The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe Part 18

I could not see my Mackintosh!--it was not to be seen!

Nor yet my best white beaver hat, broad-brimm'd and lined with green; My carpet-bag--my cruet-stand, that holds my sauce and soy,-- My roast potatoes!--all are gone!--and so's that vulgar Boy!

I rang the bell for Mrs. Jones, for she was down below, "--Oh, Mrs. Jones! what do you think?--ain't this a pretty go?

--That horrid little vulgar Boy whom I brought here to-night, --He's stolen my things and run away!!"--Says she, "And sarve you right!!"

Next morning I was up betimes--I sent the Crier round, All with his bell and gold-laced hat, to say I'd give a pound To find that little vulgar Boy, who'd gone and used me so; But when the Crier cried "O Yes!" the people cried, "O No!"

I went to "Jarvis' Landing-place," the glory of the town, There was a common sailor-man a-walking up and down; I told my tale--he seem'd to think I'd not been treated well, And called me "Poor old Buffer!" what that means I cannot tell.

That sailor-man, he said he'd seen that morning on the sh.o.r.e, A son of--something--'twas a name I'd never heard before, A little "gallows-looking chap"--dear me; what could he mean?

With a "carpet-swab" and "muckingtogs," and a hat turned up with green.

He spoke about his "precious eyes," and said he'd seen him "sheer,"

--It's very odd that sailor-men should talk so very queer-- And then he hitch'd his trowsers up, as is, I'm told, their use, --It's very odd that sailor-men should wear those things so loose.

I did not understand him well, but think he meant to say He'd seen that little vulgar Boy, that morning swim away In Captain Large's Royal George about an hour before, And they were now, as he supposed, "someWHERES" about the Nore.

A landsman said, "I TWIG the chap--he's been upon the Mill-- And 'cause he GAMMONS so the FLATS, ve calls him Veeping Bill!"

He said "he'd done me wery brown," and "nicely STOW'D the SWAG."

--That's French, I fancy, for a hat--or else a carpet-bag.

I went and told the constable my property to track; He asked me if "I did not wish that I might get it back?"

I answered, "To be sure I do!--it's what I come about."

He smiled and said, "Sir, does your mother know that you are out?"

Not knowing what to do, I thought I'd hasten back to town, And beg our own Lord Mayor to catch the Boy who'd "done me brown."

His Lordship very kindly said he'd try and find him out, But he "rather thought that there were several vulgar boys about."

He sent for Mr. Whithair then, and I described "the swag,"

My Mackintosh, my sugar-tongs, my spoons, and carpet-bag; He promised that the New Police should all their powers employ; But never to this hour have I beheld that vulgar Boy!

MORAL.

Remember, then, what when a boy I've heard my Grandma' tell, "BE WARN'D IN TIME BY OTHERS' HARM, AND YOU SHALL DO FULL WELL!"

Don't link yourself with vulgar folks, who've got no fix'd abode, Tell lies, use naughty words, and say they "wish they may be blow'd!"

Don't take too much of double X!--and don't at night go out To fetch your beer yourself, but make the pot-boy bring you stout!

And when you go to Margate next, just stop and ring the bell, Give my respects to Mrs. Jones, and say I 'm pretty well!

THE GHOST.

R. HARRIS BARHAM.

There stands a City,--neither large nor small, Its air and situation sweet and pretty; It matters very little--if at all-- Whether its denizens are dull or witty, Whether the ladies there are short or tall, Brunettes or blondes, only, there stands a city!-- Perhaps 'tis also requisite to minute That there's a Castle, and a Cobbler in it.

A fair Cathedral, too, the story goes, And kings and heroes lie entombed within her; There pious Saints, in marble pomp repose, Whose shrines are worn by knees of many a Sinner; There, too, full many an Aldermanic nose Roll'd its loud diapason after dinner; And there stood high the holy sconce of Becket, --Till four a.s.sa.s.sins came from France to crack it.

The Castle was a huge and antique mound, Proof against all th' artillery of the quiver, Ere those abominable guns were found, To send cold lead through gallant warrior's liver It stands upon a gently rising ground, Sloping down gradually to the river, Resembling (to compare great things with smaller) A well-scooped, moldy Stilton cheese--but taller.

The Keep, I find, 's been sadly alter'd lately, And 'stead of mail-clad knights, of honor jealous, In martial panoply so grand and stately, Its walls are rilled with money-making fellows, And stuff'd, unless I'm misinformed greatly, With leaden pipes, and c.o.ke, and coal, and bellows In short, so great a change has come to pa.s.s, Tis now a manufactory of Gas.

But to my tale.--Before this profanation, And ere its ancient glories were out short all, A poor hard-working Cobbler took his station In a small house, just opposite the portal; His birth, his parentage, and education, I know but little of--a strange, odd mortal; His aspect, air, and gait, were all ridiculous; His name was Mason--he'd been christened Nicholas.

Nick had a wife possessed of many a charm, And of the Lady Huntingdon persuasion; But, spite of all her piety, her arm She'd sometimes exercise when in a pa.s.sion; And, being of a temper somewhat warm, Would now and then seize, upon small occasion, A stick, or stool, or any thing that round did lie, And baste her lord and master most confoundedly.

No matter;--'tis a thing that's not uncommon, 'Tis what we all have heard, and most have read of,-- I mean, a bruising, pugilistic woman, Such as I own I entertain a dread of, --And so did Nick,--whom sometimes there would come on A sort of fear his Spouse might knock his head off, Demolish half his teeth, or drive a rib in, She shone so much in "facers" and in "fibbing."

"There's time and place for all things," said a sage (King Solomon, I think), and this I can say, Within a well-roped ring, or on a stage, Boxing may be a very pretty FANCY, When Messrs. Burke or Bendigo engage; --'Tis not so well in Susan or in Nancy:-- To get well mill'd by any one's an evil, But by a lady--'tis the very Devil.

And so thought Nicholas, whose only trouble (At least his worst) was this, his rib's propensity; For sometimes from the ale-house he would hobble, His senses lost in a sublime immensity Of cogitation--then he couldn't cobble-- And then his wife would often try the density Of his poor skull, and strike with all her might, As fast as kitchen wenches strike a light.

Mason, meek soul, who ever hated strife, Of this same striking had a morbid dread, He hated it like poison--or his wife-- A vast antipathy!--but so he said-- And very often, for a quiet life, On these occasions he'd sneak up to bed, Grope darkling in, and soon as at the door He heard his lady--he'd pretend to snore.

One night, then, ever partial to society, Nick, with a friend (another jovial fellow), Went to a Club--I should have said Society-- At the "City Arms," once call'd the "Porto Bello"

A Spouting party, which, though some decry it, I Consider no bad lounge when one is mellow; There they discuss the tax on salt, and leather, And change of ministers and change of weather.

In short, it was a kind of British Forum, Like John Gale Jones', erst in Piccadilly, Only they managed things with more decorum, And the Orations were not QUITE so silly; Far different questions, too, would come before 'em Not always politics, which, will ye nill ye, Their London prototypes were always willing, To give one QUANTUM SUFF. of--for a shilling.

It more resembled one of later date, And tenfold talent, as I'm told, in Bow-street, Where kindlier nurtured souls do congregate, And, though there are who deem that same a low street Yet, I'm a.s.sured, for frolicsome debate And genuine humor it's surpa.s.sed by no street, When the "Chief Baron" enters, and a.s.sumes To "rule" o'er mimic "Thesigers" and "Broughams."

Here they would oft forget their Rulers' faults, And waste in ancient lore the midnight taper, Inquire if Orpheus first produced the Waltz, How Gas-lights differ from the Delphic Vapor.

Whether Hippocrates gave Glauber's Salts, And what the Romans wrote on ere obey'd paper,-- This night the subject of their disquisitions Was Ghosts, Hobgoblins, Sprues, and Apparitions.

One learned gentleman, "a sage grave man,"

Talk'd of the Ghost in Hamlet, "sheath'd in steel:"-- His well-read friend, who next to speak began, Said, "That was Poetry, and nothing real;"

A third, of more extensive learning, ran To Sir George Villiers' Ghost, and Mrs. Veal; Of sheeted Specters spoke with shorten'd breath, And thrice he quoted "Drelincourt on Death."

Nick, smoked, and smoked, and trembled as he heard The point discuss'd, and all they said upon it, How frequently some murder'd man appear'd, To tell his wife and children who had done it; Or how a Miser's Ghost, with grisly beard, And pale lean visage, in an old Scotch bonnet, Wander'd about to watch his buried money!

When all at once Nick heard the clock strike One--he

Sprang from his seat, not doubting but a lecture Impended from his fond and faithful She; Nor could he well to pardon him expect her, For he had promised to "be home to tea;"

But having luckily the key o' the back door, He fondly hoped that, unperceived, he Might creep up stairs again, pretend to doze, And hoax his spouse with music from his nose.

Vain fruitless hope!--The wearied sentinel At eve may overlook the crouching foe, Till, ere his hand can sound the alarum-bell, He sinks beneath the unexpected blow; Before the whiskers of Grimalkin fell, When slumb'ring on her post, the mouse may go,-- But woman, wakeful woman, 's never weary, --Above all, when she waits to thump her deary.

Soon Mrs. Mason heard the well-known tread; She heard the key slow creaking in the door, Spied through the gloom obscure, toward the bed Nick creeping soft, as oft he had crept before; When, bang, she threw a something at his head, And Nick at once lay prostrate on the floor; While she exclaim'd with her indignant face on,-- "How dare you use your wife so, Mr. Mason?"

Spare we to tell how fiercely she debated, Especially the length of her oration,-- Spare we to tell how Nick expostulated, Roused by the b.u.mp into a good set pa.s.sion, So great, that more than once he execrated, Ere he crawl'd into bed in his usual fashion; --The Muses hate brawls; suffice it then to say, He duck'd below the clothes--and there he lay:

'Twas now the very witching time of night, When church-yards groan, and graves give up their dead, And many a mischievous, enfranchised Sprite Had long since burst his bonds of stone or lead, And hurried off, with schoolboy-like delight, To play his pranks near some poor wretch's bed, Sleeping, perhaps, serenely as a porpoise, Nor dreaming of this fiendish Habeas Corpus.

Not so our Nicholas, his meditations Still to the same tremendous theme recurred, The same dread subject of the dark narrations, Which, back'd with such authority, he'd heard; Lost in his own horrific contemplations, He pondered o'er each well-remembered word; When at the bed's foot, close beside the post, He verily believed he saw--a Ghost!

Plain and more plain the unsubstantial Sprite To his astonish'd gaze each moment grew; Ghastly and gaunt, it rear'd its shadowy height, Of more than mortal seeming to the view, And round its long, thin, bony fingers drew A tatter'd winding-sheet, of course ALL WHITE;-- The moon that moment peeping through a cloud, Nick very plainly saw it THROUGH THE SHROUD!

And now those matted locks, which never yet Had yielded to the comb's unkind divorce, Their long-contracted amity forget, And spring asunder with elastic force; Nay, e'en the very cap, of texture coa.r.s.e, Whose ruby cincture crown'd that brow of jet, Uprose in agony--the Gorgon's head Was but a type of Nick's up-squatting in the bed.

From every pore distill'd a clammy dew.