THE LEX TALIONIS UPON BENJAMIN WEST

West tells the world that Peter can not rhyme— Peter declares, point blank, that West can't paint. West swears I've not an atom of sublime— I swear he hath no notion of a saint;

And that his cross-wing'd cherubim are fowls, Baptized by naturalists, owls: Half of the meek apostles, gangs of robbers; His angels, sets of brazen-headed lubbers.

The Holy Scripture says, "All flesh is grass," With Mr. West, all flesh is brick and brass; Except his horse-flesh, that I fairly own Is often of the choicest Portland stone. I've said it too, that this artist's faces Ne'er paid a visit to the graces:

That on expression he can never brag: Yet for this article hath he been studying, But in it never could surpass a pudding- No, gentle reader, nor a pudding-bag.

I dare not say, that Mr. West Can not sound criticism impart: I'm told the man with technicals is blest, That he can talk a deal upon the art; Yes, he can talk, I do not doubt it— "About it, goddess, and about it."

Thus, then, is Mr. West deserving praise— And let my justice the fair laud afford; For, lo! this far-fam'd artist cuts both ways, Exactly like the angel Gabriel's sword; The beauties of the art his CONVERSE shows, His CANVAS almost ev'ry thing that's bad! Thus at th' Academy, we must suppose, A man more useful never could be had: Who in himself, a host, so much can do; Who is both precept and example too!

BARRY'S ATTACK UPON SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS

When Barry dares the President to fly on, 'Tis like a mouse, that, work'd into a rage Daring some dreadful war to wage, Nibbles the tail of the Nemaean lion.

Or like a louse, of mettle full, Nurs'd in some giant's skull— Because Goliath scratch'd him as he fed, Employs with vehemence his angry claws, And gaping, grinning, formidable jaws, To CARRY OFF the GIANT'S HEAD!

ON THE DEATH OP MR. HONE, R. A.

There's one R. A. more dead! stiff is poor Hone— His works be with him under the same stone: I think the sacred art will not bemoan 'em; But, Muse!—DE MORTUIS NIL NISI BONUM— As to his host, a TRAV'LER, with a sneer, Said of his DEAD SMALL-BEER. Go, then, poor Hone! and join a numerous train Sunk in OBLIVION'S wide pacific ocean; And may its WHALE-LIKE stomach feel no motion To cast thee, like a Jonah, up again.

ON GEORGE THE THIRD'S PATRONAGE OF BENJAMIN WEST.

Thus have I seen a child, with smiling face, A little daisy in the garden place, And strut in triumph round its fav'rite flow'r; Gaze on the leaves with infant admiration, Thinking the flow'r the finest in the nation, Then pay a visit to it ev'ry hour: Lugging the wat'ring-pot about, Which John the gard'ner was oblig'd to fill; The child, so pleas'd, would pour the water out, To show its marvelous gard'ning skill;

Then staring round, all wild for praises panting, Tell all the world it was its own sweet planting; And boast away, too happy elf, How that it found the daisy all itself!

ANOTHER ON THE SAME.

In SIMILE if I may shine agen- Thus have I seen a fond old hen With one poor miserable chick, Bustling about a farmer's yard; Now on the dunghill laboring hard, Scraping away through thin and thick, Flutt'ring her feathers—making such a noise! Cackling aloud such quantities of joys, As if this chick, to which her egg gave birth, Was born to deal prodigious knocks, To shine the Broughton of game cocks, And kill the fowls of all the earth!

EPITAPH ON PETER STAGGS.

Poor Peter Staggs, now rests beneath this rail, Who loved his joke, his pipe, and mug of ale; For twenty years he did the duties well, Of ostler, boots, and waiter at the "Bell." But Death stepp'd in, and order'd Peter Staggs To feed his worms, and leave the farmers' nags. The church clock struck one—alas! 't was Peter's knell, Who sigh'd, "I'm coming—that's the ostler's bell!"

TRAY'S EPITAPH.

Here rest the relics of a friend below, Blest with more sense than half the folks I know: Fond of his ease, and to no parties prone, He damn'd no sect, but calmly gnaw'd his bone; Perform'd his functions well in ev'ry way- Blush, CHRISTIANS, if you can, and copy Tray.

ON A STONE THROWN AT A VERY GREAT MAN, BUT WHICH MISSED HIM.

Talk no more of the lucky escape of the head From a flint so unluckily thrown- I think very different, with thousands indeed, 'T was a lucky escape for the stone.

[The following stanza, on the death of Lady Mount E—-'s favorite pig Cupid, is verily exceeded by nothing in the annals of impertinence.—P. P.]

A CONSOLATORY STANZA TO LADY MOUNT E—-, ON THE DEATH OF HER PIG CUPID.

O dry that tear, so round and big, Nor waste in sighs your precious wind! Death only takes a single pig— Your lord and son are still behind.



EPIGRAMS BY ROBERT BURNS.

THE POET'S CHOICE.

I murder hate, by field or flood, Though glory's name may screen us; In wars at hame I'll spend my blood, Life-giving wars of Venus.

The Jeities that I adore, Are social peace and plenty; I'm better pleased to make one more, Than be the death of twenty.

ON A CELEBRATED RULING ELDER.

Here souter Hood in death does sleep;— To h-ll, if he's gane thither, Satan, gie him thy gear to keep, He'll haud it weel thegither.

ON JOHN DOVE

INNKEEPER OF MAUCHLINE.

Here lies Johnny Pidgeon; What was his religion? Wha e'er desires to ken, To some other warl' Maun follow the carl, For here Johnny Pidgeon had nane!

Strong ale was ablution— Small beer, persecution, A dram was MEMENTO MORI: But a full flowing bowl Was the saving his soul, And port was celestial glory.

ON ANDREW TURNER.

In se'enteen hunder an' forty-nine, Satan took stuff to mak' a swine, And cuist it in a corner; But wilily he chang'd his plan, And shaped it something like a man. And ca'd it Andrew Turner.

ON A SCOTCH COXCOMB

Light lay the earth on Billy's breast, His chicken heart so tender; But build a castle on his head, His skull will prop it under.

ON GRIZZEL GRIM.

Here lies with death auld Grizzel Grim. Lineluden's ugly witch; O death, how horrid is thy taste, To lie with such a b——!

ON A WAG IN MAUCHLINE.

Lament him, Mauchline husbands a', He aften did assist ye; For had ye stayed whole years awa, Your wives they ne'er had missed ye. Ye Mauchline bairns, as on ye pass To school in bands thegither, O tread ye lightly on his grass— Perhaps he was your father.

EPITAPH ON W—-.

Stop, thief! dame Nature cried to Death, As Willie drew his latest breath; You have my choicest model ta'en; How shall I make a fool again?

ON A SUICIDE.

Earth'd up here lies an imp o' hell, Planted by Satan's dibble— Poor silly wretch, he's damn'd himsel' To save the Lord the trouble.



EPIGRAMS FROM THE GERMAN OF LESSING.

NIGER.

"He's gone at last—old Niger's dead!" Last night 'twas said throughout the city; Each quidnunc gravely shook his head, And HALF the town cried, "What a pity!"

The news proved false—'t was all a cheat— The morning came the fact denying; And ALL the town to-day repeat What HALF the town last night was crying.

A NICE POINT.

Say which enjoys the greater blisses, John, who Dorinda's picture kisses, Or Tom, his friend, the favor'd elf, Who kisses fair Dorinda's self? Faith, 'tis not easy to divine, While both are thus with raptures fainting, To which the balance should incline, Since Tom and John both kiss a painting. THE POINT DECIDED.

Nay, surely John's the happier of the twain, Because—the picture can not kiss again!

TRUE NOBILITY.

Young Stirps as any lord is proud, Vain, haughty, insolent, and loud, Games, drinks, and in the full career Of vice, may vie with any peer; Seduces daughters, wives, and mothers, Spends his own cash, and that of others, Pays like a lord—that is to say, He never condescends to pay, But bangs his creditor in requital— And yet this blockhead wants a title!

TO A LIAR.

Lie as long as you will, my fine fellow, believe me, Your rhodomontading will never deceive me; Though you took me in THEN, I confess, my good youth, When moved by caprice you once told me the truth.

MENDAX.

See yonder goes old Mendax, telling lies To that good easy man with whom he's walking; How know I that? you ask, with some surprise; Why, don't you see, my friend, the fellow's talking.

THE BAD-WIFE.

SAVANS have decided, that search the globe round, One only bad wife in the world can be found; The worst of it is, as her name is not known, Not a husband but swears that bad wife is his own.

THE DEAD MISER.

From the grave where dead Gripeall, the miser, reposes, What a villainous odor invades all our noses! It can't be his BODY alone—in the hole They have certainly buried the usurer's SOUL.

ON FELL.

While Fell was reposing himself on the hay, A reptile conceal'd bit his leg as he lay; But all venom himself, of the wound he made light, And got well, while the scorpion died of the bite.

THE BAD ORATOR.

So vile your grimace, and so croaking your speech, One scarcely can tell if you're laughing or crying; Were you fix'd on one's funeral sermon to preach, The bare apprehension would keep one from dying.

THE WISE CHILD.

How plain your little darling says "Mamma," But still she calls you "Doctor," not "Papa." One thing is clear: your conscientious rib Has not yet taught the pretty dear to fib.

SPECIMEN OF THE LACONIC.

"Be less prolix," says Grill. I like advice— "Grill, you're an ass!" Now surely that's concise.

CUPID AND MERCURY, OR THE BARGAIN.

Sly Cupid late with Maia's son Agreed to live as friend and brother; In proof, his bow and shafts the one Chang'd for the well-fill'd purse of t'other. And now, the transfer duly made, Together through the world they rove; The thieving god in arms array'd, And gold the panoply of love!

FRITZ.

Quoth gallant Fritz, "I ran away To fight again another day." The meaning of his speech is plain, He only fled to fly again.

ON DORILIS.

That Dorilis thus, on her lap as he lies, Should kiss little Pompey, excites no surprise; But the lapdog whom thus she keeps fondling and praising, Licks her face in return—that I own is amazing!

TO A SLOW WALKER AND QUICK EATER.

So slowly you walk, and so quickly you eat, You should march with your mouth, and devour with your feet.

ON TWO BEAUTIFUL ONE-EYED SISTERS

Give up one eye, and make your sister's two, Venus she then would be, and Cupid you.

THE PER-CONTRA, OR MATRIMONIAL BALANCE

How strange, a deaf wife to prefer! True, but she's also dumb, good sir.



EPIGRAMS S. T. COLERIDGE.

AN EXPECTORATION, Or Spienetic Extempore, on my joyful departure from the city of Cologne.

As I am rhymer, And now, at least, a merry one, Mr. Mum's Eudesheimer, And the church of St. Geryon, Are the two things alone, That deserve to be known, In the body-and-soul-stinking town of Cologne.

EXPECTORATION THE SECOND.

In Clon, the town of monks and bones, And pavements fanged with murderous stones, And rags, and hags, and hideous wenches, I counted two-and-seventy stenches, All well defined and separate stinks! Ye nymphs that reign o'er sewers and sinks, The river Rhine, it is well known, Doth wash your city of Cologne. But tell me, nymphs, what power divine Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine?

TO A LADY, Offended by a sportive observation that women have no souls.

Nay, dearest Anna, why so grave? I said you had no soul,'tis true, For what you ARE you can not HAVE; 'Tis I that have one since I first had you.

AVARO. [STOLEN FROM LESSING.]

There comes from old Avaro's grave A deadly stench—why sure they have Immured his SOUL within his grave.

BEELZEBUB AND JOB.

Sly Beelzebub took all occasions To try Job's constancy and patience. He took his honor, took his health, He took his children, took his wealth, His servants, oxen, horses, cows— But cunning Satan did not take his spouse.

But Heaven, that brings out good from evil, And loves to disappoint the devil, Had predetermined to restore Twofold all he had before; His servants, horses, oxen, cows— Short-sighted devil, not to take his spouse!

SENTIMENTAL.

The rose that blushes like the morn, Bedecks the valleys low: And so dost thou, sweet infant corn, My Angelina's toe.

But on the rose there grows a thorn, That breeds disastrous woe: And so dost thou, remorseless corn, On Angelina's toe.

AN ETERNAL POEM.

Your poem must ETERNAL be, Dear sir, it can not fail, For 'tis incomprehensible, And wants both head and tail.

BAD POETS.

Swans sing before they die—'t were no bad thing; Did certain persons die before they sing.



TO MR. ALEXANDRE, THE VENTRILOQUIST. SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Of yore, in Old England, it was not thought good, To carry two visages under one hood: What should folks say to YOU? who have faces so plenty, That from under one hood you last night showed us twenty! Stand forth, arch deceiver, and tell us in truth, Are you handsome or ugly, in age or in youth? Man, woman or child—a dog or a mouse? Or are you, at once, each live thing in the house? Each live thing did I ask?—each dead implement too, A workshop in your person—saw, chisel, and screw! Above all, are you one individual?—I know You must be, at least, Alexandre and Co. But I think you're a troop, an assemblage, a mob, And that I, as the sheriff, should take up the job: And, instead of rehearsing your wonders in verse, Must read you the riot-act, and bid you disperse!



THE SWALLOWS. R. BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. The Prince of Wales came into Brooke's one day, and complained of cold, but after drinking three glasses of brandy and water, said he felt comfortable.

The prince came in and said't was cold, Then put to his head the rummer, Till SWALLOW after SWALLOW came, When he pronounced it summer.



FRENCH AND ENGLISH. ERSKINE

The French have taste in all they do, Which we are quite without; For Nature, that to them gave GOUT To us gave only gout.



EPIGRAMS BY THOMAS MOORE.

TO SIR HUDSON LOWE.

Sir Hudson Lowe, Sir Hudson LOW (By name, and ah! by nature so), As thou art fond of persecutions, Perhaps thou'st read, or heard repeated, How Captain Gulliver was treated, When thrown among the Lilliputians.

They tied him down-these little men did— And having valiantly ascended Upon the Mighty Man's protuberance, They did so strut!—upon my soul, It must have been extremely droll To see their pigmy pride's exuberance!

And how the doughty mannikins Amused themselves with sticking pins And needles in the great man's breeches; And how some VERY little things, That pass'd for Lords, on scaffoldings Got up and worried him with speeches.

Alas! alas! that it should happen To mighty men to be caught napping!— Though different, too, these persecutions For Gulliver, THERE, took the nap, While, HERE, the NAP, oh sad mishap, Is taken by the Lilliputians!

DIALOGUE BETWEEN A CATHOLIC DELEGATE AND HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS DUKE OF CUMBERLAND.

Said his Highness to NED, with that grim face of his, "Why refuse us the VETO, dear Catholic NEDDY?"— "Because, sir" said NED, looking full in his phiz, "You're FORBIDDING enough, in all conscience, already!"

TO MISS ——-

With woman's form and woman's tricks So much of man you seem to mix, One knows not where to take you; I pray you, if 'tis not too far, Go, ask of Nature WHICH you are, Or what she meant to make you.

Yet stay—you need not take the pains With neither beauty, youth, nor brains, For man or maid's desiring: Pert as female, fool as male, As boy too green, as girl too stale The thing's not worth inquiring!

TO ——-

Die when you will, you need not wear At heaven's court a form more fair Than Beauty here on earth has given; Keep but the lovely looks we see The voice we hear and you will be An angel READY-MADE for heaven!

UPON BEING OBLIGED TO LEAVE A PLEASANT PARTY FROM THE WANT OF A PAIR OF BREECHES TO DRESS FOR DINNER IN.

Between Adam and me the great difference is, Though a paradise each has been forced to resign, That he never wore breeches till turn'd out of his, While, for want of my breeches, I'm banish'd from mine

WHAT'S MY THOUGHT LIKE?

QUEST.-Why is a Pump like Viscount CASTLEREAGH? ANSW.-Because it is a slender thing of wood, That up and down its awkward arm doth sway, And coolly spout, and spout, and spout away, In one weak, washy, everlasting flood!

FROM THE FRENCH.

Of all the men one meets about, There's none like Jack—he's everywhere: At church—park—auction—dinner—rout— Go when and where you will, he's there. Try the West End, he's at your back— Meets you, like Eurus, in the East— You're call'd upon for "How do, Jack?" One hundred times a-day, at least. A friend of his one evening said, As home he took his pensive way, "Upon my soul, I fear Jack's dead— I've seen him but three times to-day!"

A JOKE VERSIFIED.

"Come, come," said Tom's father, "at your time of life, There's no longer excuse for thus playing the rake— It is time you should think, boy, of taking a wife."— "Why, so it is, father—whose wife shall I take?"

THE SURPRISE.

Doloris, I swear, by all I ever swore, That from this hour I shall not love thee more.— "What! love no more? Oh! why this alter'd vow? Because I CAN NOT love thee MORE—than NOW!"

ON ——.

Like a snuffers, this loving old dame, By a destiny grievous enough, Though so oft she has snapp'd at the flame, Hath never more than the snuff.

ON A SQUINTING POETESS.

To no ONE Muse does she her glance confine, But has an eye, at once to ALL THE NINE!

ON A TUET-HUNTER.

Lament, lament, Sir Isaac Heard, Put mourning round thy page, Debrett, For here lies one, who ne'er preferr'd A Viscount to a Marquis yet.

Beside his place the God of Wit, Before him Beauty's rosiest girls, Apollo for a STAR he'd quit, And Love's own sister for an Earl's.

Did niggard fate no peers afford, He took, of course, to peers' relations; And, rather than not sport a lord, Put up with even the last creations.

Even Irish names, could he but tag 'em With "Lord" and "Duke," were sweet to call, And, at a pinch, Lord Ballyraggum Was better than no Lord at all.

Heaven grant him now some noble nook, For, rest his soul, he'd rather be Genteelly damn'd beside a Duke, Than saved in vulgar company.

THE KISS.

Give me, my love, that billing kiss I taught you one delicious night, When, turning epicures in bliss, We tried inventions of delight.

Come, gently steal my lips along, And let your lips in murmurs move Ah, no!—again—that kiss was wrong How can you be so dull, my love?

"Cease, cease!" the blushing girl replied And in her milky arms she caught me "How can you thus your pupil chide; You know 'T WAS IN THE DARK you taught me!"

EPITAPH ON A WELL-KNOWN POET—(ROBERT SOUTHEY.)

Beneath these poppies buried deep, The bones of Bob the bard lie hid; Peace to his manes; and may he sleep As soundly as his readers did!

Through every sort of verse meandering, Bob went without a hitch or fall, Through Epic, Sapphic, Alexandrine, To verse that was no verse at all;

Till fiction having done enough, To make a bard at least absurd, And give his readers QUANTUM SUFF., He took to praising George the Third: And now, in virtue of his crown, Dooms us, poor whigs, at once to slaughter, Like Donellan of bad renown, Poisoning us all with laurel-water.

And yet at times some awkward qualms he Felt about leaving honor's track; And though he's got a butt of Malmsey, It may not save him from a sack.

Death, weary of so dull a writer, Put to his works a FINIS thus. Oh! may the earth on him lie lighter Than did his quartos upon us!

WRITTEN IN A YOUNG LADY'S COMMON-PLACE BOOK, Called the "Book of Follies."

This journal of folly's an emblem of me; But what book shall we find emblematic of thee? Oh! shall we not say thou art LOVE'S DUODECIMO? None can be prettier, few can be less, you know. Such a volume in SHEETS were a volume of charms; Or if BOUND, it should only be BOUND IN OUR ARMS!

THE RABBINICAL ORIGIN OF WOMEN.

They tell us that Woman was made of a rib Just pick'd from a corner so snug in the side; But the Rabbins swear to you that this is a fib, And 't was not so at all that the sex was supplied.

For old Adam was fashion'd, the first of his kind, With a tail like a monkey, full a yard and a span; And when Nature cut off this appendage behind, Why—then woman was made of the tail of the man.

If such is the tie between women and men, The ninny who weds is a pitiful elf; For he takes to his tail, like an idiot, again, And makes a most damnable ape of himself!

Yet, if we may judge as the fashions prevail, Every husband remembers the original plan, And, knowing his wife is no more than his tail, Why—he leaves her behind him as much as he can.

ANACREONTIQUE.

Press the grape, and let it pour Around the board its purple shower; And while the drops my goblet steep, I'll think—in WOE the clusters weep.

Weep on, weep on, my pouting vine! Heaven grant no tears but tears of wine. Weep on; and, as thy sorrows flow, I'll taste the LUXURY OF WOE!

SPECULATION.

Of all speculations the market holds forth, The best that I know for a lover of pelf, Is to buy —- up at the price he is worth, And then sell him at that which he sets on himself.



ON BUTLER'S MONUMENT. REV. SAMUEL WESLEY.

While Butler, needy wretch, was yet alive, No generous patron would a dinner give. See him, when starved to death and turn'd to dust, Presented with a monumental bust. The poet's fate is here in emblem shown— He ask'd for BREAD, and he received a STONE.



ON THE DISAPPOINTMENT OF THE WHIG ASSOCIATES OP THE PRINCE REGENT, AT NOT OBTAINING OFFICE. CHARLES LAMB.

Ye politicians, tell me, pray, Why thus with woe and care rent? This is the worst that you can say, Some wind has blown the wig away, And left the HAIR APPARENT.



TO PROFESSOR AIREY, On his marrying a beautiful woman. SIDNEY SMITH

Airey alone has gained that double prize, Which forced musicians to divide the crown; His works have raised a mortal to the skies, His marriage-vows have drawn a mortal down.



ON LORD DUDLEY AND WARD. SAMUEL ROGERS

"They say Ward has no heart, but I deny it; He has a heart—and gets his speeches by it."



EPIGRAMS OF LORD BYRON.

TO THE AUTHOR OF A SONNET BEGINNING "'SAD IS MY VERSE,' YOU SAY, 'AND YET NO TEAR.'"

Thy verse is "sad" enough, no doubt, A devilish deal more sad than witty! Why should we weep, I can't find out, Unless for THEE we weep in pity.

Yet there is one I pity more, And much, alas! I think he needs it— For he, I'm sure, will suffer sore, Who, to his own misfortune, reads it.

The rhymes, without the aid of magic, May ONCE be read—but never after; Yet their effect's by no means tragic, Although by far too dull for laughter.

But would you make our bosoms bleed, And of no common pang complain? If you would make us weep indeed, Tell us you'll read them o'er again.

WINDSOR POETICS.

On the Prince Regent being seen standing between the coffins of Henry VIII. and Charles I, in the royal vault at Windsor.

Famed for contemptuous breach of sacred ties, By headless Charles see heartless Henry lies; Between them stands another sceptered thing— It moves, it reigns—in all but name, a king; Charles to his people, Henry to his wife, —In him the double tyrant starts to life; Justice and death have mixed their dust in vain, Each royal vampyre wakes to life again. Ah! what can tombs avail, since these disgorge The blood and dust of both to mold a George?

ON A CARRIER WHO DIED OF DRUNKENNESS.

John Adams lies here, of the parish of Southwell, A carrier who carried his can to his mouth well; He carried so much, and he carried so fast, He could carry no more—so was carried at last; For the liquor he drank, being too much for one, He could not carry off—so he's now carriON.



EPIGRAMS OF BARHAM.

ON THE WINDOWS OF KING'S COLLEGE REMAINING BOARDED.

Loquitur Discipulus Esuriens.

Professors, in your plan there seems A something not quite right: 'Tis queer to cherish learning's beams By shutting out the light.

While thus we see your windows block'd, If nobody complains; Yet everybody must be shock'd, To see you don't take pains.

And tell me why should bodily Succumb to mental meat? Or why should Pi-ra, Beta Pi-ra, Pi-c, Be all the pie we eat?

No HELLUO LIBRORUM I, No literary glutton, Would veal with Virgil like to try, With metaphysics, mutton.

Leave us no longer in the lurch, With Romans, Greeks, and Hindoos: But give us beef instead of birch, And BOARD US—not your windows.

NEW-MADE HONOR. [IMITATED FROM MARTIAL.]

A friend I met, some half hour since— "GOOD-MORROW JACK!" quoth I; The new-made Knight, like any Prince, Frown'd, nodded, and pass'd by; When up came Jem—"Sir John, your slave!" "Ah, James; we dine at eight— Fail not—(low bows the supple knave) Don't make my lady wait." The king can do no wrong? As I'm a sinner, He's spoilt an honest tradesman and my dinner.

EHEU FUGACES.

What Horace says is, Eheu fugaces Anni labunter, Postume, Postume! Years glide away, and are lost to me, lost to me I Now, when the folks in the dance sport their merry toes, Taglionis, and Ellslers, Duvernays and Ceritos, Sighing, I murmur, "O mihi praeteritos !"



ANONYMOUS EPIGRAMS

ON A PALE LADY WITH A RED-NOSED HUSBAND.

Whence comes it that, in Clara's face, The lily only has its place? Is it because the absent rose Has gone to paint her husband's nose?

UPON POPE'S TRANSLATION OF HOMER

So much, dear Pope, thy English Homer charms, As pity melts us, or as passion warms, That after ages will with wonder seek Who 'twas translated Homer into Greek.

RECIPE FOR A MODERN BONNET.

Two scraps of foundation, some fragments of lace, A shower of French rose-buds to droop o'er the face; Fine ribbons and feathers, with crage and illusions, Then mix and DErange them in graceful confusion; Inveigle some fairy, out roaming for pleasure, And beg the slight favor of taking her measure, The length and the breadth of her dear little pate, And hasten a miniature frame to create; Then pour, as above, the bright mixture upon it, And lo! you possess "such a love of a bonnet!"

MY WIFE AND I

As my wife and I, at the window one day, Stood watching a man with a monkey, A cart came by, with a "broth of a boy," Who was driving a stout little donkey. To my wife I then spoke, by way of a joke, "There's a relation of yours in that carriage." To which she replied, as the donkey she spied, "Ah, yes, a relation—BY MARRIAGE!"

ON TWO GENTLEMEN,

One of whom, O'Connell, delayed a duel on the plea of his wife's illness; the other declined on account of the illness of his daughter.

Some men, with a horror of slaughter, Improve on the Scripture command, And honor their wife and their daughter, That their days may be long in the land.

WELLINGTON'S NOSE.

"Pray, why does the great Captain's nose Resemble Venice?" Duncomb cries. "Why," quoth Sam Rogers, "I suppose. Because it has a bridge of size (sighs)."

THE SMOKER.

All dainty meats I do defy Which feed men fat as swine, He is a frugal man indeed That on a leaf can dine! He needs no napkin for his hands, His finger's ends to wipe, That keeps his kitchen in a box, And roast meat in his pipe!

AN ESSAY ON THE UNDERSTANDING.

"Harry, I can not think," says Dick, "What makes my ANKLES grow so thick:" "You do not recollect," says Harry, "How great a CALF they have to carry."

TO A LIVING AUTHOR.

Your comedy I've read, my friend, And like the half you pilfer'd best; But sure the piece you yet may mend: Take courage, man! and steal the rest.



EPIGRAMS BY THOMAS HOOD.

ON THE ART-UNIONS.

That picture-raffles will conduce to nourish Design, or cause good coloring to flourish, Admits of logic-chopping and wise sawing, But surely lotteries encourage drawing.

THE SUPERIORITY OF MACHINERY.

A mechanic his labor will often discard If the rate of his pay he dislikes: But a clock—and its case is uncommonly hard— Will continue to work though it STRIKES.



EPIGRAMS BY W. SAVAGE LANDOR

ON OBSERVING A VULGAR NAME ON THE PLINTH OF AN ANCIENT STATUE.

Barbarians must we always be? Wild hunters in pursuit of fame? Must there be nowhere stone or tree Ungashed with some ignoble name. O Venus! in thy Tuscan dome May every god watch over thee! Apollo I bend thy bow o'er Rome, And guard thy sister's chastity. Let Britons paint their bodies blue As formerly, but touch not you.

LYING IN STATE.

Now from the chamber all are gone Who gazed and wept o'er Wellington; Derby and Dis do all they can To emulate so great a man: If neither can be quite so great, Resolved is each to LIE IN STATE.



EPIGRAMS FROM PUNCH.

THE CAUSE.

Lisette has lost her wanton wiles— What secret care consumes her youth, And circumscribes her smiles?— A SPECK ON A FRONT TOOTH?

IRISH PARTICULAR.

Shiel's oratory's like bottled Dublin stout— For, draw the cork, and only froth comes out.

ONE GOOD TURN DESERVES ANOTHER

A poor man went to hang himself, But treasure chanced to find: He pocketed the miser's pelf And left the rope behind.

His money gone, the miser hung Himself in sheer despair: Thus each the other's wants supplied, And that was surely fair.

STICKY.

I'm going to seal a letter, Dick, Some WAX pray give to me. I have not got a SINGLE STICK, Or WHACKS I'd give to thee.

THE POET FOILED.

To win the maid the poet tries, And sometimes writes to Julia's eye She likes a VERSE—but, cruel whim, She still appears A-VERSE to him.

BLACK AND WHITE

The Tories vow the Whigs are black as night, And boast that they are only blessed with light. Peel's politics to both sides so incline, His may be called the EQUINOCTIAL LINE.

INQUEST—NOT EXTRAORDINARY.

Great Bulwer's works fell on Miss Basbleu's head, And, in a moment, lo! the maid was dead! A jury sat, and found the verdict plain— She died of MILK and WATER ON THE BRAIN.

DOMESTIC ECONOMY.

Said Stiggins to his wife, one day, "We've nothing left to eat; If things go on in this queer way, We shan't make BOTH ENDS MEET."

The dame replied, in words discreet, "We're not so badly fed, If we can make but ONE end MEAT, And make the other BREAD."

ON SEEING AN EXECUTION.

One morn, two friends before the Newgate drop, To see a culprit throttled, chanced to stop: "Alas!" cried one, as round in air he spun, "That miserable wretch's RACE IS RUN." "True," said the other, drily, "to his cost, The race is run—but, by a NECK 'tis lost."

A VOICE, AND NOTHING ELSE.

"I wonder if Brougham thinks as much as he talks," Said a punster, perusing a trial: "I vow, since his lordship was made Baron Vaux, He's been VAUX ET PRAETEREA NIHIL!"

THE AMENDE HONORABLE.

Quoth Will, "On that young servant-maid My heart its life-string stakes." "Quite safe!" cries Dick, "don't be afraid— She pays for all she breaks."

THE CZAR.

CZAR NICHOLAS is so devout, they say, His majesty does nothing else than prey.

BAS BLEU.

Ma'amselle Bas Bleu, erudite virgin, With learned zeal is ever urging The love and reverence due From modern men to things antique, Egyptian, British, Roman, Greek, Relic of Gaul or Jew.

No wonder that, Ma'amselle, the love Due to antiquity to prove And urge is ever prone; She knows where'er there cease to be Admirers of Antiquity, She needs must lose her own!

TO A RICH YOUNG WIDOW.

I will not ask if thou canst touch The tuneful ivory key? Those silent notes of thine are such As quite suffice for me.

I'll make no question if thy skill The pencil comprehends, Enough for me, love, if thou still Canst draw thy dividends!

THE RAILWAY OP LIFE.

Short was the passage through this earthly vale, By turnpike roads when mortals used to wend; But now we travel by the way of rail, As soon again we reach the journey's end.

A CONJUGAL CONUNDRUM.

Which is of greater value, prythee, say, The Bride or Bridegroom?—must the truth be told? Alas, it must! The Bride is given away— The Bridegroom's often regularly sold.

NUMBERS ALTERED.

The lounger must oft, as he walks through the streets, Be struck with the grace of some girl that he meets; So graceful behind in dress—ringlets—all that— But one gaze at the front—what a horrid old cat! You then think of the notice you've seen on a door, Which informs you, of "70 late 24."

GRAMMAR FOR THE COURT OF BERLIN

His majesty you should not say of FRITZ, That king is neuter; so for HIS, use ITS.



THE EMPTY BOTTLE. WILLIAM AYTOUN

Ah, liberty! how like thou art To this large bottle lying here, Which yesterday from foreign mart, Came filled with potent English beer!

A touch of steel—a hand—a gush— A pop that sounded far and near— A wild emotion—liquid rush— And I had drunk that English beer!

And what remains?—An empty shell! A lifeless form both sad and queer, A temple where no god doth dwell— The simple memory of beer!



THE DEATH OF DOCTOR MORRISON. BENTLEY'S MISCELLANY.

What's the news?—Why, they say Death has killed Dr. Morrison. The Pill-maker? Yes. Then Death will be sorry soon.



EPIGRAMS BY JOHN G. SAXE.

ON A RECENT CLASSIC CONTROVERSY.

Nay, marvel not to see these scholars fight, In brave disdain of certain scath and scar; 'Tis but the genuine, old, Hellenic spite,— "When Greek meets Greek, then comes the tug of war!"

ANOTHER.

Quoth David to Daniel—"Why is it these scholars Abuse one another whenever they speak?" Quoth Daniel to David—"it nat'rally follers Folks come to hard words if they meddle with Greek!"

ON AN ILL-READ LAWYER.

An idle attorney besought a brother For "something to read—some novel or other, That was really fresh and new." "Take Chitty!" replied his legal friend, "There isn't a book that I could lend Would prove more 'novel' to you!"

ON AN UGLY PERSON SITTING FOR A DAGUERREOTYPE

Here Nature in her glass—the wanton elf— Sits gravely making faces at herself; And while she scans each clumsy feature o'er, Repeats the blunders that she made before!

WOMAN'S WILL.

Men dying make their wills—but wives Escape a work so sad; Why should they make what all their lives The gentle dames have had?

FAMILY QUARRELS.

"A fool," said Jeanette, "is a creature I hate!" "But hating," quoth John, "is immoral; Besides, my dear girl, it's a terrible fate To be found in a family quarrel!"



A REVOLUTIONARY HERO. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

Old Joe is gone, who saw hot Percy goad His slow artillery up the Concord road, A tale which grew in wonder year by year; As every time he told it, Joe drew near To the main fight, till faded and grown gray, The original scene to bolder tints gave way; Then Joe had heard the foe's scared double-quick Beat on stove drum with one uncaptured stick, And, ere death came the lengthening tale to lop, Himself had fired, and seen a red-coat drop; Had Joe lived long enough, that scrambling fight Had squared more nearly to his sense of right, And vanquished Perry, to complete the tale, Had hammered stone for life in Concord jail.



EPIGRAMS OF HALPIN

THE LAST RESORT.

A dramatist declared he had got So many people in his plot, That what to do with half he had Was like to drive him drama-mad! "The hero and the heroine Of course are married—very fine! But with the others, what to do Is more than I can tell—can you?" His friend replied—"'Tis hard to say, But yet I think there is a way. The married couple, thank their stars And half the 'others' take the cars, The other half you put on board An Erie steamboat—take my word, They'll never trouble you again!" The dramatist resumed his pen.

FEMININE ARITHMETIC.

LAURA.

On me he shall ne'er put a ring, So, mamma, 'tis in vain to take trouble— For I was but eighteen in spring, While his age exactly is double.

MAMMA

He's but in his thirty-sixth year, Tall, handsome, good-natured and witty, And should you refuse him, my dear, May you die an old maid without pity!

LAURA

His figure, I grant you, will pass, And at present he's young enough plenty; But when I am sixty, alas! Will not he be a hundred and twenty?

THE MUSHROOM HUNT.

In early days, ere Common Sense And Genius had in anger parted, They made to friendship some pretense, Though each, Heaven knows! diversely hearted. To hunt for mushrooms once they went, Through nibbled sheepwalks straying onward, Sense with his dull eyes earthward bent, While Genius shot his glances sunward! Away they go! On roll the hours, And toward the west the day-god edges; See! Genius holds a wreath of flowers, Fresh culled from all the neighboring hedges! Alas! ere eve their bright hues flit, While Common Sense (whom I so doat on!) Thanked God "that he had little wit," And drank his ketchup with his mutton.



JUPITER AMANS. DEDICATED TO VICTOR HUGO. LONDON LEADER

"Le petit" call not him who by one act Has turned old fable into modern fact Nap Louis courted Europe: Europe shied: Th' imperial purple was too newly dyed. "I'll have her though," thought he, "by rape or rapine; Jove nods sometimes, but catch a Nap a napping! And now I think of Jove, 't was Jove's own fix, And so I'll borrow one of Jove's own tricks: Old itching Palm I'll tickle with a joke, And he shall lend me England's decent cloak." 'Twas said and done, and his success was full; He won Europa with the guise of Bull!



THE ORATOR'S EPITAPH. LORD BROUGHAM.

"Here, reader, turn your weeping eyes, My fate a useful moral teaches; The hole in which my body lies Would not contain one-half my speeches."



ECCENTRIC AND NONDESCRIPT.



THE JOVIAL PRIEST'S CONFESSION. TRANSLATED FROM THE LATIN OF WALTER DE MAPES, TIME OF HENRY II. LEIGH HUNT.

I devise to end my days—in a tavern drinking, May some Christian hold for me—the glass when I am shrinking. That the cherubim may cry—when they see me sinking, God be merciful to a soul—of this gentleman's way of thinking. A glass of wine amazingly—enlighteneth one's intervals; 'Tis wings bedewed with nectar—that fly up to supernals; Bottles cracked in taverns—have much the sweeter kernels, Than the sups allowed to us—in the college journals.

Every one by nature hath—a mold which he was cast in; I happen to be one of those—who never could write fasting; By a single little boy—I should be surpass'd in Writing so: I'd just as lief—be buried; tomb'd and grass'd in.

Every one by nature hath—a gift too, a dotation: I, when I make verses—do get the inspiration Of the very best of wine—that comes into the nation: It maketh sermons to astound—for edification.

Just as liquor floeth good—floweth forth my lay so; But I must moreover eat—or I could not say so; Naught it availeth inwardly—should I write all day so; But with God's grace after meat—I beat Ovidius Naso.

Neither is there given to me—prophetic animation, Unless when I have eat and drank—yea, ev'n to saturation, Then in my upper story—hath Bacchus domination And Phoebus rushes into me, and beggareth all relation.



TONIS AD RESTO MARE. ANONYMOUS

AIR—"Oh, Mary, heave a sigh for me."

O MARE aeva si forme; Forme ure tonitru; Iambicum as amandum, Olet Hymen promptu; Mihi is vetas an ne se, As humano erebi; Olet mecum marito te, Or eta beta pi.

Alas, plano more meretrix, Mi ardor vel uno; Inferiam ure artis base, Tolerat me urebo. Ah me ve ara silicet, Vi laudu vimin thus? Hiatu as arandum sex— Illuc Ionicus.

Heu sed heu vix en imago, My missis mare sta; O cantu redit in mihi Hibernas arida? A veri vafer heri si, Mihi resolves indu: Totius olet Hymen cum— Accepta tonitru.



DIC. DEAN SWIFT.

Dic, heris agro at, an da quar to fine ale, Fora ringat ure nos, an da stringat ure tale. [Footnote: Dick, here is a groat, a quart o' fine ale. For a ring at your nose, and a string at your tail.]



MOLL. DEAN SWIFT.

Mollis abuti, Has an acuti, No lasso finis, Molli divinis. [Footnote: Moll is a beauty, Has an acute eye; No lass so fine is, Molly divine is.]



TO MY MISTRESS. DEAN SWIFT.

O mi de armis tres, Imi na dis tres. Cantu disco ver Meas alo ver? [Footnote: O my dear mistress I am in a distress. Can't you discover Me as a lover?]



A LOVE SONG. DEAN SWIFT.

Apud in is almi de si re, Mimis tres I ne ver re qui re, Alo veri findit a gestis, His miseri ne ver at restis. [Footnote: A pudding is all my desire, My mistress I never require; A lover I find it a jest is, His misery never at rest is.]



A GENTLE ECHO ON WOMAN.

IN THE DORIC MANNER. DEAN SWIFT.

Shepherd. Echo, I ween, will in the woods reply, And quaintly answer questions: shall I try? Echo. Try. Shepherd. What must we do our passion to express? Echo. Press. Shepherd. How shall I please her, who ne'er loved before? Echo. Before. Shepherd. What most moves women when we them address? Echo. A dress. Shepherd. Say, what can keep her chaste whom I adore? Echo. A door. Shepherd. If music softens rocks, love tunes my lyre. Echo. Liar. Shepherd. Then teach me, Echo, how shall I come by her? Echo. Buy her. Shepherd. When bought, no question I shall be her dear? Echo. Her deer. Shepherd. But deer have horns: how must I keep her under? Echo. Keep her under. Shepherd. But what can glad me when she's laid on bier? Echo. Beer. Shepherd. What must I do when women will be kind? Echo. Be kind. Shepherd. What must I do when women will be cross? Echo. Be cross. Shepherd. Lord, what is she that can so turn and wind? Echo. Wind. Shepherd. If she be wind, what stills her when she blows? Echo. Blows. Shepherd. But if she bang again, still should I bang her? Echo. Bang her. Shepherd. Is there no way to moderate her anger? Echo. Hang her. Shepherd. Thanks, gentle Echo! right thy answers tell What woman is and how to guard her well. Echo. Guard her well.



TO MY NOSE. ANONYMOUS.

Knows he that never took a pinch, Nosey! the pleasure thence which flows? Knows he the titillating joy Which my nose knows?

Oh, nose! I am as fond of thee As any mountain of its snows! I gaze on thee, and feel that pride A Roman knows!



ROGER AND DOLLY. BLACKWOOD.

Young Roger came tapping at Dolly's window— Thumpaty, thumpaty, thump; He begg'd for admittance—she answered him no— Glumpaty, glumpaty, glump. No, no, Roger, no—as you came you may go— Stumpaty, stumpaty, stump. O what is the reason, dear Dolly? he cried— Humpaty, humpaty, hump— That thus I'm cast off and unkindly denied?— Trumpaty, trumpaty, trump— Some rival more dear, I guess, has been here— Crumpaty, crumpaty, crump— Suppose there's been two, sir, pray what's that to you, sir Numpaty, numpaty, nump— Wi' a disconsolate look his sad farewell he took— Trumpaty, trumputy, trump— And all in despair jump'd into a brook— Jumpaty, jumpaty, jump— His courage did cool in a filthy green pool— Slumpaty, slumpaty, slump— So he swam to the shore, but saw Dolly no more— Dumpaty, dumpaty, dump— He did speedily find one more fat and more kind— Plumpaty, plumpaty, plump— But poor Dolly's afraid she must die an old maid— Mumpaty, mumpaty, mump.



THE IRISHMAN. BLACKWOOD.

I.

There was a lady lived at Leith, A lady very stylish, man, And yet, in spite of all her teeth, She fell in love with an Irishman, A nasty, ugly Irishman, A wild tremendous Irishman, A tearing, swearing, thumping, bumping, ranting, roaring Irishman.

II.

His face was no ways beautiful, For with small-pox 't was scarred across: And the shoulders of the ugly dog Were almost doubled a yard across. O the lump of an Irishman, The whiskey devouring Irishman— The great he-rogue with his wonderful brogue, the fighting, rioting Irishman.

III.

One of his eyes was bottle green, And the other eye was out, my dear; And the calves of his wicked-looking legs Were more than two feet about, my dear, O, the great big Irishman, The rattling, battling Irishman— The stamping, ramping, swaggering, staggering, leathering swash of an Irishman.

IV.

He took so much of Lundy-foot, That he used to snort and snuffle—O, And in shape and size the fellow's neck Was as bad as the neck of a buffalo. O, the horrible Irishman, The thundering, blundering Irishman— The slashing, dashing, smashing, lashing, thrashing, hashing Irishman.

V.

His name was a terrible name, indeed, Being Timothy Thady Mulligan; And whenever he emptied his tumbler of punch, He'd not rest till he fill'd it full again, The boozing, bruising Irishman, The 'toxicated Irishman— The whiskey, frisky, rummy, gummy, brandy, no dandy Irishman.

VI.

This was the lad the lady loved, Like all the girls of quality; And he broke the skulls of the men of Leith, Just by the way of jollity, O, the leathering Irishman, The barbarous, savage Irishman— The hearts of the maids and the gentlemen's heads were bothered I'm sure by this Irishman.



A CATALECTIC MONODY! CRUIKSHANK'S OMNIBUS.

A CAT I sing, of famous memory, Though CATachrestical my song may be; In a small garden CATacomb she lies, And CATaclysms fill her comrades' eyes; Borne on the air, the CATacoustic song Swells with her virtues' CATalogue along; No CATaplasm could lengthen out her years, Though mourning friends shed CATaracts of tears. Once loud and strong her CATachist-like voice It dwindled to a CATcall's squeaking noise; Most CATegorical her virtues shone, By CATenation join'd each one to one;— But a vile CATchpoll dog, with cruel bite, Like CATling's cut, her strength disabled quite; Her CATerwauling pierced the heavy air, As CATaphracts their arms through legions bear; 'Tis vain! as CATerpillars drag away Their lengths, like CATtle after busy day, She ling'ring died, nor left in kit KAT the Embodyment of this CATastrophe.



A NEW SONG OF NEW SIMILES. JOHN BAY

My passion is as mustard strong; I sit all sober sad; Drunk as a piper all day long, Or like a March-hare mad.

Round as a hoop the bumpers flow; I drink, yet can't forget her; For though as drunk as David's sow I love her still the better.

Pert as a pear-monger I'd be, If Molly were but kind; Cool as a cucumber could see The rest of womankind.

Like a stuck pig I gaping stare, And eye her o'er and o'er; Lean as a rake, with sighs and care, Sleek as a mouse before.

Plump as a partridge was I known, And soft as silk my skin; My cheeks as fat as butter grown, But as a goat now thin!

I melancholy as a cat, Am kept awake to weep; But she, insensible of that, Sound as a top can sleep.

Hard is her heart as flint or stone, She laughs to see me pale; And merry as a grig is grown, And brisk as bottled ale.

The god of Love at her approach Is busy as a bee; Hearts sound as any bell or roach, Are smit and sigh like me.

Ah me! as thick as hops or hail The fine men crowd about her; But soon as dead as a door-nail Shall I be, if without her.

Straight as my leg her shape appears, O were we join'd together! My heart would be scot-free from cares And lighter than a feather.

As fine as five-pence is her mien, No drum was ever tighter; Her glance is as the razor keen, And not the sun is brighter

As soft as pap her kisses are, Methinks I taste them yet; Brown as a berry is her hair, Her eyes as black as jet.

As smooth as glass, as white as curds Her pretty hand invites; Sharp as her needle are her words, Her wit like pepper bites.

Brisk as a body-louse she trips, Clean as a penny drest; Sweet as a rose her breath and lips, Round as the globe her breast.

Full as an egg was I with glee, And happy as a king: Good Lord! how all men envied me! She loved like any thing.

But false as hell, she, like the wind, Chang'd, as her sex must do; Though seeming as the turtle kind, And like the gospel true.

If I and Molly could agree, Let who would take Peru! Great as an Emperor should I be, And richer than a Jew.

Till you grow tender as a chick, I'm dull as any post; Let us like burs together stick, And warm as any toast.

You'll know me truer than a die, And wish me better sped; Flat as a flounder when I lie, And as a herring dead.

Sure as a gun she'll drop a tear And sigh, perhaps, and wish, When I am rotten as a pear, And mute as any fish.



REMINISCENCES OP A SENTIMENTALIST. THOMAS HOOD.

"My TABLES! MEAT it is, I SET IT down!"—Hamlet

I think it was Spring—but not certain I am— When my passion began first to work; But I know we were certainly looking for lamb, And the season was over for pork.

'T was at Christmas, I think, when I met with Miss Chase, Yes—for Morris had asked me to dine— And I thought I had never beheld such a face, Or so noble a turkey and chine.

Placed close by her side, it made others quite wild With sheer envy, to witness my luck; How she blushed as I gave her some turtle, and smiled As I afterward offered some duck.

I looked and I languished, alas! to my cost, Through three courses of dishes and meats; Getting deeper in love—but my heart was quite lost When it came to the trifle and sweets.

With a rent-roll that told of my houses and land, To her parents I told my designs— And then to herself I presented my hand, With a very fine pottle of pines!

I asked her to have me for weal or for woe, And she did not object in the least;— I can't tell the date—but we married I know Just in time to have game at the feast.

We went to ——, it certainly was the sea-side; For the next, the most blessed of morns, I remember how fondly I gazed at my bride, Sitting down to a plateful of prawns.

O, never may memory lose sight of that year, But still hallow the time as it ought! That season the "grass" was remarkably dear, And the peas at a guinea a quart.

So happy, like hours, all our days seemed to haste, A fond pair, such as poets have drawn, So united in heart—so congenial in taste— We were both of us partial to brawn!

A long life I looked for of bliss with my bride, But then Death—I ne'er dreamt about that! O, there's nothing is certain in life, as I cried When my turbot eloped with the cat!

My dearest took ill at the turn of the year, But the cause no physician could nab; But something, it seemed like consumption, I fear— It was just after supping on crab.

In vain she was doctored, in vain she was dosed, Still her strength and her appetite pined; She lost relish for what she had relished the most, Even salmon she deeply declined!

For months still I lingered in hope and in doubt, While her form it grew wasted and thin; But the last dying spark of existence went out. As the oysters were just coming in!

She died, and she left me the saddest of men, To indulge in a widower's moan; Oh! I felt all the power of solitude then, As I ate my first "natives" alone!

But when I beheld Virtue's friends in their cloaks, And with sorrowful crape on their hats, O my grief poured a flood! and the out-of-door folks Were all crying—I think it was sprats!



FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY. A PATHETIC BALLAD. THOMAS HOOD.

Ben Battle was a soldier bold, And used to war's alarms; But a cannon-ball took off his legs, So he laid down his arms!

Now, as they bore him off the field, Said he, "Let others shoot, For here I leave my second leg, And the Forty-second Foot!"

The army-surgeons made him limbs: Said he, "they're only pegs: But there's as wooden members quite As represent my legs!"

Now, Ben he loved a pretty maid, Her name was Nelly Gray; So he went up to pay his devours, When he devoured his pay!

But when he called on Nelly Gray, She made him quite a scoff; And when she saw his wooden legs, Began to take them off!

"O, Nelly Gray! O, Nelly Gray Is this your love so warm? The love that loves a scarlet coat Should be more uniform!"

Said she, "I loved a soldier once For he was blithe and brave But I will never have a man With both legs in the grave!

"Before you had those timber toes, Your love I did allow, But then, you know, you stand upon Another footing now!"

"O, Nelly Gray! O, Nelly Gray! For all your jeering speeches, At duty's call I left my legs, In Badajos's BREACHES!"

"Why then," said she, "you've lost the feet Of legs in war's alarms, And now you can not wear your shoes Upon your feats of arms!"

"O, false and fickle Nelly Gray! I know why you refuse:— Though I've no feet—some other man Is standing in my shoes!

"I wish I ne'er had seen your face; But now, a long farewell! For you will be my death;—alas You will not be my NELL!"

Now, when he went from Nelly Gray, His heart so heavy got, And life was such a burden grown, It made him take a knot!

So round his melancholy neck A rope he did entwine, And, for his second time in life, Enlisted in the Line.

One end he tied around a beam, And then removed his pegs, And, as his legs were off—of course, He soon was off his legs!

And there he hung, till he was dead As any nail in town— For, though distress had cut him up, It could not cut him down!

A dozen men sat on his corpse, To find out why he died— And they buried Ben in four cross-roads, With a STAKE in his inside!



NO! THOMAS HOOD.

No sun—no moon! No morn—no noon— No dawn—no dusk—no proper time of day— No sky—no earthly view— No distance looking blue— No road—no street—no "t' other side the way"— No end to any Row— No indications where the Crescents go— No top to any steeple— No recognitions of familiar people— No courtesies for showing 'em— No knowing 'em! To traveling at all—no locomotion, No inkling of the way—no notion— No go—by land or ocean— No mail—no post— No news from any foreign coast— No park—no ring—no afternoon gentility— No company—no nobility— No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease, No comfortable feel in any member— No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees. No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds. November!



JACOB OMNIUM'S HOSS A NEW PALLICE COURT CHANT. W. MAKEPEACE THACKERAY

One sees in Viteall Yard, Vere pleacemen do resort. A wenerable hinstitute, 'Tis called the Pallis Court A gent as got his i on it, I think will make some sport

The natur of this Court My hindignation riles: A few fat legal spiders Here set & spin their viles; To rob the town theyr privlege is, In a hayrea of twelve miles.

The Judge of this year Court Is a mellitary beak. He knows no more of Lor Than praps he does of Greek, And prowides hisself a deputy Because he can not speak.

Four counsel in this Court— Misnamed of Justice—sits; These lawyers owes their places to Their money, not their wits; And there's six attornies under them, As here their living gits.

These lawyers, six and four, Was a livin at their ease, A sendin of their writs abowt, And droring in the fees, When their erose a cirkimstance As is like to make a breeze. It now is some monce since, A gent both good and trew Possest a ansum oss vith vich He didn know what to do: Peraps he did not like the oss, Perhaps he was a scru.

This gentleman his oss At Tattersall's did lodge; There came a wulgar oss-dealer, This gentleman's name did fodge, And took the oss from Tattersall's: Wasn that a artful dodge?

One day this gentleman's groom This willain did spy out, A mounted on this oss, A ridin him about; "Get out of that there oss, you rogue," Speaks up the groom so stout.

The thief was cruel whex'd To find hisself so pinn'd; The oss began to whinny, The honest groom he grinn'd; And the raskle thief got off the oss And cut avay like vind.

And phansy with what joy The master did regard His dearly bluvd lost oss again Trot in the stable yard!

Who was this master good Of whomb I makes these rhymes? His name is Jacob Homnium, Exquire; And if I'd committed crimes, Good Lord! I wouldn't ave that mann Attack me in the TIMES!

Now, shortly after the groomb His master's oss did take up, There came a livery-man This gentleman to wake up; And he handed in a little bill, Which hanger'd Mr. Jacob.

For two pound seventeen This livery-man eplied, For the keep of Mr. Jacob's oss, Which the thief had took to ride. "Do you see any think green in me?" Mr. Jacob Homnium cried.

"Because a raskle chews My oss away to robb, And goes tick at your Mews For seven-and-fifty bobb, Shall I be called to pay?—It is A iniquitious Jobb."

Thus Mr. Jacob cut The conwasation short; The livery-man went ome, Detummingd to ave sport, And summingsd Jacob Homnium, Exquire, Into the Pallis Court

Pore Jacob went to Court, A Counsel for to fix, And choose a barrister out of the four, An attorney of the six; And there he sor these men of Lor, And watched 'em at their tricks. The dreadful day of trile In the Pallis Court did come; The lawyers said their say, The Judge looked wery glum, And then the British Jury cast Pore Jacob Hom-ni-um.

O, a weary day was that For Jacob to go through; The debt was two seventeen (Which he no mor owed than you). And then there was the plaintives costs, Eleven pound six and two.

And then there was his own, Which the lawyers they did fix At the wery moderit figgar Of ten pound one and six. Now Evins bless the Pallis Court, And all its bold ver-dicks!

I can not settingly tell If Jacob swaw and cust, At aving for to pay this sumb, But I should think he must, And av drawm a cheque for L24 4s. 8d. With most igstreme disgust.

O Pallis Court, you move My pitty most profound. A most emusing sport You thought it, I'll be bound, To saddle hup a three-pound debt, With two-and-twenty pound.

Good sport it is to you, To grind the honest pore; To puy their just or unjust debts With eight hundred per cent, for Lor; Make haste and git your costes in, They will not last much mor!

Come down from that tribewn, Thou Shameless and Unjust; Thou Swindle, picking pockets in The name of Truth, august; Come down, thou hoary Blasphemy, For die thou shalt and must.

And go it, Jacob Homnium, And ply your iron pen, And rise up Sir John Jervis, And shut me up that den; That sty for fattening lawyers in, On the bones of honest men.

PLEACEMAN X.



THE WOFLE NEW BALLAD OF JANE RONEY AND MARY BROWN. WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

An igstrawnary tail I vill tell you this veek— I stood in the Court of A'Beckett the Beak, Vere Mrs. Jane Roney, a vidow, I see, Who charged Mary Brown with a robbin' of she.

This Mary was pore and in misery once, And she came to Mrs. Roney it's more than twelve monce She adn't got no bed, nor no dinner, nor no tea, And kind Mrs. Roney gave Mary all three.

Mrs. Roney kep Mary for ever so many veeks (Her conduct disgusted the best of all Beax), She kept her for nothink, as kind as could be, Never thinking that this Mary was a traitor to she.

"Mrs. Roney, O Mrs. Roney, I feel very ill; Will you jest step to the doctor's for to fetch me a pill?" "That I will, my pore Mary," Mrs. Roney says she: And she goes off to the doctor's as quickly as may be.

No sooner on this message Mrs. Roney was sped, Than hup gits vicked Mary, and jumps out a bed; She hopens all the trunks without never a key— She bustes all the boxes, and vith them makes free.

Mrs. Roney's best linning gownds, petticoats, and close, Her children's little coats and things, her boots and her hose, She packed them, and she stole 'em, and avay vith them did flee Mrs. Roney's situation—you may think vat it vould be!

Of Mary, ungrateful, who had served her this vay, Mrs. Roney heard nothink for a long year and a day, Till last Thursday, in Lambeth, ven whom should she see? But this Mary, as had acted so ungrateful to she.

She was leaning on the helbo of a worthy young man; They were going to be married, and were walkin hand in hand; And the church-bells was a ringing for Mary and he, And the parson was ready, and a waitin' for his fee.

When up comes Mrs. Roney, and faces Mary Brown, Who trembles, and castes her eyes upon the ground. She calls a jolly pleaseman, it happens to be me; I charge this young woman, Mr. Pleaseman, says she.

Mrs. Roney, o, Mrs. Roney, o, do let me go, I acted most ungrateful I own, and I know, But the marriage bell is a ringin, and the ring you may see, And this young man is a waitin, says Mary, says she.

I don't care three fardens for the parson and clark, And the bell may keep ringing from noon day to dark. Mary Brown, Mary Brown, you must come along with me. And I think this young man is lucky to be free.

So, in spite of the tears which bejewed Mary's cheek, I took that young gurl to A'Beckett the Beak; That exlent justice demanded her plea— But never a sullable said Mary said she.

On account of her conduck so base and so vile, That wicked young gurl is committed for trile, And if she's transpawted beyond the salt sea, It's a proper reward for such willians as she.

Now, yon young gurls of Southwark for Mary who veep, From pickin and stealin your ands you must keep, Or it may be my dooty, as it was Thursday veek To pull you all hup to A'Beckett the Beak. PLEACEMAN X



THE BALLAD OF ELIZA DAVIS. W. MAKEPEACE THACKERAY

Galliant gents and lovely ladies, List a tail vich late befel, Vich I heard it, bein on duty, At the Pleace Hoffice, Clerkenwell.

Praps you know the Fondling Chapel, Vere the little children sings: (Lord I likes to hear on Sundies Them there pooty little things!)

In this street there lived a housemaid, If you particklarly ask me where— Vy, it was at four-and-tventy, Guilford Street, by Brunsvick Square

Vich her name was Eliza Davis, And she went to fetch the beer: In the street she met a party As was quite surprized to see her.

Vich he vas a British Sailor, For to judge him by his look: Tarry jacket, canvas trowsies, Ha-la Mr. T. P. Cooke.

Presently this Mann accostes Of this hinnocent young gal— Pray, saysee, Excuse my freedom, You're so like my Sister Sal!

You're so like my Sister Sally, Both in valk and face and size; Miss, that—dang my old lee scuppers, It brings tears into my hyes!

I'm a mate on board a wessel, I'm a sailor bold and true; Shiver up my poor old timbers, Let me be a mate for you!

What's your name, my beauty, tell me? And she faintly hansers, "Lore, Sir, my name's Eliza Davis, And I live at tventy-four."

Hofttimes came this British seaman, This deluded gal to meet: And at tventy-four was welcome, Tventy-four in Guilford Street

And Eliza told her Master (Kinder they than Missuses are), How in marridge he had ast her, Like a galliant Brittish Tar.

And he brought his landlady vith him (Vich vas all his hartful plan), And she told how Charley Thompson Reely was a good young man.

And how she herself had lived in Many years of union sweet, Vith a gent she met promiskous, Valkin in the public street.

And Eliza listened to them, And she thought that soon their bands Vould be published at the Fondlin. Hand the clergyman jine their ands.

And he ast about the lodgers (Vich her master let some rooms), likevise vere they kep their things, and Vere her master kep his spoons.

Hand this vicked Charley Thompson Came on Sundy veek to see her, And he sent Eliza Davis Hout to vetch a pint of beer.

Hand while poor Eliza vent to Fetch the beer, devoid of sin, This etrocious Charley Thompson Let his wile accomplish him.

To the lodgers, their apartments, This abandingd female goes, Prigs their shirts and umberellas: Prigs their boots, and hats, and clothes

Vile the scoundrle Charley Thompson, Lest his wictim should escape, Hocust her vith rum and vater, Like a fiend in huming shape.

But a hi was fixt upon 'em Vich these raskles little sore; Namely, Mr. Hide, the landlord Of the house at tventy-four.

He vas valkin in his garden, Just afore he vent to sup; And on looking up he sor the Lodger's vinders lighted hup.

Hup the stairs the landlord tumbled; Something's going wrong, he said; And he caught the vicked voman Underneath the lodger's bed.

And he called a brother Pleaseman, Vich vas passing on his beat, Like a true and galliant feller, Hup and down in Guildford Street.

And that Pleaseman, able-bodied, Took this voman to the cell; To the cell vere she was quodded, In the Close of Clerkenwell.

And though vicked Charley Thompson Boulted like a miscrant base, Presently another Pleaseman Took him to the self-same place.

And this precious pair of raskles Tuesday last came up for doom; By the beak they was committed, Vich his name was Mr. Combe.

Has for poor Eliza Davia, Simple gurl of tventy-four, She, I ope, will never listen In the streets to sailors moar.

But if she must ave a sweet-art (Vich most every gurl expex), Let her take a jolly Pleaseman, Vich is name peraps is—X.



LINES ON A LATE HOSPICIOUS EWENT. [Footnote: The Birth of Prince Arthur] BY A GENTLEMAN OF THE FOOT-GUARDS (BLUE). W. MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

I paced upon my beat With steady step and slow, All huppandownd of Ranelagh-street; Ran'lagh, St. Pimlico.

While marching huppandownd Upon that fair May morn, Beold the booming cannings sound, A royal child is born!

The Ministers of State Then presnly I sor, They gallops to the Pallis gate, In carridges and for.

With anxious looks intent, Before the gate they stop, There comes the good Lord President, And there the Archbishopp.

Lord John he next elights; And who comes here in haste? 'Tis the ero of one underd fights, The caudle for to taste.

Then Mrs. Lily, the nuss, Toward them steps with joy; Say the brave old Duke, "Come tell to us Is it a gal or a boy?"

Says Mrs. L. to the Duke, "Your Grace, it is a PRINCE." And at that nuss's bold rebuke, He did both laugh and wince.

He vews with pleasant look This pooty flower of May, Then says the wenerable Duke, "Egad, its my buthday."

By memory backards borne, Peraps his thoughts did stray To that old place where he was born Upon the first of May.

Peraps he did recal The ancient towers of Trim; And County Meath and Dangan Hall They did rewisit him.

I phansy of him so His good old thoughts employin; Fourscore years and one ago Beside the flowin' Boyne.

His father praps he sees, Most musicle of Lords, A playing maddrigles and glees Upon the Arpsicords.

Jest phansy this old Ero Upon his mother's knee! Did ever lady in this land Ave greater sons than she?

And I shouldn be surprise While this was in his mind, If a drop there twinkled in his eyes Of unfamiliar brind.

* * * *

To Hapsly Ouse next day Drives up a Broosh and for, A gracious prince sits in that Shay (I mention him with Hor!)

They ring upon the bell, The Porter shows his ed, (He fought at Vaterloo as vell, And vears a veskit red.)

To see that carriage come The people round it press: "And is the galliant Duke at ome?" "Your Royal Ighness, yes."

He stepps from out the Broosh And in the gate is gone, And X, although the people push, Says wery kind "Move hon."

The Royal Prince unto The galliant Duke did say, "Dear Duke, my little son and you Was born the self-same day.

"The lady of the land, My wife and Sovring dear, It is by her horgust command I wait upon you here.

"That lady is as well As can expected be; And to your Grace she bid me tell This gracious message free.

"That offspring of our race, Whom yesterday you see, To show our honor for your Grace, Prince Arthur he shall be.

"That name it rhymes to fame; All Europe knows the sound; And I couldn't find a better name If you'd give me twenty pound.

"King Arthur had his knights That girt his table round, But you have won a hundred fights, Will match 'em, I'll be bound.

"You fought with Bonypart, And likewise Tippoo Saib; I name you then, with all my heart, The Godsire of this babe."

That Prince his leave was took, His hinterview was done. So let us give the good old Duke Good luck of his god-son,

And wish him years of joy In this our time of Schism, And hope he'll hear the royal boy His little catechism.

And my pooty little Prince That's come our arts to cheer, Let me my loyal powers ewince A welcomin of you ere.

And the Poit-Laureat's crownd, I think, in some respex, Egstremely shootable might be found For honest Pleaseman X.



THE LAMENTABLE BALLAD OF THE FOUNDLING OF SHOREDITCH. W. MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

Come, all ye Christian people, and listen to my tail, It is all about a Doctor was traveling by the rail, By the Heastern Counties Railway (vich the shares don't desire), From Ixworth town in Suffolk, vich his name did not transpire.

A traveling from Bury this Doctor was employed With a gentleman, a friend of his, vich his name was Captain Loyd; And on reaching Marks Tey Station, that is next beyond Colchester, a lady entered into them most elegantly dressed.

She entered into the carriage all with a tottering step, And a pooty little Bayby upon her bussum slep; The gentlemen received her with kindness and siwillaty, Pitying this lady for her illness and debillaty.

She had a fust-class ticket, this lovely lady said, Because it was so lonesome she took a secknd instead. Better to travel by secknd class than sit alone in the fust, And the pooty little Baby upon her breast she nust.

A seein of her cryin, and shiverin and pail, To her spoke this surging, the Ero of my tail; Saysee you look unwell, ma'am, I'll elp you if I can, And you may tell your case to me, for I'm a meddicle man.

"Thank you, sir," the lady said, "I only look so pale, Because I ain't accustom'd to traveling on the rale; I shall be better presnly, when I've ad some rest:" And that pooty little Baby she squeeged it to her breast.

So in conwersation the journey they beguiled, Capting Loyd and the medical man, and the lady and the child, Till the warious stations along the line was passed, For even the Heastern Counties' trains must come in at last.

When at Shorediteh tumminus at lenth stopped the train, This kind meddicle gentleman proposed his aid again. "Thank you, sir," the lady said, "for your kyindness dear; My carridge and my osses is probbibly come here.

"Will you old this baby, please, vilst I step and see?" The Doctor was a famly man: "That I will," says he. Then the little child she kist, kist it very gently, Vich was sucking his little fist, sleeping innocently.

With a sigh from her art, as though she would have bust it, Then she gave the Doctor the child—wery kind he nust it; Hup then the lady jumped hoff the bench she sat from, Tumbled down the carridge steps and ran along the platform.

Vile hall the other passengers vent upon their vays, The Capting and the Doctor sat there in a maze; Some vent in a Homminibus, some vent in a Cabby, The Capting and the Doctor vaited with the babby.

There they sat looking queer, for an hour or more, But their feller passinger neather on 'em sore: Never, never back again did that lady come To that pooty sleeping Hinfant a suckin of his Thum!

What could this pore Doctor do, bein treated thus, When the darling baby woke, cryin for its nuss? Off he drove to a female friend, vich she was both kind and mild, And igsplained to her the circumstance of this year little child.

That kind lady took the child instantly in her lap, And made it very comforable by giving it some pap; And when she took its close off, what d'you think she found? A couple of ten pun notes sown up, in its little gownd!

Also, in its little close, was a note which did conwey, That this little baby's parents lived in a handsome way: And for its Headucation they reglary would pay, And sirtingly like gentle-folks would claim the child one day, If the Christian people who'd charge of it would say, Per adwertisement in the TIMES, where the baby lay.

Pity of this baby many people took, It had such pooty ways and such a pooty look; And there came a lady forrard (I wish that I could see Any kind lady as would do as much for me,

And I wish with all my art, some night in MY night gownd, I could find a note stitched for ten or twenty pound)— There came a lady forrard, that most honorable did say, She'd adopt this little baby, which her parents cast away.

While the Doctor pondered on this hoffer fair, Comes a letter from Devonshire, from a party there, Hordering the Doctor, at its Mar's desire, To send the little infant back to Devonshire.

Lost in apoplexity, this pore meddicle man, Like a sensable gentleman, to the Justice ran; Which his name was Mr. Hammill, a honorable beak, That takes his seat in Worship-street four times a week.

"O Justice!" says the Doctor, "Instrugt me what to do, I've come up from the country, to throw myself on you; My patients have no doctor to tend them in their ills, (There they are in Suffolk without their draffts and pills!)

"I've come up from the country, to know how I'll dispose Of this pore little baby, and the twenty-pun note, and the clothes, And I want to go back to Suffolk, dear Justice, if you please, And my patients wants their Doctor, and their Doctor wants his feez."

Up spoke Mr. Hammill, sittin at his desk, "This year application does me much perplesk; What I do adwise you, is to leave this babby In the Parish where it was left, by its mother shabby."

The Doctor from his Worship sadly did depart— He might have left the baby, but he hadn't got the heart To go for to leave that Hinnocent, has the laws allows, To the tender mussies of the Union House.

Mother who left this little one on a stranger's knee, Think how cruel you have been, and how good was he! Think, if you've been guilty, innocent was she; And do not take unkindly this little word of me: Heaven be merciful to us all, sinners as we be!

PLEACEMAN X.



THE CRYSTAL PALACE. W. MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

With ganial foire Thransfuse me loyre, Ye sacred nymphths of Pindus, The whoile I sing That wondthrous thing The Palace made o' windows!

Say, Paxton, truth, Thou wondthrous youth, What sthroke of art celistial What power was lint You to invint This combineetion cristial

O would before That Thomas Moore Likewoise the late Lord Boyron, Thim aigles sthrong Of Godlike song, Cast oi on that cast oiron!

And saw thim walls, And glittering halls, Thim rising slendther columns, Which I, poor pote, Could not denote, No, not in twinty vollums.

My Muse's words Is like the birds That roosts beneath the panes there; Her wings she spoils 'Gainst them bright toiles, And cracks her silly brains there.

This Palace tall, This Cristial Hall, Which imperors might covet, Stands in Hide Park Like Noah's Ark A rainbow bint above it.

The towers and faynes, In other scaynes, The fame of this will undo, Saint Paul's big doom, St. Payther's Room, And Dublin's proud Rotundo.

'Tis here that roams, As well becomes Her dignitee and stations, Victoria great, And houlds in state The Congress of the Nations.

Her subjects pours From distant shores. Her Injians and Canajians; And also we, Her kingdoms three, Attind with our allagiance.

Here comes likewise Her bould allies, Both Asian and Europian; From East and West They sent their best To fill her Coornocopean.

I seen (thank Grace!) This wondthrous place (His Noble Honor Misteer H. Cole it was That gave the pass, And let me see what is there.)

With conscious proide I stud insoide And look'd the World's Great Fair in. Until me sight Was dazzled quite, And couldn't see for staring.

There's holy saints And window paints, By Maydiayval Pugin; Alhamborough Jones Did paint the tones Of yellow and gambouge in.

There's fountains there And crosses fair; There's water-gods with urrns; There's organs three, To play, d'ye see, "God save the Queen," by turns.

There's statues bright Of marble white, Of silver and of copper, And some in zink, And some, I think, That isn't over proper.

There's staym Ingynes, That stand in lines, Enormous and amazing, That squeal and snort, Like whales in sport, Or elephants a-grazing.

There's carts and gigs, And pins for pigs; There's dibblers and there's harrows, And plows like toys, For little boys, And illegant wheel-barrows.

For them genteels Who ride on wheels, There a plenty to indulge 'em, There's Droskys snug From Paytersbug And vayhycles from Belgium.

There's Cabs on Stands, And Shandthry danns; There's wagons from New York here; There's Lapland Sleighs, Have cross'd the seas, And Jaunting Cars from Cork here.

Amazed I pass Prom glass to glass, Deloighted I survey 'em; Fresh wondthers grows Beneath me nose In this sublime Musayum,

Look, here's a fan From far Japan, A saber from Damasco; There's shawls ye get From far Thibet, And cotton prints from Glasgow.

There's German flutes, Marcoky boots, And Naples Macaronies; Bohaymia Has sent Bohay, Polonia her polonies.

There's granite flints That's quite imminse, There's sacks of coals and fuels, There's swords and guns, And soap in tuns, And Ginger-bread and Jewels.

There's taypots there, And cannons rare; There's coffins filled with roses. There 'a canvas tints, Teeth instruments, And shuits of clothes by Moses.

There's lashins more Of things in store, But thim I don't remimber; Nor could disclose Did I compose From May time to Novimber.

Ah, JUDY thru! With eyes so blue, That you were here to view it! And could I screw But tu pound tu 'Tis I would thrait you to it.

So let us raise Victoria's praise, And Albert's proud condition, That takes his ayse As he surveys This Crystal Exhibition.



THE SPECULATORS. W. MAKEPEACE THACKERAY

The night was stormy and dark, The town was shut up in sleep: Only those were abroad who were out on a lark, Or those who'd no beds to keep.

I pass'd through the lonely street, The wind did sing and blow; I could hear the policeman's feet Clapping to and fro.

There stood a potato-man In the midst of all the wet; He stood with his 'tato-can In the lonely Haymarket.

Two gents of dismal mien. And dark and greasy rags, Came out of a shop for gin Swaggering over the flags:

Swaggering over the stones, These snabby bucks did walk And I went and followed those seedy ones, And listened to their talk.

Was I sober or awake? Could I believe my ears? Those dismal beggars spake Of nothing but railroad shares.

I wondered more and more: Says one—"Good friend of mine, How many shares have you wrote for In the Diddlesee Junction line?"

"I wrote for twenty," says Jim, "But they wouldn't give me one;" His comrade straight rebuked him For the folly he had done:

"O Jim, you are unawares Of the ways of this bad town; I always write for five hundred shares, And THEN they put me down."

"And yet you got no shares," Says Jim, "for all your boast;" "I WOULD have wrote," says Jack, "but where Was the penny to pay the post?"

"I lost, for I couldn't pay That first instalment up; But here's taters smoking hot—I say Let's stop, my boy, and sup."

And at this simple feast The while they did regale, I drew each ragged capitalist Down on my left thumb-nail.

Their talk did me perplex, All night I tumbled and toss'd And thought of railroad specs, And how money was won and lost.

"Bless railroads everywhere," I said, "and the world's advance; Bless every railroad share In Italy, Ireland, France,

For never a beggar need now despair, And every rogue has a chance."



LETTER

FROM MR. HOSEA BIGLOW TO THE HON. J. T. BUCKINGHAM, EDITOR OF THE BOSTON COURIER, COVERING A LETTER FROM MR. B. SAWIN, PRIVATE IN THE MASSACHUSETTS REGIMENT IN MEXICO. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

Mister Buckinum, the follerin Billet was writ hum by a Yung feller of Our town that wuz cussed fool enuff to goe atrottin inter Miss Chiff arter a Drum and fife. It ain't Nater for a feller to let on that he's sick o' any bizness that He went intu off his own free will and a Cord, but I rather callate he's middlin tired o' voluntearin By this Time. I bleeve u may put dependunts on his statemence. For I never heered nothin bad on him let Alone his havin what Parson Wilbur cals a PONGSHONG for cocktales, and he ses it wuz a soshiashun of idees sot him agoin arter the Crootin Sargient cos he wore a cocktale onto his hat.

his Folks gin the letter to me and I shew it to parson Wilbur and he ses it oughter Bee printed, send It to mister Buckinum, ses he, I don't ollers agree with him, ses he, but by Time, says he, I DU like a feller that ain't a Feared.

I have intusspussed a Few refleckshuns hear and thair. We're kind o' Prest with Hayin. Ewers respecfly HOSEA BIGLOW.

This kind o' sogerin' aint a mite like our October trainin', A chap could clear right out from there ef 't only looked like rainin'. An' th' Cunnles, tu, could kiver up their shappoes with bandanners, An' send the insines skootin' to the bar-room with their banners, (Fear o' gittin' on 'em spotted), an' a feller could cry quarter Ef he fired away his ramrod arter tu much rum an' water. Recollect wut fun we hed, you 'n I an' Ezry Hollis, Up there to Waltham plain last fall, ahavin' the Cornwallis? [Footnote: i halt the Site of a feller with a muskit as I do plze But their is fun to a Cornwallis I ain't agoin to deny it.—H.B.]This sort o' thing aint JEST like thet—I wish thet I wuz furder- [Footnote: he means Not quite so fur i guess.—H.B.]Nimepunce a day fer killin' folks comes kind o' low fer murder (Wy I've worked out to slarterin' some for Deacon Cephas Billins, An' in the hardest times there wuz I ollers tetched ten shillins), There's sutthin' gits into my throat thet makes it hard to swaller, It comes so nateral to think about a hempen collar; It's glory—but, in spite o' all my tryin to git callous, I feel a kind o' in a cart, aridin' to the gallus. But when it comes to BEIN' killed—I tell ye I felt streaked The fust time ever I found out wy baggonets wuz peaked, Here's how it wuz: I started out to go to a fandango, The sentinul he ups an' sez, "Thet's furder 'an you can go" "None o' your sarse," sez I; sez he, "Stan' back!" "Aint you a buster. Sez I, "I'm up to all thet air, I guess I've ben to muster; I know wy sentinuls air sot; you aint agoin' to eat us; Caleb haint to monopoly to court the seenoreetas; My folks to hum air full ez good ez hisn be, by golly!" An' so ez I wuz goin' by, not thinkin'; wut would folly, The everlatin' cus he stuck his one-pronged pitchfork in me An' made a hole right thru my close ez ef I wuz an in'my. Wal, it beats all how big I felt hoorawin' in ole Funnel Wen Mister Bolles he gin the sword to our Leftenant Cunnle (It's Mister Secondary Bolles,* thet writ the prize peace essay, *[Footnote: the ignerant creeter means Sekketary; but he ollers stuck to his books like cobbler's wax to an ile-stone.—H. B.] Thet's wy he didn't list himself along o' us, I dessay), An' Rantoul, tu, talked pooty loud, but dont' put HIS foot in it, Coz human life's so sacred thet he's principled agin'it— Though I myself can't rightly see it's any wus achokin' on 'em Than puttin' bullets thru their lights, or with a bagnet pokin' on 'em; How dreffle slick he reeled it off (like Blitz at our lyceum Ahaulin' ribbins from his chops so quick you skeercely see 'em), About the Anglo-Saxon race (an' saxons would be handy To do the buryin' down here upon the Rio Grandy), About our patriotic pas an' our star-spangled banner, Our country's bird alookin' on an' singin' out hosanner, An' how he (Mister B himself) wuz happy fer Ameriky— I felt, ez sister Patience sez, a leetle mite histericky. I felt, I swon, ez though it wuz a dreffle kind o' privilege Atrampin' round thru Boston streets among the gutter's drivelage; I act'lly thought it wuz a treat to hear a little drummin, An' it did bonyfidy seem millanyum wuz acomin' Wen all on us got suits (darned like them wore in the state prison) An' every feller felt ez though all Mexico wuz hisn. [Footnote: It must be aloud that thare's a streak o' nater in lovin' sho, but it sartinly is of the curusest things in nater to see a rispecktable dri goods dealer (deekon off a chutch mayby) a riggin' himself out in the Weigh they du and struttin' round in the Reign aspilin' his trowsis and makin' wet goods of himself. E fany thin's foolisher and moor dicklus than militerry gloary it is milishy gloary.—H. B] This 'ere's about the meanest place a skunk could wal diskiver (Saltillo's Mexican, I b'lieve, fer wut we call Saltriver). The sort o' trash a feller gits to eat doos beat all nater, I'd give a year's pay fer a smell o' one good bluenose tater; The country here thet Mister Bolles declared to be so charmin' Throughout is swarmin' with the most alarmin' kind o' varmin'. He talked about delishis froots, but then it wuz a wopper all, The holl on't 's mud an' prickly pears, with here an' there a chapparal; You see a feller peekin' out, an', fust you know, a lariat Is round your throat en' you a copse, 'fore you can say, "Wut air ye at?" [Footnote: these fellers are verry proppilly called Rank Heroes, and the more tha kill the ranker and more Herowick tha bekum.—H. B.] You never see sech darned gret bugs (it may not be irrelevant To say I've seen a SCARABAEUS PILULARIUS big ez a year old elephant), [Footnote: It wuz "tumblebug" as he Writ it, but the parson put the Latten instid. I sed tother maid better meeter, but he said tha was eddykated peepl to Boston and tha wouldn't stan' it no how. Idnow as tha WOOOD and idnow as tha wood.—H. B.] The rigiment come up one day in time to stop a red bug From runnin' off with Cunnle Wright—'t wuz jest a common CIMEX LECTULARIUS. One night I started up on eend an' thought I wuz to hum agin, I heern a horn, thinks I it's Sol the fisherman hez come agin, HIS bellowses is sound enough—ez I'm a livin' creeter, I felt a thing go thru my leg—'t wuz nothin' more 'n a skeeter! Then there's the yaller fever, tu, they call it here el vomito— (Come, thet wun't du, you landcrab there, I tell ye to le' GO my toe! My gracious! it's a scorpion thet's took a shine to play with 't, I darsn't skeer the tarnal thing fer fear he'd run away with 't). Afore I come away from hum I hed a strong persuasion Thet Mexicans worn't human beans*—an ourang outang nation, *[Footnote: he means human beins, that's wut he means. I spose he kinder thought tha wuz human beans ware the Xisle Poles comes from.—H. B.] A sort o' folks a chap could kill an' never dream on't arter, No more'n a feller'd dream o' pigs thet he hed hed to slarter; I'd an idee thet they were built arter the darkle fashion all, An' kickin' colored folks about, you know, 's a kind o' national But when I jined I worn't so wise ez thet air queen o' Sheby, Fer, come to look at 'em, they aint much diff'rent from wut we be An' here we air ascrougin' 'em out o' thir own dominions, Ashelterin' 'em, ez Caleb sez, under our eagle's pinions, "Wich means to take a feller up jest by the slack o' 's trowsis An' walk him Spanish clean right out o' all his homes an' houses Wal, it doos seem a curus way, but then hooraw fer Jackson! It must be right, fer Caleb sez it's reg'lar Anglo-Saxon. The Mex'cans don't fight fair, they say, they piz'n all the water, An' du amazin' lots o' things thet isn't wut they ough' ter; Bein' they haint no lead, they make their bullets out o' copper An' shoot the darned things at us, tu, which Caleb sez aint proper; He sez they'd ough' to stan' right up an' let us pop 'em fairly (Guess wen he ketches 'em at thet he'll hev to git up airly), Thet our nation's bigger 'n theirn an' so its rights air bigger, An thet it's all to make 'em free that we air pullin' trigger, Thet Anglo Saxondom's idee's abreakin' 'em to pieces, An' thet idee's thet every man doos jest wut he damn pleases; Ef I don't make his meanin' clear, perhaps in some respex I can, I know that "every man" don't mean a nigger or a Mexican; An' there's another thing I know, an' thet is, ef these creeturs, Thet stick an Anglo-saxon mask onto State-prison feeturs, Should come to Jaalam Center fer to argify an' spout on't, The gals 'ould count the silver spoons the minnit they cleared out on't

This goin' ware glory waits ye haint one agreeable feetur, An' ef it worn't fer wakin' snakes, I'd home agin short meter; O, wouldn't I be off, quick time, ef't worn't thet I wuz sartin They'd let the daylight into me to pay me fer desartin! I don't approve o' tellin' tales, but jest to you I may state Our ossifers aint wut they wuz afore they left the Baystate Then it wuz "Mister Sawin, sir, you're middlin' well now, be ye? Step up an' take a nipper, sir; I'm dreffle glad to see ye;" But now it's "Ware's my eppylet? here, Sawin, step an fetch it! An' mind your eye, be thund'rin' spry, or, damn ye, you shall ketch it!" Wal, ez the Doctor sez, some pork will bile so, but by mighty, Ef I bed some on 'em to hum, I'd give 'em linkum vity, I'd play the rogue's march on their hides an' other [illeg] follerin'— But I must close my letter here, for one on 'em's a-hollerin', These Anglosaxon ossifers—wal, taint no use ajawin', I'm safe enlisted fer the war, Yourn, BIRDOFREEDOM SAWIN



A LETTER

FROM A CANDIDATE FOR THE PRESIDENCY IN ANSWER TO SUTTIN QUESTIONS PROPOSED BY MR. HOSEA BIGLOW, INCLOSED IN A NOTE FROM MR. BIGLOW TO S. H. GAY, ESQ., EDITOR OF THE NATIONAL ANTI-SLAVERY STANDARD. JAMES RUSSEL LOWELL

Deer Sir its gut to be the fashun now to rite letters to the candid 8s and I wus chose at a public Meetin in Jalaam to du wut wus nessary fur that town. I writ to 271 ginerals and gut ansers to 209. the air called candid 8s but I don't see nothin candid about em. this here 1 which I send wus thought satty's factory. I dunno as it's ushle to print Poscrips, but as all the ansers I got hed the saim, I sposed it wus best. times has gretly changed. Formaly to knock a man into a cocked hat wus to use him up, but now it ony gives him a chance furthe cheef madgutracy.—H. B.

Dear Sir—You wish to know my notions On sartin pints thet rile the land; There's nothin' thet my natur so shuns Es bein' mum or underhand; I'm a straight-spoken kind o' creetur Thet blurts right out wut's in his head, An' ef I've one pecooler feetur, It is a nose thet wunt be led.

So, to begin at the beginnin'; An' come directly to the pint, I think the country's underpinnin' Is some consid'ble out o' jint; I aint agoin' to try your patience By tellin' who done this or thet, I don't make no insinooations, I jest let on I smell a rat.

Thet is, I mean, it seems to me so, But, ef the public think I'm wrong I wunt deny but wut I be so— An', fact, it don't smell very strong; My mind's tu fair to lose its balance An' say wich party hez most sense; There may be folks o'greater talence Thet can't set stiddier on the fence.

I'm an eclectic: ez to choosin' 'Twixt this an'thet, I'm plaguy lawth; I leave a side thet looks like losin', But (wile there's doubt) I stick to both; I stan' upon the Constitution, Ez preudunt statesmun say, who've planned A way to git the most profusion O' chances ez to ware they'll stand.

Ez fer the war, I go agin it— I mean to say I kind o' du— Thet is, I mean thet, bein' in it, The best way wuz to fight it thru; Not but wut abstract war is horrid, I sign to thet with all my heart— But civlyzation doos git forrid Sometimes upon a powder-cart.

About thet darned Proviso matter I never hed a grain o' doubt, Nor I aint one my sense to scatter So's no one couldn't pick it out; My love fer North an' South is equil, So I'll just answer plump an' frank, No matter wut may be the sequil— Yes, sir, I am agin a Bank.

Ez to the answerin' o' questions, I 'am an off ox at bein' druv, Though I aint one thet ary test shuns I'll give our folks a helpin' shove; Kind o' promiscoous I go it Fer the holl country, an' the ground I take, ez nigh ez I can show it, Is pooty gen'ally all round.

I don't appruve o' givin' pledges; You'd ough' to leave a feller free, An' not go knockin' out the wedges To ketch his fingers in the tree; Pledges air awfle breachy cattle Thet preudent farmers don't turn out— Ez long'z the people git their rattle, Wut is there fer'm to grout about?

Ez to the slaves, there's no confusion In MY idees consarnin' them— I think they air an Institution, A sort of—yes, jest so—ahem: Do I own any? Of my merit On thet pint you yourself may jedge; All is, I never drink no sperit, Nor I haint never signed no pledge.

Ez to my principles, I glory In hevin' nothin' o' the sort; I aint a Wig, I aint a Tory, I'm jest a candidate, in short; Thet's fair an' square an' parpendicler, But, ef the Public cares a fig To hev me an' thin' in particler. Wy, I'm a kind o' peri-wig.

P. S.

Ez we're a sort o' privateerin', O' course, you know, it's sheer an' sheer An' there is sutthin' wuth your hearin' I'll mention in YOUR privit ear; Ef you git ME inside the White House, Your head with ile I'll kio' o' 'nint By gitt'n' YOU inside the Light-house Down to the eend o' Jaalam Pint

An' ez the North hez took to brustlin' At bein' scrouged from off the roost, I'll tell ye wut'll save all tusslin' An' give our side a harnsome boost— Tell 'em thet on the Slavery question I'm RIGHT, although to speak I'm lawth; This gives you a safe pint to rest on, An' leaves me frontin' South by North.



THE CANDIDATE'S CREED. (BIGLOW PAPERS.) JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

I du believe in Freedom's cause, Ez fur away ez Paris is; I love to see her stick her claws In them infarnal Pharisees; It's wal enough agin a king To dror resolves and triggers,— But libbaty's a kind o' thing Thet don't agree with niggers.

I du believe the people want A tax on teas and coffees, Thet nothin' aint extravygunt,— Purvidin' I'm in office; For I hev loved my country sence My eye-teeth filled their sockets, An' Uncle Sam I reverence, Partic'larly his pockets.

I du believe in ANY plan O' levyin' the taxes, Ez long ez, like a lumberman, I git jest wut I axes: I go free-trade thru thick an' thin, Because it kind o' rouses The folks to vote—and keep us in Our quiet custom-houses.

I du believe it's wise an' good To sen' out furrin missions, Thet is, on sartin understood An' orthydox conditions;— I mean nine thousan' dolls. per ann., Nine thousan' more fer outfit, An' me to recommend a man The place 'ould jest about fit.

I du believe in special ways O' prayin' an' convartin'; The bread comes back in many days, An' buttered, tu, fer sartin;— I mean in preyin' till one busts On wut the party chooses, An' in convartin' public trusts To very privit uses.

I do believe hard coin the stuff Fer 'lectioneers to spout on; The people's ollers soft enough To make hard money out on; Dear Uncle Sam pervides fer his, An' gives a good-sized junk to all— I don't care HOW hard money is, Ez long ez mine's paid punctooal.

I du believe with all my soul In the gret Press's freedom, To pint the people to the goal An' in the traces lead 'em: Palsied the arm thet forges yokes At my fat contracts squintin', An' wilhered be the nose thet pokes Inter the gov'ment printin'!

I du believe thet I should give Wut's his'n unto Caesar, Fer it's by him I move an' live, From him my bread an' cheese air I du believe thet all o' me Doth bear his souperscription,— Will, conscience, honor, honesty, An' things o' thet description.

I du believe in prayer an' praise To him thet hez the grantin' O' jobs—in every thin' thet pays, But most of all in CANTIN'; This doth my cup with marcies fill, This lays all thought o' sin to rest— I DON'T believe in princerple, But, O, I DU in interest.

I du believe in bein' this Or thet, ez it may happen One way, or t' other hendiest is To ketch the people nappin'; It aint by princerples nor men My preudent course is steadied— I scent wich pays the best, an' then Go into it baldheaded.

I du believe thet holdin' slaves Comes nat'ral tu a President, Let 'lone the rowdedow it saves To have a wal-broke precedunt; Fer any office, small or gret, I could'nt ax with no face, Without I'd been, thru dry an' wet, The unrizziest kind o' doughface.

I du believe wutever trash 'll keep the people in blindness,— Thet we the Mexicans can thrash Right inter brotherly kindness— Thet bombshells, grape, an' powder 'n' ball Air good-will's strongest magnets— Thet peace, to make it stick at all, Must be druv in with bagnets.

In short, I firmly du believe In Humbug generally, Fer it's a thing thet I perceive To hev a solid vally; This heth my faithful shepherd ben, In pasturs sweet heth led me, An' this'll keep the people green To feed ez they have fed me.



THE COURTIN'. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

Zekle crep' up, quite unbeknown, An' peeked in thru the winder, An there sot Huldy all alone, 'ith no one nigh to hender.

Agin' the chimbly crooknecks hung, An' in among 'em rusted The ole queen's arm thet gran'ther Young Fetched back from Concord busted.

The wannut logs shot sparkles out Toward the pootiest, bless her! An' leetle fires danced all about The chiny on the dresser.

The very room, coz she wuz in, Looked warm frum floor to ceilin'. An' she looked full ez rosy agin Ez th' apple she wuz peelin'.

She heerd a foot an' knowd it, tu, Araspin' on the scraper— All ways to once her feelins flew Like sparks in burnt-up paper.

He kin' o' l'itered on the mat, Some doubtfle of the seekle: His heart kep' goin' pitypat, But hern went pity Zekle.



A SONG FOR A CATARRH. PUNCH

By Bary ALLe is like the suL, WheL at the dawL it fliLgs Its goldeL sBiles of light upoL Earth's greeL and loLely thiLgs. IL vaiL I sue, I oLly wiL FroB her a scorLful frowL, But sooL as I By prayers begiL, She cries O Lo! begoLe, Yes! yes! the burtheL of her soLg Is Lo! Lo! Lo! begoLe!

By Bary ALLe is like the mooL, WheL first her silver sheeL Awakes the LightiLgale's soft tuLe, That else had sileLt beeL. But Bary ALLe, like darkest Light, OL be, alas! looks dowL; Her sBiles oL others beaB their light, Her frowLs are all By owL. I've but oLe burtheL to By soLg— Her frowLs are all By owL.



EPITAPH ON A CANDLE. PUNCH.

A WICKED one lies buried here, Who died in a DECLINE; He never rose in rank, I fear, Though he was born to SHINE.

He once was FAT, but now, indeed, He's thin as any griever; He died—the Doctors all agreed, Of a most BURNING fever.

One thing of him is said with truth, With which I'm much amused; It is—that when he stood, forsooth, A STICK he always used.

Now WINDING-SHEETS he sometimes made, But this was not enough, For finding it a poorish trade, He also dealt in SNUFF.

If e'er you said "GO OUT, I pray," He much ill nature show'd; On such occasions he would say, "Vy, if I do, I'M BLOW'D"

In this his friends do all agree, Although you'll think I'm joking, When GOING OUT 'tis said that he Was very fond of SMOKING.

Since all religion he despised, Let these few words suffice, Before he ever was baptized They DIPP'D him once or twice.



POETRY ON AN IMPROVED PRINCIPLE. A RENCONTER WITH A TEA-TOTALLER. PUNCH.

On going forth last night, a friend to see, I met a man by trade a s-n-o-B; Reeling along the path he held his way. "Ho! ho!" quoth I, "he's d-r-u-n-K" Then thus to him—"Were it not better, far, You were a little s-o-b-e-R? 'T were happier for your family, I guess, Than playing of such rum r-i-g-S. Besides, all drunkards, when policemen see 'em, Are taken up at once by t-h-e-M." 'Me drunk!" the cobbler cried, "the devil trouble you You want to kick up a blest r-o-W. Now, may I never wish to work for Hoby, If drain I've had!" (the lying s-n-O-B!) I've just return'd from a tee-total party, Twelve on us jamm'd in a spring c-a-R-P. The man as lectured, now, WAS drunk; why, bless ye, He's sent home in a c-h-a-i-S-E. He'd taken so much lush into his belly, I'm blest if he could t-o-dd-L-E. A pair on 'em—hisself and his good lady;— The gin had got into her h-e-A-D. (My eye and Betty! what weak mortals WE are; They said they took but ginger b-e-E-R!) But as for me, I've stuck ('t was rather ropy) All day to weak imperial p-O-P. And now we've had this little bit o' sparrin', Just stand a q-u-a-r-t-e-R-N!"