The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe Part 111

So he thought I kissed the rod, All the while my 'art was 'ardened; And I 'adn't been very long in quod Afore he got me as good as pardoned; And here am I with my Ticket of Leave, Obtained by shamming pious feeling, Which lets me loose again to thieve, For I means to persewere in stealing.

(Spoken.) With which resolution, my beloved pals, if you please I'll couple the 'elth of the clergy; and may they hever continue to be sitch kind friends as they now shows theirselves to us when we gets into trouble. For, "Ven a prig," etc.

A POLKA LYRIC.

BARCLAY PHILLIPS

Qui nunc dancere vult modo, Wants to dance in the fas.h.i.+on, oh!

Discere debet--ought to know, Kickere floor c.u.m heel and toe, One, two, three, Hop with me, Whirligig, twirligig, rapide.

Polkam jungere, Virgo, vis, Will you join the polka, miss?

Liberius--most willingly, Sic agimus--then let us try: Nunc vide, Skip with me, Whirlabout, roundabout, celere.

Turn laeva cito, tum dextra, First to the left, and then t' other way; Aspice retro in vultu, You look at her, and she looks at you.

Das palmam Change hands, ma'am; Celere--run away, just in sham.

A SUNNIT TO THE BIG OX.

COMPOSED WHILE STANDING WITHIN 2 FEET OF HIM, AND A TUCHIN' OF HIM NOW AND THEN.

ANONYMOUS

All hale! thou mighty annimil--all hale!

You are 4 thousand pounds, and am purty wel Perporshund, thou tremenjos boveen nuggit!

I wonder how big you was wen you Wos little, and if yure m.u.t.h.e.r wud no you now That you've grone so long, and thick, and phat; Or if yure father would rekognize his ofspring And his kaff, thou elefanteen quodrupid!

I wonder if it hurts you mutch to be so big, And if you grode it in a month or so.

I spose wen you wos young tha didn't gin You skim milk but all the kreme you kud stuff Into your little stummick, jest to see How big yude gro; and afterward tha no doubt Fed you on otes and ha and sich like, With perhaps an occasional punkin or squos.h.!.+

In all probability yu don't no yure enny Bigger than a small kaff; for if you did,

Yude brake down fences and switch your tail, And rush around, and hook, and beller, And run over fowkes, thou orful beast O, what a lot of mince pize yude maik, And sa.s.sengers, and your tale, Whitch kan't wa fur from phorty pounds, Wud maik nigh unto a barrel of ox-tail soop, And cudn't a heep of stakes be cut oph yu, Whitch, with salt and pepper and termater Ketchup, wouldn't be bad to taik.

Thou grate and glorious inseckt!

But I must klose, O most prodijus reptile!

And for mi admirashun of yu, when yu di, I'le rite a node unto yore peddy and remanes, Pernouncin' yu the largest of yure race; And as I don't expect to have a half a dollar Agin to spare for to pa to look at yu, and as I ain't a ded head, I will sa, farewell.

ENIGMATIC

RIDDLES BY MATTHEW PRIOR.

TWO RIDDLES.

Sphinx was a monster that would eat Whatever stranger she could get; Unless his ready wit disclos'd The subtle riddle she propos'd.

Oedipus was resolv'd to go, And try what strength of parts would do.

Says Sphinx, on this depends your fate; Tell me what animal is that Which has four feet at morning bright, Has two at noon and three at night?

'Tis man, said he, who, weak by nature, At first creeps, like his fellow creature, Upon all-four; as years accrue, With st.u.r.dy steps he walks on two; In age, at length, grows weak and sick, For his third leg adopts a stick.

Now, in your turn, 'tis just methinks, You should resolve me, Madam Sphinx.

What greater stranger yet is he Who has four legs, then two, then three; Then loses one, then gets two more, And runs away at last on four?

ENIGMA.

By birth I'm a slave, yet can give you a crown, I dispose of all honors, myself having none: I'm obliged by just maxims to govern my life, Yet I hang my own master, and lie with his wife.

When men are a-gaming I cunningly sneak, And their cudgels and shovels away from them take.

Pair maidens and ladies I by the hand get, And pick off their diamonds, tho' ne'er so well set.

For when I have comrades we rob in whole bands, Then presently take off your lands from your hands.

But, this fury once over, I've such winning arts, That you love me much more than you do your own hearts.

ANOTHER.

Form'd half beneath, and half above the earth, We sisters owe to art our second birth: The smith's and carpenter's adopted daughters, Made on the land, to travel on the waters.

Swifter they move, as they are straiter bound, Yet neither tread the air, or wave, or ground: They serve the poor for use, the rich for whim, Sink when it rains, and when it freezes swim.

RIDDLES BY DEAN SWIFT AND HIS FRIENDS.

[Footnote: The following notice is subjoined to some of those riddles, in the Dublin edition: "About nine or ten years ago (i. e. about 1724), some ingenious gentle-men, friends to the author, used to entertain themselves with writing riddles, and send them to him and their other acquaintance; copies of which ran about, and some of them were printed, both here and in England. The author, at his leisure hours, fell into the same amus.e.m.e.nt; although it be said that he thought them of no great merit, entertainment, or use. However, by the advice of some persons, for whom the author has a great esteem, and who were pleased to send us the copies, we have ventured to print the few following, as we have done two or three before, and which are allowed to be genuine; because we are informed that several good judges have a taste for such kind of compositions."]

A MAYPOLE.

Deprived of root, and branch, and rind, Yet flowers I bear of every kind: And such is my prolific power, They bloom in less than half an hour; Yet standers-by may plainly see They get no nourishment from me.

My head with giddiness goes round, And yet I firmly stand my ground; All over naked I am seen, And painted like an Indian queen.

No couple-beggar in the land E'er join'd such numbers hand in hand.

I join'd them fairly with a ring; Nor can our parson blame the thing.

And though no marriage words are spoke, They part not till the ring is broke: Yet hypocrite fanatics cry, I'm but an idol raised on high; And once a weaver in our town, A d.a.m.n'd Cromwellian, knock'd me down.

I lay a prisoner twenty years, And then the jovial cavaliers To their old post restored all three-- I mean the church, the king, and me.

ON THE MOON.

I with borrowed silver s.h.i.+ne, What you see is none of mine.

First I show you but a quarter, Like the bow that guards the Tartar: Then the half, and then the whole, Ever dancing round the pole.

What will raise your admiration, I am not one of G.o.d's creation, But sprung (and I this truth maintain), Like Pallas, from my father's brain.

And after all, I chiefly owe My beauty to the shades below.

Most wondrous forms you see me wear, A man, a woman, lion, bear, A fish, a fowl, a cloud, a field, All figures heaven or earth can yield; Like Daphne sometimes in a tree; Yet am not one of all you see.

ON INK.

I am jet black, as you may see, The son of pitch and gloomy night; Yet all that know me will agree, I'm dead except I live in light.

Sometimes in panegyric high, Like lofty Pindar, I can soar, And raise a virgin to the sky, Or sink her to a filthy ----.