The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe Part 84

Now PHAETHON begged of his doting old father, To grant him a favor, and this the rather, Since some one had hinted, the youth to annoy, That he wasn't by any means PHOEBUS'S boy!

Intending, the rascally son of a gun, To darken the brow of the son of the SUN!

"By the terrible Styx!" said the angry sire, While his eyes flashed volumes of fury and fire, "To prove your reviler an infamous liar, I swear I will grant you whate'er you desire!"

"Then by my head,"

The youngster said, "I'll mount the coach when the horses are fed!-- For there's nothing I'd choose, as I'm alive, Like a seat on the box, and a das.h.i.+ng drive!"

"Nay, PHAETHON, don't-- I beg you won't-- Just stop a moment and think upon't!

You're quite too young," continued the sage, "To tend a coach at your tender age!

Besides, you see, 'T will really be Your first appearance on any stage!

Desist, my child, The cattle are wild, And when their mettle is thoroughly 'riled,'

Depend upon't, the coach'll be 'spiled'-- They're not the fellows to draw it mild!

Desist, I say, You'll rue the day-- So mind, and don't be foolish, PHA!"

But the youth was proud, And swore aloud, 'T was just the thing to astonish the crowd-- He'd have the horses and wouldn't be cowed!

In vain the boy was cautioned at large, He called for the chargers, unheeding the charge, And vowed that any young fellow of force, Could manage a dozen coursers, of course!

Now PHOEBUS felt exceedingly sorry He had given his word in such a hurry, But having sworn by the Styx, no doubt He was in for it now, and couldn't back out.

So calling Phaethon up in a trice, He gave the youth a bit of advice:-- "'Parce stimulis, utere loris!'

(A "stage direction," of which the core is, Don't use the whip--they're ticklish things-- But, whatever you do, hold on to the strings!) Remember the rule of the Jehu-tribe is, 'Medio tutissimus ibis'

(As the Judge remarked to a rowdy Scotchman, Who was going to quod between two watchmen!) So mind your eye, and spare your goad, Be shy of the stones, and keep in the road!"

Now Phaethon, perched in the coachman's place, Drove off the steeds at a furious pace, Fast as coursers running a race, Or bounding along in a steeple-chase!

Of whip and shout there was no lack, "Crack--whack-- Whack--crack"

Resounded along the horses' back!-- Frightened beneath the stinging lash, Cutting their flanks in many a gash, On--on they sped as swift as a flash, Through thick and thin away they dash, (Such rapid driving is always ras.h.!.+) When all at once, with a dreadful crash, The whole "establishment" went to smas.h.!.+

And Phaethon, he, As all agree, Off the coach was suddenly hurled, Into a puddle, and out of the world!

MORAL.

Don't rashly take to dangerous courses-- Nor set it down in your table of forces, That any one man equals any four horses!

Don't swear by the Styx!-- It's one of Old Nick's Diabolical tricks To get people into a regular "fix,"

And hold 'em there as fast as bricks!

THE SCHOOL-HOUSE.

[AFTER GOLDSMITH.]

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

Propt on the marsh, a dwelling now, I see The humble school-house of my A, B, C, Where well-drilled urchins, each behind his tire, Waited in ranks the wished command to fire, Then all together, when the signal came, Discharged their A-B ABS against the dame, Who, 'mid the volleyed learning, firm and calm, Patted the furloughed ferule on her palm, And, to our wonder, could detect at once Who flashed the pan, and who was downright dunce.

There young Devotion learned to climb with ease The gnarly limbs of Scripture family-trees, And he was most commended and admired Who soonest to the topmost twig perspired; Each name was called as many various ways As pleased the reader's ear on different days, So that the weather, or the ferule's stings, Colds in the head, or fifty other things, Transformed the helpless Hebrew thrice a week To guttural Pequot or resounding Greek, The vibrant accent skipping here and there Just as it pleased invention or despair; No controversial Hebraist was the Dame; With or without the points pleased her the same.

If any tyro found a name too tough, And looked at her, pride furnished skill enough; She nerved her larynx for the desperate thing, And cleared the five-barred syllables at a spring.

Ah, dear old times! there once it was my hap, Perched on a stool, to wear the long-eared cap; From books degraded, there I sat at ease, A drone, the envy of compulsory bees.

EPIGRAMMATIC

EPIGRAMS OF BEN JONSON.

TO FINE GRAND.

What is't Fine Grand, makes thee my friends.h.i.+p fly, Or take an Epigram so fearfully, As't were a challenge, or a borrower's letter?

The world must know your greatness is my debtor.

IMPRIMIS, Grand, you owe me for a jest I lent you, on mere acquaintance, at a feast.

ITEM, a tale or two some fortnight after, That yet maintains you, and your house in laughter.

ITEM, the Babylonian song you sing; ITEM, a fair Greek poesy for a ring, With which a learned madam you bely.

ITEM, a charm surrounding fearfully Your partie-per-pale picture, one half drawn In solemn cyprus, th' other cobweb lawn.

ITEM, a gulling impress for you, at tilt.

ITEM, your mistress' anagram, in your hilt.

ITEM, your own, sew'd in your mistress' smock.

ITEM, an epitaph on my lord's c.o.c.k, In most vile verses, and cost me more pain, Than had I made 'em good, to fit your vein.

Forty things more, dear Grand, which you know true, For which, or pay me quickly, or I'll pay you.

TO BRAINHARDY.

Hardy, thy brain is valiant, 'tis confest, Thou more; that with it every day dar'st jest Thyself into fresh brawls; when call'd upon, Scarce thy week's swearing brings thee off of one; So in short time, thou art in arrearage grown Some hundred quarrels, yet dost thou fight none; Nor need'st thou; for those few, by oath released, Make good what thou dar'st in all the rest.

Keep thyself there, and think thy valor right, He that dares d.a.m.n himself, dares more than fight.

TO DOCTOR EMPIRIC.

When men a dangerous disease did 'scape, Of old, they gave a c.o.c.k to Aesculape; Let me give two, that doubly am got free; From my disease's danger, and from thee.

TO SIR ANNUAL FILTER.

Filter, the most may admire thee, though not I; And thou, right guiltless, may'st plead to it, why?

For thy late sharp device. I say 'tis fit All brains, at times of triumph, should run wit; For then our water-conduits do run wine; But that's put in, thou'lt say.

Why, so is thine.

ON BANKS THE USURER.

Banks feels no lameness of his knotty gout, His moneys travel for him in and out, And though the soundest legs go every day, He toils to be at h.e.l.l, as soon as they.

ON CHEVRIL THE LAWYER

No cause, nor client fat, will Cheveril leese, But as they come, on both sides he takes fees, And pleaseth both; for while he melts his grease For this; that wins, for whom he holds his peace.

EPIGRAMATIC VERSES BY SAMUEL BUTLER.