The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe Part 80

"Now, tell me, WILLIAM, can it be, That MAYNE has issued a decree, Severe and stern, against us, planned Of comfort to deprive our Stand?"

"I fear the tale is all too true,"

Said WILLIAM, "on my word I do."

"Are we restricted to the Row And from the footpath?" "Even so."

"Must our companions be resigned, We to the Rank alone confined?"

"Yes; or they apprehend the lads Denominated Bucks and Cads."

"Dear me!" cried JAMES, "how very hard And are we, too, from beer debarred?"

Said WILLIAM, "While remaining here We also are forbidden beer."

"Nor may we breathe the fragrant weed?"

"That's interdicted too." "Indeed!"

"Nor in the purifying wave Must we our steeds or chariots lave."

"For private drivers, at request, It is SIR RICHARD MAYNE'S behest That we shall move, I understand?"

"Such, I believe, IS the command"

"Of all remains of food and drink Left by our animals I think, We are required to clear the ground?"

"Yes: to remove them we are bound."

"These mandates should we disobey--"

"They take our licenses away."

"That were unkind. How harsh our lot!"

"It is indeed." "Now is it not?"

"Thus strictly why are we pursued?"

"It is alleged that we are rude; The people opposite complain, Our lips that coa.r.s.e expressions stain."

"Law, how absurd!" "And then, they say We smoke and tipple all the day, Are oft in an excited state, Disturbance, noise, and dirt create."

"What shocking stories people tell!

I never! Did you ever?--Well-- Bless them!" the Cabman mildly sighed.

"May they be blest!" his Friend replied.

THE SONG OF HIAWATHA.

AN ENGLISH CRITICISM PUNCH.

You, who hold in grace and honor, Hold, as one who did you kindness When he publish'd former poems, Sang Evangeline the n.o.ble, Sang the golden Golden Legend, Sang the songs the Voices utter Crying in the night and darkness, Sang how unto the Red Planet Mars he gave the Night's First Watches, Henry Wadsworth, whose adnomen (Coming awkward, for the accents, Into this his latest rhythm) Write we as Protracted Fellow, Or in Latin, LONGUS COMES-- Buy the Song of Hiawatha.

Should you ask me, Is the poem Worthy of its predecessors, Worthy of the sweet conception, Of the manly nervous diction, Of the phrase, concise or pliant, Of the songs that sped the pulses, Of the songs that gemm'd the eyelash, Of the other works of Henry?

I should answer, I should tell you, You may wish that you may get it-- Don't you wish that you may get it?

Should you ask me, Is it worthless, Is it bosh and is it bunk.u.m, Merely facile flowing nonsense, Easy to a practiced rhythmist, Fit to charm a private circle, But not worth the print and paper David Bogue hath here expended?

I should answer, I should tell you, You're a fool and most presumptuous.

Hath not Henry Wadsworth writ it?

Hath not PUNCH commanded "Buy it?"

Should you ask me, What's its nature?

Ask me, What's the kind of poem?

Ask me in respectful language, Touching your respectiful beaver, Kicking back your manly hind-leg, Like to one who sees his betters; I should answer, I should tell you, 'Tis a poem in this meter, And embalming the traditions, Fables, rites, and suspepst.i.tions, Legends, charms, and ceremonials Of the various tribes of Indians, From the land of the Ojibways, From the land of the Dacotahs, From the mountains, moors, and fenlands, Where the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, Finds its sugar in the rushes: From the fast-decaying nations, Which our gentle Uncle Samuel Is improving, very smartly, From the face of all creation, Off the face of all creation.

Should you ask me, By what story, By what action, plot, or fiction, All these matters are connected?

I should answer, I should tell you, Go to Bogue and buy the poem, Publish'd neatly, at one s.h.i.+lling, Publish'd sweetly, at five s.h.i.+llings.

Should you ask me, Is there music In the structure of the verses, In the names and in the phrases?

Pleading that, like weaver Bottom, You prefer your ears well tickled; I should answer, I should tell you, Henry's verse is very charming; And for names--there's Hiawatha, Who's the hero of the poem; Mudjeekeewis, that's the West Wind, Hiawatha's graceless father; There's Nokomis, there's Wenonah-- Ladies both, of various merit; Puggaw.a.n.gum, that's a war-club; Pau-puk-keewis, he's a dandy, "Barr'd with streaks of red and yellow; And the women and the maidens Love the handsome Pau-puk-keewis,"

Tracing in him PUNCH'S likeness.

Then there's lovely Minnehaha-- Pretty name with pretty meaning-- It implies the Laughing-water; And the darling Minnehaha Married n.o.ble Hiawatha; And her story's far too touching To be sport for you, yon donkey, With your ears like weaver Bottom's, Ears like b.o.o.by Bully Bottom.

Once upon a time in London, In the days of the Lyceum, Ages ere keen Arnold let it To the dreadful Northern Wizard, Ages ere the buoyant Mathews Tripp'd upon its boards in briskness-- I remember, I remember How a scribe, with pen chivalrous, Tried to save these Indian stories From the fate of chill oblivion.

Out came sundry comic Indians Of the tribe of Kut-an-hack-um.

With their Chief, the clean Efmatthews, With the growling Downy Beaver, With the valiant Monkey's Uncle, Came the gracious Mari-Kee-lee, Firing off a pocket-pistol, Singing, too, that Mudjee-keewis (Shorten'd in the song to "Wild Wind,") Was a spirit very kindly.

Came her Sire, the joyous Kee-lee, By the waning tribe adopted, Named the Buffalo, and wedded To the fairest of the maidens, But repented of his bargain, And his brother Kut-an-hack-ums Very nearly ohopp'd his toes off-- Serve him right, the fickle Kee-lee.

If you ask me, What this memory Hath to do with Hiawatha, And the poem which I speak of?

I should answer, I should tell you, You're a fool, and most presumptuous; 'Tis not for such humble cattle To inquire what links and unions Join the thoughts, and mystic meanings, Of their betters, mighty poets, Mighty writers--PUNCH the mightiest; I should answer, I should tell you, Shut your mouth, and go to David, David, MR. PUNCH'S neighbor, Buy the Song of Hiawatha, Read, and learn, and then be thankful Unto PUNCH and Henry Wadsworth, PUNCH and n.o.ble Henry Wadsworth, Truer poet, better fellow, Than to be annoyed at jesting, From his friend, great PUNCH, who loves him.

COMFORT IN AFFLICTION.

WILLIAM AYTOUN.

"Wherefore starts my bosom's lord?

Why this anguish in thine eye?

Oh, it seems as thy heart's chord Had broken with that sigh!

"Rest thee, my dear lord, I pray, Rest thee on my bosom now!

And let me wipe the dews away, Are gathering on thy brow.

"There, again! that fevered start!

What, love! husband! is thy pain?

There is a sorrow in thy heart, A weight upon thy brain!

"Nay, nay, that sickly smile can ne'er Deceive affection's searching eye; 'Tis a wife's duty, love, to share Her husband's agony.

"Since the dawn began to peep, Have I lain with stifled breath; Heard thee moaning in thy sleep, As thou wert at grips with death.

"Oh, what joy it was to see My gentle lord once more awake!

Tell me, what is amiss with thee?

Speak, or my heart will break!"

"Mary, thou angel of my life, Thou ever good and kind; 'Tis not, believe me, my dear wife, The anguish of the mind!

"It is not in my bosom, dear, No, nor my brain, in sooth; But Mary, oh, I feel it here, Here in my wisdom tooth!

"Then give,--oh, first, best antidote,-- Sweet partner of my bed!

Give me thy flannel petticoat To wrap around my head!"