The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe Part 22

So much time is saved in the billing and cooing-- The ring is now bought, the white favors, and gloves, And all the et cetera which crown people's loves; A magnificent bride-cake comes home from the baker.

And lastly appears, from the German Long Acre, That shaft which, the sharpest in all Cupid's quiver is, A plumb-color'd coach, and rich Pompadour liveries,

'Twas a comely sight To behold the Knight, With his beautiful bride, dress'd all in white, And the bridemaids fair with their long lace vails, As they all walk'd up to the altar rails, While nice little boys, the incense dispensers, March'd in front with white surplices, bands, and gilt censers.

With a gracious air, and a smiling look, Mess John had open'd his awful book, And had read so far as to ask if to wed he meant?

And if "he knew any just cause or impediment?"

When from base to turret the castle shook!!!

Then came a sound of a mighty rain Dashing against each storied pane, The wind blew loud, And coal-black cloud O'ershadow'd the church, and the party, and crowd; How it could happen they could not divine, The morning had been so remarkably fine!

Still the darkness increased, till it reach'd such a pa.s.s That the s.e.xtoness hasten'd to turn on the gas; But harder it pour'd, And the thunder roar'd, As if heaven and earth were coming together; None ever had witness'd such terrible weather.

Now louder it crash'd, And the lightning flash'd, Exciting the fears Of the sweet little dears In the vails, as it danced on the bra.s.s chandeliers; The parson ran off, though a stout-hearted Saxon, When he found that a flash had set fire to his caxon.

Though all the rest trembled, as might be expected, Sir Rupert was perfectly cool and collected, And endeavor'd to cheer His bride, in her ear Whisp'ring tenderly, "Pray don't be frighten'd, my dear Should it even set fire to the castle, and burn it, you're Amply insured, both for buildings and furniture."

But now, from without, A trustworthy scout Rush'd hurriedly in-- Wet through to the skin, Informing his master 'the river was rising, And flooding the grounds in a way quite surprising.'

He'd no time to say more, For already the roar Of the waters was heard as they reach'd the church-door, While, high on the first wave that roll'd in, was seen, Riding proudly, the form of the angry Lurline; And all might observe, by her glance fierce and stormy, She was stung by the spretoe injuria formoe.

What she said to the Knight, what she said to the bride, What she said to the ladies who stood by her side, What she said to the nice little boys in white clothes, Oh, n.o.body mentions--for n.o.body knows; For the roof tumbled in, and the walls tumbled out, And the folks tumbled down, all confusion and rout, The rain kept on pouring, The flood kept on roaring, The billows and water-nymphs roll'd more and more in Ere the close of the day All was clean wash'd away-- One only survived who could hand down the news, A little old woman that open'd the pews; She was borne off, but stuck, By the greatest good luck, In an oak-tree, and there she hung, crying and screaming, And saw all the rest swallow'd up the wild stream in; In vain, all the week, Did the fishermen seek For the bodies, and poke in each cranny and creek; In vain was their search After aught in the church, They caught nothing but weeds, and perhaps a few perch.

The Humane Society Tried a variety Of methods, and brought down, to drag for the wreck, tackles But they only fished up the clerk's tortoise-sh.e.l.l spectacles.

MORAL.

This tale has a moral. Ye youths, oh, beware Of liquor, and how you run after the fair!

Shun playing at SHORTS--avoid quarrels and jars-- And don't take to smoking those nasty cigars!

--Let no run of bad-luck, or despair for some Jewess-eyed Damsel, induce you to contemplate suicide!

Don't sit up much later than ten or eleven!-- Be up in the morning by half after seven!

Keep from flirting--nor risk, warn'd by Rupert's miscarriage, An action for breach of a promise of marriage;-- Don't fancy odd fishes!

Don't prig silver dishes!

And to sum up the whole, in the shortest phrase I know, BEWARE OF THE RHINE, AND TAKE CARE OF THE RHINO!

LOOK AT THE CLOCK.

R. HARRIS BARHAM.

"Look at the Clock!" quoth Winifred Pryce, As she opened the door to her husband's knock, Then paused to give him a piece of advice, "You nasty Warmint, look at the Clock!

Is this the way, you Wretch, every day you Treat her who vow'd to love and obey you?-- Out all night!

Me in a fright!

Staggering home as it's just getting light!

You intoxified brute!--you insensible block!-- Look at the Clock!--Do!--Look at the Clock!"

Winifred Pryce was tidy and clean, Her gown was a flower'd one, her petticoat green, Her buckles were bright as her milking-cans, Her hat was a beaver, and made like a man's; Her little red eyes were deep set in their socket-holes, Her gown-tail was turn'd up, and tuck'd through the pocket-holes; A face like a ferret Betoken'd her spirit: To conclude, Mrs. Pryce was not over young, Had very short legs, and a very long tongue.

Now David Pryce Had one darling vice; Remarkably partial to any thing nice, Nought that was good to him came amiss, Whether to eat, or to drink or to kiss!

Especially ale-- If it was not too stale I really believe he'd have emptied a pail; Not that in Wales They talk of their Ales: To p.r.o.nounce the word they make use of might trouble you, Being spelt with a C, two R's, and a W.

That particular day, As I've heard people say, Mr. David Pryce had been soaking his clay, And amusing himself with his pipe and cheroots, The whole afternoon at the Goat-in-Boots, With a couple more soakers, Thoroughbred smokers, Both, like himself, prime singers and jokers; And, long after day had drawn to a close, And the rest of the world was wrapp'd in repose, They were roaring out "Shenkin!" and "Ar hydd y nos;"

While David himself, to a Sa.s.senach tune, Sang, "We've drunk down the Sun, boys! let's drink down the Moon!

What have we with day to do?

Mrs. Winifred Pryce, 't was made for you!"-- At length, when they couldn't well drink any more, Old "Goat-in-Boots" showed them the door: And then came that knock, And the sensible shock David felt when his wife cried, "Look at the Clock!"

For the hands stood as crooked as crooked might be, The long at the Twelve, and the short at the Three!

That self-same clock had long been a bone Of contention between this Darby and Joan; And often, among their pother and rout, When this otherwise amiable couple fell out,

Pryce would drop a cool hint, With an ominous squint At its case, of an "Uncle" of his, who'd a "Spout."

That horrid word "Spout"

No sooner came out Than Winifred Pryce would turn her about, And with scorn on her lip, And a hand on each hip, "Spout" herself till her nose grew red at the tip, "You thundering Willin, I know you'd be killing Your wife,--ay, a dozen of wives,--for a shilling!

You may do what you please, You may sell my chemise (Mrs. P. was too well-bred to mention her stock), But I never will part with my Grandmother's Clock!"

Mrs. Pryce's tongue ran long and ran fast, But patience is apt to wear out at last, And David Pryce in temper was quick, So he stretch'd out his hand, and caught hold of a stick; Perhaps in its use he might mean to be lenient, But walking just then wasn't very convenient, So he threw it, instead, Direct at her head; It knock'd off her hat; Down she fell flat; Her case, perhaps, was not much mended by that: But whatever it was,--whether rage and pain Produced apoplexy, or burst a vein, Or her tumble induced a concussion of brain, I can't say for certain,--but THIS I can, When sober'd by fright, to a.s.sist her he ran, Mrs. Winifred Pryce was dead as Queen Anne!

The fatal catastrophe Named in my last strophe As adding to grim Death's exploits such a vast trophy, Made a great noise; and the shocking fatality, Ran over, like wild-fire, the whole Princ.i.p.ality.

And then came Mr. Ap Thomas, the Coroner, With his jury to sit, some dozen or more, on her.

Mr. Pryce to commence His "ingenious defense,"

Made a "powerful appeal" to the jury's "good sense,"

"The world he must defy Ever to justify Any presumption of 'Malice Prepense;'"-- The unlucky lick From the end of his stick He "deplored"--he was "apt to be rather too quick;"-- But, really, her prating Was so aggravating: Some trifling correction was just what he meant;--all The rest, he a.s.sured them, was "quite accidental!"

Then he calls Mr. Jones, Who depones to her tones, And her gestures and hints about "breaking his bones,"

While Mr. Ap Morgan, and Mr. Ap Rhys Declared the deceased Had styled him "a Beast,"

And swear they had witness'd, with grief and surprise, The allusion she made to his limbs and his eyes.

The jury, in fine, having sat on the body The whole day, discussing the case, and gin-toddy, Return'd about half-past eleven at night The following verdict, "We find, SARVE HER RIGHT!"

Mr. Pryce, Mrs. Winifred Pryce being dead, Felt lonely, and moped; and one evening he said He would marry Miss Davis at once in her stead.

Not far from his dwelling, From the vale proudly swelling, Rose a mountain, it's name you'll excuse me from telling For the vowels made use of in Welsh are so few That the A and the E, the I, O, and the U, Have really but little or nothing to do; And the duty, of course, falls the heavier by far, On the L, and the H, and the N, and the R, Its first syllable "PEN,"

Is p.r.o.nounceable;--then Come two LL's, and two HH's, two FF's, and an N; About half a score R's and some Ws follow, Beating all my best efforts at euphony hollow: But we shan't have to mention it often, so when We do, with your leave, we'll curtail it to "PEN."

Well--the moon shone bright Upon "PEN" that night, When Pryce, being quit of his fuss and his fright, Was scaling its side With that sort of stride A man puts out when walking in search of a bride Mounting higher and higher, He began to perspire, Till, finding his legs were beginning to tire, And feeling opprest By a pain in his chest, He paus'd, and turn'd round to take breath, and to rest; A walk all up hill is apt, we know, To make one, however robust, puff and blow, So he stopp'd, and look'd down on the valley below.

O'er fell, and o'er fen, Over mountain and glen, All bright in the moonshine, his eye roved, and then All the Patriot rose in his soul, and he thought Upon Wales, and her glories, and all he'd been taught Of her Heroes of old, So brave and so bold,-- Of her Bards with long beards, and harps mounted in gold Of King Edward the First, Of memory accurst; And the scandalous manner in which he behaved, Killing Poets by dozens, With their uncles and cousins, Of whom not one in fifty had ever been shaved-- Of the Court Ball, at which, by a lucky mishap, Owen Tudor fell into Queen Katherine's lap; And how Mr. Tudor, Successfully woo'd her, Till the Dowager put on a new wedding ring, And so made him Father-in law to the King.

He thought upon Arthur, and Merlin of yore, On Gryffith ap Conan, and Owen Glendour; On Pendragon, and Heaven knows how many more.

He thought of all this, as he gazed, in a trice, On all things, in short, but the late Mrs. Pryce; When a lumbering noise from behind made him start, And sent the blood back in full tide to his heart, Which went pit-a-pat As he cried out "What's that?"-- That very queer sound?-- Does it come from the ground?

Or the air,--from above,--or below,--or around?-- It is not like Talking, It is not like Walking, It's not like the clattering of pot or of pan, Or the tramp of a horse,--or the tread of a man,-- Or the hum of a crowd,--or the shouting of boys,-- It's really a deuced odd sort of a noise!

Not unlike a cart's,--but that can't be;--for when Could "all the King's horses, and all the King's men,"

With Old Nick for a wagoner, drive one up "PEN?"

Pryce, usually brimful of valor when drunk, Now experienced what school-boys denominate "funk."

In vain he look'd back On the whole of the track He had traversed; a thick cloud, uncommonly black, At this moment obscured the broad disc of the moon, And did not seem likely to pa.s.s away soon; While clearer and clearer, 'Twas plain to the hearer, Be the noise what it might, it drew nearer and nearer, And sounded, as Pryce to this moment declares, Very much "like a coffin a-walking up stairs."

Mr. Pryce had begun To "make up" for a run, As in such a companion he saw no great fun, When a single bright ray Shone out on the way He had pa.s.sed, and he saw, with no little dismay, Coming after him, bounding o'er crag and o'er rock, The deceased Mrs. Winifred's "Grandmother's Clock!!"

'Twas so!--it had certainly moved from its place, And come, lumbering on thus, to hold him in chase; 'Twas the very same Head, and the very same Case, And nothing was altered at all--but the Face!

In that he perceived, with no little surprise, The two little winder-holes turn'd into eyes Blazing with ire, Like two coals of fire; And the "Name of the Maker" was changed to a Lip, And the Hands to a Nose with a very red tip, No!--he could not mistake it,--'twas SHE to the life!

The identical face of his poor defunct Wife!

One glance was enough Completely "Quant. suff."