Ah! when he hid his bloody work In ashes round about, How little he supposed the truth Would soon be sifted out.

But when the parish dustman came, His rubbish to withdraw, He found more dust within the heap Than he contracted for!

A dozen men to try the fact, Were sworn that very day; But tho' they all were jurors, yet No conjurors were they.

Said Tim unto those jurymen, You need not waste your breath, For I confess myself at once The author of her death.

And, oh! when I reflect upon The blood that I have spilt, Just like a button is my soul, Inscrib'd with double guilt!

Then turning round his head again, He saw before his eyes A great judge, and a little judge, The judges of a-size!

The great judge took his judgment cap, And put it on his head, And sentenc'd Tim by law to hang, 'Till he was three times dead.

So he was tried, and he was hung (Fit punishment for such) On Horsham-drop, and none can say It was a drop too much.



DEATH'S RAMBLE.[27]

[Footnote 27: Of course suggested by Coleridge and Southey's Devil's Walk. It is ablaze with wit and real imagination. Old nursery tales are not so well remembered in these days that it is superfluous to point out that the "fee" being a prelude to "faw" and "fum," is taken from the formula of the Ogre in Jack and the Bean-Stalk, whose usual preliminary to the slaughter of his victims was—

"Fee, Faw, Fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman!"]

One day the dreary old King of Death Inclined for some sport with the carnal, So he tied a pack of darts on his back, And quietly stole from his charnel.

His head was bald of flesh and of hair, His body was lean and lank, His joints at each stir made a crack, and the cur Took a gnaw, by the way, at his shank.

And what did he do with his deadly darts, This goblin of grisly bone? He dabbled and spill'd man's blood, and he kill'd Like a butcher that kills his own.

The first he slaughter'd, it made him laugh, (For the man was a coffin-maker,) To think how the mutes, and men in black suits, Would mourn for an undertaker.

Death saw two Quakers sitting at church, Quoth he, "We shall not differ." And he let them alone, like figures of stone, For he could not make them stiffer.

He saw two duellists going to fight, In fear they could not smother; And he shot one through at once—for he knew They never would shoot each other.

He saw a watchman fast in his box, And he gave a snore infernal; Said Death, "He may keep his breath, for his sleep Can never be more eternal."

He met a coachman driving his coach So slow, that his fare grew sick; But he let him stray on his tedious way, For Death only wars on the quick.

Death saw a toll-man taking a toll, In the spirit of his fraternity; But he knew that sort of man would extort, Though summon'd to all eternity.

He found an author writing his life, But he let him write no further; For Death, who strikes whenever he likes, Is jealous of all self-murther!

Death saw a patient that pull'd out his purse, And a doctor that took the sum; But he let them be—for he knew that the "fee" Was a prelude to "faw" and "fum."

He met a dustman ringing a bell, And he gave him a mortal thrust; For himself, by law, since Adam's flaw, Is contractor for all our dust.

He saw a sailor mixing his grog, And he marked him out for slaughter; For on water he scarcely had cared for Death, And never on rum-and-water.

Death saw two players playing at cards, But the game wasn't worth a dump, For he quickly laid them flat with a spade, To wait for the final trump!



A SAILOR'S APOLOGY FOR BOW-LEGS.

There's some is born with their straight legs by natur— And some is born with bow-legs from the first— And some that should have grow'd a good deal straighter, But they were badly nurs'd, And set, you see, like Bacchus, with their pegs Astride of casks and kegs: I've got myself a sort of bow to larboard, And starboard, And this is what it was that warp'd my legs.—

'Twas all along of Poll, as I may say, That foul'd my cable when I ought to slip; But on the tenth of May, When I gets under weigh, Down there in Hertfordshire, to join my ship, I sees the mail Get under sail, The only one there was to make the trip. Well—I gives chase, But as she run Two knots, to one, There warn't no use in keeping on the race!

Well—casting round about, what next to try on, And how to spin, I spies an ensign with a Bloody Lion, And bears away to leeward for the inn, Beats round the gable, And fetches up before the coach-horse stable: Well—there they stand, four kickers in a row. And so I just makes free to cut a brown 'un's cable. But riding isn't in a seaman's natur— So I whips out a toughish end of yarn, And gets a kind of sort of a land-waiter To splice me, heel to heel, Under the she-mare's keel, And off I goes, and leaves the inn a-starn!

My eyes! how she did pitch! And wouldn't keep her own to go in no line, Tho' I kept bowsing, bowsing at her bow-line, But always making lee-way to the ditch, And yaw'd her head about all sorts of ways. The devil sink the craft! And wasn't she trimendus slack in stays! We couldn't, no how, keep the inn abaft! Well—I suppose We hadn't run a knot—or much beyond— (What will you have on it?)—but off she goes, Up to her bends in a fresh-water pond! There I am!—all a-back! So I looks forward for her bridle-gears, To heave her head round on the t'other tack; But when I starts, The leather parts, And goes away right over by the ears!

What could a fellow do, Whose legs, like mine, you know, we're in the bilboes, But trim myself upright for bringing-to, And square his yard-arms, and brace up his elbows, In rig all snug and clever, Just while his craft was taking in her water? I didn't like my berth tho', howsomdever, Because the yarn, you see, kept getting tauter,— Says I—I wish this job was rayther shorter!

The chase had gain'd a mile A-head, and still the she-mare stood a-drinking; Now, all the while Her body didn't take of course to shrinking. Says I, she's letting out her reefs, I'm thinking— And so she swell'd, and swell'd, And yet the tackle held, 'Till both my legs began to bend like winkin. My eyes! but she took in enough to founder! And there's my timbers straining every bit, Ready to split, And her tarnation hull a-growing rounder!

Well, there—off Hertford Ness, We lay both lash'd and water-logg'd together, And can't contrive a signal of distress; Thinks I, we must ride out this here foul weather, Tho' sick of riding out—and nothing less; When, looking round, I sees a man a-starn:— Hollo! says I, come underneath her quarter!— And hands him out my knife to cut the yarn. So I gets off, and lands upon the road, And leaves the she-mare to her own consarn, A-standing by the water. If I get on another, I'll be blow'd!— And that's the way, you see, my legs got bow'd!



THE VOLUNTEER.

"The clashing of my armor in my ears Sounds like a passing bell; my buckler puts me In mind of a bier; this, my broadsword, a pickaxe To dig my grave."

THE LOVER'S PROGRESS.

I.

'Twas in that memorable year France threaten'd to put off in Flat-bottom'd boats, intending each To be a British coffin, To make sad widows of our wives, And every babe an orphan:—

II.

When coats were made of scarlet cloaks, And heads were dredg'd with flour, I listed in the Lawyer's Corps, Against the battle hour; A perfect Volunteer—for why? I brought my "will and pow'r."

III.

One dreary day—a day of dread, Like Cato's, over-cast— About the hour of six, (the morn And I were breaking fast,) There came a loud and sudden sound, That struck me all aghast!

IV.

A dismal sort of morning roll, That was not to be eaten; Although it was no skin of mine, But parchment that was beaten, I felt tattooed through all my flesh, Like any Otaheitan.

V.

My jaws with utter dread enclos'd The morsel I was munching, And terror lock'd them up so tight, My very teeth went crunching All through my bread and tongue at once, Like sandwich made at lunching.

VI.

My hand that held the tea-pot fast, Stiffen'd, but yet unsteady, Kept pouring, pouring, pouring o'er The cup in one long eddy, Till both my hose were marked with tea, As they were mark'd already.

VII.

I felt my visage turn from red To white—from cold to hot; But it was nothing wonderful My color changed, I wot, For, like some variable silks, I felt that I was shot.

VIII.

And looking forth with anxious eye, From my snug upper story, I saw our melancholy corps, Going to beds all gory; The pioneers seem'd very loth To axe their way to glory.

IX.

The captain march'd as mourners march, The ensign too seem'd lagging, And many more, although they were No ensigns, took to flagging— Like corpses in the Serpentine, Methought they wanted dragging.

X.

But while I watch'd, the thought of death Came like a chilly gust, And lo! I shut the window down, With very little lust To join so many marching men, That soon might be March dust.

XI.

Quoth I, "Since Fate ordains it so, Our foe the coast must land on";— I felt so warm beside the fire I cared not to abandon; Our hearths and homes are always things That patriots make a stand on.

XII.

"The fools that fight abroad for home," Thought I, "may get a wrong one; Let those who have no homes at all Go battle for a long one." The mirror here confirm'd me this Reflection, by a strong one.

XIII.

For there, where I was wont to shave, And deck me like Adonis, There stood the leader of our foes, With vultures for his armies— No Corsican, but Death himself, The Bony of all Bonies.

XIV.

A horrid sight it was, and sad, To see the grisly chap Put on my crimson livery, And then begin to clap My helmet on—ah me! it felt Like any felon's cap.

XV.

My plume seem'd borrow'd from a hearse, An undertaker's crest; My epaulette's like coffin-plates; My belt so heavy press'd, Four pipeclay cross-roads seem'd to lie At once upon my breast.

XVI.

My brazen breast-plate only lack'd A little heap of salt, To make me like a corpse full dress'd, Preparing for the vault— To set up what the Poet calls My everlasting halt.

XVII.

This funeral show inclined me quite To peace:—and here I am! Whilst better lions go to war, Enjoying with the lamb A lengthen'd life, that might have been A Martial Epigram.



THE EPPING HUNT.[28]

[Footnote 28: Originally published in 1830 in a thin duodecimo, with illustrations by George Cruikshank. It was while Hood was living at Winchmore Hill that he had the opportunity of noting the chief features of this once famous Civic Revel—the Easter Monday Hunt—even then in its decadence.]

ADVERTISEMENT.

Striding in the Steps of Strutt—The historian of the old English ports—the author of the following pages has endeavored to record a yearly revel, already fast hastening to decay. The Easter phase will soon be numbered with the pastimes of past times: its dogs will have had their day, and its Deer will be Fallow. A few more seasons, and this City Common Hunt will become uncommon.

In proof of this melancholy decadance, the ensuing epistle is inserted. It was penned by an underling at the Kells, a person more accustomed to riding than writing:—

"Sir,—About the Hunt. In anser to your Innqueries, their as been a great falling off laterally, so muches this year that there was nobody allmost. We did smear nothing provisionally, hardly a Bottle extra, wich is a proof in Pint. In short our Hunt may be said to be in the last Stag of a decline."

"I am, Sir," "With respects from your humble Servant,"

"BARTHOLOMEW RUTT."

"On Monday they began to hunt."—Chevy Chase.

John Huggins was as bold a man As trade did ever know, A warehouse good he had, that stood Hard by the church of Bow.

There people bought Dutch cheeses round, And single Glo'ster flat,— And English butter in a lump, And Irish—in a pat.

Six days a week beheld him stand, His business next his heart, At counter, with his apron tied About his counter-part.

The seventh, in a sluice-house box He took his pipe and pot; On Sundays, for eel-piety, A very noted spot.

Ah, blest if he had never gone Beyond its rural shed! One Easter-tide, some evil guide Put Epping in his head;

Epping, for butter justly famed, And pork in sausage pop't; Where, winter time or summer time, Pig's flesh is always chop't.

But famous more, as annals tell, Because of Easter Chase: There ev'ry year, 'twixt dog and deer, There is a gallant race.

With Monday's sun John Huggins rose, And slapt his leather thigh, And sang the burthen of the song, "This day a stag must die."

For all the livelong day before, And all the night in bed, Like Beckford, he had nourished "Thoughts On Hunting" in his head.

Of horn and morn, and hark and bark, And echo's answering sounds, All poets' wit hath ever writ In dog-rel verse of hounds.

Alas! there was no warning voice To whisper in his ear, Thou art a fool in leaping Cheap To go and hunt the deer!

No thought he had of twisted spine, Or broken arms or legs; Not chicken-hearted he, altho' T'was whispered of his egg!

Ride out he would, and hunt he would, Nor dreamt of ending ill; Mayhap with Dr. Ridout's fee, And Surgeon Hunter's bill.

So he drew on his Sunday boots, Of lustre superfine; The liquid black they wore that day Was Warren-ted to shine.

His yellow buckskins fitted close, As once upon a stag; Thus well equipt he gaily skipt, At once, upon his nag.

But first to him that held the rein A crown he nimbly flung: For holding of the horse?—why, no— For holding of his tongue.

To say the horse was Huggins' own, Would only be a brag; His neighbor Fig and he went halves, Like Centaurs, in a nag.

And he that day had got the gray, Unknown to brother cit; The horse he knew would never tell, Altho' it was a tit.

A well-bred horse he was, I wis, As he began to show, By quickly "rearing up within The way he ought to go."

But Huggins, like a wary man, Was ne'er from saddle cast; Resolved, by going very slow, On sitting very fast.

And so he jogged to Tot'n'am Cross, An ancient town well known, Where Edward wept for Eleanor In mortar and in stone.

A royal game of fox and goose, To play on such a loss; Wherever she set down her orts, Thereby he put a cross.

Now Huggins had a crony here, That lived beside the way; One that had promised sure to be His comrade for the day.

Whereas the man had changed his mind, Meanwhile upon the case! And meaning not to hunt at all, Had gone to Enfield Chase.

For why, his spouse had made him vow To let a game alone, Where folks that ride a bit of blood May break a bit of bone.

"Now, be his wife a plague for life! A coward sure is he": Then Huggins turned his horse's head, And crossed the bridge of Lea.

Thence slowly on thro' Laytonstone, Past many a Quaker's box,— No friends to hunters after deer, Tho' followers of a Fox.

And many a score behind—before— The self-same route inclined, And, minded all to march one way, Made one great march of mind.

Gentle and simple, he and she, And swell, and blood, and prig; And some had carts, and some a chaise, According to their gig.

Some long-eared jacks, some knacker's hacks, (However odd it sounds), Let out that day to hunt, instead Of going to the hounds!

And some had horses of their own, And some were forced to job it: And some, while they inclined to Hunt, Betook themselves to Cob-it.

All sorts of vehicles and vans, Bad, middling, and the smart; Here rolled along the gay barouche, And there a dirty cart!

And lo! a cart that held a squad Of costermonger line; With one poor hack, like Pegasus, That slaved for all the Nine!

Yet marvel not at any load, That any horse might drag, When all, that morn, at once were drawn Together by a stag!

Now when they saw John Huggins go At such a sober pace; "Hallo!" cried they; "come, trot away, You'll never see the chase!"

But John, as grave as any judge, Made answer quite as blunt; "It will be time enough to trot, When I begin to hunt!"

And so he paced to Woodford Wells, Where many a horseman met, And letting go the reins, of course, Prepared for heavy wet.

And lo! within the crowded door, Stood Rounding, jovial elf; Here shall the Muse frame no excuse, But frame the man himself.

A snow-white head, a merry eye, A cheek of jolly blush; A claret tint laid on by health, With Master Reynard's brush;

A hearty frame, a courteous bow, The prince he learned it from; His age about threescore and ten, And there you have Old Tom.

In merriest key I trow was he, So many guests to boast; So certain congregations meet, And elevate the host.

"Now welcome lads," quoth he, "and prads, You're all in glorious luck: Old Robin has a run to-day, A noted forest buck.

"Fair Mead's the place, where Bob and Tom In red already ride; 'Tis but a step, and on a horse You soon may go a-stride."

So off they scampered, man and horse, As time and temper pressed— But Huggins, hitching on a tree, Branched off from all the rest.

Howbeit he tumbled down in time To join with Tom and Bob, All in Fair Mead, which held that day Its own fair mead of mob.

Idlers to wit—no Guardians some, Of Tattlers in a squeeze; Ramblers in heavy carts and vans, Spectators up in trees.

Butchers on backs of butchers' hacks, That shambled to and fro! Bakers intent upon a buck, Neglectful of the dough!

Change Alley Bears to speculate, As usual, for a fall; And green and scarlet runners, such As never climbed a wall!

'Twas strange to think what difference A single creature made; A single stag had caused a whole Stagnation in their trade.

Now Huggins from his saddle rose, And in the stirrups stood: And lo! a little cart that came Hard by a little wood.

In shape like half a hearse,—tho' not For corpses in the least; For this contained the deer alive, And not the dear deceased!

And now began a sudden stir, And then a sudden shout, The prison-doors were opened wide, And Robin bounded out!

His antlered head shone blue and red, Bedecked with ribbons fine; Like other bucks that come to 'list The hawbucks in the line.

One curious gaze of mild amaze, He turned and shortly took; Then gently ran adown the mead, And bounded o'er the brook.

Now Huggins, standing far aloof, Had never seen the deer, Till all at once he saw the beast Come charging in his rear.

Away he went, and many a score Of riders did the same, On horse and ass—like high and low And Jack pursuing game!

Good Lord! to see the riders now, Thrown off with sudden whirl, A score within the purling brook, Enjoyed their "early purl."

A score were sprawling on the grass, And beavers fell in showers; There was another Floorer there Beside the Queen of Flowers!

Some lost their stirrups, some their whips, Some had no caps to show; But few, like Charles at Charing Cross, Rode on in Statue quo.

"O dear! O dear!" now might you hear, "I've surely broke a bone"; "My head is sore,"—with many more Such speeches from the thrown.

Howbeit their wailings never moved The wide Satanic clan, Who grinned, as once the Devil grinned, To see the fall of Man.

And hunters good, that understood, Their laughter knew no bounds, To see the horses "throwing off," So long before the hounds.

For deer must have due course of law, Like men the Courts among; Before those Barristers the dogs Proceed to "giving tongue."

And now Old Robin's foes were set That fatal taint to find, That always is scent after him, Yet always left behind.

And here observe how dog and man, A different temper shows, What hound resents that he is sent To follow his own nose?

Towler and Jowler—howlers all, No single tongue was mute; The stag had led a hart, and lo! The whole pack followed suit.

No spur he lacked, fear stuck a knife And fork in either haunch; And every dog he knew had got An eye-tooth to his paunch!

Away, away! he scudded like A ship before the gale; Now flew to "hills we know not of," Now, nun-like, took the vale.

Another squadron charging now, Went off at furious pitch;— A perfect Tam o' Shanter mob, Without a single witch.

But who was he with flying skirts, A hunter did endorse, And like a poet seemed to ride Upon a winged horse,—

A whipper-in?—no whipper-in: A huntsman? no such soul. A connoisseur, or amateur? Why yes,—a Horse Patrol.

A member of police, for whom The county found a nag, And, like Acteon in the tale, He found himself in stag!

Away they went then, dog and deer, And hunters all away,— The maddest horses never knew Mad staggers such as they!

Some gave a shout, some rolled about, And anticked as they rode, And butchers whistled on their curs, And milkmen tally-hoed.

About two score there were, not more, That galloped in the race; The rest, alas! lay on the grass, As once in Chevy Chase!

But even those that galloped on Were fewer every minute,— The field kept getting more select, Each thicket served to thin it.

For some pulled up, and left the hunt, Some fell in miry bogs, And vainly rose and "ran a muck," To overtake the dogs.

And some, in charging hurdle stakes, Were left bereft of sense— What else could be premised of blades That never learned to fence?

But Roundings, Tom and Bob, no gate, Nor hedge, nor ditch, could stay; O'er all they went, and did the work Of leap years in a day.

And by their side see Huggins ride, As fast as he could speed; For, like Mazeppa, he was quite At mercy of his steed.

No means he had, by timely check, The gallop to remit, For firm and fast, between his teeth, The biter held the bit.

Trees raced along, all Essex fled Beneath him as he sate,— He never saw a county go At such a county rate!

"Hold hard! hold hard! you'll lame the dogs," Quoth Huggins, "So I do,— I've got the saddle well in hand, And hold as hard as you!"

Good Lord! to see him ride along, And throw his arms about, As if with stitches in the side, That he was drawing out!

And now he bounded up and down, Now like a jelly shook: Till bumped and galled—yet not where Gall For bumps did ever look!

And rowing with his legs the while, As tars are apt to ride, With every kick he gave a prick, Deep in the horse's side!

But soon the horse was well avenged For cruel smart of spurs, For, riding through a moor, he pitched His master in a furze!

Where sharper set than hunger is He squatted all forlorn; And like a bird was singing out While sitting on a thorn!

Right glad was he, as well might be, Such cushion to resign: "Possession is nine points," but his Seemed more than ninety-nine.

Yet worse than all the prickly points That entered in his skin, His nag was running off the while The thorns were running in!

Now had a Papist seen his sport, Thus laid upon the shelf, Altho' no horse he had to cross, He might have crossed himself.

Yet surely still the wind is ill That none can say is fair; A jolly wight there was, that rode Upon a sorry mare!

A sorry mare, that surely came Of pagan blood and bone; For down upon her knees she went To many a stock and stone!

Now seeing Huggins' nag adrift, This farmer, shrewd and sage, Resolved, by changing horses here, To hunt another stage!

Tho' felony, yet who would let Another's horse alone, Whose neck is placed in jeopardy By riding on his own?

And yet the conduct of the man Seemed honest-like and fair; For he seemed willing, horse and all, To go before the mare!

So up on Huggins' horse he got, And swiftly rode away, While Hugging mounted on the mare, Done brown upon a bay!

And off they set, in double chase, For such was fortune's whim, The farmer rode to hunt the stag, And Huggins hunted him!

Alas! with one that rode so well In vain it was to strive; A dab was he, as dabs should be— All leaping and alive!

And here of Nature's kindly care Behold a curious proof, As nags are meant to leap, she puts A frog in every hoof!

Whereas the mare, altho' her share She had of hoof and frog, On coming to a gate stopped short As stiff as any log;

Whilst Huggins in the stirrup stood With neck like neck of crane, As sings the Scottish song—"to see The gate his hart had gane."

And lo! the dim and distant hunt Diminished in a trice: The steeds, like Cinderella's team, Seemed dwindling into mice;

And, far remote, each scarlet coat Soon flitted like a spark,— Tho' still the forest murmured back An echo of the bark!

But sad at soul John Huggins turned: No comfort could he find; While thus the "Hunting Chorus" sped, To stay five bars behind.

For tho' by dint of spur he got A leap in spite of fate— Howbeit there was no toll at all, They could not clear the gate.

And, like Fitzjames, he cursed the hunt, And sorely cursed the day, And mused a new Gray's elegy On his departed gray!

Now many a sign at Woodford town Its Inn-vitation tells: But Huggins, full of ills, of course, Betook him to the Wells,

Where Rounding tried to cheer him up With many a merry laugh, But Huggins thought of neighbor Fig, And called for half-and-half.

Yet, 'spite of drink, he could not blink Remembrance of his loss; To drown a care like his, required Enough to drown a horse.

When thus forlorn, a merry horn Struck up without the door,— The mounted mob were all returned; The Epping Hunt was o'er!

And many a horse was taken out Of saddle, and of shaft; And men, by dint of drink, became The only "beasts of draught."

For now begun a harder run On wine, and gin, and beer; And overtaken man discussed The overtaken deer.

How far he ran, and eke how fast, And how at bay he stood, Deer-like, resolved to sell his life As dearly as he could;

And how the hunters stood aloof, Regardful of their lives, And shunned a beast, whose very horns They knew could handle knives!

How Huggins stood when he was rubbed By help and ostler kind, And when they cleaned the clay before, How worse "remained behind."

And one, how he had found a horse Adrift—a goodly gray! And kindly rode the nag, for fear The nag should go astray.

Now Huggins, when he heard the tale, Jumped up with sudden glee; "A goodly gray! why, then, I say That gray belongs to me!

"Let me endorse again my horse, Delivered safe and sound; And, gladly, I will give the man A bottle and a pound!"

The wine was drunk,—the money paid, Tho' not without remorse, To pay another man so much, For riding on his horse.

And let the chase again take place, For many a long, long year, John Huggins will not ride again To hunt the Epping Deer!

MORAL.

Thus pleasure oft eludes our grasp, Just when we think to grip her; And hunting after happiness, We only hunt a slipper.



THE DROWNING DUCKS.

Amongst the sights that Mrs. Bond Enjoyed yet grieved at more than others, Were little ducklings in a pond, Swimming about beside their mothers— Small things like living water-lilies, But yellow as the daffo-dillies.

"It's very hard," she used to moan, "That other people have their ducklings To grace their waters—mine alone Have never any pretty chucklings." For why!—each little yellow navy Went down—all downy—to old Davy!

She had a lake—a pond, I mean— Its wave was rather thick than pearly— She had two ducks, their napes were green— She had a drake, his tail was curly,— Yet 'spite of drake, and ducks, and pond, No little ducks had Mrs. Bond!

The birds were both the best of mothers— The nests had eggs—the eggs had luck— The infant D's came forth like others— But there, alas! the matter stuck! They might as well have all died addle As die when they began to paddle!

For when, as native instinct taught her, The mother set her brood afloat, They sank ere long right under water, Like any overloaded boat; They were web-footed too to see, As ducks and spiders ought to be!

No peccant humor in a gander Brought havoc on her little folks,— No poaching cook—a frying pander To appetite,—destroyed their yolks,— Beneath her very eyes, Od rot 'em! They went, like plummets, to the bottom.

The thing was strange—a contradiction It seemed of nature and her works! For little ducks, beyond conviction, Should float without the help of corks: Great Johnson, it bewildered him! To hear of ducks that could not swim.

Poor Mrs. Bond! what could she do But change the breed—and she tried divers Which dived as all seemed born to do; No little ones were e'er survivors— Like those that copy gems, I'm thinking, They all were given to die-sinking!

In vain their downy coats were shorn; They floundered still!—Batch after batch went! The little fools seemed only born And hatched for nothing but a hatchment! Whene'er they launched—oh, sight of wonder! Like fires the water "got them under."

No woman ever gave their lucks A better chance than Mrs. Bond did; At last quite out of heart and ducks, She gave her pond up, and desponded; For Death among the water-lilies, Cried "Duc ad me" to all her dillies!

But though resolved to breed no more, She brooded often on this riddle— Alas! 'twas darker than before! At last about the summer's middle, What Johnson, Mrs. Bond, or none did, To clear the matter up the Sun did!

The thirsty Sirius dog-like drank So deep, his furious tongue to cool, The shallow waters sank and sank, And lo, from out the wasted pool, Too hot to hold them any longer, There crawled some eels as big as conger!

I wish all folks would look a bit, In such a case below the surface; And when the eels were caught and split By Mrs. Bond, just think of her face, In each inside at once to spy A duckling turned to giblet-pie!

The sight at once explained the case, Making the Dame look rather silly: The tenants of that Eely Place Had found the way to Pick a dilly, And so, by under-water suction, Had wrought the little ducks' abduction.



A STORM AT HASTINGS,

AND THE LITTLE UNKNOWN.

'Twas August—Hastings every day was filling— Hastings, that "greenest spot on memory's waste"! With crowds of idlers willing and unwilling To be bedipped—be noticed—or be braced, And all things rose a penny in a shilling. Meanwhile, from window, and from door, in haste "Accommodation bills" kept coming down, Gladding "the world of-letters" in that town.

Each day poured in new coachfuls of new cits, Flying from London smoke and dust annoying, Unmarried Misses hoping to make hits, And new-wed couples fresh from Tunbridge toying, Lacemen and placemen, ministers and wits, And Quakers of both sexes, much enjoying A morning's reading by the ocean's rim, That sect delighting in the sea's broad brim.

And lo! amongst all these appeared a creature, So small, he almost might a twin have been With Miss Crachami—dwarfish quite in stature, Yet well proportioned—neither fat nor lean, His face of marvellously pleasant feature, So short and sweet a man was never seen— All thought him charming at the first beginning— Alas, ere long they found him far too winning!

He seemed in love with chance—and chance repaid His ardent passion with her fondest smile, The sunshine of good luck, without a shade, He staked and won—and won and staked—the bile It stirred of many a man and many a maid, To see at every venture how that vile Small gambler snatched—and how he won them too— A living Pam, omnipotent at loo!

Miss Wiggins set her heart upon a box, 'Twas handsome rosewood, and inlaid with brass, And dreamt three times she garnished it with stocks Of needles, silks, and cottons—but, alas! She lost it wide awake. We thought Miss Cox Was lucky—but she saw three caddies pass To that small imp;—no living luck could loo him! Sir Stamford would have lost his Raffles to him!

And so he climbed—and rode—and won—and walked, The wondrous topic of the curious swarm That haunted the Parade. Many were balked Of notoriety by that small form Pacing it up and down: some even talked Of ducking him—when lo! a dismal storm Stopped in—one Friday, at the close of day— And every head was turned another way—

Watching the grander guest. It seemed to rise Bulky and slow upon the southern brink Of the horizon—fanned by sultry sighs— So black and threatening, I cannot think Of any simile, except the skies Miss Wiggins sometimes shades in Indian ink— Mis-shapen blotches of such heavy vapor, They seem a deal more solid than her paper.

As for the sea, it did not fret, and rave, And tear its waves to tatters, and so dash on The stony-hearted beach;—some bards would have It always rampant, in that idle fashion— Whereas the waves rolled in, subdued and grave, Like schoolboys, when the master's in a passion, Who meekly settle in and take their places, With a very quiet awe on all their faces.

Some love to draw the ocean with a head, Like troubled table-beer—and make it bounce, And froth, and roar, and fling—but this, I've said, Surged in scarce rougher than a lady's flounce: But then, a grander contrast thus it bred With the wild welkin, seeming to pronounce Something more awful in the serious ear, As one would whisper that a lion's near—

Who just begins to roar: so the hoarse thunder Growled long—but low—a prelude note of death, As if the stifling clouds yet kept it under, But still it muttered to the sea beneath Such a continued peal, as made us wonder It did not pause more oft to take its breath, Whilst we were panting with the sultry weather, And hardly cared to wed two words together,

But watched the surly advent of the storm, Much as the brown-cheeked planters of Barbadoes Must watch a rising of the Negro swarm: Meantime it steered, like Odin's old Armadas, Right on our coast;—a dismal, coal-black form; Many proud gaits were quelled—and all bravadoes Of folly ceased—and sundry idle jokers Went home to cover up their tongs and pokers.

So fierce the lightning flashed. In all their days The oldest smugglers had not seen such flashing, And they are used to many a pretty blaze, To keep their Hollands from an awkward clashing With hostile cutters in our creeks and bays: And truly one could think, without much lashing The fancy, that those coasting clouds, so awful And black, were fraught with spirits as unlawful.

The gay Parade grew thin—all the fair crowd Vanished—as if they knew their own attractions,— For now the lightning through a near-hand cloud Began to make some very crooked fractions— Only some few remained that were not cowed, A few rough sailors, who had been in actions, And sundry boatmen, that with quick yeo's, Lest it should blow,—were pulling up the Rose:

(No flower, but a boat)—some more were hauling The Regent by the head:—another crew With that same cry peculiar to their calling— Were heaving up the Hope:—and as they knew The very gods themselves oft get a mauling In their own realms, the seamen wisely drew The Neptune rather higher on the beach, That he might lie beyond his billows' reach.

And now the storm, with its despotic power, Had all usurped the azure of the skies, Making our daylight darker by an hour, And some few drops—of an unusual size— Few and distinct—scarce twenty to the shower, Fell like huge teardrops from a giant's eyes— But then this sprinkle thickened in a trice And rained much harder—in good solid ice.

Oh for a very storm of words to show How this fierce crash of hail came rushing o'er us! Handel would make the gusty organs blow Grandly, and a rich storm in music score us:— But ev'n his music seemed composed and low, When we were handled by this Hailstone Chorus; Whilst thunder rumbled, with its awful sound, And frozen comfits rolled along the ground—

As big as bullets:—Lord! how they did batter Our crazy tiles:—and now the lightning flashed Alternate with the dark, until the latter Was rarest of the two!—the gust too dashed So terribly, I thought the hail must shatter Some panes,—and so it did—and first it smashed The very square where I had chose my station To watch the general illumination.

Another, and another, still came in, And fell in jingling ruin at my feet, Making transparent holes that let me win Some samples of the storm:—Oh! it was sweet To think I had a shelter for my skin, Culling them through these "loopholes of retreat"— Which in a little we began to glaze— Chiefly with a jacktowel and some baize!

But which, the cloud had passed o'erhead, but played Its crooked fires in constant flashes still, Just in our rear, as though it had arrayed Its heavy batteries at Fairlight Mill, So that it lit the town, and grandly made The rugged features of the Castle Hill Leap, like a birth, from chaos into light, And then relapse into the gloomy night—

As parcel of the cloud;—the clouds themselves, Like monstrous crags and summits everlasting, Piled each on each in most gigantic shelves, That Milton's devils were engaged in blasting. We could e'en fancy Satan and his elves Busy upon those crags, and ever casting Huge fragments loose,—and that we felt the sound They made in falling to the startled ground.

And so the tempest scowled away,—and soon Timidly shining through its skirts of jet, We saw the rim of the pacific moon, Like a bright fish entangled in a net, Flashing its silver sides,—how sweet a boon Seemed her sweet light, as though it would beget, With that fair smile, a calm upon the seas— Peace in the sky—and coolness in the breeze!

Meantime the hail had ceased:—and all the brood Of glaziers stole abroad to count their gains; At every window there were maids who stood Lamenting o'er the glass's small remains,— Or with coarse linens made the fractions good, Stanching the wind in all the wounded panes,— Or, holding candles to the panes, in doubt The wind resolved—blowing the candles out.

No house was whole that had a southern front,— No greenhouse but the same mishap befell; Bow-windows and bell-glasses bore the brunt,— No sex in glass was spared!—For those who dwell On each hill-side, you might have swum a punt In any of their parlors;—Mrs. Snell Was slopped out of her seat,—and Mr. Hitchin Had a flower-garden washed into a Kitchen.

But still the sea was mild, and quite disclaimed The recent violence.—Each after each The gentle waves a gentle murmur framed, Tapping, like woodpeckers, the hollow beach. Howbeit his weather eye the seaman aimed Across the calm, and hinted by his speech A gale next morning—and when morning broke, There was a gale—"quite equal to bespoke."

Before high water—(it were better far To christen it not water then, but waiter, For then the tide is serving at the bar) Rose such a swell—I never saw one greater! Black, jagged billows rearing up in war Like ragged roaring bears against the baiter, With lots of froth upon the shingle shed, Like stout poured out with a fine beachy head.

No open boat was open to a fare, Or launched that morn on seven-shilling trips; No bathing woman waded—none would dare A dipping in the wave—but waived their dips; No seagull ventured on the stormy air, And all the dreary coast was clear of ships; For two lea shores upon the River Lea Are not so perilous as one at sea.

Awe-struck we sat, and gazed upon the scene Before us in such horrid hurly-burly,— A boiling ocean of mixed black and green, A sky of copper color, grim and surly,— When lo, in that vast hollow scooped between Two rolling Alps of water,—white and curly! We saw a pair of little arms a-skimming, Much like a first or last attempt at swimming!

Sometimes a hand—sometimes a little shoe— Sometime a skirt—sometimes a hank of hair Just like a dabbled seaweed rose to view, Sometimes a knee—sometimes a back was bare— At last a frightful summerset he threw Right on the shingles. Any one could swear The lad was dead—without a chance of perjury, And battered by the surge beyond all surgery!

However, we snatched up the corse thus thrown, Intending, Christian-like, to sod and turf it, And after venting Pity's sigh and groan, Then curiosity began with her fit; And lo! the features of the Small Unknown! 'Twas he that of the surf had had this surfeit! And in his fob, the cause of late monopolies, We found a contract signed with Mephistopheles!

A bond of blood, whereby the sinner gave His forfeit soul to Satan in reversion, Providing in this world he was to have A lordship over luck, by whose exertion He might control the course of cards and brave All throws of dice,—but on a sea excursion The juggling demon, in his usual vein, Seized the last cast—and Nicked him in the main!



LINES TO A LADY.[29]

[Footnote 29: A parody of John Hamilton Reynolds's once popular lines, beginning—

"Go, where the water glideth gently ever,"]

ON HER DEPARTURE FOR INDIA.

Go where the waves run rather Holborn-hilly, And tempest make a soda-water sea, Almost as rough as our rough Piccadilly, And think of me!

Go where the mild Madeira ripens her juice,— A wine more praised than it deserves to be! Go pass the Cape, just capable of ver-juice, And think of me!

Go where the tiger in the darkness prowleth, Making a midnight meal of he and she; Go where the lion in his hunger howleth, And think of me!

Go where the serpent dangerously coileth, Or lies along at full length like a tree, Go where the Suttee in her own soot broileth, And think of me!

Go where with human notes the parrot dealeth In mono-polly-logue with tongue as free, And, like a woman, all she can revealeth, And think of me!

Go to the land of muslin and nankeening, And parasols of straw where hats should be, Go to the land of slaves and palankeening, And think of me!

Go to the land of jungles and of vast hills, And tall bamboos—may none bamboozle thee! Go gaze upon their elephants and castles, And think of me!

Go where a cook must always be a currier, And parch the peppered palate like a pea, Go where the fierce mosquito is a worrier, And think of me!

Go where the maiden on a marriage plan goes, Consigned for wedlock to Calcutta's quay, Where woman goes for mart, the same as mangoes, And think of me!

Go where the sun is very hot and fervent, Go to the land of pagod and rupee, Where every black will be your slave and servant, And think of me!



THE ANGLER'S FAREWELL.

"Resigned, I kissed the rod."

Well! I think it is time to put up! For it does not accord with my notions, Wrist, elbow, and chine, Stiff from throwing the line, To take nothing at last by my motions!

I ground-bait my way as I go, And dip in at each watery dimple; But however I wish To inveigle the fish, To my gentle they will not play simple!

Though my float goes so swimmingly on, My bad luck never seems to diminish; It would seem that the Bream Must be scarce in the stream, And the Chub, tho' it's chubby, be thinnish!

Not a Trout there can be in the place, Not a Grayling or Rud worth the mention, And although at my hook With attention I look, I can ne'er see my hook with a Tench on!

At a brandling once Gudgeon would gape, But they seem upon different terms now; Have they taken advice Of the "Council of Nice," And rejected their "Diet of Worms," now?

In vain my live minnow I spin, Not a Pike seems to think it worth snatching; For the gut I have brought, I had better have bought A good rope that was used to Jack-ketching!

Not a nibble has ruffled my cork, It is vain in this river to search then; I may wait till it's night, Without any bite And at roost-time have never a Perch then!

No Roach can I meet with—no Bleak, Save what in the air is so sharp now; Not a Dace have I got, And I fear it is not "Carpe diem," a day for the Carp now!

Oh! there is not a one-pound prize To be got in this fresh-water-lottery! What then can I deem Of so fishless a stream But that 'tis—like St. Mary's—Ottery!

For an Eel I have learned how to try, By a method of Walton's own showing— But a fisherman feels Little prospect of Eels, In a path that's devoted to towing!

I have tried all the water for miles, Till I'm weary of dipping and casting, And hungry and faint— Let the Fancy just paint What it is, without Fish, to be Fasting!

And the rain drizzles down very fast, While my dinner-time sounds from a far bell— So, wet to the skin, I'll e'en back to my inn, Where at least I am sure of a Bar-bell!



ODE

TO THE ADVOCATES FOR THE REMOVAL OF SMITH-FIELD MARKET.

"Sweeping our flocks and herds."—DOUGLAS.

O Philanthropic men!— For this address I need not make apology— Who aim at clearing out the Smithfield pen, And planting further off its vile Zoology— Permit me thus to tell, I like your efforts well, For routing that great nest of Hornithology!

Be not dismay'd, although repulsed at first, And driven from their Horse, and Pig, and Lamb parts, Charge on!—you shall upon their hornworks burst, And carry all their Bull-warks and their Ram-parts.

Go on, ye wholesale drovers! And drive away the Smithfield flocks and herds! As wild as Tartar-Curds, That come so fat, and kicking, from their clovers; Off with them all!—those restive brutes, that vex Our streets, and plunge, and lunge, and butt, and battle; And save the female sex From being cow'd—like Ioe—by the cattle!

Fancy,—when droves appear on The hill of Holborn, roaring from its top,— Your ladies—ready, as they own, to drop, Taking themselves to Thomson's with a Fear-on!

Or, in St. Martin's Lane, Scared by a Bullock, in a frisky vein,— Fancy the terror of your timid daughters, While rushing souse Into a coffee-house, To find it—Slaughter's!

Or fancy this:— Walking along the street, some stranger Miss, Her head with no such thought of danger laden, When suddenly 'tis "Aries Taurus Virgo!"— You don't know Latin, I translate it ergo, Into your Areas a Bull throws the Maiden!

Think of some poor old crone Treated, just like a penny, with a toss! At that vile spot now grown So generally known For making a Cow Cross!

Nay, fancy your own selves far off from stall, Or shed, or shop—and that an Ox infuriate Just pins you to the wall, Giving you a strong dose of Oxy-Muriate!

Methinks I hear the neighbors that live round The Market-ground Thus make appeal unto their civic fellows— "'Tis well for you that live apart—unable To hear this brutal Babel, But our firesides are troubled with their bellows."

"Folks that too freely sup Must e'en put up With their own troubles if they can't digest; But we must needs regard The case as hard That others' victuals should disturb our rest, That from our sleep your food should start and jump us! We like, ourselves, a steak, But, Sirs, for pity's sake! We don't want oxen at our doors to rump-us!"

"If we do doze—it really is too bad! We constantly are roar'd awake or rung, Through bullocks mad That run in all the 'Night Thoughts' of our Young!"

Such are the woes of sleepers—now let's take The woes of those that wish to keep a Wake! O think! when Wombwell gives his annual feasts, Think of these "Bulls of Basan," far from mild ones; Such fierce tame beasts, That nobody much cares to see the Wild ones!

Think of the Show woman, "what shows a Dwarf," Seeing a red Cow come To swallow her Tom Thumb, And forc'd with broom of birch to keep her off!

Think, too, of Messrs. Richardson and Co., When looking at their public private boxes, To see in the back row Three live sheep's heads, a porker's, and an Ox's! Think of their Orchestra, when two horns come Through, to accompany the double drum!

Or, in the midst of murder and remorses, Just when the Ghost is certain, A great rent in the curtain, And enter two tall skeletons—of Horses!

Great Philanthropics! pray urge these topics Upon the Solemn Councils of the Nation, Get a Bill soon, and give, some noon, The Bulls, a Bull of Excommunication! Let the old Fair have fair play, as its right, And to each Show and sight Ye shall be treated with a Free List latitude; To Richardson's Stage Dramas, Dio—and Cosmo—ramas, Giants and Indians wild, Dwarf, Sea Bear, and Fat Child, And that most rare of Shows—a Show of Gratitude!



A REPORT FROM BELOW!

"Blow high, blow low."—SEA SONG.

As Mister B. and Mistress B. One night were sitting down to tea, With toast and muffins hot— They heard a loud and sudden bounce, That made the very china flounce, They could not for a time pronounce If they were safe or shot— For Memory brought a deed to match At Deptford done by night— Before one eye appeared a Patch, In t'other eye a Blight!

To be belabor'd at of life, Without some small attempt at strife, Our nature will not grovel; One impulse hadd both man and dame, He seized the tongs—she did the same, Leaving the ruffian, if he came, The poker and the shovel. Suppose the couple standing so, When rushing footsteps from below Made pulses fast and fervent; And first burst in the frantic cat, All steaming like a brewer's rat, And then—as white as my cravat— Poor Mary May, the servant! Lord, how the couple's teeth did chatter, Master and Mistress both flew at her, "Speak! Fire? or Murder? What's the matter?" Till Mary, getting breath, Upon her tale began to touch With rapid tongue, full trotting, such As if she thought she had too much To tell before her death:—

"We was both, Ma'am, in the wash-house. Ma'am, a-standing at our tubs, And Mrs. Round was seconding what little things I rubs; 'Mary,' says she to me, 'I say'—and there she stops for coughin, 'That dratted copper flue has took to smokin very often, But please the pigs,'—for that's her way of swearing in a passion, I'll blow it up, and not be set a coughin in this fashion! Well down she takes my master's horn—I mean his horn for loading, And empties every grain alive for to set the flue exploding. Lawk, Mrs. Round! says I, and stares, that quantum is unproper, I'm sartin sure it can't not take a pound to sky a copper; You'll powder both our heads off, so I tells you, with its puff, But she only dried her fingers, and she takes a pinch of snuff. Well, when the pinch is over—'Teach your Grandmother to suck A powder horn,' says she—Well, says I, I wish you luck. Them words sets up her back, so with her hands upon her hips, 'Come,' says she, quite in a huff, 'come, keep your tongue inside your lips; Afore ever you was born, I was well used to things like these; I shall put it in the grate, and let it burn up by degrees. So in it goes, and Bounce—O Lord! it gives us such a rattle, I thought we both were cannonized, like Sogers in a battle! Up goes the copper like a squib, and us on both our backs, And bless the tubs, they bundled off, and split all into cracks. Well, there I fainted dead away, and might have been cut shorter, But Providence was kind, and brought me to with scalding water. I first looks round for Mrs. Round, and sees her at a distance, As stiff as starch, and looked as dead as any thing in existence; All scorched and grimed, and more than that, I sees the copper slap Right on her head, for all the world like a percussion copper cap. Well, I crooks her little fingers, and crumps them well up together, As humanity pints out, and burnt her nostrums with a feather; But for all as I can do, to restore her to her mortality, She never gives a sign of a return to sensuality. Thinks I, well there she lies, as dead as my own late departed mother, Well, she'll wash no more in this world, whatever she does in t'other. So I gives myself to scramble up the linens for a minute, Lawk, sich a shirt! thinks I, it's well my master wasn't in it; Oh! I never, never, never, never, never, see a sight so shockin; Here lays a leg, and there a leg—I mean, you know, a stocking— Bodies all slit and torn to rags, and many a tattered skirt, And arms burnt off, and sides and backs all scotched and black with dirt; But as nobody was in 'em—none but—nobody was hurt! Well, there I am, a-scrambling up the things, all in a lump, When, mercy on us! such a groan as makes my heart to jump. And there she is, a-lying with a crazy sort of eye, A-staring at the wash-house roof, laid open to the sky: Then she beckons with a finger, and so down to her I reaches, And puts my ear agin her mouth to hear her dying speeches, For, poor soul! she has a husband and young orphans, as I knew; Well, Ma'am, you won't believe it, but it's Gospel fact and true, But these words is all she whispered—'Why, where is the powder blew?'"



"I'M NOT A SINGLE MAN."[30]

[Footnote 30: Written in the album of Miss Smith, daughter of Mr. Horace Smith, of the Rejected Addresses. Miss Smith happily still survives to show her friends with pride these admirable verses, inscribed in Hood's neat and clear handwriting.]

LINES WRITTEN IN A YOUNG LADY'S ALBUM.

A pretty task, Miss S——, to ask A Benedictine pen, That cannot quite at freedom write Like those of other men.

No lover's plaint my muse must paint To fill this page's span, But be correct and recollect I'm not a single man.

Pray only think, for pen and ink How hard to get along, That may not turn on words that burn Or Love, the life of song!

Nine Muses, if I chooses, I May woo all in a clan, But one Miss S—— I daren't address— I'm not a single man.

Scribblers unwed, with little head May eke it out with heart, And in their lays it often plays A rare first-fiddle part.

They make a kiss to rhyme with bliss, But if I so began, I have my fears about my ears— I'm not a single man.

Upon your cheek I may not speak, Nor on your lip be warm, I must be wise about your eyes, And formal with your form;

Of all that sort of thing, in short, On T.H. Bayly's plan, I must not twine a single line— I'm not a single man.

A watchman's part compels my heart To keep you off its beat, And I might dare as soon to swear At you, as at your feet.

I can't expire in passion's fire As other poets can— My life (she's by) won't let me die— I'm not a single man.

Shut out from love, denied a dove, Forbidden bow and dart, Without a groan to call my own, With neither hand nor heart;

To Hymen vow'd, and not allow'd To flirt e'en with your fan, Here end, as just a friend, I must— I'm not a single man.



THE SUPPER SUPERSTITION.

A PATHETIC BALLAD.

"Oh flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified!"—MERCUTIO

I.

'Twas twelve o'clock by Chelsea chimes, When all in hungry trim, Good Mister Jupp sat down to sup With wife, and Kate, and Jim.

II.

Said he, "Upon this dainty cod How bravely I shall sup"— When, whiter than the tablecloth, A GHOST came rising up!

III.

"O father dear, O mother dear, Dear Kate, and brother Jim— You know when some one went to sea— Don't cry—but I am him!"

IV.

"You hope some day with fond embrace To greet your absent Jack, But oh, I am come here to say I'm never coming back!"

V.

"From Alexandria we set sail, With corn, and oil, and figs, But steering 'too much Sow,' we struck Upon the Sow and Pigs!"

VI.

"The ship we pumped till we could see Old England from the tops; When down she went with all our hands, Right in the Channel's Chops."

VII.

"Just give a look in Norey's chart, The very place it tells; I think it says twelve fathom deep, Clay bottom, mixed with shells."

VIII.

"Well, there we are till 'hands aloft,' We have at last a call; The pug I had for brother Jim, Kate's parrot too, and all."

IX.

"But oh, my spirit cannot rest In Davy Joneses sod, Till I've appeared to you and said— Don't sup on that 'ere Cod!"

X.

"You live on land, and little think What passes in the sea; Last Sunday week, at 2 P.M., That Cod was picking me!"

XI.

"Those oysters, too, that look so plump, And seem so nicely done, They put my corpse in many shells, Instead of only one."

XII.

"Oh, do not eat those oysters then, And do not touch the shrimps; When I was in my briny grave, They sucked my blood like imps!"

XIII.

"Don't eat what brutes would never eat, The brutes I used to pat, They'll know the smell they used to smell, Just try the dog and cat!"

XIV.

The spirit fled—they wept his fate, And cried, Alack, alack! At last up started brother Jim, "Let's try if Jack, was Jack!"

XV.

They called the Dog, they called the Cat, And little Kitten too, And down they put the Cod and sauce, To see what brutes would do.

XVI.

Old Tray licked all the oysters up, Puss never stood at crimps, But munched the Cod—and little Kit Quite feasted on the shrimps!

XVII.

The thing was odd, and minus Cod And sauce, they stood like posts; Oh, prudent folks, for fear of hoax, Put no belief in Ghosts!



THE DUEL.

A SERIOUS BALLAD.

"Like the two Kings of Brentford smelling at one nosegay."

In Brentford town, of old renown, There lived a Mister Bray, Who fell in love with Lucy Bell, And so did Mr. Clay.

To see her ride from Hammersmith, By all it was allowed, Such fair outsides are seldom seen, Such Angels on a Cloud.

Said Mr. Bray to Mr. Clay, You choose to rival me, And court Miss Bell, but there your court No thoroughfare shall be.

Unless you now give up your suit, You may repent your love; I who have shot a pigeon match, Can shoot a turtle dove.

So pray before you woo her more, Consider what you do; If you pop aught to Lucy Bell— I'll pop it into you.

Said Mr. Clay to Mr. Bray, Your threats I quite explode; One who has been a volunteer Knows how to prime and load.

And so I say to you unless Your passion quiet keeps, I who have shot and hit bulls' eyes, May chance to hit a sheep's.

Now gold is oft for silver changed, And that for copper red; But these two went away to give Each other change for lead.

But first they sought a friend apiece, This pleasant thought to give— When they were dead, they thus should have Two seconds still to live.

To measure out the ground not long The seconds then forbore, And having taken one rash step, They took a dozen more.

They next prepared each pistol-pan Against the deadly strife, By putting in the prime of death Against the prime of life.

Now all was ready for the foes, But when they took their stands, Fear made them tremble so, they found They both were shaking hands.

Said Mr. C. to Mr. B., Here one of us may fall, And like St. Paul's Cathedral now Be doomed to have a ball.

I do confess I did attach Misconduct to your name; If I withdraw the charge, will then Your ramrod do the same?

Said Mr, B., I do agree— But think of Honor's Courts! If we go off without a shot, There will be strange reports.

But look, the morning now is bright, Though cloudy it begun: Why can't we aim above, as if We had called out the sun?

Soup into the harmless air Their bullets they did send; And may all other duels have That upshot in the end!



A SINGULAR EXHIBITION AT SOMERSET HOUSE.

"Our Crummie is a dainty cow."—Scotch Song.

On that first Saturday in May, When Lords and Ladies, great and grand, Repair to see what each R.A. Has done since last they sought the Strand, In red, brown, yellow, green, or blue, In short, what's called the private view,— Amongst the guests—the deuce knows how She got in there without a row— There came a large and vulgar dame, With arms deep red, and face the same, Showing in temper not a Saint; No one could guess for why she came, Unless perchance to "scour the Paint."

From wall to wall she forced her way, Elbowed Lord Durham—poked Lord Grey— Stamped Stafford's toes to make him move, And Devonshire's Duke received a shove; The great Lord Chancellor felt her nudge, She made the Vice, his Honor, budge, And gave a pinch to Park, the judge. As for the ladies in this stir, The highest rank gave way to her.

From number one and number two, She searched the pictures through and through, On benches stood, to inspect the high ones, And squatted down to see the shy ones.

And as she went from part to part, A deeper red each cheek became, Her very eyes lit up in flame, That made each looker-on exclaim, "Really an ardent love of art!" Alas! amidst her inquisition, Fate brought her to a sad condition; She might have run against Lord Milton, And still have stared at deeds in oil. But ah! her picture-joy to spoil, She came full butt on Mr. Hilton.

The Keeper mute, with staring eyes, Like a lay-figure for surprise, At last this stammered out, "How now? Woman—where, woman, is your ticket, That ought to have let you through our wicket?" Says woman, "Where is David's Cow?" Said Mr. H—— with expedition, "There's no Cow in the Exhibition." "No Cow!"—but here her tongue in verity, Set off with steam and rail celerity—

"No Cow! there ain't no Cow, then the more's the shame and pity, Hang you, and the R.A.'s, and all the Hanging Committee! No Cow—but hold your tongue—for you needn't talk to me— You can't talk up the Cow, you can't, to where it ought to be— I haven't seen a picture high or low, or anyhow, Or in any of the rooms, to be compared with David's Cow! You may talk of your Landseers, and of your Coopers and your Wards, Why, hanging is too good for them, and yet here they are on cords! They're only fit for window frames, and shutters and street doors, David will paint 'em any day at Red Lions or Blue Boars,— Why, Morland was a fool to him,—at a little pig or sow— It's really hard it ain't hung up,—I could cry about the Cow! But I know well what it is, and why—they're jealous of David's fame, But to vent it on the Cow, poor thing, is a cruelty and a shame,— Do you think it might hang by and by, if you cannot hang it now? David has made a party up, to come and see his Cow If it only hung three days a week, for an example to the learners— Why can't it hang up, turn about, with that picture of Mr. Turner's? Or do you think from Mr. Etty you need apprehend a row, If now and then you cut him down to hang up David's Cow! I can't think where their tastes have been, to not have such a creature, Although I say, that should not say, it was prettier than nature! It must be hung—and shall be hung—for, Mr. H——, I vow I daren't take home the catalogue, unless it's got the Cow! As we only want it to be seen, I should not so much care, If it was only round the stone man's neck, a coming up the stair. Or down there in the marble room where all the figures stand, Where one of them three Graces might just hold it in her hand— Or maybe Baily's Charity the favor would allow, It would really be a charity to hang up David's Cow. We haven't nowhere else to go if you don't hang it here, The Water Color place allows no oilman to appear— And the British Gallery sticks to Dutch, Teniers and Gerard Douw, And the Suffolk Gallery will not do—it's not a Suffolk Cow: I wish you'd seen him painting her, he hardly took his meals Till she was painted on the board, correct from head to heels: His heart and soul was in his Cow, and almost made him shabby, He hardly whipped the boys at all,—or helped to nurse the babby, And when he had her all complete and painted over red, He got so grand, I really thought him going off his head. Now hang it, Mr. Hilton, do just hang it anyhow, Poor David, he will hang himself, unless you hang his Cow. And if it's inconvenient and drawn too big by half— David shan't send next year except a very little calf!"

LINES TO MARY.

OLD BAILEY BALLADS.

(At No. 1, Newgate. Favored by Mr. Wontner.)

O Mary, I believed you true, And I was blest in so believing; But till this hour I never knew— That you were taken up for thieving!

Oh! when I snatch'd a tender kiss, Or some such trifle when I courted, You said, indeed, that love was bliss, But never owned you were transported!

But then to gaze on that fair face— It would have been an unfair feeling To dream that you had pilfered lace— And Flint's had suffered from your stealing!

Or when my suit I first preferred, To bring your coldness to repentance, Before I hammer'd out a word, How could I dream you heard a sentence!

Or when with all the warmth of youth I strove to prove my love no fiction, How could I guess I urged a truth On one already past conviction!

How could I dream that ivory part, Your hand—where I have look'd and linger'd, Altho' it stole away my heart, Had been held up as one light-fingered!

In melting verse your charms I drew, The charms in which my muse delighted— Alas! the lay I thought was new. Spoke only what had been indicted!

Oh! when that form, a lovely one, Hung on the neck its arms had flown to, I little thought that you had run A chance of hanging on your own too.

You said you pick'd me from the world, My vanity it now must shock it— And down at once my pride is hurled, You've pick'd me—and you've pick'd a pocket!

Oh! when our love had got so far, The banns were read by Doctor Daly, Who asked if there was any bar— Why did not some one shout "Old Bailey"?

But when you robed your flesh and bones In that pure white that angel garb is, Who could have thought you, Mary Jones, Among the Joans that link with Darbies?

And when the parson came to say, My goods were yours, if I had got any, And you should honor and obey, Who could have thought—"O Bay of Botany!"

But oh!—the worst of all your slips I did not till this day discover— That down in Deptford's prison ships, O Mary! you've a hulking lover!



THE COMPASS, WITH VARIATIONS.[31]

"The Needles have sometimes been fatal to Mariners." Picture of Isle of Wight.

[Footnote 31: Written when Walter Scott was familiarly known as the "Wizard of the North," the title which is the key to the present poem. Scott died in September, 1832, in the interval between the writing and the publishing of the verses, for which Hood makes regretful apology in the Preface to the Comic Annual for 1833, in which they appeared.]

I.

One close of day—'twas in the Bay Of Naples, bay of glory! While light was hanging crowns of gold On mountains high and hoary, A gallant bark got under weigh, And with her sails my story.

II.

For Leghorn she was bound direct, With wine and oil for cargo, Her crew of men some nine or ten, The captain's name was Jago; A good and gallant bark she was, La Donna (call'd) del Lago.

III.

Bronzed mariners were hers to view, With brown cheeks, clear or muddy, Dark shining eyes, and coal-black hair, Meet heads for painter's study; But midst their tan there stood one man, Whose cheek was fair and ruddy;

IV.

His brow was high, a loftier brow Ne'er shone in song or sonnet, His hair, a little scant, and when He doff'd his cap or bonnet, One saw that Grey had gone beyond A premiership upon it!

V.

His eye—a passenger was he, The cabin he had hired it,— His eye was gray, and when he look'd Around, the prospect fired it,— A fine poetic light, as if The Appe-Nine inspir'd it.

VI.

His frame was stout, in height about Six feet—well made and portly; Of dress and manner just to give A sketch, but very shortly, His order seem'd a composite Of rustic with the courtly.

VII.

He ate and quaff'd, and joked and laughed, And chatted with the seamen, And often task'd their skill and ask'd, "What weather is't to be, man?" No demonstration there appeared, That he was any demon.

VIII.

No sort of sign there was that he Could raise a stormy rumpus, Like Prospero make breezes blow, And rocks and billows thump us,— But little we supposed what he Could with the needle compass!

IX.

Soon came a storm—the sea at first Seem'd lying almost fallow— When lo! full crash, with billowy dash, From clouds of black and yellow, Came such a gale as blows but once A cent'ry, like the aloe!

X.

Our stomachs we had just prepared To vest a small amount in; When, gush! a flood of brine came down The skylight—quite a fountain, And right on end the table rear'd Just like the Table Mountain.

XI.

Down rush'd the soup, down gush'd the wine, Each roll, its role repeating, Roll'd down—the round of beef declar'd For parting—not for meating! Off flew the fowls, and all the game Was "too far gone for eating!"

XII.

Down knife and fork—down went the pork, The lamb too broke its tether; Down mustard went—each condiment— Salt—pepper—all together! Down everything, like craft that seek The Downs in stormy weather.

XIII.

Down plunged the Lady of the Lake, Her timbers seem'd to sever; Down, down, a dreary derry down, Such lurch she had gone never; She almost seem'd about to take A bed of down forever!

XIV.

Down dropt the captain's nether jaw, Thus robbed of all its uses, He thought he saw the Evil One Beside Vesuvian sluices, Playing at dice for soul and ship, And throwing Sink and Deuces.

XV.

Down fell the steward on his face, To all the Saints commending; And candles to the Virgin vow'd, As save-alls 'gain'st his ending. Down fell the mate, he thought his fate, Checkmate, was close impending!

XVI.

Down fell the cook—the cabin boy, Their beads with fervor telling, While Alps of surge, with snowy verge, Above the yards came yelling. Down fell the crew, and on their knees Shudder'd at each white swelling!

XVII.

Down sunk the sun of bloody hue, His crimson light a cleaver To each red rover of a wave: To eye of fancy-weaver, Neptune, the god, seemed tossing in A raging scarlet fever!

XVIII.

Sore, sore afraid, each Papist pray'd To Saint aid Virgin Mary; But one there was that stood composed Amid the waves' vagary; As staunch as rock, a true game-cock 'Mid chicks of Mother Carey!

XIX.

His ruddy cheek retained its streak, No danger seem'd to shrink him: His step still bold—of mortal mould The crew could hardly think him: The Lady of the Lake, he seem'd To know; could never sink him.

XX.

Relaxed at last the furious gale Quite out of breath with racing; The boiling flood in milder mood, With gentler billows chasing; From stem to stern, with frequent turn, The Stranger took to pacing.

XXI.

And as he walked to self he talked, Some ancient ditty thrumming, In undertone, as not alone— Now whistling, and now humming— "You're welcome, Charlie," "Cowdenknowes," "Kenmure," or "Campbells' Coming."

XXII.

Down went the wind, down went the wave, Fear quitted the most finical; The Saints, I wot, were soon forgot, And Hope was at the pinnacle: When rose on high a frightful cry— "The Devil's in the binnacle!"

XXIII.

"The Saints be near," the helmsman cried, His voice with quite a falter— "Steady's my helm, but every look The needle seems to alter; God only knows where China lies, Jamaica, or Gibraltar!"

XXIV.

The captain stared aghast at mate, The pilot at th' apprentice; No fancy of the German Sea Of Fiction the event is: But when they at the compass look'd, It seem'd non compass mentis.

XXV.

Now north, now south, now east, now west, The wavering point was shaken, 'Twas past the whole philosophy Of Newton, or of Bacon; Never by compass, till that hour, Such latitudes were taken!

XXVI.

With fearful speech, each after each Took turns in the inspection; They found no gun—no iron—none— To vary its direction; It seem'd a new magnetic case Of Poles in Insurrection!

XXVII.

Farewell to wives, farewell their lives, And all their household riches; Oh! while they thought of girl or boy, And dear domestic niches, All down the side which holds the heart, That needle gave them stitches.

XXVIII.

With deep amaze, the Stranger gazed To see them so white-livered: And walked abaft the binnacle, To know at what they shivered; But when he stood beside the card, St. Josef! how it quivered!

XXIX.

No fancy-motion, brain-begot, In eye of timid dreamer— The nervous finger of a sot Ne'er showed a plainer tremor; To every brain it seemed too plain, There stood th' Infernal Schemer!

XXX.

Mix'd brown and blue each visage grew, Just like a pullet's gizzard; Meanwhile the captain's wandering wit, From tacking like an izzard, Bore down in this plain course at last, "It's Michael Scott—the Wizard!"

XXXI.

A smile passed o'er the ruddy face: "To see the poles so falter I'm puzzled, friends, as much as you, For with no fiends I palter! Michael I'm not—although a Scott— My Christian name is Walter."

XXXII.

Like oil it fell, that name, a spell On all the fearful faction; The captain's head (for he had read) Confess'd the needle's action, And bow'd to Him in whom the North Has lodged its main attraction!



THE GHOST.

A VERY SERIOUS BALLAD.

"I'll be your second."—LISTON.

In Middle Row, some years ago, There lived one Mr. Brown; And many folks considered him The stoutest man in town.

But Brown and stout will both wear out— One Friday he died hard, And left a widow'd wife to mourn, At twenty pence a yard.

Now widow B. in two short months Thought mourning quite a tax; And wished, like Mr. Wilberforce, To manumit her blacks.

With Mr. Street she soon was sweet; The thing came thus about: She asked him in at home, and then At church, he asked her out!

Assurance such as this the man In ashes could not stand; So like a Phoenix he rose up Against the Hand in Hand!

One dreary night the angry sprite Appeared before her view; It came a little after one, But she was after two!

"O Mrs. B., O Mrs. B.! Are these your sorrow's deeds, Already getting up a flame, To burn your widows' weeds?

"It's not so long since I have left For aye the mortal scene; My memory—like Rogers's— Should still be bound in green!

"Yet if my face you still retrace, I almost have a doubt— I'm like an old Forget-me-not, With all the leaves torn out!

"To think that on that finger joint Another pledge should cling; O Bess! upon my very soul It struck like 'Knock and Ring,'"

"A ton of marble on my breast Can't hinder my return; Your conduct, ma'am, has set my blood A-boiling in my urn!"

"Remember, oh! remember, how The marriage rite did run,— If ever we one flesh should be 'Tis now—when I have none!

"And you, Sir—once a bosom friend— Of perjured faith convict, As ghostly toe can give no blow, Consider you are kick'd.

"A hollow voice is all I have, But this I tell you plain, Marry come up!—you marry, ma'am, And I'll come up again."

More he had said, but chanticleer The spritely shade did shock With sudden crow,—and off he went, Like fowling-piece at cock!



THE FALL.

"Down, down, down, ten thousand fathoms deep." Count Fathom.

Who does not know that dreadful gulf, where Niagara falls, Where eagle unto eagle screams, to vulture vulture calls; Where down beneath, Despair and Death in liquid darkness grope, And upward, on the foam there shines a rainbow without Hope; While, hung with clouds of Fear and Doubt, the unreturning wave Suddenly gives an awful plunge, like life into the grave; And many a hapless mortal there hath dived to bale or bliss; One—only one—hath ever lived to rise from that abyss! Oh, Heav'n! it turns me now to ice with chill of fear extreme, To think of my frail bark adrift on that tumultuous stream! In vain with desperate sinews, strung by love of life and light, I urged that coffin, my canoe, against the current's might: On—on—still on—direct for doom, the river rush'd in force, And fearfully the stream of Time raced with it in its course. My eyes I closed—I dared not look the way towards the goal; But still I viewed the horrid close, and dreamt it in my soul. Plainly, as through transparent lids, I saw the fleeting shore! And lofty trees, like winged things, flit by for evermore; Plainly—but with no prophet sense—I heard the sullen sound, The torrent's voice—and felt the mist, like death-sweat gathering round. Oh agony! Oh life! My home! and those that made it sweet: Ere I could pray, the torrent lay beneath my very feet. With frightful whirl, more swift than thought, I passed the dizzy edge, Bound after bound, with hideous bruise, I dashed from ledge to ledge, From crag to crag,—in speechless pain,—from midnight deep to deep; I did not die, but anguish stunn'd my senses into sleep. How long entranced, or whither dived, no clue I have to find: At last the gradual light of life came dawning o'er my mind; And through my brain there thrill'd a cry,—a cry as shrill as birds Of vulture or of eagle kind, but this was set to words: "It's Edgar Huntley[32] in his cap and nightgown, I declares! He's been a-walking in his sleep, and pitch'd all down the stairs!"

[Footnote 32: "Edgar Huntley, the Somnambulist," was the title of a popular novel of the time.]



OUR VILLAGE.

BY A VILLAGER.

Our village, that's to say, not Miss Mitford's village, but our village of Bullock Smithy, Is come into by an avenue of trees, three oak pollards, two elders, and a withy; And in the middle there's a green, of about not exceeding an acre and a half; It's common to all and fed off by nineteen cows, six ponies, three horses, five asses, two foals, seven pigs, and a calf! Besides a pond in the middle, as is held by a similar sort of common law lease, And contains twenty ducks, six drakes, three ganders, two dead dogs, four drowned kittens, and twelve geese. Of course the green's cropt very close, and does famous for bowling when the little village boys play at cricket; Only some horse, or pig, or cow, or great jackass, is sure to come and stand right before the wicket. There's fifty-five private houses, let alone barns and workshops, and pigsties, and poultry huts, and such-like sheds, With plenty of public-houses—two Foxes, one Green Man, three Bunch of Grapes, one Crown, and six King's Heads. The Green Man is reckoned the best, as the only one that for love or money can raise A postillion, a blue jacket, two deplorable lame white horses, and a ramshackle "neat post-chaise!" There's one parish church for all the people, whatsoever may be their ranks in life or their degrees, Except one very damp, small, dark, freezing cold, a little Methodist Chapel of Ease; And close by the churchyard, there's a stone-mason's yard, that when the time is seasonable Will furnish with afflictions sore and marble urns and cherubims, very low and reasonable. There's a cage, comfortable enough; I've been in it with Old Jack Jeffery and Tom Pike; For the Green Man next door will send you in ale, gin, or anything else you like. I can't speak of the stocks, as nothing remains of them but the upright post; But the pound is kept in repair for the sake of Cob's horse as is always there almost. There's a smithy of course, where that queer sort of a chap in his way, Old Joe Bradley, Perpetually hammers and stammers, for he stutters and shoes horses very badly. There's a shop of all sorts that sells everything, kept by the widow of Mr. Task; But when you go there it's ten to one she's out of everything you ask. You'll know her house by the swarm of boys, like flies, about the old sugary cask: There are six empty houses, and not so well papered inside as out, For bill-stickers won't beware, but stick notices of sales and election placards all about. That's the Doctor's with a green door, where the garden pots in the window is seen; A weakly monthly rose that don't blow, and a red geranium, and a teaplant with five black leaves, and one green. As for hollyhocks at the cottage doors, and honeysuckles and jasmines, you may go and whistle; But the Tailor's front garden grows two cabbages, a dock, a ha'porth of pennyroyal, two dandelions, and a thistle! There are three small orchards—Mr. Busby's the school-master's is the chief— With two pear trees that don't bear; one plum, and an apple that every year is stripped by a thief. There's another small day-school too, kept by the respectable Mrs. Gaby, A select establishment for six little boys, and one big, and four little girls and a baby; There's a rectory with pointed gables and strange odd chimneys that never smokes, For the Rector don't live on his living like other Christian sort of folks; There's a barber's once a week well filled with rough black-bearded, shock-headed churls, And a window with two feminine men's heads, and two masculine ladies in false curls; There's a butcher's, and a carpenter's, and a plumber's, and a small greengrocer's, and a baker, But he won't bake on a Sunday; and there's a sexton that's a coal merchant besides, and an undertaker; And a toyshop, but not a whole one, for a village can't compare with the London shops; One window sells drums, dolls, kites, carts, bats, Clout's balls, and the other sells malt and hops, And Mrs. Brown in domestic economy not to be a bit behind her betters, Lets her house to a milliner, a watchmaker, a rat-catcher, a cobbler, lives in it herself, and it's the post-office for letters. Now I've gone through all the village—ay, from end to end, save and except one more house, But I haven't come to that—and I hope I never shall—and that's the Village Poor House!

A PUBLIC DINNER.

"Sit down and fall to, said the Barmecide." Arabian Nights.

At seven you just nick it, Give card—get wine ticket; Walk round through the Babel, From table to table, To find—a hard matter— Your name in a platter; Your wish was to sit by Your friend Mr. Whitby, But stewards' assistance Has placed you at distance, And, thanks to arrangers, You sit amongst strangers, But too late for mending; Twelve sticks come attending A stick of a Chairman, A little dark spare man, With bald, shining nob, 'Mid committee swell-mob; In short, a short figure,— You thought the Duke bigger. Then silence is wanted, Non Nobis is chanted; Then Chairman reads letter, The Duke's a regretter, A promise to break it, But chair, he can't take it; Is grieved to be from us, But sends friend Sir Thomas, And what is far better, A cheque in the letter. Hear! hear! and a clatter, And there ends the matter.

Now soups come and fish in, And C—— brings a dish in; Then rages the battle, Knives clatter, forks rattle, Steel forks with black handles, Under fifty wax candles; Your soup-plate is soon full, You sip just a spoonful. Mr. Roe will be grateful To send him a plateful; And then comes the waiter, "Must trouble for tater"; And then you drink wine off With somebody—nine off; Bucellas made handy, With Cape and bad Brandy, Of East India Sherry, That's very hot—very! You help Mr. Myrtle, Then find your mock-turtle Went off while you lingered, With waiter light-fingered. To make up for gammon, You order some salmon, Which comes to your fauces, With boats without sauces. You then make a cut on Some lamb big as mutton; And ask for some grass too, But that you must pass too; It served the first twenty, But toast there is plenty. Then, while lamb gets coldish, A goose that is oldish— At carving not clever— You're begged to dissever, And when you thus treat it, Find no one will eat it. So, hungry as glutton, You turn to your mutton, But—no sight for laughter— The soup it's gone after. Mr. Green then is very Disposed to take Sherry; And then Mr. Nappy Will feel very happy; And then Mr. Conner Requests the same honor; Mr. Clark, when at leisure, Will really feel pleasure; Then waiter leans over To take off a cover From fowls, which all beg of, A wing or a leg of; And while they all peck bone, You take to a neck-bone, But even your hunger Declares for a younger. A fresh plate you call for, But vainly you bawl for; Now taste disapproves it, No waiter removes it. Still hope, newly budding, Relies on a pudding; But critics each minute Set fancy agin it— "That's queer Vermicelli." "I say, Vizetelly, There's glue in that jelly." "Tarts bad altogether; That crust's made of leather." "Some custard, friend Vesey?" "No—batter made easy." "Some cheese, Mr. Foster?" "—Don't like single Glo'ster." Meanwhile, to top table, Like fox in the fable, You see silver dishes, With those little fishes, The whitebait delicious, Borne past you officious; And hear rather plainish A sound that's champagnish, And glimpse certain bottles Made long in the throttles; And sniff—very pleasant! Grouse, partridge, and pheasant. And see mounds of ices For patrons and vices, Pine-apple, and bunches Of grapes for sweet munches, And fruits of all virtue That really desert you; You've nuts, but not crack ones, Half empty and black ones; With oranges, sallow— They can't be called yellow— Some pippins well-wrinkled, And plums almond-sprinkled; Some rout cakes, and so on, Then with business to go on: Long speeches are stutter'd, And toasts are well butter'd, While dames in the gallery, All dressed in fallallery, Look on at the mummery, And listen to flummery. Hip, hip! and huzzaing, And singing and saying, Glees, catches, orations, And lists of donations, Hush! a song, Mr. Tinney— "Mr. Benbow, one guinea; Mr. Frederick Manual, One guinea—and annual." Song—Jocky and Jenny, "Mr. Markham, one guinea." "Have you all filled your glasses?" Here's a health to good lasses. The subscription still skinny— "Mr. Franklin—one guinea." Franklin looks like a ninny; "Mr, Boreham, one guinea— Mr. Blogg, Mr. Finney, Mr. Tempest—one guinea, Mr. Merrington—twenty," Rough music, in plenty. Away toddles Chairman, The little dark spare man, Not sorry at ending, With white sticks attending, And some vain Tomnoddy Votes in his own body To fill the void seat up, And get on his feet up, To say, with voice squeaking, "Unaccustomed to speaking." Which sends you off seeking Your hat, number thirty— No coach—very dirty. So hungry and fever'd Wet-footed, spoilt-beaver'd, Eyes aching in socket, Ten pounds out of pocket, To Brook Street the Upper You haste home to supper.



SALLY SIMPKIN'S LAMENT;

OR, JOHN JONES'S KIT-CAT-ASTROPHE.

"He left his body to the sea, And made a shark his legatee." BRYAN AND PERENNE.

"Oh! what is that comes gliding in, And quite in middling haste? It is the picture of my Jones, And painted to the waist.

"It is not painted to the life, For where's the trowsers blue? Oh Jones, my dear!—Oh dear! my Jones, What is become of you?"

"Oh! Sally dear, it is too true,— The half that you remark Is come to say my other half Is bit off by a shark!

"Oh! Sally, sharks do things by halves, Yet most completely do! A bite in one place soems enough, But I've been bit in two.

"You know I once was all your own, But now a shark must share! But let that pass—for now, to you I'm neither here nor there."

"Alas! death has a strange divorce Effected in the sea, It has divided me from you, And even me from me!

"Don't fear my ghost will walk o' nights To haunt, as people say; My ghost can't walk, for, oh! my legs Are many leagues away!

"Lord! think when I am swimming round, And looking where the boat is, A shark just snaps away a half, Without a 'quarter's notice.'

"One half is here, the other half Is near Columbia placed; Oh! Sally, I have got the whole Atlantic for my waist.

"But now, adieu—a long adieu! I've solved death's awful riddle, And would say more, but I am doomed To break off in the middle!"



ODE TO SIR ANDREW AGNEW, BART.[33]

"At certain seasons he makes a prodigious clattering with his bill."—SELBY.

"The bill is rather long, flat, and tinged with green."—BEWICK.

[Footnote 33: A Scotch baronet, and the once well-known promoter of Sabbatarian legislation. Sir Andrew identified himself in the House of Commons with the efforts of an English Association, the "Lord's Day Society," and introduced a Bill to prohibit all open labour on Sunday, excepting "works of necessity and mercy,"—a measure bound, under any scheme of working, to inflict the direst hardship and injustice. After three defeats, the Bill was actually carried in 1837, but was afterwards allowed to drop.]

O Andrew Fairservice,—but I beg pardon, You never labor'd in Di Vernon's garden, On curly kale and cabbages intent,— Andrew Churchservice was the thing I meant,— You are a Christian—I would be the same, Although we differ, and I'll tell you why, Not meaning to make game, I do not like my Church so very High!

When people talk, as talk they will, About your bill, They say, among their other jibes and small jeers, That, if you had your way, You'd make the seventh day As overbearing as the Dey of Algiers. Talk of converting Blacks— By your attacks, You make a thing so horrible of one day, Each nigger, they will bet a something tidy, Would rather be a heathenish Man Friday, Than your Man Sunday!

So poor men speak, Who, once a week, P'rhaps, after weaving artificial flowers, Can snatch a glance of Nature's kinder bowers, And revel in a bloom That is not of the loom, Making the earth, the streams, the skies, the trees, A Chapel of Ease. Whereas, as you would plan it, Wall'd in with hard Scotch granite, People all day should look to their behaviors;— But though there be, as Shakspeare owns, "Sermons in stones," Zounds! Would you have us work at them like paviors?

Spontaneous is pure devotion's fire; And in a green wood many a soul has built A new Church, with a fir-tree for its spire, Where Sin has prayed for peace, and wept for guilt, Better than if an architect the plan drew; We know of old how medicines were back'd, But true Religion needs not to be quack'd By an Un-merry Andrew!

Suppose a poor town-weary sallow elf At Primrose-hill would renovate himself, Or drink (and no great harm) Milk genuine at Chalk Farm,— The innocent intention who would balk, And drive him back into St. Bennet Fink? For my part, for my life, I cannot think A walk on Sunday is "the Devil's Walk."

But there's a sect of Deists, and their creed Is D——ing other people to be d——d,— Yeas, all that are not of their saintly level, They make a pious point To send, with an "aroint," Down to that great Fillhellenist, the Devil. To such, a ramble by the River Lea Is really treading on the "Banks of D——."

Go down to Margate, wisest of law-makers, And say unto the sea, as Canute did, (Of course the sea will do as it is bid,) "This is the Sabbath—but there be no Breakers!" Seek London's Bishop, on some Sunday morn, And try him with your tenets to inoculate,— Abuse his fine souchong, and say in scorn, "This is not Churchman's Chocolate!"

Or, seek Dissenters at their mid-day meal, And read them from your Sabbath Bill some passages, And while they eat their mutton, beef, and veal, Shout out with holy zeal,— "These are not Chappet's sassages!" Suppose your Act should act up to your will, Yet how will it appear to Mrs. Grundy, To hear you saying of this pious bill, "It works well—on a Sunday!"

To knock down apple-stalls is now too late, Except to starve some poor old harmless madam;— You might have done some good, and chang'd our fate, Could you have upset that, which ruined Adam! 'Tis useless to prescribe salt-cod and eggs, Or lay post-horses under legal fetters, While Tattersall's on Sunday stirs its Legs, Folks look for good examples from their Betters!

Consider,—Acts of Parliament may bind A man to go where Irvings are discoursing— But as for forcing "proper frames of mind," Minds are not framed, like melons, for such forcing!

Remember, as a Scottish legislator, The Scotch Kirk always has a Moderator; Meaning one need not ever be sojourning In a long Sermon Lane without a turning. Such grave old maids as Portia and Zenobia May like discourses with a skein of threads, And love a lecture for its many heads, But as for me, I have the Hydra-phobia.

Religion one should never overdo: Right know I am no minister you be, For you would say your service, sir, to me, Till I should say, "My service, sir, to you." Six days made all that is, you know, and then Came that of rest—by holy ordination, As if to hint unto the sons of men, After creation should come re-creation. Read right this text, and do not further search To make a Sunday Workhouse of the Church.



THE LOST HEIR.

"Oh where, and oh where Is my bonny laddie gone?" Old Song.

One day, as I was going by That part of Holborn christened High, I heard a loud and sodden cry, That chill'd my very blood; And lo! from out a dirty alley, Where pigs and Irish wont to rally, I saw a crazy woman sally, Bedaub'd with grease and mud. She turn'd her East, she turn'd her West, Staring like Pythoness possest, With streaming hair and heaving breast, As one stark mad with grief. This way and that she wildly ran, Jostling with woman and with man— Her right hand held a frying pan, The left a lump of beef. At last her frenzy seemed to reach A point just capable of speech, And with a tone almost a screech, As wild as ocean bird's, Or female Banter mov'd to preach, She gave her "sorrow-words."

"O Lord! O dear, my heart will break, I shall go stick stark staring wild! Has ever a one seen anything about the streets like a crying lost-looking child? Lawk help me, I don't know where to look, or to run, if I only knew which way— A Child as is lost about London Streets, and especially Seven Dials, is a needle in a bottle of hay. I am all in a quiver—get out of my sight, do, you wretch, you little Kitty M'Nab! You promised to have half an eye to him, you know you did, you dirty deceitful young drab. The last time as ever I see him, poor thing; was with my own blessed Motherly eyes, Sitting as good as gold in the gutter, a-playing at making little dirt pies. I wonder he left the court where he was better off than all the other young boys, With two bricks, an old shoe, nine oyster-shells, and a dead kitten by way of toys. When his father comes home, and he always comes home as sure as ever the clock strikes one, He'll be rampant, he will, at his child being lost; and the beef and the inguns not done! La bless you, good folks, mind your own consarns, and don't be making a mob in the street; O Sergeant M'Farlane! you have not come across my poor little boy, have you, in your beat? Do, good people, move on! don't stand staring at me like a parcel of stupid stuck pigs; Saints forbid! but he's p'r'aps been inviggled away up a court for the sake of his clothes He'd a very good jacket, for certain, for I bought it myself for a shilling one day in Rag Fair; And his trowsers considering not very much patch'd, and red plush, they was once his Father' His shirt, it's very lucky I'd got washing in the tub, or that might have gone with the rest But he'd got on a very good pinafore with only two slits and a burn on the breast. He'd a goodish sort of hat, If the crown was sew'd in, and not quite so much jagg'd at the brim, With one shoe on, and the other shoe is a boot, and not a fit, and, you'll know by that if it's him. Except being so well dress'd, my mind would misgive, some old beggar woman in want of an orphan, Had borrow'd the child to go a begging with, but I'd rather see him laid out in his coffin! Do, good people, move on, such a rabble of boys! I'll break every bone of 'em I come near, Go home—you're spilling the porter—go home— Tommy Jones, go along home with your beer. This day is the sorrowfullest day of my life, ever since my name was Betty Morgan, Them vile Savoyards! they lost him once before all along of following a Monkey and an Organ: O my Billy—my head will turn right round—if he's got kiddynapp'd with them Italians, They'll make him a plaster parish image boy, they will, the outlandish tatterdemallions. Billy—where are you, Billy?—I'm as hoarse as a crow, with screaming for ye, you young sorrow! And shan't have half a voice, no more I shan't, for crying fresh herrings to-morrow. O Billy, you're bursting my heart in two, and my life won't be of no more vally, If I'm to see other folk's darlins, and none of mine, playing like angels in our alley, And what shall I do but cry out my eyes, when I looks at the old three-legged chair, As Billy used to make coaches and horses of, and there ain't no Billy there! I would run all the wide world over to find him, if I only know'd where to run, Little Murphy, now I remember, was once lost for a month through stealing a penny bun,— The Lord forbid of any child of mine! I think it would kill me raily, To find my Bill holdin up his little innocent hand at the Old Bailey. For though I say it as oughtn't, yet I will say, you may search for miles and mileses And not find one better brought up, and more pretty behaved, from one end to t'other of St. Giles's. And if I called him a beauty, it's no lie, but only as a Mother ought to speak; You never set eyes on a more handsomer face, only it hasn't been washed for a week; As for hair, tho' it's red, it's the most nicest hair when I've time to just show it the comb; I'll owe 'em five pounds, and a blessing besides, as will only bring him safe and sound home. He's blue eyes, and not to be call'd a squint, though a little cast he's certainly got; And his nose is still a good un, tho' the bridge is broke, by his falling on a pewter pint pot; He's got the most elegant wide mouth in the world, and very large teeth for his age; And quite as fit as Mrs. Murdockson's child to play Cupid on the Drury Lane Stage. And then he has got such dear winning ways— but O, I never never shall see him no more! O dear! to think of losing him just after nussing him back from death's door! Only the very last month when the windfalls, hang 'em, was at twenty a penny! And the threepence he'd got by grottoing was spent in plums, and sixty for a child is too many. And the Cholera man came and whitewash'd us all and, drat him, made a seize of our hog,— It's no use to send the Crier to cry him about, he's such a blunderin drunken old dog; The last time he was fetched to find a lost child, he was guzzling with his bell at the Crown, And went and cried a boy instead of a girl, for a distracted Mother and Father about Town. Billy—where are you, Billy, I say? come, Billy, come home, to your best of Mothers! I'm scared when I think of them Cabroleys, they drive so, they'd run over their own Sisters and Brothers. Or may be he's stole by some chimbly sweeping wretch, to stick fast in narrow flues and what not, And be poked up behind with a picked pointed pole, when the soot has ketch'd, and the chimbly's red hot. Oh I'd give the whole wide world, if the world was mine, to clap my two longin eyes on his face, For he's my darlin of darlins, and if he don't soon come back, you'll see me drop stone dead on the place. I only wish I'd got him safe in these two Motherly arms, and wouldn't I hug him and kiss him! Lauk! I never knew what a precious he was— but a child don't not feel like a child till you miss him. Why, there he is! Punch and Judy hunting, the young wretch, it's that Billy as sartin as sin! But let me get him home, with a good grip of his hair, and I'm blest if he shall have a whole bone in his skin!