath, cried Garrick—"for by G—I never saw that face of yours before!—What characters, I pray,Did you and I together play?"
"Lord!" quoth the fellow, "think not that I mock—When you play'd Hamlet, sir—I play'd the cock"
"FINISH'D!" a disappointed artist cries,With open mouth, and straining eyes;Gaping for praise like a young crow for meat—"Lord! why have you not mentioned ME!"Mention THEE!Thy IMPUDENCE hath put me in a SWEAT—What rage for fame attends both great and smallBetter be D—N'D, than mention'd NOT AT ALL!
West tells the world that Peter can not rhyme—Peter declares, point blank, that West can't paint.West swears I've not an atom of sublime—I swear he hath no notion of a saint;
And that his cross-wing'd cherubim are fowls,Baptized by naturalists, owls:Half of the meek apostles, gangs of robbers;His angels, sets of brazen-headed lubbers.
The Holy Scripture says, "All flesh is grass,"With Mr. West, all flesh is brick and brass;Except his horse-flesh, that I fairly ownIs often of the choicest Portland stone.I've said it too, that this artist's facesNe'er paid a visit to the graces:
That on expression he can never brag:Yet for this article hath he been studying,But in it never could surpass a pudding-No, gentle reader, nor a pudding-bag.
I dare not say, that Mr. WestCan not sound criticism impart:I'm told the man with technicals is blest,That he can talk a deal upon the art;Yes, he can talk, I do not doubt it—"About it, goddess, and about it."
Thus, then, is Mr. West deserving praise—And let my justice the fair laud afford;For, lo! this far-fam'd artist cuts both ways,Exactly like the angel Gabriel's sword;The beauties of the art his CONVERSE shows,His CANVAS almost ev'ry thing that's bad!Thus at th' Academy, we must suppose,A man more useful never could be had:Who in himself, a host, so much can do;Who is both precept and example too!
When Barry dares the President to fly on,'Tis like a mouse, that, work'd into a rageDaring some dreadful war to wage,Nibbles the tail of the Nemaean lion.
Or like a louse, of mettle full,Nurs'd in some giant's skull—Because Goliath scratch'd him as he fed,Employs with vehemence his angry claws,And gaping, grinning, formidable jaws,To CARRY OFF the GIANT'S HEAD!
There's one R. A. more dead! stiff is poor Hone—His works be with him under the same stone:I think the sacred art will not bemoan 'em;But, Muse!—DE MORTUIS NIL NISI BONUM—As to his host, a TRAV'LER, with a sneer,Said of his DEAD SMALL-BEER.Go, then, poor Hone! and join a numerous trainSunk in OBLIVION'S wide pacific ocean;And may its WHALE-LIKE stomach feel no motionTo cast thee, like a Jonah, up again.
Thus have I seen a child, with smiling face,A little daisy in the garden place,And strut in triumph round its fav'rite flow'r;Gaze on the leaves with infant admiration,Thinking the flow'r the finest in the nation,Then pay a visit to it ev'ry hour:Lugging the wat'ring-pot about,Which John the gard'ner was oblig'd to fill;The child, so pleas'd, would pour the water out,To show its marvelous gard'ning skill;
Then staring round, all wild for praises panting,Tell all the world it was its own sweet planting;And boast away, too happy elf,How that it found the daisy all itself!
In SIMILE if I may shine agen-Thus have I seen a fond old henWith one poor miserable chick,Bustling about a farmer's yard;Now on the dunghill laboring hard,Scraping away through thin and thick,Flutt'ring her feathers—making such a noise!Cackling aloud such quantities of joys,As if this chick, to which her egg gave birth,Was born to deal prodigious knocks,To shine the Broughton of game cocks,And kill the fowls of all the earth!
Poor Peter Staggs, now rests beneath this rail,Who loved his joke, his pipe, and mug of ale;For twenty years he did the duties well,Of ostler, boots, and waiter at the "Bell."But Death stepp'd in, and order'd Peter StaggsTo feed his worms, and leave the farmers' nags.The church clock struck one—alas! 't was Peter's knell,Who sigh'd, "I'm coming—that's the ostler's bell!"
Here rest the relics of a friend below,Blest with more sense than half the folks I know:Fond of his ease, and to no parties prone,He damn'd no sect, but calmly gnaw'd his bone;Perform'd his functions well in ev'ry way-Blush, CHRISTIANS, if you can, and copy Tray.
Talk no more of the lucky escape of the headFrom a flint so unluckily thrown-I think very different, with thousands indeed,'T was a lucky escape for the stone.
[The following stanza, on the death of Lady Mount E—-'s favorite pig Cupid, is verily exceeded by nothing in the annals of impertinence.—P. P.]
O dry that tear, so round and big,Nor waste in sighs your precious wind!Death only takes a single pig—Your lord and son are still behind.
I murder hate, by field or flood,Though glory's name may screen us;In wars at hame I'll spend my blood,Life-giving wars of Venus.
The Jeities that I adore,Are social peace and plenty;I'm better pleased to make one more,Than be the death of twenty.
Here souter Hood in death does sleep;—To h-ll, if he's gane thither,Satan, gie him thy gear to keep,He'll haud it weel thegither.
Here lies Johnny Pidgeon;What was his religion?Wha e'er desires to ken,To some other warl'Maun follow the carl,For here Johnny Pidgeon had nane!
Strong ale was ablution—Small beer, persecution,A dram was MEMENTO MORI:But a full flowing bowlWas the saving his soul,And port was celestial glory.
In se'enteen hunder an' forty-nine,Satan took stuff to mak' a swine,And cuist it in a corner;But wilily he chang'd his plan,And shaped it something like a man.And ca'd it Andrew Turner.
Light lay the earth on Billy's breast,His chicken heart so tender;But build a castle on his head,His skull will prop it under.
Here lies with death auld Grizzel Grim.Lineluden's ugly witch;O death, how horrid is thy taste,To lie with such a b——!
Lament him, Mauchline husbands a',He aften did assist ye;For had ye stayed whole years awa,Your wives they ne'er had missed ye.Ye Mauchline bairns, as on ye passTo school in bands thegither,O tread ye lightly on his grass—Perhaps he was your father.
Stop, thief! dame Nature cried to Death,As Willie drew his latest breath;You have my choicest model ta'en;How shall I make a fool again?
Earth'd up here lies an imp o' hell,Planted by Satan's dibble—Poor silly wretch, he's damn'd himsel'To save the Lord the trouble.
"He's gone at last—old Niger's dead!"Last night 'twas said throughout the city;Each quidnunc gravely shook his head,And HALF the town cried, "What a pity!"
The news proved false—'t was all a cheat—The morning came the fact denying;And ALL the town to-day repeatWhat HALF the town last night was crying.
Say which enjoys the greater blisses,John, who Dorinda's picture kisses,Or Tom, his friend, the favor'd elf,Who kisses fair Dorinda's self?Faith, 'tis not easy to divine,While both are thus with raptures fainting,To which the balance should incline,Since Tom and John both kiss a painting.THE POINT DECIDED.
Nay, surely John's the happier of the twain,Because—the picture can not kiss again!
Young Stirps as any lord is proud,Vain, haughty, insolent, and loud,Games, drinks, and in the full careerOf vice, may vie with any peer;Seduces daughters, wives, and mothers,Spends his own cash, and that of others,Pays like a lord—that is to say,He never condescends to pay,But bangs his creditor in requital—And yet this blockhead wants a title!
Lie as long as you will, my fine fellow, believe me,Your rhodomontading will never deceive me;Though you took me in THEN, I confess, my good youth,When moved by caprice you once told me the truth.
See yonder goes old Mendax, telling liesTo that good easy man with whom he's walking;How know I that? you ask, with some surprise;Why, don't you see, my friend, the fellow's talking.
SAVANS have decided, that search the globe round,One only bad wife in the world can be found;The worst of it is, as her name is not known,Not a husband but swears that bad wife is his own.
From the grave where dead Gripeall, the miser, reposes,What a villainous odor invades all our noses!It can't be his BODY alone—in the holeThey have certainly buried the usurer's SOUL.
While Fell was reposing himself on the hay,A reptile conceal'd bit his leg as he lay;But all venom himself, of the wound he made light,And got well, while the scorpion died of the bite.
So vile your grimace, and so croaking your speech,One scarcely can tell if you're laughing or crying;Were you fix'd on one's funeral sermon to preach,The bare apprehension would keep one from dying.
How plain your little darling says "Mamma,"But still she calls you "Doctor," not "Papa."One thing is clear: your conscientious ribHas not yet taught the pretty dear to fib.
"Be less prolix," says Grill. I like advice—"Grill, you're an ass!" Now surely that's concise.
Sly Cupid late with Maia's sonAgreed to live as friend and brother;In proof, his bow and shafts the oneChang'd for the well-fill'd purse of t'other.And now, the transfer duly made,Together through the world they rove;The thieving god in arms array'd,And gold the panoply of love!
Quoth gallant Fritz, "I ran awayTo fight again another day."The meaning of his speech is plain,He only fled to fly again.
That Dorilis thus, on her lap as he lies,Should kiss little Pompey, excites no surprise;But the lapdog whom thus she keeps fondling and praising,Licks her face in return—that I own is amazing!
So slowly you walk, and so quickly you eat,You should march with your mouth, and devour with your feet.
Give up one eye, and make your sister's two,Venus she then would be, and Cupid you.
How strange, a deaf wife to prefer!True, but she's also dumb, good sir.
AN EXPECTORATION,Or Spienetic Extempore, on my joyful departure from the city ofCologne.
As I am rhymer,And now, at least, a merry one,Mr. Mum's Eudesheimer,And the church of St. Geryon,Are the two things alone,That deserve to be known,In the body-and-soul-stinking town of Cologne.
In Clon, the town of monks and bones,And pavements fanged with murderous stones,And rags, and hags, and hideous wenches,I counted two-and-seventy stenches,All well defined and separate stinks!Ye nymphs that reign o'er sewers and sinks,The river Rhine, it is well known,Doth wash your city of Cologne.But tell me, nymphs, what power divineShall henceforth wash the river Rhine?
TO A LADY,Offended by a sportive observation that women have no souls.
Nay, dearest Anna, why so grave?I said you had no soul,'tis true,For what you ARE you can not HAVE;'TisIthat have one since I first had you.
There comes from old Avaro's graveA deadly stench—why sure they haveImmured his SOUL within his grave.
Sly Beelzebub took all occasionsTo try Job's constancy and patience.He took his honor, took his health,He took his children, took his wealth,His servants, oxen, horses, cows—But cunning Satan did not take his spouse.
But Heaven, that brings out good from evil,And loves to disappoint the devil,Had predetermined to restoreTwofold all he had before;His servants, horses, oxen, cows—Short-sighted devil, not to take his spouse!
The rose that blushes like the morn,Bedecks the valleys low:And so dost thou, sweet infant corn,My Angelina's toe.
But on the rose there grows a thorn,That breeds disastrous woe:And so dost thou, remorseless corn,On Angelina's toe.
Your poem must ETERNAL be,Dear sir, it can not fail,For 'tis incomprehensible,And wants both head and tail.
Swans sing before they die—'t were no bad thing;Did certain persons die before they sing.
Of yore, in Old England, it was not thought good,To carry two visages under one hood:What should folks say to YOU? who have faces so plenty,That from under one hood you last night showed us twenty!Stand forth, arch deceiver, and tell us in truth,Are you handsome or ugly, in age or in youth?Man, woman or child—a dog or a mouse?Or are you, at once, each live thing in the house?Each live thing did I ask?—each dead implement too,A workshop in your person—saw, chisel, and screw!Above all, are you one individual?—I knowYou must be, at least, Alexandre and Co.But I think you're a troop, an assemblage, a mob,And that I, as the sheriff, should take up the job:And, instead of rehearsing your wonders in verse,Must read you the riot-act, and bid you disperse!
THE SWALLOWS. R. BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. The Prince of Wales came into Brooke's one day, and complained of cold, but after drinking three glasses of brandy and water, said he felt comfortable.
The prince came in and said't was cold,Then put to his head the rummer,Till SWALLOW after SWALLOW came,When he pronounced it summer.
The French have taste in all they do, Which we are quite without;For Nature, that to them gave GOUTTo us gave only gout.
Sir Hudson Lowe, Sir Hudson LOW(By name, and ah! by nature so),As thou art fond of persecutions,Perhaps thou'st read, or heard repeated,How Captain Gulliver was treated,When thrown among the Lilliputians.
They tied him down-these little men did—And having valiantly ascendedUpon the Mighty Man's protuberance,They did so strut!—upon my soul,It must have been extremely drollTo see their pigmy pride's exuberance!
And how the doughty mannikinsAmused themselves with sticking pinsAnd needles in the great man's breeches;And how some VERY little things,That pass'd for Lords, on scaffoldingsGot up and worried him with speeches.
Alas! alas! that it should happenTo mighty men to be caught napping!—Though different, too, these persecutionsFor Gulliver, THERE, took the nap,While, HERE, the NAP, oh sad mishap, Is taken by the Lilliputians!
Said his Highness to NED, with that grim face of his,"Why refuse us the VETO, dear Catholic NEDDY?"—"Because, sir" said NED, looking full in his phiz,"You're FORBIDDING enough, in all conscience, already!"
With woman's form and woman's tricksSo much of man you seem to mix,One knows not where to take you;I pray you, if 'tis not too far,Go, ask of Nature WHICH you are,Or what she meant to make you.
Yet stay—you need not take the painsWith neither beauty, youth, nor brains,For man or maid's desiring:Pert as female, fool as male,As boy too green, as girl too staleThe thing's not worth inquiring!
Die when you will, you need not wearAt heaven's court a form more fairThan Beauty here on earth has given;Keep but the lovely looks we seeThe voice we hear and you will beAn angel READY-MADE for heaven!
Between Adam and me the great difference is,Though a paradise each has been forced to resign,That he never wore breeches till turn'd out of his,While, for want of my breeches, I'm banish'd from mine
QUEST.-Why is a Pump like Viscount CASTLEREAGH?ANSW.-Because it is a slender thing of wood,That up and down its awkward arm doth sway,And coolly spout, and spout, and spout away,In one weak, washy, everlasting flood!
Of all the men one meets about,There's none like Jack—he's everywhere:At church—park—auction—dinner—rout—Go when and where you will, he's there.Try the West End, he's at your back—Meets you, like Eurus, in the East—You're call'd upon for "How do, Jack?"One hundred times a-day, at least.A friend of his one evening said,As home he took his pensive way,"Upon my soul, I fear Jack's dead—I've seen him but three times to-day!"
"Come, come," said Tom's father, "at your time of life,There's no longer excuse for thus playing the rake—It is time you should think, boy, of taking a wife."—"Why, so it is, father—whose wife shall I take?"
Doloris, I swear, by all I ever swore,That from this hour I shall not love thee more.—"What! love no more? Oh! why this alter'd vow?Because I CAN NOT love thee MORE—than NOW!"
Like a snuffers, this loving old dame,By a destiny grievous enough,Though so oft she has snapp'd at the flame,Hath never more than the snuff.
To no ONE Muse does she her glance confine,But has an eye, at once to ALL THE NINE!
Lament, lament, Sir Isaac Heard,Put mourning round thy page, Debrett,For here lies one, who ne'er preferr'dA Viscount to a Marquis yet.
Beside his place the God of Wit,Before him Beauty's rosiest girls,Apollo for a STAR he'd quit,And Love's own sister for an Earl's.
Did niggard fate no peers afford,He took, of course, to peers' relations;And, rather than not sport a lord,Put up with even the last creations.
Even Irish names, could he but tag 'emWith "Lord" and "Duke," were sweet to call,And, at a pinch, Lord BallyraggumWas better than no Lord at all.
Heaven grant him now some noble nook,For, rest his soul, he'd rather beGenteelly damn'd beside a Duke,Than saved in vulgar company.
Give me, my love, that billing kissI taught you one delicious night,When, turning epicures in bliss,We tried inventions of delight.
Come, gently steal my lips along,And let your lips in murmurs moveAh, no!—again—that kiss was wrongHow can you be so dull, my love?
"Cease, cease!" the blushing girl repliedAnd in her milky arms she caught me"How can you thus your pupil chide;You know 'T WAS IN THE DARK you taught me!"
Beneath these poppies buried deep,The bones of Bob the bard lie hid;Peace to his manes; and may he sleepAs soundly as his readers did!
Through every sort of verse meandering,Bob went without a hitch or fall,Through Epic, Sapphic, Alexandrine,To verse that was no verse at all;
Till fiction having done enough,To make a bard at least absurd,And give his readers QUANTUM SUFF.,He took to praising George the Third:And now, in virtue of his crown,Dooms us, poor whigs, at once to slaughter,Like Donellan of bad renown,Poisoning us all with laurel-water.
And yet at times some awkward qualms heFelt about leaving honor's track;And though he's got a butt of Malmsey,It may not save him from a sack.
Death, weary of so dull a writer,Put to his works a FINIS thus.Oh! may the earth on him lie lighterThan did his quartos upon us!
WRITTEN IN A YOUNG LADY'S COMMON-PLACE BOOK,Called the "Book of Follies."
This journal of folly's an emblem of me;But what book shall we find emblematic of thee?Oh! shall we not say thou art LOVE'S DUODECIMO?None can be prettier, few can be less, you know.Such a volume in SHEETS were a volume of charms;Or if BOUND, it should only be BOUND IN OUR ARMS!
They tell us that Woman was made of a ribJust pick'd from a corner so snug in the side;But the Rabbins swear to you that this is a fib,And 't was not so at all that the sex was supplied.
For old Adam was fashion'd, the first of his kind,With a tail like a monkey, full a yard and a span;And when Nature cut off this appendage behind,Why—then woman was made of the tail of the man.
If such is the tie between women and men,The ninny who weds is a pitiful elf;For he takes to his tail, like an idiot, again,And makes a most damnable ape of himself!
Yet, if we may judge as the fashions prevail,Every husband remembers the original plan,And, knowing his wife is no more than his tail,Why—he leaves her behind him as much as he can.
Press the grape, and let it pourAround the board its purple shower;And while the drops my goblet steep,I'll think—in WOE the clusters weep.
Weep on, weep on, my pouting vine!Heaven grant no tears but tears of wine.Weep on; and, as thy sorrows flow,I'll taste the LUXURY OF WOE!
Of all speculations the market holds forth,The best that I know for a lover of pelf,Is to buy —- up at the price he is worth,And then sell him at that which he sets on himself.
While Butler, needy wretch, was yet alive,No generous patron would a dinner give.See him, when starved to death and turn'd to dust,Presented with a monumental bust.The poet's fate is here in emblem shown—He ask'd for BREAD, and he received a STONE.
Ye politicians, tell me, pray,Why thus with woe and care rent?This is the worst that you can say,Some wind has blown the wig away,And left the HAIR APPARENT.
TO PROFESSOR AIREY,On his marrying a beautiful woman.SIDNEY SMITH
Airey alone has gained that double prize,Which forced musicians to divide the crown;His works have raised a mortal to the skies,His marriage-vows have drawn a mortal down.
"They say Ward has no heart, but I deny it;He has a heart—and gets his speeches by it."
Thy verse is "sad" enough, no doubt,A devilish deal more sad than witty!Why should we weep, I can't find out,Unless for THEE we weep in pity.
Yet there is one I pity more,And much, alas! I think he needs it—For he, I'm sure, will suffer sore,Who, to his own misfortune, reads it.
The rhymes, without the aid of magic,May ONCE be read—but never after;Yet their effect's by no means tragic,Although by far too dull for laughter.
But would you make our bosoms bleed,And of no common pang complain?If you would make us weep indeed,Tell us you'll read them o'er again.
On the Prince Regent being seen standing between the coffins of HenryVIII. and Charles I, in the royal vault at Windsor.
Famed for contemptuous breach of sacred ties,By headless Charles see heartless Henry lies;Between them stands another sceptered thing—It moves, it reigns—in all but name, a king;Charles to his people, Henry to his wife,—In him the double tyrant starts to life;Justice and death have mixed their dust in vain,Each royal vampyre wakes to life again.Ah! what can tombs avail, since these disgorgeThe blood and dust of both to mold a George?
John Adams lies here, of the parish of Southwell,A carrier who carried his can to his mouth well;He carried so much, and he carried so fast,He could carry no more—so was carried at last;For the liquor he drank, being too much for one,He could not carry off—so he's now carriON.
Loquitur Discipulus Esuriens.
Professors, in your plan there seemsA something not quite right:'Tis queer to cherish learning's beamsBy shutting out the light.
While thus we see your windows block'd,If nobody complains;Yet everybody must be shock'd,To see you don't take pains.
And tell me why should bodilySuccumb to mental meat?Or why should Pi-ra, Beta Pi-ra, Pi-c,Be all the pie we eat?
No HELLUO LIBRORUM I,No literary glutton,Would veal with Virgil like to try,With metaphysics, mutton.
Leave us no longer in the lurch,With Romans, Greeks, and Hindoos:But give us beef instead of birch,And BOARD US—not your windows.
A friend I met, some half hour since—"GOOD-MORROW JACK!" quoth I;The new-made Knight, like any Prince,Frown'd, nodded, and pass'd by;When up came Jem—"Sir John, your slave!""Ah, James; we dine at eight—Fail not—(low bows the supple knave)Don't make my lady wait."The king can do no wrong? As I'm a sinner,He's spoilt an honest tradesman and my dinner.
What Horace says is,Eheu fugacesAnni labunter, Postume, Postume!Years glide away, and are lost to me, lost to me INow, when the folks in the dance sport their merry toes,Taglionis, and Ellslers, Duvernays and Ceritos,Sighing, I murmur, "O mihi praeteritos !"
Whence comes it that, in Clara's face,The lily only has its place?Is it because the absent roseHas gone to paint her husband's nose?
So much, dear Pope, thy English Homer charms,As pity melts us, or as passion warms,That after ages will with wonder seekWho 'twas translated Homer into Greek.
Two scraps of foundation, some fragments of lace,A shower of French rose-buds to droop o'er the face;Fine ribbons and feathers, with crage and illusions,Then mix and DErange them in graceful confusion;Inveigle some fairy, out roaming for pleasure,And beg the slight favor of taking her measure,The length and the breadth of her dear little pate,And hasten a miniature frame to create;Then pour, as above, the bright mixture upon it,And lo! you possess "such a love of a bonnet!"
As my wife and I, at the window one day,Stood watching a man with a monkey,A cart came by, with a "broth of a boy,"Who was driving a stout little donkey.To my wife I then spoke, by way of a joke,"There's a relation of yours in that carriage."To which she replied, as the donkey she spied,"Ah, yes, a relation—BY MARRIAGE!"
One of whom, O'Connell, delayed a duel on the plea of his wife's illness; the other declined on account of the illness of his daughter.
Some men, with a horror of slaughter,Improve on the Scripture command,And honor their wife and their daughter,That their days may be long in the land.
"Pray, why does the great Captain's noseResemble Venice?" Duncomb cries."Why," quoth Sam Rogers, "I suppose.Because it has a bridge of size (sighs)."
All dainty meats I do defyWhich feed men fat as swine,He is a frugal man indeedThat on a leaf can dine!He needs no napkin for his hands,His finger's ends to wipe,That keeps his kitchen in a box,And roast meat in his pipe!
"Harry, I can not think," says Dick,"What makes my ANKLES grow so thick:""You do not recollect," says Harry,"How great a CALF they have to carry."
Your comedy I've read, my friend,And like the half you pilfer'd best;But sure the piece you yet may mend:Take courage, man! and steal the rest.
That picture-raffles will conduce to nourishDesign, or cause good coloring to flourish,Admits of logic-chopping and wise sawing,But surely lotteries encourage drawing.
A mechanic his labor will often discardIf the rate of his pay he dislikes:But a clock—and its case is uncommonly hard—Will continue to work though it STRIKES.
Barbarians must we always be?Wild hunters in pursuit of fame?Must there be nowhere stone or treeUngashed with some ignoble name.O Venus! in thy Tuscan domeMay every god watch over thee!Apollo I bend thy bow o'er Rome,And guard thy sister's chastity.Let Britons paint their bodies blueAs formerly, but touch not you.
Now from the chamber all are goneWho gazed and wept o'er Wellington;Derby and Dis do all they canTo emulate so great a man:If neither can be quite so great,Resolved is each to LIE IN STATE.
[Illustration: LANDOR]
Lisette has lost her wanton wiles—What secret care consumes her youth,And circumscribes her smiles?—A SPECK ON A FRONT TOOTH?
Shiel's oratory's like bottled Dublin stout—For, draw the cork, and only froth comes out.
A poor man went to hang himself,But treasure chanced to find:He pocketed the miser's pelfAnd left the rope behind.
His money gone, the miser hungHimself in sheer despair:Thus each the other's wants supplied,And that was surely fair.
I'm going to seal a letter, Dick,Some WAX pray give to me.I have not got a SINGLE STICK,Or WHACKS I'd give to thee.
To win the maid the poet tries,And sometimes writes to Julia's eyeShe likes a VERSE—but, cruel whim,She still appears A-VERSE to him.
The Tories vow the Whigs are black as night,And boast that they are only blessed with light.Peel's politics to both sides so incline,His may be called the EQUINOCTIAL LINE.
Great Bulwer's works fell on Miss Basbleu's head,And, in a moment, lo! the maid was dead!A jury sat, and found the verdict plain—She died of MILK and WATER ON THE BRAIN.
Said Stiggins to his wife, one day,"We've nothing left to eat;If things go on in this queer way,We shan't make BOTH ENDS MEET."
The dame replied, in words discreet,"We're not so badly fed,If we can make but ONE end MEAT,And make the other BREAD."
One morn, two friends before the Newgate drop,To see a culprit throttled, chanced to stop:"Alas!" cried one, as round in air he spun,"That miserable wretch's RACE IS RUN.""True," said the other, drily, "to his cost,The race is run—but, by a NECK 'tis lost."
"I wonder if Brougham thinks as much as he talks,"Said a punster, perusing a trial:"I vow, since his lordship was made Baron Vaux,He's been VAUX ET PRAETEREA NIHIL!"
Quoth Will, "On that young servant-maidMy heart its life-string stakes.""Quite safe!" cries Dick, "don't be afraid—She pays for all she breaks."
CZAR NICHOLAS is so devout, they say,His majesty does nothing else than prey.
Ma'amselle Bas Bleu, erudite virgin,With learned zeal is ever urgingThe love and reverence dueFrom modern men to things antique,Egyptian, British, Roman, Greek,Relic of Gaul or Jew.
No wonder that, Ma'amselle, the loveDue to antiquity to proveAnd urge is ever prone;She knows where'er there cease to beAdmirers of Antiquity,She needs must lose her own!
I will not ask if thou canst touchThe tuneful ivory key?Those silent notes of thine are suchAs quite suffice for me.
I'll make no question if thy skillThe pencil comprehends,Enough for me, love, if thou stillCanst draw thy dividends!
Short was the passage through this earthly vale,By turnpike roads when mortals used to wend;But now we travel by the way of rail,As soon again we reach the journey's end.
Which is of greater value, prythee, say,The Bride or Bridegroom?—must the truth be told?Alas, it must! The Bride is given away—The Bridegroom's often regularly sold.
The lounger must oft, as he walks through the streets,Be struck with the grace of some girl that he meets;So graceful behind in dress—ringlets—all that—But one gaze at the front—what a horrid old cat!You then think of the notice you've seen on a door,Which informs you, of "70 late 24."
His majesty you should not say of FRITZ,That king is neuter; so for HIS, use ITS.
Ah, liberty! how like thou artTo this large bottle lying here,Which yesterday from foreign mart,Came filled with potent English beer!
A touch of steel—a hand—a gush—A pop that sounded far and near—A wild emotion—liquid rush—And I had drunk that English beer!
And what remains?—An empty shell!A lifeless form both sad and queer,A temple where no god doth dwell—The simple memory of beer!
What's the news?—Why, they say Death has killed Dr. Morrison.The Pill-maker? Yes. Then Death will be sorry soon.
Nay, marvel not to see these scholars fight,In brave disdain of certain scath and scar;'Tis but the genuine, old, Hellenic spite,—"When Greek meets Greek, then comes the tug of war!"
Quoth David to Daniel—"Why is it these scholarsAbuse one another whenever they speak?"Quoth Daniel to David—"it nat'rally follersFolks come to hard words if they meddle with Greek!"
An idle attorney besought a brotherFor "something to read—some novel or other,That was really fresh and new.""Take Chitty!" replied his legal friend,"There isn't a book that I could lendWould prove more 'novel' to you!"
Here Nature in her glass—the wanton elf—Sits gravely making faces at herself;And while she scans each clumsy feature o'er,Repeats the blunders that she made before!
Men dying make their wills—but wivesEscape a work so sad;Why should they make what all their livesThe gentle dames have had?
"A fool," said Jeanette, "is a creature I hate!""But hating," quoth John, "is immoral;Besides, my dear girl, it's a terrible fateTo be found in a family quarrel!"
Old Joe is gone, who saw hot Percy goadHis slow artillery up the Concord road,A tale which grew in wonder year by year;As every time he told it, Joe drew nearTo the main fight, till faded and grown gray,The original scene to bolder tints gave way;Then Joe had heard the foe's scared double-quickBeat on stove drum with one uncaptured stick,And, ere death came the lengthening tale to lop,Himself had fired, and seen a red-coat drop;Had Joe lived long enough, that scrambling fightHad squared more nearly to his sense of right,And vanquished Perry, to complete the tale,Had hammered stone for life in Concord jail.
A dramatist declared he had gotSo many people in his plot,That what to do with half he hadWas like to drive him drama-mad!"The hero and the heroineOf course are married—very fine!But with the others, what to doIs more than I can tell—can you?"His friend replied—"'Tis hard to say,But yet I think there is a way.The married couple, thank their starsAnd half the 'others' take the cars,The other half you put on boardAn Erie steamboat—take my word,They'll never trouble you again!"The dramatist resumed his pen.
On me he shall ne'er put a ring,So, mamma, 'tis in vain to take trouble—For I was but eighteen in spring,While his age exactly is double.
He's but in his thirty-sixth year,Tall, handsome, good-natured and witty,And should you refuse him, my dear,May you die an old maid without pity!
His figure, I grant you, will pass,And at present he's young enough plenty;But when I am sixty, alas!Will not he be a hundred and twenty?
In early days, ere Common SenseAnd Genius had in anger parted,They made to friendship some pretense,Though each, Heaven knows! diversely hearted.To hunt for mushrooms once they went,Through nibbled sheepwalks straying onward,Sense with his dull eyes earthward bent,While Genius shot his glances sunward!Away they go! On roll the hours,And toward the west the day-god edges;See! Genius holds a wreath of flowers,Fresh culled from all the neighboring hedges!Alas! ere eve their bright hues flit,While Common Sense (whom I so doat on!)Thanked God "that he had little wit,"And drank his ketchup with his mutton.
"Le petit" call not him who by one actHas turned old fable into modern factNap Louis courted Europe: Europe shied:Th' imperial purple was too newly dyed."I'll have her though," thought he, "by rape or rapine;Jove nods sometimes, but catch a Nap a napping!And now I think of Jove, 't was Jove's own fix,And so I'll borrow one of Jove's own tricks:Old itching Palm I'll tickle with a joke,And he shall lend me England's decent cloak."'Twas said and done, and his success was full;He won Europa with the guise of Bull!
"Here, reader, turn your weeping eyes,My fate a useful moral teaches;The hole in which my body liesWould not contain one-half my speeches."