The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe Part 56

To whom with knitted, calculating brow, The man of beer most solemnly did vow, Almost to Windsor that they would extend; On which the king, with wondering mien, Repeated it unto the wondering queen: On which, quick turning round his haltered head, The brewer's horse, with face astonished neighed; The brewer's dog too poured a note of thunder, Rattled his chain, and wagged his tail for wonder.

Now did the king for other beers inquire, For Calvert's, Jordan's, Thrale's entire And, after talking of these different beers, Asked Whitbread if his porter equalled theirs?

This was a puzzling, disagreeing question; Grating like a.r.s.enic on his host's digestion: A kind of question to the man of cask, That not even Solomon himself would ask.

Now majesty, alive to knowledge, took A very pretty memorandum-book, With gilded leaves of a.s.ses' skin so white, And in it legibly began to write--

MEMORANDUM.

A charming place beneath the grates For roasting chestnuts or potates.

MEM.

'Tis hops that give a bitterness to beer-- Hops grow in Kent, says Whitbread, and elsewhere.

QUOERE.

Is there no cheaper stuff? where doth it dwell?

Would not horse-aloes bitter it as well?

MEM.

To try it soon on our small beer-- 'Twill save us several pound a year.

MEM.

To remember to forget to ask Old Whitbread to my house one day

MEM.

Not to forget to take of beer the cask, The brewer offered me, away.

Now having penciled his remarks so shrewd, Sharp as the point indeed of a new pin, His majesty his watch most sagely viewed, And then put up his a.s.ses' skin.

To Whitbread now deigned majesty to say, "Whitbread, are all your horses fond of hay!"

"Yes, please your majesty," in humble notes, The brewer answered--"also, sir, of oats: Another thing my horses too maintains, And that, an't please your majesty, are grains."

"Grains, grains," said majesty, "to fill their crops?

Grains, grains?--that comes from hops--yes, hops, hops?

hops?"

Here was the king, like hounds sometimes, at fault-- "Sire," cried the humble brewer, "give me leave Your sacred majesty to undeceive; Grains, sire, are never made from hops, but malt."

"True," said the cautious monarch, with a smile: "From malt, malt, malt--I meant malt all the while."

"Yes," with the sweetest bow, rejoined the brewer, "An't please your majesty, you did, I'm sure."

"Yes," answered majesty, with quick reply, "I did, I did, I did I, I, I, I."

Now this was wise in Whitbread--here we find A very pretty knowledge of mankind; As monarchs never must be in the wrong, 'Twas really a bright thought in Whitbread's tongue, To tell a little fib, or some such thing, To save the sinking credit of a king.

Some brewers, in a rage of information, Proud to instruct the ruler of a nation, Had on the folly dwelt, to seem d.a.m.ned clever!

Now, what had been the consequence? Too plain!

The man had cut his consequence in twain; The king had hated the WISE fool forever!

Reader, whene'er thou dost espy a nose That bright with many a ruby glows, That nose thou mayest p.r.o.nounce, nay safely swear, Is nursed on something better than small-beer.

Thus when thou findest kings in brewing wise, Or natural history holding lofty station, Thou mayest conclude, with marveling eyes, Such kings have had a goodly education.

Now did the king admire the bell so fine, That daily asks the draymen all to dine: On which the bell rung out (how very proper!) To show it was a bell, and had a clapper.

And now before their sovereign's curious eye, Parents and children, fine, fat, hopeful sprigs, All snuffling, squinting, grunting in their style, Appeared the brewer's tribe of handsome pigs: On which the observant man, who fills a throne, Declared the pigs were vastly like his own:

On which, the brewer, swallowed up in joys, Tears and astonishment in both his eyes, His soul brim full of sentiments so loyal, Exclaimed, "O heavens! and can my swine Be deemed by majesty so fine!

Heavens! can my pigs compare, sire, with pigs royal?"

To which the king a.s.sented with a nod; On which the brewer bowed, and said, "Good G.o.d!"

Then winked significant on Miss; Significant of wonder and of bliss; Who, bridling in her chin divine, Crossed her fair hands, a dear old maid, And then her lowest courtesy made For such high honor done her father's swine.

Now did his majesty so gracious say To Mr. Whitbread, in his flying way, "Whitbread, d'ye nick the excis.e.m.e.n now and then?

Hae, Whitbread, when d'ye think to leave off trade?

Hae? what? Miss Whitbread's still a maid, a maid?

What, what's the matter with the men?

"D'ye hunt!--hae, hunt? No, no, you are too old-- You'll be lord mayor--lord mayor one day-- Yes, yes, I've heard so--yes, yes, so I'm told: Don't, don't the fine for sheriff pay?

I'll p.r.i.c.k you every year, man, I declare: Yes, Whitbread-yes, yes-you shall be lord mayor.

"Whitbread, d'ye keep a coach, or job one, pray?

Job, job, that's cheapest; yes, that's best, that's best You put your liveries on the draymen-hee?

Hae, Whitbread? you have feather'd well your nest.

What, what's the price now, hee, of all your stock?

But, Whitbread, what's o'clock, pray, what's o'clock?"

Now Whitbread inward said, "May I be cursed If I know what to answer first;"

Then searched his brains with ruminating eye: But e'er the man of malt an answer found, Quick on his heel, lo, majesty turned round, Skipped off, and baulked the pleasure of reply.

Kings in inquisitiveness should be strong- From curiosity doth wisdom flow: For 'tis a maxim I've adopted long, The more a man inquires, the more he'll know.

Reader, didst ever see a water-spout?

'Tis possible that thou wilt answer, "No."

Well then! he makes a most infernal rout; Sucks, like an elephant, the waves below, With huge proboscis reaching from the sky, As if he meant to drink the ocean dry: At length so full he can't hold one drop more-.

He bursts-down rush the waters with a roar On some poor boat, or sloop, or brig, or s.h.i.+p, And almost sinks the wand'rer of the deep: Thus have I seen a monarch at reviews, Suck from the tribe of officers the news, Then bear in triumph off each WONDROUS matter, And souse it on the queen with such a clatter!

I always would advise folks to ask questions; For, truly, questions are the keys of knowledge: Soldiers, who forage for the mind's digestions, Cut figures at the Old Bailey, and at college; Make chancellors, chief justices, and judges, Even of the lowest green-bag drudges.

The sages say, Dame Truth delights to dwell, Strange mansion! in the bottom of a well, Questions are then the windla.s.s and the rope That pull the grave old gentlewoman up: d.a.m.n jokes then, and unmannerly suggestions, Reflecting upon kings for asking questions.

Now having well employed his royal lungs On nails, hoops, staves, pumps, barrels, and their bungs, The king and Co. sat down to a collation Of flesh and fish, and fowl of every nation.

Dire was the clang of plates, of knife and fork, That merciless fell like tomahawks to work, And fearless scalped the fowl, the fish, and cattle, While Whitbread, in the rear, beheld the battle.

The conquering monarch, stopping to take breath Amidst the regiments of death, Now turned to Whitbread with complacence round, And, merry, thus addressed the man of beer "Whitbread, is't true? I hear, I hear, You're of an ancient family--renowned-- What? what? I'm told that you're a limb Of Pym, the famous fellow Pym: What Whitbread, is it true what people say?

Son of a round-head are you? hae? hae? hae?

I'm told that you send Bibles to your votes-- A snuffling round-headed society-- Prayer-books instead of cash to buy them coats-- Bunyans, and Practices of Piety: Your Bedford votes would wish to change their fare-- Rather see cash--yes, yes--than books of prayer.

Thirtieth of January don't you FEED?

Yes, yes, you eat calf's head, you eat calf's head."

Now having wonders done on flesh, fowl, fish, Whole hosts o'erturned--and seized on all supplies; The royal visitors expressed a wish To turn to House of Buckingham their eyes.

But first the monarch, so polite, Asked Mr. Whitbread if he'd be a KNIGHT.