"Do you never deviate?"
John Bull.
In London once I lost my way
In faring to and fro,
And ask'd a little ragged boy
The way that I should go;
He gave a nod, and then a wink,
And told me to get there
"Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square."
I box'd his little saucy ears,
And then away I strode;
But since I've found that weary path
Is quite a common road.
Utopia is a pleasant place,
But how shall I get there?
"Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square."
I've read about a famous town
That drove a famous trade,
Where Whittington walk'd up and found
A fortune ready made.
The very streets are paved with gold;
But how shall I get there?
"Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square."
I've read about a Fairy Land,
In some romantic tale,
Where Dwarfs if good are sure to thrive
And wicked Giants fail.
My wish is great, my shoes are strong,
But how shall I get there?
"Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square."
I've heard about some happy Isle,
Where ev'ry man is free,
And none can lie in bonds for life
For want of L. S. D.
Oh that's the land of Liberty!
But how shall I get there?
"Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square,"
I've dreamt about some blessed spot,
Beneath the blessed sky,
Where Bread and Justice never rise
Too dear for folks to buy.
It's cheaper than the Ward of Cheap,
But how shall I get there?
"Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square."
They say there is an ancient House,
As pure as it is old,
Where Members always speak their minds
And votes are never sold.
I'm fond of all antiquities,
But how shall I get there?
"Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square."
They say there is a Royal Court
Maintain'd in noble state,
Where ev'ry able man, and good,
Is certain to be great!
I'm very fond of seeing sights,
But how shall I get there?
"Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square."
They say there is a Temple too,
Where Christians come to pray;
But canting knaves and hypocrites,
And bigots keep away.
Oh that's the parish church for me!
But how shall I get there?
"Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square."
They say there is a Garden fair,
That's haunted by the dove,
Where love of gold doth ne'er eclipse
The golden light of love—
The place must be a Paradise,
But how shall I get there?
"Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square."
I've heard there is a famous Land
For public spirit known—
Whose Patriots love its interests
Much better than their own.
The Land of Promise sure it is!
But how shall I get there?
"Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square."
I've read about a fine Estate,
A Mansion large and strong;
A view all over Kent and back,
And going for a song.
George Robins knows the very spot,
But how shall I get there?
"Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square."
I've heard there is a Company
All formal and enroll'd,
Will take your smallest silver coin
And give it back in gold.
Of course the office door is mobb'd,
But how shall I get there?
"Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square."
I've heard about a pleasant Land,
Where omelettes grow on trees,
And roasted pigs run crying out,
"Come eat me, if you please."
My appetite is rather keen,
But how shall I get there?
"Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square."
Pity the sorrows of a class of men,
Who, though they bow to fashion and frivolity,
No fancied claims or woes fictitious pen,
But wrongs ell-wide, and of a lasting quality.
Oppress'd and discontented with our lot,
Amongst the clamorous we take our station;
A host of Ribbon Men—yet is there not
One piece of Irish in our agitation.
We do revere Her Majesty the Queen,
We venerate our Glorious Constitution;
We joy King William's advent should have been,
And only want a Counter Revolution.
'Tis not Lord Russell and his final measure,
'Tis not Lord Melbourne's counsel to the throne,
'Tis not this Bill, or that, gives us displeasure,
The measures we dislike are all our own.
The Cash Law the "Great Western" loves to name;
The tone our foreign policy pervading;
The Corn Laws—none of these we care to blame,
Our evils we refer to over-trading.
By Tax or Tithe our murmurs are not drawn;
We reverence the Church—but hang the cloth!
We love her ministers—but curse the lawn!
We have, alas! too much to do with both!
We love the sex:—to serve them is a bliss!
We trust they find us civil, never surly;
All that we hope of female friends is this,
That their last linen may be wanted early.
Ah! who can tell the miseries of men
That serve the very cheapest shops in town?
Till faint and weary, they leave off at ten,
Knock'd up by ladies beating of 'em down!
But has not Hamlet his opinion given—
O Hamlet had a heart for Drapers' servants!
"That custom is"—say custom after seven—
"More honor'd in the breach than the observance."
O come then, gentle ladies, come in time,
O'erwhelm our counters, and unload our shelves;
Torment us all until the seventh chime,
But let us have the remnant to ourselves!
We wish of knowledge to lay in a stock,
And not remain in ignorance incurable;—
To study Shakspeare, Milton, Dryden, Locke,
And other fabrics that have proved so durable.
We long for thoughts of intellectual kind,
And not to go bewilder'd to our beds;
With stuff and fustian taking up the mind,
And pins and needles running in our heads!
For oh! the brain gets very dull and dry,
Selling from morn till night for cash or credit;
Or with a vacant face and vacant eye,
Watching cheap prints that Knight did never edit.
Till sick with toil, and lassitude extreme,
We often think, when we are dull and vapoury,
The bliss of Paradise was so supreme,
Because that Adam did not deal in drapery.
My pipe is lit, my grog is mix'd,
My curtains drawn and all is snug;
Old Puss is in her elbow-chair,
And Tray is sitting on the rug.
Last night I had a curious dream,
Miss Susan Bates was Mistress Mogg—
What d'ye think of that, my Cat?
What d'ye think of that, my Dog?
She look'd so fair, she sang so well,
I could but woo and she was won,
Myself in blue, the bride in white,
The ring was placed, the deed was done!
Away we went in chaise-and-four,
As fast as grinning boys could flog—
What d'ye think of that, my Cat?
What d'ye think of that, my Dog?
What loving tête-à-têtes to come!
But tête-à-têtes must still defer!
When Susan came to live with me,
Her mother came to live with her!
With sister Belle she couldn't part,
But all my ties had leave to jog—
What d'ye think of that, my Cat?
What d'ye think of that, my Dog?
The mother brought a pretty Poll—
A monkey too, what work he made!
The sister introduced a Beau—
My Susan brought a favorite maid.
She had a tabby of her own,
A snappish mongrel christen'd Gog—
What d'ye think of that, my Cat?
What d'ye think of that, my Dog?
The Monkey bit—the Parrot scream'd
All day the sister strumm'd and sung;
The petted maid was such a scold!
My Susan learn'd to use her tongue:
Her mother had such wretched health,
She sate and croak'd like any frog—
What d'ye think of that, my Cat?
What d'ye think of that, my Dog?
No longer Deary, Ducky, and Love,
I soon came down to simple "M!"
The very servants cross'd my wish,
My Susan let me down to them.
The poker hardly seem'd my own,
I might as well have been a log—
What d'ye think of that, my Cat?
What d'ye think of that, my Dog?
My clothes they were the queerest shape!
Such coats and hats she never met!
My ways they were the oddest ways!
My friends were such a vulgar set!
Poor Tomkinson was snubb'd and huff'd—
She could not bear that Mister Blogg—
What d'ye think of that, my Cat?
What d'ye think of that, My Dog?
At times we had a spar, and then
Mamma must mingle in the song—
The sister took a sisters part—
The Maid declared her Master wrong—
The Parrot learn'd to call me "Fool!"
My life was like a London fog—
What d'ye think of that, my Cat?
What d'ye think of that, my Dog?
My Susan's taste was superfine,
As proved by bills that had no end—
I never had a decent coat—
I never had a coin to spend!
She forced me to resign my Club,
Lay down my pipe, retrench my grog—
What d'ye think of that, my Cat?
What d'ye think of that, my Dog?
Each Sunday night we gave a rout
To fops and flirts, a pretty list;
And when I tried to steal away,
I found my study full of whist!
Then, first to come and last to go,
There always was a Captain Hogg—
What d'ye think of that, my Cat?
What d'ye think of that, my Dog?
Now was not that an awful dream
For one who single is and snug—
With Pussy in the elbow-chair
And Tray reposing on the rug?—
If I must totter down the hill,
'Tis safest done without a clog—
What d'ye think of that, my Cat?
What d'ye think of that, my Dog?
Well, the country's a pleasant place, sure enough, for people
that's country born,
And useful, no doubt, in a natural way, for growing our grass
and our corn.
It was kindly meant of my cousin Giles, to write and invite
me down,
Tho' as yet all I've seen of a pastoral life only makes one
more partial to town.
At first I thought I was really come down into all sorts of
rural bliss,
For Porkington Place, with its cows and its pigs, and its
poultry, looks not much amiss;
There's something about a dairy farm, with its different
kinds of live stock,
That puts one in mind of Paradise, and Adam and his innocent
flock;
But somehow the good old Elysium fields have not been well
handed down,
And as yet I have found no fields to prefer to dear Leicester
Fields up in town.
To be sure it is pleasant to walk in the meads, and so I
should like for miles,
If it wasn't for clodpoles of carpenters that put up such
crooked stiles;
For the bars jut out, and you must jut out, till you're
almost broken in two,
If you clamber you're certain sure of a fall, and you stick
if you try to creep through.
Of course, in the end, one learns how to climb without
constant tumbles down,
But still as to walking so stylishly, it's pleasanter done
about town.
There's a way, I know, to avoid the stiles, and that's by a
walk in a lane,
And I did find a very nice shady one, but I never dared go
again;
For who should I meet but a rampaging bull, that wouldn't be
kept in the pound,
A trying to toss the whole world at once, by sticking his
horns in the ground?
And that, by the bye, is another thing, that pulls rural
pleasures down,
Ev'ry day in the country is cattle-day, and there's only two
up in town.
Then I've rose with the sun, to go brushing away at the first
early pearly dew,
And to meet Aurory, or whatever's her name, and I always got
wetted through;
My shoes are like sops, and I caught a bad cold, and a nice
draggle-tail to my gown,
That's not the way that we bathe our feet, or wear our
pearls, up in town!
As for picking flow'rs, I have tried at a hedge, sweet
eglantine roses to snatch,
But, mercy on us! how nettles will sting, and how the long
brambles do scratch;
Besides hitching my hat on a nasty thorn that tore all the
bows from the crown,
One may walk long enough without hats branching off, or
losing one's bows about town.
But worse than that, in a long rural walk, suppose that it
blows up for rain,
And all at once you discover yourself in a real St. Swithin's
Lane;
And while you're running all ducked and drown'd, and pelted
with sixpenny drops,
"Fine weather," you hear the farmers say; "a nice growing
show'r for the crops!"
But who's to crop me another new hat, or grow me another new
gown?
For you can't take a shilling fare with a plough as you do
with the hackneys in town.
Then my nevys too, they must drag me off to go with them
gathering nuts,
And we always set out by the longest way and return by the
shortest cuts.
Short cuts, indeed! But it's nuts to them, to get a poor
lustyish aunt
To scramble through gaps or jump over a ditch, when they're
morally certain she can't,—
For whenever I get in some awkward scrape, and it's almost
daily the case,
Tho' they don't laugh out, the mischievous brats, I see the
hooray! in their face.
There's the other day, for my sight is short, and I saw what
was green beyond,
And thought it was all terry firmer and grass till I walked
in the duckweed pond:
Or perhaps when I've pully-hauled up a bank they see me come
launching down,
As none but a stout London female can do as is come a first
time out of town.
Then how sweet, some say, on a mossy bank a verdurous seat to
find,
But for my part I always found it a joy that brought a
repentance behind;
For the juicy grass with its nasty green has stained a whole
breadth of my gown—
And when gowns are dyed, I needn't say, it's much better done
up in town.
As for country fare, the first morning I came I heard such a
shrill piece of work!
And ever since—and it's ten days ago—we've lived
upon nothing but pork;
One Sunday except, and then I turn'd sick, a plague take all
countrified cooks!
Why didn't they tell me, before I had dined, they made
pigeon pies of the rooks?
Then the gooseberry wine, tho' it's pleasant when up, it
doesn't agree when it's down,
But it served me right like a gooseberry fool to look for
champagne out of town!
To be sure cousin G. meant it all for the best when he
started this pastoral plan,
And his wife is a worthy domestical soul and she teaches me
all that she can,
Such as making of cheese, and curing of hams, but I'm sure
that I never shall learn,
And I've fetched more back-ache than butter as yet by
chumping away at the churn;
But in making hay, tho' it's tanning work, I found it more
easy to make,
But it tries one's legs, and no great relief when you're
tired to sit down on the rake.
I'd a country dance too at harvest home, with a regular
country clown,
But, Lord! they don't hug one round the waist and give one
such smacks in town!
Then I've tried to make friends with the birds and the
beasts, but they take to such curious rigs,
I'm always at odds with the turkey-cock, and I can't even
please the pigs.
The very hens pick holes in my hands when I grope for the
new-laid eggs,
And the gander comes hissing out of the pond on purpose to
flap at my legs.
I've been bump'd in a ditch by the cow without horns, and the
old sow trampled me down,
The beasts are as vicious as any wild beasts—but
they're kept in cages in town!
Another thing is the nasty dogs—thro' the village I
hardly can stir
Since giving a bumpkin a pint of beer just to call off a
barking cur;
And now you would swear all the dogs in the place were set on
to hunt me down,
But neither the brutes nor the people I think are as civilly
bred as in town.
Last night about twelve I was scared broad awake, and all in
a tremble of fright,
But instead of a family murder it proved an owl that flies
screeching at night.
Then there's plenty of ricks and stacks all about, and I
can't help dreaming of Swing—
In short, I think that a plastoral life is not the most
happiest thing;
For besides all the troubles I've mentioned before as endur'd
for rurality's sake,
I've been stung by the bees, and I've set among ants, and
once—ugh! I trod on a snake!
And as to moskitoes they tortured me so, for I've got a
particular skin,
I do think it's the gnats coming out of the ponds that drives
the poor suicides in!
And after all an't there new-laid eggs to be had upon Holborn
Hill?
And dairy-fed pork in Broad St. Giles's, and fresh butter
wherever you will?
And a covered cart that brings Cottage Bread quite
rustical-like and brown?
So one isn't so very uncountrified in the very heart of the
town.
Howsomever my mind's made up, and although I'm sure cousin
Giles will be vext,
I mean to book me an inside place up to town upon Saturday
next,
And if nothing happens, soon after ten, I shall be at the Old
Bell and Crown,
And perhaps I may come to the country again, when London is
all burnt down!
"A Calendar! a Calendar! look in the Almanac, find out
moonshine—find out moonshine!"—Midsummer
Night's Dream.
The by-gone September,
As folks may remember,
At least if their memory saves but an ember,
One fine afternoon,
There went up a Balloon,
Which did not return to the Earth very soon.
For, nearing the sky,
At about a mile high,
The Aëronaut bold had resolved on a fly;
So cutting his string,
In a Parasol thing
Down he came in a field like a lark from the wing.
Meanwhile, thus adrift,
The Balloon made a shift
To rise very fast, with no burden to lift;
It got very small,
Then to nothing at all;
And then rose the question of where it would fall?
Some thought that, for lack
Of the man and his pack,
'Twould rise to the cherub that watches Poor Jack;
Some held, but in vain,
With the first heavy rain
'Twould surely come down to the Gardens again!
But still not a word
For a month could be heard
Of what had become of the Wonderful Bird;
The firm Gye and Hughes,
Wore their boots out and shoes,
In running about and inquiring for news.
Some thought it must be
Tumbled into the Sea;
Some thought it had gone off to High Germanie
For Germans, as shown
By their writings, 'tis known
Are always delighted with what is high-flown.
Some hinted a bilk,
And that maidens who milk,
In far distant Shires would be walking in silk:
Some swore that it must,
"As they said at the fust,
Have gone again' flashes of lightning and bust!"
However, at last,
When six weeks had gone past,
Intelligence came of a plausible cast;
A wondering clown,
At a hamlet near town,
Had seen "like a moon of green cheese" coming down.
Soon spread the alarm,
And from cottage and farm,
The natives buzz'd out like the bees when they swarm;
And off ran the folk,—
It is such a good joke
To see the descent of a bagful of smoke.
And lo! the machine,
Dappled yellow and green,
Was plainly enough in the clouds to be seen:
"Yes, yes," was the cry,
"It's the old one, surely,
Where can it have been such a time in the sky?"
"Lord! where will it fall?
It can't find out Vauxhall,
Without any pilot to guide it at all!"
Some wager'd that Kent
Would behold the event,
Debrett had been posed to predict its descent.
Some thought it would pitch
In the old Tower Ditch,
Some swore on the Cross of St. Paul's it would hitch;
And Farmers cried "Zounds!
If it drops on our grounds,
We'll try if Balloons can't be put into pounds."
But still to and fro
It continued to go,
As if looking out for soft places below;
No difficult job,
It had only to bob
Slap-dash down at once on the heads of the mob:
Who, too apt to stare
At some castle in air,
Forget that the earth is their proper affair;
Till, watching the fall
Of some soap-bubble ball,
They tumble themselves with a terrible sprawl.
Meanwhile, from its height
Stooping downward in flight,
The Phenomenon came more distinctly in sight:
Still bigger and bigger,
And strike me a nigger
Unfreed, if there was not a live human figure!
Yes, plain to be seen,
Underneath the machine,
There dangled a mortal—some swore it was Green;
Some mason could spy;
Others named Mr. Gye;
Or Holland, compell'd by the Belgians to fly.
'Twas Graham the flighty,
Whom the Duke high and mighty
Resign'd to take care of his own lignum-vitæ;
'Twas Hampton, whose whim
Was in Cloudland to swim,
Till e'en Little Hampton looked little to him!
But all were at fault;
From the heavenly vault
The falling balloon came at last to a halt;
And bounce! with the jar
Of descending so far,
An outlandish Creature was thrown from the car!
At first with the jolt
All his wits made a bolt,
As if he'd been flung by a mettlesome colt;
And while in his faint,
To avoid all complaint,
The muse shall endeavor his portrait to paint.
The face of this elf,
Round as platter of delf,
Was pale as if only a cast of itself;
His head had a rare
Fleece of silvery hair,
Just like the Albino at Bartlemy Fair.
His eyes they were odd,
Like the eyes of a cod,
And gave him the look of a watery God.
His nose was a snub;
Under which, for his grub,
Was a round open mouth like to that of a chub.
His person was small,
Without figure at all,
A plump little body as round as a ball:
With two little fins,
And a couple of pins,
With what has been christened a bow in the shins.
His dress it was new,
A full suit of sky-blue—
With bright silver buckles in each little shoe—
Thus painted complete,
From his head to his feet,
Conceive him laid flat in Squire Hopkins's wheat.
Fine text for the crowd!
Who disputed aloud
What sort of a creature had dropp'd from the cloud—
"He's come from o'er seas,
He's a Cochin Chinese—
By jingo! he's one of the wild Cherokees!"
"Don't nobody know?"
"He's a young Esquimaux,
Turn'd white like the hares by the Arctical snow."
"Some angel, my dear,
Sent from some upper spear
For Plumtree or Agnew, too good for this-here!"
Meanwhile with a sigh,
Having open'd one eye,
The Stranger rose up on his seat by and by;
And finding his tongue,
Thus he said, or he sung,
"Mi criky bo biggamy kickery bung!"
"Lord! what does he speak?"
"It's Dog-Latin—it's Greek!"
"It's some sort of slang for to puzzle a Beak!"
"It's no like the Scotch,"
Said a Scot on the watch,
"Pho! it's nothing at all but a kind of hotch-potch!"
"It's not parly voo,"
Cried a schoolboy or two,
"Nor Hebrew at all," said a wandering Jew.
Some held it was sprung
From the Irvingite tongue,
The same that is used by a child very young.
Some guess'd it high Dutch,
Others thought it had much
In sound of the true Hoky-poky-ish touch;
But none could be poz,
What the Dickins! (not Boz)
No mortal could tell what the Dickins it was!
When who should come pat,
In a moment like that,
But Bowring, to see what the people were at—
A Doctor well able,
Without any fable,
To talk and translate all the babble of Babel.
So just drawing near,
With a vigilant ear,
That took ev'ry syllable in, very clear,
Before one could sip
Up a tumbler of flip,
He knew the whole tongue, from the root to the tip!
Then stretching his hand,
As you see Daniel stand,
In the Feast of Belshazzar, that picture so grand!
Without more delay,
In the Hamilton way
He English'd whatever the Elf had to say.
"Krak kraziboo ban,
I'm the Lunatick Man,
Confined in the Moon since creation began—
Sit muggy bigog,
Whom except in a fog
You see with a Lanthorn, a Bush, and a Dog."
"Lang sinery lear,
For this many a year,
I've long'd to drop in at your own little sphere,—
Och, pad-mad aroon
Till one fine afternoon,
I found that Wind-Coach on the horns of the Moon."
"Cush quackery go,
But, besides you must know,
I'd heard of a profiting Prophet below;
Big botherum blether,
Who pretended to gather
The tricks that the Moon meant to play with the weather."
"So Crismus an crash
Being shortish of cash,
I thought I'd a right to partake of the hash—
Slik mizzle an smak,
So I'm come with a pack,
To sell to the trade, of My Own Almanack."
"Fiz bobbery pershal
Besides aims commercial,
Much wishing to honor my friend Sir John Herschel,
Cum puddin and tame,
It's inscribed to his name,
Which is now at the full in celestial fame."
"Wept wepton wish wept,
Pray this Copy accept"—
But here on the Stranger some Kidnappers leapt:
For why a shrewd man
Had devis'd a sly plan
The Wonder to grab for a show Caravan.
So plotted, so done—
With a fight as in fun,
While mock pugilistical rounds were begun,
A knave who could box,
And give right and left knocks,
Caught hold of the Prize by his silvery locks.
And hard he had fared,
But the people were scared
By what the Interpreter roundly declared;
"You ignorant Turks!
You will be your own Burkes—
He holds all the keys of the lunary works!"
"You'd best let him go—
If you keep him below,
The Moon will not change, and the tides will not flow;
He left her at full,
And with such a long pull,
Zounds! ev'ry man Jack will run mad like a bull!"
So awful a threat
Took effect on the set;
The fright, tho', was more than their Guest could forget;
So taking a jump,
In the car he came plump,
And threw all the ballast right out in a lump.
Up soar'd the machine,
With its yellow and green;
But still the pale face of the Creature was seen,
Who cried from the car
"Dam in yooman bi gar!"
That is,—"What a sad set of villains you are!"
Howbeit, at some height,
He threw down quite a flight
Of Almanacks, wishing to set us all right—
And, thanks to the boon,
We shall see very soon
If Murphy knows most, or the Man in the Moon!