Did none attempt, before he fell, To succor one they loved so well? Yes, Higginbottom did aspire (His fireman's soul was all on fire), His brother chief to save; But ah! his reckless generous ire Served but to share his grave! 'Mid blazing beams and scalding streams, Through fire and smoke he dauntless broke, Where Muggins broke before. But sulphury stench and boiling drench Destroying sight o'erwhelmed him quite, He sunk to rise no more. Still o'er his head, while Fate he braved, His whizzing water-pipe he waved; "Whitford and Mitford, ply your pumps, You, Clutterbuck, come, stir your stumps, Why are you in such doleful dumps? A fireman, and afraid of bumps!— What are they fear'd on? fools: 'od rot 'em!" Were the last words of Higginbottom.

THE REVIVAL

Peace to his soul! new prospects bloom, And toil rebuilds what fires consume! Eat we and drink we, be our ditty, "Joy to the managing committee!" Eat we and drink we, join to rum Roast beef and pudding of the plum; Forth from thy nook, John Horner, come, With bread of ginger brown thy thumb, For this is Drury's gay day: Roll, roll thy hoop, and twirl thy tops, And buy, to glad thy smiling chops, Crisp parliament with lollypops, And fingers of the Lady. Didst mark, how toiled the busy train, From morn to eve, till Drury Lane Leaped like a roebuck from the plain? Ropes rose and sunk, and rose again, And nimble workmen trod; To realize bold Wyatt's plan Rushed may a howling Irishman; Loud clattered many a porter-can, And many a ragamuffin clan, With trowel and with hod. Drury revives! her rounded pate Is blue, is heavenly blue with slate; She "wings the midway air," elate, As magpie, crow, or chough; White paint her modish visage smears, Yellow and pointed are her ears. No pendant portico appears Dangling beneath, for Whitbread's shears Have cut the bauble off. Yes, she exalts her stately head; And, but that solid bulk outspread, Opposed you on your onward tread, And posts and pillars warranted That all was true that Wyatt said, You might have deemed her walls so thick, Were not composed of stone or brick, But all a phantom, all a trick, Of brain disturbed and fancy-sick, So high she soars, so vast, so quick!



DRURY'S DIRGE. [BY LAUBA MATILDA.—REJECTED ADDRESSES.] HORACE SMITH.

"You praise our sires: but though they wrote with force, Their rhymes were vicious, and their diction coarse: We want their STRENGTH, agreed; but we atone For that and more, by SWEETNESS all our own"—GIFFORD.

Balmy zephyrs, lightly flitting, Shade me with your azure wing; On Parnassus' summit sitting, Aid me, Clio, while I sing.

Softly slept the dome of Drury O'er the empyreal crest, When Alecto's sister-fury Softly slumbering sunk to rest.

Lo! from Lemnos, limping lamely, Lags the lowly Lord of Fire, Oytherea yielding tamely To the Cyclops dark and dire.

Clouds of amber, dreams of gladness, Dulcet joys and sports of youth, Soon must yield to haughty sadness, Mercy holds the vail to Truth.

See Erostratus the second Fires again Diana's fane; By the Fates from Orcus beckoned, Clouds envelop Drury Lane.

Lurid smoke and frank suspicion Hand in hand reluctant dance: While the god fulfills his mission, Chivarly, resign thy lance.

Hark! the engines blandly thunder, Fleecy clouds disheveled lie, And the firemen, mute with wonder, On the son of Saturn cry.

See the bird of Ammon sailing, Perches on the engine's peak, And, the Eagle firemen hailing, Soothes them with its bickering beak.

Juno saw, and mad with malice, Lost the prize that Paris gave; Jealousy's ensanguined chalice, Mantling pours the orient wave.

Pan beheld Patrocles dying, Nox to Niobe was turned; From Busiris Bacchus flying, Saw his Semele inurned.

Thus fell Drury's lofty glory, Leveled with the shuddering stones Mars, with tresses black and gory, Drinks the dew of pearly groans.

Hark! what soft Aeolian numbers Gem the blushes of the morn! Break, Amphion, break your slumbers, Nature's ringlets deck the thorn.

Ha! I hear the strain erratic Dimly glance from pole to pole; Raptures sweet, and dreams ecstatic Fire my everlasting soul.

Where is Cupid's crimson motion? Billowy ecstasy of woe, Bear me straight, meandering ocean, Where the stagnant torrents flow.

Blood in every vein is gushing, Vixen vengeance lulls my heart, See, the Gorgon gang is rushing! Never, never, let us part!



WHAT IS LIFE BY "ONE OF THE FANCY." BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE

And do you ask me, "What is LIFE?" And do you ask me, "What is pleasure?" My muse and I are not at strife, So listen, lady, to my measure:— Listen amid thy graceful leisure, To what is LIFE, and what IS pleasure. 'Tis LIFE to see the first dawn stain With sallow light the window-pane: To dress—to wear a rough drab coat, With large pearl buttons all afloat Upon the waves of plush: to tie A kerchief of the King-cup dye (White spotted with a small bird's-eye) Around the neck, and from the nape Let fall an easy fan-like cape: To quit the house at morning's prime, At six or so—about the time When watchmen, conscious of the day Puff out their lantern's rush-light ray; Just when the silent streets are strewn With level shadows, and the moon Takes the day's wink and walks aside To nurse a nap till eventide. 'Tis LIFE to reach the livery stable, Secure the RIBBONS and the DAY-BILL, And mount a gig that had a spring Some summer's back: and then take wing Behind (in Mr. Hamlet's tongue) A jade whose "withers are unwrung;" Who stands erect, and yet forlorn, And from a HALF-PAY life of corn, Showing as many POINTS each way As Martial's Epigrammata, Yet who, when set a-going, goes Like one undestined to repose. 'Tis LIFE to revel down the road, And QUEER each o'erfraught chaise's load, To rave and rattle at the GATE, And shower upon the gatherer's pate Damns by the dozens, and such speeches As well betokens one's SLANG riches: To take of Deady's bright STARK NAKED A glass or so—'tis LIFE to take it! To see the Hurst with tents encampt on; Lurk around Lawrence's at Hampton; Join the FLASH crowd (the horse being led Into the yard, and clean'd and fed); Talk to Dav' Hudson, and Cy' Davis (The last a fighting rara avis), And, half in secret, scheme a plan For trying the hardy GAS-LIGHT-MAN. 'Tis LIFE to cross the laden ferry, With boon companions, wild and merry, And see the ring upon the Hurst With carts encircled—hear the burst At distance of the eager crowd. Oh, it is LIFE! to see a proud And dauntless man step, full of hopes, Up to the P. C. stakes and ropes, Throw in his hat, and with a spring, Get gallantly within the ring; Eye the wide crowd, and walk awhile, Taking all cheerings with a smile: To see him skip—his well-trained form, White, glowing, muscular, and warm, All beautiful in conscious power, Relaxed and quiet, till the hour; His glossy and transparent frame, In radiant plight to strive for fame! To look upon the clean shap'd limb In silk and flannel clothed trim; While round the waist the 'kerchief tied, Makes the flesh glow in richer pride. 'Tis more than LIFE, to watch him hold His hand forth, tremulous yet bold, Over his second's, and to clasp His rival's in a quiet grasp; To watch the noble attitude He takes—the crowd in breathless mood: And then to see, with adamant start, The muscles set, and the great heart Hurl a courageous splendid light Into the eye-and then-the FIGHT!



FRAGMENTS. [BY A FREE-LOVER.] BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE, 1823

They were not married by a muttering priest, With superstitious rites, and senseless words, Out-snuffled from an old worm-eaten book, In a dark corner (railed off like a sheep-pen) Of an old house, that fools do call a CHURCH! THEIR altar was the flowery lap of earth— The starry empyrean their vast temple— Their book each other's eyes—and Love himself Parson, and Clerk, and Father to the bride!— Holy espousals! whereat wept with joy The spirit of the universe.—In sooth There was a sort of drizzling rain that day, For I remember (having left at home My parapluie, a name than UMBRELLA, Far more expressive) that I stood for shelter Under an entry not twelve paces off (It might be ten) from Sheriff Waithman's shop For half an hour or more, and there I mused (Mine eyes upon the running kennel fixed, That hurried as a het'rogenous mass To the common sewer, it's dark reservoir), I mused upon the running stream of LIFE! But that's not much to the purpose—I was telling Of these most pure espousals.—Innocent pair! Ye were not shackled by the vulgar chains About the yielding mind of credulous youth, Wound by the nurse and priest—YOUR energies, Your unsophisticated impulses, Taught ye to soar above their "settled rules Of Vice and Virtue." Fairest creature! He Whom the world called thy husband, was in truth Unworthy of thee.-A dull plodding wretch! With whose ignoble nature thy free spirit Held no communion.—'T was well done, fair creature! T' assert the independence of a mind Created-generated I would say— Free as "that chartered libertine, the air." Joy to thy chosen partner! blest exchange! Work of mysterious sympathy I that drew Your kindred souls by * * * * * * * * * * There fled the noblest spirit—The most pure, Most sublimated essence that ere dwelt In earthly tabernacle. Gone thou art, Exhaled, dissolved, diffused, commingled now Into and with the all-absorbing frame Of Nature, the great mother. Ev'n in life, While still, pent-up in flesh, and skin, and bones, My thoughts and feelings like electric flame Shot through the solid mass, toward the source, And blended with the general elements, When thy young star o'er life's horizon hung Far from it's zenith yet low lagging clouds (Vapors of earth) obscured its heaven-born rays— Dull joys of prejudice and superstition And vulgar decencies begirt thee round; And thou didst wear awhile th' unholy bonds Of "holy matrimony!" and didst vail Awhile thy lofty spirit to the cheat.— But reason came-and firm philosophy, And mild philanthropy, and pointed out The shame it was-the crying, crushing shame, To curb within a little paltry pale The love that over all created things Should be diffusive as the atmosphere. Then did thy boundless tenderness expand Over all space—all animated things And things inanimate. Thou hadst a heart, A ready tear for all.—The dying whale, Stranded and gasping—ripped up for his blubber By Man the Tyrant.—The small sucking pig Slain for his riot.—The down-trampled flower Crushed by his cruel foot.—ALL, EACH, and ALL Shared in thy boundless sympathies, and then— (SUBLIME perfection of perfected LOVE) Then didst thou spurn the whimp'ring wailing thing That dared to call THEE "husband," and to claim, As her just right, support and love from THEE— Then didst thou * * * * * * * * * * *



THE CONFESSION. BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE

There's somewhat on my breast father, There's somewhat on my breast! The live-long day I sigh, father, At night I can not rest; I can not take my rest, father, Though I would fain do so, A weary weight oppresseth me— The weary weight of woe!

'Tis not the lack of gold, father Nor lack of worldly gear; My lands are broad and fair to see, My friends are kind and dear; My kin are leal and true, father, They mourn to see my grief, But oh! 'tis not a kinsman's hand Can give my heart relief!

'Tis not that Janet's false, father, 'Tis not that she's unkind; Though busy flatterers swarm around, I know her constant mind. 'Tis not her coldness, father, That chills my laboring breast— Its that confounded cucumber I've ate, and can't digest.



THE MILLING-MATCH BETWEEN ENTELLUS AND DARES. TRANSLATED FROM THE FIFTH BOOK OF THE AENEID, BY ONE OF THE FANCY. THOMAS MOORE.

With daddles [Footnote: Hands.] high upraised, and NOB held back, In awful prescience of the impending THWACK, Both KIDDIES [Footnote: Fellows, usually YOUNG fellows.] stood—and with prelusive SPAR, And light manoeuv'ring, kindled up the war! The One, in bloom of youth—a LIGHT-WEIGHT BLADE— The Other, vast, gigantic, as if made, Express, by Nature for the hammering trade; But aged, slow, with stiff limbs, tottering much, And lungs, that lack'd the BELLOWS-MENDER'S touch.

Yet, sprightly TO THE SCRATCH both BUFFERS came, While RIBBERS rung from each resounding frame, And divers DIGS, and many a ponderous PELT, Were on their broad BREAD-BASKETS heard and felt With roving aim, but aim that rarely miss'd, Round LUGS and OGLES [Footnote: Ears and Eyes.] flew the frequent fist; While showers of FACERS told so deadly well, That the crush'd jaw-bones crackled as they fell! But firmly stood ENTELLUS—and still bright, Though bent by age, with all THE FANCY'S light, STOPP'D with a skill, and RALLIED with a fire The Immortal FANCY could alone inspire!

While DARES, SHIFTING round, with looks of thought, An opening to the COVE'S huge carcase sought (Like General PRESTON, in that awful hour, When on ONE leg he hopp'd to—take the Tower!) And here, and there, explored with active FIN [Footnote: Arm.] And skillful FEINT, some guardless pass to win, And prove a BORING guest when once LET IN. And now ENTELLUS, with an eye that plann'd PUNISHING deeds, high raised his heavy hand, But, ere the SLEDGE came down, young DARES spied His shadow o'er his brow, and slipp'd aside— So nimbly slipp'd, that the vain NOBBER pass'd Through empty air; and He, so high, so vast, Who dealt the stroke, came thundering to the ground Not B—CK—GH—M himself, with bulkier sound, Uprooted from the field of Whiggish glories, Fell SOUSE, of late, among the astonish'd Tories! Instant the RING was broke, and shouts and yells From Trojan FLASHMEN and Sicilian SWELLS Fill'd the wide heaven—while, touch'd with grief to see His PAL, [Footnote: Friend] well-known through many a LARK and SPREE, [Footnote: Party of pleasure and frolic] Thus RUMLY FLOOR'D, the kind ACESTES ran, And pitying raised from earth the GAME old man, Uncow'd, undamaged to the SPORT he came, His limbs all muscle, and his soul all flame. The memory of his MILLING glories past, The shame that aught but death should see him GRASS'D, All fired the veteran's PLUCK—with fury flush'd, Full on his light-limb'd CUSTOMER he rush'd— And HAMMERING right and left, with ponderous swing, RUFFIAN'D the reeling youngster round the RING— Nor rest, nor pause, nor breathing-time was given, But, rapid as the rattling hail from heaven Beats on the house-top, showers of RANDALL'S SHOT [Footnote: A favorite blow of THE NONPARIEL'S, so called.] Around the Trojan's LUGS flew peppering hot! Till now AENEAS, fill'd with anxious dread, Rush'd in between them, and, with words well-bred Preserved alike the peace and DARES' head, BOTH which the veteran much inclined to BREAK— Then kindly thus the PUNISH'D youth bespake: Poor JOHNNY RAW! what madness could impel So RUM a FLAT to face so PRIME a SWELL? Sees't thou not, boy, THE FANCY, heavenly Maid, Herself descends to this great HAMMERER'S aid, And, singling HIM from all her FLASH adorers, Shines in his HITS, and thunders in his FLOORERS? Then, yield thee, youth—nor such a SPOONEY be, To think mere man can MILL a Deity!"

Thus spoke the Chief—and now, the SCRIMAGE o'er, His faithful PALS the DONE-UP DARES bore Back to his home, with tottering GAMS, sunk heart, And MUNS and NODDLE PINK'D in every part. While from his GOB the guggling CLARET gush'd, And lots of GRINDERS, from their sockets crush'd, Forth with the crimson tide in rattling fragments rush'd!



NOT A SOUS HAD HE GOT. [PARODY ON WOLFE'S "BUKIAL or SIB JOHN MOORE."] R. HARRIS BARHAM

Not a SOUS had he got—not a guinea or note, And he looked confoundedly flurried, As he bolted away without paying his shot, And the Landlady after him hurried.

We saw him again at dead of night, When home from the Club returning; We twigg'd the Doctor beneath the light Of the gas-lamp brilliantly burning. All bare, and exposed to the midnight dews, Reclined in the gutter we found him; And he look'd like a gentleman taking a snooze, With his MARSHALL cloak around him.

"The Doctor's as drunk as the d——," we said, And we managed a shutter to borrow; We raised him, and sigh'd at the thought that his head Whould "consumedly ache" on the morrow.

We bore him home, and we put him to bed, And we told his wife and his daughter To give him, next morning, a couple of red Herrings, with soda-water.—

Loudly they talk'd of his money that's gone, And his Lady began to upbraid him; But little he reck'd, so they let him snore on 'Neath the counterpane just as we laid him.

We tuck'd him in, and had hardly done When, beneath the window calling, We heard the rough voice of a son of a gun Of a watchman "One o'clock!" bawling.

Slowly and sadly we all walk'd down From his room in the uppermost story; A rushlight was placed on the cold hearth-stone, And we left him alone in his glory!!



RAISING THE DEVIL. A LEGEND OF CORNELIUS AGRIPPA. R. HARRIS BARHAM.

"And hast thou nerve enough?" he said, That gray Old Man, above whose head Unnumbered years have roll'd— "And hast thou nerve to view," he cried, "The incarnate Fiend that Heaven defied!— — Art thou indeed so bold?

"Say, canst Thou, with unshrinking gaze, Sustain, rash youth, the withering blaze Of that unearthly eye, That blasts where'er it lights—the breath That, like the Simoom, scatters death On all that yet CAN die!

—"Darest thou confront that fearful form, That rides the whirlwind, and the storm, In wild unholy revel!— The terrors of that blasted brow, Archangel's once—though ruin'd now— —Ay—dar'st thou face THE DEVIL?"—

"I dare!" the desperate Youth replied, And placed him by that Old Man's side, In fierce and frantic glee, Unblenched his cheek, and firm his limb —"No paltry juggling Fiend, but HIM! —THE DEVIL I-I fain would see!—

"In all his Gorgon terrors clad, His worst, his fellest shape!" the Lad Rejoined in reckless tone.— —"Have then thy wish!" Agrippa said, And sigh'd and shook his hoary head, With many a bitter groan.

He drew the mystic circle's bound, With skull and cross-bones fenc'd around; He traced full many a sigil there; He mutter'd many a backward pray'r, That sounded like a curse—

"He comes !"—he cried with wild grimace, "The fellest of Apollyon's race!" —Then in his startled pupil's face He dash'd-an EMPTY PURSE!!



THE LONDON UNIVERSITY; [Footnote: see footnote to SONG by Canning.] OR, STINKOMALEE TRIUMPHANS.

AN ODE TO BE PERFORMED ON THE OPENING OF THE NEW COLLEGE. R. HARRIS BARHAM.

Whene'er with pitying eye I view Each operative sot in town, I smile to think how wondrous few Get drunk who study at the U- niversity we've Got in town— niversity we've Got in town.

What precious fools "The People" grew, Their alma mater not in town; The "useful classes" hardly knew Four was composed of two and two, Until they learned it at the U- niversity we've Got in town— niversity we've Got in town.

But now they're taught by JOSEPH HU- ME, by far the cleverest Scot in town, Their ITEMS and their TOTTLES too; Each may dissect his sister Sue, From his instructions at the U- niversity we've Got in town— niversity we've Got in town.

Then L——E comes, like him how few Can caper and can trot in town, In PIROUETTE or PAS DE DEUX— He beats the famed MONSIEUR GIROUX, And teaches dancing at the U- niversity we've Got in town— niversity we've Got in town.

And GILCHRIST, see, that great Geentoo- Professor, has a lot in town Of Cockney boys who fag Hindoo, And LARN JEM-NASTICS at the U- niversity we've Got in town— niversity we've Got in town.

SAM R—- corpse of vampire hue, Comes from its grave to rot in town; For Bays the dead bard's crowned with Yew, And chants, the Pleasures of the U- niversity we've Got in town— niversity we've Got in town.

FRANK JEFFREY, of the Scotch Review,— Whom MOORE had nearly shot in town,— Now, with his pamphlet stitched in blue And yellow, d—ns the other two, But lauds the ever-glorious U- niversity we've Got in town— niversity we've Got in town.

Great BIRBECK, king of chips and glue, Who paper oft does blot in town, From the Mechanics' Institu- tion, comes to prate of wedge and screw, Lever and axle at the U- niversity we've Got in town— niversity we've Got in town.

LORD WAITHAM, who long since withdrew From Mansion House to cot in town; Adorn'd with chair of ormolu, All darkly grand, like Prince Lee Boo, Lectures on FREE TRADE at the U- niversity we've Got in town— niversity we've Got in town.

Fat F——, with his coat of blue, Who speeches makes so hot in town, In rhetoric, spells his lectures through, And sounds the V for W, The VAY THEY SPEAKS it at the U- niversity we've Got in town— niversity we've Got in town.

Then H——E comes, who late at New- gate Market, sweetest spot in town! Instead of one clerk popp'd in two, To make a place for his ne-phew, Seeking another at the U- niversity we've Got in town— niversity we've Got in town.

There's Captain ROSS, a traveler true, Has just presented, what in town- 's an article of great VIRTU (The telescope he once peep'd through, And 'spied an Esquimaux canoe On Croker Mountains), to the U- niversity we've Got in town— niversity we've Got in town.

Since MICHAEL gives no roast nor stew, Where Whigs might eat and plot in town, And swill his port, and mischief brew— Poor CREEVY sips his water gru- el as the beadle of the U- niversity we've Got in town— niversity we've Got in town,

There's JERRY BENTHAM and his crew, Names ne'er to be forgot in town, In swarms like Banquo's long is-sue— Turk, Papist, Infidel and Jew, Come trooping on to join the U- niversity we've Got in town— niversity we've Got in town.

To crown the whole with triple queue— Another such there's not in town, Twitching his restless nose askew, Behold tremendous HARRY BROUGH- AM! Law Professor at the U- niversity we've Got in town— niversity we've Got in town.

GRAND CHORUS:

Huzza! huzza! for HARRY BROUGH- AM! Law Professor at the U- niversity we've Got in town— niversity we've Got in town.



DOMESTIC POEMS. THOMAS HOOD. I.

GOOD-NIGHT.

The sun was slumbering in the west, my daily labors past; On Anna's soft and gentle breast my head reclined at last; The darkness closed around, so dear to fond congenial souls, And thus she murmured in my ear, "My love, we're out of coals.

"That Mister Bond has called again, insisting on his rent; And all the Todds are coming up to see us, out of Kent; I quite forgot to tell you John has had a tipsy fall;— I'm sure there's something going on with that vile Mary Hall!

"Miss Bell has bought the sweetest milk, and I have bought the rest— Of course, if we go out of town, Southend will be the best. I really think the Jones's house would be the thing for us; I think I told you Mrs. Pope had parted with her NUS—

"Cook, by the way, came up to-day, to bid me suit myself— And, what'd ye think? the rats have gnawed the victuals on the shelf. And, Lord! there's such a letter come, inviting you to fight! Of course you, don't intend to go—God bless you, dear, goodnight!"

II.

A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON, AGED THREE YEARS AND FIVE MONTHS.

Thou happy, happy elf! (But stop—first let me kiss away that tear)— Thou tiny image of myself! (My love, he's poking peas into his ear!) Thou merry, laughing sprite! With spirits feather-light, Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin— (Good heavens! the child is swallowing a pin!) Thou little tricksy Puck! With antic toys so funnily bestuck, Light as the singing bird that wings the air— (The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!) Thou darling of thy sire! (Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire!) Thou imp of mirth and joy! In Love's dear chain so strong and bright a link, Thou idol of thy parents—(Drat the boy! There goes my ink!)

Thou cherub—but of earth; Fit playfellow for Fays, by moonlight pale, In harmless sport and mirth, (That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail!) Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey From every blossom in the world that blows, Singing in youth's elysium ever sunny, (Another tumb!—that's his precious nose!)

Thy father's pride and hope! (He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!) With pure heart newly stamped from Nature's mint— (Where did he learn that squint?) Thou young domestic dove! (He'll have that jug off, with another shove!) Dear nursling of the Hymeneal nest! (Are those torn clothes his best?) Little epitome of man! (He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!) Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life— (He's got a knife!)

Thou enviable being! No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing, Play on, play on, My elfin John! Toss the light ball—bestride the stick— (I knew so many cakes would make him sick!) With fancies, buoyant as the thistle-down, Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk, With many a lamb-like frisk, (He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!)

Thou pretty opening rose! (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!) Balmy and breathing music like the South, (He really brings my heart into my mouth!)Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star— (I wish that window had an iron bar!) Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove— (I'll tell you what, my love, I can not write, unless he's sent above!)

III.

A SERENADE.

"LULLABY, O, lullaby!" Thus I heard a father cry, "Lullaby, O, lullaby! The brat will never shut an eye; Hither come, some power divine! Close his lids, or open mine!"

"Lullaby, O, lullaby! What the devil makes him cry? Lullaby, O, lullaby! Still he stares—I wonder why, Why are not the sons of earth Blind, like puppies, from their birth?"

"Lullaby, O, lullaby!" Thus I heard the father cry; "Lullaby, O, lullaby! Mary, you must come and try!— Hush, O, hush, for mercy's sake— The more I sing, the more you wake!"

"Lullaby, O, lullaby! Fie, you little creature, fie! Lullaby, O, lullaby! Is no poppy-syrup nigh? Give him some, or give him all, I am nodding to his fall!"

"Lullaby, O, lullaby! Two such nights and I shall die! Lullaby, O, lullaby! He'll be bruised, and so shall I— How can I from bed-posts keep, When I'm walking in my sleep!"

"Lullaby, O, lullaby! Sleep his very looks deny— Lullaby, O, lullaby! Nature soon will stupefy— My nerves relax—my eyes grow dim— Who's that fallen—me or him?"



ODE TO PERRY, THE INVENTOR OF THE STEEL PEN. THOMAS HOOD

"In this good work, Penn appears the greatest, usefullest of God's instruments. Firm and unbending when the exigency requires it—soft and yielding when rigid inflexibility is not a desideratum—fluent and flowing, at need, for eloquent rapidity—slow and retentive in cases of deliberation—never spluttering or by amplification going wide of the mark—never splitting, if it can be helped, with any one, but ready to wear itself out rather in their service—all things as it were with all men—ready to embrace the hand of Jew, Christian, or Mohammedan—heavy with the German, light with the Italian, oblique with the English, upright with the Roman, backward in coming forward with the Hebrew—in short, for flexibility, amiability, constitutional durability, general ability, and universal utility, It would be hard to find a parallel to the great Penn." —Perry's CHARACTERISATION OF A SETTLER.

O! Patent Pen-inventing Perrian Perry! Friend of the goose and gander, That now unplucked of their quill-feathers wander, Cackling, and gabbling, dabbling, making merry, About the happy fen, Untroubled for one penny-worth of pen, For which they chant thy praise all Britain through, From Goose-Green unto Gander-Cleugh!—

Friend to all Author-kind— Whether of Poet or of Proser— Thou art composer unto the composer Of pens—yea, patent vehicles for Mind To carry it on jaunts, or more extensive PERRYgrinations through the realms of thought; Each plying from the Comic to the Pensive, An Omnibus of intellectual sort;

Modern improvements in their course we feel, And while to iron railroads heavy wares, Dry goods and human bodies, pay their fares, Mind flies on steel To Penrith, Penrhyn, even to Penzance; Nay, penetrates, perchance, To Pennsylvania, or, without rash vaunts, To where the Penguin haunts!

In times bygone, when each man cut his quill, With little Perryan skill, What horrid, awkward, bungling tools of trade Appeared the writing implements home-made! What Pens were sliced, hewed, hacked, and haggled out, Slit or unslit, with many a various snout, Aquiline, Roman, crooked, square, and snubby. Stumpy and stubby; Some capable of ladye-billets neat, Some only fit for ledger-keeping clerk, And some to grub down Peter Stubbs his mark, Or smudge through some illegible receipt; Others in florid caligraphic plans, Equal to ships, and wiggy heads, and swans!

To try in any common inkstands, then, With all their miscellaneous stocks, To find a decent pen, Was like a dip into a lucky box: You drew—and got one very curly, And split like endive in some hurly-burly; The next unslit, and square at end, a spade, The third, incipient pop-gun, not yet made; The fourth a broom; the fifth of no avail, Turned upward, like a rabbit's tail; And last, not least, by way of a relief, A stump that Master Richard, James or John, Had tried his candle-cookery upon, Making "roast-beef!"

Not so thy Perryan Pens! True to their M's and N's, They do not with a whizzing zig-zag split, Straddle, turn up their noses, sulk, and spit, Or drop large dots, Hugh full-stop blots, Where even semicolons were unfit.

They will not frizzle up, or, broom-like, drudge In sable sludge— Nay, bought at proper "Patent Perryan" shops, They write good grammar, sense, and mind their stops Compose both prose and verse, the sad and merry— For when the editor, whose pains compile The grown-up Annual, or the Juvenile, Vaunteth his articles, not women's, men's, But lays "by the most celebrated Pens," What means he but thy Patent Pens, my Perry?

Pleasant they are to feel! So firm! so flexible! composed of steel So finely tempered—fit for tenderest Miss To give her passion breath, Or kings to sign the warrant stern of death— But their supremest merit still is this, Write with them all your days, Tragedy, Comedy, all kinds of plays— (No dramatist should ever be without 'em)— And, just conceive the bliss— There is so little of the goose about 'em, One's safe from any hiss! Ah! who can paint that first great awful night, Big with a blessing or a blight, When the poor dramatist, all fume and fret, Fuss, fidget, fancy, fever, funking, fright, Ferment, fault-fearing, faintness—more f's yet: Flushed, frigid, flurried, flinching, fitful, flat, Add famished, fuddled, and fatigued, to that, Funeral, fate-foreboding—sits in doubt, Or rather doubt with hope, a wretched marriage To see his play upon the stage come out; No stage to him! it is Thalia's carriage, And he is sitting on the spikes behind it, Striving to look as if he didn't mind it!

Witness how Beazley vents upon his hat His nervousness, meanwhile his fate is dealt He kneads, molds, pummels it, and sits it flat, Squeezes and twists it up, until the felt, That went a beaver in, comes out a rat!

Miss Mitford had mis-givings, and in fright, Upon Rienzi's night, Gnawed up one long kid glove, and all her bag, Quite to a rag. Knowles has confessed he trembled as for life, Afraid of his own "Wife;" Poole told me that he felt a monstrous pail Of water backing him, all down his spine— "The ice-brook's temper"—pleasant to the chine! For fear that Simpson and his Co. should fail. Did Lord Glengall not frame a mental prayer, Wishing devoutly he was Lord knows where? Nay, did not Jerrold, in enormous drouth, While doubtful of Nell Gwynne's eventful luck, Squeeze out and suck More oranges with his one fevered mouth Than Nelly had to hawk from north to south? Yea, Buckstone, changing color like a mullet, Refused, on an occasion, once, twice, thrice, From his best friend, an ice, Lest it should hiss in his own red-hot gullet. Doth punning Peake not sit upon the points Of his own jokes, and shake in all his joints, During their trial? 'Tis past denial. And does not Pocock, feeling, like a peacock, All eyes upon him, turn to very meacock? And does not Planche, tremulous and blank, Meanwhile his personages tread the boards, Seem goaded by sharp swords, And called upon himself to "walk the plank?" As for the Dances, Charles and George to boot, What have they more Of ease and rest, for sole of either foot, Than bear that capers on a hotted floor!

Thus pending—does not Matthews, at sad shift For voice, croak like a frog in waters fenny?— Serle seem upon the surly seas adrift?— And Kenny think he's going to Kilkenny?— Haynes Bayly feel Old ditto, with the note Of Cotton in his ear, a mortal grapple About his arms, and Adam's apple Big as a fine Dutch codling in his throat? Did Rodwell, on his chimney-piece, desire Or not to take a jump into the fire? Did Wade feel as composed as music can? And was not Bernard his own Nervous Man? Lastly, don't Farley, a bewildered elf, Quake at the Pantomime he loves to cater, And ere its changes ring transform himself? A frightful mug of human delf? A spirit-bottle—empty of "the cratur"? A leaden-platter ready for the shelf? A thunderstruck dumb-waiter?

To clench the fact, Myself, once guilty of one small rash act, Committed at the Surrey, Quite in a hurry, Felt all this flurry, Corporal worry, And spiritual scurry, Dram-devil—attic curry! All going well, From prompter's bell, Until befell A hissing at some dull imperfect dunce— There's no denying I felt in all four elements at once! My head was swimming, while my arms were flying! My legs for running—all the rest was frying!

Thrice welcome, then, for this peculiar use, Thy pens so innocent of goose! For this shall dramatists, when they make merry, Discarding port and sherry, Drink—"Perry!" Perry, whose fame, pennated, is let loose To distant lands, Perry, admitted on all hands, Text, running, German, Roman, For Patent Perryans approached by no man! And when, ah me! far distant be the hour! Pluto shall call thee to his gloomy bower, Many shall be thy pensive mourners, many! And Penury itself shall club its penny To raise thy monument in lofty place, Higher than York's or any son of War; While time all meaner effigies shall bury, On due pentagonal base Shall stand the Parian, Perryan, periwigged Perry, Perched on the proudest peak of Penman Mawr!



A THEATRICAL CURIOSITY. CRUIKSHANK'S OMNIBUS.

Once in a barn theatric, deep in Kent, A famed tragedian—one of tuneful tongue— Appeared for that night only—'t was Charles Young. As Rolla he. And as that Innocent, The Child of hapless Cora, on there went A smiling, fair-hair'd girl. She scarcely flung A shadow, as she walk'd the lamps among— So light she seem'd, and so intelligent! That child would Rolla bear to Cora's lap: Snatching the creature by her tiny gown, He plants her on his shoulder,—All, all clap! While all with praise the Infant Wonder crown, She lisps in Rolla's ear,—"LOOK OUT, OLD CHAP, OR ELSE I'M BLOW'D IF YOU DON'T HAVE ME DOWN!"



SIDDONS AND HER MAID. W. S. LANDOR

SIDDONS. I leave, and unreluctant, the repast; The herb of China is its crown at last. Maiden! hast thou a thimble in thy gear? MAID. Yes, missus, yes. SIDDONS. Then, maiden, place it here, With penetrated, penetrating eyes. MAID. Mine? missus! are they? SIDDONS. Child! thou art unwise, Of needles', not of woman's eyes, I spake. MAID. O dear me! missus, what a sad mistake! SIDDONS. Now canst thou tell me what was that which led Athenian Theseus into labyrinth dread? MAID. He never told me: I can't say, not I, Unless, mayhap, 't was curiosity. SIDDENS. Fond maiden! MAID. No, upon my conscience, madam! If I was fond of 'em I might have had 'em. SIDDENS. Avoid! avaunt! beshrew me! 'tis in vain That Shakspeare's language germinates again.



THE SECRET SORROW. PUNCH

Oh! let me from the festive board To thee, my mother, flee; And be my secret sorrow shared By thee—by only thee!

In vain they spread the glitt'ring store, The rich repast, in vain; Let others seek enjoyment there, To me 'tis only pain.

There WAS a word of kind advice— A whisper soft and low, But oh! that ONE resistless smile! Alas! why was it so?

No blame, no blame, my mother dear. Do I impute to YOU, But since I ate that currant tart I don't know what to do!



SONG FOR PUNCH DRINKERS. AFTER SCHILLER. PUNCH.

Four be the elements, Here we assemble 'em, Each of man's world And existence an emblem.

Press from the lemon The slow flowing juices— Bitter is life In its lessons and uses.

Bruise the fair sugar lumps— Nature intended Her sweet and severe To be everywhere blended.

Pour the still water— Unwarning by sound, Eternity's ocean Is hemming us round.

Mingle the spirit, The life of the bowl— Man is an earth-clod Unwarmed by a soul!

Drink of the stream Ere its potency goes!— No bath is refreshing Except while it glows!



THE SONG OF THE HUMBUGGED HUSBAND. PUNCH.

She's not what fancy painted her— I'm sadly taken in: If some one else had won her, I Should not have cared a pin.

I thought that she was mild and good As maiden e'er could be; I wonder how she ever could Have so much humbugg'd me.

They cluster round and shake my hand— They tell me I am blest: My case they do not understand— I think that I know best.

They say she's fairest of the fair— They drive me mad and madder. What do they mean by it? I swear I only wish they had her.

'Tis true that she has lovely locks, That on her shoulders fall; What would they say to see the box In which she keeps them all? Her taper fingers, it is true, 'Twere difficult to match: What would they say if they but knew How terribly they scratch?



TEMPERANCE SONG. PUNCH. AIR—FRIEND OF MY SOUL.

Friend of my soul, this water sip, Its strength you need not fear; Tis not so luscious as egg-flip, Nor half so strong as beer. Like Jenkins when he writes, It can not touch the mind; Unlike what he indites, No nausea leaves behind.



LINES

ADDRESSED TO ** **** ***** ON THE 29TH Of SEPTEMBER WHEN WE PARTED FOR THE LAST TIME. PUNCH.

I have watch'd thee with rapture, and dwelt on thy charms, As link'd in Love's fetters we wander'd each day; And each night I have sought a new life in thy arms, And sigh'd that our union could last not for aye.

But thy life now depends on a frail silken thread, Which I even by kindness may cruelly sever, And I look to the moment of parting with dread, For I feel that in parting I lose thee forever.

Sole being that cherish'd my poor troubled heart! Thou know'st all its secrets—each joy and each grief; And in sharing them all thou did'st ever impart To its sorrows a gentle and soothing relief.

The last of a long and affectionate race, As thy days are declining I love thee the more, For I feel that thy loss I can never replace— That thy death will but leave me to weep and deplore.

Unchanged, thou shalt live in the mem'ry of years, I can not—I will not—forget what thou wert! While the thoughts of thy love as they call forth my tears, In fancy will wash thee once more—MY LAST SHIRT. GRUB-STREET.



MADNESS. PUNCH.

There is a madness of the heart, not head— That in some bosoms wages endless war; There is a throe when other pangs are dead, That shakes the system to its utmost core.

There is a tear more scalding than the brine That streams from out the fountain of the eye, And like the lava leaves a scorched line, As in its fiery course it rusheth by.

What is that madness? Is it envy, hate, Or jealousy more cruel than the grave, With all the attendants that upon it wait And make the victim now despair, now rave?

It is when hunger, clam'ring for relief, Hears a shrill voice exclaim, "That graceless sinner, The cook, has been, and gone, and burnt the beef, And spilt the tart—in short, she's dish'd the dinner!"



THE BANDIT'S FATE. PUNCH.

He wore a brace of pistols the night when first we met, His deep-lined brow was frowning beneath his wig of jet, His footsteps had the moodiness, his voice the hollow tone, Of a bandit-chief, who feels remorse, and tears his hair alone— I saw him but at half-price, yet methinks I see him now, In the tableau of the last act, with the blood upon his brow.

A private bandit's belt and boots, when next we met, he wore His salary, he told me, was lower than before; And standing at the O. P. wing he strove, and not in vain, To borrow half a sovereign, which he never paid. I saw it but a moment—and I wish I saw it now— As he buttoned up his pocket with a condescending bow.

And once again we met; but no bandit chief was there; His rouge was off, and gone that head of once luxuriant hair He lodges in a two-pair back, and at the public near, He can not liquidate his "chalk," or wipe away his beer. I saw him sad and seedy, yet methinks I see him now, In the tableau of the last act, with the blood upon his brow.



LINES WRITTEN AFTER A BATTLE. BY AN ASSISTANT SURGEON OF THE NINETEENTH NANKEENS. PUNCH.

Stiff are the warrior's muscles, Congeal'd, alas! his chyle; No more in hostile tussles Will he excite his bile. Dry is the epidermis, A vein no longer bleeds— And the communis vermis Upon the warrior feeds.

Compress'd, alas! the thorax, That throbbed with joy or pain; Not e'en a dose of borax Could make it throb again. Dried up the warrior's throat is, All shatter'd too, his head: Still is the epiglottis— The warrior is dead.



THE PHRENOLOGIST TO HIS MISTRESS. PUNCH.

Though largely developed's my organ of order, And though I possess my destructiveness small, On suicide, dearest, you'll force me to border, If thus you are deaf to my vehement call

For thee veneration is daily extending, On a head that for want of it once was quite flat; If thus with my passion I find you contending, My organs will swell till they've knocked off my hat

I know, of perceptions, I've none of the clearest; For while I believe that by thee I'm beloved, I'm told at my passion thou secretly sneerest; But oh! may the truth unto me never be proved!

I'll fly to Deville, and a cast of my forehead I'll send unto thee;—then upon thee I'll call. Rejection—alas! to the lover how horrid— When 'tis passion that SPURS-HIM, 'tis bitter as GALL.



THE CHEMIST TO HIS LOVE. PUNCH.

I love thee, Mary, and thou lovest me— Our mutual flame is like th' affinity That doth exist between two simple bodies: I am Potassium to thine Oxygen. 'Tis little that the holy marriage vow Shall shortly make us one. That unity Is, after all, but metaphysical O, would that I, my Mary, were an acid, A living acid; thou an alkali Endow'd with human sense, that, brought together, We both might coalesce into one salt, One homogeneous crystal. Oh! that thou Wert Carbon, and myself were Hydrogen; We would unite to form olefiant gas, Or common coal, or naphtha—would to heaven That I were Phosphorus, and thou wert Lime! And we of Lime composed a Phosphuret. I'd be content to be Sulphuric Acid, So that thou might be Soda. In that case We should be Glauber's Salt. Wert thou Magnesia Instead we'd form that's named from Epsom. Couldst thou Potassa be, I Aqua-fortis, Our happy union should that compound form, Nitrate of Potash—otherwise Saltpeter. And thus our several natures sweetly blent, We'd live and love together, until death Should decompose the fleshly TERTIUM QUID, Leaving our souls to all eternity Amalgamated. Sweet, thy name is Briggs And mine is Johnson. Wherefore should not we Agree to form a Johnsonate of Briggs? We will. The day, the happy day, is nigh, When Johnson shall with beauteous Briggs combine.



A BALLAD OF BEDLAM. PUNCH.

O, lady wake!—the azure moon Is rippling in the verdant skies, The owl is warbling his soft tune, Awaiting but thy snowy eyes. The joys of future years are past, To-morrow's hopes have fled away; Still let us love, and e'en at last, We shall be happy yesterday.

The early beam of rosy night Drives off the ebon morn afar, While through the murmur of the light The huntsman winds his mad guitar. Then, lady, wake! my brigantine Pants, neighs, and prances to be free; Till the creation I am thine, To some rich desert fly with me.



STANZAS TO AN EGG. [BY A SPOON.] PUNCH.

Pledge of a feather'd pair's affection, Kidnapped in thy downy nest, Soon for my breakfast—sad reflection!— Must thou in yon pot be drest.

What are the feelings of thy mother? Poor bereaved, unhappy hen! Though she may lay, perchance, another, Thee she ne'er will see again.

Yet do not mourn. Although above thee Never more shall parent brood. Know, dainty darling! that I love thee Dearly as thy mother could.



A FRAGMENT. PUNCH.

His eye was stern and wild,—his cheek was pale and cold as clay; Upon his tightened lip a smile of fearful meaning lay; He mused awhile—but not in doubt—no trace of doubt was there; It was the steady solemn pause of resolute despair. Once more he look'd upon the scroll—once more its words he read— Then calmly, with unflinching hand, its folds before him spread. I saw him bare his throat, and seize the blue cold-gleaming steel, And grimly try the tempered edge he was so soon to feel! A sickness crept upon my heart, and dizzy swam my head,— I could not stir—I could not cry—I felt benumb'd and dead; Black icy horrors struck me dumb, and froze my senses o'er; I closed my eyes in utter fear, and strove to think no more.

* * * * * * *

Again I looked,—a fearful change across his face had pass'd— He seem'd to rave,—on cheek and lip a flaky foam was cast; He raised on high the glittering blade—then first I found a tongue— "Hold, madman! stay thy frantic deed!" I cried, and forth I sprung; He heard me, but he heeded not; one glance around he gave; And ere I could arrest his hand, he had begun to SHAVE!



EATING SONG. PUNCH.

Oh! carve me yet another slice, O help me to more gravy still, There's naught so sure as something nice To conquer care, or grief to kill.

I always loved a bit of beef, When Youth and Bliss and Hope were mine; And now it gives my heart relief In sorrow's darksome hour—to dine!



THE SICK CHILD. [BY THE HONOBABLE WILHELMINA SKEGGS.] PUNCH.

A weakness seizes on my mind—I would more pudding take; But all in vain—I feel—I feel—my little head will ache. Oh! that I might alone be left, to rest where now I am, And finish with a piece of bread that pot of currant jam.

I gaze upon the cake with tears, and wildly I deplore That I must take a powder if I touch a morsel more, Or oil of castor, smoothly bland, will offer'd be to me, In wave pellucid, floating on a cup of milkless tea.

It may be so—I can not tell—I yet may do without; They need not know, when left alone, what I have been about. I long to eat that potted beef—to taste that apple-pie; I long—I long to eat some more, but have not strength to try.

I gasp for breath, and now I know I've eaten far too much; Not one more crumb of all the feast before me can I touch. Susan, oh! Susan, ring the bell, and call for mother, dear, My brain swims round—I feel it all—mother, your child is queer!



THE IMAGINATIVE CRISIS. PUNCH.

Oh, solitude! thou wonder-working fay, Come nurse my feeble fancy in your arms, Though I, and thee, and fancy town-pent lay, Come, call around, a world of country charms. Let all this room, these walls dissolve away, And bring me Surrey's fields to take their place: This floor be grass, and draughts as breezes play; Yon curtains trees, to wave in summer's face; My ceiling, sky; my water-jug a stream; My bed, a bank, on which to muse and dream. The spell is wrought: imagination swells My sleeping-room to hills, and woods, and dells! I walk abroad, for naught my footsteps hinder, And fling my arms. Oh! mi! I've broke the WINDER!



LINES TO BESSY. [BY A STUDENT AT LAW.] PUNCH.

My head is like a title-deed, Or abstract of the same: Wherein, my Bessy, thou may'st read Thine own long-cherish'd name.

Against thee I my suit have brought, I am thy plaintiff lover, And for the heart that thou hast caught, An action lies—of trover.

Alas, upon me every day The heaviest costs you levy: Oh, give me back my heart—but nay! I feel I can't replevy.

I'll love thee with my latest breath, Alas, I can not YOU shun, Till the hard hand of SHERIFF death Takes me in execution.

Say, BESSY dearest, if you will Accept me as a lover? Must true affection file a bill The secret to discover?

Is it my income's small amount That leads to hesitation? Refer the question of account To CUPID'S arbitration.



MONODY ON THE DEATH OF AN ONLY CLIENT. PUNCH.

Oh! take away my wig and gown, Their sight is mockery now to me. I pace my chambers up and down, Reiterating "Where is HE?"

Alas! wild echo, with a moan, Murmurs above my feeble head: In the wide world I am alone; Ha! ha! my only client's—dead!

In vain the robing-room I seek; The very waiters scarcely bow, Their looks contemptuously speak, "He's lost his only client now."

E'en the mild usher, who, of yore, Would hasten when his name I said, To hand in motions, comes no more, HE knows my only client's dead.

Ne'er shall I, rising up in court, Open the pleadings of a suit: Ne'er shall the judges cut me short While moving them for a compute.

No more with a consenting brief Shall I politely bow my head; Where shall I run to hide my grief? Alas! my only client's dead.

Imagination's magic power Brings back, as clear, as clear as can be, The spot, the day, the very hour, When first I sign'd my maiden plea.

In the Exchequer's hindmost row I sat, and some one touched my head, He tendered ten-and-six, but oh! That only client now is dead.

In vain I try to sing—I'm hoarse: In vain I try to play the flute, A phantom seems to flit across— It is the ghost of a compute.

I try to read,—but all in vain; My chamber listlessly I tread; Be still, my heart; throb less, my brain; Ho! ho! my only client's dead.

I think I hear a double knock: I did—alas! it is a dun. Tailor—avaunt! my sense you shock; He's dead! you know I had but one.

What's this they thrust into my hand? A bill returned!—ten pounds for bread! My butcher's got a large demand; I'm mad! my only client's dead.



LOVE ON THE OCEAN. PUNCH.

They met, 't was in a storm On the deck of a steamer; She spoke in language warm, Like a sentimental dreamer. He spoke—at least he tried; His position he altered; Then turned his face aside, And his deep-ton'd voice falter'd.

She gazed upon the wave, Sublime she declared it; But no reply he gave— He could not have dared it. A breeze came from the south, Across the billows sweeping; His heart was in his mouth, And out he thought 't was leaping.

"O, then, Steward!" he cried With the deepest emotion; Then totter'd to the side, And leant o'er the ocean. The world may think him cold, But they'll pardon him with quickness, When the fact they shall be told, That he suffer'd from sea-sickness.



"OH! WILT THOU SEW MY BUTTONS ON?" [Footnote: "Wilt thou love me then as now" and "I will love thee then as now" were two popular songs in 1849] AND "YES, I WILL SEW THY BUTTONS ON!" PUNCH.

[Just at present no lyrics have so eclatant a succes de societe as the charming companion ballads which, under the above pathetic titles, have made a fureur in the fashionable circles to which the fair composer, to whom they are attributed in the causeries of May Fair and Belgravia (The HON. MRS. N—T—N), belongs. The touching event to which they refer, is the romantic union of the HON. MISS BL—CHE DE F—TZ—FL—M to C—PT—N DE B—RS, of the C-DS—M G—DS, which took the beau monde by surprise last season. Previous to the eclaircissement, the gifted and lovely composer, at a ball given by the distinguished D—CH—SS of S—TH—D, accidentally overheard the searching question of the gallant but penniless Captain, and the passionate and self- devoted answer of his lovely and universally admired fiancee. She instantly rushed home and produced these pathetic and powerful ballads.]

"Oh! wilt thou sew my buttons on, When gayer scenes recall That fairy face, that stately grace, To reign amid the ball? When Fulham's bowers their sweetest flowers For fete-champetres shall don, Oh! say, wilt thou, of queenly brow, Still sew my buttons on?

"The noble, sweet, are at thy feet, To meet a freezing eye; The gay, the great, in camp and state, In vain around thee sigh. Thou turn'st away, in scorn of sway, To bless a younger son— But when we live in lodgings, say, Wilt sew his buttons on?"

"Yes I will sew thy buttons on, Though all look dark and drear; And scant, they say, lieutenant's pay, Two hundred pounds a year. Let HOW'LL and JAMES tempt wealthier dames, Of gauds and gems I'll none; Nor ask to roam, but sit at home, And sew thy buttons on!

"When ladies blush 'neath lusters' flush, And fast the waltzers fly, Though tame at tea I bide with thee, No tear shall dim my eye. When summer's close brings Chiswick shows— When all from town have gone, I'll sit me down, nor pout nor frown, But sew thy buttons on!"



THE PAID BILL A BALLAD OF DOMESTIC ECONOMY. PUNCH O fling not this receipt away, Given by one who trusted thee; Mistakes will happen every day However honest folks may be. And sad it is, love, twice to pay; So cast not that receipt away!

Ah, yes; if e'er, in future hours, When we this bill have all forgot, They send it in again—ye powers! And swear that we have paid it not— How sweet to know, on such a day We've never cast receipts away!



PARODY FOR A REFORMED PARLIAMENT. PUNCH.

The quality of bribery is deep stained; It droppeth from a hand behind the door Into the voter's palm. It is twice dirty: It dirts both him that gives, and him that takes. 'Tis basest in the basest, and becomes Low blacklegs more than servants of the Crown. Those swindlers show the force of venal power, The attribute to trick and roguery, Whereby 'tis managed that a bad horse wins: But bribery is below their knavish "lay." It is the vilest of dishonest things; It was the attribute to Gatton's self; And other boroughs most like Gatton show When bribery smothers conscience. Therefore, you, Whose conscience takes the fee, consider this— That in the cause of just reform, you all Should lose your franchise: we do dislike bribery; And that dislike doth cause us to object to The deeds of W. B.



THE WAITER. PUNCH.

I met the waiter in his prime At a magnificent hotel; His hair, untinged by care or time, Was oiled and brushed exceeding well. When "waiter," was the impatient cry, In accents growing stronger, He seem'd to murmur "By and by, Wait a little longer."

Within a year we met once more, 'Twas in another part of town— An humbler air the waiter wore, I fancied he was going down. Still, when I shouted "Waiter, bread!" He came out rather stronger, As if he'd say with toss of head, "Wait a little longer."

Time takes us on through many a grace; Of "ups and downs" I've had my run, Passing full often through the shade And sometimes loitering in the sun. I and the waiter met again At a small inn at Ongar; Still, when I call'd, 't was almost vain— He bade me wait the longer.

Another time—years since the last— At eating-house I sought relief From present care and troubles past, In a small plate of round of beef. "One beef, and taturs," was the cry, In tones than mine much stronger; 'T was the old waiter standing by, "Waiting a little longer."

I've marked him now for many a year; I've seen his coat more rusty grow; His linen is less bright and clear, His polished pumps are on the go. Torn are, alas! his Berlin gloves— They used to be much stronger, The waiter's whole appearance proves He can not wait much longer.

I sometimes see the waiter still; 'Gainst want he wages feeble strife; He's at the bottom of the hill, Downward has been his path through life. Of "waiter, waiter," there are cries, Which louder grow and stronger; 'Tis to old Time he now replies, "Wait a little longer."



THE LAST APPENDIX TO "YANKEE DOODLE." PUNCH, 1851.

YANKEE DOODLE sent to Town His goods for exhibition; Every body ran him down, And laugh'd at his position. They thought him all the world behind; A goney, muff, or noodle; Laugh on, good people—never mind— Says quiet YANKEE DOODLE.

Chorus.—YANKEE DOODLE, etc.

YANKEE DOODLE had a craft, A rather tidy clipper, And he challenged, while they laughed, The Britishers to whip her. Their whole yacht-squadron she outsped, And that on their own water; Of all the lot she went a-head, And they came nowhere arter.

Chorus.—YANKEE DOODLE, etc.

O'er Panama there was a scheme Long talk'd of, to pursue a Short route—which many thought a dream— By Lake Nicaragua. JOHN BULL discussed the plan on foot, With slow irresolution, While YANKEE DOODLE went and put It into execution.

Chorus.—YANKEE DOODLE, etc.

A steamer of the COLLINS line, A YANKEE DOODLE'S notion, Has also quickest cut the brine Across the Atlantic Ocean. And British agents, no ways slow Her merits to discover, Have been and bought her—just to tow The CUNARD packets over.

CHORUS.—YANKEE DOODLE, etc.

Your gunsmiths of their skill may crack, But that again don't mention: I guess that COLTS' revolvers whack Their very first invention. By YANKEE DOODLE, too, you're beat Downright in Agriculture, With his machine for reaping wheat, Chaw'd up as by a vulture.

CHORUS.—YANKEE DOODLE, etc.

You also fancied, in your pride, Which truly is tarnation, Them British locks of yourn defied The rogues of all creation; But CHUBBS' and BRAMAH'S HOBBS has pick'd, And you must now be view'd all As having been completely licked By glorious YANKEE DOODLE.

CHORUS.—YANKEE DOODLE, etc.



LINES FOR MUSIC. PUNCH.

Come strike me the harp with its soul-stirring twang, The drum shall reply with its hollowest bang; Up, up in the air with the light tamborine, And let the dull ophecleide's groan intervene; For such is our life, lads, a chaos of sounds, Through which the gay traveler actively bounds. With the voice of the public the statesman must chime, And change the key-note, boys, exactly in time; The lawyer will coolly his client survey, As an instrument merely whereon he can play. Then harp, drum, and cymbals together shall clang, With a loud-tooral lira, right tooral, bang, bang!



DRAMA FOR EVERY-DAY LIFE. LUDGATE HILL.—A MYSTERY. PUNCH.

MR. MEADOWS . . . . A Country Gentleman. PRIGWELL . . . . . With a heavy heart and light fingers. BROWN . . . . . . . Friends of each other. JONES . . . . . . . Friends of each other. BLIND VOCALIST . . Who will attempt the song of "Hey the Bonny Breast Knot."

The Scene represents Ludgate Hill in the middle of the day; Passengers, Omnibuses, etc., etc., passing to and fro.

MEADOWS enters, musing.

MEADOWS. I stand at last on Ludgate's famous hill; I've traversed Farringdon's frequented vale, I've quitted Holborn's heights—the slopes of Snow, Where Skinner's sinuous street, with tortuous track, Trepans the traveler toward the field of Smith; That field, whose scents burst on the offended nose With foulest flavor, while the thrice shocked ear, Thrice shocked with bellowing blasphemy and blows, Making one compound of Satanic sound, Is stunned, in physical and moral sense. But this is Ludgate Hill—here commerce thrives; Here, merchants carry trade to such a height That competition, bursting builders' bonds, Starts from the shop, and rushing through the roof, Unites the basement with the floors above; Till, like a giant, that outgrows his strength, The whole concern, struck with abrupt collapse, In one "tremendous failure" totters down!— 'Tis food on which philosophy may fatten. [Turns round, musing, and looks into a shop window

Enter PRIGWELL, talking to himself.

PRIGWELL. I've made a sorry day of it thus far; I've fathomed fifty pockets, all in vain; I've spent in omnibuses half-a-crown; I've ransacked forty female reticules— And nothing found—some business must be done. By Jove—I'd rather turn Lascar at once: Allow the walnut's devastating juice To track its inky course along my cheek, And stain my British brow with Indian brown. Or, failing that, I'd rather drape myself In cheap white cotton, or gay colored chintz— Hang roung my ear the massive curtain-ring— With strings of bold, effective glassy beads Circle my neck—and play the Brahmin Priest, To win the sympathy of passing crowds, And melt the silver in the stranger's purse. But ah! (SEEING MEADOWS) the land of promise looms before me The bulging skirts of that provincial coat Tell tales of well-filled pocket-books within. [Goes behind Meadows and empties his pockets

This is indeed a prize! [Meadows turns suddenly round,

Your pardon, sir; Is this, the way to Newgate?

MEADOWS. Why, indeed I scarce can say; I'm but a stranger here, I should not like to misdirect you.

PRIGWELL. Thank you, I'll find the way to Newgate by myself. [Exit.

MEADOWS (STILL MUSING). This is indeed a great Metropolis.

ENTER BLIND VOCALIST.

BLIND VOCALIST (SINGING). Hey, the bonny! (KNOCKS UP AGAINST MEADOWS, WHO EXIT). Ho! the bonny—(A PASSENGER KNOCKS UP AGAINST THE BLIND VOCALIST ON THE OTHER SIDE). Hey, the bonny—(A BUTCHER'S TRAY STRIKES THE BLIND VOCALIST IN THE CHEST)—breast knot. AS HE CONTINUES SINGING "HEY, THE BONNY! HO, THE BONNY," THE BLIND VOCALIST ENCOUNTERS VARIOUS COLLISIONS, AND HIS BREATH BEING TAKEN AWAY BY A POKE OR A PUSH BETWEEN EACH BAR, HE IS CARRIED AWAY BY THE STREAM OF PASSENGERS.

ENTER BROWN AND JONES. MEETING, THEY STOP AND SHAKE HANDS MOST CORDIALLY FOR SEVERAL MINUTES.

BROWN. How are you, JONES?

JONES. Why, BROWN, I do declare 'Tis quite an age since you and I have met.

BROWN. I'm quite delighted.

JONES. I'm extremely glad. [An awkward pause

BROWN. Well! and how are you?

JONES. Thank you, very well; And you, I hope are well?

BROWN. Quite well, I thank you. [Another awkward pause.

JONES. Oh!—by the way—have you seen THOMSON lately?

BROWN. Not very lately. (After a pause, and as if struck with a happy idea). But I met with SMITH— A week ago.

JONES. Oh! did you though, indeed? And how was SMITH?

Brown. Why, he seemed pretty well [Another long pause; at the end of which both appear as if they were going to speak to each other.

JONES. I beg your pardon.

SMITH. You were going to speak?

JONES. Oh! nothing. I was only going to say— Good morning.

SMITH. Oh! and so was I. Good-day. [Both shake hands, and are going off in opposite directions, when Smith turns round. Jones turning round at the same time they both return and look at each other.

JONES. I thought you wished to speak, by looking back.

BROWN. Oh no. I thought the same.

BOTH TOGETHER. Good-by! Good-by! [Exeunt finally; and the conversation and the curtain drop together.



PROCLIVIOR. (A slight Variation on LONGFELLOW'S "EXCELSIOR.") PUNCH.

The shades of night were falling fast, As tow'rd the Haymarket there pass'd A youth, whose look told in a trice That his taste chose the queer device— PROCLIVIOR!

His hat, a wide-awake; beneath He tapp'd a cane against his teeth; His eye was bloodshot, and there rung, Midst scraps of slang, in unknown tongue, PROCLIVIOR!

In calm first-floors he saw the light Of circles cosy for the night; But far ahead the gas-lamps glow; He turn'd his head, and murmur'd "Slow," PROCLIVIOR!

"Come early home," his Uncle said, "We all are early off to bed; The family blame you far and wide;" But loud that noisy youth replied— PROCLIVIOR!

"Stay," said his Aunt, "come home to sup, Early retire—get early up." A wink half quivered in his eye; He answered to the old dame's sigh— PROCLIVIOR!

"Mind how you meddle with that lamp! And mind the pavement, for it's damp!" Such was the Peeler's last good-night A faint voice stutter'd out "All right." PROCLIVIOR!

At break of day, as far West-ward A cab roll'd o'er the highways hard, The early mover stopp'd to stare At the wild shouting of the fare— PROCLIVIOR!

And by the bailiff's faithful hound, At breakfast-time, a youth was found, Upon three chairs, with aspect nice, True to his young life's queer device, PROCLIVIOR!

Thence, on a dull and muggy day, They bore him to the Bench away, And there for several months he lay, While friends speak gravely as they say— PROCLIVIOR!



JONES AT THE BARBER'S SHOP. PUNCH.

SCENE.—A Barber's Shop. Barber's men engaged in cutting hair, making wigs, and other barberesque operations.

Enter JONES, meeting OILY the barber.

JONES. I wish my hair cut.

OILY. Pray, sir, take a seat.

OILY puts a chair for JONES, who sits. During the following dialogue OILY continues cutting JONES'S hair.

OILY. We've had much wet, sir.

JONES. Very much, indeed.

OILY. And yet November's early days were fine.

JONES. They were.

OILY. I hoped fair weather might have lasted us Until the end.

JONES. At one time—so did I.

OILY. But we have had it very wet.

JONES. We have.

[A pause of some minutes.

OILY. I know not, sir, who cut your hair last time; But this I say, sir, it was badly cut: No doubt 't was in the country.

JONES. No! in town!

OILY. Indeed! I should have fancied otherwise.

JONES. 'Twas cut in town—and in this very room.

OILY. Amazement!—but I now remember well. We had an awkward, new provincial hand, A fellow from the country. Sir, he did More damage to my business in a week Than all my skill can in a year repair. He must have cut your hair.

JONES (looking at him). No—'twas yourself.

OILY. Myself! Impossible! You must mistake.

JONES. I don't mistake—'twas you that cut my hair.

[A long pause, interrupted only by the clipping of the scissors.

OILY. Your hair is very dry, sir.

JONES. Oh! indeed.

OILY. Our Vegetable Extract moistens it.

JONES. I like it dry.

OILY. But, sir, the hair when dry.

Turns quickly gray.

JONES. That color I prefer,

OILY. But hair, when gray, will rapidly fall off, And baldness will ensue.

JONES. I would be bald.

OILY. Perhaps you mean to say you'd like a wig.— We've wigs so natural they can't be told From real hair.

JONES. Deception I detest.

[Another pause ensues, during which OILY blows down JONES'S neck, and relieves him from the linen wrapper in which he has been enveloped during the process of hair-cutting.

OILY. We've brushes, soaps, and scent, of every kind.

JONES. I see you have. (Pays 6d.) I think you'll find that right. OILY. If there is nothing I can show you, sir,

JONES. No: nothing. Yet—there may be something, too, That you may show me.

OILY. Name it, sir.

JONES. The door.

[EXIT JONES. OILY (to his man). That's a rum customer at any rate. Had I cut him as short as he cut me, How little hair upon his head would be! But if kind friends will all our pains requite, We'll hope for better luck another night.

[Shop-bell rings and curtain falls.



THE SATED ONE. [IMPROMPTU AFTER CHRISTMAS DINNER.] PUNCH.

It may not be—go maidens, go, Nor tempt me to the mistletoe; I once could dance beneath its bough, But must not, will not, can not, now!

A weight—a load within I bear; It is not madness nor despair; But I require to be at rest, So that my burden may-digest!



SAPPHICS OF THE CABSTAND [Footnote: See The Friend of Humanity and the Knife-Grinder] PUNCH.

FRIEND OF SELF-GOVERNMENT.

Seedy Cab-driver, whither art thou going? Sad is thy fate—reduced to law and order, Local self-government yielding to the gripe of Centralization.

Victim of FITZROY! little think the M.P.s, Lording it o'er cab, 'bus, lodging-house, and grave-yard, Of the good times when every Anglo Saxon's House was his castle.

Say, hapless sufferer, was it Mr. CHADWICK— Underground foe to the British Constitution— Or my LORD SHAFTESBURY, put up MR. FITZROY Thus to assail you?

Was it the growth of Continental notions, Or was it the Metropolitan police-force Prompted this blow at Laissez-faire, that free and Easiest of doctrines?

Have you not read Mr. TOULMIN SMITH'S great work on Centralization? If you haven't, buy it; Meanwhile I should be glad at once to hear your View on the subject.

CAB-DRIVER.

View on the subject? jiggered if I've got one; Only I wants no centrylisin', I don't— Which I suppose it's a crusher standin' sentry Hover a cabstand.

Whereby if we gives e'er a word o' cheek to Parties as rides, they pulls us up like winkin'— And them there blessed beaks is down upon us Dead as an 'ammer! As for Mr. TOULMIN SMITH, can't say I knows him— But as you talks so werry like a gem'man, Perhaps you're goin in 'ansome style to stand a Shillin' a mile, sir?

FRIEND OF SELF—GOVERNMENT.

I give a shilling? I will see thee hanged first— Sixpence a mile—or drive me straight to Bow-street— Idle, ill-mannered, dissipated, dirty, Insolent rascal!



JUSTICE TO SCOTLAND. [Footnote: In this poem the Scottish words and phrases are all ludicrously misapplied] [AN UNPUBLISHED POEM BY BURNS.] COMMUNICATED BY THE EDINBURG SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING CIVILIZATION IN ENGLAND PUNCH.

O mickle yeuks the keckle doup, An' a' unsicker girns the graith, For wae and wae the crowdies loup O'er jouk an' hallan, braw an' baith. Where ance the coggie hirpled fair, And blithesome poortith toomed the loof There's nae a burnie giglet rare But blaws in ilka jinking coof.

The routhie bield that gars the gear Is gone where glint the pawky een. And aye the stound is birkin lear Where sconnered yowies wheepen yestreen. The creeshie rax wi' skelpin' kaes Nae mair the howdie bicker whangs, Nor weanies in their wee bit claes Glour light as lammies wi' their sangs.

Yet leeze me on my bonnie byke! My drappie aiblins blinks the noo, An' leesome luve has lapt the dyke Forgatherin' just a wee bit fou. And SCOTIA! while thy rantin' lunt Is mirk and moop with gowans fine, I'll stowlins pit my unco brunt, An' cleek my duds for auld lang syne.



THE POETICAL COOKERY-BOOK. PUNCH THE STEAK. Air.—"The Sea."

Of Steak—of Steak—of prime Rump Steak— A slice of half-inch thickness take, Without a blemish, soft and sound; In weight a little more than a pound. Who'd cook a Stake—who'd cook a Steak— Must a fire clear proceed to make: With the red above and the red below, In one delicious genial glow. If a coal should come, a blaze to make, Have patience! You mustn't put on your Steak.

First rub—yes, rub—with suet fat, The gridiron's bars, then on it flat Impose the meat; and the fire soon Will make it sing a delicious tune. And when 'tis brown'd by the genial glow, Just turn the upper side below. Both sides with brown being cover'd o'er, For a moment you broil your Steak no more, But on a hot dish let it rest, And add of butter a slice of the best; In a minute or two the pepper-box take, And with it gently dredge your Steak.

When seasoned quite, upon the fire Some further time it will require; And over and over be sure to turn Your Steak till done—nor let it burn; For nothing drives me half so wild As a nice Rump Steak in the cooking spiled. I've lived in pleasure mixed with grief, On fish and fowl, and mutton and beef, With plenty of cash, and power to range, But my Steak I never wished to change: For a Steak was always a treat to me, At breakfast, luncheon, dinner, or tea.

ROASTED SUCKING-PIG. AIR—"Scots wha has."

Cooks who'd roast a Sucking-pig, Purchase one not over big; Coarse ones are not worth a fig; So a young one buy. See that he is scalded well (That is done by those who sell), Therefore on that point to dwell, Were absurdity.

Sage and bread, mix just enough, Salt and pepper quantum suff., And the Pig's interior stuff, With the whole combined. To a fire that's rather high, Lay it till completely dry; Then to every part apply Cloth, with butter lined.

Dredge with flour o'er and o'er, Till the Pig will hold no more; Then do nothing else before 'Tis for serving fit. Then scrape off the flour with care; Then a butter'd cloth prepare; Rub it well; then cut—not tear— Off the head of it.

Then take out and mix the brains With the gravy it contains; While it on the spit remains, Cut the Pig in two. Chop the sage, and chop the bread Fine as very finest shred; O'er it melted butter spread— Stinginess won't do.

When it in the dish appears, Garnish with the jaws and ears; And when dinner-hour nears, Ready let it be. Who can offer such a dish May dispense with fowl and fish; And if he a guest should wish, Let him send for me!

BEIGNET DE POMME. AIR—"Home, Sweet Home."

'Mid fritters and lollipops though we may roam, On the whole, there is nothing like Beignet de Pomme. Of flour a pound, with a glass of milk share, And a half pound of butter the mixture will bear. Pomme! Pomme! Beignet de Pomme! Of Beignets there's none like the Beignet de Pomme!

A Beignet de Pomme, you will work at in vain, If you stir not the mixture again and again; Some beer, just to thin it, may into it fall; Stir up that, with three whites of eggs, added to all. Pomme! Pomme! Beignet de Pomme! Of Beignets there's none like the Beignet de Pomme!

Six apples, when peeled, you must carefully slice, And cut out the cores—if you 'll take my advice; Then dip them in batter, and fry till they foam, And you'll have in six minutes your Beignet de Pomme. Pomme! Pomme! Beignet de Pomme! Of Beignets there's none like the Beignet de Pomme!

CHERRY PIE. AIR—"Cherry Ripe."

Cherry Pie! Cherry Pie! Pie! I cry, Kentish cherries you may buy. If so be you ask me where To put the fruit, I'll answer "There!" In the dish your fruit must lie, When you make your Cherry Pie. Cherry Pie! Cherry Pie! etc.

Cherry Pie! Cherry Pie! Pie! I cry, Full and fair ones mind you buy Whereabouts 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 it And 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 observation To 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 dish Which really deserves to be known, Though it's not the genteelest of fish. You must promise to come, for I said A 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 eat Such a treat Nearly 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 these Your 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 part Of 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 enough Of 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 shell Mix, 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 buys Fruit not worth the baking? Who wastes crust on pies That do not pay for making? Better far to be An Apple Tartlet buying, Than to make one at home, and see On it there's no relying: That all must be weigh'd, When thyself thou treatest— Still a pie home-made Is, after all, the sweetest.

Who a pie would make, First his apple slices; Then he ought to take Some cloves—the best of spices: Grate some lemon rind, Butter add discreetly; Then some sugar mix—but mind The pie's not made too sweetly. Every pie that's made With 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 tart A glass of port—old crusted If a man of taste, He, complete to make it, In the very finest paste Will 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 slice All of the fish that's nice, Place in the bowl with due neatness and order: Then hard-boil'd eggs you may Add in a neat array All 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 whether You 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 spoil Vinegar, eggs, and oil, Still to proceed would on lunacy border.

STEWED STEAK AIR—"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'd By 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 wrong To 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 wine A 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 mind Don'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 Green I 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 before The 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 sweet As that Trifle where custard and macaroons meet; Oh! the latest sweet tooth from my head must depart Ere 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 zest For 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 repine At 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 Water Take 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 be To prepare some Barley Water Cheerfully 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 her Polish'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 quarter Of pearl barley add. When 'tis boiling, let your daughter Skim from blacks to keep it free; Added to your Barley Water Lemon 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 quarter Add; 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 wish No 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 me Boil before the fire grows dimmer, Twenty minutes let it be In 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 combined Broccoli white, without a tarnish; 'Tis hard to tell if 'tis design'd For 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 Chicken Day 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 store That I can offer thee. A Duck, whose tender breast reveals Its early youth full well; And better still, a Pea that peels From 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 bring From 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, before You come to dine with me: The Duck is truss'd from head to heels, Then stew'd with butter well; And streaky bacon, which reveals A most delicious smell

When Duck and Bacon in a mass You 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 leaf Of ever-verdant bay, Two cloves—I make my language brief— Then add your Peas you may! And let it simmer till it sings In a delicious strain, Then take your Duck, nor let the strings For trussing it remain.

The parsley fail not to remove, Also the leaf of bay; Dish up your Duck—the sauce improve In 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.

CURRY.

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 pot A very gentle boil—and serves quite hot.

P.S. Beef, mutton, rabbit, if you wish; Lobsters, or prawns, or any kind of fish Are fit to make A CURRY. 'Tis, when done, A dish for emperors to feed upon.



THE RAILWAY GILPIN. PUNCH.

JOHN GILPIN is a citizen; For lineage of renown, The famed JOHN GILPIN'S grandson, he Abides in London town.

To our JOHN GILPIN said his dear, "Stewed up here as we've been Since Whitsuntide, 'tis time that we Should have a change of scene.

"To-morrew is a leisure day, And we'll by rail repair Unto the Nell at Dedmanton, And take a breath of air.

"My sister takes our eldest child; The youngest of our three Will go in arms, and so the ride Won't so expensive be."

JOHN soon replied, "I don't admire That railway, I, for one; But you know best, my dearest dear And 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 find That though on peril she was bent, She had a careful mind.

The morning came; a cab was sought: The proper time allow'd To 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, agog To swear through thick and thin.

"Yea!" went the throats; stamp went the heels Were 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 passengers Another train could find, When—stop! one ticket for the fares Was 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 bones With 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 pace Will 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, spied Her tender husband, striving much To 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 bit Arranged to tarry there, For why?—because 't was an Express, And did dispatches bear.

So, in a second, off it flew Again, and dashed along, As if the deuce't were going to, With motive impulse strong.

Away went GILPIN, on the breath Of puffing steam, until They 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 panes placed 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 adorn No 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 swayed To 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 serene The 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.