Cherry Pie! Cherry Pie! Pie! I cry,Full and fair ones mind you buyWhereabouts the crust should go,Any fool, of course will know;In the midst a cup may lie,When you make your Cherry Pie.Cherry Pie! Cherry Pie! etc.
DEVILED BISCUIT.AIR—"A Temple of Friendship."
"A nice Devil'd Biscuit," said JENKINS enchanted,"I'll have after dinner—the thought is divine!"The biscuit was bought, and he now only wanted—To fully enjoy it—a glass of good wine.He flew to the pepper, and sat down before it,And at peppering the well-butter'd biscuit he went;Then, some cheese in a paste mix'd with mustard spread o'er itAnd down to be grill'd to the kitchen 'twas sent.
"Oh! how," said the Cook, "can I this think of grilling,When common the pepper? the whole will be flat.But here's the Cayenne; if my master is willing,I'll make, if he pleases, a devil with that."So the Footman ran up with the Cook's observationTo JENKINS, who gave him a terrible look:"Oh, go to the devil!" forgetting his station,Was the answer that JENKINS sent down to the Cook.
RED HERRINGS.AIR—"Meet Me By Moonlight."
Meet me at breakfast alone,And then I will give you a dishWhich really deserves to be known,Though it's not the genteelest of fish.You must promise to come, for I saidA splendid Red Herring I'd buy—Nay, turn not away your proud head;You'll like it, I know, when you try.
If moisture the Herring betray,Drain, till from moisture 'tis free;Warm it through in the usual way,Then serve it for you and for me.A piece of cold butter prepare,To rub it when ready it lies;Egg-sauce and potatoes don't spare,And the flavor will cause you surprise
IRISH STEW.AIR—"Happy Land."
Irish stew, Irish stew!Whatever else my dinner be,Once again, once again,I'd have a dish of thee.
Mutton chops, and onion slice,Let the water cover,With potatoes, fresh and nice;Boil, but not quite over,Irish stew, Irish stew!Ne'er from thee, my taste will stray.I could eatSuch a treatNearly every day.La, la, la, la!
BARLEY BROTH.Air—"The King, God bless him!"
A basin of Barley Broth make, make for me;Give those who prefer it, the plain:No matter the broth, so of barley it be,If we ne'er taste a basin again.For, oh I when three pounds of good mutton you buy,And of most of its fat dispossess it,In a stewpan uncover'd, at first, let it lie;Then in water proceed to dress it.Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!In a stewpan uncover'd, at first, let it lie;Then in water proceed to dress it.
What a teacup will hold—you should first have been told—Of barley you gently should boil;The pearl-barley choose—'tis the nicest that's sold—All others the mixture might spoil.Of carrots and turnips, small onions, green peas(If the price of the last don't distress one),Mix plenty; and boil altogether with theseYour basin of Broth when you dress one.Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!Two hours together the articles boil;There's your basin of Broth, if you'd dress one.
CALF'S HEART.Air—"Maid of Athens, ere we part."
Maid of all work, as a partOf my dinner, cook a heart;Or, since such a dish is best,Give me that, and leave the rest.Take my orders, ere I go;Heart of calf we'll cook thee so.
Buy—to price you're not confined—Such a heart as suits your mind:Buy some suet—and enoughOf the herbs required to stuff;Buy some le non-peel—and, oh!Heart of calf, we'll fill thee so.
Buy some onions—just a taste—Buy enough, but not to waste;Buy two eggs of slender shellMix, and stir the mixture well;Crumbs of bread among it throw;Heart of calf we'll roast thee so.Maid of all work, when 'tis done,Serve it up to me alone:Rich brown gravy round it roll,Marred by no intruding coal;Currant jelly add—and lo!Heart of calf, I'll eat thee so.
THE CHRISTMAS PUDDING.AIR—"Jeannette and Jeannott."
If you wish to make a pudding in which every one delights,Of a dozen new-laid eggs you must take the yolks and whites;Beat them well up in a basin till they thoroughly combine,And shred and chop some suet particularly fine;
Take a pound of well-stoned raisins, and a pound of currants dried,A pound of pounded sugar, and a pound of peel beside;Stir them all well up together with a pound of wheaten flour,And let them stand and settle for a quarter of an hour;
Then tie the pudding in a cloth, and put it in the pot,—Some people like the water cold, and some prefer it hot;But though I don't know which of these two methods I should praise,I know it ought to boil an hour for every pound it weighs.
Oh! if I were Queen of France, or, still better, Pope of Rome,I'd have a Christmas pudding every day I dined at home;And as for other puddings whatever they might be,Why those who like the nasty things should eat them all for me.
APPLE PIE.AIR-"All that's bright must fade."
All new dishes fade—The newest oft the fleetest;Of all the pies now made,The Apple's still the sweetest;Cut and come again,The syrup upward springing!While my life and taste remain,To thee my heart is clinging.Other dainties fade—The newest oft the fleetest;But of all the pies now made,The Apple's still the sweetest.
Who absurdly buysFruit not worth the baking?Who wastes crust on piesThat do not pay for making?Better far to beAn Apple Tartlet buying,Than to make one at home, and seeOn it there's no relying:That all must be weigh'd,When thyself thou treatest—Still a pie home-madeIs, after all, the sweetest.
Who a pie would make,First his apple slices;Then he ought to takeSome cloves—the best of spices:Grate some lemon rind,Butter add discreetly;Then some sugar mix—but mindThe pie's not made too sweetly.Every pie that's madeWith sugar, is completest;But moderation should pervade—Too sweet is not the sweetest.
Who would tone impart,Must—if my word is trusted—Add to his pie or tartA glass of port—old crustedIf a man of taste,He, complete to make it,In the very finest pasteWill inclose and bake it.Pies have each their grade;But, when this thou eatest,Of all that e'er were made,You'll say 'tis best and sweetest.
LOBSTER SALAD.AIR-"Blue Bonnets Over The Border."
Take, take, lobsters and lettuces;Mind that they send you the fish that you order:Take, take, a decent-sized salad bowl,One that's sufficiently deep in the border.Cut into many a sliceAll of the fish that's nice,Place in the bowl with due neatness and order:Then hard-boil'd eggs you mayAdd in a neat arrayAll round the bowl, just by way of a border.
Take from the cellar of salt a proportion:Take from the castors both pepper and oil,With vinegar, too—but a moderate portion—Too much of acid your salad will spoil.Mix them together,You need not mind whetherYou blend them exactly in apple-pie order;But when you've stirr'd away,Mix up the whole you may—All but the eggs, which are used as a border.
Take, take, plenty of seasoning;A teaspoon of parsley that's chopp'd in small pieces:Though, though, the point will bear reasoning,A small taste of onion the flavor increases.As the sauce curdle may,Should it: the process stay,Patiently do it again in due order;For, if you chance to spoilVinegar, eggs, and oil,Still to proceed would on lunacy border.
STEWED STEAKAIR—"Had I a Heart for Falsehood Framed."
Had I pound of tender Steak,I'd use it for a stew;And if the dish you would partake,I'll tell you what to do.Into a stew-pan, clean and neat,Some butter should be flung:And with it stew your pound of meat,A tender piece—but young.
And when you find the juice express'dBy culinary art,To draw the gravy off, were best,And let it stand apart.Then, lady, if you'd have a treat,Be sure you can't be wrongTo put more butter to your meat,Nor let it stew too long.
And when the steak is nicely done,To take it off were best;And gently let it fry alone,Without the sauce or zest;Then add the gravy—with of wineA spoonful in it flung;And a shalot cut very fine—Let the shalot be young.
And when the whole has been combined,More stewing 't will require;Ten minutes will suffice—but mindDon't have too quick a fire.Then serve it up—'t will form a treat!Nor fear you've cook'd it wrong;GOURMETS in all the old 't will meet,And GOURMANDS in the young.
GREEN PEA SOUP.AIR—"The Ivy Green."Oh! a splendid Soup is the true Pea GreenI for it often call;And up it comes in a smart tureen,When I dine in my banquet hall.When a leg of mutton at home is boil'd,The liquor I always keep,And in that liquor (before 'tis spoil'd)A peck of peas I steep.When boil'd till tender they have been,I rub through a sieve the peas so green.
Though the trouble the indolent may shock,I rub with all my power;And having return'd them to the stock,I stew them for more than an hour;Then of younger peas I take some more,The mixture to improve,Thrown in a little time beforeThe soup from the fire I move.Then seldom a better soup is seen,Than the old familiar soup Pea Green.
Since first I began my household career, How many my dishes have been!But the one that digestion never need fear,Is the simple old soup Pea Green.The giblet may tire, the gravy pall,And the turtle lose its charm;But the Green Pea triumphs over them all,And does not the slightest harm.Smoking hot in a smart tureen,A rare soup is the true Pea Green!
TRIFLE.AIR—"The Meeting of the Waters."
There's not in the wide world so tempting a sweetAs that Trifle where custard and macaroons meet;Oh! the latest sweet tooth from my head must departEre the taste of that Trifle shall not win my heart.
Yet it is not the sugar that's thrown in between,Nor the peel of the lemon so candied and green;'Tis not the rich cream that's whipp'd up by a mill:Oh, no! it is something more exquisite still.
'Tis that nice macaroons in the dish I have laid,Of which a delicious foundation is made;And you'll find how the last will in flavor improve,When soak'd with the wine that you pour in above.
Sweet PLATEAU of Trifle! how great is my zestFor thee, when spread o'er with the jam I love best,When the cream white of eggs—to be over thee thrown,With a whisk kept on purpose—is mingled in one!
MUTTON CHOPS.AIR—"Come dwell with me."
Come dine with me, come dine with me,And our dish shall be, our dish shall be,A Mutton Chop from the butcher's shop—And how I cook it you shall see.The Chop I choose is not too lean;For to cut off the fat I mean.Then to the fire I put it down,And let it fry until 'tis brown.Come dine with me; yes, dine with me, etc.
I'll fry some bread cut rather fine,To place betwixt each chop of mine;Some spinach, or some cauliflowers,May ornament this dish of ours.I will not let thee once repineAt having come with me to dine:'T will be my pride to hear thee say,"I have enjoy'd my Chop, to-day."Come, dine with me; yes, dine with me;Dine, dine, dine, with me, etc.
BARLEY WATER.AIR—"On the Banks of Allan Water."
For a jug of Barley WaterTake a saucepan not too small;Give it to your wife or daughter,If within your call.If her duty you have taught her,Very willing each will beTo prepare some Barley WaterCheerfully for thee.
For a jug of Barley Water,Half a gallon, less or more,From the filter that you bought her,Ask your wife to pour.When a saucepan you have brought herPolish'd bright as bright can be,In it empty all the water,Either you or she.
For your jug of Barley Water('Tis a drink by no means bad),Some two ounces and a quarterOf pearl barley add.When 'tis boiling, let your daughterSkim from blacks to keep it free;Added to your Barley WaterLemon rind should be.
For your jug of Barley Water(I have made it very oft),It must boil, so tell your daughter,Till the barley's soft.Juice of a small lemon's quarterAdd; then sweeten all like tea;Strain through sieve your Barley Water—'Twill delicious be.
BOILED CHICKEN.AIR—"Norah Creina."
Lesbia hath a fowl to cook;But, being anxious not to spoil it,Searches anxiously our book,For how to roast, and how to boil it.Sweet it is to dine upon—Quite alone, when small its size is;—And, when cleverly 'tis done,Its delicacy quite surprises. Oh! my tender pullet dear!My boiled—not roasted—tender Chicken;I can wishNo other dish,With thee supplied, my tender Chicken!
Lesbia, take some water cold,And having on the fire placed it,And some butter, and be bold—When 'tis hot enough—taste it.Oh! the Chicken meant for meBoil before the fire grows dimmer,Twenty minutes let it beIn the saucepan left to simmer.Oh, my tender Chicken dear!My boil'd, delicious, tender Chicken!Rub the breast(To give a zest)With lemon-juice, my tender Chicken.
Lesbia hath with sauce combinedBroccoli white, without a tarnish;'Tis hard to tell if 'tis design'dFor vegetable or for garnish.Pillow'd on a butter'd dish,My Chicken temptingly reposes,Making gourmands for it wish,Should the savor reach their noses.Oh, my tender pullet dear!My boiled—not roasted—tender ChickenDay or night,Thy meal is light,For supper, e'en, my tender Chicken.
STEWED DUCK AND PEAS.AIR—"My Heart and Lute."
I give thee all, I can no more,Though poor the dinner be;Stew'd Duck and Peas are all the storeThat I can offer thee.A Duck, whose tender breast revealsIts early youth full well;And better still, a Pea that peelsFrom fresh transparent shell.
Though Duck and Peas may fail, alas!One's hunger to allay;At least for luncheon they may pass,The appetite to stay,If seasoned Duck an odor bringFrom which one would abstain,The Peas, like fragrant breath of Spring,Set all to rights again.
I give thee all my kitchen lore,Though poor the offering be;I'll tell thee how 'tis cook'd, beforeYou come to dine with me:The Duck is truss'd from head to heels,Then stew'd with butter well;And streaky bacon, which revealsA most delicious smell
When Duck and Bacon in a massYou in the stew-pan lay,A spoon around the vessel pass,And gently stir away:A table-spoon of flour bring, A quart of water bring,Then in it twenty onions fling,And gently stir again.
A bunch of parsley, and a leafOf ever-verdant bay,Two cloves—I make my language brief—Then add your Peas you may!And let it simmer till it singsIn a delicious strain,Then take your Duck, nor let the stringsFor trussing it remain.
The parsley fail not to remove,Also the leaf of bay;Dish up your Duck—the sauce improveIn the accustom'd way,With pepper, salt, and other things,I need not here explain:And, if the dish contentment brings,You'll dine with me again.
Three pounds of veal my darling girl prepares,And chops it nicely into little squares;Five onions next prepares the little minx(The biggest are the best her Samiwel thinks).And Epping butter, nearly half a pound,And stews them in a pan until they're brown'd.
What's next my dexterous little girl will do?She pops the meat into the savory stew,With curry powder, table-spoonfulls three,And milk a pint (the richest that may be);
And, when the dish has stewed for half-an-hour,A lemon's ready juice she'll o'er it pour:Then, bless her! then she gives the luscious potA very gentle boil—and serves quite hot.
P.S. Beef, mutton, rabbit, if you wish;Lobsters, or prawns, or any kind of fishAre fit to make A CURRY. 'Tis, when done,A dish for emperors to feed upon.
JOHN GILPIN is a citizen;For lineage of renown,The famed JOHN GILPIN'S grandson, heAbides in London town.
To our JOHN GILPIN said his dear,"Stewed up here as we've beenSince Whitsuntide, 'tis time that weShould have a change of scene.
"To-morrew is a leisure day,And we'll by rail repairUnto the Nell at Dedmanton,And take a breath of air.
"My sister takes our eldest child;The youngest of our threeWill go in arms, and so the rideWon't so expensive be."
JOHN soon replied, "I don't admireThat railway, I, for one;But you know best, my dearest dearAnd so it must be done.
"I, as a linen-draper bold,Will bear myself, and though'Tis Friday by the calendar,Will risk my limbs, and go."
Quoth MISTRESS GILPIN, "Nicely said:And then, besides, look here,We'll go by the Excursion Train,Which makes it still less dear."
JOHN GILPIN poked his clever wife,And slightly smiled to findThat though on peril she was bent,She had a careful mind.
The morning came; a cab was sought:The proper time allow'dTo reach the station door; but lo!Before it stood a crowd.
For half an hour they there were stay'd,And when they did get in—"No train! a hoax!" cried clerks, agogTo swear through thick and thin.
"Yea!" went the throats; stamp went the heelsWere never folks so mad,The disappointment dire beneath;All cried "it was too bad!"
JOHN GILPIN home would fain have hied,But he must needs remain,Commanded by his willful bride,And take the usual train.
'T was long before our passengersAnother train could find,When—stop! one ticket for the faresWas lost or left behind!
"Good lack!" quoth JOHN, "yet try it on.""'T won't do," the Guard replies;And bearing wife and babes on board,The train without him flies.
Now see him in a second train,Behind the iron steed,Borne on, slap dash-for life or bonesWith small concern or heed.
Away went GILPIN, neck or naught,Exclaiming, "Dash my wig!Oh, here's a game! oh, here's a go!A running such a rig!"
A signal, hark!—the whistle screamed—Smash! went the windows all:"An accident!" cried out each one,As loud as he could bawl.
Away went GILPIN, never mind—His brain seemed spinning round;Thought he, "This speed a killing paceWill prove, I'll bet a pound !"
And still, as stations they drew near,The whistle shrilly blew,And in a trice, past signal-men,The train like lightning flew.Thus, all through merry Killbury,Without a stop shot they;But paused, to 'scape a second smash,At Dedmanton so gay.
At Dedmanton his loving wife,On platform waiting, spiedHer tender husband, striving muchTo let himself outside.
"Hallo! JOHN GILPIN, here we are—Come out!" they all did cry;"To death with waiting we are tired!""Guard!" shouted GILPIN, "Hi!"
But no—the train was not a bitArranged to tarry there,For why?—because 't was an Express,And did dispatches bear.
So, in a second, off it flewAgain, and dashed along,As if the deuce't were going to,With motive impulse strong.
Away went GILPIN, on the breathOf puffing steam, untilThey came unto their journey's end,Where they at last stood still
And then—best thing that he could do—He book'd himself for Town;They stopped at every station up,Till he again got down.
Says GILPIN, "Sing, Long live the QUEEN,And eke long life to me;And ere I'll trust that Line again,Myself I blest will see!"
ELEGY.WRITTEN IN A RAIL WAY STATION.PUNCH.The Station clock proclaims the close of day;The hard-worked clerks drop gladly off to tea;The last train starts upon its dangerous way,And leaves the place to darkness and to me.
Now fades the panting engine's red tail-light,And all the platform solemn stillness holds,Save where the watchmen, pacing for the night,By smothered coughs announce their several colds.
Behind that door of three-inch planking made, Those frosted panesplaced too high up to peep,All in their iron safes securely laid,The cooked account-books of the Railway sleep.
The Debts to credit side so neatly borne,What should be losses, profits proved instead;The Dividends those pages that adornNo more shall turn the fond Shareholder's head.
Oft did the doubtful to their balance yield,Their evidence arithmetic could choke:How jocund were they that to them appealed!How many votes of thanks did they provoke!
Let not Derision mock KING HUDSON'S toil,Who made things pleasant greenhorns to allure;Nor prudery give hard names unto the spoil'Twas glad to share—while it could share secure.
All know the way that he his fortune made,How he bought votes and consciences did hire;How hands that Gold and Silver-sticks have swayedTo grasp his dirty palm would oft aspire,
Till these accounts at last their doctored page,Thanks to mischance and panic, did unroll,When virtue suddenly became the rage,And wiped George Hudson out of fashion's scroll.
Full many a noble Lord who once sereneThe feasts at Albert Gate was glad to share,For tricks he blushed not at, or blushed unseen,Now cuts the Iron King with vacant stare.
For those who, mindful of their money fled,Rejoice in retribution, sure though late—Should they, by ruin to reflection led,Ask PUNCH to point the moral of his fate,
Haply that wooden-headed sage may say,"Oft have I seen him, in his fortune's dawn,When at his levees elbowing their way,Peer's ermine might be seen and Bishop's lawn.
"There the great man vouchsafed in turn to eachAdvice, what scrip or shares 'twas best to buy,There his own arts his favorites he would teach,And put them up to good things on the sly.
"Till to the House by his admirers borne,Warmed with Champagne in flustered speech he strove,And on through commerce, colonies, and corn,Like engine, without break or driver, drove.
"Till when he ceased to dip in fortune's till,Out came one cooked account—of our M. P.;Another came—yet men scarce ventured, still,To think their idol such a rogue could be.
"Until those figures set in sad arrayProved how his victims he had fleeced and shornApproach and read (if thou canst read) my lay,Writ on him more in sadness than in scorn."
Here lies, the gilt rubbed off his sordid earth,A man whom Fortune made to Fashion known;Though void alike of breeding, parts, or birth,God Mammon early marked him for his own.
Large was his fortune, but he bought it dear;When he won foully he did freely spend.He plundered no one knows how much a-year,But Chancery o'ertook him in the end.
No further seek his frailties to disclose:For many of his sins should share the load:While he kept rising, who asked how he rose?While we could reap, what cared we how he sowed?
THE BOA AND THE BLANKET. [Footnote: A few days before this burlesque of Warren appeared, a boa-constrictor in the London Zoological Gardens swallowed the blanket that had served as its bed.] AN APOLOGUE OF THE ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS.—[AFTER WARREN.] PUNCH.
It is talked of Now! Was talked of Yesterday!May be muttered to-morrow! What?—THE BOA THAT BOLTED THE BLANKET,Speckled Enthusiast!
It was full moon's full moonlight! The ShillingI had paid down at the GateSeem'd hung in Heaven. To NEWTON'S EYE(As Master of the Mint).A Splendid, yea, Celestial Shilling!I was alone, with Nothing to Speak ofBut Creation!
Yes! Gigantic NOAH'S Ark of twenty times her tonnage,Lay crouch'd, and purring, and velvety, and fangedAbout me!Cane-colored tigers—rug-spotted Leopards—Snakes (ah, CUPID!) knit and interknit—to true love knotsSemblable!Striped Zebra—Onager Calcitrant—Common Ass,And I—and all were there!The bushy Squirrel with his half-cracked Nut,Slept. The Boar of Allemagne snored.The Lion's Cage was hot with heat of blood:And Peace in Curtain Ring linked two Ring Doves!
In Gardens Zoological and Regent,I, meditating, stood!And still the moon looked wondrous like a Shilling,Impartial Moon, that showed me all.
My heart fluttered as tho' winged from Mercury!I moved—approached the Snake-House!Oh, the balm of Paradise that came and went!The silver gleams of Eden shooting down the trembling stringsOf my melodious heart!Down—down to its coral roots!I dashed aside the human tear; and—yes—prepared myselfWith will, drunk from the eyes of Hope, to gaze upon the Snake!The Boa!!The Python!!!The Anaconda!!!!
A Boa was there! A Boa, 'neath Crystal Roof!And rabbits, taking the very moonlight in their paws,Washed their meek faces. Washed, then hopped!"And so (I couldn't help it) so," I groaned—"the ancient Snake—That milk-white thing—and innocent—trustful!And then, Death—Death—And lo! there, typical, it is—it is—THE BLANKET!!Death shred of living thing that cropped the flower;And, thoughtless, bleated forth its little baa-a!"
Away! I will not tarry! Let the Boa sleep,And Rabbits, that have given bills to destiny,Meet his demand at three and six months' date!(We know such Boas and rabbits,Know we not?)Let me pass on!And here 'tis cool; nay, even coldWithout the Snake-House!
The Moon still glistens, and again I thinkOf Multitudes who've paid and stared, and yawned and wandered here!The city muckworm, whoProm peacock orient, scarce could tell a cockOf hay!Though be ye sure, a guinea from a guinea-pigHe knows, and (as for money)Ever has his squeak for't!Here, too, paused the wise, sagacious man,Master of probabilities!He sees the tusk of elephant—the two tusks—And, with a thought, cuts 'em into cubes—And with another thought—another—and another-Tells (to himself) how oft, in twenty yearsThose spotted squares shall come up sixes!And this in living elephant!
And HER MAJESTY has trod these Walks,AccompaniedByPRINCE ALBERT,THE PRINCE OF WALES,THE PRINCESS ROYAL,AndThe Rest of the Royal Children!—
She saw the Tiger!Did she think of TIPPOO SAIB'S Tiger's Head?She saw the Lion!Thought she of one of her own Arms?She did NOT see the Unicorn; but(With her gracious habits of condescension)Did she think of him a bit the less?Thoughts crowd upon me-cry move on!
And now I am here; and whether I will or no,I feel I'm jolly!The Chameleons are asleep, and, like the Cabinet(Of course i mean the Whigs),Know not, when they rise to-morrow,What color they will wake!—The baby elephant seems prematurely old:Its infant hide all corrugate with thoughtsOf cakes and oranges given it by boys;Alas! in Chancery now, and paralytic!This is very sad. No more of it!
Ha! ha! here sits the Ape—the many-colored wight!Thou hast marked him, with nose of scarlet sealing-wax,And so be-colored with prismatic hues,As though he had come from sky to earth—Sliding and wiping a fresh-painted rainbow!
Hush! I have made a perfect circle!And at the Snake-House once again I stand!Such is life!Eh! Oh! Help! Murder! Dreadful Accident!To be conceived—Oh, perhaps!Described—Oh, never!Keepers are up, and crowd about the box—The Boa's box—with unconcerned rabbits!Not so the Boa! Look! Behold!And where's the Blanket?In the Boa's inside place! The Monster mark!How he writhes and wrestles with the wool, as thoughHe had within him rolls and rollsOf choking, suffocating influenza,That lift his eyes from out their sockets!—Of fleecy phlegmThat will neither in or out, but mid-waySeem to strangle!Silence and wonder settle on the crowd;From whom instinctively and breathlessly,Ascend two pregnant questions!"Will the Boa bolt the blanket?Will the blanket choke the Boa?"Such the problem!
And then men mark and deduceDifferently
But I, a lofty and an abstract man,A creature of a higher elementThan ever nourished the woodOrdained for ballot-boxes—ISay nothing; until a Keeper comes to me, and,Hooking his fore-finger in his forehead's lock,Says—"What's your opinion, Sir?If Boas will bolt Blankets, Boas must:If Snakes will rush upon their end, why not?""My friend," said I, "The Blanket and the Boa—You will conceive me—are a type, yes, just a type,Of this our day.The dumb and monstrous, tasteless appetiteOf stupid Boa, to gobble up for foodWhat needs must scour or suffocate,Not nourish!My friend, let the wool of that one blanketWarm but the back of one live sheep,And the Boa would bolt the animal entire,And flourish on his meal, transmuting flesh and bones,And turning them to healthful nutriment!Believe this vital truth;The stomach may take down and digestAnd sweetly, too, a leg of mutton;That would turn at and rejectOne little ball of worsted!"
On saying this I turned away,Feeling adown the small-o'-the backThat gentle warmth that waits upon us, when WE KNOWWe have said a good thing;Knowing it better than the vain worldEver can or ever willReader, I have sung my song!The BOA AND THE B——, like new-found star,Is mine no longer; but the world's!—Tell me, how have I sung it? With what note?With note akin that immortal bardThe snow-white Swan of Avon?Or haply, to that—RARA AVIS,—That has—"Tried WARREN'S?"
THE DILLY AND THE D'S.[Footnote: Burlesque of Warren's Poem of "The Lily and the Bee,"published at the home of the great Exhibition of 1851.][AN APOLOGUE OF THE OXFORD INSTALLATION.]BY S—L W—RR—N, Q.S., LL.D., F.R.SPUNCH.
Oh, Spirit! Spirit of Literature,Alien to Law!Oh, Muse! ungracious to thy sterner sister, THEMIS,Whither away?—Away!Far from my brief—Brief with a fee upon it,Tremendous!And probably—before my business is concluded—A REFRESHER—nay, several!!Whither whirlest thou thy thrall?Thy willing thrall?"NOW AND THEN;"But not just at this moment,If you please, Spirit!No, let me read and ponder onTHE PLEADINGS.Declaration!Plea!!Replication!!!Rejoinder!!!!Surrejoinder!!!!!Rebutter!!!!!!Surrebutter!!!!!!!ETC! ETC!! ETC!!!It may not be. The Muse—As ladies often are—Though lovely, is obstinate,And will have her own way!* * * *And am I notAs well as a Q.S.,An F.R.S.And LL.D.?Ask BLACKWOODThe reason why, and he will tell you,So will the Mayor—The MAYOR OF HULL!I obey, Spirit.Hang my brief—'tis gone!—To-morrow let my junior cram me in Court.Whither away? Where am I?What is it I behold?In space, or out of space? I know not.In factI've not the least idea if I'm crazy.Or sprung—sprung?I've only had a pint of Port at dinnerAnd can't be sprung—Oh, no!—Shame on the thought!I see a coach!—Is it a coach?Not exactly.Yet it has wheels—Wheels within wheels—and on the boxA driver, and a cad behind,And Horses—Horses?—Bethink thee—Worm!—Are they Horses? or that raceLower than Horses, but with longer earsAnd less intelligence—In fact—"EQUI ASINI,"Or in vernacularJACKASSES?'Tis not a coach exactly—Now I see on the panels—Pricked out and flourished—A word! A magic word—"THE DILLY!"—"THE DERBY DILLY!"Oh Dilly! Dilly!—all thy passengersAre outsiders—The road is rough and rutty—And thy driver, like NIMSHI'S son—DrivethFuriously!And the cad upon the monkey-boardThe monkey-board behind,Scorneth the drag—but goesDownhill like mad.He hath a Caucasian brow!A son of SHEM, is he,Not of HAM—Nor JAPHETH—In fact a Jew—But see, the paceGrows faster—and more fast—in fact—I may sayA case of Furious driving!Take care, you'll be upset—Look out!Holloa!* * * *Horrible! Horrible!! Horrible!!The Dilly—With all its precious freightOf men and Manners—Is gone!Gone to immortalSMASH!Pick up the pieces! Let me wipe my eyes!Oh Muse—lend me my scrollTo do it with, for I have lostMy wipe!
* * * Again upon the roadThe road to where?To nowhere in particular!Ah, no—I thank thee, Muse—That hint—'tis a finger-post,And "he that runs may read"—He that runs?But I am not running—I am riding—How came I here?—what am I riding on?Who are my fellow-passengers?Ah, ha!I recognize them now!The Coach—The Box—The Driver—And the Cad—I'm on the Dilly, and the Dilly Is on the road againAnd now I seeThat finger-post!It saith"To OxfordFifty-two miles."And, hark! a chorus!From all the joyous load,Driver and cad, and all!"We go," they sing—To OXFORD TO BE DOCTORED."To be Doctored?Then, whereforeAre ye so cheerful?I was not cheerful in my early days—Days of my buoyant boyhood—When, after inglutitionOf too muchChristmas pudding,Or Twelfth cake saccharine,I went, as we go now,To be Doctored!Salts!Senna and Rhubarb!!Jalap and Ipecacuanha!!!And Antimonial Wine!!!!"WORM!IDIOT!!DONKEY!!!"Said the free-spoken Muse"With them thou goest to be doctored, too,Not in medicine—but in Law—All these—and thou—Are going to be madeHONORARYLL.D.s!Behold!And know thy companyBe thou familiar with them,But by no means vulgar—For familiarity breeds contempt;And no man is a heroTo his VALET-DE-CHAMBRE!So ponder and perpend."DERBY!The wise, the meek, the chivalrous—Mirror of knightly gracesAnd daily dodges;Who always says the right thingsAt the right time,And never forgets himself as others—Nor changes his sideNor his opinion—A STANLEY to the core, as readyTo fightAs erst on FLODDEN FIELDHis mail-clad ancestor.—See the poemOf MARMION,By SIR WALTER SOOTT!DIZZY!Dark—supple—subtle—With mind lithe as the limbsOf ISHMAEL'S sons, his swart progenitors—With tongue sharp as the spearThat o'er SaharaFlings the blue shadowOf the crown of ostrich feathers—As described so graphicallyBy LAYARD, in his recent bookOn Nineveh!With tongue as sharpAs aspic's tooth of NILUS,Or sugaryUpon the occasionAs is the dateOf TAFILAT.DIZZY, the bounding ArabOf the political arena—As swift to whirlRight about face—As strong to leapFrom premise to conclusion—As great in balancingA budget—Or flinging headlongHis somersetsOver sharp swords of adverse facts,As were his brethren of EL-ARISH,WhoSome years ago exhibited—With rapturous applause—At Astley's Amphitheater—And subsequentlyAt Vauxhall Gardens!* * * * *Clustering, front and backOn box and knife-board,See, petty man;Behold! and thank thy starsThat led thee—Worm—THEE, that art merely a writerAnd a barrister,Although a man of elegant acquirements,A gentleman and a scholar—Nay, F.R.S. to boot—Into such high society,Among such SWELLS,And REAL NOBS!Behold! ten live LORDS! and lo *! no endOf Ex-Cabinet Ministers!Oh! happy, happy, happy,Oh, happy SAM!Say, isn't this worth, at the least"TEN THOUSAND A YEAR!"* * * * *And these are all, to day at least—-Thy fellows!Going to be madeLL.D.s, even as thyself—And thou shalt walk in silk attire.And hob and nob with all the mighty of the earth,And lunch in Hall—In Hall!Where lunched before thee,But on inferior grub,That first great SAM—SAM JOHNSON!And LAUD, and ROGER BACON,And CRANMER, LATIMER,And RIDLEY,And CYRIL JACKSON—and a host besides,Whom at my leisureI will look upIn WOOD'S"ATHENAE OXONIENSES"Only to think!How BLACKWOODIs honored!ALISON! AYTOUN!BULWER!!!And last, not leastThe great SAM GANDERAM!!!!Oh EBONY!Oh MAGA!And ohOur noble selves!
The partial power that to the female raceIs charged to apportion gifts of form and grace,With liberal hand molds beauty's curves in one,And to another gives as good as none:But woman still for nature proves a match,And grace by her denied, from art will snatch.Hence, great ELIZA, grew thy farthingales;Hence, later ANNA, swelled thy hoops' wide pales;To this we must refer the use of stays;Nor less the bustle of more modern days.
Artful device! whose imitative padInto good figures roundeth off the bad—Whether of simple sawdust thou art seen,Or tak'st the guise of costlier crinoline—How oft to thee the female form doth oweA grace rotund, a line of ampler flow,Than flesh and blood thought fit to clothe it with below!
There dwelt in Liverpool a worthy dame,Who had a friend—JAMES TAYLOR was his name.He dealt in glass, and drove a thriving tradeAnd still saved up the profits that he made,Till when a daughter blessed his marriage bed,The father in the savings-bank was ledIn his child's name a small sum to invest,From which he drew the legal interest.Years went and came; JAMES TAYLOR came and went,Paid in, and drew, his modest three per cent,Till, by the time his child reach'd girlhood's bounds,The sum had ris'n to two-and-twenty pounds.
Our cautious legislature—well 'tis known—Round savings-banks a guardian fence has thrown:'Tis easy to pay into them, no doubt,Though any thing but easy to draw out.And so JAMES TAYLOR found; for on a dayHe wanted twenty pounds a bill to pay,And, short of cash, unto the bank applied;Failing some form of law, he was denied!
JAMES TAYLOR humm'd and haw'd—look'd blank and blue;—In short, JAMES TAYLOR knew not what to do:His creditor was stern—the bill was over due.As to a friend he did his plight deplore—The worthy dame of whom I spoke before—(It might cause pain to give the name she owns,So let me use the pseudonym of JONES);"TAYLOR," said MRS. JONES, "as I'm a friend,I do not care if I the money lend.But even friends security should hold:Give me security—I'll lend the gold.""This savings-bank deposit-book!" he cries."See—in my daughter's name the sum that lies!"She saw—and, satisfied, the money lent;Wherewith JAMES TAYLOR went away content.But now what cares seize MRS. JONES'S breast!What terrors throng her once unbroken rest!Cash she could keep, in many a secret nook—But where to stow away JAMES TAYLOR'S book?Money is heavy: where 'tis put 't will stay;Paper—as WILLIAM COBBETT used to say—Will make wings to itself, and fly away!Long she devised: new plans the old ones chase,Until at last she hit upon a place.Was't VENUS that the strange concealment planned,Or rather PLUTUS'S irreverent hand?Good MRS. JONES was of a scraggy make;But when did woman vanity forsake?What nature sternly to her form denied,A Bustle's ample aid had well supplied,Within whose vasty depths the book might safely hide!
'Twas thought—'twas done! by help of ready pin,The sawdust was let out, the book put in.Henceforth—at home—abroad—where'er she moved,Behind her lurk'd the volume that she loved.She laughed to scorn the cut-purse and his sleight:No fear of burglars scared her through the night;
But ah, what shrine is safe from greed of gold,What fort against cupidity can hold?Can stoutest buckram's triple fold keep in,The ODOR LUCRI—the strong scent of TIN?For which CHUBB's locks are weak, and MILNER's safes are thin.
Some time elapsed—the time required by law,Which past, JAMES TAYLOR might the money draw,His kind but cautious creditor to pay,So to the savings-bank they took their way.There MRS. JONES with modesty withdrew—To do what no rude eye might see her do—And soon returning—with a blushing look,Unmarked by TAYLOR, she produced the book.Which he, presenting, did the sum demandOf MR. TOMKINS, the cashier so bland.
What can there be upon the red-lined pageThat TOMKINS's quick eye should so engage?What means his invitation to J.T.,To "Walk in for a moment"—"he would see"—"Only a moment"—"'twas all right, no doubt,""It could not be"—"and yet"—here he slipped out,Leaving JAMES TAYLOR grievously perplexed,And MRS. JONES by his behavior vexed."What means the man by treating people so?"Said TAYLOR, "I am a loss to know."Too soon, alas, the secret cause they knew!TOMKINS return'd, and, with him, one in blue—POLICEMAN X, a stern man and a strong,Who told JAMES TAYLOR he must "come along"—And TOMKINS, seeing MRS. JONES aghast,Revealed the book was forged—from first to last!
Who can describe the wrath of MRS. JONES?The chill of fear that crept through TAYLOR'S bones?The van—the hand-cuffs—and the prison cellWhere pined JAMES TAYLOR—wherefore pause to tell?Soon came the Assizes—and the legal train;In form the clerk JAMES TAYLOR did arraign;And though his council mustered tears at will,And made black white with true Old Bailey skill,TAYLOR, though MRS. JONES for mercy sued,Was doomed to five years' penal servitude;And in a yellow suit turned up with gray,To Portland prison was conveyed away!
Time passed: forgot JAMES TAYLOR and his shame—When lo—one day unto the bank there cameA new JAMES TAYLOR—a new MRS. JONES—And a new book, which TOMKINS genuine owns!"Two TAYLORS and two JONESES and two books"—Thought wary TOMKINS, "this suspicious looks—"The former TAYLOR, former JONES I knew—These are imposters-yet the book is true!"When like a flash upon his mind it burst—Who brought the second book had forged the first!
Again was summon'd X, the stern, the strong—Again that pair were bid to "Come along!"The truth before the justices appear'd,And wrong'd JAMES TAYLOR'S character was clear'd.
In evil hour—by what chance ne'er was known,Whether the bustle's seam had come unsewn,Or MRS. JONES by chance had laid asideThe artificial charms that decked her side—But so it was, how or whene'er assailed—The treacherous hiding-place was tried—and failed!
The book was ta'en—a forged one fill'd its place;-And MRS. JONES was robb'd—not to her face—And poor JAMES TAYLOE doom'd to trial and disgrace!
Who shall describe her anguish—her remorse?James Taylor was at once released, of course;And Mrs. Jones, repentant, inly sworeHenceforth to carry, what she'd keep, before.
My tale is told—and, what is more, 'tis true:I read it in the papers—so may you.And this its moral: Mrs. Joneses all—Though reticules may drop, and purses fall,Though thieves may unprotected females hustle,Never invest your money in a bustle.
Nay, fond one I will ne'er revealWhence flowed that sudden tear:The truth 't were kindness to concealFrom thy too anxious ear.
How often when some hidden springOf recollected griefIs rudely touched, a tear will bringThe bursting breast relief!
Yet 't was no anguish of the soul,No memory of woes,Bade that one lonely tearlet rollAdown my chiseled nose:
But, ah! interrogation's noteStill twinkles in thine eye;Know then that I have burnt my throatWith this confounded pie!
Nay, fond one, shun that misletoe,Nor lure me 'neath its fatal bough:Some other night 't were joy to go,But ah! I must not, dare not now!'Tis sad, I own, to see thy faceThus tempt me with its giggling glee,And feel I can not now embraceThe opportunity—and thee.
'Tis sad to think that jealousy'sSharp scissors may our true love sever;And that my coldness now may freezeThy warm affection, love, forever.But ah! to disappoint our bliss,A fatal hind'rance now is stuck:'Tis not that I am loath to kiss,But, dearest, list—I DINED OFF DUCK!
EDWIN. "Maiden, why that look of sadness?Whence that dark o'erclouded brow?What hath stilled thy bounding gladness,Changed thy pace from fast to slow?Is it that by impulse suddenChildhood's hours thou paus'st to mourn?Or hath thy cruel EDWIN troddenRight upon thy favorite corn?
"Is it that for evenings wastedSome remorse thou 'gin'st to feel?Or hath that sham champagne we tastedTurned thy polka to a reel?Still that gloom upon each feature?Still that sad reproachful frown?"ANGELINA. "Can't you see, you clumsy creature,All my back hair's coming down!"
"OH! WILLIAM," JAMES was heard to say—JAMES drove a hackney cabriolet:WILLIAM, the horses of his friend,With hay and water used to tend."Now, tell me, WILLIAM, can it be,That MAYNE has issued a decree,Severe and stern, against us, plannedOf comfort to deprive our Stand?"
"I fear the tale is all too true,"Said WILLIAM, "on my word I do.""Are we restricted to the RowAnd from the footpath?" "Even so."
"Must our companions be resigned,We to the Rank alone confined?""Yes; or they apprehend the ladsDenominated Bucks and Cads."
"Dear me!" cried JAMES, "how very hardAnd are we, too, from beer debarred?"Said WILLIAM, "While remaining hereWe also are forbidden beer."
"Nor may we breathe the fragrant weed?""That's interdicted too." "Indeed!""Nor in the purifying waveMust we our steeds or chariots lave."
"For private drivers, at request,It is SIR RICHARD MAYNE'S behestThat we shall move, I understand?""Such, I believe, IS the command"
"Of all remains of food and drinkLeft by our animals I think,We are required to clear the ground?""Yes: to remove them we are bound."
"These mandates should we disobey—""They take our licenses away.""That were unkind. How harsh our lot!""It is indeed." "Now is it not?"
"Thus strictly why are we pursued?""It is alleged that we are rude;The people opposite complain,Our lips that coarse expressions stain."
"Law, how absurd!" "And then, they sayWe smoke and tipple all the day,Are oft in an excited state,Disturbance, noise, and dirt create."
"What shocking stories people tell!I never! Did you ever?—Well—Bless them!" the Cabman mildly sighed."May they be blest!" his Friend replied.
You, who hold in grace and honor,Hold, as one who did you kindnessWhen he publish'd former poems,Sang Evangeline the noble,Sang the golden Golden Legend,Sang the songs the Voices utterCrying in the night and darkness,Sang how unto the Red PlanetMars he gave the Night's First Watches,Henry Wadsworth, whose adnomen(Coming awkward, for the accents,Into this his latest rhythm)Write we as Protracted Fellow,Or in Latin, LONGUS COMES—Buy the Song of Hiawatha.
Should you ask me, Is the poemWorthy of its predecessors,Worthy of the sweet conception,Of the manly nervous diction,Of the phrase, concise or pliant,Of the songs that sped the pulses,Of the songs that gemm'd the eyelash,Of the other works of Henry?I should answer, I should tell you,You may wish that you may get it—Don't you wish that you may get it?
Should you ask me, Is it worthless,Is it bosh and is it bunkum,Merely facile flowing nonsense,Easy to a practiced rhythmist,Fit to charm a private circle,But not worth the print and paperDavid Bogue hath here expended?I should answer, I should tell you,You're a fool and most presumptuous.Hath not Henry Wadsworth writ it?Hath not PUNCH commanded "Buy it?"
Should you ask me, What's its nature?Ask me, What's the kind of poem?Ask me in respectful language,Touching your respectiful beaver,Kicking back your manly hind-leg,Like to one who sees his betters;I should answer, I should tell you,'Tis a poem in this meter,And embalming the traditions,Fables, rites, and suspepstitions,Legends, charms, and ceremonialsOf the various tribes of Indians,From the land of the Ojibways,From the land of the Dacotahs,From the mountains, moors, and fenlands,Where the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,Finds its sugar in the rushes:From the fast-decaying nations,Which our gentle Uncle SamuelIs improving, very smartly,From the face of all creation,Off the face of all creation.
Should you ask me, By what story,By what action, plot, or fiction,All these matters are connected?I should answer, I should tell you,Go to Bogue and buy the poem,Publish'd neatly, at one shilling,Publish'd sweetly, at five shillings.Should you ask me, Is there musicIn the structure of the verses,In the names and in the phrases?Pleading that, like weaver Bottom,You prefer your ears well tickled;I should answer, I should tell you,Henry's verse is very charming;And for names—there's Hiawatha,Who's the hero of the poem;Mudjeekeewis, that's the West Wind,Hiawatha's graceless father;There's Nokomis, there's Wenonah—Ladies both, of various merit;Puggawangum, that's a war-club;Pau-puk-keewis, he's a dandy,"Barr'd with streaks of red and yellow;And the women and the maidensLove the handsome Pau-puk-keewis,"Tracing in him PUNCH'S likeness.Then there's lovely Minnehaha—Pretty name with pretty meaning—It implies the Laughing-water;And the darling MinnehahaMarried noble Hiawatha;And her story's far too touchingTo be sport for you, yon donkey,With your ears like weaver Bottom's,Ears like booby Bully Bottom.
Once upon a time in London,In the days of the Lyceum,Ages ere keen Arnold let itTo the dreadful Northern Wizard,Ages ere the buoyant MathewsTripp'd upon its boards in briskness—I remember, I rememberHow a scribe, with pen chivalrous,Tried to save these Indian storiesFrom the fate of chill oblivion.Out came sundry comic IndiansOf the tribe of Kut-an-hack-um.With their Chief, the clean Efmatthews,With the growling Downy Beaver,With the valiant Monkey's Uncle,Came the gracious Mari-Kee-lee,Firing off a pocket-pistol,Singing, too, that Mudjee-keewis(Shorten'd in the song to "Wild Wind,")Was a spirit very kindly.Came her Sire, the joyous Kee-lee,By the waning tribe adopted,Named the Buffalo, and weddedTo the fairest of the maidens,But repented of his bargain,And his brother Kut-an-hack-umsVery nearly ohopp'd his toes off—Serve him right, the fickle Kee-lee.If you ask me, What this memoryHath to do with Hiawatha,And the poem which I speak of?I should answer, I should tell you,You're a fool, and most presumptuous;'Tis not for such humble cattleTo inquire what links and unionsJoin the thoughts, and mystic meanings,Of their betters, mighty poets,Mighty writers—PUNCH the mightiest;I should answer, I should tell you,Shut your mouth, and go to David,David, MR. PUNCH'S neighbor,Buy the Song of Hiawatha,Read, and learn, and then be thankfulUnto PUNCH and Henry Wadsworth,PUNCH and noble Henry Wadsworth,Truer poet, better fellow,Than to be annoyed at jesting,From his friend, great PUNCH, who loves him.
"Wherefore starts my bosom's lord?Why this anguish in thine eye?Oh, it seems as thy heart's chordHad broken with that sigh!
"Rest thee, my dear lord, I pray,Rest thee on my bosom now!And let me wipe the dews away,Are gathering on thy brow.
"There, again! that fevered start!What, love! husband! is thy pain?There is a sorrow in thy heart,A weight upon thy brain!
"Nay, nay, that sickly smile can ne'erDeceive affection's searching eye;'Tis a wife's duty, love, to shareHer husband's agony.
"Since the dawn began to peep,Have I lain with stifled breath;Heard thee moaning in thy sleep,As thou wert at grips with death.
"Oh, what joy it was to seeMy gentle lord once more awake!Tell me, what is amiss with thee?Speak, or my heart will break!"
"Mary, thou angel of my life,Thou ever good and kind;'Tis not, believe me, my dear wife,The anguish of the mind!
"It is not in my bosom, dear,No, nor my brain, in sooth;But Mary, oh, I feel it here,Here in my wisdom tooth!
"Then give,—oh, first, best antidote,—Sweet partner of my bed!Give me thy flannel petticoatTo wrap around my head!"
[Illustration: Lowell]
Come hither, my heart's darling,Come, sit upon my knee,And listen, while I whisper,A boon I ask of thee.You need not pull my whiskersSo amorously, my dove;'Tis something quite apart fromThe gentle cares of love.
I feel a bitter craving—A dark and deep desire,That glows beneath my bosomLike coals of kindled fire.The passion of the nightingale,When singing to the rose,Is feebler than the agonyThat murders my repose!
Nay, dearest! do not doubt me,Though madly thus I speak—I feel thy arms about me,Thy tresses on my cheek:I know the sweet devotionThat links thy heart with mine—I know my soul's emotionIs doubly felt by thine:
And deem not that a shadowHath fallen across my love:No, sweet, my love is shadowless,As yonder heaven above.These little taper fingers—Ah! Jane, how white they be!—Can well supply the cruel wantThat almost maddens me.
Thou wilt not sure deny meMy first and fond request;I pray thee, by the memoryOf all we cherish best—By all the dear remembranceOf those delicicious days,When, hand in hand, we wanderedAlong the summer braes:
By all we felt, unspoken,When 'neath the early moon,We sat beside the rivulet,In the leafy month of June;And by the broken whisper,That fell upon my ear,More sweet than angel-music,When first I woo'd thee, dear!
By that great vow which bound theeForever to my side,And by the ring that made theeMy darling and my bride!Thou wilt not fail nor falter,But bend thee to the task—A BOILED SHEEP'S HEAD ON SUNDAYIs all the boon I ask.