VII.

Some hinted a bilk, And that maidens who milk, In far distant Shires would be walking in silk: Some swore that it must, "As they said at the fust, Have gone again' flashes of lightning and bust!"

VIII.

However, at last, When six weeks had gone past, Intelligence came of a plausible cast; A wondering clown, At a hamlet near town, Had seen "like a moon of green cheese" coming down.

IX.

Soon spread the alarm, And from cottage and farm, The natives buzz'd out like the bees when they swarm; And off ran the folk,— It is such a good joke To see the descent of a bagful of smoke.

X.

And lo! the machine, Dappled yellow and green, Was plainly enough in the clouds to be seen: "Yes, yes," was the cry, "It's the old one, surely, Where can it have been such a time in the sky?"

XI.

"Lord! where will it fall? It can't find out Vauxhall, Without any pilot to guide it at all!" Some wager'd that Kent Would behold the event, Debrett had been posed to predict its descent.

XII.

Some thought it would pitch In the old Tower Ditch, Some swore on the Cross of St. Paul's it would hitch; And Farmers cried "Zounds! If it drops on our grounds, We'll try if Balloons can't be put into pounds."

XIII.

But still to and fro It continued to go, As if looking out for soft places below; No difficult job, It had only to bob Slap-dash down at once on the heads of the mob:

XIV.

Who, too apt to stare At some castle in air, Forget that the earth is their proper affair; Till, watching the fall Of some soap-bubble ball, They tumble themselves with a terrible sprawl.

XV.

Meanwhile, from its height Stooping downward in flight, The Phenomenon came more distinctly in sight: Still bigger and bigger, And strike me a nigger Unfreed, if there was not a live human figure!

XVI.

Yes, plain to be seen, Underneath the machine, There dangled a mortal—some swore it was Green; Some mason could spy; Others named Mr. Gye; Or Holland, compell'd by the Belgians to fly.

XVII.

'Twas Graham the flighty, Whom the Duke high and mighty Resign'd to take care of his own lignum-vitae; 'Twas Hampton, whose whim Was in Cloudland to swim, Till e'en Little Hampton looked little to him!

XVIII.

But all were at fault; From the heavenly vault The falling balloon came at last to a halt; And bounce! with the jar Of descending so far, An outlandish Creature was thrown from the car!

XIX.

At first with the jolt All his wits made a bolt, As if he'd been flung by a mettlesome colt; And while in his faint, To avoid all complaint, The muse shall endeavor his portrait to paint.

XX.

The face of this elf, Round as platter of delf, Was pale as if only a cast of itself; His head had a rare Fleece of silvery hair, Just like the Albino at Bartlemy Fair.

XXI.

His eyes they were odd, Like the eyes of a cod, And gave him the look of a watery God. His nose was a snub; Under which, for his grub, Was a round open mouth like to that of a chub.

XXII.

His person was small, Without figure at all, A plump little body as round as a ball: With two little fins, And a couple of pins, With what has been christened a bow in the shins.

XXIII.

His dress it was new, A full suit of sky-blue— With bright silver buckles in each little shoe— Thus painted complete, From his head to his feet, Conceive him laid flat in Squire Hopkins's wheat.

XXIV.

Fine text for the crowd! Who disputed aloud What sort of a creature had dropp'd from the cloud— "He's come from o'er seas, He's a Cochin Chinese— By jingo! he's one of the wild Cherokees!"

XXV.

"Don't nobody know?" "He's a young Esquimaux, Turn'd white like the hares by the Arctical snow." "Some angel, my dear, Sent from some upper spear For Plumtree or Agnew, too good for this-here!"

XXVI.

Meanwhile with a sigh, Having open'd one eye, The Stranger rose up on his seat by and by; And finding his tongue, Thus he said, or he sung, "Mi criky bo biggamy kickery bung!"

XXVII.

"Lord! what does he speak?" "It's Dog-Latin—it's Greek!" "It's some sort of slang for to puzzle a Beak!" "It's no like the Scotch," Said a Scot on the watch, "Pho! it's nothing at all but a kind of hotch-potch!"

XXVIII.

"It's not parly voo," Cried a schoolboy or two, "Nor Hebrew at all," said a wandering Jew. Some held it was sprung From the Irvingite tongue, The same that is used by a child very young.

XXIX.

Some guess'd it high Dutch, Others thought it had much In sound of the true Hoky-poky-ish touch; But none could be poz, What the Dickins! (not Boz) No mortal could tell what the Dickins it was!

XXX.

When who should come pat, In a moment like that, But Bowring, to see what the people were at— A Doctor well able, Without any fable, To talk and translate all the babble of Babel.

XXXI.

So just drawing near, With a vigilant ear, That took ev'ry syllable in, very clear, Before one could sip Up a tumbler of flip, He knew the whole tongue, from the root to the tip!

XXXII.

Then stretching his hand, As you see Daniel stand, In the Feast of Belshazzar, that picture so grand! Without more delay, In the Hamilton way He English'd whatever the Elf had to say.

XXXIII.

"Krak kraziboo ban, I'm the Lunatick Man, Confined in the Moon since creation began— Sit muggy bigog, Whom except in a fog You see with a Lanthorn, a Bush, and a Dog."

XXXIV.

"Lang sinery lear, For this many a year, I've long'd to drop in at your own little sphere,— Och, pad-mad aroon Till one fine afternoon, I found that Wind-Coach on the horns of the Moon."

XXXV.

"Cush quackery go, But, besides you must know, I'd heard of a profiting Prophet below; Big botherum blether, Who pretended to gather The tricks that the Moon meant to play with the weather."

XXXVI.

"So Crismus an crash Being shortish of cash, I thought I'd a right to partake of the hash— Slik mizzle an smak, So I'm come with a pack, To sell to the trade, of My Own Almanack."

XXXVII.

"Fiz bobbery pershal Besides aims commercial, Much wishing to honor my friend Sir John Herschel, Cum puddin and tame, It's inscribed to his name, Which is now at the full in celestial fame."

XXXVIII.

"Wept wepton wish wept, Pray this Copy accept"— But here on the Stranger some Kidnappers leapt: For why a shrewd man Had devis'd a sly plan The Wonder to grab for a show Caravan.

XXXIX.

So plotted, so done— With a fight as in fun, While mock pugilistical rounds were begun, A knave who could box, And give right and left knocks, Caught hold of the Prize by his silvery locks.

XL.

And hard he had fared, But the people were scared By what the Interpreter roundly declared; "You ignorant Turks! You will be your own Burkes— He holds all the keys of the lunary works!"

XLI.

"You'd best let him go— If you keep him below, The Moon will not change, and the tides will not flow; He left her at full, And with such a long pull, Zounds! ev'ry man Jack will run mad like a bull!"

XLII.

So awful a threat Took effect on the set; The fright, tho', was more than their Guest could forget; So taking a jump, In the car he came plump, And threw all the ballast right out in a lump.

XLIII.

Up soar'd the machine, With its yellow and green; But still the pale face of the Creature was seen, Who cried from the car "Dam in yooman bi gar!" That is,—"What a sad set of villains you are!"

XLIV.

Howbeit, at some height, He threw down quite a flight Of Almanacks, wishing to set us all right— And, thanks to the boon, We shall see very soon If Murphy knows most, or the Man in the Moon!



QUEEN MAB.

A little fairy comes at night, Her eyes are blue, her hair is brown, With silver spots upon her wings, And from the moon she flutters down.

She has a little silver wand, And when a good child goes to bed She waves her wand from right to left, And makes a circle round its head.

And then it dreams of pleasant things, Of fountains filled with fairy fish, And trees that bear delicious fruit, And bow their branches at a wish;

Of arbors filled with dainty scents From lovely flowers that never fade; Bright flies that glitter in the sun, And glow-worms shining in the shade.

And talking birds with gifted tongues, For singing songs and telling tales, And pretty dwarfs to show the way Through fairy hills and fairy dales.

But when a bad child goes to bed, From left to right she weaves her rings, And then it dreams all through the night Of only ugly horrid things!

Then lions come with glaring eyes, And tigers growl, a dreadful noise, And ogres draw their cruel knives, To shed the blood of girls and boys.

Then stormy waves rush on to drown, Or raging flames come scorching round, Fierce dragons hover in the air, And serpents crawl along the ground.

Then wicked children wake and weep, And wish the long black gloom away; But good ones love the dark, and find The night as pleasant as the day.



TO HENRIETTA,[37]

ON HER DEPARTURE FOR CALAIS.

[Footnote 37: The daughter of Hood's friend William Harvey, the artist.]

When little people go abroad, wherever they may roam, They will not just be treated as they used to be at home; So take a few promiscuous hints, to warn you in advance, Of how a little English girl will perhaps be served in France.

Of course you will be Frenchified; and first, it's my belief, They'll dress you in their foreign style as a-la-mode as beef, With a little row of beehives, as a border to your frock, And a pair of frilly trousers, like a little bantam cock.

But first they'll seize your bundle (if you have one) in a crack, And tie it with a tape by way of bustle on your back; And make your waist so high or low, your shape will be a riddle, For anyhow you'll never have your middle in the middle.

Your little English sandals for a while will hold together, But woe betide you when the stones have worn away the leather; For they'll poke your little pettitoes (and there will be a hobble!) In such a pair of shoes as none but carpenters can cobble!

What next?—to fill your head with French to match the native girls, In scraps of Galignani they'll screw up your little curls; And they'll take their nouns and verbs, and some bits of verse and prose, And pour them in your ears that you may spout them through your nose.

You'll have to learn a chou is quite another sort of thing To that you put your foot in; that a belle is not to ring; That a corne is not the nubble that brings trouble to your toes; Nor peut-etre a potato, as some Irish folks suppose.

No, No, they have no Murphies there, for supper or for lunch, But you may get in course of time a pomme de terre to munch, With which, as you perforce must do as Calais folks are doing, You'll maybe have to gobble up the frog that went a wooing!

But pray at meals, remember this, the French are so polite, No matter what you eat or drink, "whatever is, is right!" So when you're told at dinner-time that some delicious stew Is cat instead of rabbit, you must answer "Tant mi—eux!"

For little folks who go abroad, wherever they may roam, They cannot just be treated as they used to be at home; So take a few promiscuous hints, to warn you in advance, Of how a little English girl will perhaps be served in France!



A PARTHIAN GLANCE.

"Sweet Memory, wafted by thy gentle gale, Oft up the stream of time I turn my sail."—ROGERS.

Come, my Crony, let's think upon far-away days, And lift up a little Oblivion's veil; Let's consider the past with a lingering gaze, Like a peacock whose eyes are inclined to his tail.

Aye, come, let us turn our attention behind, Like those critics whose heads are so heavy, I fear, That they cannot keep up with the march of the mind, And so turn face about for reviewing the rear.

Looking over Time's crupper and over his tail, Oh, what ages and pages there are to revise! And as farther our back-searching glances prevail, Like the emmets, "how little we are in our eyes!"

What a sweet pretty innocent, half-a-yard long, On a dimity lap of true nursery make! I can fancy I hear the old lullaby song That was meant to compose me, but kept me awake.

Methinks I still suffer the infantine throes, When my flesh was a cushion for any long pin— Whilst they patted my body to comfort my woes, Oh! how little they dreamt they were driving them in!

Infant sorrows are strong—infant pleasures as weak— But no grief was allow'd to indulge in its note; Did you ever attempt a small "bubble and squeak," Through the Dalby's Carminative down in your throat?

Did you ever go up to the roof with a bounce? Did you ever come down to the floor with the same? Oh! I can't but agree with bath ends, and pronounce "Heads or tails," with a child, an unpleasantish game!

Then an urchin—I see myself urchin indeed— With a smooth Sunday face for a mother's delight; Why should weeks have an end?—I am sure there was need Of a Sabbath, to follow each Saturday night.

Was your face ever sent to the housemaid to scrub? Have you ever felt huckaback soften'd with sand? Had you ever your nose towell'd up to a snub, And your eyes knuckled out with the back of the hand?

Then a school-boy—my tailor was nothing in fault, For an urchin will grow to a lad by degrees,— But how well I remember that "pepper-and-salt" That was down to the elbows, and up to the knees!

What a figure it cut when as Norval I spoke! With a lanky right leg duly planted before; Whilst I told of the chief that was kill'd by my stroke, And extended my arms as "the arms that he wore!"

Next a Lover—Oh! say, were you ever in love? With a lady too cold—and your bosom too hot? Have you bow'd to a shoe-tie, and knelt to a glove, Like a beau that desired to be tied in a knot?

With the Bride all in white, and your body in blue, Did you walk up the aisle—the genteelest of men? When I think of that beautiful vision anew, Oh! I seem but the biffin of what I was then!

I am withered and worn by a premature care, And wrinkles confess the decline of my days; Old Time's busy hand has made free with my hair, And I'm seeking to hide it—by writing for bays!



A TRUE STORY.

Of all our pains, since man was curst, I mean of body, not the mental, To name the worst, among the worst, The dental sure is transcendental; Some bit of masticating bone, That ought to help to clear a shelf, But lets its proper work alone, And only seems to gnaw itself; In fact, of any grave attack On victual there is little danger, 'Tis so like coming to the rack, As well as going to the manger.

Old Hunks—it seemed a fit retort Of justice on his grinding ways— Possessed a grinder of the sort, That troubled all his latter days. The best of friends fall out, and so His teeth had done some years ago, Save some old stumps with ragged root, And they took turn about to shoot; If he drank any chilly liquor, They made it quite a point to throb; But if he warmed it on the hob, Why then they only twitched the quicker.

One tooth—I wonder such a tooth Had never killed him in his youth— One tooth he had with many fangs, That shot at once as many pangs, It had a universal sting; One touch of that ecstatic stump Could jerk his limbs and make him jump, Just like a puppet on a string; And what was worse than all, it had A way of making others bad. There is, as many know, a knack, With certain farming undertakers, And this same tooth pursued their track, By adding achers still to achers!

One way there is, that has been judged A certain cure, but Hunks was loth To pay the fee, and quite begrudged To lose his tooth and money both; In fact, a dentist and the wheel Of Fortune are a kindred cast, For after all is drawn, you feel It's paying for a blank at last; So Hunks went on from week to week, And kept his torment in his cheek; Oh! how it sometimes set him rocking, With that perpetual gnaw—gnaw—gnaw, His moans and groans were truly shocking, And loud,—altho' he held his jaw. Many a tug he gave his gum And tooth, but still it would not come, Tho' tied to string by some firm thing, He could not draw it, do his best, By draw'rs, altho' he tried a chest.

At last, but after much debating, He joined a score of mouths in waiting, Like his, to have their troubles out. Sad sight it was to look about At twenty faces making faces, With many a rampant trick and antic, For all were very horrid cases, And made their owners nearly frantic. A little wicket now and then Took one of these unhappy men, And out again the victim rushed, While eyes and mouth together gushed; At last arrived our hero's turn, Who plunged his hands in both his pockets, And down he sat, prepared to learn How teeth are charmed to quit their sockets.

Those who have felt such operations, Alone can guess the sort of ache, When his old tooth began to break The thread of old associations; It touched a string in every part, It had so many tender ties; One cord seemed wrenching at his heart, And two were tugging at his eyes; "Bone of his bone," he felt, of course, As husbands do in such divorce; At last the fangs gave way a little, Hunks gave his head a backward jerk, And lo! the cause of all this work, Went—where it used to send his victual!

The monstrous pain of this proceeding Had not so numbed his miser wit, But in this slip he saw a hit To save, at least, his purse from bleeding; So when the dentist sought his fees, Quoth Hunks, "Let's finish, if you please," "How, finish! why, it's out!"—"Oh no— 'Tis you are out, to argue so; I'm none of your before-hand tippers. My tooth is in my head no doubt, But, as you say you pulled it out, Of course it's there—between your nippers," "Zounds, sir! d'ye think I'd sell the truth To get a fee? no, wretch, I scorn it!" But Hunks still asked to see the tooth, And swore by gum! he had not drawn it.

His end obtained, he took his leave, A secret chuckle in his sleeve; The joke was worthy to produce one, To think, by favor of his wit How well a dentist had been bit By one old stump, and that a loose one! The thing was worth a laugh, but mirth Is still the frailest thing on earth: Alas! how often when a joke Seems in our sleeve, and safe enough, There comes some unexpected stroke And hangs a weeper on the cuff!

Hunks had not whistled half a mile, When, planted right against a stile, There stood his foeman, Mike Mahoney, A vagrant reaper, Irish born, That helped to reap our miser's corn, But had not helped to reap his money, A fact that Hunks remembered quickly; His whistle all at once was quelled, And when he saw how Michael held His sickle, he felt rather sickly.

Nine souls in ten, with half his fright, Would soon have paid the bill at sight, But misers (let observers watch it) Will never part with their delight Till well demanded by a hatchet— They live hard—and they die to match it. Thus Hunks prepared for Mike's attacking, Resolved not yet to pay the debt, But let him take it out in hacking; However, Mike began to stickle In words before he used the sickle; But mercy was not long attendant: From words at last he took to blows, And aimed a cut at Hunks's nose, That made it what some folks are not— A member very independent.

Heaven knows how far this cruel trick Might still have led, but for a tramper That came in danger's very nick, To put Mahoney to the scamper. But still compassion met a damper; There lay the severed nose, alas! Beside the daisies on the grass, "Wee, crimson-tipt" as well as they, According to the poet's lay: And there stood Hunks, no sight for laughter. Away went Hodge to get assistance, With nose in hand, which Hunks ran after, But somewhat at unusual distance. In many a little country place It is a very common case To have but one residing doctor, Whose practice rather seems to be No practice, but a rule of three, Physician—surgeon—drug-decoctor;

Thus Hunks was forced to go once more Where he had ta'en his to t' before. His mere name made the learned man hot,— "What! Hunks again within my door! I'll pull his nose"; quoth Hunks, "You cannot." The doctor looked and saw the case Plain as the nose not on his face. "Oh! hum—ha—yes—I understand." But then arose a long demur, For not a finger would he stir Till he was paid his fee in hand; That matter settled, there they were, With Hunks well strapped upon his chair.

The opening of a surgeon's job— His tools, a chestful or a drawerful— Are always something very awful, And give the heart the strangest throb; But never patient in his funks Looked half so like a ghost as Hunks, Or surgeon half so like a devil Prepared for some infernal revel: His huge black eye kept rolling, rolling, Just like a bolus in a box: His fury seemed above controlling, He bellowed like a hunted ox: "Now, swindling wretch, I'll show thee how We treat such cheating knaves as thou; Oh! sweet is this revenge to sup; I have thee by the nose—it's now My turn—and I will turn it up."

Guess how the miser liked the scurvy And cruel way of venting passion; The snubbing folks in this new fashion Seemed quite to turn him topsy-turvy; He uttered prayers, and groans, and curses, For things had often gone amiss And wrong with him before, but this Would be the worst of all reverses! In fancy he beheld his snout Turned upwards like a pitcher's spout; There was another grievance yet, And fancy did not fail to show it, That he must throw a summerset, Or stand upon his head to blow it.

And was there then no argument To change the doctor's vile intent, And move his pity?—yes, in truth, And that was—paying for the tooth. "Zounds! pay for such a stump! I'd rather—" But here the menace went no farther, For with his other ways of pinching, Hunks had a miser's love of snuff. A recollection strong enough To cause a very serious flinching; In short, he paid and had the feature Replaced as it was meant by nature; For tho' by this 'twas cold to handle (No corpse's could have felt so horrid), And white just like an naked candle, The doctor deemed and proved it too, That noses from the nose will do As well as noses from the forehead; So, fixed by din of rag and lint, The part was bandaged up and muffled. The chair unfastened, Hunks rose, And shuffled off, for once unshuffled; And as he went, these words he snuffled— "Well, this is 'paying thro' the nose.'"



THE MERMAID OF MARGATE.[38]

"Alas! what perils do environ That man who meddles with a siren!"—Hudibrus.

[Footnote 38: Charles Lamb had been reading these verses when he wrote to his friend Dibdin, in June, 1896, and called him "Peter Fin Junior."]

On Margate beach, where the sick one roams, And the sentimental reads; Where the maiden flirts, and the widow comes Like the ocean—to cast her weeds;—

Where urchins wander to pick up shells, And the Cit to spy at the ships,— Like the water gala at Sadler's Wells,— And the Chandler for watery dips;—

There's a maiden sits by the ocean brim, As lovely and fair as sin! But woe, deep water and woe to him, That she snareth like Peter Fin!

Her head is crowned with pretty sea-wares, And her locks are golden loose, And seek to her feet, like other folks' heirs, To stand, of course, in her shoes!

And all day long she combeth them well, With a sea-shark's prickly jaw; And her mouth is just like a rose-lipped shell, The fairest that man e'er saw!

And the Fishmonger, humble as love may be Hath planted his seat by her side; "Good even, fair maid! Is thy lover at sea, To make thee so watch the tide?"

She turned about with her pearly brows, And clasped him by the hand; "Come, love, with me; I've a bonny house On the golden Goodwin sand."

And then she gave him a siren kiss, No honeycomb e'er was sweeter; Poor wretch! how little he dreamt for this That Peter should be salt-Peter:

And away with her prize to the wave she leapt, Not walking, as damsels do, With toe and heel, as she ought to have stept, But she hopped like a Kangaroo;

One plunge, and then the victim was blind, Whilst they galloped across the tide; At last, on the bank he waked in his mind, And the Beauty was by his side

One half on the sand, and half in the sea, But his hair began to stiffen; For when he looked where her feet should be, She had no more feet than Miss Biffen!

But a scaly tail, of a dolphin's growth, In the dabbling brine did soak: At last she opened her pearly mouth, Like an oyster, and thus she spoke:

"You crimpt my father, who was a skate,— And my sister you sold—a maid; So here remain for a fish'ry fate, For lost you are, and betrayed!"

And away she went, with a sea-gull's scream, And a splash of her saucy tail; In a moment he lost the silvery gleam That shone on her splended mail!

The sun went down with a blood-red flame, And the sky grew cloudy and black, And the tumbling billows like leap-frog came, Each over the other's back!

Ah me! it had been a beautiful scene, With the safe terra-firma round; But the green water-hillocks all seem'd to him Like those in a churchyard ground;

And Christians love in the turf to lie, Not in watery graves to be; Nay, the very fishes will sooner die On the land than in the sea.

And whilst he stood, the watery strife Encroached on every hand, And the ground decreased,—his moments of life Seemed measured, like Time's, by sand;

And still the waters foamed in, like ale, In front, and on either flank, He knew that Goodwin and Co. must fail, There was such a run on the bank.

A little more, and a little more, The surges came tumbling in, He sang the evening hymn twice o'er, And thought of every sin!

Each flounder and plaice lay cold at his heart, As cold as his marble slab; And he thought he felt, in every part, The pincers of scalded crab.

The squealing lobsters that he had boiled, And the little potted shrimps, All the horny prawns he had ever spoiled, Gnawed into his soul, like imps!

And the billows were wandering to and fro, And the glorious sun was sunk, And Day, getting black in the face, as though Of the nightshade she had drunk!

Had there been but a smuggler's cargo adrift, One tub, or keg, to be seen, It might have given his spirits a lift Or an anker where Hope might lean!

But there was not a box or a beam afloat, To raft him from that sad place; Not a skiff, not a yawl, or a mackerel boat, Nor a smack upon Neptune's face.

At last, his lingering hopes to buoy, He saw a sail and a mast, And called "Ahoy!"—but it was not a hoy, And so the vessel went past.

And with saucy wing that flapped in his face, The wild bird about him flew, With a shrilly scream, that twitted his case, "Why, thou art a sea-gull too!"

And lo! the tide was over his feet; Oh! his heart began to freeze, And slowly to pulse:—in another beat The wave was up to his knees!

He was deafened amidst the mountain tops, And the salt spray blinded his eyes, And washed away the other salt drops That grief had caused to arise:—

But just as his body was all afloat, And the surges above him broke, He was saved from the hungry deep by a boat Of Deal—(but builded of oak).

The skipper gave him a dram, as he lay, And chafed his shivering skin; And the Angel returned that was flying away With the spirit of Peter Fin!



A FAIRY TALE.

On Hounslow Heath—and close beside the road, As western travellers may oft have seen,— A little house some years ago there stood, A minikin abode; And built like Mr. Birkbeck's, all of wood: The walls of white, the window-shutters green,— Four wheels it had at North, South, East, and West (Though now at rest), On which it used to wander to and fro, Because its master ne'er maintained a rider, Like those who trade in Paternoster Row; But made his business travel for itself, Till he had made his pelf, And then retired—if one may call it so, Of a roadsider.

Perchance, the very race and constant riot Of stages, long and short, which thereby ran, Made him more relish the repose and quiet Of his now sedentary caravan; Perchance, he loved the ground because 'twas common, And so he might impale a strip of soil That furnished, by his toil, Some dusty greens, for him and his old woman;— And five tall hollyhocks, in dingy flower: Howbeit, the thoroughfare did no ways spoil His peace,—unless, in some unlucky hour, A stray horse came, and gobbled up his bow'r!

But, tired of always looking at the coaches, The same to come,—when they had seen them one day! And, used to brisker life, both man and wife Began to suffer N U E's approaches, And feel retirement like a long wet Sunday,— So, having had some quarters of school breeding, They turned themselves, like other folks, to reading; But setting out where others nigh have done, And being ripened in the seventh stage, The childhood of old age, Began, as other children have begun,— Not with the pastorals of Mr. Pope, Or Bard of Hope, Or Paley ethical, or learned Porson,— But spelt, on Sabbaths, in St. Mark, or John, And then relax'd themselves with Whittington, Or Valentine and Orson— But chiefly fairy tales they loved to con, And being easily melted in their dotage, Slobber'd,—and kept Reading,—and wept Over the White Cat, in their wooden cottage.

Thus reading on—the longer They read, of course, their childish faith grew stronger In Gnomes, and Hags, and Elves, and Giants grim,— If talking Trees and Birds revealed to him, She saw the flight of Fairyland's fly-wagons, And magic fishes swim In puddle ponds, and took old crows for dragons,— Both were quite drunk from the enchanted flagons; When as it fell upon a summer's day, As the old man sat a feeding On the old babe-reading, Beside his open street-and parlor door, A hideous roar

Proclaimed a drove of beasts was coming by the way. Long-horned, and short, of many a different breed, Tall, tawny brutes, from famous Lincoln-levels Or Durham feed; With some of those unquiet black dwarf devils From nether side of Tweed, Or Firth of Forth; Looking half wild with joy to leave the North,— With dusty hides, all mobbing on together,— When,—whether from a fly's malicious comment Upon his tender flank, from which he shrank; Or whether Only in some enthusiastic moment,— However, one brown monster, in a frisk, Giving his tail a perpendicular whisk, Kicked out a passage through the beastly rabble; And after a pas seul,—or, if you will, a Horn-pipe before the basket-maker's villa, Leapt o'er the tiny pale,— Backed his beefsteaks against the wooden gable, And thrust his brawny bell-rope of a tail Right o'er the page, Wherein the sage Just then was spelling some romantic fable.

The old man, half a scholar, half a dunce, Could not peruse,—who could?—two tales at once; And being huffed At what he knew was none of Riquet's Tuft; Banged-to the door, But most unluckily enclosed a morsel Of the intruding tail, and all the tassel:— The monster gave a roar, And bolting off with speed increased by pain, The little house became a coach once more, And, like Macheath, "took to the road" again!

Just then, by fortune's whimsical decree, The ancient woman stooping with her crupper Towards sweet home, or where sweet home should be, Was getting up some household herbs for supper; Thoughtful of Cinderella, in the tale, And, quaintly wondering if magic shifts Could o'er a common pumpkin so prevail, To turn it to a coach;—what pretty gifts Might come of cabbages, and curly kale; Meanwhile she never heard her old man's wail, Nor turned, till home had turned a corner, quite Gone out of sight!

At last, conceive her, rising from the ground, Weary of sitting on her russet clothing, And looking round Where rest was to be found, There was no house—no villa there—no nothing! No house! The change was quite amazing; It made her senses stagger for a minute, The riddle's explication seemed to harden; But soon her superannuated nous Explain'd the horrid mystery;—and raising Her hand to heaven, with the cabbage in it, On which she meant to sup,— "Well! this is Fairy work! I'll bet a farden, Little Prince Silverwings has ketch'd me up, And set me down in some one else's garden!"



CRANIOLOGY.

'Tis strange how like a very dunce, Man—with his bumps upon his sconce, Has lived so long, and yet no knowledge he Has had, till lately, of Phrenology— A science that by simple dint of Head-combing he should find a hint of, When scratching o'er those little poll-hills, The faculties throw up like mole-hills; A science that, in very spite Of all his teeth, ne'er came to light, For though he knew his skull had grinders, Still there turned up no organ finders, Still sages wrote, and ages fled, And no man's head came in his head— Not even the pate of Erra Pater, Knew aught about its pia mater.

At last great Dr. Gall bestirs him— I don't know but it might be Spurzheim— Tho' native of a dull and slow land, And makes partition of our Poll-land; At our Acquisitiveness guesses, And all those necessary nesses Indicative of human habits, All burrowing in the head like rabbits. Thus Veneration, he made known, Had got a lodging at the Crown; And Music (see Deville's example) A set of chambers in the Temple; That Language taught the tongues close by, And took in pupils thro' the eye, Close by his neighbor Computation, Who taught the eyebrows numeration.

The science thus—to speak in fit Terms—having struggled from its nit, Was seized on by a swarm of Scotchmen Those scientifical hotch-potch men, Who have at least a penny dip, And wallop in all doctorship, Just as in making broth they smatter By bobbing twenty things in water: These men, I say, made quick appliance And close, to phrenologic science; For of all learned themes whatever, That schools and colleges deliver, There's none they love so near the bodles, As analysing their own noddles; Thus in a trice each northern blockhead Had got his fingers in his shock head, And of his bumps was babbling yet worse Than poor Miss Capulet's dry wet-nurse; Till having been sufficient rangers Of their own heads, they took to strangers'. And found in Presbyterians' polls The things they hated in their souls! For Presbyterians hear with passion Of organs joined with veneration. No kind there was of human pumpkin But at its bumps it had a bumpkin; Down to the very lowest gullion, And oiliest skull of oily scullion. No great man died but this they did do, They begged his cranium of his widow: No murderer died by law disaster, But they took off his sconce in plaster; For thereon they could show depending, "The head and front of his offending": How that his philanthropic bump Was mastered by a baser lump; For every bump (these wags insist) Has its direct antagonist, Each striving stoutly to prevail, Like horses knotted tail to tail! And many a stiff and sturdy battle Occurs between these adverse cattle, The secret cause, beyond all question, Of aches ascribed to indigestion,— Whereas 'tis but two knobby rivals Tugging together like sheer devils, Till one gets mastery, good or sinister, And comes in like a new prime-minister.

Each bias in some master node is:— What takes M'Adam where a road is, To hammer little pebbles less? His organ of Destructiveness. What makes great Joseph so encumber Debate? a lumping lump of Number: Or Malthas rail at babies so? The smallness of his Philopro— What severs man and wife? a simple Defect of the Adhesive pimple: Or makes weak women go astray? Their bumps are more in fault than they.

These facts being found and set in order By grave M. D.'s beyond the Border, To make them for some months eternal, Were entered monthly in a journal, That many a northern sage still writes in, And throws his little Northern Lights in, And proves and proves about the phrenos, A great deal more than I or he knows: How Music suffers, par exemple, By wearing tight hats round the temple; What ills great boxers have to fear From blisters put behind the ear; And how a porter's Veneration Is hurt by porter's occupation; Whether shillelaghs in reality May deaden Individuality; Or tongs and poker be creative Of alterations in th' Amative; If falls from scaffolds make us less Inclined to all Constructiveness: With more such matters, all applying To heads—and therefore head-ifying.



THE WEE MAN.

A ROMANCE.

It was a merry company, And they were just afloat, When lo! a man, of dwarfish span, Came up and hailed the boat.

"Good morrow to ye, gentle folks, And will you let me in? A slender space will serve my case, For I am small and thin."

They saw he was a dwarfish man, And very small and thin; Not seven such would matter much, And so they took him in.

They laughed to see his little hat, With such a narrow brim; They laughed to note his dapper coat, With skirts so scant and trim.

But barely had they gone a mile, When, gravely, one and all At once began to think the man Was not so very small:

His coat had got a broader skirt, His hat a broader brim; His leg grew stout, and soon plumped out A very proper limb.

Still on they went, and as they went, More rough the billows grew,— And rose and fell, a greater swell, And he was swelling too!

And lo! where room had been for seven, For six there scarce was space! For five!—for four!—for three!—not more Than two could find a place!

There was not even room for one! They crowded by degrees— Ay—closer yet, till elbows met, And knees were jogging knees.

"Good sir, you must not sit a-stern, The wave will else come in!" Without a word he gravely stirred, Another seat to win.

"Good sir, the boat has lost her trim, You must not sit a-lee!" With smiling face and courteous grace, The middle seat took he.

But still, by constant quiet growth, His back became so wide, Each neighbor wight, to left and right, Was thrust against the side.

Lord! how they chided with themselves, That they had let him in; To see him grow so monstrous now, That came so small and thin.

On every brow a dewdrop stood, They grew so scared and hot,— "I' the name of all that's great and tall, Who are ye, sir, and what?"

Loud laughed the Gogmagog, a laugh As loud as giant's roar— "When first I came, my proper name Was Little—now I'm Moore!"[39]

[Footnote 39: Thomas Moore is a forgotten poet, and it cannot therefore be impertinent to remind the reader that in his early days he published certain rather "vain and amatorious" poems under the pseudonym of "Thomas Little."]



THE PROGRESS OF ART.

Oh happy time!—Art's early days! When o'er each deed, with sweet self-praise, Narcissus-like I hung! When great Rembrandt but little seemed, And such Old Masters all were deemed As nothing to the young!

Some scratchy strokes—abrupt and few, So easily and swift I drew, Sufficed for my design; My sketchy, superficial hand Drew solids at a dash—and spanned A surface with a line.

Not long my eye was thus content, But grew more critical—my bent Essayed a higher walk; I copied leaden eyes in lead— Rheumatic hands in white and red, And gouty feet—in chalk.

Anon my studious art for days Kept making faces—happy phrase, For faces such as mine! Accomplished in the details then, I left the minor parts of men, And drew the form divine.

Old Gods and Heroes—Trojan—Greek, Figures—long after the antique, Great Ajax justly feared; Hectors, of whom at night I dreamt, And Nestor, fringed enough to tempt Bird-nesters to his beard.

A Bacchus, leering on a bowl, A Pallas that out-stared her owl, A Vulcan—very lame; A Dian stuck about with stars, With my right hand I murdered Mars— (One Williams did the same).

But tired of this dry work at last, Crayon and chalk aside I cast, And gave my brush a drink! Dipping—"as when a painter dips In gloom of earthquake and eclipse,"— That is—in Indian ink.

Oh then, what black Mont Blancs arose, Crested with soot, and not with snows: What clouds of dingy hue! In spite of what the bard has penned, I fear the distance did not "lend Enchantment to the view."

Not Radcliffe's brush did e'er design Black Forests half so black as mine, Or lakes so like a pall; The Chinese cake dispersed a ray Of darkness, like the light of Day And Martin over all.

Yet urchin pride sustained me still, I gazed on all with right good will, And spread the dingy tint; "No holy Luke helped me to paint, The devil surely, not a Saint, Had any finger in't!"

But colors came!—like morning light, With gorgeous hues, displacing night, Or Spring's enlivened scene: At once the sable shades withdrew; My skies got very, very blue; My trees extremely green.

And washed by my cosmetic brush, How Beauty's cheek began to blush; With lock of auburn stain— (Not Goldsmith's Auburn)—nut-brown hair, That made her loveliest of the fair; Not "loveliest of the plain!"

Her lips were of vermilion hue: Love in her eyes, and Prussian blue, Set all my heart in flame! A young Pygmalion, I adored The maids I made—but time was stored With evil—and it came!

Perspective dawned—and soon I saw My houses stand against its law; And "keeping" all unkept! My beauties were no longer things For love and fond imaginings; But horrors to be wept!

Ah! why did knowledge ope my eyes? Why did I get more artist wise? It only serves to hint, What grave defects and wants are mine; That I'm no Hilton in design— In nature no De Wint!

Thrice happy time!—Art's early days! When o'er each deed, with sweet self-praise, Narcissus-like I hung! When great Rembrandt but little seemed, And such Old Masters all were deemed As nothing to the young!



THOSE EVENING BELLS.

Those evening bells, those evening bells, How many a tale their music tells,— Of Yorkshire cakes and crumpets prime, And letters only just in time!

The Muffin-boy has passed away, The Postman gone—and I must pay, For down below Deaf Mary dwells, And does not hear those Evening Bells.[40]

And so 'twill be when she is gone, That tuneful peal will still ring on, And other maids with timely yells Forget to stay those Evening Bells.

[Footnote 40: The muffin-boy, with his "evening bell," is still in the land; but the evening postman, perambulating the streets and collecting letters "just in time," has "passed away" for ever.]



THE CARELESSE NURSE MAYD.

I sawe a Mayd sitte on a Bank, Beguiled by Wooer fayne and fond; And whiles His flatterynge Vowes She drank, Her Nurselynge slipt within a Pond!

All Even Tide they Talkde and Kist, For She was Fayre and He was Kinde; The Sunne went down before She wist Another Sonne had sett behinde!

With angrie Hands and frownynge Browe, That deemd Her owne the Urchine's Sinne, She pluckt Him out, but he was nowe Past being Whipt for fallynge in.

She then beginnes to wayle the Ladde With Shrikes that Echo answered round— O foolish Mayd! to be soe sadde The Momente that her Care was drownd!



DOMESTIC ASIDES; OR, TRUTH IN PARENTHESES.

"I really take it very kind, This visit, Mrs. Skinner! I have not seen you such an age— (The wretch has come to dinner!)

"Your daughters, too, what loves of girls— What heads for painters' easels! Come here and kiss the infant, dears— (And give it p'rhaps the measles!)

"Your charming boys I see are home From Reverend Mr. Russell's; 'Twas very kind to bring them both— (What boots for my new Brussels!)

"What! little Clara left at home? Well now I call that shabby: I should have loved to kiss her so— (A flabby, dabby, babby!)

"And Mr. S., I hope he's well, Ah! though he lives so handy, He never now drops in to sup— (The better for our brandy!)

"Come, take a seat—I long to hear About Matilda's marriage; You're come of course to spend the day! (Thank Heaven, I hear the carriage!)

"What! must you go? next time I hope You'll give me longer measure; Nay—I shall see you down the stairs— (With most uncommon pleasure!)

"Good-bye! good-bye! remember all, Next time you'll take your dinners! (Now, David, mind I'm not at home In future to the Skinners!")



SHOOTING PAINS.

"The charge is prepar'd."—Macheath.

If I shoot any more I'll be shot, For ill-luck seems determined to star me, I have march'd the whole day With a gun,—for no pay— Zounds, I'd better have been in the army!

What matters Sir Christopher's leave; To his manor I'm sorry I came yet! With confidence fraught My two pointers I brought, But we are not a point towards game yet!

And that gamekeeper too, with advice! Of my course he has been a nice chalker, Not far, were his words, I could go without birds: If my legs could cry out, they'd cry "Walker!"

Not Hawker could find out a flaw,— My appointments are modern and Mantony; And I've brought my own man, To mark down all he can, But I can't find a mark for my Anthony!

The partridges,—where can they lie? I have promis'd a leash to Miss Jervas, As the least I could do; But without even two To brace me,—I'm getting quite nervous!

To the pheasants—how well they're preserv'd!— My sport's not a jot more beholden, As the birds are so shy, For my friends I must buy, And so send "silver pheasants and golden."

I have tried ev'ry form for a hare, Every patch, every furze that could shroud her, With toil unrelax'd, Till my patience is tax'd, But I cannot be tax'd for hare-powder.

I've been roaming for hours in three flats, In the hope of a snipe for a snap at; But still vainly I court The percussioning sport, I find nothing for "setting my cap at!"

A woodcock,—this month is the time,— Right and left I've made ready my lock for, With well-loaded double, But 'spite of my trouble, Neither barrel can I find a cock for!

A rabbit I should not despise, But they lurk in their burrows so lowly; This day's the eleventh, It is not the seventh, But they seem to be keeping it hole-y.

For a mallard I've waded the marsh, And haunted each pool, and each lake—oh! Mine is not the luck, To obtain thee, O Duck, Or to doom thee, O Drake, like a Draco!

For a field-fare I've fared far a-field, Large or small I am never to sack bird, Not a thrush is so kind As to fly, and I find I may whistle myself for a black-bird!

I am angry, I'm hungry, I'm dry, Disappointed, and sullen, and goaded, And so weary an elf, I am sick of myself, And with Number One seem overloaded.

As well one might beat round St. Paul's, And look out for a cock or a hen there; I have search'd round and round, All the Baronet's ground, But Sir Christopher hasn't a wren there!

Joyce may talk of his excellent caps, But for nightcaps they set me desiring, And it's really too bad, Not a shot I have had With Hall's Powder renown'd for "quick firing."

If this is what people call sport, Oh! of sporting I can't have a high sense; And there still remains one More mischance on my gun— "Fined for shooting without any licence."



JOHN DAY.

A PATHETIC BALLAD.

"A Day after the Fair."—Old Proverb.

John Day he was the biggest man Of all the coachman kind, With back too broad to be conceived By any narrow mind.

The very horses knew his weight, When he was in the rear, And wished his box a Christmas box, To come but once a year.

Alas! against the shafts of love, What armor can avail? Soon Cupid sent an arrow through His scarlet coat of mail.

The barmaid of the Crown he loved, From whom he never ranged, For though he changed his horses there, His love he never changed.

He thought her fairest of all fares, So fondly love prefers; And often, among twelve outsides, Deemed no outside like hers!

One day, as she was sitting down Beside the porter-pump— He came, and knelt with all his fat, And made an offer plump.

Said she, my taste will never learn To like so huge a man, So I must beg you will come here As little as you can.

But still he stoutly urged his suit With vows, and sighs, and tears, Yet could not pierce her heart, altho' He drove the Dart for years.

In vain he wooed, in vain he sued, The maid was cold and proud, And sent him off to Coventry, While on his way to Stroud.

He fretted all the way to Stroud, And thence all back to town, The course of love was never smooth, So his went up and down.

At last her coldness made him pine To merely bones and skin, But still he loved like one resolved To love through thick and thin.

O Mary! view my wasted back, And see my dwindled calf; Tho' I have never had a wife, I've lost my better half.

Alas, in vain he still assail'd, He heart withstood the dint; Though he had carried sixteen stone He could not move a flint.

Worn out, at last he made a vow To break his being's link; For he was so reduced in size, At nothing he could shrink.

Now some will talk in water's praise, And waste a deal of breath, But John, tho' he drank nothing else, He drank himself to death!

The cruel maid that caused his love Found out the fatal close, For looking in the butt, she saw The butt-end of his woes.

Some say his spirit haunts the Crown, But that is only talk— For after riding all his life, His ghost objects to walk!



HUGGINS AND DUGGINS.

PASTORAL, AFTER POPE.

Two swains or clowns—but call them swains— Whilst keeping flocks on Salisbury plains, For all that tend on sheep as drovers Are turned to songsters or to lovers, Each of the lass he call'd his dear, Began to carol loud and clear. First Huggins sang, and Duggins then, In the way of ancient shepherd men; Who thus alternate hitched in song, "All things by turns, and nothing long."

HUGGINS.

Of all the girls about our place, There's one beats all in form and face; Search through all Great and Little Bumpstead, You'll only find one Peggy Plumstead.

DUGGINS.

To groves and streams I tell my flame, I make the cliffs repeat her name; When I'm inspired by gills and noggins, The rocks re-echo Sally Hoggins!

HUGGINS.

When I am walking in the grove, I think of Peggy as I rove. I'd carve her name on every tree, But I don't know my A, B, C.

DUGGINS.

Whether I walk in hill or valley, I think of nothing else but Sally. I'd sing her praise, but I can sing No song, except "God save the king!"

HUGGINS.

My Peggy does all nymphs excel, And all confess she bears the bell,— Where'er she goes swains flock together, Like sheep that follow the bell wether.

DUGGINS.

Sally is tall and not too straight,— Those very poplar shapes I hate; But something twisted like an S,— A crook becomes a shepherdess.

HUGGINS.

When Peggy's dog her arms empris'n I often wish my lot was hisn; How often I should stand and turn, To get a pat from hands like hern.

DUGGINS.

I tell Sall's lambs how blest they be, To stand about, and stare at she; But when I look, she turns and shies, And won't bear none but their sheep's eyes!

HUGGINS.

Love goes with Peggy where she goes,— Beneath her smile the garden grows; Potatoes spring, and cabbage starts, 'Tatoes have eyes, and cabbage hearts!

DUGGINS.

Where Sally goes it's always Spring, Her presence brightens everything; The sun smiles bright, but where her grin is, It makes brass farthings look like guineas.

HUGGINS.

For Peggy I can have no joy, She's sometimes kind, and sometimes coy, And keeps me, by her wayward tricks, As comfortless as sheep with ticks!

DUGGINS.

Sally is ripe as June or May, And yet as cold as Christmas Day; For when she's asked to change her lot, Lamb's wool,—but Sally, she wool not.

HUGGINS.

Only with Peggy and with health, I'd never wish for state or wealth; Talking of having health and more pence, I'd drink her health if I had fourpence!

DUGGINS.

Oh, how that day would seem to shine, If Sally's banns were read with mine; She cries, when such a wish I carry, "Marry come up!" but will not marry.



THE CHINA-MENDER.

Good-Morning, Mr. What-d'ye-call! Well! here's another pretty job! Lord help my Lady!—what a smash!—if you had only heard her sob! It was all through Mr. Lambert: but for certain he was winey, To think for to go to sit down on a table full of Chiney. "Deuce take your stupid head!" says my Lady to his very face; But politeness, you know, is nothing when there's Chiney in the case; And if ever a woman was fond of Chiney to a passion, It's my mistress, and all sorts of it, whether new or old fashion. Her brother's a sea-captain, and brings her home shiploads— Such bronzes, and such dragons, and nasty squatting things like toads; And great nidnoddin' mandarins, with palsies in the head: I declare I've often dreamt of them, and had nightmares in my bed. But the frightfuller they are—lawk! she loves them all the better, She'd have Old Nick himself made of Chiney if they'd let her. Lawk-a-mercy! break her Chiney, and it's breaking her very heart; If I touched it, she would very soon say, "Mary, we must part." To be sure she is unlucky: only Friday comes Master Randall, And breaks a broken spout, and fresh chips a tea-cup handle: He's a dear, sweet little child, but he will so finger and touch, And that's why my Lady doesn't take to children much. Well, there's stupid Mr. Lambert, with his two greatcoat flaps. Must go and sit down on the Dresd'n shepherdesses' laps, As if there was no such things as rosewood chairs in the room! I couldn't have made a greater sweep with the handle of the broom. Mercy on us! how my mistress began to rave and tear! Well, after all, there's nothing like good ironstone ware for wear. If ever I marry, that's flat, I'm sure it won't be John Dockery— I should be a wretched woman in a shop full of crockery. I should never like to wipe it, though I love to be neat and tidy, And afraid of meat on market-days every Monday and Friday I'm very much mistook if Mr. Lambert's will be a catch; The breaking the Chiney will be the breaking-off of his own match. Missis wouldn't have an angel, if he was careless about Chiney; She never forgives a chip, if it's ever so small and tiny. Lawk! I never saw a man in all my life in such a taking; I could find it in my heart to pity him for all his mischief-making. To see him stand a-hammering and stammering like a zany; But what signifies apologies, if they won't mend old Chaney! If he sent her up whole crates full, from Wedgwood's and Mr. Spode's, He couldn't make amends for the crack'd mandarins and smash'd toads. Well! every one has their tastes, but, for my part, my own self, I'd rather have the figures on my poor dear grandmother's old shelf A nice pea-green poll-parrot, and two reapers with brown ears of corns, And a shepherd with a crook after a lamb with two gilt horns, And such a Jemmy Jessamy in top-boots and sky-blue vest, And a frill and flower'd waistcoat, with a fine bow-pot at the breast. God help her, poor old soul! I shall come into 'em at her death; Though she's a hearty woman for her years, except her shortness of breath. Well! you may think the things will mend—if they won't, Lord mend us all! My lady will go in fits, and Mr. Lambert won't need to call; I'll be bound in any money, if I had a guinea to give, He won't sit down again on Chiney the longest day he has to live. Poor soul! I only hope it won't forbid his banns of marriage; Or he'd better have sat behind on the spikes of my Lady's carriage. But you'll join 'em all of course, and stand poor Mr. Lambert's friend, I'll look in twice a day, just to see, like, how they mend. To be sure it is a sight that might draw tears from dogs and cats, Here's this pretty little pagoda, now, has lost four of its cocked hats. Be particular with the pagoda: and then here's this pretty bowl— The Chinese Prince is making love to nothing because of this hole; And here's another Chinese man, with a face just like a doll, Do stick his pigtail on again, and just mend his parasol. But I needn't tell you what to do, only do it out of hand, And charge whatever you like to charge—my Lady won't make a stand. Well! good-morning, Mr. What-d'ye-call, for it's time our gossip ended: And you know the proverb, the less as is said, the sooner the Chiney's mended.



DOMESTIC DIDACTICS.

BY AN OLD SERVANT.

I.

THE BROKEN DISH.

What's life but full of care and doubt With all its fine humanities, With parasols we walk about, Long pigtails, and such vanities.

We plant pomegranate trees and things, And go in gardens sporting, With toys and fans of peacocks' wings, To painted ladies courting.

We gather flowers of every hue, And fish in boats for fishes, Build summer-houses painted blue,— But life's as frail as dishes!

Walking about their groves of trees, Blue bridges and blue rivers, How little thought them two Chinese, They'd both be smashed to shivers!

II.

ODE TO PEACE.

WRITTEN ON THE NIGHT OF MY MISTRESS'S GRAND ROUT.

Oh Peace, oh come with me and dwell— But stop, for there's the bell. Oh Peace! for thee I go and sit in churches On Wednesday, when there's very few In loft or pew— Another ring, the tarts are come from Birch's. Oh Peace! for thee I have avoided marriage— Hush! there's a carriage. Oh Peace! thou art the best of earthly goods— The five Miss Woods! Oh Peace! thou art the goddess I adore— There come some more. Oh Peace! thou child of solitude and quiet— That's Lord Dunn's footman, for he loves a riot!

Oh Peace! Knocks will not cease. Oh Peace! thou wert for human comfort plann'd— That's Weippert's band. Oh Peace! how glad I welcome thy approaches— I hear the sound of coaches. Oh Peace! oh Peace! another carriage stops— It's early for the Blenkinsops.

Oh Peace! with thee I love to wander, But wait till I have showed up Lady Squander, And now I've seen her up the stair, Oh Peace!—but here comes Captain Hare. Oh Peace! thou art the slumber of the mind, Untroubled, calm and quiet, and unbroken,— If that is Alderman Guzzle from Portsoken, Alderman Gobble won't be far behind. Oh Peace! serene in worldly shyness,— Make way there for his Serene Highness!

Oh Peace! if you do not disdain To dwell amongst the menial train, I have a silent place and lone, That you and I may call our own; Where tumult never makes an entry— Susan! what business have you in my pantry?

Oh Peace! but there is Major Monk, At variance with his wife—Oh Peace! And that great German, Vander Trunk, And that great talker, Miss Apreece; Oh Peace! so dear to poet's quills— Oh Peace! our greatest renovator; I wonder where I put my waiter— Oh Peace! but here my Ode I'll cease, I have no peace to write of Peace!

III.

A FEW LINES ON COMPLETING FORTY-SEVEN.

When I reflect with serious sense, While years and years run on, How soon I may be summoned hence— There's cook a-calling John.

Our lives are built so frail and poor, On sand and not on rocks, We're hourly standing at Death's door— There's some one double knocks.

All human days have settled terms, Our fates we cannot force; This flesh of mine will feed the worms— They're come to lunch of course!

And when my body's turned to clay, And dear friends hear my knell, Oh let them give a sigh and say— I hear the upstairs bell!

IV.

TO MARY HOUSEMAID, ON VALENTINE'S DAY.

Mary, you know I've no love nonsense, And though I pen on such a day, I don't mean flirting, on my conscience, Or writing in the courting way.

Though Beauty hasn't formed your feature, It saves you p'rhaps from being vain, And many a poor unhappy creature May wish that she was half as plain.

Your virtues would not rise an inch, Although your shape was two foot taller, And wisely you let others pinch Great waists and feet to make them smaller.

You never try to spare your hands From getting red by household duty, But doing all that it commands, Their coarseness is a moral beauty.

Let Susan flourish her fair arms, And at your old legs sneer and scoff, But let her laugh, for you have charms That nobody knows nothing of.



LAMENT FOR THE DECLINE OF CHIVALRY.[41]

[Footnote 41: These verses form a good specimen of Hood's capabilities for writing to order. They first appeared in the Bijou for 1828, accompanying a vignette by Thomas Stothard of two knights, mounted, and in complete armor, engaged in deadly conflict. This was doubtless (after the then custom of Annuals) placed in Hood's hands for him to supply the appropriate letterpress.]

Well hast thou cried, departed Burke, All chivalrous romantic work Is ended now and past!— That iron age—which some have thought Of metal rather overwrought— Is now all overcast!

Ay! where are those heroic knights Of old—those armadillo wights Who wore the plated vest?— Great Charlemagne and all his peers Are cold—enjoying with their spears An everlasting rest!

The bold King Arthur sleepeth sound; So sleep his knights who gave that Round Old Table such eclat! Oh, Time has pluck'd the plumy brow! And none engage at tourneys now But those that go to law!

Grim John o' Gaunt is quite gone by, And Guy is nothing but a Guy, Orlando lies forlorn!— Bold Sidney, and his kidney—nay, Those "early champions"—what are they But "Knights without a morn"?

No Percy branch now perseveres, Like those of old, in breaking spears— The name is now a lie!— Surgeons, alone, by any chance, Are all that ever couch a lance To couch a body's eye!

Alas for Lion-Hearted Dick, That cut the Moslems to the quick, His weapon lies in peace: Oh, it would warm them in a trice, If they could only have a spice Of his old mace in Greece!

The famed Rinaldo lies a-cold, And Tancred too, and Godfrey bold, That scaled the holy wall! No Saracen meets Paladin, We hear of no great Saladin, But only grow the small!

Our Cressys, too, have dwindled since To penny things—at our Black Prince[42] Historic pens would scoff: The only one we moderns had Was nothing but a Sandwich lad, And measles took him off!

Where are those old and feudal clans, Their pikes, and bills, and partisans, Their hauberks, jerkins, buffs? A battle was a battle then, A breathing piece of work; but men Fight now—with powder puffs!

The curtal-axe is out of date; The good old crossbow bends—to Fate; 'Tis gone, the archer's craft! No tough arm bends the spinning yew, And jolly draymen ride, in lieu Of Death, upon the shaft!

The spear,—the gallant tilter's pride, The rusty spear, is laid aside,— Oh, spits now domineer! The coat of mail is left alone,— And where is all chain armor gone? Go ask at Brighton Pier.

We fight in ropes, and not in lists, Bestowing hand-cuffs with our fists, A low and vulgar art!— No mounted man is overthrown: A tilt!—it is a thing unknown— Except upon a cart!

Methinks I see the bounding barb, Clad like his Chief in steely garb, For warding steel's appliance! Methinks I hear the trumpet stir! 'Tis but the guard, to Exeter, That bugles the "Defiance"!

In cavils when will cavaliers Set ringing helmets by the ears, And scatter plumes about? Or blood—if they are in the vein? That tap will never run again— Alas! the Casque is out!

No iron-crackling now is scored By dint of battle-axe or sword, To find a vital place— Though certain doctors still pretend, Awhile, before they kill a friend, To labor through his case.

Farewell, then, ancient men of might! Crusader, errant squire, and knight! Our coats and customs soften; To rise would only make you weep— Sleep on, in rusty-iron sleep, As in a safety coffin!

[Footnote 42: The allusion to our modern "Black Prince" is apparently to Prince Le Boo, whose death, while on a visit to England, had so impressed the public imagination. He came, however, from the Pelew Islands, not the "Sandwich;" and it was smallpox, not measles, that "took him off."]



PLAYING AT SOLDIERS.

"Who'll serve the King?"

What little urchin is there never Hath had that early scarlet fever, Of martial trappings caught? Trappings well call'd—because they trap And catch full many a country chap To go where fields are fought!

What little urchin with a rag Hath never made a little flag (Our plate will show the manner), And wooed each tiny neighbor still, Tommy or Harry, Dick or Will, To come beneath the banner!

Just like that ancient shape of mist, In Hamlet, crying "'List, oh, 'list!" Come, who will serve the king, And strike frog-eating Frenchmen dead, And cut off Bonyparty's head?— And all that sort of thing.

So used I, when I was a boy, To march with military toy, And ape the soldier's life;— And with a whistle or a hum, I thought myself a Duke of Drum At least, or Earl of Fife.

With gun of tin and sword of lath, Lord! how I walk'd in glory's path With regimental mates, By sound of trump and rub-a dubs— To 'siege the washhouse—charge the tubs— Or storm the garden gates.

Ah me! my retrospective soul! As over memory's muster-roll I cast my eyes anew, My former comrades all the while Rise up before me, rank and file, And form in dim review.

Ay, there they stand, and dress in line, Lubbock, and Fenn, and David Vine, And dark "Jamaeky Forde!" And limping Wood, and "Cockey Hawes," Our captain always made, because He had a real sword!

Long Lawrence, Natty Smart, and Soame, Who said he had a gun at home, But that was all a brag; Ned Ryder, too, that used to sham A prancing horse, and big Sam Lamb That would hold up the flag!

Tom Anderson, and "Dunny White," Who never right-abouted right, For he was deaf and dumb; Jack Pike, Jem Crack, and Sandy Gray, And Dickey Bird, that wouldn't play Unless he had the drum.

And Peter Holt, and Charley Jepp, A chap that never kept the step— No more did "Surly Hugh;" Bob Harrington, and "Fighting Jim"— We often had to halt for him, To let him tie his shoe.

"Quarrelsome Scott," and Martin Dick, That kill'd the bantam cock, to stick The plumes within his hat; Bill Hook, and little Tommy Grout, That got so thump'd for calling out "Eyes right!" to "Squinting Matt."

Dan Simpson, that, with Peter Dodd, Was always in the awkward squad, And those two greedy Blakes That took our money to the fair, To buy the corps a trumpet there, And laid it out in cakes.

Where are they now?—an open war With open mouth declaring for?— Or fall'n in bloody fray? Compell'd to tell the truth I am, Their fights all ended with the sham,— Their soldiership in play.

Brave Soame sends cheeses out in trucks, And Martin sells the cock he plucks, And Jepp now deals in wine; Harrington bears a lawyer's bag, And warlike Lamb retains his flag, But on a tavern sign.

They tell me Cockey Hawes's sword Is seen upon a broker's board: And as for "Fighting Jim," In Bishopsgate, last Whitsuntide, His unresisting cheek I spied Beneath a Quaker brim!

Quarrelsome Scott is in the church, For Ryder now your eye must search The marts of silk and lace— Bird's drums are filled with figs, and mute, And I—I've got a substitute To Soldier in my place!



MARY'S GHOST.

A PATHETIC BALLAD.

'Twas in the middle of the night, To sleep young William tried, When Mary's ghost came stealing in, And stood at his bedside.

O William dear! O William dear! My rest eternal ceases; Alas! my everlasting peace Is broken into pieces.

I thought the last of all my cares Would end with my last minute; But though I went to my long home, I didn't stay long in it.

The body-snatchers they have come, And made a snatch at me; It's very hard them kind of men Won't let a body be!

You thought that I was buried deep, Quite decent-like and chary, But from her grave in Mary-bone, They've come and boned your Mary.

The arm that used to take your arm Is took to Dr. Vyse; And both my legs are gone to walk The hospital at Guy's.

I vowed that you should have my hand, But fate gives us denial; You'll find it there, at Dr. Bell's, In spirits and a phial.

As for my feet, the little feet You used to call so pretty, There's one, I know, in Bedford Row, The t'other's in the City.

I can't tell where my head is gone, But Doctor Carpue can; As for my trunk, it's all packed up To go by Pickford's van.

I wish you'd go to Mr. P. And save me such a ride; I don't half like the outside place, They've took for my inside.

The cock it crows—I must be gone! My William, we must part! But I'll be yours in death, altho' Sir Astley has my heart.

Don't go to weep upon my grave, And think that there I be; They haven't left an atom there Of my anatomie.



THE WIDOW.

One widow at a grave will sob A little while, and weep, and sigh! If two should meet on such a job, They'll have a gossip by and by. If three should come together—why, Three widows are good company! If four should meet by any chance, Four is a number very nice, To have a rubber in a trice— But five will up and have a dance!

Poor Mrs. C—— (why should I not Declare her name?—her name was Cross) Was one of those the "common lot" Had left to weep "no common loss"; For she had lately buried then A man, the "very best of men," A lingering truth, discovered first Whenever men "are at the worst."

To take the measure of her woe, It was some dozen inches deep— I mean in crape, and hung so low, It hid the drops she did not weep: In fact, what human life appears, It was a perfect "veil of tears." Though ever since she lost "her prop And stay"—alas! he wouldn't stay— She never had a tear to mop, Except one little angry drop From Passion's eye, as Moore would say, Because, when Mister Cross took flight, It looked so very like a spite— He died upon a washing-day!

Still Widow Cross went twice a week, As if "to wet a widows' cheek," And soothe his grave with sorrow's gravy— 'Twas nothing but a make-believe, She might as well have hoped to grieve Enough of brine to float a navy; And yet she often seemed to raise A cambric kerchief to her eye— A duster ought to be the phrase, Its work was all so very dry. The springs were locked that ought to flow— In England or in widow-woman— As those that watch the weather know, Such "backward Springs" are not uncommon.

But why did Widow Cross take pains To call upon the "dear remains"— Remains that could not tell a jot Whether she ever wept or not, Or how his relict took her losses? Oh! my black ink turns red for shame— But still the naughty world must learn, There was a little German came To shed a tear in "Anna's Urn," At the next grave to Mr. Cross's! For there an angel's virtues slept, "Too soon did Heaven assert its claim!" But still her painted face he kept, "Encompassed in an angel's frame."

He looked quite sad and quite deprived, His head was nothing but a hat-band; He looked so lone, and so unwived, That soon the Widow Cross contrived To fall in love with even that band! And all at once the brackish juices Came gushing out thro' sorrow's sluices— Tear after tear too fast to wipe, Tho' sopped, and sopped, and sopped again— No leak in sorrow's private pipe, But like a bursting on the main! Whoe'er has watched the window-pane— I mean to say in showery weather— Has seen two little drops of rain, Like lovers very fond and fain, At one another creeping, creeping, Till both, at last, embrace together: So fared it with that couple's weeping! The principle was quite as active— Tear unto tear Kept drawing near, Their very blacks became attractive.

To cut a shortish story shorter, Conceive them sitting tete-a-tete— Two cups—hot muffins on a plate— With "Anna's Urn" to hold hot water! The brazen vessel for awhile Had lectured in an easy song, Like Abernethy,—on the bile— The scalded herb was getting strong; All seemed as smooth as smooth could be, To have a cosy cup of tea. Alas! how often human sippers With unexpected bitters meet, And buds, the sweetest of the sweet, Like sugar, only meet the nippers!

The Widow Cross, I should have told, Had seen three husbands to the mould: She never sought an Indian pyre, Like Hindoo wives that lose their loves; But, with a proper sense of fire, Put up, instead, with "three removes." Thus, when with any tender words Or tears she spoke about her loss, The dear departed Mr. Cross Came in for nothing but his thirds; For, as all widows love too well, She liked upon the list to dwell, And oft ripped up the old disasters. She might, indeed, have been supposed A great ship owner; for she prosed Eternally of her Three Masters!

Thus, foolish woman! while she nursed Her mild souchong, she talked and reckoned What had been left her by her first, And by her last, and by her second. Alas! not all her annual rents Could then entice the little German— Not Mr. Cross's Three per Cents, Or Consols, ever make him her man. He liked her cash, he liked her houses, But not that dismal bit of land She always settled on her spouses. So taking up his hat and band, Said he, "You'll think my conduct odd— But here my hopes no more may linger; I thought you had a wedding-finger, But oh!—it is a curtain-rod!"



AN OPEN QUESTION.

"It is the king's highway that we are in, and in this way it is that thou hast placed the lions."—BUNYAN.

What! shut the gardens; lock the latticed gate! Refuse the shilling and the Fellow's ticket! And hang a wooden notice up to state, "On Sundays no admittance at this wicket!"

The Birds, the Beasts, and all the Reptile race Denied to friends and visitors till Monday! Now, really, this appears the common case Of putting too much Sabbath into Sunday— But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

The Gardens,—so unlike the ones we dub Of Tea, wherein the artisan carouses,— Mere shrubberies without one drop of shrub,— Wherefore should they be closed like public-houses? No ale is vended at the wild Deer's Head,— Nor rum—nor gin—not even of a Monday— The Lion is not carved—or gilt—or red, And does not send out porter of a Sunday— But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

The bear denied! the Leopard under locks! As if his spots would give contagious fevers; The Beaver close as hat within its box; So different from other Sunday beavers! The Birds invisible—the Gnaw-way Rats— The Seal hermetically seal'd till Monday— The Monkey tribe—the Family of Cats,— We visit other families on Sunday— But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

What is the brute profanity that shocks The super-sensitively serious feeling? The Kangaroo—is he not orthodox To bend his legs, the way he does, in kneeling? Was strict Sir Andrew, in his sabbath coat, Struck all a heap to see a Coati Mundi? Or did the Kentish Plumtree faint to note The Pelicans presenting bills on Sunday?— But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

What feature has repulsed the serious set? What error in the bestial birth or breeding, To put their tender fancies on the fret? One thing is plain—it is not in the feeding! Some stiffish people think that smoking joints Are carnal sins 'twixt Saturday and Monday— But then the beasts are pious on these points, For they all eat cold dinners on a Sunday— But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

What change comes o'er the spirit of the place, As if transmuted by some spell organic? Turns fell Hyaena of the Ghoulish race? The Snake, pro tempore, the true Satanic? Do Irish minds,—(whose theory allows That now and then Good Friday falls on Monday)— Do Irish minds suppose that Indian Cows Are wicked Bulls of Bashan on a Sunday— But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

There are some moody fellows, not a few, Who, turn'd by Nature with a gloomy bias, Renounce black devils to adopt the blue, And think when they are dismal they are pious: Is't possible that Pug's untimely fun Has sent the brutes to Coventry till Monday— Or p'rhaps some animal, no serious one, Was overheard in laughter on a Sunday— But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

What dire offence have serious Fellows found To raise their spleen against the Regent's spinney? Were charitable boxes handed round, And would not Guinea Pigs subscribe their guinea? Perchance the Demoiselle refused to moult The feathers in her head—at least till Monday; Or did the Elephant, unseemly, bolt A tract presented to be read on Sunday— But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

At whom did Leo struggle to get loose? Who mourns through Monkey tricks his damaged clothing? Who has been hiss'd by the Canadian Goose? On whom did Llama spit in utter loathing? Some Smithfield saint did jealous feelings tell To keep the Puma out of sight till Monday, Because he prey'd extempore as well As certain wild Itinerants on Sunday— But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

To me it seems that in the oddest way (Begging the pardon of each rigid Socius) Our would-be Keepers of the Sabbath-day Are like the Keepers of the brutes ferocious— As soon the Tiger might expect to stalk About the grounds from Saturday till Monday, As any harmless man to take a walk, If saints could clap him in a cage on Sunday— But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

In spite of all hypocrisy can spin, As surely as I am a Christian scion, I cannot think it is a mortal sin— (Unless he's loose) to look upon a lion. I really think that one may go, perchance, To see a bear, as guiltless as on Monday— (That is, provided that he did not dance) Bruin's no worse than bakin' on a Sunday— But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

In spite of all the fanatic compiles, I cannot think the day a bit diviner, Because no children, with forestalling smiles, Throng, happy, to the gates of Eden Minor— It is not plain, to my poor faith at least, That what we christen "Natural" on Monday, The wondrous History of bird and beast, Can be Unnatural because it's Sunday— But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

Whereon is sinful fantasy to work? The Dove, the wing'd Columbus of man's haven? The tender Love-Bird—or the filial Stork? The punctual Crane—the providential Raven? The Pelican whose bosom feeds her young? Nay, must we cut from Saturday till Monday That feather'd marvel with a human tongue, Because she does not preach upon a Sunday— But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

The busy Beaver—that sagacious beast! The Sheep that own'd an Oriental Shepherd— That Desert-ship the Camel of the East, The horn'd Rhinoceros—the spotted Leopard— The creatures of the Great Creator's hand Are surely sights for better days than Monday— The elephant, although he wears no band, Has he no sermon in his trunk for Sunday— But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

What harm if men who burn the midnight-oil, Weary of frame, and worn and wan in feature, Seek once a-week their spirits to assoil, And snatch a glimpse of "Animated Nature"? Better it were if, in his best of suits, The artisan, who goes to work on Monday, Should spend a leisure hour among the brutes, Than make a beast of his own self on Sunday— But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

Why, zounds! what raised so Protestant a fuss (Omit the zounds! for which I make apology) But that the Papists, like some fellows, thus Had somehow mixed up Dens with their theology? Is Brahma's Bull—a Hindoo god at home— A papal bull to be tied up till Monday— Or Leo, like his namesake, Pope of Rome, That there is such a dread of them on Sunday— But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

Spirit of Kant! have we not had enough To make religion sad, and sour, and snubbish, But Saints Zoological must cant their stuff, As vessels cant their ballast—rattling rubbish! Once let the sect, triumphant to their text, Shut Nero up from Saturday till Monday, And sure as fate they will deny us next To see the Dandelions on a Sunday— But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?



A BLACK JOB.

"No doubt the pleasure is as great, Of being cheated as to cheat."—HUDIBRAS.

The history of human-kind to trace, Since Eve—the first of dupes—our doom unriddled, A certain portion of the human race Has certainly a taste for being diddled.

Witness the famous Mississippi dreams! A rage that time seems only to redouble— The Banks, Joint-Stocks, and all the flimsy schemes, For rolling in Pactolian streams, That cost our modern rogues so little trouble. No matter what,—to pasture cows on stubble, To twist sea-sand into a solid rope, To make French bricks and fancy bread of rubble, Or light with gas the whole celestial cope— Only propose to blow a bubble, And Lord! what hundreds will subscribe for soap!

Soap!—it reminds me of a little tale, Tho' not a pig's, the hawbuck's glory, When rustic games and merriment prevail— But here's my story: Once on a time—no matter when— A knot of very charitable men Set up a Philanthropical Society, Professing on a certain plan, To benefit the race of man, And in particular that dark variety, Which some suppose inferior—as in vermin The sable is to ermine, As smut to flour, as coal to alabaster, As crows to swans, as soot to driven snow, As blacking, or as ink, to "milk below," Or yet a better simile to show, As ragman's dolls to images in plaster!

However, as is usual in our city, They had a sort of managing Committee, A board of grave responsible Directors— A Secretary, good at pen and ink— A Treasurer, of course, to keep the chink, And quite an army of Collectors! Not merely male, but female duns, Young, old, and middle-aged—of all degrees— With many of those persevering ones, Who mite by mite would beg a cheese! And what might be their aim? To rescue Afric's sable sons from fetters— To save their bodies from the burning shame Of branding with hot letters— Their shoulders from the cowhide's bloody strokes, Their necks from iron yokes? To end or mitigate the ills of slavery, The Planter's avarice, the Driver's knavery? To school the heathen Negroes and enlighten 'em, To polish up and brighten 'em, And make them worthy of eternal bliss? Why, no—the simple end and aim was this— Reading a well-known proverb much amiss— To wash and whiten 'em!

They look'd so ugly in their sable hides: So dark, so dingy, like a grubby lot Of sooty sweeps, or colliers, and besides, However the poor elves Might wash themselves, Nobody knew if they were clean or not— On Nature's fairness they were quite a blot! Not to forget more serious complaints That even while they join'd in pious hymn, So black they were and grim, In face and limb, They look'd like Devils, tho' they sang like Saints! The thing was undeniable! They wanted washing! not that slight ablution To which the skin of the White Man is liable, Merely removing transient pollution— But good, hard, honest, energetic rubbing And scrubbing, Sousing each sooty frame from heels to head With stiff, strong, saponaceous lather, And pails of water—hottish rather, But not so boiling as to turn 'em red!

So spoke the philanthropic man Who laid, and hatch'd, and nursed the plan— And oh! to view its glorious consummation! The brooms and mops, The tubs and slops, The baths and brushes in full operation! To see each Crow, or Jim or John, Go in a raven and come out a swan! While fair as Cavendishes, Vanes, and Russels, Black Venus rises from the soapy surge, And all the little Niggerlings emerge As lily-white as mussels.

Sweet was the vision—but alas! However in prospectus bright and sunny, To bring such visionary scenes to pass One thing was requisite, and that was—money! Money, that pays the laundress and her bills, For socks and collars, shirts and frills, Cravats and kerchiefs—money, without which The negroes must remain as dark as pitch; A thing to make all Christians sad and shivery, To think of millions of immortal souls Dwelling in bodies black as coals, And living—so to speak—in Satan's livery!

Money—the root of evil,—dross, and stuff! But oh! how happy ought the rich to feel, Whose means enable them to give enough To blanch an African from head to heel! How blessed—yea, thrice blessed—to subscribe Enough to scour a tribe! While he whose fortune was at best a brittle one, Although he gave but pence, how sweet to know He helped to bleach a Hottentot's great toe, Or little one!

Moved by this logic, or appall'd, To persons of a certain turn so proper, The money came when call'd, In silver, gold, and copper, Presents from "Friends to blacks," or foes to whites, "Trifles," and "offerings," and "widows' mites," Plump legacies, and yearly benefactions, With other gifts And charitable lifts, Printed in lists and quarterly transactions. As thus—Elisha Brettel, An iron kettle. The Dowager Lady Scannel, A piece of flannel. Rebecca Pope, A bar of soap. The Misses Howels, Half-a-dozen towels. The Master Rush's, Two scrubbing-brushes. Mr. T. Groom, A stable broom, And Mrs. Grubb, A tub.

Great were the sums collected! And great results in consequence expected. But somehow, in the teeth of all endeavor, According to reports At yearly courts, The blacks, confound them! were as black as ever!

Yes! spite of all the water sous'd aloft, Soap, plain and mottled, hard and soft, Soda and pearlash, huckaback and sand, Brooms, brushes, palm of hand, And scourers in the office strong and clever, In spite of all the tubbing, rubbing, scrubbing, The routing and the grubbing, The blacks, confound them! were as black as ever!