The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe Part 39

In Thibet once there reign'd, we're told, A little Lama, one year old-- Raised to the throne, that realm to bless, Just when his little Holiness Had cut--as near as can be reckoned-- Some say his FIRST tooth, some his SECOND, Chronologers and verses vary, Which proves historians should be wary We only know the important truth-- His Majesty HAD cut a tooth.

And much his subjects were enchanted, As well all Lamas' subjects may be, And would have given their heads, if wanted, To make tee-totums for the baby As he was there by Eight Divine (What lawyers call Jure Divino Meaning a right to yours and mine, And everybody's goods and rhino)-- Of course his faithful subjects' purses Were ready with their aids and succors-- Nothing was seen but pension'd nurses, And the land groan'd with bibs and tuckers.

Oh! had there been a Hume or Bennet Then sitting in the Thibet Senate, Ye G.o.ds, what room for long debates Upon the Nursery Estimates!

What cutting down of swaddling-clothes And pin-a-fores, in nightly battles!

What calls for papers to expose The waste of sugar-plums and rattles?

But no--if Thibet NAD M.P.s, They were far better bred than these, Nor gave the slightest opposition, During the Monarch's whole dent.i.tion.

But short this calm; for, just when he Had reach'd the alarming age of three, When royal natures--and, no doubt Those of ALL n.o.ble beasts--break out, The Lama, who till then was quiet, Show'd symptoms of a taste for riot; And, ripe for mischief, early, late, Without regard for Church or State, Made free with whosoe'er came nigh-- Tweak'd the Lord Chancellor by the nose, Turn'd all the Judges' wigs awry, And trod on the old General's toes-- Pelted the Bishops with hot buns, Rode c.o.c.k-horse on the city maces, And shot, from little devilish guns, Hard peas into his subjects' faces.

In short, such wicked pranks he play'd, And grew so mischievous (G.o.d bless him!) That his chief Nurse--though with the aid Of an Archbishop--was afraid, When in these moods, to comb or dress him; And even the persons most inclined For Kings, through thick and thin, to stickle, Thought him (if they'd but speak their mind Which they did NOT) an odious pickle.

At length, some patriot lords--a breed Of animals they have in Thibet, Extremely rare, and fit, indeed, For folks like Pidc.o.c.k to exhibit-- Some patriot lords, seeing the length To which things went, combined their strength, And penn'd a manly, plain and free Remonstrance to the Nursery; In which, protesting that they yielded, To none, that ever went before 'em-- In loyalty to him who wielded The hereditary pap-spoon o'er 'em--That, as for treason, 't was a thing That made them almost sick to think of-- That they and theirs stood by the King, Throughout his measles and his chin-cough,

When others, thinking him consumptive, Had ratted to the heir Presumptive!-- But still--though much admiring kings (And chiefly those in leading-strings)-- They saw, with shame and grief of soul, There was no longer now the wise And const.i.tutional control Of BIRCH before their ruler's eyes; But that, of late, such pranks and tricks, And freaks occurr'd the whole day long, As all, but men with bishoprics, Allow'd, even in a King, were wrong-- Wherefore it was they humbly pray'd That Honorable Nursery, That such reforms be henceforth made, As all good men desired to see;-- In other words (lest they might seem Too tedious) as the gentlest scheme For putting all such pranks to rest, And in its bud the mischief nipping-- They ventured humbly to suggest His Majesty should have a whipping!

When this was read--no Congreve rocket Discharged into the Gallic trenches, E'er equall'd the tremendous shock it Produc'd upon the Nursery Benches.

The Bishops, who, of course had votes, By right of age and petticoats, Were first and foremost in the fuss-- "What, whip a Lama!--suffer birch To touch his sacred---infamous!

Deistical!--a.s.sailing thus The fundamentals of the Church!

No--no--such patriot plans as these (So help them Heaven--and their sees!) They held to be rank blasphemies."

The alarm thus given, by these and other Grave ladies of the Nursery side, Spread through the land, till, such a pother Such party squabbles, far and wide, Never in history's page had been Recorded, as were then between The Whippers and Non-whippers seen.

Till, things arriving at a state Which gave some fears of revolution, The patriot lords' advice, though late, Was put at last in execution.

The Parliament of Thibet met-- The little Lama call'd before it, Did, then and there, his whipping get,And (as the Nursery Gazette a.s.sures us) like a hero bore it.

And though 'mong Thibet Tories, some Lament that Royal MartyrDom (Please to observe, the letter D In this last word's p.r.o.nounced like B), Yet to the example of that Prince So much is Thibet's land a debtor, 'Tis said her little Lamas since Have all behaved themselves MUCH better.

ETERNAL LONDON.

THOMAS MOORE.

And is there then no earthly place Where we can rest, in dream Elysian, Without some cursed, round English face, Popping up near, to break the vision!

'Mid northern lakes, 'mid southern vines, Unholy cits we're doom'd to meet; Nor highest Alps nor Appenines Are sacred from Threadneedle-street.

If up the Simplon's path we wind, Fancying we leave this world behind, Such pleasant sounds salute one's ear As--"Baddish news from 'Change, my dear-- The Funds--(phew, curse this ugly hill!) Are lowering fast--(what! higher still?)-- And--(zooks, we're mounting up to Heaven!)-- Will soon be down to sixty-seven,"

Go where we may--rest where we will, Eternal London haunts us still, The trash of Almack's or Fleet-Ditch-- And scarce a pin's head difference WHICH-- Mixes, though even to Greece we run, With every rill from Helicon!

And if this rage for traveling lasts, If c.o.c.kneys of all sets and castes, Old maidens, aldermen, and squires, WILL leave their puddings and coal fires, To gape at things in foreign lands No soul among them understands-- If Blues desert their coteries, To show off 'mong the Wahabees--- If neither s.e.x nor age controls, Nor fear of Mamelukes forbids Young ladies, with pink parasols, To glide among the Pyramids-- Why, then, farewell all hope to find A spot that's free from London-kind!

Who knows, if to the West we roam, But we may find some Blue "at home"

Among the BLACKS of Carolina-- Or, flying to the eastward, see Some Mrs. HOPKINS, taking tea And toast upon the Wall of China.

OF FACTOTUM NED.

THOMAS MOORE.

Here lies Factotum Ned at last: Long as he breath'd the vital air, Nothing throughout all Europe pa.s.s'd In which he hadn't some small share.

Whoe'er was IN, whoe'er was OUT-- Whatever statesmen did or said-- If not exactly brought about, Was all, at least, contrived by Ned.

With NAP if Russia went to war, 'Twas owing, under Providence, To certain hints Ned gave the Czar-- (Vide his pamphlet--price six pence).

If France was beat at Waterloo-- As all, but Frenchmen, think she was-- To Ned, as Wellington well knew, Was owing half that day's applause.

Then for his news--no envoy's bag E'er pa.s.s'd so many secrets through it-- Scarcely a telegraph could wag Its wooden finger, but Ned knew it.

Such tales he had of foreign plots, With foreign names one's ear to buzz in-- From Russia chefs and ofs in lots, From Poland owskis by the dozen.

When GEORGE, alarm'd for England's creed, Turn'd out the last Whig ministry, And men ask'd--who advised the deed?

Ned modestly confess'd 'twas he.

For though, by some unlucky miss, He had not downright SEEN the King, He sent such hints through Viscount THIS, To Marquis THAT, as clench'd the thing.

The same it was in science, arts, The drama, books, MS. and printed-- Kean learn'd from Ned his cleverest parts, And Scott's last work by him was hinted.

Childe Harold in the proofs he read, And, here and there, infused some soul in 't-- Nay, Davy's lamp, till seen by Ned, Had--odd enough--a dangerous hole in't.

'Twas thus, all doing and all knowing, Wit, statesman, boxer, chemist, singer, Whatever was the best pie going, In THAT Ned--trust him--had his finger.

LETTERS FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE AT PARIS TO MISS DOROTHY--IN IRELAND THOMAS MOORE.

What a time since I wrote!--I'm a sad naughty girl-- Though, like a tee-totum, I'm all in a twirl, Yet even (as you wittily say) a tee-totum Between all its twirls gives a LETTER to note 'em.

But, Lord, such a place! and then, Dolly, my dresses, My gowns, so divine!--there's no language expresses, Except just the TWO words "superbe," "magmfique,"

The tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs of that which I had home last week!

It is call'd--I forget--a la--something which sounded Like alicampane--but, in truth, I'm confounded And bother'd, my dear, 'twixt that troublesome boy's (Bob's) cookery language, and Madame Le Roi's: What with fillets of roses, and fillets of veal, Things garni with lace, and things garni with eel, One's hair, and one's cutlets both en papillote, And a thousand more things I shall ne'er have by rote, I can scarce tell the difference, at least as to phrase, Between beef a la Psyche and curls a la braise.-- But, in short, dear, I'm trick'd out quite a la Francaise, With my bonnet--so beautiful!--high up and poking, Like things that are put to keep chimneys from smoking.

Where SHALL I begin with the endless delights Of this Eden of milliners, monkeys, and sights-- This dear busy place, where there's nothing transacting, But dressing and dinnering, dancing and acting?

Imprimis, the Opera--mercy, my ears!

Brother Bobby's remark t'other night was a true one "This MUST be the music," said he, "of the SPEARS, For I'm curst if each note of it doesn't run through one!"

Pa says (and you know, love, his book's to make out), 'T was the Jacobins brought every mischief about; That this pa.s.sion for roaring has come in of late, Since the rabble all tried for a VOICE in the State.

What a frightful idea, one's mind to o'erwhelm!

What a chorus, dear Dolly, would soon be let loose of it!

If, when of age, every man in the realm Had a voice like old Lais, and chose to make use of it!

No--never was known in this riotous sphere Such a breach of the peace as their singing, my dear; So bad, too, you'd swear that the G.o.d of both arts, Of Music and Physic, had taken a frolic For setting a loud fit of asthma in parts, And composing a fine rumbling base to a cholic!

But, the dancing--ah parlez moi, Dolly, des ca-- There, indeed, is a treat that charms all but Papa.

Such beauty--such grace--oh ye sylphs of romance!

Fly, fly to t.i.tania, and ask her if SHE has One light-footed nymph in her train, that can dance Like divine Bigottini and sweet f.a.n.n.y Bias!

f.a.n.n.y Bias in Flora--dear creature!--you'd swear, When her delicate feet in the dance twinkle round, That her steps are of light, that her home is the air, And she only par complaisance touches the ground.

And when Bigottini in Psyche dishevels Her black flowing hair, and by demons is driven, Oh! who does not envy those rude little devils, That hold her, and hug her, and keep her from heaven?

Then, the music--so softly its cadences die, So divinely--oh, Dolly! between you and I, It's as well for my peace that there's n.o.body nigh To make love to me then--YOU'VE a soul, and can judge What a crisis 't would be for your friend Biddy Fudge!

The next place (which Bobby has near lost his heart in), They call it the Play-house--I think--of Saint Martin: Quite charming--and VERY religious--what folly To say that the French are not pious, dear Dolly, When here one beholds, so correctly and rightly, The Testament turn'd into melo-drames nightly And, doubtless, so fond they're of scriptural facts, They will soon get the Pentateuch up in five acts.

Here Daniel, in pantomime, bids bold defiance To Nebuchadnezzar and all his stuff'd lions, While pretty young Israelites dance round the Prophet, In very thin clothing, and BUT little of it;-- Here Begrand, who shines in this scriptural path, As the lovely Susanna, without even a relic Of drapery round her, comes out of the Bath In a manner, that, Bob says, is quite EVE-ANGELIC!