The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe Part 2

Stinking'st of the stinking land, Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind, Africa, that brags her foison, Breeds no such prodigious poison Henbane, nightshade, both together, Hemlock, aconite---

Nay, rather, Plant divine, of rarest virtue; Blisters on the tongue would hurt you.

'Twas but in a sort I blamed thee; None e'er prosper'd who defamed thee Irony all, and feign'd abuse, Such as perplex'd lovers use, At a need, when, in despair To paint forth their fairest fair, Or in part but to express That exceeding comeliness Which their fancies doth so strike, They borrow language of dislike; And, instead of Dearest Miss, Jewel, Honey, Sweetheart, Bliss, And those forms of old admiring, Call her c.o.c.katrice and Siren, Basilisk, and all that's evil, Witch, Hyena, Mermaid, Devil, Ethiop, Wench, and Blackamoor, Monkey, Ape, and twenty more; Friendly Trait'ress, loving Foe-- Not that she is truly so, But no other way they know A contentment to express, Borders so upon excess, That they do not rightly wot Whether it be pain or not.

Or, as men, constrain'd to part With what's nearest to their heart, While their sorrow's at the height, Lose discrimination quite, And their hasty wrath let fall, To appease their frantic gall, On the darling thing whatever, Whence they feel it death to sever Though it be, as they, perforce, Guiltless of the sad divorce.

For I must (nor let it grieve thee, Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave thee.

For thy sake; TOBACCO, I Would do any thing but die, And but seek to extend my days Long enough to sing thy praise.

But, as she, who once hath been A king's consort, is a queen Ever after, nor will bate Any t.i.tle of her state, Though a widow, or divorced, So I, from thy converse forced, The old name and style retain, A right Katherine of Spain; And a seat, too, 'mongst the joys Of the blest Tobacco Boys.

Where, though I, by sour physician, Am debarr'd the full fruition Of thy favors, I may catch Some collateral sweets, and s.n.a.t.c.h Sidelong odors, that give life like glances from a neighbor's wife; And still live in the by-places And the suburbs of thy graces; And in thy holders take delight, An unconquer'd Canaanite.

WRITTEN AFTER SWIMMING FROM SESTOS TO ABYDOS.

BYRON.

If, in the month of dark December, Leander, who was nightly wont, (What maid will not the tale remember?) To cross thy stream broad h.e.l.lespont!

If, when the wint'ry tempest roar'd, He sped to Hero nothing loth, And thus of old thy current pour'd, Fair Venus! how I pity both!

For ME, degenerate, modern wretch, Though in the genial month of May, My dripping limbs I faintly stretch, And think I've done a feat to-day.

But since he crossed the rapid tide, According to the doubtful story, To woo--and--Lord knows what beside, And swam for Love, as I for Glory;

'Twere hard to say who fared the best: Sad mortals! thus the G.o.ds still plague you!

He lost his labor, I my jest; For he was drowned, and I've the ague

THE LISBON PACKET.

BYRON.

Huzza! Hodgson, we are going, Our embargo's off at last; Favorable breezes blowing Bend the canvas o'er the mast.

From aloft the signal's streaming, Hark! the farewell gun is fired; Women screeching, tars blaspheming, Tell us that our time's expired.

Here's a rascal Come to task all, Prying from the custom-house; Trunks unpacking, Cases cracking, Not a corner for a mouse 'Scapes unsearched amid the racket, Ere we sail on board the Packet.

Now our boatmen quit their mooring, And all hands must ply the oar; Baggage from the quay is lowering, We're impatient--push from sh.o.r.e.

"Have a care! that case holds liquor-- Stop the boat--I'm sick--O Lord!"

"Sick, ma'am, damme, you'll be sicker Ere you've been an hour on board."

Thus are screaming Men and women, Gemmen, ladies, servants, Jacks; Here entangling, All are wrangling, Stuck together close as wax.-- Such the general noise and racket, Ere we reach the Lisbon Packet.

Now we've reached her, lo! the captain, Gallant Kid, commands the crew; Pa.s.sengers their berths are clapped in, Some to grumble, some to spew.

"Hey day! call you that a cabin?

Why, 'tis hardly three feet square; Not enough to stow Queen Mab in-- Who the deuce can harbor there?"

"Who, sir? plenty-- n.o.bles twenty Did at once my vessel fill."-- "Did they? Jesus, How you squeeze us!

Would to G.o.d they did so still; Then I'd 'scape the heat and racket Of the good s.h.i.+p Lisbon Packet."

Fletcher! Murray! Bob! where are you?

Stretched along the decks like logs-- Bear a hand, you jolly tar, you!

Here's a rope's end for the dogs.

Hobhouse muttering fearful curses, As the hatchway down he rolls, Now his breakfast, now his verses, Vomits forth--and d.a.m.ns our souls.

"Here's a stanza On Braganza-- Help!"--"A couplet?"--"No, a cup Of warm water--"

"What's the matter?"

"Zounds! my liver's coming up; I shall not survive the racket Of this brutal Lisbon Packet."

Now at length we're off for Turkey, Lord knows when we shall come back!

Breezes foul and tempests murky May uns.h.i.+p us in a crack.

But, since life at most a jest is, As philosophers allow, Still to laugh by far the best is, Then laugh on--as I do now.

Laugh at all things, Great and small things, Sick or well, at sea or sh.o.r.e; While we're quaffing, Let's have laughing-- Who the devil cares for more?-- Some good wine! and who would lack it, Even on board the Lisbon Packet?

TO f.a.n.n.y.

THOMAS MOORE

Never mind how the pedagogue proses, You want not antiquity's stamp, The lip that's so scented by roses, Oh! never must smell of the lamp.

Old Chloe, whose withering kisses Have long set the loves at defiance, Now done with the science of blisses, May fly to the blisses of science!

Young Sappho, for want of employments, Alone o'er her Ovid may melt, Condemned but to read of enjoyments, Which wiser Corinna had felt.

But for YOU to be buried in books-- Oh, f.a.n.n.y! they're pitiful sages; Who could not in ONE of your looks Read more than in millions of pages!

Astronomy finds in your eye Better light than she studies above, And music must borrow your sigh As the melody dearest to love.

In Ethics--'tis you that can check, In a minute, their doubts and their quarrels Oh! show but that mole on your neck, And 'twill soon put an end to their morals.

Your Arithmetic only can trip When to kiss and to count you endeavor; But eloquence glows on your lip When you swear that you'll love me forever

Thus you see what a brilliant alliance Of arts is a.s.sembled in you-- A course of more exquisite science Man never need wish to go through!

And, oh!--if a fellow like me May confer a diploma of hearts, With my lip thus I seal your degree, My divine little Mistress of Arts!

YOUNG JESSICA.

THOMAS MOORE.

Young Jessica sat all the day, In love-dreams languis.h.i.+ngly pining, Her needle bright neglected lay, Like truant genius idly s.h.i.+ning.

Jessy, 'tis in idle hearts That love and mischief are most nimble; The safest s.h.i.+eld against the darts Of Cupid, is Minerva's thimble.

A child who with a magnet play'd, And knew its winning ways so wily, The magnet near the needle laid, And laughing, said, "We'll steal it slily."

The needle, having naught to do, Was pleased to let the magnet wheedle, Till closer still the tempter drew, And off, at length, eloped the needle.

Now, had this needle turn'd its eye To some gay reticule's construction, It ne'er had stray'd from duty's tie, Nor felt a magnet's sly seduction.

Girls would you keep tranquil hearts, Your snowy fingers must be nimble; The safest s.h.i.+eld against the darts Of Cupid, is Minerva's thimble.