The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe Part 16

The ways of ordinary fowls You must know they had clean forsaken; And if every c.o.c.k and Hen in Spain Had their example taken, Why then--the Spaniards would have had No eggs to eat with bacon.

These blessed Fowls, at seven years end, In the odor of sanct.i.ty died: They were carefully pluck'd and then They were buried, side by side.

And lest the fact should be forgotten (Which would have been a pity), 'Twas decreed, in honor of their worth, That a c.o.c.k and Hen should be borne thenceforth, In the arms of that ancient City.

Two eggs Saint Hen had laid--no more-- The chickens were her delight; A c.o.c.k and Hen they proved, And both, like their parents, were virtuous and white.

The last act of the Holy Hen Was to rear this precious brood; and when Saint c.o.c.k and she were dead, This couple, as the lawful heirs, Succeeded in their stead.

They also lived seven years, And they laid eggs but two, From which two milk-white chickens To c.o.c.k and Henhood grew; And always their posterity The self-same course pursue.

Not one of these eggs ever addled, (With wonder be it spoken!) Not one of them ever was lost, Not one of them ever was broken.

Sacred they are; neither magpie nor rat, Snake, weasel, nor marten approaching them: And woe to the irreverent wretch Who should even dream of poaching them!

Thus then is this great miracle Continued to this day; And to their Church all Pilgrims go, When they are on the way; And some of the feathers are given them; For which they always pay.

No price is set upon them, And this leaves all persons at ease; The Poor give as much as they can, The Rich as much as they please.

But that the more they give the better, Is very well understood; Seeing whatever is thus disposed of, Is for their own souls' good;

For Santiago will always Befriend his true believers; And the money is for him, the Priests Being only his receivers.

To make the miracle the more, Of these feathers there is always store, And all are genuine too; All of the original c.o.c.k and Hen, Which the Priests will swear is true.

Thousands a thousand times told have bought them, And if myriads and tens of myriads sought them, They would still find some to buy; For however great were the demand, So great would be the supply.

And if any of you, my small friends, Should visit those parts, I dare say You will bring away some of the feathers, And think of old Robin Gray.

[Ill.u.s.tration with caption: BURNS]

THE SEARCH AFTER HAPPINESS; OR, THE QUEST OF SULTAUN SOLIMAUN.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Oh, for a glance of that gay Muse's eye, That lighten'd on Bandello's laughing tale, And twinkled with a l.u.s.ter shrewd and sly, When Giam Batttista bade her vision hail!-- Yet fear not, ladies, the naive detail Given by the natives of that land canorous; Italian license loves to leap the pale, We Britons have the fear of shame before us, And, if not wise in mirth, at least must be decorous.

In the far eastern clime, no great while since, Lived Sultaun Solimaun, a mighty prince, Whose eyes, as oft as they perform'd their round, Beheld all others fix'd upon the ground; Whose ears received the same unvaried phrase, "Sultaun! thy va.s.sal hears, and he obeys!"

All have their tastes--this may the fancy strike Of such grave folks as pomp and grandeur like; For me, I love the honest heart and warm Of monarch who can amble round his farm, Or when the toil of state no more annoys, In chimney corner seek domestic joys-- I love a prince will bid the bottle pa.s.s, Exchanging with his subjects glance and gla.s.s; In fitting time, can, gayest of the gay, Keep up the jest, and mingle in the lay-- Such Monarchs best our free-born humors suit, But Despots must be stately, stern, and mute.

This Solimaun, Serendib had in sway-- And where's Serendib? may some critic say-- Good lack, mine honest friend, consult the chart, Scare not my Pegasus before I start!

If Rennell has it not, you'll find, mayhap, The isle laid down in Captain Sinbad's map-- Famed mariner! whose merciless narrations Drove every friend and kinsman out of patience, Till, fain to find a guest who thought them shorter, He deign'd to tell them over to a porter-- The last edition see, by Long and Co., Rees, Hurst, and Orme, our fathers in the Row.

Serendib found, deem not my tale a fiction-- This Sultaun, whether lacking contradiction-- (A sort of stimulant which hath its uses, To raise the spirits and reform the juices, --Sovereign specific for all sorts of cures In my wife's practice, and perhaps in yours), The Sultaun lacking this same wholesome bitter, Of cordial smooth for prince's palate fitter-- Or if some Mollah had hag-rid his dreams With Degial, Ginnistan, and such wild themes Belonging to the Mollah's subtle craft, I wot not--but the Sultaun never laugh'd, Scarce ate or drank, and took a melancholy That scorn'd all remedy profane or holy; In his long list of melancholies, mad, Or mazed, or dumb, hath Burton none so had.

Physicians soon arrived, sage, ware, and tried, As e'er scrawl'd jargon in a darken'd room; With heedful glance the Sultaun's tongue they eyed, Peep'd in his bath, and G.o.d knows where beside, And then in solemn accent spoke their doom, "His majesty is very far from well."

Then each to work with his specific fell; The Hakim Ibrahim INSTANTER brought His unguent Mahazzim al Zerdukkaut, While Roompot, a pract.i.tioner more wily, Relied on Ms Munaskif all fillfily.

More and yet more in deep array appear, And some the front a.s.sail, and some the rear; Their remedies to reinforce and vary, Came surgeon eke, and eke apothecary; Till the tired Monarch, though of words grown chary, Yet dropt, to recompense their fruitless labor, Some hint about a bowstring or a saber.

There lack'd, I promise you, no longer speeches, To rid the palace of those learned leeches.

Then was the council call'd--by their advice (They deem'd the matter ticklish all, and nice, And sought to shift it off from their own shoulders) Tartars and couriers in all speed were sent, To call a sort of Eastern Parliament Of feudatory chieftains and freeholders-- Such have the Persians at this very day, My gallant Malcolm calls them couroultai;-- I'm not prepared to show in this slight song That to Serendib the same forms belong-- E'en let the learn'd go search, and tell me if I'm wrong.

The Omrahs, each with hand on scimitar, Gave, like Semp.r.o.nius, still their voice for war-- "The saber of the Sultaun in its sheath Too long has slept, nor own'd the work of death, Let the Tambourgi bid his signal rattle, Bang the loud gong, and raise the shout of battle!

This dreary cloud that dims our sovereign's day, Shall from his kindled bosom flit away, When the bold Lootie wheels his courser round, And the arm'd elephant shall shake the ground.

Each n.o.ble pants to own the glorious summons-- And for the charges--Lo! your faithful Commons!"

The Riots who attended in their places (Serendib language calls a farmer Riot) Look'd ruefully in one another's faces, From this oration auguring much disquiet, Double a.s.sessment, forage, and free quarters; And fearing these as China-men the Tartars, Or as the whisker'd vermin fear the mousers, Each fumbled in the pockets of his trowsers.

And next came forth the reverend Convocation, Bald heads, white beards, and many a turban green, Imaum and Mollah there of every station, Santon, Fakir, and Calendar were seen.

Their votes were various--some advised a Mosque With fitting revenues should be erected, With seemly gardens and with gay Kiosque, To create a band of priests selected; Others opined that through the realms a dole Be made to holy men, whose prayers might profit The Sultaun's weal in body and in soul.

But their long-headed chief, the Sheik Ul-Sofit, More closely touch'd the point;--"Thy studious mood,"

Quoth he, "O Prince! hath thicken'd all thy blood, And dull'd thy brain with labor beyond measure; Wherefore relax a s.p.a.ce and take thy pleasure, And toy with beauty, or tell o'er thy treasure; From all the cares of state, my Liege, enlarge thee, And leave the burden to thy faithful clergy."

These counsels sage availed not a whit, And so the patient (as is not uncommon Where grave physicians lose their time and wit) Resolved to take advice of an old woman; His mother she, a dame who once was beauteous, And still was called so by each subject duteous.

Now whether Fatima was witch in earnest, Or only made believe, I can not say-- But she profess'd to cure disease the sternest, By dint of magic amulet or lay; And, when all other skill in vain was shown, She deem'd it fitting time to use her own.

"Sympathia magica hath wonders done"

(Thus did old Fatima bespeak her son), "It works upon the fibers and the pores, And thus, insensibly, our health restores, And it must help us here.--Thou must endure The ill, my son, or travel for the cure.

Search land and sea, and get, where'er you can, The inmost vesture of a happy man: I mean his SHIRT, my son; which, taken warm And fresh from off his back, shall chase your harm, Bid every current of your veins rejoice, And your dull heart leap light as shepherd-boy's."

Such was the counsel from his mother came;-- I know not if she had some under-game, As doctors have, who bid their patients roam And live abroad, when sure to die at home; Or if she thought, that, somehow or another, Queen-Regent sounded better than Queen-Mother; But, says the Chronicle (who will go look it?) That such was her advice--the Sultaun took it.

All are on board--the Sultaun and his train, In gilded galley prompt to plow the main.

The old Rais was the first who question'd, "Whither?"

They paused--"Arabia," thought the pensive Prince, "Was call'd The Happy many ages since-- For Mokha, Rais."--And they came safely thither.

But not in Araby, with all her balm, Not where Judea weeps beneath her palm, Not in rich Egypt, not in Nubian waste, Could there the step of Happiness be traced.

One Copt alone profess'd to have seen her smile When Bruce his goblet fill'd at infant Nile: She bless'd the dauntless traveler as he quaff'd But vanish'd from him with the ended draught.

"Enough of turbans," said the weary King.

"These dolimans of ours are not the thing; Try we the Giaours, these men of coat, and cap, I Incline to think some of them must be happy; At least they have as fair a cause as any can, They drink good wine and keep no Ramazan.

Then northward, ho!"--The vessel cuts the sea, And fair Italia lies upon her lee.-- But fair Italia, she who once unfurl'd Her eagle-banners o'er a conquer'd world, Long from her throne of domination tumbled, Lay, by her quondam va.s.sals, sorely humbled, The Pope himself look'd pensive, pale, and lean, And was not half the man he once had been.

"While these the priest and those the n.o.ble fleeces, Our poor old boot," they said, "is torn to pieces.

Its tops the vengeful claws of Austria feel, And the Great Devil is rending toe and heel.

If happiness you seek, to tell you truly, We think she dwells with one Giovanni Bulli; A tramontane, a heretic--the buck, Poffaredio! still has all the luck; By land or ocean never strikes his flag-- And then--a perfect walking money-bag."

Off set our Prince to seek John Bull's abode, But first took France--it lay upon the road.

Monsieur Baboon, after much late commotion, Was agitated like a settling ocean, Quite out of sorts, and could not tell what ail'd him, Only the glory of his house had fail'd him; Besides, some tumors on his noddle biding, Gave indication of a recent hiding.

Our Prince, though Sultauns of such things are heedless, Thought it a thing indelicate and needless To ask, if at that moment he was happy.

And Monsieur, seeing that he was comme il faut, a Loud voice muster'd up, for "Vive le Roi!"

Then whisper'd, "'Ave you any news of Nappy?"

The Sultaun answer'd him with a cross question-- "Pray, can you tell me aught of one John Bull, That dwells somewhere beyond your herring-pool?"

The query seem'd of difficult digestion, The party shrugg'd, and grinn'd, and took his snuff, And found his whole good-breeding scarce enough.

Twitching his visage into as many puckers As damsels wont to put into their tuckers (Ere liberal Fashion d.a.m.n'd both lace and lawn, And bade the vail of modesty be drawn), Replied the Frenchman, after a brief pause, "Jean Bool!--I vas not know him--yes, I vas-- I vas remember dat, von year or two, I saw him at von place call'd Vaterloo-- Ma foi! il s'est tres joliment battu, Dat is for Englishman--m'entendez-vous?

But den he had wit him one d.a.m.n son-gun, Rogue I no like--dey call him Vellington."

Monsieur's politeness could not hide his fret, So Solimaun took leave, and cross'd the strait.

John Bull was in his very worst of moods, Raving of sterile farms and unsold goods; His sugar-loaves and bales about he threw, And on his counter beat the devil's tattoo.

His wars were ended, and the victory won, But then, 'twas reckoning-day with honest John; And authors vouch, 'twas still this Worthy's way, "Never to grumble till he came to pay; And then he always thinks, his temper's such, The work too little, and the pay too much."