XIV.

I must confess I did not guess A simple marriage vow, Would make me find all women-kind Such unkind women now;-- I might be hash’d to death, or smash’d By Mr. Pickford’s van, Without, I fear, a single tear. I’m not a single man!

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 thus came 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 Phœnix 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 “Oh Mrs. B., oh Mrs. B.! Are these your sorrow’s deeds, Already getting up a flame, To burn your widow’s 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; Oh 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 DOUBLE KNOCK.

Rat-tat it went upon the lion’s chin, “That hat, I know it!” cried the joyful girl: “Summer’s it is, I know him by his knock, Comers like him are welcome as the day! Lizzy! go down and open the street-door, Busy I am to any one but _him_. Know him you must--he has been often here; Show him up stairs, and tell him I’m alone.”

Quickly the maid went tripping down the stair; Thickly the heart of Rose Matilda beat; “Sure he has brought me tickets for the play-- Drury--or Covent Garden--darling man!-- Kemble will play--or Kean who makes the soul Tremble; in Richard or the frenzied Moor-- Farren, the stay and prop of many a farce Barren beside--or Liston, Laughter’s Child-- Kelly the natural, to witness whom Jelly is nothing to the public’s jam-- Cooper, the sensible--and Walter Knowles Super, in William Tell--now rightly told. Better--perchance, from Andrews, brings a box, Letter of boxes for the Italian stage-- Brocard! Donzelli! Taglioni! Paul! No card,--thank Heaven--engages me to-night! Feathers, of course, no turban, and no toque-- Weather’s against it, but I’ll go in curls. Dearly I dote on white--my satin dress, Merely one night--it won’t be much the worse-- Cupid--the New Ballet I long to see-- Stupid! why don’t she go and ope the door?” Glisten’d her eye as the impatient girl Listen’d, low bending o’er the topmost stair. Vainly, alas! she listens and she bends, Plainly she hears this question and reply: “Axes your pardon, Sir, but what d’ye want?” “Taxes,” says he, “and shall not call again!”

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 drown’d 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 pig-sties, 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 reckon’d the best, as the only one that for love or money can raise A postilion, a blue jacket, two deplorable lame white horses, and a ramshackled “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, little Methodist chapel of Ease; And close by the church-yard, 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 Jeffrey and Tom Pike; For the Green Man next door will send you in ale, gin, or any thing 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 repairs 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 every thing, kept by the widow of Mr. Task; But when you go there it’s ten to one she’s out of every thing 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 paper’d inside as out, For bill-stickers won’t beware, but sticks notices of sales and election placards all about. That’s the Doctor’s with a green door, where the garden pots in the windows is seen; A weakly monthly rose that don’t blow, and a dead geranium, and a tea-plant with five black leaves and one green. As for hollyoaks at the cottage doors, and honeysuckles and jasmines, you may go and whistle; But the Tailor’s front garden grow two cabbages, a dock, a ha’porth of pennyroyal, two dandelions, and a thistle. There are three small orchards--Mr. Busby’s the schoolmaster’s is the chief-- With two pear-trees that don’t bear; one plum and an apple, that every year is stripp’d 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 old 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 green-grocer’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 toy-shop, 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!

PAIR’D _NOT_ MATCH’D.

Of wedded bliss Bards sing amiss, I cannot make a song of it; For I am small, My wife is tall, And that’s the short and long of it.

When we debate It is my fate To always have the wrong of it; For I am small, And she is tall, And that’s the short and long of it!

And when I speak My voice is weak, But hers--she makes a gong of it! For I am small, And she is tall, And that’s the short and long of it!

She has, in brief, Command in Chief, And I’m but Aide-de-camp of it; For I am small, And she is tall, And that’s the short and long of it!

She gives to me The weakest tea, And takes the whole Souchong of it; For I am small, And she is tall, And that’s the short and long of it!

She’ll sometimes grip My buggy whip, And make me feel the thong of it; For I am small And she is tall, And that’s the short and long of it!

Against my life She’ll take a knife, Or fork, and dart the prong of it; For I am small, And she is tall, And that’s the short and long of it!

I sometimes think I’ll take to drink, And hector when I’m strong of it; For I am small, And she is tall, And that’s the short and long of it!

O, if the bell Would ring her knell, I’d make a gay ding-dong of it; For I am small, And she is tall, And that’s the short and long of it!

[Illustration: The Buoy at the Nore.]

[Illustration: Son and Hair.]

THE BOY AT THE NORE.

“Alone I did it!--Boy!”--CORIOLANUS.

I say, little Boy at the Nore, Do you come from the small Isle of Man? Why, your history a mystery must be,-- Come tell us as much as you can, Little Boy at the Nore!

You live it seems wholly on water, Which your Gambier calls living in clover;-- But how comes it, if that is the case, You’re eternally half seas over,-- Little Boy at the Nore?

While you ride--while you dance--while you float-- Never mind your imperfect orthography;-- But give us as well as you can, Your watery auto-biography, Little Boy at the Nore!

LITTLE BOY AT THE NORE LOQUITOR.

I’m the tight little Boy at the Nore, In a sort of sea negus I dwells; Half and half ’twixt saltwater and Port, I’m reckon’d the first of the swells-- I’m the Boy at the Nore!

I lives with my toes to the flounders, And watches through long days and nights; Yet, cruelly eager, men look-- To catch the first glimpse of my lights-- I’m the Boy at the Nore.

I never gets cold in the head, So my life on salt water is sweet,-- I think I owes much of my health To being well used to wet feet-- As the Boy at the Nore.

There’s one thing, I’m never in debt: Nay!--I liquidates more than I _oughtor_;[3] So the man to beat Cits as goes by, In keeping the head above water, Is the Boy at the Nore.

I’ve seen a good deal of distress, Lots of Breakers in Ocean’s Gazette; They should do as I do--rise o’er all; Aye, a good floating capital get, Like the Boy at the Nore!

I’m a’ter the sailor’s own heart, And cheers him, in deep water rolling; And the friend of all friends to Jack Junk, Ben Backstay, Tom Pipes, and Tom Bowling, Is the Boy at the Nore!

Could I e’er but grow up, I’d be off For a week to make love with my wheedles; If the tight little boy at the Nore Could but catch a nice girl at the Needles, We’d have _two_ at the Nore!

They thinks little of sizes on water, On big waves the tiny one skulks,-- While the river has Men of War on it-- Yes--the Thames is oppressed with Great Hulks, And the Boy’s at the Nore!

But I’ve done--for the water is heaving Round my body, as though it would sink it! And I’ve been so long pitching and tossing, That sea-sick--you’d hardly now think it-- Is the Boy at the Nore!

THE SUPPER SUPERSTITION.

A PATHETIC BALLAD.

“Oh flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified!”--MERCUTIO.

’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.

Said he, “Upon this dainty cod How bravely I shall sup,”-- When whiter than the table-cloth, A GHOST came rising up!

“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!

“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!

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

“The ship we pump’d till we could see Old England from the tops; When down she went with all our hands, Right in the Channel’s Chops.

“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.

“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.

“But oh, my spirit cannot rest, In Davy Jones’s sod, Till I’ve appear’d to you and said,-- Don’t sup on that ‘ere Cod!

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

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

“O, do not eat those oysters then, And do not touch the shrimps; When I was in my briny grave, They suck’d my blood like imps!

“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!”

The Spirit fled--they wept his fate, And cried, Alack, alack! At last up started brother Jim, “Let’s try if Jack was Jack!”

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

Old Tray lick’d all the oysters up, Puss never stood at crimps, But munch’d the Cod--and little Kit Quite feasted on the shrimps!