The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe Part 23

As the doctors write down when they send you their "stuff,"-- Like a Weather-c.o.c.k whirled by a vehement puff, David turned himself round; Ten feet of ground He clear'd, in his start, at the very first bound!

I've seen people run at West End Fair for cheeses-- I've seen Ladies run at Bow Fair for chemises-- At Greenwich Fair twenty men run for a hat, And one from a Bailiff much faster than that-- At foot-ball I've seen lads run after the bladder-- I've seen Irish Bricklayers run up a ladder-- I've seen little boys run away from a cane-- And I've seen (that is, READ OF) good running in Spain; But I never did read Of, or witness such speed As David exerted that evening.--Indeed All I have ever heard of boys, women, or men, Falls far short of Pryce, as he ran over "PEN!"

He reaches its brow,-- He has past it,--and now Having once gained the summit, and managed to cross it, he Rolls down the side with uncommon velocity; But, run as he will, Or roll down the hill, That bugbear behind him is after him still!

And close at his heels, not at all to his liking, The terrible clock keeps on ticking and striking, Till, exhausted and sore, He can't run any more, But falls as he reaches Miss Davis's door, And screams when they rush out, alarm'd at his knock, "Oh! Look at the Clock!--Do!--Look at the Clock!!"

Miss Davis look'd up, Miss Davis look'd down, She saw nothing there to alarm her;--a frown Came o'er her white forehead, She said, "It was horrid A man should come knocking at that time of night, And give her Mamma and herself such a fright;-- To squall and to bawl About nothing at all!"

She begg'd "he'd not think of repeating his call; His late wife's disaster By no means had past her,"

She'd "have him to know she was meat for his Master!"

Then regardless alike of his love and his woes, She turn'd on her heel and she turn'd up her nose,

Poor David in vain Implored to remain, He "dared not," he said, "cross the mountain again."

Why the fair was obdurate None knows,--to be sure it Was said she was setting her cap at the Curate;-- Be that as it may, it is certain the sole hole Pryce found to creep into that night was the Coal-hole!

In that shady retreat With nothing to eat And with very bruised limbs, and with very sore feet, All night close he kept; I can't say he slept; But he sigh'd, and he sobb'd, and he groan'd, and he wept; Lamenting his sins, And his two broken s.h.i.+ns, Bewailing his fate with contortions and grins, And her he once thought a complete Rara Avis, Consigning to Satan,--viz., cruel Miss Davis'

Mr. David has since had a "serious call,"

He never drinks ale, wine, or spirits, at all, And they say he is going to Exeter Hall To make a grand speech, And to preach, and to teach People that "they can't brew their malt liquor too small!"

That an ancient Welsh Poet, one PYNDAR AP TUDOR, Was right in proclaiming "ARISTON MEN UDOR!"

Which means "The pure Element Is for Man's belly meant!"

And that GIN'S but a SNARE of Old Nick the deluder!

And "still on each evening when pleasure fills up,"

At the old Goat-in-Boots, with Metheglin, each cup Mr. Pryce, if he's there, Will get into "The Chair,"

And make all his QUONDAM a.s.sociates stare By calling aloud to the Landlady's daughter, "Patty, bring a cigar, and a gla.s.s of Spring Water!"

The dial he constantly watches; and when The long hand's at the "XII.," and the short at the "X.,"

He gets on his legs, Drains his gla.s.s to the dregs, Takes his hat and great-coat off their several pegs, With his President's hammer bestows his last knock, And says solemnly--"Gentlemen!

LOOK AT THE CLOCK!!!"

[Ill.u.s.tration: LAMB.]

THE BAGMAN'S DOG.

R. HARRIS BARHAM.

Stant littore Puppies!--VIRGIL.

It was a litter, a litter of five, Four are drown'd, and one left alive, He was thought worthy alone to survive; And the Bagman resolved upon bringing him up, To eat of his bread, and to drink of his cup, He was such a dear little c.o.c.k-tail'd pup!

The Bagman taught him many a trick; He would carry, and fetch, and run after a stick, He could well understand The word of command, And appear to doze With a crust on his nose Till the Bagman permissively waved his hand: Then to throw up and catch it he never would fail, As he sat up on end, on his little c.o.c.k-tail.

Never was puppy so bien instruit, Or possess'd of such natural talent as he; And as he grew older, Every beholder Agreed he grew handsomer, sleeker, and bolder.

Time, however his wheels we may clog, Wends steadily still with onward jog, And the c.o.c.k-tail'd puppy's a curly-tail'd dog!

When, just at the time He was reaching his prime, And all thought he'd be turning out something sublime, One unlucky day, How no one could say, Whether soft liaison induced him to stray, Or some kidnapping vagabond coaxed him away, He was lost to the view, Like the morning dew;-- He had been, and was not--that's all that they knew And the Bagman storm'd, and the Bagman swore As never a Bagman had sworn before; But storming or swearing but little avails To recover lost dogs with great curly tails.

In a large paved court, close by Billiter Square, Stands a mansion, old, but in thorough repair, The only thing strange, from the general air Of its size and appearance, is how it got there; In front is a short semicircular stair Of stone steps--some half score-- Then you reach the ground floor, With a sh.e.l.l-pattern'd architrave over the door.

It is s.p.a.cious, and seems to be built on the plan Of a Gentleman's house in the time of Queen Anne; Which is odd, for, although As we very well know, Under Tudors and Stuarts the City could show Many n.o.blemen's seats above Bridge and below, Yet that fas.h.i.+on soon after induced them to go From St. Michael Cornhill, and St. Mary-le-Bow, To St. James, and St. George, and St. Anne in Soho-- Be this as it may--at the date I a.s.sign To my tale--that's about Seventeen Sixty-Nine-- This mansion, now rather upon the decline, Had less dignified owners--belonging, in fine, To Turner, Dry, Weipersyde, Rogers, and Pyne-- A respectable House in the Manchester line.

There were a score Of Bagmen, and more, Who had travel'd full oft for the firm before, But just at this period they wanted to send Some person on whom they could safely depend-- A trust-worthy body, half agent, half friend-- On some mercantile matter, as far as Ostend; And the person they pitch'd on was Anthony Blogg A grave, steady man, not addicted to grog-- The Bagman, in short, who had lost the great dog.

"The Sea! the Sea! the open Sea!-- That is the place where we all wish to be, Rolling about on it merrily!"

So all sing and say By night and by day, In the boudoir, the street, at the concert, and play, In a sort of c.o.xcombical roundelay;-- You may roam through the City, transversely or straight From Whitechapel turnpike to c.u.mberland gate, And every young Lady who thrums a guitar, Ev'ry mustached Shopman who smokes a cigar, With affected devotion Promulgates his notion Of being a "Rover" and "Child of the Ocean"--

Whate'er their age, s.e.x, or condition may be, They all of them long for the "Wide, Wide Sea!"

But, however they dote, Only set them afloat In any craft bigger at all than a boat, Take them down to the Nore, And you'll see that, before The "Wessel" they "Woyage" in has made half her way Between Sh.e.l.l-Ness Point and the pier at Herne Bay, Let the wind meet the tide in the slightest degree, They'll be all of them heartily sick of "the Sea!"

I've stood in Margate, on a bridge of size Inferior far to that described by Byron, Where "palaces and pris'ns on each hand rise--"

--That too's a stone one, this is made of iron-- And little donkey-boys your steps environ, Each proffering for your choice his tiny hack, Vaunting its excellence; and, should you hire one, For sixpence, will he urge, with frequent thwack, The much-enduring beast to Buenos Ayres--and back.

And there, on many a raw and gusty day, I've stood, and turn'd my gaze upon the pier, And seen the crews, that did embark so gay That self-same morn, now disembark so queer; Then to myself I've sigh'd and said, "Oh dear!

Who would believe yon sickly-looking man's a London Jack Tar--a Cheapside Buccaneer!--"

But hold, my Muse!--for this terrific stanza Is all too stiffly grand for our Extravaganza.

"So now we'll go up, up, up, And now we'll go down, down, down, And now we'll go backward and forward, And now we'll go roun', roun', roun'."-- --I hope you've sufficient discernment to see, Gentle Reader, that here the discarding the D Is a fault which you must not attribute to me; Thus my Nurse cut it off when, "with counterfeit glee,"

She sung, as she danced me about on her knee,

In the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and three: All I mean to say is, that the Muse is now free From the self-imposed trammels put on by her betters, And no longer like Filch, midst the felons and debtors, At Drury Lane, dances her hornpipe in fetters.

Resuming her track, At once she goes back To our hero, the Bagman--Alas! and Alack!

Poor Anthony Blogg Is as sick as a dog, Spite of sundry unwonted potations of grog, By the time the Dutch packet is fairly at sea, With the sands called the Goodwins a league on her lee.

And now, my good friends, I've a fine opportunity To obfuscate you all by sea terms with impunity, And talking of "calking,"

And "quarter-deck walking,"

"Fore and aft,"

And "abaft,"

"Hookers," "barkeys," and "craft,"

(At which Mr. Poole has so wickedly laughed), Of binnacles--bilboes--the boom call'd the spanker, The best bower-cable--the jib--and sheet-anchor; Of lower-deck guns--and of broadsides and chases, Of taffrails and topsails, and splicing main-braces, And "s.h.i.+ver my timbers!" and other odd phrases Employ'd by old pilots, with hard-featured faces;-- Of the expletives sea-faring Gentlemen use, The allusions they make to the eyes of their crews;-- How the Sailors, too, swear, How they cherish their hair, And what very long pigtails a great many wear.-- But, Reader, I scorn it--the fact is, I fear, To be candid, I can't make these matters so clear As Marryat, or Cooper, or Captain Chamier, Or Sir E. Lytton Bulwer, who brought up the rear Of the "Nauticals," just at the end of the year Eighteen thirty-nine--(how Time flies!--Oh, dear!)-- With a well-written preface, to make it appear That his play, the "Sea-Captain," 's by no means small beer.

There!--"brought up the rear"--you see there's a mistake Which none of the authors I've mentioned would make, I ought to have said, that he "sail'd in their wake."-- So I'll merely observe, as the water grew rougher The more my poor hero continued to suffer, Till the Sailors themselves cried, in pity, "Poor Buffer!"

Still rougher it grew, And still harder it blew, And the thunder kick'd up such a hullballoo, That even the Skipper began to look blue; While the crew, who were few, Look'd very queer, too, And seem'd not to know what exactly to do, And they who'd the charge of them wrote in the logs, "Wind N. E.--blows a hurricane--rains cats and dogs."

In short it soon grew to a tempest as rude as That Shakspeare describes near the "still vex'd Bermudas,"

When the winds, in their sport, Drove aside from its port The King's s.h.i.+p, with the whole Neapolitan Court, And swamp'd it to give "the King's Son, Ferdinand," a Soft moment or two with the Lady Miranda, While her Pa met the rest, and severely rebuked 'em For unhandsomely doing him out of his Dukedom, You don't want me, however, to paint you a Storm, As so many have done, and in colors so warm; Lord Byron, for instance, in manner facetious, Mr. Ainsworth, more gravely,--see also Lucretius, --A writer who gave me no trifling vexation When a youngster at school, on Dean Colet's foundation.-- Suffice it to say That the whole of that day, And the next, and the next, they were scudding away Quite out of their course, Propell'd by the force Of those flatulent folks known in Cla.s.sical story as Aquilo, Libs, Notus, Auster, and Boreas, Driven quite at their mercy 'Twist Guernsey and Jersey, Till at length they came b.u.mp on the rocks and the shallows In West longt.i.tude, One, fifty-seven, near St. Maloes;

There you will not be surprised That the vessel capsized, Or that Blogg, who had made, from intestine commotions, His specific gravity less than the Ocean's, Should go floating away, 'Mid the surges and spray, Like a cork in a gutter, which, swoll'n by a shower, Runs down Holborn-hill about nine knots an hour.

You've seen, I've no doubt, at Bartholomew fair, Gentle Header,--that is, if you've ever been there,-- With their hands tied behind them, some two or three pair Of boys round a bucket set up on a chair, Skipping, and dipping Eyes, nose, chin, and lip in, Their faces and hair with the water all dripping, In an anxious attempt to catch hold of a pippin, That bobs up and down in the water whenever They touch it, as mocking the fruitless endeavor; Exactly as Poets say,--how, though, they can't tell us,-- Old Nick's Nonpareils play at bob with poor Tantalus --Stay!--I'm not clear, But I'm rather out here; 'T was the water itself that slipp'd from him, I fear; Faith, I can't recollect, and I haven't Lempriere-- No matter,--poor Blogg went on clucking and bobbing, Sneezing out the salt water, and gulping and sobbing, Just as Clarence, in Shakspeare, describes all the qualms he Experienced while dreaming they'd drown'd him in Malmsey.

"O Lord," he thought, "what pain it was to drown!"

And saw great fishes with great goggling eyes, Glaring as he was bobbing up and down, And looking as they thought him quite a prize, When, as he sank, and all was growing dark, A something seized him with its jaws!--A shark?--