The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe Part 14

Then stepped the poet into bed With this reflection in his head:

MORAL.

Beware of too sublime a sense Of your own worth and consequence.

The man who dreams himself so great, And his importance of such weight, That all around in all that's done Must move and act for him alone, Will learn in school of tribulation The folly of his expectation.

SAYING NOT MEANING.

WILLIAM BASIL WAKE.

Two gentlemen their appet.i.te had fed, When opening his toothpick-case, one said, "It was not until lately that I knew That anchovies on terra firma grew.

"Grow!" cried the other, "yes, they GROW, indeed, Like other fish, but not upon the land; You might as well say grapes grow on a reed, Or in the Strand!"

"Why, sir," returned the irritated other, "My brother, When at Calcutta Beheld them bona fide growing; He wouldn't utter A lie for love or money, sir; so in This matter you are thoroughly mistaken."

"Nonsense, sir! nonsense! I can give no credit To the a.s.sertion--none e'er saw or read it; Your brother, like his evidence, should be shaken."

"Be shaken, sir! let me observe, you are Perverse--in short--"

"Sir," said the other, sucking his cigar, And then his port-- "If you will say impossibles are true, You may affirm just any thing you please-- That swans are quadrupeds, and lions blue, And elephants inhabit Stilton cheese!

Only you must not, FORCE me to believe What's propagated merely to deceive."

"Then you force me to say, sir, you're a fool,"

Return'd the bragger.

Language like this no man can suffer cool: It made the listener stagger; So, thunder-stricken, he at once replied, "The traveler LIED Who had the impudence to tell it you;"

"Zounds! then d'ye mean to swear before my face That anchovies DON'T grow like cloves and mace?"

"I DO!"

Disputants often after hot debates Leave the contention as they found it--bone, And take to duelling or thumping tetes; Thinking by strength of artery to atone For strength of argument; and he who winces From force of words, with force of arms convinces!

With pistols, powder, bullets, surgeons, lint, Seconds, and smelling-bottles, and foreboding, Our friends advanced; and now portentous loading (Their hearts already loaded) serv'd to show It might be better they shook hands--but no; When each opines himself, though frighten'd, right Each is, in courtesy, oblig'd to fight!

And they DID fight: from six full measured paces The unbeliever pulled his trigger first; And fearing, from the braggart's ugly faces, The whizzing lead had whizz'd its very worst, Ran up, and with a DUELISTIC fear (His ire evanishing like morning vapors), Found nim possess'd of one remaining ear, Who in a manner sudden and uncouth, Had given, not lent, the other ear to truth; For while the surgeon was applying lint, He, wriggling, cried--"The deuce is in't--Sir! I MEANT--CAPERS!"

JULIA.

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

--medio de fonte leporum Surgit amari aliquid.--Lucret.

Julia was blest with beauty, wit, and grace: Small poets loved to sing her blooming face.

Before her altars, lo! a numerous train Preferr'd their vows; yet all preferr'd in vain.

Till charming Florio, born to conquer, came, And touch'd the fair one with an equal flame.

The flame she felt, and ill could she conceal What every look and action would reveal.

With boldness then, which seldom fails to move, He pleads the cause of marriage and of love; The course of hymeneal joys he rounds, The fair one's eyes dance pleasure at the sounds.

Naught now remain'd but "Noes"--how little meant-- And the sweet coyness that endears consent.

The youth upon his knees enraptured fell:-- The strange misfortune, oh! what words can tell?

Tell! ye neglected sylphs! who lap-dogs guard, Why s.n.a.t.c.h'd ye not away your precious ward?

Why suffer'd ye the lover's weight to fall On the ill-fated neck of much-loved Ball?

The favorite on his mistress casts his eyes, Gives a melancholy howl, and--dies!

Sacred his ashes lie, and long his rest!

Anger and grief divide poor Julia's breast.

Her eyes she fix'd on guilty Morio first, On him the storm of angry grief must burst.

That storm he fled:--he woos a kinder fair, Whose fond affections no dear puppies share.

'Twere vain to tell how Julia pined away;-- Unhappy fair, that in one luckless day (From future almanacs the day be cross'd!) At once her lover and her lap-dog lost!

A c.o.c.k AND HEN STORY.

ROBERT SOUTHEY

PART I.

Once on a time three Pilgrims true, Being Father and Mother and Son, For pure devotion to the Saint, A pilgrimage begun.

Their names, little friends, I am sorry to say, In none of my books can I find; But the son, if you please, we'll call Pierre, What the parents were called, never mind.

From France they came, in which fair land They were people of good renown; And they took up their lodging one night on the way In La Calzada town.

Now, if poor Pilgrims they had been, And had lodged in the Hospice instead of the Inn, My good little women and men, Why then you never would have heard, This tale of the c.o.c.k and the Hen.

For the Innkeepers they had a daughter, Sad to say, who was just such another As Potiphar's daughter, I think, would have been If she followed the ways of her mother.

This wicked woman to our Pierre Behaved like Potiphar's wife; And because she failed to win his love, She resolved to take his life.

So she packed up a silver cup In his wallet privily; And then, as soon as they were gone, She raised a hue and cry.

The Pilgrims were overtaken, The people gathered round, Their wallets were searched, and in Pierre's The silver cup was found.

They dragged him before the Alcayde; A hasty Judge was he, "The theft," he said, "was plain and proved, And hang'd the thief must be."

So to the gallows our poor Pierre Was hurried instantly.

If I should now relate The piteous lamentation, Which for their son these parents made, My little friends, I am afraid You'd weep at the relation.

But Pierre in Santiago still His constant faith profess'd; When to the gallows he was led, "'Twas a short way to Heaven," he said, "Though not the pleasantest."

And from their pilgrimage he charged His parents not to cease, Saying that unless they promised this, He could not be hanged in peace.

They promised it with heavy hearts; Pierre then, therewith content, Was hang'd: and they upon their way To Compostella went.

PART II.

Four weeks they travel'd painfully, They paid their vows, and then To La Calzada's fatal town Did they come back again.

The Mother would not be withheld, But go she must to see Where her poor Pierre was left to hang Upon the gallows tree.

Oh tale most marvelous to hear, Most marvelous to tell!

Eight weeks had he been hanging there, And yet was alive and well!