XXIX.

And so he wisely spends the fruitful hours, Linked each to each by labour, like a bee; Or rules in Learning's hall, or trims her bow'rs;-- Would there were many more such wights as he, To sway each capital academie Of Cam and Isis, for, alack! at each There dwells, I wot, some dronish Dominie, That does no garden work, nor yet doth teach, But wears a floury head, and talks in flow'ry speech!

HUGGINS AND DUGGINS.

A PASTORAL AFTER POPE.

Two swains or clowns--but call them swains-- While 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 hitch'd 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 bellwether.

_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 emprison, 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 four pence.

_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.

SEA SONG.

(DIBDIN)

Pure water it plays a good part in The swabbing the decks and all that-- And it finds its own level for sartin-- For it sartinly drinks very flat:-- For my part a drop of the creatur I never could think was a fault, For if Tars should swig water by natur, The sea would have never been salt!-- Then off with it into a jorum And make it strong, sharpish, or sweet, For if I've any sense of decorum, It never was meant to be neat!--

One day when I was but half sober,-- Half measures I always disdain-- I walk'd into a shop that sold Soda, And ax'd for some Water Champagne:-- Well, the lubber he drew and he drew, boys, Till I'd shipped my six bottles or more, And blow off my last limb but it's true, boys, Why, I warn't half so drunk as afore!-- Then off with it into a jorum, And make it strong, sharpish, or sweet, For if I've any sense of decorum, It never was meant to be neat.

'WE MET--'TWAS IN A CROWD.'

(T. H. BAYLY)

We met--'twas in a mob--and I thought he had done me-- I felt--I could not feel--for no watch was upon me; He ran--the night was cold--and his pace was unalter'd, I too longed much to pelt--but my small-boned legs falter'd. I wore my bran new boots--and unrivall'd their brightness; They fit me to a hair--how I hated their tightness! I call'd, but no one came, and my stride had a tether, Oh _thou_ hast been the cause of this anguish, my leather!

And once again we met--and an old pal was near him, He swore, a something low--but 'twas no use to fear him; I seized upon his arm, he was mine and mine only, And stept--as he deserv'd--to cells wretched and lonely: And there he will be tried--but I shall ne'er receive her, The watch that went too sure for an artful deceiver; The world may think me gay,--heart and feet ache together, Oh _thou_ hast been the cause of this anguish, my leather!

THOSE EVENING BELLS.

(MOORE)

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 pass'd away, The Postman gone--and I must pay, For down below Deaf Mary dwells, And does not hear those Evening Bells.

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.

THE WATER PERI'S SONG.

(MOORE)

Farewell, farewell, to my mother's own daughter, The child that she wet-nursed is lapp'd in the wave; The _Mussul_-man coming to fish in this water Adds a tear to the flood that weeps over her grave.

This sack is her coffin, this water's her bier, This greyish _bath_ cloak is her funeral pall; And, stranger, O stranger! this song that you hear Is her epitaph, elegy, dirges, and all!

Farewell, farewell, to the child of Al Hassan, My mother's own daughter--the last of her race-- She's a corpse, the poor body! and lies in this basin, And sleeps in the water that washes her face.

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

CABBAGES.

(LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON)

Cabbages! bright green cabbages! April's loveliest gifts, I guess. There is not a plant in the garden laid, Raised by the dung, dug by the spade, None by the gardener watered, I ween, So sweet as the cabbage, the cabbage green.

I do remember how sweet a smell Came with the cabbage I loved so well, Served up with the beef that beautiful looked, The beef that the dark-eyed Ellen cooked. I have seen beef served with radish of horse, I have seen beef served with lettuce of Cos, But it is far nicer, far nicer, I guess, As bubble and squeak, beef and cabbages.

And when the dinner-bell sounds for me-- I care not how soon that time may be-- Carrots shall never be served on my cloth; They are far too sweet for a boy of my broth; But let me have there a mighty mess Of smoking hot beef and cabbages.

LARRY O'TOOLE.

(LEVER)

You've all heard of Larry O'Toole, Of the beautiful town of Drumgoole; He had but one eye, To ogle ye by-- Oh, murther, but that was a jew'l! A fool He made of de girls, dis O'Toole.

'Twas he was the boy didn't fail, That tuck down pataties and mail; He never would shrink From any sthrong dthrink, Was it whisky or Drogheda ale; I'm bail That Larry would swallow a pail.

Oh, many a night, at the bowl, With Larry I've sot cheek by jowl; He's gone to his rest, Where there's dthrink of the best, And so let us give his old sowl A howl, For 'twas he made the noggin to rowl.

THE WILLOW TREE.

(THACKERAY)

Long by the willow-trees Vainly they sought her, Wild rang the mother's screams O'er the grey water: 'Where is my lovely one? Where is my daughter?

'Rouse thee, sir constable-- Rouse thee and look; Fisherman, bring your net, Boatman, your hook. Beat in the lily-beds, Dive in the brook!'

Vainly the constable Shouted and called her; Vainly the fisherman Beat the green alder, Vainly he flung the net, Never it hauled her!

Mother, beside the fire Sat, her nightcap in; Father, in easy-chair, Gloomily napping, When at the window-sill Came a light tapping!

And a pale countenance Looked through the casement. Loud beat the mother's heart, Sick with amazement, And at the vision, which Came to surprise her, Shrieked in an agony-- 'Lor'! it's Elizar!'

Yes, 'twas Elizabeth-- Yes, 'twas their girl; Pale was her cheek, and her Hair out of curl. 'Mother!' the loving one, Blushing, exclaimed, 'Let not your innocent Lizzy be blamed.

'Yesterday, going to Aunt Jones's to tea, Mother, dear mother, I _Forgot the door-key_! And as the night was cold, And the way steep, Mrs. Jones kept me to Breakfast and sleep.'

Whether her pa and ma Fully believed her, That we shall never know: Stern they received her; And for the work of that Cruel, though short, night, Sent her to bed without Tea for a fortnight.

_Moral._

Hey diddle diddlety, Cat and the Fiddlety! Maidens of England, take caution by she! Let love and suicide Never tempt you aside, And always remember to take the door-key!

DEAR JACK.

(FRANCIS FAWKES)

Dear Jack, this white mug that with Guinness I fill, And drink to the health of sweet Nan of the Hill, Was once Tommy Tosspot's, as jovial a sot, As e'er drew a spigot, or drain'd a full pot-- In drinking, all round 'twas his joy to surpass, And with all merry tipplers he swigg'd off his glass.

One morning in summer, while seated so snug, In the porch of his garden, discussing his jug, Stern Death, on a sudden, to Tom did appear, And said, 'Honest Thomas, come take your last bier;' We kneaded his clay in the shape of this can, From which let us drink to the health of my Nan.

THE GHAZUL, OR ORIENTAL LOVE-SONG.

I. _The Rocks._

I was a timid little antelope; My home was in the rocks, the lonely rocks.

I saw the hunters scouring on the plain; I lived among the rocks, the lonely rocks.

I was a-thirsty in the summer-heat; I ventured to the tents beneath the rocks.

Zuleikah brought me water from the well; Since then I have been faithless to the rocks.

I saw her face reflected in the well; Her camels since have marched into the rocks.

I look to see her image in the well; I only see my eyes, my own sad eyes. My mother is alone among the rocks.

II. _The Merry Bard._

Zuleikah! The young Agas in the bazaar are slim-waisted and wear yellow slippers. I am old and hideous. One of my eyes is out, and the hairs of my beard are mostly grey. Praise be to Allah! I am a merry bard.

There is a bird upon the terrace of the Emir's chief wife. Praise be to Allah! He has emeralds on his neck, and a ruby tail. I am a merry bard. He deafens me with his diabolical screaming.

There is a little brown bird in the basket-maker's cage. Praise be to Allah! He ravishes my soul in the moonlight. I am a merry bard.

The peacock is an Aga, but the little bird is a Bulbul.

I am a little brown Bulbul. Come and listen in the moonlight. Praise be to Allah! I am a merry bard.

III. _The Caïque._

Yonder to the kiosk, beside the creek, Paddle the swift caïque. Thou brawny oarsman with the sunburnt cheek, Quick! for it soothes my heart to hear the Bulbul speak!

Ferry me quickly to the Asian shores, Swift bending to your oars. Beneath the melancholy sycamores, Hark! what a ravishing note the lovelorn Bulbul pours.

Behold, the boughs seem quivering with delight, The stars themselves more bright, As 'mid the waving branches out of sight The Lover of the Rose sits singing through the night.

Under the boughs I sat and listened still, I could not have my fill. 'How comes,' I said, 'such music to his bill? Tell me for whom he sings so beautiful a trill.'

'Once I was dumb,' then did the Bird disclose, 'But looked upon the Rose; And in the garden where the loved one grows, I straightway did begin sweet music to compose.'

'O bird of song, there's one in this caïque The Rose would also seek, So he might learn like you to love and speak.' Then answered me the bird of dusky beak, 'The Rose, the Rose of Love blushes on Leilah's cheek.'

THE ALMACK'S ADIEU.

('WAPPING OLD STAIRS')

Your Fanny was never false-hearted, And this she protests and she vows, From the _triste moment_ when we parted On the staircase at Devonshire House! I blushed when you asked me to marry, I vowed I would never forget; And at parting I gave my dear Harry A beautiful _vinegarette_!

We spent _en province_ all December, And I ne'er condescended to look At Sir Charles, or the rich county member, Or even at that darling old Duke. You were busy with dogs and with horses, Alone in my chamber I sat, And made you the nicest of purses, And the smartest black satin cravat!

At night with that vile Lady Frances (_Je faisais moi tapisserie_) You danced every one of the dances, And never once thought of poor me! _Mon pauvre petit cœur!_ what a shiver I felt as she danced the last set, And you gave, _ô mon Dieu!_ to revive her, _My_ beautiful _vinegarette_!

Return, love! away with coquetting; This flirting disgraces a man! And ah! all the while you're forgetting The heart of your poor little Fan! _Reviens!_ break away from these Circes, _Reviens_ for a nice little chat; And I've made you the sweetest of purses, And a lovely black satin cravat!

THE KNIGHTLY GUERDON.

('WAPPING OLD STAIRS')

Untrue to my Ulric I never could be, I vow by the saints and the blessed Marie. Since the desolate hour when we stood by the shore, And your dark galley waited to carry you o'er, My faith then I plighted, my love I confessed, As I gave you the BATTLE-AXE marked with your Crest.

When the bold barons met in my father's old hall, Was not Edith the flower of the banquet and ball? In the festival hour, on the lips of your bride, Was there ever a smile save with THEE at my side? Alone in my turret I loved to sit best, To blazon your BANNER and broider your crest.

The knights were assembled, the tourney was gay! Sir Ulric rode first in the warrior-_mêlée_. In the dire battle-hour, when the tourney was done, And you gave to another the wreath you had won! Though I never reproached thee, cold, cold was my breast, As I thought of that BATTLE-AXE, ah! and that crest!

But away with remembrance, no more will I pine That others usurped for a time what was mine! There's a FESTIVAL HOUR for my Ulric and me; Once more, as of old, shall he bend at my knee; Once more by the side of the knight I love best Shall I blazon his BANNER and broider his CREST.

WILLIAM EDMONDSTOUNE AYTOUN.

THE MASSACRE OF THE MACPHERSON.

('FROM THE GAELIC')

Fhairshon swore a feud Against the clan M'Tavish; Marched into their land To murder and to rafish; For he did resolve To extirpate the vipers, With four-and-twenty men And five-and-thirty pipers.

But when he had gone Half-way down Strath Canaan, Of his fighting tail Just three were remainin'. They were all he had, To back him in ta battle; All the rest had gone Off, to drive ta cattle.

'Fery coot!' cried Fhairshon, 'So my clan disgraced is; Lads, we'll need to fight Pefore we touch the peasties. Here's Mhic-Mac-Methusaleh Coming wi' his fassals, Gillies seventy-three And sixty Dhuinéwassails!'

'Coot tay to you, sir; Are you not ta Fhairshon? Was you coming here To fisit any person? You are a plackguard, sir! It is now six hundred Coot long years, and more, Since my glen was plunder'd.'

'Fat is tat you say? Dare you cock your peaver? I will teach you, sir, Fat is coot pehaviour! You shall not exist For another day more; I will shoot you, sir, Or stap you with my claymore!'

'I am fery glad To learn what you mention, Since I can prevent Any such intention.' So Mhic-Mac-Methusaleh Gave some warlike howls, Trew his skhian-dhu, An' stuck it in his powels.

In this fery way Tied ta faliant Fhairshon, Who was always thought A superior person. Fhairshon had a son, Who married Noah's daughter, And nearly spoil'd ta Flood, By trinking up ta water:

Which he would have done, I at least believe it, Had ta mixture peen Only half Glenlivet. This is all my tale: Sirs, I hope 'tis new t'ye! Here's your fery good healths, And tamn ta whusky duty!

A MIDNIGHT MEDITATION

(BULWER LYTTON)

Fill me once more the foaming pewter up! Another board of oysters, ladye mine! To-night Lucullus with himself shall sup. These mute inglorious Miltons are divine! And as I here in slipper'd ease recline, Quaffing of Perkins's Entire my fill, I sigh not for the lymph of Aganippe's rill.

A nobler inspiration fires my brain, Caught from Old England's fine time-hallow'd drink; I snatch the pot again, and yet again, And as the foaming fluids shrink and shrink, Fill me once more, I say, up to the brink! This makes strong hearts--strong heads attest its charm-- This nerves the might that sleeps in Britain's brawny arm!

But these remarks are neither here nor there. Where was I? Oh, I see--old Southey's dead! They'll want some bard to fill the vacant chair, And drain the annual butt--and oh, what head More fit with laurel to be garlanded Than this, which, curled in many a fragrant coil, Breathes of Castalia's streams, and best Macassar oil?

I know a grace is seated on my brow, Like young Apollo's with his golden beams There should Apollo's bays be budding now:-- And in my flashing eyes the radiance beams That marks the poet in his waking dreams, When, as his fancies cluster thick and thicker, He feels the trance divine of poesy and liquor.

They throng around me now, those things of air, That from my fancy took their being's stamp: There Pelham sits and twirls his glossy hair, There Clifford leads his pals upon the tramp; There pale Zanoni, bending o'er his lamp, Roams through the starry wilderness of thought, Where all is everything, and everything is nought.

Yes, I am he who sang how Aram won The gentle ear of pensive Madeline! How love and murder hand in hand may run, Cemented by philosophy serene, And kisses bless the spot where gore has been! Who breathed the melting sentiment of crime, And for the assassin waked a sympathy sublime!

Yes, I am he, who on the novel shed Obscure philosophy's enchanting light! Until the public, 'wildered as they read, Believed they saw that which was not in sight-- Of course 'twas not for me to set them right; For in my nether heart convinced I am, Philosophy's as good as any other bam.

Novels three-volumed I shall write no more-- Somehow or other now they will not sell; And to invent new passions is a bore-- I find the Magazines pay quite as well. Translating's simple, too, as I can tell, Who've hawked at Schiller on his lyric throne, And given the astonish'd bard a meaning all my own.

Moore, Campbell, Wordsworth, their best days are grass'd: Batter'd and broken are their early lyres. Rogers, a pleasant memory of the past, Warm'd his young hands at Smithfield's martyr fires, And, worth a plum, nor bays nor butt desires. But these are things would suit me to the letter, For though this Stout is good, old Sherry's greatly better.

A fico for your small poetic ravers, Your Hunts, your Tennysons, your Milnes, and these! Shall they compete with him who wrote 'Maltravers,' Prologue to 'Alice or the Mysteries'? No! Even now my glance prophetic sees My own high brow girt with the bays about. What ho! within there, ho! another pint of Stout!

THE HUSBAND'S PETITION.

(AYTOUN)

Come hither, my heart's darling, Come, sit upon my knee, And listen, while I whisper A boon I ask of thee. You need not pull my whiskers So amorously, my dove; 'Tis something quite apart from The gentle cares of love.

I feel a bitter craving-- A dark and deep desire, That glows beneath my bosom Like coals of kindled fire. The passion of the nightingale, When singing to the rose, Is feebler than the agony That murders my repose!

Nay, dearest! do not doubt me, Though madly thus I speak-- I feel thy arms about me, Thy tresses on my cheek: I know the sweet devotion That links thy heart with mine,-- I know my soul's emotion Is doubly felt by thine:

And deem not that a shadow Hath fallen across my love: No, sweet, my love is shadowless, As yonder heaven above. These little taper fingers-- Ah, Jane! how white they be!-- Can well supply the cruel want That almost maddens me.

Thou wilt not sure deny me My first and fond request; I pray thee, by the memory Of all we cherish best-- By all the dear remembrance Of those delicious days When, hand in hand, we wander'd Along the summer braes;

By all we felt, unspoken, When 'neath the early moon, We sat beside the rivulet, In the leafy month of June; And by the broken whisper That fell upon my ear, More sweet than angel music, When first I woo'd thee, dear!

By that great vow which bound thee For ever to my side, And by the ring that made thee My darling and my bride! Thou wilt not fail nor falter, But bend thee to the task-- A BOILED SHEEP'S HEAD ON SUNDAY Is all the boon I ask!

CHARLES WILLIAM SHIRLEY BROOKS.

SONNET CCCI.

TO MY FIVE NEW KITTENS.

(TUPPER)

Soft little beasts, how pleasantly ye lie Snuggling and snoozling by your purring sire, Mother I mean (but sonnet-rhymes require A shorter word, and boldly I defy Those who would tie the bard by pedant rule). O kittens, you're not thinking, I'll be bound, How three of you had yesterday been drowned But that my little boy came home from school, And begged your lives, though Cook remonstrance made, Declaring we were overrun with cats, That licked her cream-dish and her butter-pats, But childhood's pleadings won me, and I said-- 'O Cook, we'll keep the innocents alive; They're five, consider, and you've fingers five.'

FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT.

A NEW VERSION, RESPECTFULLY RECOMMENDED TO SUNDRY WHOM IT CONCERNS.

(BURNS)

More luck to honest poverty, It claims respect, and a' that; But honest wealth's a better thing, We dare be rich for a' that. For a' that, and a' that, And spooney cant and a' that, A man may have a ten-pun note, And be a brick for a' that.

What though on soup and fish we dine, Wear evening togs and a' that, A man may like good meat and wine, Nor be a knave for a' that. For a' that, and a' that, Their fustian talk and a' that, A gentleman, however clean, May have a heart for a' that.

You see yon prater called a Beales, Who bawls and brays and a' that, Tho' hundreds cheer his blatant bosh, He's but a goose for a' that. For a' that, and a' that, His Bubblyjocks, and a' that, A man with twenty grains of sense, He looks and laughs at a' that.

A prince can make a belted knight, A marquis, duke, and a' that, And if the title's earned, all right, Old England's fond of a' that. For a' that, and a' that, Beales' balderdash, and a' that, A name that tells of service done Is worth the wear, for a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may And come it will for a' that, That common sense may take the place Of common cant and a' that. For a' that, and a' that, Who cackles trash and a' that, Or be he lord, or be he low, The man's an ass for a' that.

SIR THEODORE MARTIN.

THE LAY OF THE LOVELORN.

(TENNYSON)

Comrades, you may pass the rosy. With permission of the chair, I shall leave you for a little, for I'd like to take the air.

Whether 'twas the sauce at dinner, or that glass of ginger-beer; Or these strong cheroots, I know not, but I feel a little queer.

Let me go. Nay, Chuckster, blow me, 'pon my soul, this is too bad! When you want me, ask the waiter; he knows where I'm to be had.

Whew! This is a great relief now! Let me but undo my stock; Resting here beneath the porch, my nerves will steady like a rock.

In my ears I hear the singing of a lot of favourite tunes-- Bless my heart, how very odd! Why, surely there's a brace of moons!

See! the stars! how bright they twinkle, winking with a frosty glare, Like my faithless cousin Amy when she drove me to despair.

Oh, my cousin, spider-hearted! Oh, my Amy! No, confound it! I must wear the mournful willow--all around my heart I've bound it.[106]

Falser than the bank of fancy, frailer than a shilling glove, Puppet to a father's anger, minion to a nabob's love!

Is it well to wish thee happy? Having known me, could you ever Stoop to marry half a heart, and little more than half a liver?

Happy! Damme! Thou shalt lower to his level day by day, Changing from the best of china to the commonest of clay.

As the husband is, the wife is,--he is stomach-plagued and old; And his curry soups will make thy cheek the colour of his gold.

When his feeble love is sated, he will hold thee surely then Something lower than his hookah,--something less than his cayenne.

What is this? His eyes are pinky. Was't the claret? Oh, no, no,-- Bless your soul! it was the salmon,--salmon always makes him so.

Take him to thy dainty chamber--soothe him with thy lightest fancies; He will understand thee, won't he?--pay thee with a lover's glances?

Louder than the loudest trumpet, harsh as harshest ophicleide, Nasal respirations answer the endearments of his bride.

Sweet response, delightful music! Gaze upon thy noble charge, Till the spirit fill thy bosom that inspired the meek Laffarge.[107]

Better thou wert dead before me,--better, better that I stood, Looking on thy murdered body, like the injured Daniel Good![107]

Better thou and I were lying, cold and timber-stiff and dead, With a pan of burning charcoal underneath our nuptial bed!

Cursed be the Bank of England's notes, that tempt the soul to sin! Cursed be the want of acres,--doubly cursed the want of tin!

Cursed be the marriage-contract, that enslaved thy soul to greed! Cursed be the sallow lawyer, that prepared and drew the deed!

Cursed be his foul apprentice, who the loathsome fees did earn! Cursed be the clerk and parson,--cursed be the whole concern!

* * * * *

Oh, 'tis well that I should bluster,--much I'm like to make of that; Better comfort have I found in singing 'All Around my Hat.'

But that song, so wildly plaintive, palls upon my British ears. 'Twill not do to pine for ever,--I am getting up in years.

Can I turn the honest penny, scribbling for the weekly press, And in writing Sunday libels drown my private wretchedness?[108]

Oh, to feel the wild pulsation that in manhood's dawn I knew, When my days were all before me, and my years were twenty-two!

When I smoked my independent pipe along the Quadrant wide, With the many larks of London flaring up on every side;

When I went the pace so wildly, caring little what might come; Coffee-milling care and sorrow, with a nose-adapted thumb;[109]

Felt the exquisite enjoyment, tossing nightly off, oh heavens! Brandies at the Cider Cellars, kidneys smoking-hot at Evans'![110]

Or in the Adelphi sitting, half in rapture, half in tears, Saw the glorious melodrama conjure up the shades of years!

Saw Jack Sheppard, noble stripling, act his wondrous feats again, Snapping Newgate's bars of iron, like an infant's daisy chain.

Might was right, and all the terrors, which had held the world in awe, Were despised, and prigging prospered, spite of Laurie, spite of law.[111]

In such scenes as these I triumphed, ere my passion's edge was rusted, And my cousin's cold refusal left me very much disgusted!

Since, my heart is sere and withered, and I do not care a curse, Whether worse shall be the better, or the better be the worse.

Hark! my merry comrades call me, bawling for another jorum; They would mock me in derision, should I thus appear before 'em.

Womankind no more shall vex me, such at least as go arrayed In the most expensive satins and the newest silk brocade.

I'll to Afric, lion-haunted, where the giant forest yields Rarer robes and finer tissue than are sold at Spitalfields.

Or to burst all chains of habit, flinging habit's self aside, I shall walk the tangled jungle in mankind's primeval pride;

Feeding on the luscious berries and the rich cassava root, Lots of dates and lots of guavas, clusters of forbidden fruit.

Never comes the trader thither, never o'er the purple main Sounds the oath of British commerce, or the accent of Cockaigne.

There, methinks, would be enjoyment, where no envious rule prevents; Sink the steamboats! cuss the railways! rot, O rot the Three per Cents!

There the passions, cramped no longer, shall have space to breathe, my cousin! I will wed some savage woman--nay, I'll wed at least a dozen.

There I'll rear my young mulattoes, as no Bond Street brats are reared: They shall dive for alligators, catch the wild goats by the beard--

Whistle to the cockatoos, and mock the hairy-faced baboon, Worship mighty Mumbo Jumbo in the Mountains of the Moon.

I myself, in far Timbuctoo, leopard's blood will daily quaff, Ride a-tiger-hunting, mounted on a thoroughbred giraffe.

Fiercely shall I shout the war-whoop, as some sullen stream he crosses, Startling from their noonday slumbers iron-bound rhinoceroses.

Fool! again the dream, the fancy! But I know my words are mad, For I hold the grey barbarian lower than the Christian cad.

I the swell--the city dandy! I to seek such horrid places,-- I to haunt with squalid negroes, blubber-lips, and monkey-faces!

I to wed with Coromantees! I, who managed--very near-- To secure the heart and fortune of the widow Shillibeer!

Stuff and nonsense! let me never fling a single chance away; Maids ere now, I know, have loved me, and another maiden may.

_Morning Post_ (_The Times_ won't trust me), help me, as I know you can; I will pen an advertisement,--that's a never-failing plan.

'Wanted--By a bard, in wedlock, some young interesting woman: Looks are not so much an object, if the shiners be forthcoming!

'Hymen's chains the advertiser vows shall be but silken fetters; Please address to A. T., Chelsea. N.B.--You must pay the letters.'

That's the sort of thing to do it. Now I'll go and taste the balmy,-- Rest thee with thy yellow nabob, spider-hearted Cousin Amy!

TOM TAYLOR.

THE LAUREATE'S BUST AT TRINITY.

A FRAGMENT OF AN IDYLL.

(TENNYSON)

--So the stately bust abode For many a month, unseen, among the Dons. Nor in the lodge, nor in the library, Upon its pedestal appeared, to be A mark for reverence of green gownsman-hood, Of grief to ancient fogies, and reproof To those who knew not Alfred, being hard And narrowed in their honour to old names Of poets, who had vogue when _they_ were young, And not admitting later bards; but now, Last week, a rumour widely blown about, Walking the windy circle of the Press, Came, that stern Whewell, with the Seniors, Who rule the destinies of Trinity, Had of the sanctuary barred access Unto the bust of Alfred Tennyson, By Woolner carved, subscribed for by the youth Who loved the Poet, hoped to see him set Within the Library of Trinity, One great man more o' the house, among the great, Who grace that still Valhalla, ranged in row, Along the chequered marbles of the floor, Two stately ranks--to where the fragrant limes Look thro' the far end window, cool and green. A band it is, of high companionship,-- Chief, Newton, and the broad-browed Verulam, And others only less than these in arts Or science: names that England holds on high. Among whom, hoped the youth, would soon be set, The living likeness of a living Bard,-- Great Alfred Tennyson, the Laureate, Whom Trinity most loves of living sons. But other thought had Whewell and the Dons, Deeming such honour only due to those Upon whose greatness Death had set his seal. So fixed their faces hard, and shut the doors Upon the living Poet: for, said one, 'It is too soon,' and when they heard the phrase, Others caught up the cue, and chorussed it, Until, the Poet echoing 'Soon? too soon?' As if in wrath, Whewell looked up, and said:-- 'O Laureate, if indeed you list to try, Try, and unfix our purpose in this thing.' Whereat full shrilly sang th' excluded bard:

'Soon, soon, so soon! Whewell looks stern and chill, Soon, soon, so soon! but I can enter still.' 'Too soon, too soon! You cannot enter now.'

'I am not dead: of that I do repent. But to my living prayer, oh now relent.' 'Too soon, too soon! You cannot enter now.'

'Honour in life is sweet: my fame is wide, Let me to stand at Dryden's, Byron's side.' 'Too soon, too soon! You cannot enter now!'

'Honour that comes in life is rare as sweet; I cannot taste it long: for life is fleet.' 'No, no, too soon! You cannot enter now!'

So sang the Laureate, while all stonily, Their chins upon their hands, as men that had No entrails to be moved, sat the stern Dons.

FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON.

UNFORTUNATE MISS BAILEY.

AN EXPERIMENT.

(TENNYSON)

When he whispers, 'O Miss Bailey, Thou art brightest of the throng'-- She makes murmur, softly-gaily-- 'Alfred, I have loved thee long.'

Then he drops upon his knees, a Proof his heart is soft as wax; She's--I don't know who, but he's a Captain bold from Halifax.

Though so loving, such another Artless bride was never seen; Coachee thinks that she's his mother --Till they get to Gretna Green.

There they stand, by him attended, Hear the sable smith rehearse That which links them, when 'tis ended, Tight for better--or for worse.

Now her heart rejoices--ugly Troubles need disturb her less-- Now the Happy Pair are snugly Seated in the night express.

So they go with fond emotion, So they journey through the night-- London is their land of Goshen-- See, its suburbs are in sight!

Hark! the sound of life is swelling, Pacing up, and racing down, Soon they reach her simple dwelling-- Burley Street, by Somers Town.

What is there to so astound them? She cries 'Oh!' for he cries 'Hah!' When five brats emerge, confound them! Shouting out, 'Mamma!--Papa!'

While at this he wonders blindly, Nor their meaning can divine, Proud she turns them round, and kindly, 'All of these are mine and thine!'

* * * * *

Here he pines, and grows dyspeptic, Losing heart he loses pith-- Hints that Bishop Tait's a sceptic-- Swears that Moses was a myth.

Sees no evidence in Paley-- Takes to drinking ratafia: Shies the muffins at Miss Bailey While she's pouring out the tea.

One day, knocking up his quarters, Poor Miss Bailey found him dead, Hanging in his knotted garters, Which she knitted ere they wed.

PHOEBE CARY.

'THE DAY IS DONE.'

(LONGFELLOW)

The day is done, and darkness From the wing of night is loosed, As a feather is wafted downward From a chicken going to roost.

I see the lights of the baker Gleam through the rain and mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me That I cannot well resist.

A feeling of sadness and _longing_, That is not like being sick, And resembles sorrow only As a brickbat resembles a brick.

Come, get for me some supper,-- A good and regular meal, That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the pain I feel.

Not from the pastry baker's, Not from the shops for cake, I wouldn't give a farthing For all that they can make.

For, like the soup at dinner, Such things would but suggest Some dishes more substantial, And to-night I want the best.

Go to some honest butcher, Whose beef is fresh and nice As any they have in the city, And get a liberal slice.

Such things through days of labour, And nights devoid of ease, For sad and desperate feelings Are wonderful remedies.

They have an astonishing power To aid and reinforce, And come like the 'Finally, brethren,' That follows a long discourse.

Then get me a tender sirloin From off the bench or hook, And lend to its sterling goodness The science of the cook.

And the night shall be filled with comfort, And the cares with which it begun Shall fold up their blankets like Indians, And silently cut and run.

(SHAKESPEARE)

That very time I saw, (but thou couldst not,) Walking between the garden and the barn, Reuben, all armed; a certain aim he took At a young chicken, standing by a post, And loosed his bullet smartly from his gun, As he would kill a hundred thousand hens. But I might see young Reuben's fiery shot Lodged in the chaste board of the garden fence, And the domesticated fowl passed on, In henly meditation, bullet free.

'WHEN LOVELY WOMAN.'

(GOLDSMITH)

When lovely woman wants a favour, And finds, too late, that man won't bend, What earthly circumstance can save her From disappointment in the end?

The only way to bring him over, The last experiment to try, Whether a husband or a lover, If he have feeling, is, to cry!

EDWARD BRADLEY ('CUTHBERT BEDE').

ON A TOASTED MUFFIN.

(BY SIR E. L. B. L. B. L. B. LITTLE, BART., AUTHOR OF 'THE NEW SIMON,' ETC.)

(LYTTON)

Object belov'd! when day to eve gives place, And Life's best nectar thy fond vot'ry sips, How sweet to gaze upon thy shining face, And press thy tender form unto my lips!

Fair as the Naiad of the Grecian stream, And beautiful as Oread of the lawn; Bright-beaming as the iv'ry-palac'd dream, And melting as the dewy Urns of Dawn.

For thee I strike the sounding Lyre of Song, And hymn the Beautiful, the Good, the True; The dying notes of thankfulness prolong, And light the Beacon-fires of Praise for you.

Butter'd Ideal of Life's coarser food! Thou calm Egeria in a world of strife! Antigone of crumpets! mild as good, Decent in death, and beautiful in life!

Fairest where all is _fare_! shine on me still, And gild the dark To-Morrow of my days; In public Marts and crowded Senates thrill, My soul, with Tea-time thoughts and Muffin lays.

IN IMMEMORIAM.

[Ascribed to the author of 'In Memoriam,' but not believed to be his.]

(TENNYSON)

We seek to know, and, knowing, seek; We seek, we know, and every sense Is trembling with the great intense, And vibrating to what we speak.

We ask too much, we seek too oft; We know enough, and should no more; And yet we skim through Fancy's lore, And look to earth, and not aloft.

A something comes from out the gloom-- I know it not, nor seek to know-- I only see it swell and grow, And more than this would not presume.

Meseems, a circling void I fill, And I unchanged where all is change; It seems unreal--I own it strange-- Yet nurse the thoughts I cannot kill.

I hear the ocean's surging tide Raise, quiring on, its carol-tune; I watch the golden-sickled moon, And clearer voices call beside.

O sea! whose ancient ripples lie On red-ribbed sands where seaweeds shone; O moon! whose golden sickle's gone, O voices all! like you, I die! (_Dies._)

BAYARD TAYLOR.

ODE ON A JAR OF PICKLES.

(KEATS)