“Pshaw, you are not on a whaling voyage, where everything that offers is game.”—The Pilot.
EN BLUFF was a whaler, and many a day
Had chased the huge fish about Baffin’s old Bay,
But time brought a change his diversion to spoil,
And that was when Gas took the shine out of Oil.
Had chased the huge fish about Baffin’s old Bay,
But time brought a change his diversion to spoil,
And that was when Gas took the shine out of Oil.
He turn’d up his nose at the fumes of the Coke,
And swore the whole scheme was a bottle of smoke:
As to London he briefly delivered his mind,
“Sparma-city,” said he—but the City declined.
And swore the whole scheme was a bottle of smoke:
As to London he briefly delivered his mind,
“Sparma-city,” said he—but the City declined.
So Ben cut his line in a sort of a huff,
As soon as his whales had brought profits enough,
And hard by the Docks settled down for his life,
But, true to his text, went to Wales for a wife.
As soon as his whales had brought profits enough,
And hard by the Docks settled down for his life,
But, true to his text, went to Wales for a wife.
A big one she was, without figure or waist,
More bulky than lovely, but that was his taste;
In fat she was lapp’d from her sole to her crown,
And, turn’d into oil, would have lighted a town.
More bulky than lovely, but that was his taste;
In fat she was lapp’d from her sole to her crown,
And, turn’d into oil, would have lighted a town.
But Ben like a Whaler was charm’d with the match,
And thought, very truly, his spouse a great catch;
A flesh-and-blood emblem of Plenty and Peace,
And would not have changed her for Helen of Greece.
And thought, very truly, his spouse a great catch;
A flesh-and-blood emblem of Plenty and Peace,
And would not have changed her for Helen of Greece.
For Greenland was green in his memory still;
He’d quitted his trade, but retain’d the good-will;
And often, when soften’d by bumbo and flip,
Would cry—till he blubber’d—about his old ship.
He’d quitted his trade, but retain’d the good-will;
And often, when soften’d by bumbo and flip,
Would cry—till he blubber’d—about his old ship.
No craft like the Grampus could work through a floe,
What knots she could run, and what tons she could stow.
And then that rich smell he preferr’d to the rose,
By just nosing the whole without holding his nose!
What knots she could run, and what tons she could stow.
And then that rich smell he preferr’d to the rose,
By just nosing the whole without holding his nose!
Now Ben he resolved, one fine Saturday night,
A snug Arctic Circle of friends to invite,
Old Tars in the trade, who related old tales,
And drank, and blew clouds that were “very like whales.”
A snug Arctic Circle of friends to invite,
Old Tars in the trade, who related old tales,
And drank, and blew clouds that were “very like whales.”
Of course with their grog there was plenty of chat,
Of canting, and flinching, and cutting up fat;
And how Gun Harpoons into fashion had got,
And if they were meant for the Gun-whale or not?
Of canting, and flinching, and cutting up fat;
And how Gun Harpoons into fashion had got,
And if they were meant for the Gun-whale or not?
At last they retired, and left Ben to his rest,
By fancies cetaceous, and drink, well possess’d,
When, lo! as he lay by his partner in bed,
He heard something blow through two holes in its head.
By fancies cetaceous, and drink, well possess’d,
When, lo! as he lay by his partner in bed,
He heard something blow through two holes in its head.
“A start!” mutter’d Ben, in the Grampus afloat,
And made but one jump from the deck to the boat!
“Huzza! pull away for the blubber and bone—
I look on that whale as already my own!”
And made but one jump from the deck to the boat!
“Huzza! pull away for the blubber and bone—
I look on that whale as already my own!”
Then groping about by the light of the moon,
He soon laid his hand on his trusty harpoon;
A moment he poised it, to send it more pat,
And then made a plunge to imbed it in fat!
He soon laid his hand on his trusty harpoon;
A moment he poised it, to send it more pat,
And then made a plunge to imbed it in fat!
“Starn all!” he sang out, “as you care for your lives—
Starn all, as you hope to return to your wives—
Stand by for the flurry! she throws up the foam!
Well done, my old iron, I’ve sent you right home!”
Starn all, as you hope to return to your wives—
Stand by for the flurry! she throws up the foam!
Well done, my old iron, I’ve sent you right home!”
And scarce had he spoken, when lo! bolt upright
The Leviathan rose in a great sheet of white,
And swiftly advanced for a fathom or two,
As only a fish out of water could do.
The Leviathan rose in a great sheet of white,
And swiftly advanced for a fathom or two,
As only a fish out of water could do.
“Starn all!” echoed Ben, with a movement aback,
But too slow to escape from the creature’s attack;
If flippers it had, they were furnish’d with nails,—
“You willin, I’ll teach you that Women an’t Whales!”
But too slow to escape from the creature’s attack;
If flippers it had, they were furnish’d with nails,—
“You willin, I’ll teach you that Women an’t Whales!”
“Avast!” shouted Ben, with a sort of a screech,
“I’ve heard a Whale spouting, but here is a speech!”
“A-spouting, indeed!—very pretty,” said she;
“But it’s you I’ll blow up, not the froth of the sea!
“I’ve heard a Whale spouting, but here is a speech!”
“A-spouting, indeed!—very pretty,” said she;
“But it’s you I’ll blow up, not the froth of the sea!
“To go to pretend to take me for a fish!
You great Polar Bear—but I know what you wish—
You’re sick of a wife, that your hankering baulks,—
You want to go back to some young Esquimax!”
You great Polar Bear—but I know what you wish—
You’re sick of a wife, that your hankering baulks,—
You want to go back to some young Esquimax!”
“O dearest,” cried Ben, frighten’d out of his life,
“Don’t think I would go for to murder a wife
I must long have bewailed”—“But she only cried Stuff!
Don’t name it, you brute, you’ve be-whaled me enough!”
“Don’t think I would go for to murder a wife
I must long have bewailed”—“But she only cried Stuff!
Don’t name it, you brute, you’ve be-whaled me enough!”
“Lord, Polly!” said Ben, “such a deed could I do?
I’d rather have murder’d all Wapping than you!
Come, forgive what is passed.” “O you monster!” she cried,
“It was none of your fault that it passed of one side!”
I’d rather have murder’d all Wapping than you!
Come, forgive what is passed.” “O you monster!” she cried,
“It was none of your fault that it passed of one side!”
However, at last she inclined to forgive;
“But, Ben, take this warning as long as you live—
If the love of harpooning so strong must prevail,
Take a whale for a wife, not a wife for a whale.”
“But, Ben, take this warning as long as you live—
If the love of harpooning so strong must prevail,
Take a whale for a wife, not a wife for a whale.”
SALLY SIMPKIN’S LAMENT;
OR, JOHN JONES’S KIT-CAT-ASTROPHE.
“He left his body to the sea,
And made a shark his legatee.”
Bryan and Perenne.
And made a shark his legatee.”
Bryan and Perenne.
“Oh! what is that comes gliding in,
And quite in middling haste?
It is the picture of my Jones,
And painted to the waist.
And quite in middling haste?
It is the picture of my Jones,
And painted to the waist.
“It is not painted to the life,
For where’s the trowsers blue?
Oh Jones, my dear!—oh dear! my Jones,
What is become of you?”
For where’s the trowsers blue?
Oh Jones, my dear!—oh dear! my Jones,
What is become of you?”
“Oh! Sally dear, it is too true,—
The half that you remark
Is come to say my other half
Is bit off by a shark!
The half that you remark
Is come to say my other half
Is bit off by a shark!
“Oh! Sally, sharks do things by halves,
Yet most completely do!
A bite in one place seems enough,
But I’ve been bit in two.
Yet most completely do!
A bite in one place seems enough,
But I’ve been bit in two.
“You know I once was all your own,
But now a shark must share!
But let that pass—for now to you
I’m neither here nor there.
But now a shark must share!
But let that pass—for now to you
I’m neither here nor there.
“Alas! death has a strange divorce
Effected in the sea,
It has divided me from you,
And even me from me!
Effected in the sea,
It has divided me from you,
And even me from me!
“Don’t fear my ghost will walk o’nights
To haunt, as people say;
My ghost can’t walk, for, oh! my legs
Are many leagues away!
To haunt, as people say;
My ghost can’t walk, for, oh! my legs
Are many leagues away!
“Lord! think, when I am swimming round,
And looking where the boat is,
A shark just snaps away a half,
Without ‘a quarter’s notice.’
And looking where the boat is,
A shark just snaps away a half,
Without ‘a quarter’s notice.’
“One half is here, the other half
Is near Columbia placed;
Oh! Sally, I have got the whole
Atlantic for my waist.
Is near Columbia placed;
Oh! Sally, I have got the whole
Atlantic for my waist.
I’M GOING TO BOMBAY.
“Nothing venture, nothing have.”—Old Proverb.
“Every Indiaman has at least two mates.”—Falconer’s
Marine Guide.
Marine Guide.
I.
Y hair is brown, my eyes are blue,
And reckon’d rather bright;
I’m shapely, if they tell me true,
And just the proper height;
My skin has been admired in verse,
And called as fair as day—
If I am fair, so much the worse,
I’m going to Bombay!
And reckon’d rather bright;
I’m shapely, if they tell me true,
And just the proper height;
My skin has been admired in verse,
And called as fair as day—
If I am fair, so much the worse,
I’m going to Bombay!
II.
At school I passed with some éclât;
I learned my French in France;
De Wint gave lessons how to draw,
And D’Egville how to dance;—
Crevelli taught me how to sing,
And Cramer how to play—
It really is the strangest thing—
I’m going to Bombay!
I learned my French in France;
De Wint gave lessons how to draw,
And D’Egville how to dance;—
Crevelli taught me how to sing,
And Cramer how to play—
It really is the strangest thing—
I’m going to Bombay!
III.
I’ve been to Bath and Cheltenham Wells,
But not their springs to sip—
To Ramsgate—not to pick up shells,—
To Brighton—not to dip.
I’ve tour’d the Lakes, and scour’d the coast
From Scarboro’ to Torquay—
But tho’ of time I’ve made the most,
I’m going to Bombay!
But not their springs to sip—
To Ramsgate—not to pick up shells,—
To Brighton—not to dip.
I’ve tour’d the Lakes, and scour’d the coast
From Scarboro’ to Torquay—
But tho’ of time I’ve made the most,
I’m going to Bombay!
IV.
V.
My cousin writes from Hyderapot
My only chance to snatch,
And says the climate is so hot,
It’s sure to light a match.—
She’s married to a son of Mars,
With very handsome pay,
And swears I ought to thank my stars
I’m going to Bombay!
My only chance to snatch,
And says the climate is so hot,
It’s sure to light a match.—
She’s married to a son of Mars,
With very handsome pay,
And swears I ought to thank my stars
I’m going to Bombay!
VI.
She says that I shall much delight
To taste their Indian treats,
But what she likes may turn me quite,
Their strange outlandish meats.—
If I can eat rupees, who knows?
Or dine, the Indian way,
On doolies and on bungalows—
I’m going to Bombay!
To taste their Indian treats,
But what she likes may turn me quite,
Their strange outlandish meats.—
If I can eat rupees, who knows?
Or dine, the Indian way,
On doolies and on bungalows—
I’m going to Bombay!
VII.
She says that I shall much enjoy,—
I don’t know what she means,—
To take the air and buy some toy,
In my own palankeens,—
I like to drive my pony-chair,
Or ride our dapple gray—
But elephants are horses there—
I’m going to Bombay!
I don’t know what she means,—
To take the air and buy some toy,
In my own palankeens,—
I like to drive my pony-chair,
Or ride our dapple gray—
But elephants are horses there—
I’m going to Bombay!
VIII.
IX.
That fine new teak-built ship, the Fox
A. 1—Commander Bird,
Now lying in the London Docks,
Will sail on May the Third;
Apply for passage or for freight,
To Nichol, Scott, and Gray—
Pa has applied and seal’d my fate—
I’m going to Bombay!
A. 1—Commander Bird,
Now lying in the London Docks,
Will sail on May the Third;
Apply for passage or for freight,
To Nichol, Scott, and Gray—
Pa has applied and seal’d my fate—
I’m going to Bombay!
X.
My heart is full—my trunks as well;
My mind and caps made up,
My corsets shap’d by Mrs. Bell,
Are promised ere I sup;
With boots and shoes, Rivarta’s best,
And dresses by Ducé,
And a special license in my chest—
I’m going to Bombay!
My mind and caps made up,
My corsets shap’d by Mrs. Bell,
Are promised ere I sup;
With boots and shoes, Rivarta’s best,
And dresses by Ducé,
And a special license in my chest—
I’m going to Bombay!
JOHN JONES.
A PATHETIC BALLAD.
“I saw the iron enter into his soul.”—Sterne.
OHN JONES he was a builder’s clerk,
On ninety pounds a year,
Before his head was engine-turn’d
To be an engineer!
On ninety pounds a year,
Before his head was engine-turn’d
To be an engineer!
For, finding that the iron roads
Were quite the public tale,
Like Robin Redbreast, all his heart
Was set upon a rail.
Were quite the public tale,
Like Robin Redbreast, all his heart
Was set upon a rail.
But oh! his schemes all ended ill,
As schemes must come to nought,
With men who try to make short cuts,
When cut with something short.
As schemes must come to nought,
With men who try to make short cuts,
When cut with something short.
His altitudes he did not take,
Like any other elf;
But first a spirit-level took,
That levelled him, himself.
Like any other elf;
But first a spirit-level took,
That levelled him, himself.
Then getting up, from left to right
So many tacks he made,
The ground he meant to go upon
Got very well survey’d.
So many tacks he made,
The ground he meant to go upon
Got very well survey’d.
How crows may fly he did not care
A single fig to know;—
He wish’d to make an iron road,
And not an iron crow.
A single fig to know;—
He wish’d to make an iron road,
And not an iron crow.
So, going to the Rose and Crown,
To cut his studies short,
The nearest way from pint to pint,
He found was through a quart.
To cut his studies short,
The nearest way from pint to pint,
He found was through a quart.
According to this rule he plann’d
His railroad o’er a cup;
But when he came to lay it down,
No soul would take it up!
His railroad o’er a cup;
But when he came to lay it down,
No soul would take it up!
Alas! not his the wily arts
Of men as shrewd as rats,
Who out of one sole level make
A precious lot of flats!
Of men as shrewd as rats,
Who out of one sole level make
A precious lot of flats!
In vain from Z to crooked S,
His devious line he show’d;
Directors even seemed to wish
For some directer road.
His devious line he show’d;
Directors even seemed to wish
For some directer road.
The writers of the public press
All sneered at his design;
And penny-a-liners wouldn’t give
A penny for his line.
All sneered at his design;
And penny-a-liners wouldn’t give
A penny for his line.
OVERTAKER AND UNDERTAKER.
THE BATH GUIDE.
Yet still he urged his darling scheme,
In spite of all the fates;
Until at last his zigzag ways
Quite brought him into straits.
In spite of all the fates;
Until at last his zigzag ways
Quite brought him into straits.
His money gone, of course he sank
In debt from day to day,—
His way would not pay him—and so
He could not pay his way.
In debt from day to day,—
His way would not pay him—and so
He could not pay his way.
Said he, “All parties run me down—
How bitter is my cup!
My landlord is the only man
That ever runs me up!
How bitter is my cup!
My landlord is the only man
That ever runs me up!
“And he begins to talk of scores,
And will not draw a cork;”—
And then he rail’d at Fortune, since
He could not rail at York!
And will not draw a cork;”—
And then he rail’d at Fortune, since
He could not rail at York!
The morrow, in a fatal noose
They found him hanging fast;
This sentence scribbled on the wall,—
“I’ve got my line at last!”
They found him hanging fast;
This sentence scribbled on the wall,—
“I’ve got my line at last!”
Twelve men upon the body sate,
And thus, on oath, did say,
“We find he got his gruel, ‘cause
He couldn’t have his way!”
And thus, on oath, did say,
“We find he got his gruel, ‘cause
He couldn’t have his way!”
POMPEY’S GHOST.
A PATHETIC BALLAD.
“Skins may differ, but affection
Dwells in white and black the same.”—Cowper.
Dwells in white and black the same.”—Cowper.
’Twas twelve o’clock, not twelve at night,
But twelve o’clock at noon,
Because the sun was shining bright,
And not the silver moon:
A proper time for friends to call,
Or Pots, or Penny Post;
When, lo! as Phœbe sat at work,
She saw her Pompey’s Ghost!
But twelve o’clock at noon,
Because the sun was shining bright,
And not the silver moon:
A proper time for friends to call,
Or Pots, or Penny Post;
When, lo! as Phœbe sat at work,
She saw her Pompey’s Ghost!
Now when a female has a call
From people that are dead,
Like Paris ladies, she receives
Her visitors in bed:
But Pompey’s Spirit could not come
Like spirits that are white,
Because he was a Blackamoor,
And wouldn’t show at night!
From people that are dead,
Like Paris ladies, she receives
Her visitors in bed:
But Pompey’s Spirit could not come
Like spirits that are white,
Because he was a Blackamoor,
And wouldn’t show at night!
But of all unexpected things
That happen to us here,
The most unpleasant is a rise
In what is very dear:
So Phœbe scream’d an awful scream,
To prove the seaman’s text,
That after black appearances,
White squalls will follow next.
That happen to us here,
The most unpleasant is a rise
In what is very dear:
So Phœbe scream’d an awful scream,
To prove the seaman’s text,
That after black appearances,
White squalls will follow next.
“Oh, Phœbe dear! oh, Phœbe dear!
Don’t go to scream or faint;
You think because I’m black I am
The Devil, but I ain’t!
Behind the heels of Lady Lambe
I walk’d whilst I had breath;
But that is past, and I am now
A-walking after Death!
Don’t go to scream or faint;
You think because I’m black I am
The Devil, but I ain’t!
Behind the heels of Lady Lambe
I walk’d whilst I had breath;
But that is past, and I am now
A-walking after Death!
“No murder, though, I come to tell,
By base and bloody crime;
So, Phœbe dear, put off your fits
Till some more fitting time;
No Crowner, like a boatswain’s mate,
My body need attack,
With his round dozen to find out
Why I have died so black.
By base and bloody crime;
So, Phœbe dear, put off your fits
Till some more fitting time;
No Crowner, like a boatswain’s mate,
My body need attack,
With his round dozen to find out
Why I have died so black.
“One Sunday, shortly after tea,
My skin began to burn,
As if I had in my inside
A heater, like the urn.
Delirious in the night I grew,
And as I lay in bed,
They say I gather’d all the wool
You see upon my head.
My skin began to burn,
As if I had in my inside
A heater, like the urn.
Delirious in the night I grew,
And as I lay in bed,
They say I gather’d all the wool
You see upon my head.
“His Lordship for his doctor sent,
My treatment to begin—
I wish that he had call’d him out,
Before he call’d him in!
For though to physic he was bred,
And pass’d at Surgeons’ Hall,
To make his post a sinecure
He never cured at all!
My treatment to begin—
I wish that he had call’d him out,
Before he call’d him in!
For though to physic he was bred,
And pass’d at Surgeons’ Hall,
To make his post a sinecure
He never cured at all!
“The doctor look’d about my breast,
And then about my back,
And then he shook his head and said,
‘Your case looks very black.’
And first he sent me hot cayenne,
And then gamboge to swallow,—
But still my fever would not turn
To Scarlet or to Yellow!
And then about my back,
And then he shook his head and said,
‘Your case looks very black.’
And first he sent me hot cayenne,
And then gamboge to swallow,—
But still my fever would not turn
To Scarlet or to Yellow!
“With madder and with turmeric
He made his next attack;
But neither he nor all his drugs
Could stop my dying black.
At last I got so sick of life,
And sick of being dosed,
One Monday morning I gave up
My physic and the ghost!
He made his next attack;
But neither he nor all his drugs
Could stop my dying black.
At last I got so sick of life,
And sick of being dosed,
One Monday morning I gave up
My physic and the ghost!
“Oh, Phœbe dear, what pain it was
To sever every tie!
You know black beetles feel as much
As giants when they die—
And if there is a bridal bed,
Or bride of little worth,
It’s lying in a bed of mould,
Along with Mother Earth.
To sever every tie!
You know black beetles feel as much
As giants when they die—
And if there is a bridal bed,
Or bride of little worth,
It’s lying in a bed of mould,
Along with Mother Earth.
“Alas! some happy, happy day
In church I hoped to stand,
And like a muff of sable skin
Receive your lily hand;
But sternly with that piebald match
My fate untimely clashes—
For now, like Pompe-double-i,
I’m sleeping in my ashes!
In church I hoped to stand,
And like a muff of sable skin
Receive your lily hand;
But sternly with that piebald match
My fate untimely clashes—
For now, like Pompe-double-i,
I’m sleeping in my ashes!
“And now farewell!—a last farewell!
I’m wanted down below,
And have but time enough to add
One word before I go,—
In mourning crape and bombazine
Ne’er spend your precious pelf—
Don’t go in black for me,—for I
Can do it for myself.
I’m wanted down below,
And have but time enough to add
One word before I go,—
In mourning crape and bombazine
Ne’er spend your precious pelf—
Don’t go in black for me,—for I
Can do it for myself.
“Henceforth within my grave I rest,
But Death who there inherits,
Allow’d my spirit leave to come,
You seem’d so out of spirits;
But do not sigh, and do not cry,
By grief too much engross’d—
Nor, for a ghost of colour, turn
The colour of a ghost!
But Death who there inherits,
Allow’d my spirit leave to come,
You seem’d so out of spirits;
But do not sigh, and do not cry,
By grief too much engross’d—
Nor, for a ghost of colour, turn
The colour of a ghost!
TO MR. WRENCH AT THE ENGLISH OPERA HOUSE.[14]
H very pleasant Mr. Wrench,—
The first, upon the pit’s first bench,
I’ve scrambled to my place,
To hail thee on these summer boards
With joy, even critic-craft affords,
And watch thy welcome face!
The first, upon the pit’s first bench,
I’ve scrambled to my place,
To hail thee on these summer boards
With joy, even critic-craft affords,
And watch thy welcome face!
Ere thou art come, how I rejoice
To hear thy free and easy voice,
Lounging about the slips;
And then thy figure comes and owns
The voice as careless as the tones
That saunter from thy lips.
To hear thy free and easy voice,
Lounging about the slips;
And then thy figure comes and owns
The voice as careless as the tones
That saunter from thy lips.
Oh come and cast a quiet glance,
To glad a nameless friend, askance
The lamps’ ascending glare;
Better it is than bended knees,
Heart-squeezing, and profound congés—
That old familiar air.
To glad a nameless friend, askance
The lamps’ ascending glare;
Better it is than bended knees,
Heart-squeezing, and profound congés—
That old familiar air.
Even in the street, in that apt face,
Full of gay gravity, I trace
The soul of native whim;
A constant, never-failing store
Of quiet mirth, that ne’er runs o’er,
But aye is near the brim.
Full of gay gravity, I trace
The soul of native whim;
A constant, never-failing store
Of quiet mirth, that ne’er runs o’er,
But aye is near the brim.
Quoth I, “There goes a happy wight,
Inimical to spleen and spite,
And careless of all care;
Who oils the ruffled waves of strife,
And makes the work-day suit of life
Of very easy wear.
Inimical to spleen and spite,
And careless of all care;
Who oils the ruffled waves of strife,
And makes the work-day suit of life
Of very easy wear.
Lord! if he had some people’s ills
To cope—their hungry bonds and bills,
How faintly they would tease;
Things that have cost both tears and sighs—
Their foes, as motelings in his eyes—
Their duns, his summer fleas!
To cope—their hungry bonds and bills,
How faintly they would tease;
Things that have cost both tears and sighs—
Their foes, as motelings in his eyes—
Their duns, his summer fleas!
The stage, I guess, is not thy school—
Thou dost not antic like the fool
That wept behind his mask;
Thy playing is thy play—a sport—
A revel, as perform’d at Court,
And not a trade—a task!
Thou dost not antic like the fool
That wept behind his mask;
Thy playing is thy play—a sport—
A revel, as perform’d at Court,
And not a trade—a task!
Gay Freeman, art thou hired for him?
No—‘tis thy humour and thy whim
To be that easy guest;
Whereas whoever plays for pelf,
(Like Bennett) only gives him-self,
Or her—like Mrs. West!
No—‘tis thy humour and thy whim
To be that easy guest;
Whereas whoever plays for pelf,
(Like Bennett) only gives him-self,
Or her—like Mrs. West!
Nay, thou—to look beyond the stage,
Thy life is but another page
Continued of the play;
The same companionable sprite—
Thy whim and pleasantry by night
Are with thee in the day!
Thy life is but another page
Continued of the play;
The same companionable sprite—
Thy whim and pleasantry by night
Are with thee in the day!
LOVE, WITH A WITNESS.
E has shav’d off his whiskers and blacken’d his brows,
Wears a patch and a wig of false hair,—
But it’s him—Oh it’s him!—we exchanged lovers’ vows,
When I lived up in Cavendish Square.
Wears a patch and a wig of false hair,—
But it’s him—Oh it’s him!—we exchanged lovers’ vows,
When I lived up in Cavendish Square.
He had beautiful eyes, and his lips were the same,
And his voice was as soft as a flute—
Like a Lord or a Marquis he look’d when he came,
To make love in his master’s best suit.
And his voice was as soft as a flute—
Like a Lord or a Marquis he look’d when he came,
To make love in his master’s best suit.
If I lived for a thousand long years from my birth,
I shall never forget what he told;
How he lov’d me beyond the rich women of earth,
With their jewels and silver and gold?
I shall never forget what he told;
How he lov’d me beyond the rich women of earth,
With their jewels and silver and gold?
When he kiss’d me and bade me adieu with a sigh,
By the light of the sweetest of moons,
Oh how little I dreamt I was bidding good-bye
To my Missis’s tea-pot and spoons!
By the light of the sweetest of moons,
Oh how little I dreamt I was bidding good-bye
To my Missis’s tea-pot and spoons!
LINES BY A SCHOOL-BOY.
HEN I was first a scholar, I went to Dr. Monk,
And elephant-like I had, sir, a cake put in my trunk;
The Rev. Doctor Monk, sir, was very grave and prim,
He stood full six foot high, sir, and we all looked up to him.
And elephant-like I had, sir, a cake put in my trunk;
The Rev. Doctor Monk, sir, was very grave and prim,
He stood full six foot high, sir, and we all looked up to him.
They didn’t pinch and starve us, as here they do at York,
For every boy was ask’d, sir, to bring a knife and fork.
And then I had a chum too, to fag and all of that,
I made him sum up my sums too, and eat up all my fat.
For every boy was ask’d, sir, to bring a knife and fork.
And then I had a chum too, to fag and all of that,
I made him sum up my sums too, and eat up all my fat.
For goodness we had prizes, and birch for doing ill,
But none of the Birch that visits the bottom of Cornhill.
And we’d half a dozen ushers to teach us Latin and Greek,
And all we’d got in our heads, sir, was combed out once a week.
But none of the Birch that visits the bottom of Cornhill.
And we’d half a dozen ushers to teach us Latin and Greek,
And all we’d got in our heads, sir, was combed out once a week.
And then we had a shop, too, for lollipops and squibs,
Where I often had a lick, sir, at Buonaparty’s ribs!
Oh! if I was at Clapham, at my old school again,
In the rod I could fancy honey, and sugar in the cane.
Where I often had a lick, sir, at Buonaparty’s ribs!
Oh! if I was at Clapham, at my old school again,
In the rod I could fancy honey, and sugar in the cane.
ADDRESS TO MARIA DARLINGTON
ON HER RETURN TO THE STAGE.
“It was Maria!—
And better fate did Maria deserve than to have her banns forbid—
She had, since that, she told me, strayed as far as Rome, and walked round
St. Peter’s once—and returned back—.”
See the whole story in Sterne and the newspapers.
And better fate did Maria deserve than to have her banns forbid—
She had, since that, she told me, strayed as far as Rome, and walked round
St. Peter’s once—and returned back—.”
See the whole story in Sterne and the newspapers.
HOU art come back again to the stage
Quite as blooming as when thou didst leave it;
And ’tis well for this fortunate age
That thou didst not, by going off, grieve it!
It is pleasant to see thee again—
Right pleasant to see thee, by Herclé,
Unmolested by pea-colour’d Hayne!
And free from that thou-and-thee Berkeley!
Quite as blooming as when thou didst leave it;
And ’tis well for this fortunate age
That thou didst not, by going off, grieve it!
It is pleasant to see thee again—
Right pleasant to see thee, by Herclé,
Unmolested by pea-colour’d Hayne!
And free from that thou-and-thee Berkeley!
Thy sweet foot, my Foote, is as light
(Not my Foote—I speak by correction)
As the snow on some mountain at night,
Or the snow that has long on thy neck shone.
The Pit is in raptures to free thee,
The Boxes impatient to greet thee,
The Galleries quite clam’rous to see thee,
And thy scenic relations to meet thee!
(Not my Foote—I speak by correction)
As the snow on some mountain at night,
Or the snow that has long on thy neck shone.
The Pit is in raptures to free thee,
The Boxes impatient to greet thee,
The Galleries quite clam’rous to see thee,
And thy scenic relations to meet thee!
Ah, where was thy sacred retreat?
Maria! ah, where hast thou been,
With thy two little wandering Feet,
Far away from all peace and pea-green!
Far away from Fitzhardinge the bold,
Far away from himself and his lot!
I envy the place thou hast stroll’d,
If a stroller thou art—which thou’rt not!
Maria! ah, where hast thou been,
With thy two little wandering Feet,
Far away from all peace and pea-green!
Far away from Fitzhardinge the bold,
Far away from himself and his lot!
I envy the place thou hast stroll’d,
If a stroller thou art—which thou’rt not!
Sterne met thee, poor wandering thing,
Methinks, at the close of the day—
When thy Billy had just slipp’d his string,
And thy little dog quite gone astray—
He bade thee to sorrow no more—
He wish’d thee to lull thy distress
In his bosom—he couldn’t do more,
And a Christian could hardly do less!
Methinks, at the close of the day—
When thy Billy had just slipp’d his string,
And thy little dog quite gone astray—
He bade thee to sorrow no more—
He wish’d thee to lull thy distress
In his bosom—he couldn’t do more,
And a Christian could hardly do less!
Ah, me! for thy small plaintive pipe
I fear we must look at thine eye—
That eye—forced so often to wipe
That the handkerchief never got dry!
Oh sure ’tis a barbarous deed
To give pain to the feminine mind—
But the wooer that left thee to bleed
Was a creature more killing than kind!
I fear we must look at thine eye—
That eye—forced so often to wipe
That the handkerchief never got dry!
Oh sure ’tis a barbarous deed
To give pain to the feminine mind—
But the wooer that left thee to bleed
Was a creature more killing than kind!
The man that could tread on a worm
Is a brute—and inhuman to boot;
But he merits a much harsher term
That can wantonly tread on a Foote!
Soft mercy and gentleness blend
To make up a Quaker—but he
That spurn’d thee could scarce be a Friend,
Though he dealt in that Thou-ing of thee!
Is a brute—and inhuman to boot;
But he merits a much harsher term
That can wantonly tread on a Foote!
Soft mercy and gentleness blend
To make up a Quaker—but he
That spurn’d thee could scarce be a Friend,
Though he dealt in that Thou-ing of thee!
They that loved thee, Maria, have flown!
The friends of the midsummer hour!
But those friends now in anguish atone,
And mourn o’er thy desolate bow’r.
Friend Hayne, the Green Man, is quite out,
Yea, utterly out of his bias;
And the faithful Fitzhardinge, no doubt,
Is counting his Ave Marias!
The friends of the midsummer hour!
But those friends now in anguish atone,
And mourn o’er thy desolate bow’r.
Friend Hayne, the Green Man, is quite out,
Yea, utterly out of his bias;
And the faithful Fitzhardinge, no doubt,
Is counting his Ave Marias!
Ah, where wast thou driven away
To feast on thy desolate woe?
We have witness’d thy weeping in play,
But none saw the earnest tears flow—
Perchance thou wert truly forlorn,—
Though none but the fairies could mark
Where they hung upon some Berkeley thorn,
Or the thistle in Burderop Park!
To feast on thy desolate woe?
We have witness’d thy weeping in play,
But none saw the earnest tears flow—
Perchance thou wert truly forlorn,—
Though none but the fairies could mark
Where they hung upon some Berkeley thorn,
Or the thistle in Burderop Park!
ODE TO R. W. ELLISTON, ESQ.,
THE GREAT LESSEE!
“Rover. Do you know, you villain, that I am this moment the greatest man living?”—Wild Oats.
H! Great Lessee! Great Manager! Great Man!
Oh, Lord High Elliston! Immortal Pan
Of all the pipes that play in Drury Lane!
Macready’s master! Westminster’s high Dane
(As Galway Martin, in the House’s walls,
Hamlet and Doctor Ireland justly calls)
Friend to the sweet and ever-smiling Spring!
Magician of the lamp and prompter’s ring!
Drury’s Aladdin! Whipper-in of actors!
Kicker of rebel preface-malefactors!
Glass-blowers’ corrector! King of the cheque-taker!
At once Great Leamington and Winston-Maker!
Dramatic Bolter of plain Bunns and cakes!
In silken hose the most reform’d of Rakes!
Oh, Lord High Elliston! lend me an ear!
(Poole is away, and Williams shall keep clear)
While I, in little slips of prose, not verse,
Thy splendid course, as pattern-work, rehearse!
Oh, Lord High Elliston! Immortal Pan
Of all the pipes that play in Drury Lane!
Macready’s master! Westminster’s high Dane
(As Galway Martin, in the House’s walls,
Hamlet and Doctor Ireland justly calls)
Friend to the sweet and ever-smiling Spring!
Magician of the lamp and prompter’s ring!
Drury’s Aladdin! Whipper-in of actors!
Kicker of rebel preface-malefactors!
Glass-blowers’ corrector! King of the cheque-taker!
At once Great Leamington and Winston-Maker!
Dramatic Bolter of plain Bunns and cakes!
In silken hose the most reform’d of Rakes!
Oh, Lord High Elliston! lend me an ear!
(Poole is away, and Williams shall keep clear)
While I, in little slips of prose, not verse,
Thy splendid course, as pattern-work, rehearse!
Bright was thy youth—thy manhood brighter still—
The greatest Romeo upon Holburn Hill—
Lightest comedian of the pleasant day,
When Jordan threw her sunshine o’er a play!
But these, though happy, were but subject-times,
And no man cares for bottom-steps, that climbs—
Far from my wish it is to stifle down
The hours that saw thee snatch the Surrey crown!
Though now thy hand a mightier sceptre wields,
Fair was thy reign in sweet St. George’s Fields.
Dibdin was Premier—and a Golden Age
For a short time enrich’d the subject stage.
Thou hadst, than other Kings, more peace-and-plenty;
Ours but one Bench could boast, but thou hadst twenty;
But the times changed—and Booth-acting no more
Drew Rulers’ shillings to the gallery door.
Thou didst, with bag and baggage, wander thence,
Repentant, like thy neighbour Magdalens!
The greatest Romeo upon Holburn Hill—
Lightest comedian of the pleasant day,
When Jordan threw her sunshine o’er a play!
But these, though happy, were but subject-times,
And no man cares for bottom-steps, that climbs—
Far from my wish it is to stifle down
The hours that saw thee snatch the Surrey crown!
Though now thy hand a mightier sceptre wields,
Fair was thy reign in sweet St. George’s Fields.
Dibdin was Premier—and a Golden Age
For a short time enrich’d the subject stage.
Thou hadst, than other Kings, more peace-and-plenty;
Ours but one Bench could boast, but thou hadst twenty;
But the times changed—and Booth-acting no more
Drew Rulers’ shillings to the gallery door.
Thou didst, with bag and baggage, wander thence,
Repentant, like thy neighbour Magdalens!
Next, the Olympic Games were tried, each feat
Practised the most bewitching in Wych Street.
Charles had his royal ribaldry restored,
And in a downright neighbourhood drank and whored;
Rochester there in dirty ways again
Revell’d—and lived once more in Drury Lane:
But thou, R. W., kept thy moral ways,
Pit-lecturing ’twixt the farces and the plays,
A lamplight Irving to the butcher-boys
That soil’d the benches and that made a noise:—
“You,—in the back!—can scarcely hear a line!
Down from those benches—butchers—they are Mine!”
Practised the most bewitching in Wych Street.
Charles had his royal ribaldry restored,
And in a downright neighbourhood drank and whored;
Rochester there in dirty ways again
Revell’d—and lived once more in Drury Lane:
But thou, R. W., kept thy moral ways,
Pit-lecturing ’twixt the farces and the plays,
A lamplight Irving to the butcher-boys
That soil’d the benches and that made a noise:—
“You,—in the back!—can scarcely hear a line!
Down from those benches—butchers—they are Mine!”
Lastly—and thou wert built for it by nature!—
Crown’d was thy head in Drury Lane Theätre!
Gentle George Robins saw that it was good,
And renters cluck’d around thee in a brood.
King thou wert made of Drury and of Kean!
Of many a lady and of many a Queen!
With Poole and Larpent was thy reign begun—
But now thou turnest from the Dead and Dun,
Hook’s in thine eye, to write thy plays, no doubt,
And Colman lives to cut the damnlets out!
Crown’d was thy head in Drury Lane Theätre!
Gentle George Robins saw that it was good,
And renters cluck’d around thee in a brood.
King thou wert made of Drury and of Kean!
Of many a lady and of many a Queen!
With Poole and Larpent was thy reign begun—
But now thou turnest from the Dead and Dun,
Hook’s in thine eye, to write thy plays, no doubt,
And Colman lives to cut the damnlets out!
Oh, worthy of the house! the King’s commission!
Isn’t thy condition “a most bless’d condition?”
Thou reignest over Winston, Kean, and all
The very lofty and the very small—
Showest the plumbless Bunn the way to kick—
Keepest a Williams for thy veriest stick—
Seest a Vestris in her sweetest moments,
Without the danger of newspaper comments—
Tellest Macready, as none dared before,
Thine open mind from the half-open door!—
(Alas! I fear he has left Melpomene’s crown,
To be a Boniface in Buxton town!)—
Thou holdst the watch, as half-price people know,
And callest to them, to a moment,—“Go!”
Teachest the sapient Sapio how to sing—
Hangest a cat most oddly by the wing—”
Hast known the length of a Cubitt-foot—and kiss’d
The pearly whiteness of a Stephen’s wrist—
Kissing and pitying—tender and humane!
“By heaven she loves me! Oh, it is too plain!”
A sigh like this thy trembling passion slips,
Dimpling the warm Madeira at thy lips!
Isn’t thy condition “a most bless’d condition?”
Thou reignest over Winston, Kean, and all
The very lofty and the very small—
Showest the plumbless Bunn the way to kick—
Keepest a Williams for thy veriest stick—
Seest a Vestris in her sweetest moments,
Without the danger of newspaper comments—
Tellest Macready, as none dared before,
Thine open mind from the half-open door!—
(Alas! I fear he has left Melpomene’s crown,
To be a Boniface in Buxton town!)—
Thou holdst the watch, as half-price people know,
And callest to them, to a moment,—“Go!”
Teachest the sapient Sapio how to sing—
Hangest a cat most oddly by the wing—”
Hast known the length of a Cubitt-foot—and kiss’d
The pearly whiteness of a Stephen’s wrist—
Kissing and pitying—tender and humane!
“By heaven she loves me! Oh, it is too plain!”
A sigh like this thy trembling passion slips,
Dimpling the warm Madeira at thy lips!
Go on, Lessee! Go on, and prosper well!
Fear not, though forty glass-blowers should rebel—
Show them how thou hast long befriended them,
And teach Dubois their treason to condemn!
Go on! addressing pits in prose—and worse!
Be long, be slow, be anything but terse—
Kiss to the gallery the hand that’s gloved—
Make Bunn the Great, and Winston the Beloved,
Go on—and but in this reverse the thing,
Walk backward with wax lights before the King—
Go on! Spring ever in thine eye! Go on!
Hope’s favourite child! ethereal Elliston!
Fear not, though forty glass-blowers should rebel—
Show them how thou hast long befriended them,
And teach Dubois their treason to condemn!
Go on! addressing pits in prose—and worse!
Be long, be slow, be anything but terse—
Kiss to the gallery the hand that’s gloved—
Make Bunn the Great, and Winston the Beloved,
Go on—and but in this reverse the thing,
Walk backward with wax lights before the King—
Go on! Spring ever in thine eye! Go on!
Hope’s favourite child! ethereal Elliston!