XVII.

His death, which happen’d in his birth, At forty-odd befell: They went and told the sexton, and The sexton toll’d the bell.

LOVE.

O Love! what art thou, Love? the ace of hearts, Trumping earth’s kings and queens, and all its suits; A player, masquerading many parts In life’s odd carnival;--a boy that shoots, From ladies’ eyes, such mortal woundy darts; A gardener pulling heart’s-ease up by the roots; The Puck of Passion--partly false--part real-- A marriageable maiden’s “beau ideal.”

O Love! what art thou, Love? a wicked thing, Making green misses spoil their work at school; A melancholy man, cross-gartering? Grave ripe-fac’d wisdom made an April fool? A youngster, tilting at a wedding ring? A sinner, sitting on a cuttie stool? A Ferdinand de Something in a hovel, Helping Matilda Rose to make a novel?

O Love! what art thou, Love? one that is bad With palpitations of the heart--like mine-- A poor bewilder’d maid, making so sad A necklace of her garters--fell design! A poet, gone unreasonably mad, Ending his sonnets with a hempen line? O Love!--but whither, now? forgive me, pray; I’m not the first that Love hath led astray.

AS IT FELL UPON A DAY.

Oh! what’s befallen Bessy Brown, She stands so squalling in the street; She’s let her pitcher tumble down, And all the water’s at her feet!

The little school-boys stood about, And laughed to see her pumping, pumping; Now with a curtsey to the spout, And then upon her tiptoes jumping.

Long time she waited for her neighbours, To have their turns:--but she must lose The watery wages of her labours,-- Except a little in her shoes!

Without a voice to tell her tale, And ugly transport in her face; All like a jugless nightingale, She thinks of her bereaved case.

At last she sobs--she cries--she screams!-- And pours her flood of sorrows out, From eyes and mouth, in mingled streams, Just like the lion on the spout.

For well poor Bessy knows her mother Must lose her tea, for water’s lack, That Sukey burns--and baby-brother Must be dry-rubb’d with huck-a-back!

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. (Tho’ now at rest) On which it used to wander to and fro’, Because its master ne’er maintain’d 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 lov’d the ground because ’twas common, And so he might impale a strip of soil, That furnish’d, 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 turn’d themselves, like other folks, to reading; But setting out where others nigh have done, And being ripen’d 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 reveal’d to him, She saw the flight of Fairyland’s fly-waggons, 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-parlour door, A hideous roar Proclaim’d a drove of beasts was coming by the way.

Long-horn’d, 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 neither 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, Kick’d out a passage thro’ the beastly rabble; And after a pas seul,--or, if you will, a Hornpipe before the Basket-maker’s villa, Leapt o’er the tiny pale,-- Back’d his beef-steaks 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 huff’d At what he knew was none of Riquet’s Tuft, Bang’d-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 turn’d, till home had turn’d 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 seem’d to harden; But soon her superannuated _nous_ Explained 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!”

THE FALL OF THE DEER.

[FROM AN OLD MS.]

Now the loud Crye is up, and harke! The barkye Trees give back the Bark; The House Wife heares the merrie rout, And runnes,--and lets the beere run out, Leaving her Babes to weepe,--for why? She likes to heare the Deer Dogges crye, And see the wild Stag how he stretches The naturall Buck-skin of his Breeches, Running like one of Human kind Dogged by fleet Bailiffes close behind-- As if he had not payde his Bill For Ven’son, or was owing still For his two Hornes, and soe did get Over his Head and Ears in Debt;-- Wherefore he strives to paye his Waye With his long Legges the while he maye:-- But he is chased, like Silver Dish, As well as anye Hart may wish Except that one whose Heart doth beat So faste it hasteneth his feet;-- And runninge soe, he holdeth Death Four Feet from him,--till his Breath Faileth, and slacking Pace at last, From runninge slow he standeth faste, With hornie Bayonettes at baye, To Baying Dogges around, and they Pushing him sore, he pusheth sore, And goreth them that seeke his Gore, Whatever Dogge his Horne doth rive Is dead--as sure as he’s alive! Soe that courageous Hart doth fight With Fate, and calleth up his might, And standeth stout that he maye fall Bravelye, and be avenged of all, Nor like a craven yeeld his Breath Under the Jawes of Dogges and Death!

TIM TURPIN,

A PATHETIC BALLAD.

Tim Turpin he was gravel blind, And ne’er had seen the skies: For Nature, when his head was made, Forgot to dot his eyes.

So, like a Christmas pedagogue, Poor Tim was forced to do-- Look out for pupils, for he had A vacancy for two.

There’s some have specs to help their sight Of objects dim and small: But Tim had _specs_ within his eyes, And could not see at all.

Now Tim he woo’d a servant maid, And took her to his arms; For he, like Pyramus, had cast A wall-eye on her charms.

By day she led him up and down Where’er he wish’d to jog, A happy wife, altho’ she led The life of any dog.

But just when Tim had liv’d a month In honey with his wife, A surgeon ope’d his Milton eyes, Like oysters, with a knife.

But when his eyes were open’d thus, He wish’d them dark again: For when he look’d upon his wife, He saw her very plain.

Her face was bad, her figure worse, He couldn’t bear to eat: For she was any thing but like A Grace before his meat.

Now Tim he was a feeling man: For when his sight was thick, It made him feel for everything-- But that was with a stick.

So with a cudgel in his hand-- It was not light or slim-- He knock’d at his wife’s head until It open’d unto him.

And when the corpse was stiff and cold He took his slaughter’d spouse, And laid her in a heap with all The ashes of her house.

But like a wicked murderer, He liv’d in constant fear From day to day, and so he cut His throat from ear to ear.

The neighbours fetch’d a doctor in: Said he, this wound I dread Can hardly be sew’d up--his life Is hanging on a thread.

But when another week was gone, He gave him stronger hope-- Instead of hanging on a thread, Of hanging on a rope.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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