THE SUPPER SUPERSTITION.
A PATHETIC BALLAD.
"Oh flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified!"—MERCUTIO
I.
'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.
II.
Said he, "Upon this dainty cod
How bravely I shall sup"—
When, whiter than the tablecloth,
A GHOST came rising up!
III.
"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!"
IV.
"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!"
V.
"From Alexandria we set sail,
With corn, and oil, and figs,
But steering 'too much Sow,' we struck
Upon the Sow and Pigs!"
VI.
"The ship we pumped till we could see
Old England from the tops;
When down she went with all our hands,
Right in the Channel's Chops."
VII.
"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."
VIII.
"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."
IX.
"But oh, my spirit cannot rest
In Davy Joneses sod,
Till I've appeared to you and said—
Don't sup on that 'ere Cod!"
X.
"You live on land, and little think
What passes in the sea;
Last Sunday week, at 2 P.M.,
That Cod was picking me!"
XI.
"Those oysters, too, that look so plump,
And seem so nicely done,
They put my corpse in many shells,
Instead of only one."
XII.
"Oh, do not eat those oysters then,
And do not touch the shrimps;
When I was in my briny grave,
They sucked my blood like imps!"
XIII.
"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!"
XIV.
The spirit fled—they wept his fate,
And cried, Alack, alack!
At last up started brother Jim,
"Let's try if Jack, was Jack!"
XV.
They called the Dog, they called the Cat,
And little Kitten too,
And down they put the Cod and sauce,
To see what brutes would do.
XVI.
Old Tray licked all the oysters up,
Puss never stood at crimps,
But munched the Cod—and little Kit
Quite feasted on the shrimps!
XVII.
The thing was odd, and minus Cod
And sauce, they stood like posts;
Oh, prudent folks, for fear of hoax,
Put no belief in Ghosts!
THE DUEL.
A SERIOUS BALLAD.
"Like the two Kings of Brentford smelling at one nosegay."
In Brentford town, of old renown,
There lived a Mister Bray,
Who fell in love with Lucy Bell,
And so did Mr. Clay.
To see her ride from Hammersmith,
By all it was allowed,
Such fair outsides are seldom seen,
Such Angels on a Cloud.
Said Mr. Bray to Mr. Clay,
You choose to rival me,
And court Miss Bell, but there your court
No thoroughfare shall be.
Unless you now give up your suit,
You may repent your love;
I who have shot a pigeon match,
Can shoot a turtle dove.
So pray before you woo her more,
Consider what you do;
If you pop aught to Lucy Bell—
I'll pop it into you.
Said Mr. Clay to Mr. Bray,
Your threats I quite explode;
One who has been a volunteer
Knows how to prime and load.
And so I say to you unless
Your passion quiet keeps,
I who have shot and hit bulls' eyes,
May chance to hit a sheep's.
Now gold is oft for silver changed,
And that for copper red;
But these two went away to give
Each other change for lead.
But first they sought a friend apiece,
This pleasant thought to give—
When they were dead, they thus should have
Two seconds still to live.
To measure out the ground not long
The seconds then forbore,
And having taken one rash step,
They took a dozen more.
They next prepared each pistol-pan
Against the deadly strife,
By putting in the prime of death
Against the prime of life.
Now all was ready for the foes,
But when they took their stands,
Fear made them tremble so, they found
They both were shaking hands.
Said Mr. C. to Mr. B.,
Here one of us may fall,
And like St. Paul's Cathedral now
Be doomed to have a ball.
I do confess I did attach
Misconduct to your name;
If I withdraw the charge, will then
Your ramrod do the same?
Said Mr, B., I do agree—
But think of Honor's Courts!
If we go off without a shot,
There will be strange reports.
But look, the morning now is bright,
Though cloudy it begun:
Why can't we aim above, as if
We had called out the sun?
Soup into the harmless air
Their bullets they did send;
And may all other duels have
That upshot in the end!
"Our Crummie is a dainty cow."—Scotch Song.
On that first Saturday in May,
When Lords and Ladies, great and grand,
Repair to see what each R.A.
Has done since last they sought the Strand,
In red, brown, yellow, green, or blue,
In short, what's called the private view,—
Amongst the guests—the deuce knows how
She got in there without a row—
There came a large and vulgar dame,
With arms deep red, and face the same,
Showing in temper not a Saint;
No one could guess for why she came,
Unless perchance to "scour the Paint."
From wall to wall she forced her way,
Elbowed Lord Durham—poked Lord Grey—
Stamped Stafford's toes to make him move,
And Devonshire's Duke received a shove;
The great Lord Chancellor felt her nudge,
She made the Vice, his Honor, budge,
And gave a pinch to Park, the judge.
As for the ladies in this stir,
The highest rank gave way to her.
From number one and number two,
She searched the pictures through and through,
On benches stood, to inspect the high ones,
And squatted down to see the shy ones.
And as she went from part to part,
A deeper red each cheek became,
Her very eyes lit up in flame,
That made each looker-on exclaim,
"Really an ardent love of art!"
Alas! amidst her inquisition,
Fate brought her to a sad condition;
She might have run against Lord Milton,
And still have stared at deeds in oil.
But ah! her picture-joy to spoil,
She came full butt on Mr. Hilton.
The Keeper mute, with staring eyes,
Like a lay-figure for surprise,
At last this stammered out, "How now?
Woman—where, woman, is your ticket,
That ought to have let you through our wicket?"
Says woman, "Where is David's Cow?"
Said Mr. H—— with expedition,
"There's no Cow in the Exhibition."
"No Cow!"—but here her tongue in verity,
Set off with steam and rail celerity—
"No Cow! there ain't no Cow, then the more's the shame and
pity,
Hang you, and the R.A.'s, and all the Hanging Committee!
No Cow—but hold your tongue—for you needn't talk
to me—
You can't talk up the Cow, you can't, to where it ought to
be—
I haven't seen a picture high or low, or anyhow,
Or in any of the rooms, to be compared with David's Cow!
You may talk of your Landseers, and of your Coopers and your
Wards,
Why, hanging is too good for them, and yet here they are on
cords!
They're only fit for window frames, and shutters and street
doors,
David will paint 'em any day at Red Lions or Blue
Boars,—
Why, Morland was a fool to him,—at a little pig or
sow—
It's really hard it ain't hung up,—I could cry about
the Cow!
But I know well what it is, and why—they're jealous of
David's fame,
But to vent it on the Cow, poor thing, is a cruelty and a
shame,—
Do you think it might hang by and by, if you cannot hang it
now?
David has made a party up, to come and see his Cow
If it only hung three days a week, for an example to the
learners—
Why can't it hang up, turn about, with that picture of Mr.
Turner's?
Or do you think from Mr. Etty you need apprehend a row,
If now and then you cut him down to hang up David's Cow!
I can't think where their tastes have been, to not have such
a creature,
Although I say, that should not say, it was prettier than
nature!
It must be hung—and shall be hung—for, Mr.
H——, I vow
I daren't take home the catalogue, unless it's got the Cow!
As we only want it to be seen, I should not so much care,
If it was only round the stone man's neck, a coming up the
stair.
Or down there in the marble room where all the figures stand,
Where one of them three Graces might just hold it in her
hand—
Or maybe Baily's Charity the favor would allow,
It would really be a charity to hang up David's Cow.
We haven't nowhere else to go if you don't hang it here,
The Water Color place allows no oilman to appear—
And the British Gallery sticks to Dutch, Teniers and Gerard
Douw,
And the Suffolk Gallery will not do—it's not a Suffolk
Cow:
I wish you'd seen him painting her, he hardly took his meals
Till she was painted on the board, correct from head to
heels:
His heart and soul was in his Cow, and almost made him
shabby,
He hardly whipped the boys at all,—or helped to nurse
the babby,
And when he had her all complete and painted over red,
He got so grand, I really thought him going off his head.
Now hang it, Mr. Hilton, do just hang it anyhow,
Poor David, he will hang himself, unless you hang his Cow.
And if it's inconvenient and drawn too big by half—
David shan't send next year except a very little calf!"
LINES TO MARY.
OLD BAILEY BALLADS.
(At No. 1, Newgate. Favored by Mr. Wontner.)
O Mary, I believed you true,
And I was blest in so believing;
But till this hour I never knew—
That you were taken up for thieving!
Oh! when I snatch'd a tender kiss,
Or some such trifle when I courted,
You said, indeed, that love was bliss,
But never owned you were transported!
But then to gaze on that fair face—
It would have been an unfair feeling
To dream that you had pilfered lace—
And Flint's had suffered from your stealing!
Or when my suit I first preferred,
To bring your coldness to repentance,
Before I hammer'd out a word,
How could I dream you heard a sentence!
Or when with all the warmth of youth
I strove to prove my love no fiction,
How could I guess I urged a truth
On one already past conviction!
How could I dream that ivory part,
Your hand—where I have look'd and linger'd,
Altho' it stole away my heart,
Had been held up as one light-fingered!
In melting verse your charms I drew,
The charms in which my muse delighted—
Alas! the lay I thought was new.
Spoke only what had been indicted!
Oh! when that form, a lovely one,
Hung on the neck its arms had flown to,
I little thought that you had run
A chance of hanging on your own too.
You said you pick'd me from the world,
My vanity it now must shock it—
And down at once my pride is hurled,
You've pick'd me—and you've pick'd a pocket!
Oh! when our love had got so far,
The banns were read by Doctor Daly,
Who asked if there was any bar—
Why did not some one shout "Old Bailey"?
But when you robed your flesh and bones
In that pure white that angel garb is,
Who could have thought you, Mary Jones,
Among the Joans that link with Darbies?
And when the parson came to say,
My goods were yours, if I had got any,
And you should honor and obey,
Who could have thought—"O Bay of Botany!"
But oh!—the worst of all your slips
I did not till this day discover—
That down in Deptford's prison ships,
O Mary! you've a hulking lover!
"The Needles have sometimes been fatal to Mariners."
Picture of Isle of Wight.
I.
One close of day—'twas in the Bay
Of Naples, bay of glory!
While light was hanging crowns of gold
On mountains high and hoary,
A gallant bark got under weigh,
And with her sails my story.
II.
For Leghorn she was bound direct,
With wine and oil for cargo,
Her crew of men some nine or ten,
The captain's name was Jago;
A good and gallant bark she was,
La Donna (call'd) del Lago.
III.
Bronzed mariners were hers to view,
With brown cheeks, clear or muddy,
Dark shining eyes, and coal-black hair,
Meet heads for painter's study;
But midst their tan there stood one man,
Whose cheek was fair and ruddy;
IV.
His brow was high, a loftier brow
Ne'er shone in song or sonnet,
His hair, a little scant, and when
He doff'd his cap or bonnet,
One saw that Grey had gone beyond
A premiership upon it!
V.
His eye—a passenger was he,
The cabin he had hired it,—
His eye was gray, and when he look'd
Around, the prospect fired it,—
A fine poetic light, as if
The Appe-Nine inspir'd it.
VI.
His frame was stout, in height about
Six feet—well made and portly;
Of dress and manner just to give
A sketch, but very shortly,
His order seem'd a composite
Of rustic with the courtly.
VII.
He ate and quaff'd, and joked and laughed,
And chatted with the seamen,
And often task'd their skill and ask'd,
"What weather is't to be, man?"
No demonstration there appeared,
That he was any demon.
VIII.
No sort of sign there was that he
Could raise a stormy rumpus,
Like Prospero make breezes blow,
And rocks and billows thump us,—
But little we supposed what he
Could with the needle compass!
IX.
Soon came a storm—the sea at first
Seem'd lying almost fallow—
When lo! full crash, with billowy dash,
From clouds of black and yellow,
Came such a gale as blows but once
A cent'ry, like the aloe!
X.
Our stomachs we had just prepared
To vest a small amount in;
When, gush! a flood of brine came down
The skylight—quite a fountain,
And right on end the table rear'd
Just like the Table Mountain.
XI.
Down rush'd the soup, down gush'd the wine,
Each roll, its rôle repeating,
Roll'd down—the round of beef declar'd
For parting—not for meating!
Off flew the fowls, and all the game
Was "too far gone for eating!"
XII.
Down knife and fork—down went the pork,
The lamb too broke its tether;
Down mustard went—each condiment—
Salt—pepper—all together!
Down everything, like craft that seek
The Downs in stormy weather.
XIII.
Down plunged the Lady of the Lake,
Her timbers seem'd to sever;
Down, down, a dreary derry down,
Such lurch she had gone never;
She almost seem'd about to take
A bed of down forever!
XIV.
Down dropt the captain's nether jaw,
Thus robbed of all its uses,
He thought he saw the Evil One
Beside Vesuvian sluices,
Playing at dice for soul and ship,
And throwing Sink and Deuces.
XV.
Down fell the steward on his face,
To all the Saints commending;
And candles to the Virgin vow'd,
As save-alls 'gain'st his ending.
Down fell the mate, he thought his fate,
Checkmate, was close impending!
XVI.
Down fell the cook—the cabin boy,
Their beads with fervor telling,
While Alps of surge, with snowy verge,
Above the yards came yelling.
Down fell the crew, and on their knees
Shudder'd at each white swelling!
XVII.
Down sunk the sun of bloody hue,
His crimson light a cleaver
To each red rover of a wave:
To eye of fancy-weaver,
Neptune, the god, seemed tossing in
A raging scarlet fever!
XVIII.
Sore, sore afraid, each Papist pray'd
To Saint aid Virgin Mary;
But one there was that stood composed
Amid the waves' vagary;
As staunch as rock, a true game-cock
'Mid chicks of Mother Carey!
XIX.
His ruddy cheek retained its streak,
No danger seem'd to shrink him:
His step still bold—of mortal mould
The crew could hardly think him:
The Lady of the Lake, he seem'd
To know; could never sink him.
XX.
Relaxed at last the furious gale
Quite out of breath with racing;
The boiling flood in milder mood,
With gentler billows chasing;
From stem to stern, with frequent turn,
The Stranger took to pacing.
XXI.
And as he walked to self he talked,
Some ancient ditty thrumming,
In undertone, as not alone—
Now whistling, and now humming—
"You're welcome, Charlie," "Cowdenknowes,"
"Kenmure," or "Campbells' Coming."
XXII.
Down went the wind, down went the wave,
Fear quitted the most finical;
The Saints, I wot, were soon forgot,
And Hope was at the pinnacle:
When rose on high a frightful cry—
"The Devil's in the binnacle!"
XXIII.
"The Saints be near," the helmsman cried,
His voice with quite a falter—
"Steady's my helm, but every look
The needle seems to alter;
God only knows where China lies,
Jamaica, or Gibraltar!"
XXIV.
The captain stared aghast at mate,
The pilot at th' apprentice;
No fancy of the German Sea
Of Fiction the event is:
But when they at the compass look'd,
It seem'd non compass mentis.
XXV.
Now north, now south, now east, now west,
The wavering point was shaken,
'Twas past the whole philosophy
Of Newton, or of Bacon;
Never by compass, till that hour,
Such latitudes were taken!
XXVI.
With fearful speech, each after each
Took turns in the inspection;
They found no gun—no iron—none—
To vary its direction;
It seem'd a new magnetic case
Of Poles in Insurrection!
XXVII.
Farewell to wives, farewell their lives,
And all their household riches;
Oh! while they thought of girl or boy,
And dear domestic niches,
All down the side which holds the heart,
That needle gave them stitches.
XXVIII.
With deep amaze, the Stranger gazed
To see them so white-livered:
And walked abaft the binnacle,
To know at what they shivered;
But when he stood beside the card,
St. Josef! how it quivered!
XXIX.
No fancy-motion, brain-begot,
In eye of timid dreamer—
The nervous finger of a sot
Ne'er showed a plainer tremor;
To every brain it seemed too plain,
There stood th' Infernal Schemer!
XXX.
Mix'd brown and blue each visage grew,
Just like a pullet's gizzard;
Meanwhile the captain's wandering wit,
From tacking like an izzard,
Bore down in this plain course at last,
"It's Michael Scott—the Wizard!"
XXXI.
A smile passed o'er the ruddy face:
"To see the poles so falter
I'm puzzled, friends, as much as you,
For with no fiends I palter!
Michael I'm not—although a Scott—
My Christian name is Walter."
XXXII.
Like oil it fell, that name, a spell
On all the fearful faction;
The captain's head (for he had read)
Confess'd the needle's action,
And bow'd to Him in whom the North
Has lodged its main attraction!
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 came thus 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 Phoenix 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!
"O Mrs. B., O Mrs. B.!
Are these your sorrow's deeds,
Already getting up a flame,
To burn your widows' 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;
O 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!
"Down, down, down, ten thousand fathoms deep."
Count Fathom.
Who does not know that dreadful gulf, where Niagara falls,
Where eagle unto eagle screams, to vulture vulture calls;
Where down beneath, Despair and Death in liquid darkness
grope,
And upward, on the foam there shines a rainbow without Hope;
While, hung with clouds of Fear and Doubt, the unreturning
wave
Suddenly gives an awful plunge, like life into the grave;
And many a hapless mortal there hath dived to bale or bliss;
One—only one—hath ever lived to rise from that
abyss!
Oh, Heav'n! it turns me now to ice with chill of fear
extreme,
To think of my frail bark adrift on that tumultuous stream!
In vain with desperate sinews, strung by love of life and
light,
I urged that coffin, my canoe, against the current's might:
On—on—still on—direct for doom, the river
rush'd in force,
And fearfully the stream of Time raced with it in its course.
My eyes I closed—I dared not look the way towards the
goal;
But still I viewed the horrid close, and dreamt it in my
soul.
Plainly, as through transparent lids, I saw the fleeting
shore!
And lofty trees, like wingèd things, flit by for evermore;
Plainly—but with no prophet sense—I heard the
sullen sound,
The torrent's voice—and felt the mist, like death-sweat
gathering round.
Oh agony! Oh life! My home! and those that made it sweet:
Ere I could pray, the torrent lay beneath my very feet.
With frightful whirl, more swift than thought, I passed the
dizzy edge,
Bound after bound, with hideous bruise, I dashed from ledge
to ledge,
From crag to crag,—in speechless pain,—from
midnight deep to deep;
I did not die, but anguish stunn'd my senses into sleep.
How long entranced, or whither dived, no clue I have to find:
At last the gradual light of life came dawning o'er my mind;
And through my brain there thrill'd a cry,—a cry as
shrill as birds
Of vulture or of eagle kind, but this was set to words:
"It's Edgar Huntley[32] in his cap and
nightgown, I declares!
He's been a-walking in his sleep, and pitch'd all down the
stairs!"
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 drowned 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 pigsties, 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 reckoned the best, as the only one that for
love or money can raise
A postillion, a blue jacket, two deplorable lame white
horses, and a ramshackle "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, a little
Methodist Chapel of Ease;
And close by the churchyard, 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 Jeffery and Tom Pike;
For the Green Man next door will send you in ale, gin, or
anything 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 repair 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 everything, kept by
the widow of Mr. Task;
But when you go there it's ten to one she's out of everything
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 papered inside as
out,
For bill-stickers won't beware, but stick notices of sales
and election placards all about.
That's the Doctor's with a green door, where the garden pots
in the window is seen;
A weakly monthly rose that don't blow, and a red geranium,
and a teaplant with five black leaves, and one green.
As for hollyhocks at the cottage doors, and honeysuckles and
jasmines, you may go and whistle;
But the Tailor's front garden grows two cabbages, a dock, a
ha'porth of pennyroyal, two dandelions, and a thistle!
There are three small orchards—Mr. Busby's the
school-master's is the chief—
With two pear trees that don't bear; one plum, and an apple
that every year is stripped 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 odd
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 greengrocer'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 toyshop, 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!