Rejected Addresses Part 6

PHILANDER.

I.

Sobriety, cease to be sober, {56} Cease, Labour, to dig and to delve; All hail to this tenth of October, One thousand eight hundred and twelve! {57} Ha! whom do my peepers remark?

'Tis Hebe with Jupiter's jug; O no, 'tis the pride of the Park, Fair Lady Elizabeth Mugg.

II.

Why, beautiful nymph, do you close The curtain that fringes your eye?

Why veil in the clouds of repose The sun that should brighten our sky?

Perhaps jealous Venus has oiled Your hair with some opiate drug, Not choosing her charms should be foiled By Lady Elizabeth Mugg.

III.

But ah! why awaken the blaze Those bright burning-gla.s.ses contain, Whose lens with concentrated rays Proved fatal to old Drury Lane?

'Twas all accidental, they cry, - Away with the flimsy humbug!

'Twas fired by a flash from the eye Of Lady Elizabeth Mugg.

IV.

Thy glance can in us raise a flame, Then why should old Drury be free?

Our doom and its doom are the same, Both subject to beauty's decree.

No candles the workmen consumed When deep in the ruins they dug; Thy flash still their progress illumed, Sweet Lady Elizabeth Mugg.

V.

Thy face a rich fire-place displays: The mantel-piece marble--thy brows; Thine eyes are the bright beaming blaze; Thy bib, which no trespa.s.s allows, The fender's tall barrier marks; Thy tippet's the fire-quelling rug, Which serves to extinguish the sparks Of Lady Elizabeth Mugg.

VI.

The Countess a lily appears, Whose tresses the pearl-drops emboss; The Marchioness, blooming in years, A rose-bud enveloped in moss; But thou art the sweet pa.s.sion-flower, For who would not slavery hug, To pa.s.s but one exquisite hour In the arms of Elizabeth Mugg?

VII.

When at Court, or some Dowager's rout, Her diamond aigrette meets our view, She looks like a glow-worm dressed out, Or tulips bespangled with dew.

Her two lips denied to man's suit Are shared with her favourite Pug; What lord would not change with the brute, To live with Elizabeth Mugg?

VIII.

Could the stage be a large vis-a-vis, Reserved for the polished and great, Where each happy lover might see The nymph he adores tete-a-tete; No longer I'd gaze on the ground, And the load of despondency lug, For I'd book myself all the year round To ride with the sweet Lady Mugg.

IX.

Yes, she in herself is a host, And if she were here all alone, Our house might nocturnally boast A b.u.mper of fas.h.i.+on and ton.

Again should it burst in a blaze, In vain would they ply Congreve's plug, {57} For nought could extinguish the rays From the glance of divine Lady Mugg.

X.

O could I as Harlequin frisk, And thou be my Columbine fair, My wand should with one magic whisk Transport us to Hanover Square: St. George's should lend us its shrine, The parson his shoulders might shrug, But a licence should force him to join My hand in the hand of my Mugg.

XI.

Court-plaster the weapons should tip, By Cupid shot down from above, Which, cut into spots for thy lip, Should still barb the arrows of love.

The G.o.d who from others flies quick, With us should be slow as a slug; As close as a leech he should stick To me and Elizabeth Mugg.

XII.

For Time would, with us, 'stead of sand, Put filings of steel in his gla.s.s, To dry up the blots of his hand, And spangle life's page as they pa.s.s.

Since all flesh is gra.s.s ere 'tis hay, {58} O may I in clover live snug, And when old Time mows me away, Be stacked with defunct Lady Mugg!

FIRE AND ALE--BY M. G. L. {58a} {99}

Omnia transformat sese in miracula rerum.--VIRGIL.

My palate is parched with Pierian thirst, Away to Parna.s.sus I'm beckoned; List, warriors and dames, while my lay is rehea.r.s.ed, I sing of the singe of Miss Drury the first, And the birth of Miss Drury the second.

The Fire King, one day, rather amorous felt; He mounted his hot copper filly; His breeches and boots were of tin, and the belt Was made of cast iron, for fear it should melt With the heat of the copper colt's belly.

Sure never was skin half so scalding as his!

When an infant 'twas equally horrid; For the water, when he was baptized, gave a fizz, And bubbled and simmer'd and started off, whizz!

As soon as it sprinkled his forehead.

O! then there was glitter and fire in each eye, For two living coals were the symbols; His teeth were calcined, and his tongue was so dry, It rattled against them, as though you should try To play the piano in thimbles.

From his nostrils a lava sulphureous flows, Which scorches wherever it lingers; A snivelling fellow he's call'd by his foes, For he can't raise his paw up to blow his red nose For fear it should blister his fingers.

His wig is of flames curling over his head, Well powder'd with white smoking ashes; He drinks gunpowder tea, melted sugar of lead, Cream of tartar, and dines on hot spice gingerbread, Which black from the oven he gnashes.

Each fire-nymph his kiss from her countenance s.h.i.+elds, 'Twould soon set her cheekbone a frying; He spit in the Tenter-Ground near Spital-fields, And the hole that it burnt, and the chalk that it yields Make a capital lime-kiln for drying.

When he open'd his mouth, out there issued a blast, (Nota bene, I do not mean swearing,) But the noise that it made, and the heat that it cast, I've heard it from those who have seen it, surpa.s.s'd A shot manufactory flaring.

He blazed, and he blazed, as be gallop'd to s.n.a.t.c.h His bride, little dreaming of danger; His whip was a torch, and his spur was a match, And over the horse's left eye was a patch, To keep it from burning the manger.

And who is the housemaid he means to enthral In his cinder-producing alliance?

Tis Drury-Lane Playhouse, so wide and so tall, Who, like other combustible ladies, must fall, If she cannot set sparks at defiance.

On his warming-pan kneepan he clattering roll'd, And the housemaid his hand would have taken, But his hand, like his pa.s.sion, was too hot to hold, And she soon let it go, but her new ring of gold All melted, like b.u.t.ter or bacon!

Oh! then she look'd sour, and indeed well she might, For Vinegar Yard was before her; But, spite of her shrieks, the ignipotent knight, Enrobing the maid in a flame of gas light, To the skies in a sky-rocket bore her.

Look! look! 'tis the Ale King, so stately and starch, Whose votaries scorn to be sober; He pops from his vat, like a cedar or larch; Brown-stout is his doublet, he hops in his march, And froths at the mouth in October.

His spear is a spigot, his s.h.i.+eld is a bung; He taps where the housemaid no more is, When lo! at his magical bidding, upsprung A second Miss Drury, tall, tidy, and young, And sported in loco sororis.