The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe Part 31

Hodge sought the fellow--found him--and begun: "P'rhaps, Master Razor rogue, to you 'tis fun, That people flay themselves out of their lives: You rascal! for an hour have I been grubbing, Giving my crying whiskers here a scrubbing, With razors just like oyster knives.

Sirrah! I tell you, you're a knave, To cry up razors that can't SHAVE."

"Friend," quoth the razor-man, "I'm not a knave.

As for the razors you have bought, Upon my soul I never thought That they would SHAVE."

"Not think they'd SHAVE!" quoth Hodge, with wond'ring eyes, And voice not much unlike an Indian yell; "What were they made for then, you dog?" he cries: "Made!" quoth the fellow, with a smile--"to SELL."

THE SAILOR BOY AT PRAYERS.

PETER PINDAR.

A great law Chief, whom G.o.d nor demon scares, Compelled to kneel and pray, who swore his prayers, The devil behind him pleased and grinning, Patting the angry lawyer on the shoulder, Declaring naught was ever bolder, Admiring such a novel mode of sinning:

Like this, a subject would be reckoned rare, Which proves what blood game infidels can dare; Which to my memory brings a fact, Which nothing but an English tar would act.

In ships of war, on Sunday's, prayers are given, For though so wicked, sailors think of heaven, Particularly in a storm, Where, if they find no brandy to get drunk, Their souls are in a miserable funk, Then vow they to th' Almighty to reform, If in His goodness only once, once more, He'll suffer them to clap a foot on sh.o.r.e.

In calms, indeed, or gentle airs, They ne'er on weekdays pester heaven with prayers For 'tis among the Jacks a common saying, "Where there's no danger, there's no need of praying."

One Sunday morning all were met To hear the parson preach and pray, All but a boy, who, willing to forget That prayers were handing out, had stolen away, And, thinking praying but a useless task, Had crawled to take a nap, into a cask.

The boy was soon found missing, and full soon The boatswain's cat, sagacious smelt him out, Gave him a clawing to some tune-- This cat's a cousin Germam to the Knout

"Come out, you skulking dog," the boatswain cried, "And save your d---d young sinful soul."

He then the moral-mending cat applied, And turned him like a badger from his hole

Sulky the boy marched on, and did not mind him, Altho' the boatswain flogging kept behind him "Flog," cried the boy, "flog--curse me, flog away-- I'll go--but mind--G--d d--n me if I'll PRAY."

BIENSEANCE PETER PINDAR.

There is a little moral thing in France, Called by the natives bienseance, Much are the English mob inclined to scout it, But rarely is Monsieur Canaille without it.

To bienseance 'tis tedious to incline, In many cases; To flatter, par example, keep smooth faces When kicked, or suffering grievous want of coin.

To vulgars, bienseance may seem an oddity-- I deem it a most portable commodity, A sort of magic wand, Which, if 'tis used with ingenuity, Although a utensil of much tenuity, In place of something solid, it will stand

For verily I've marveled times enow To see an Englishman, the ninny, Give people for their services a guinea, Which Frenchmen have rewarded with a bow.

Bows are a bit of bienseance Much practiced too in that same France Yet called by Quakers, children of inanity, But as they pay their court to people's vanity, Like rolling-pins they smooth where er they go The souls and faces of mankind like dough!

With some, indeed, may bienseance prevail To folly--see the under-written tale:

THE PEt.i.t MAITRE, AND THE MAN ON THE WHEEL

At Paris some time since, a murdering man, A German, and a most unlucky chap, Sad, stumbling at the threshold of his plan, Fell into Justice's strong trap

The bungler was condemned to grace the wheel, On which the dullest fibers learn to feel, His limbs secundum artem to be broke Amid ten thousand people, perhaps, or more; Whenever Monsieur Ketch applied a stroke, The culprit, like a bullock made a roar.

A flippant pet.i.t maitre skipping by, Stepped up to him and checked him for his cry-- "Bohl" quoth the German, "an't I 'pon de wheel?

D'ye tink my nerfs and bons can't feel?"

"Sir," quoth the beau, "don't, don't be in a pa.s.sion; I've naught to say about your situation; But making such a hideous noise in France, Fellow, is contrary to bienseance."

KINGS AND COURTIERS.

PETER PINDAR

How pleasant 'tis the courtier clan to see!

So prompt to drop to majesty the knee; To start, to run, to leap, to fly, And gambol in the royal eye; And, if expectant of some high employ, How kicks the heart against the ribs, for joy!

How rich the incense to the royal nose!

How liquidly the oil of flattery flows!

But should the monarch turn from sweet to sour, Which cometh oft to pa.s.s in half an hour, How altered instantly the courtier clan!

How faint! how pale! how woe-begone, and wan!

Thus Corydon, betrothed to Delia's charms, In fancy holds her ever in his arms: In maddening fancy, cheeks, eyes, lips devours; Plays with the ringlets that all flaxen flow In rich luxuriance o'er a breast of snow, And on that breast the soul of rapture pours.

Night, too, entrances--slumber brings the dream-- Gives to his lips his idol's sweetest kiss; Bids the wild heart, high panting, swell its stream, And deluge every nerve with bliss: But if his nymph unfortunately frowns, Sad, chapfallen, lo! he hangs himself or drowns!

Oh, try with bliss his moments to beguile: Strive not to make your sovereign frown--but smile: Sublime are royal nods--most precious things!-- Then, to be whistled to by kings!

To have him lean familiar on one's shoulder, Becoming thus the royal arm upholder, A heart of very stone must grow quite glad.

Oh! would some king so far himself demean, As on my shoulder but for once to lean, The excess of joy would nearly make me mad!

How on the honored garment I should dote, And think a glory blazed around the coat!

Blessed, I should make this coat my coat of arms, In fancy glittering with a thousand charms; And show my children's children o'er and o'er; "Here, babies," I should say, "with awe behold This coat--worth fifty times its weight in gold: This very, very coat your grandsire wore!

"Here"--pointing to the shoulder--I should say, "Here majesty's own hand so sacred lay"-- Then p'rhaps repeat some speech the king might utter; As--"Peter, how go sheep a score? what? what?

What's cheapest meat to make a bullock fat?

Hae? hae? what, what's the price of country b.u.t.ter?"

Then should I, strutting, give myself an air, And deem myself adorned with immortality: Then should I make the children, calf-like stare, And fancy grandfather a man of quality: And yet, not stopping here, with cheerful note, The muse should sing an ode upon the coat.

Poor lost America, high honors missing, Knows naught of smile, and nod, and sweet hand-kissing, Knows naught of golden promises of kings; Knows naught of coronets, and stars, and strings; In solitude the lovely rebel sighs!

But vainly drops the penitential tear-- Deaf as the adder to the woman's cries, We suffer not her wail to wound our ear: For food we bid her hopeless children prowl, And with the savage of the desert howl.

PRAYING FOR RAIN.

PETER PINDAR

How difficult, alas! to please mankind!

One or the other every moment MUTTERS: This wants an eastern, that a western, wind: A third, pet.i.tion for a southern, utters.

Some pray for rain, and some for frost and snow: How can Heaven suit ALL palates?--I don't know.

Good Lamb, the curate, much approved, Indeed by all his flock BELOVED, Was one dry summer begged to pray for rain.