This winters weather itt waxeth cold,And frost doth freese on every hill,And Boreas blowes his blasts soe bold,That all our cattell are like to spill;Bell, my wiffe, who loves noe strife,Shee sayd unto me quietlye,Rise up, and save cow Cumbockes liffe,Man, put thine old cloake about thee.
HE.O Bell, why dost thou flyte and scorne?Thou kenst my cloak is very thin:Itt is soe bare and overworneA cricke he theron cannot renn:Then Ile no longer borrowe nor lend,For once Ile new appareld bee,To-morrow Ile to towne and spend,For Ile have a new cloake about mee.
SHE.Cow Crumbocke is a very good cowe,Shee ha beene alwayes true to the payle,She has helpt us to butter and cheese, I trowAnd other things shee will not fayle;I wold be loth to see her pine,Good husband councell take of mee,It is not for us to go soe fine,Man, take thine old cloake about thee.
HE.My cloake it was a very good cloakeItt hath been alwayes true to the weare,But now it is not worth a groat;I have had it four and forty yeere;Sometime itt was of cloth in graine,'Tis now but a sigh clout as you may see.It will neither hold out winde nor raine;And Ile have a new cloake about mee.
SHE.It is four and fortye yeeres agoeSince the one of us the other did ken,And we have had betwixt us toweOf children either nine or ten;Wee have brought them up to women and men;In the feare of God I trow they bee;And why wilt thou thyselfe misken?Man, take thine old cloake about thee.
HE.O Bell, my wiffe, why dost thou floute!Now is nowe, and then was then:Seeke now all the world throughout,Thou kenst not clownes from gentlemen.They are cladd in blacke, greene, yellowe, or gray,Soe far above their owne degree:Once in my life Ile doe as they,For Ile have a new cloake about mee.
SHE.King Stephen was a worthy peere,His breeches cost him but a crowne,He held them sixpence all too deere;Therefore he calld the taylor Lowne.He was a wight of high renowne,And thouse but of a low degree:Itt's pride that putts this countrye downe,Man, take thine old cloake about thee.
HE."Bell, my wife, she loves not strife,Yet she will lead me if she can;And oft, to live a quiet life,I am forced to yield, though Ime good-man;"Itt's not for a man with a woman to threape,Unlesse he first gave oer the plea:As wee began wee now will leave,And Ile take mine old cloake about mee.
An ancient story Ile tell you anonOf a notable prince, that was called King John;And he ruled England with maine and with might,For he did great wrong, and maintein'd little right.
And Ile tell you a story, a story so merrye,Concerning the Abbot of Canterburye;How for his house-keeping, and high renowne,They rode poste for him to fair London towne.
An hundred men, the king did heare say,The abbot kept in his house every day;And fifty golde chaynes, without any doubt,In velvet coates waited the abbot about.How now, father abbot, I heare it of thee,Thou keepest a farre better house than mee,And for thy house-keeping and high renowne,I feare thou work'st treason against my crown.
My liege, quo' the abbot, I would it were knowne,I never spend nothing but what is my owne;And I trust your grace will doe me no deereFor spending of my owne true-gotten geere.
Yes, yes, father abbot, thy fault it is highAnd now for the same thou needest must dye;Por except thou canst answer me questions three,Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodie.
And first, quo' the king, when I'm in this stead,With my crowne of golde so faire on my head,Among all my liege-men, so noble of birthe,Thou must tell me to one penny what I am worthe.
Secondlye, tell me, without any doubt,How soone I may ride the whole world about,And at the third question thou must not shrink,But tell me here truly what I do think.
O, these are hard questions for my shallow witt,Nor I cannot answer your grace as yet;But if you will give me but three weekes space,Ile do my endeavour to answer your grace.
Now three weeks space to thee will I give,And that is the longest time thou hast to live;For if thou dost not answer my questions three,Thy lands and thy livings are forfeit to mee.
Away rode the abbot, all sad at that word,And he rode to Cambridge and Oxenford;But never a doctor there was so wise,That could with his learning an answer devise.
Then home rode the abbot, of comfort so cold,And he mett his shepheard agoing to fold:How now, my lord abbot, you are welcome home,What newes do you bring us from good King John?
Sad newes, sad newes, shepheard, I must give:That I have but three days more to live;For if I do not answer him questions three,My head will be smitten from my bodie.
The first is to tell him there in that stead,With his crowne of golde so fair on his head.Among all his liege-men so noble of birth.To within one penny of what he is worth.
The seconde, to tell him, without any doubt,How soone he may ride this whole world about:And at the third question I must not shrinke,But tell him there truly what he does thinke.
Now cheare up, sire abbot, did you never hear yet,That a fool he may learne a wise man witt?Lend me horse, and serving-men, and your apparel,And I'll ride to London to answere your quarrel.
Nay frowne not, if it hath bin told unto mee,I am like your lordship, as ever may bee:And if you will but lend me your gowne,There is none shall knowe us in fair London towne.
Now horses and serving-men thou shalt have,With sumptuous array most gallant and brave;With crozier, and miter, and rochet, and cope,Fit to appeare 'fore our fader the pope.
Now welcome, sire abbot, the king he did say,'Tis well thou'rt come back to keepe thy day;For and if thou canst answer my questions three,Thy life and thy living both saved shall bee.
And first, when thou seest me here in this stead,With my crown of golde so fair on my head,Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe,Tell me to one penny what I am worth.
For thirty pence our Saivour was soldAmong the false Jewes, as I have bin told:And twenty-nine is the worth of thee,For I thinke, thou art one penny worser than hee.
The King he laughed, and swore by St. Bittel,I did not think I had been worth so littel!—Now secondly tell me, without any doubt,How soone I may ride this whole world about.
You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same,Until the next morning he riseth againe;And then your grace need not make any doubtBut in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about.
The king he laughed, and swore by St. Jone,I did not think it could be gone so soone!—Now from the third question thou must not shrinke,But tell me here truly what I do thinke.
Yea, that shall I do, and make your grace merry:You thinke I'm the abbot of Canterbury;But I'm his poor shepheard, as plain you may see,That am come to beg pardon for him and for mee.
The king he laughed, and swore by the masse,Ile make thee lord abbot this day in his place!Now naye, my liege, be not in such speede,For alacke I can neither write, ne reade.
Four nobles a week, then, I will give thee,For this merry jest thou hast showne unto mee:And tell the old abbot, when thou comest home,Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John.
There was a knight was drunk with wine,A riding along the way, sir;And there he met with a lady fine,Among the cocks of hay, sir.
Shall you and I, O lady faire,Among the grass lye down-a:And I will have a special care,Of rumpling of your gowne-a.
Upon the grass there is a dewe,Will spoil my damask gowne, sir:My gowne and kirtle they are newe,And cost me many a crowne, sir.
I have a cloak of scarlet red,Upon the ground I'll throwe it;Then, lady faire, come lay thy head;We'll play, and none shall knowe it.
O yonder stands my steed so freeAmong the cocks of hay, sir,And if the pinner should chance to see,He'll take my steed away, sir.
Upon my finger I have a ring,Its made of finest gold-a,And, lady, it thy steed shall bringOut of the pinner's fold-a.
O go with me to my father's hall;Fair chambers there are three, sir:And you shall have the best of all,And I'll your chamberlaine bee, sir.
He mounted himself on his steed so tall,And her on her dapple gray, sir:And there they rode to her father's hall,Fast pricking along the way, sir.
To her father's hall they arrived strait;'Twas moated round about-a;She slipped herself within the gate,And lockt the knight without-a.
Here is a silver penny to spend,And take it for your pain, sir;And two of my father's men I'll sendTo wait on you back again, sir.
He from his scabbard drew his brand,And wiped it upon his sleeve-a!And cursed, he said, be every man,That will a maid believe-a!
She drew a bodkin from her haire,And wip'd it upon her gown-a;And curs'd be every maiden faire,That will with men lye down-a!
A herb there is, that lowly grows,And some do call it rue, sir:The smallest dunghill cock thatWould make a capon of you, sir.
A flower there is, that shineth bright,Some call it mary-gold-a:He that wold not when he might,He shall not when he wold-a.
The knight was riding another day,With cloak, and hat, and feather:He met again with that lady gay,Who was angling in the river.
Now, lady faire, I've met with you,You shall no more escape me;Remember, how not long agoeYou falsely did intrap me.
He from his saddle down did light,In all his riche attyer;And cryed, As I'm a noble knight,I do thy charms admyer.
He took the lady by the hand,Who seemingly consented;And would no more disputing stand:She had a plot invented.
Looke yonder, good sir knight, I pray,Methinks I now discoverA riding upon his dapple gray,My former constant lover.
On tip-toe peering stood the knight,Past by the rivers brink-a;The lady pusht with all her might:Sir knight, now swim or sink-a.
O'er head and ears he plunged in,The bottom faire he sounded;Then rising up, he cried amain,Help, helpe, or else I'm drownded!
Now, fare-you-well, sir knight, adieu!You see what conies of fooling:That is the fittest place for you;Your courage wanted cooling.
Ere many days, in her fathers park,Just at the close of eve-a,Again she met with her angry sparke;Which made this lady grieve-a.
False lady, here thou'rt in my powre,And no one now can hear thee:And thou shalt sorely rue the hourThat e'er thou dar'dst to jeer me.
I pray, sir knight, be not so warmWith a young silly maid-a:I vow and swear I thought no harm,'Twas a gentle jest I playd-a.
A gentle jest, in soothe he cry'd,To tumble me in and leave me!What if I had in the river dy'd?—That fetch will not deceive me.
Once more I'll pardon thee this day,Tho' injur'd out of measure;But thou prepare without delayTo yield thee to my pleasure.
Well then, if I must grant your suit,Yet think of your boots and spurs, sirLet me pull off both spur and boot,Or else you cannot stir, sir.
He set him down upon the grass,And begg'd her kind assistance:Now, smiling, thought this lovely lass,I'll make you keep your distance.
Then pulling off his boots half-way;Sir knight, now I'm your betters:You shall not make of me your prey;Sit there like a knave in fetters.
The knight, when she had served him soe,He fretted, fum'd, and grumbled:For he could neither stand nor goe,But like a cripple tumbled.
Farewell, sir knight, the clock strikes ten,Yet do not move nor stir, sir:I'll send you my father's serving men,To pull off your boots and spurs, sir.
This merry jest you must excuse,You are but a stingless nettle:You'd never have stood for boots or shoes,Had you been a man of mettle.
All night in grievous rage he lay,Roiling upon the plain-a;Next morning a shepherd past that way,Who set him right again-a.
Then mounting upon his steed so tall,By hill and dale he swore-a:I'll ride at once to her father's hall;She shall escape no more-a.
I'll take her father by the beard,I'll challenge all her kindred;Each dastard soul shall stand affeard;My wrath shall no more be hindred.
He rode unto her father's house,Which every side was moated:The lady heard his furious vows,And all his vengeance noted.
Thought shee, sir knight, to quench your rage,Once more I will endeavour:This water shall your fury 'swage,Or else it shall burn for ever.
Then faining penitence and feare,She did invite a parley:Sir knight, if you'll forgive me heare,Henceforth I'll love you dearly.
My father he is now from home,And I am all alone, sir:Therefore across the water come,And I am all your own, sir.
False maid, thou canst no more deceive;I scorn the treacherous bait-a;If thou would'st have me thee believe,Now open me the gate-a.
The bridge is drawn, the gate is barr'd,My father he has the keys, sir;But I have for my love prepar'dA shorter way, and easier.
Over the moate I've laid a plankFull seventeen feet in measure,Then step across to the other bank,And there we'll take our pleasure.
These words she had no sooner spoke,But straight he came tripping over:The plank was saw'd, it snapping broke,And sous'd the unhappy lover.
Once on a time, in sunshine weather,Falsehood and Truth walk'd out together,The neighboring woods and lawns to view,As opposites will sometimes do.Through many a blooming mead they passed,And at a brook arriv'd at last.The purling stream, the margin green,With flowers bedeck'd, a vernal scene,Invited each itinerant maid,To rest a while beneath the shade.Under a spreading beach they sat,And pass'd the time with female chat;Whilst each her character maintain'd;One spoke her thoughts, the other feign'd.At length, quoth Falsehood, sister Truth(For so she call'd her from her youth),What if, to shun yon sultry beam,We bathe in this delightful stream;The bottom smooth, the water clear,And there's no prying shepherd near?With all my heart, the nymph replied,And threw her snowy robes aside,Stript herself naked to the skin,And with a spring leapt headlong in.Falsehood more leisurely undrest,And, laying by her tawdry vest,Trick'd herself out in Truth's array,And 'cross the meadows tript away.From this curst hour, the fraudful dameOf sacred Truth usurps the name,And, with a vile, perfidious mind,Roams far and near, to cheat mankind;False sighs suborns, and artful tears,And starts with vain pretended fears;In visits, still appears most wise,And rolls at church her saint-like eyes;Talks very much, plays idle tricks,While rising stock [Footnote: South Sea, 1720.] her conscience pricks;When being, poor thing, extremely gravel'd,The secrets op'd, and all unravel'd.But on she will, and secrets tellOf John and Joan, and Ned and Nell,Reviling every one she knows,As fancy leads, beneath the rose.Her tongue, so voluble and kind,It always runs before her mind;As times do serve, she slyly pleads,And copious tears still show her needs.With promises as thick as weeds—Speaks pro and con., is wondrous civil,To-day a saint, to-morrow devil.Poor Truth she stript, as has been said,And naked left the lovely maid,Who, scorning from her cause to wince,Has gone stark-naked ever since;And ever naked will appear,Belov'd by all who Truth revere.
Fanny, beware of flattery,Your sex's much-lov'd enemy;For other foes we are prepar'd,And Nature puts us on our guard:In that alone such charms are found,We court the dart, we nurse the hand;And this, my child, an Aesop's FableWill prove much better than I'm able.
A young vain female Crow,Had perch'd upon a pine tree's bough,And sitting there at ease,Was going to indulge her taste,In a most delicious feast,Consisting of a slice of cheese.A sharp-set Fox (a wily creature)Pass'd by that wayIn search of prey;When to his nose the smell of cheese,Came in a gentle western breeze;No Welchman knew, or lov'd it better:He bless'd th' auspicious wind,And strait look'd round to find,What might his hungry stomach fill,And quickly spied the Crow,Upon a lofty bough,Holding the tempting prize within her bill.But she was perch'd too high,And Reynard could not fly:She chose the tallest tree in all the wood,What then could bring her down?Or make the prize his own?Nothing but flatt'ry could.He soon the silence broke,And thus ingenious hunger spoke:"Oh, lovely bird,Whose glossy plumage oft has stirr'dThe envy of the grove;Thy form was Nature's pleasing care,So bright a bloom, so soft an air,All that behold must love.But, if to suit a form like thine,Thy voice be as divine;If both in these together meet,The feather'd race must ownOf all their tribe there's none,Of form so fair, of voice so sweet.Who'll then regard the linnet's note,Or heed the lark's melodious throat?What pensive lovers then shall dwellWith raptures on their Philomel?The goldfinch shall his plumage hide,The swan abate her stately pride,And Juno's bird no more displayHis various glories to the sunny day:Then grant thy Suppliant's prayer,And bless my longing earWith notes that I would die to hear!"Flattery prevail'd, the Crow believ'dThe tale, and was with joy deceiv'd;In haste to show her want of skill,She open'd wide her bill:She scream'd as if the de'el was in herHer vanity became so strongThat, wrapt in her own frightful song,She quite forgot, and dropt her dinner,The morsel fell quick by the placeWhere Reynard lay,Who seized the preyAnd eat it without saying grace.He sneezimg cried "The day's my own,My ends obtain'dThe prize is gain'd,And now I'll change my note.Vain, foolish, cheated Glow,Lend your attention now,A truth or two I'll tell you!For, since I've fill'd my belly,Of course my flattry's done:Think you I took such pains,And spoke so well only to hear you croak?No, 'twas the luscious bait,And a keen appetite to eat,That first inspir'd, and carried on the cheat'Twas hunger furnish'd hands and matter,Flatterers must live by those they flatter;But weep not, Crow, a tongue like mineMight turn an abler head than thine;And though reflection may displease,If wisely you apply your thought,To learn the lesson I have taught,Experience, sure, is cheaply bought,And richly worth a slice of cheese."
Cocking his tail, a saucy prig,A Magpie hopped upon a Pig,To pull some hair, forsooth, to line his nest;And with such ease began the hair attack,As thinking the fee simple of the backWas by himself, and not the Pig, possessed.
The Boar looked up as thunder black to Mag,Who, squinting down on him like an arch wag,Informed Mynheer some bristles must be torn.Then briskly went to work, not nicely culling:Got a good handsome beakful by good pulling,And flew, without a "Thank ye" to his thorn.
The Pig set up a dismal yelling:Followed the robber to his dwelling,Who like a fool had built it 'midst a bramble.In manfully he sallied, full of might,Determined to obtain his right,And 'midst the bushes now began to scramble.
He drove the Magpie, tore his nest to rags,And, happy on the downfall, poured his brags:But ere he from the brambles came, alack!His ears and eyes were miserably torn,His bleeding hide in such a plight forlorn,He could not count ten hairs upon his back.
Young women! don't be fond of killing,Too well I know your hearts unwillingTo hide beneath the vail a charm—Too pleased a sparkling eye to roll,And with a neck to thrill the soulOf every swain with love's alarm.
Yet, yet, if prudence be not nearIts snow may melt into a tear.
The dimple smile, and pouting lip,Where little Cupids nectar sip,Are very pretty lures I own:But, ah! if prudence be not nigh,Those lips where all the Cupids lie,May give a passage to a groan.
A Rose, in all the pride of bloom,Flinging around her rich perfumeHer form to public notice pushing,Amid the summer's golden glowPeeped on a Strawberry below,Beneath a leaf, in secret blushing.
"Miss Strawberry," exclaimed the Rose,"What's beauty that no mortal knows?What is a charm, if never seen?You really are a pretty creature:Then wherefore hide each blooming feature?Come up, and show your modest mien."
"Miss Rose," the Strawberry replied,"I never did possess a prideThat wished to dash the public eye:Indeed, I own that I'm afraid—I think there's safety in the shade,Ambition causes many a sigh."
"Go, simple child," the Rose rejoined,"See how I wanton in the wind:I feel no danger's dread alarms:And then observe the god of day,How amorous with his golden ray,To pay his visits to my charms!"
No sooner said, but with a screamShe started from her favorite theme—A clown had on her fixed his pat.In vain she screeched—Hob did but smile;Rubbed with her leaves his nose awhile,Then bluntly stuck her in his hat.
Economy's a very useful broom;Yet should not ceaseless hunt about the roomTo catch each straggling pin to make a plumb:Too oft Economy's an iron vice,That squeezes even the little guts of mice,That peep with fearful eyes, and ask a crumb.
Proper Economy's a comely thing—Good in a subject—better in a king;Yet pushed too far, it dulls each finer feeling—Most easily inclined to make folks mean;Inclines them too, to villainy to lean,To over-reaching, perjury, and stealing.
Even when the heart should only think of griefIt creeps into the bosom like a thief,And swallows up th' affections all so mild—Witness the Jewess, and heronly child:—
Poor Mistress Levi had a luckless son,Who, rushing to obtain the foremost seat,In imitation of th' ambitious great,High from the gallery, ere the play begun,He fell all plump into the pit,Dead in a minute as a nit:In short, he broke his pretty Hebrew neck;Indeed and very dreadful was the wreck!
The mother was distracted, raving, wild—Shrieked, tore her hair, embraced and kissed her child—Afflicted every heart with grief around:Soon as the shower of tears was somewhat past,And moderately calm th' hysteric blast,She cast about her eyes in thought profoundAnd being with a saving knowledge blessed,She thus the playhouse manager addressed:
"Sher, I'm de moder of de poor Chew lad,Dat meet mishfartin here so bad—Sher, I muss haf de shilling back, you know,Ass Moses haf not see de show."
But as for Avarice, 'tis the very devil;The fount, alas! of every evil:The cancer of the heart—the worst of ills:Wherever sown, luxuriantly it thrives;No flower of virtue near it lives:Like aconite where'er it spreads, it kills.In every soil behold the poison spring!Can taint the beggar, and infect the king.
The mighty Marlborough pilfered cloth and bread,So says that gentle satirist Squire Pope;And Peterborough's Earl upon this head,Affords us little room to hope,That what the Twitnam bard avowed,Might not be readily allowed.
Peter lasheth the Ladies.—He turneth Story-teller.—Peter grieveth.
Although the ladies with such beauty blaze,They very frequently my passion raise—Their charms compensate, scarce, their want of TASTE.Passing amidst the Exhibition crowd,I heard some damsels FASHIONABLY loud;And thus I give the dialogue that pass'd.
"Oh! the dear man!" cried one, "look! here's a bonnet!He shall paint ME—I am determin'd on it—Lord! cousin, see! how beautiful the gown!What charming colors! here's fine lace, here's gauze!What pretty sprigs the fellow draws!Lord, cousin! he's the cleverest man in town!"
"Ay, cousin," cried a second, "very true—And here, here's charming green, and red, and blue!There's a complexion beats the ROUGE of Warren!See those red lips; oh, la! they seem so nice!What rosy cheeks then, cousin, to entice!—Compar'd to this, all other heads are carrion.
"Cousin, this limner quickly will be seen,Painting the Princess Royal, and the Queen:Pray, don't you think as I do, COZ?But we 'll be painted FIRST that POZ."
Such was the very PRETTY conversationThat pass'd between the PRETTY misses,While unobserv'd, the glory of our nation,Close by them hung Sir Joshua's matchless piecesWorks! that a Titian's hand could form alone—Works! that a Reubens had been proud to own.
Permit me, ladies, now to lay before yeWhat lately happen'd—therefore a true story:—
Walking one afternoon along the Strand,My wond'ring eyes did suddenly expandUpon a pretty leash of country lasses.
"Heav'ns! my dear beauteous angels, how d'ye do?Upon my soul I'm monstrous glad to see ye.""Swinge! Peter, we are glad to meet with you;We're just to London come—well, pray how be ye?
"We're just a going, while 'tis light,To see St. Paul's before 'tis dark.Lord! come, for once, be so polite,And condescend to be our spark."
"With all my heart, my angels."—On we walk'd,And much of London—much of Cornwall talk'd.Now did I hug myself to thinkHow much that glorious structure would surprise,How from its awful grandeur they would shrinkWith open mouths, and marv'ling eyes!
As near to Ludgate-Hill we drew,St. Paul's just opening on our view;Behold, my lovely strangers, one and all,Gave, all at once, a diabolic squawl,As if they had been tumbled on the stones,And some confounded cart had crush'd their bones.
After well fright'ning people with their cries,And sticking to a ribbon-shop their eyes,They all rush'd in, with sounds enough to stun,And clattering all together, thus begun:—
"Swinge! here are colors then, to please!Delightful things, I vow to heav'n!Why! not to see such things as these,We never should have been forgiv'n.
"Here, here, are clever things—good Lord!And, sister, here, upon my word—Here, here!—look! here are beauties to delight:Why! how a body's heels might danceAlong from Launceston to Penzance,Before that one might meet with such a sight!"
"Come, ladies, 'twill be dark," cried I—"I fear.Pray let us view St. Paul's, it is so near"—"Lord! Peter," cried the girls, "don't mind St. Paul!Sure! you're a most INCURIOUS soul—Why—we can see the church another day;Don't be afraid—St. Paul's can't RUN AWAY."
Reader,If e'er thy bosom felt a thought SUBLIME,Drop tears of pity with the man of rhyme!
Peter continueth to give great Advice, and to exhibit deep reflection—He telleth a miraculous Story.
There is a knack in doing many a thing,Which labor can not to perfection bring:Therefore, however great in your own eyes,Pray do not hints from other folks despise:
A fool on something great, at times, may stumble,And consequently be a good adviser:On which, forever, your wise men may fumble,And never be a whit the wiser
Yes! I advise you, for there's wisdom in't,Never to be superior to a, hint—The genius of each man, with keenness view—A spark from this, or t'other, caught,May kindle, quick as thought,A glorious bonfire up in you.A question of you let me beg—Of fam'd Columbus and his egg.Pray, have you heard? "Yes."—O, then, if you pleaseI'll give you the two Pilgrims and the Peas.
A brace of sinners, for no good,Were order'd to the Virgin Mary's shrine,Who at Loretto dwelt, in wax, stone, wood,And in a fair white wig look'd wondrous fine.
Fifty long miles had those sad rogues to travel,With something in their shoes much worse than gravelIn short, their toes so gentle to amuse,The priest had order'd peas into their shoes:
A nostrum famous in old Popish timesFor purifying souls that stunk of crimes:A sort of apostolic salt,Which Popish parsons for its powers exalt,For keeping souls of sinners sweet,Just as our kitchen salt keeps meat.
The knaves set off on the same day,Peas in their shoes, to go and pray:But very diff'rent was their speed, I wot:One of the sinners gallop'd on,Swift as a bullet from a gun;The other limp'd, as if he had been shot.
One saw the Virgin soon—peccavi cried—Had his soul white-wash'd all so clever;Then home again he nimbly hied,Made fit, with saints above, to live forever.
In coming back, however, let me say,He met his brother rogue about half way—Hobbling, with out-stretch'd hands and bending knees;Damning the souls and bodies of the peas:His eyes in tears, his cheeks and brows in sweat,Deep sympathizing with his groaning feet.
"How now," the light-toed, white-washed pilgrim broke"You lazy lubber! 'Ods curse it," cried the other, "'tis no joke—My feet, once hard as any rock,Are now as soft as any blubber.
"Excuse me, Virgin Mary, that I swear—As for Loretto I shall not get there;No! to the Dev'l my sinful soul must go,For damme if I ha'nt lost ev'ry toe.
"But, brother sinner, pray explainHow 'tis that you are not in pain:What pow'r hath work'd a wonder for YOUR toes:WhileI, just like a snail am crawling,Now swearing, now on saints devoutly bawling,While not a rascal comes to ease my woes?
"How is't that YOU can like a greyhound go,Merry, as if that naught had happen'd, burn ye?""Why," cried the other, grinning, "you must know,That just before I ventur'd on my journey,To walk a little more at ease,I took the liberty to boil MY peas.'"
'Twas on a lofty vase's side,Where China's gayest art had dyedThe azure flowers that blow,Demurest of the tabby kind,The pensive Selima, reclined,Gazed on the lake below.
Her conscious tail her joy declared;The fair round face, the snowy beard,The velvet of her paws,Her coat that with the tortoise vies,Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes,She saw, and purred applause.
Still had she gaz'd, but, 'midst theTwo angel forms were seen to glide,The Genii of the stream:Their scaly armor's Tyrian hue,Through richest purple, to the viewBetrayed a golden gleam.
The hapless nymph with wonder sawA whisker first, and then a claw,With many an ardent wish,She stretched in vain to reach the prize;What female heart can gold despise?What Cat's averse to fish?
Presumptuous maid! with looks intent,Again she stretched, again she bent,Nor knew the gulf between:(Malignant Fate sat by and smiled)The slippery verge her feet beguiled;She tumbled headlong in.
Eight times emerging from the flood,She mewed to every watery godSome speedy aid to send.No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirred,Nor cruel Tom or Susan heard:A fav'rite has no friend!
From hence, ye Beauties! undeceived,Know one false step is ne'er retrieved,And be with caution bold:Not all that tempts your wandering eyesAnd heedless hearts, is lawful prize,Nor all that glistens gold.
A poet's cat, sedate and graveAs poet well could wish to have,Was much addicted to inquireFor nooks to which she might retire,And where, secure as mouse in chink,She might repose, or sit and think.I know not where she caught the trick;Nature perhaps herself had cast herIn such a mold PHILOSOPHIQUE,Or else she learned it of her master.Sometimes ascending, debonair,An apple-tree, or lofty pear,Lodged with convenience in the fork,She watched the gardener at his work;Sometimes her ease and solace soughtIn an old empty watering-pot,There wanting nothing, save a fan,To seem some nymph in her sedan,Appareled in exactest sort,And ready to be borne to court.
But love of change it seems has placeNot only in our wiser race;Cats also feel, as well as we,That passion's force, and so did she.Her climbing, she began to find,Exposed her too much to the wind,And the old utensil of tinWas cold and comfortless within:She therefore wished, instead of those,Some place of more serene repose,Where neither cold might come, nor airToo rudely wanton in her hair,And sought it in the likeliest modeWithin her master's snug abode.
A drawer, it chanced, at bottom linedWith linen of the softest kind,With such as merchants introduceFrom India, for the ladies' use;A drawer, impending o'er the rest,Half open, in the topmost chest,Of depth enough, and none to spare,Invited her to slumber there;Puss with delight beyond expression,Surveyed the scene and took possessionRecumbent at her ease, ere long,And lulled by her own humdrum song,She left the cares of life behind,And slept as she would sleep her last,When in came, housewifely inclined,The chambermaid, and shut it fast,By no malignity impelled,But all unconscious whom it held.
Awakened by the shock (cried puss)"Was ever cat attended thus!The open drawer was left, I see,Merely to prove a nest for me,For soon as I was well composed,Then came the maid, and it was closed.How smooth those 'kerchiefs, and how sweetOh what a delicate retreat!I will resign myself to restTill Sol declining in the west,Shall call to supper, when, no doubt,Susan will come, and let me out."
The evening came, the sun descended,And puss remained still unattended.The night rolled tardily away(With her indeed 'twas never day),The sprightly morn her course renewed,The evening gray again ensued,And puss came into mind no moreThan if entombed the day before;With hunger pinched, and pinched for room,She now presaged approaching doom.Nor slept a single wink, nor purred,Conscious of jeopardy incurred.
That night, by chance, the poet, watching,Heard an inexplicable scratching;His noble heart went pit-a-pat,And to himself he said—"What's that?"He drew the curtain at his side,And forth he peeped, but nothing spied.Yet, by his ear directed, guessedSomething imprisoned in the chest;And, doubtful what, with prudent careResolved it should continue there.At length a voice which well he knew,A long and melancholy mew,Saluting his poetic ears,Consoled him, and dispelled his fears;He left his bed, he trod the floor,He 'gan in haste the drawers explore,The lowest first, and without stopThe next in order to the top.For 'tis a truth well know to most,That whatsoever thing is lost,We seek it, ere it come to light,In every cranny but the right.Forth skipped the cat, not now repleteAs erst with airy self-conceit,Nor in her own fond comprehension,A theme for all the world's attention,But modest, sober, cured of allHer notions hyperbolical,And wishing for a place of rest,Any thing rather than a chest.Then stepped the poet into bedWith this reflection in his head:
Beware of too sublime a senseOf your own worth and consequence.The man who dreams himself so great,And his importance of such weight,That all around in all that's doneMust move and act for him alone,Will learn in school of tribulationThe folly of his expectation.
Two gentlemen their appetite had fed,When opening his toothpick-case, one said,"It was not until lately that I knewThat anchovies on terra firma grew."Grow!" cried the other, "yes, they GROW, indeed,Like other fish, but not upon the land;You might as well say grapes grow on a reed,Or in the Strand!"
"Why, sir," returned the irritated other,"My brother,When at CalcuttaBeheld them bona fide growing;He wouldn't utterA lie for love or money, sir; so inThis matter you are thoroughly mistaken.""Nonsense, sir! nonsense! I can give no creditTo the assertion—none e'er saw or read it;Your brother, like his evidence, should be shaken."
"Be shaken, sir! let me observe, you arePerverse—in short—""Sir," said the other, sucking his cigar,And then his port—"If you will say impossibles are true,You may affirm just any thing you please—That swans are quadrupeds, and lions blue,And elephants inhabit Stilton cheese!Only you must not, FORCE me to believeWhat's propagated merely to deceive."
"Then you force me to say, sir, you're a fool,"Return'd the bragger.Language like this no man can suffer cool:It made the listener stagger;So, thunder-stricken, he at once replied,"The traveler LIEDWho had the impudence to tell it you;""Zounds! then d'ye mean to swear before my faceThat anchovies DON'T grow like cloves and mace?""I DO!"
Disputants often after hot debatesLeave the contention as they found it—bone,And take to duelling or thumping tetes;Thinking by strength of artery to atoneFor strength of argument; and he who wincesFrom force of words, with force of arms convinces!
With pistols, powder, bullets, surgeons, lint,Seconds, and smelling-bottles, and foreboding,Our friends advanced; and now portentous loading(Their hearts already loaded) serv'd to showIt might be better they shook hands—but no;When each opines himself, though frighten'd, rightEach is, in courtesy, oblig'd to fight!And they DID fight: from six full measured pacesThe unbeliever pulled his trigger first;And fearing, from the braggart's ugly faces,The whizzing lead had whizz'd its very worst,Ran up, and with a DUELISTIC fear(His ire evanishing like morning vapors),Found nim possess'd of one remaining ear,Who in a manner sudden and uncouth,Had given, not lent, the other ear to truth;For while the surgeon was applying lint,He, wriggling, cried—"The deuce is in't—Sir! I MEANT—CAPERS!"
—medio de fonte leporumSurgit amari aliquid.—Lucret.
Julia was blest with beauty, wit, and grace:Small poets loved to sing her blooming face.Before her altars, lo! a numerous trainPreferr'd their vows; yet all preferr'd in vain.Till charming Florio, born to conquer, came,And touch'd the fair one with an equal flame.The flame she felt, and ill could she concealWhat every look and action would reveal.With boldness then, which seldom fails to move,He pleads the cause of marriage and of love;The course of hymeneal joys he rounds,The fair one's eyes dance pleasure at the sounds.Naught now remain'd but "Noes"—how little meant—And the sweet coyness that endears consent.The youth upon his knees enraptured fell:—The strange misfortune, oh! what words can tell?Tell! ye neglected sylphs! who lap-dogs guard,Why snatch'd ye not away your precious ward?Why suffer'd ye the lover's weight to fallOn the ill-fated neck of much-loved Ball?The favorite on his mistress casts his eyes,Gives a melancholy howl, and—dies!Sacred his ashes lie, and long his rest!Anger and grief divide poor Julia's breast.Her eyes she fix'd on guilty Morio first,On him the storm of angry grief must burst.That storm he fled:—he woos a kinder fair,Whose fond affections no dear puppies share.'Twere vain to tell how Julia pined away;—Unhappy fair, that in one luckless day(From future almanacs the day be cross'd!)At once her lover and her lap-dog lost!
Once on a time three Pilgrims true,Being Father and Mother and Son,For pure devotion to the Saint,A pilgrimage begun.
Their names, little friends, I am sorry to say,In none of my books can I find;But the son, if you please, we'll call Pierre,What the parents were called, never mind.
From France they came, in which fair landThey were people of good renown;And they took up their lodging one night on the wayIn La Calzada town.
Now, if poor Pilgrims they had been,And had lodged in the Hospice instead of the Inn,My good little women and men,Why then you never would have heard,This tale of the Cock and the Hen.
For the Innkeepers they had a daughter,Sad to say, who was just such anotherAs Potiphar's daughter, I think, would have beenIf she followed the ways of her mother.
This wicked woman to our PierreBehaved like Potiphar's wife;And because she failed to win his love,She resolved to take his life.
So she packed up a silver cupIn his wallet privily;And then, as soon as they were gone,She raised a hue and cry.
The Pilgrims were overtaken,The people gathered round,Their wallets were searched, and in Pierre'sThe silver cup was found.
They dragged him before the Alcayde;A hasty Judge was he,"The theft," he said, "was plain and proved,And hang'd the thief must be."So to the gallows our poor PierreWas hurried instantly.
If I should now relateThe piteous lamentation,Which for their son these parents made,My little friends, I am afraidYou'd weep at the relation.
But Pierre in Santiago stillHis constant faith profess'd;When to the gallows he was led,"'Twas a short way to Heaven," he said,"Though not the pleasantest."
And from their pilgrimage he chargedHis parents not to cease,Saying that unless they promised this,He could not be hanged in peace.
They promised it with heavy hearts;Pierre then, therewith content,Was hang'd: and they upon their wayTo Compostella went.
Four weeks they travel'd painfully,They paid their vows, and thenTo La Calzada's fatal townDid they come back again.
The Mother would not be withheld,But go she must to seeWhere her poor Pierre was left to hangUpon the gallows tree.
Oh tale most marvelous to hear,Most marvelous to tell!Eight weeks had he been hanging there,And yet was alive and well!
"Mother," said he, "I am glad you're return'd,It is time I should now be released:Though I can not complain that I'm tired,And my neck does not ache in the least.
"The Sun has not scorch'd me by day,The Moon has not chilled me by night;And the winds have but helped me to swing,As if in a dream of delight.
"Go you to the Alcayde,That hasty Judge unjust,Tell him Santiago has saved me,And take me down he must!"
Now, you must know the Alcayde,Not thinking himself a great sinner,Just then at table had sate down,About to begin his dinner.
His knife was raised to carveThe dish before him then;Two roasted fowls were laid therein,That very morning they had beenA Cock and his faithful Hen.
In came the Mother, wild with joy:"A miracle!" she cried;But that most hasty Judge unjustRepell'd her in his pride.
"Think not," quoth he, "to tales like thisThat I should give belief!Santiago never would bestowHis miracles, full well I know,On a Frenchman and a thief."
And pointing to the Fowls, o'er whichHe held his ready knife,"As easily might I believeThese birds should come to life!"
The good Saint would not let him thusThe Mother's true tale withstand;So up rose the Fowls in the dish,And down dropt the knife from his hand.
The Cock would have crow'd if he could:To cackle the Hen had a wish;And they both slipt about in the gravyBefore they got out of the dish.
And when each would have open'd its eyes,For the purpose of looking about them,They saw they had no eyes to open,And that there was no seeing without them.
All this was to them a great wonder,They stagger'd and reel'd on the table;And either to guess where they were,Or what was their plight, or how they came there,Alas! they were wholly unable:
Because, you must know, that that morning,A thing which they thought very hard,The Cook had cut off their heads,And thrown them away in the yard.
The Hen would have pranked up her feathers,But plucking had sadly deform'd her;And for want of them she would have shiver'd with cold,If the roasting she had had not warm'd her.
And the Cock felt exceedingly queer;He thought it a very odd thingThat his head and his voice were he did not know where,And his gizzard tuck'd under his wing.
The gizzard got into its place,But how Santiago knows best:And so, by the help of the Saint,Did the liver and all the rest.
The heads saw their way to the bodies,In they came from the yard without check,And each took its own proper station,To the very great joy of the neck.
And in flew the feathers, like snow in a shower,For they all became white on the way;And the Cock and the Hen in a trice were refledged,And then who so happy as they!
Cluck! cluck! cried the Hen right merrily then,The Cock his clarion blew,Full glad was he to hear againHis own cock-a-doo-del-doo!
"A miracle! a miracle!"The people shouted, as they might well,When the news went through the townAnd every child and woman and manTook up the cry, and away they ranTo see Pierre taken down.
They made a famous processionMy good little women and men,Such a sight was never seen beforeAnd I think will never again.
Santiago's Image, large as life,Went first with banners and drum and fife;And next, as was most meet,The twice-born Cock and Hen were borneAlong the thronging street.
Perched on a cross-pole hoisted high,They were raised in sight of the crowd;And when the people set up a cry,The Hen she cluck'd in sympathy,And the Cock he crow'd aloud.
And because they very well knew for whyThey were carried in such solemnity,And saw the Saint and his banners before 'emThey behaved with the greatest propriety,And most correct decorum.
The Knife, which had cut off their heads that morn,Still red with their innocent blood, was borne,The scullion boy he carried it;And the Skewers also made part of the show,With which they were truss'd for the spit.
The Cook in triumph bore that SpitAs high as he was able;And the Dish was display'd wherein they were laidWhen they had been served at table.
With eager faith the crowd prest round;There was a scramble of women and menFor who should dip a finger-tipIn the blessed Gravy then.
Next went the Alcayde, beating his breast,Crying aloud like a man distrest,And amazed at the loss of his dinner,"Santiago, Santiago!Have mercy on me a sinner!"
And lifting oftentimes his handsToward the Cock and Hen,"Orate pro nobis!" devoutly he cried,And as devoutly the people replied,Whenever he said it, "Amen!"
The Father and Mother were last in the train;Rejoicingly they came,And extoll'd, with tears of gratitude,Santiago's glorious name.
So, with all honors that might be,They gently unhang'd Pierre;No hurt or harm had he sustain'd,But, to make the wonder clear,A deep biack halter-mark remain'dJust under his left ear.
And now, my little listening dearsWith open mouths and open ears,Like a rhymer whose only art isThat of telling a plain unvarnish'd tale,To let you know I must not fail,What became of all the parties.
Pierre went on to CompostellaTo finish his pilgrimage,His parents went back with him joyfully,After which they returned to their own country,And there, I believe, that all the threeLived to a good old age.
For the gallows on which PierreSo happily had swung,It was resolved that never moreOn it should man be hung.
To the Church it was transplanted,As ancient books declare.And the people in commotion,With an uproar of devotion,Set it up for a relic there.
What became of the halter I know not,Because the old books show not,But we may suppose and hope,That the city presented PierreWith that interesting rope.
For in his family, and thisThe Corporation knew,It rightly would be valued moreThan any cordon bleu.
The Innkeeper's wicked daughterConfess'd what she had done,So they put her in a Convent,And she was made a Nun.
The Alcayde had been so frighten'dThat he never ate fowls again;And he always pulled off his hatWhen he saw a Cock and Hen.Wherever he sat at tableNot an egg might there be placed;And he never even muster'd courage for a custard,Though garlic tempted him to tasteOf an omelet now and then.
But always after such a transgressionHe hastened away to make confession;And not till he had confess'd,And the Priest had absolved him, did he feelHis conscience and stomach at rest.
The twice-born Birds to the Pilgrim's ChurchAs by miracle consecrated,Were given, and there unto the SaintThey were publicly dedicated.
At their dedication the CorporationA fund for their keep supplied;And after following the Saint and his banners,This Cock and Hen were so changed in their manners,That the Priests were edified.
Gentle as any turtle-dove,Saint Cock became all meekness and love;Most dutiful of wives,Saint Hen she never peck'd again,So they led happy lives.
The ways of ordinary fowlsYou must know they had clean forsaken;And if every Cock and Hen in SpainHad their example taken,Why then—the Spaniards would have hadNo eggs to eat with bacon.
These blessed Fowls, at seven years end,In the odor of sanctity died:They were carefully pluck'd and thenThey were buried, side by side.
And lest the fact should be forgotten(Which would have been a pity),'Twas decreed, in honor of their worth,That a Cock and Hen should be borne thenceforth,In the arms of that ancient City.
Two eggs Saint Hen had laid—no more—The chickens were her delight;A Cock and Hen they proved,And both, like their parents, were virtuous and white.
The last act of the Holy HenWas to rear this precious brood; and whenSaint Cock and she were dead,This couple, as the lawful heirs,Succeeded in their stead.
They also lived seven years,And they laid eggs but two,From which two milk-white chickensTo Cock and Henhood grew;And always their posterityThe self-same course pursue.
Not one of these eggs ever addled,(With wonder be it spoken!)Not one of them ever was lost,Not one of them ever was broken.
Sacred they are; neither magpie nor rat,Snake, weasel, nor marten approaching them:And woe to the irreverent wretchWho should even dream of poaching them!
Thus then is this great miracleContinued to this day;And to their Church all Pilgrims go,When they are on the way;And some of the feathers are given them;For which they always pay.
No price is set upon them,And this leaves all persons at ease;The Poor give as much as they can,The Rich as much as they please.
But that the more they give the better,Is very well understood;Seeing whatever is thus disposed of,Is for their own souls' good;
For Santiago will alwaysBefriend his true believers;And the money is for him, the PriestsBeing only his receivers.
To make the miracle the more,Of these feathers there is always store,And all are genuine too;All of the original Cock and Hen,Which the Priests will swear is true.
Thousands a thousand times told have bought them,And if myriads and tens of myriads sought them,They would still find some to buy;For however great were the demand,So great would be the supply.
And if any of you, my small friends,Should visit those parts, I dare sayYou will bring away some of the feathers,And think of old Robin Gray.
[Illustration with caption: BURNS]
Oh, for a glance of that gay Muse's eye,That lighten'd on Bandello's laughing tale,And twinkled with a luster shrewd and sly,When Giam Batttista bade her vision hail!—Yet fear not, ladies, the naive detailGiven by the natives of that land canorous;Italian license loves to leap the pale,We Britons have the fear of shame before us,And, if not wise in mirth, at least must be decorous.
In the far eastern clime, no great while since,Lived Sultaun Solimaun, a mighty prince,Whose eyes, as oft as they perform'd their round,Beheld all others fix'd upon the ground;Whose ears received the same unvaried phrase,"Sultaun! thy vassal hears, and he obeys!"All have their tastes—this may the fancy strikeOf such grave folks as pomp and grandeur like;For me, I love the honest heart and warmOf monarch who can amble round his farm,Or when the toil of state no more annoys,In chimney corner seek domestic joys—I love a prince will bid the bottle pass,Exchanging with his subjects glance and glass;In fitting time, can, gayest of the gay,Keep up the jest, and mingle in the lay—Such Monarchs best our free-born humors suit,But Despots must be stately, stern, and mute.