The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe Part 41

He insists upon MY going with him--how teasing!

This letter, however, dear DOLLY, shall lie Unseal'd in my drawer, that if any thing pleasing Occurs while I'm out, I may tell you--Good-by.

B. F.

Four o'clock.

Oh, DOLLY, dear DOLLY, I'm ruin'd forever-- I ne'er shall be happy again, DOLLY, never; To think of the wretch!--what a victim was _I_!

'Tis too much to endure--I shall die, I shall die!

My brain's in a fever--my pulses beat quick-- I shall die, or, at least, be exceedingly sick!

Oh what do you think? after all my romancing, My visions of glory, my sighing, my glancing, This Colonel--I scarce can commit it to paper-- This Colonel's no more than a vile linen-draper!!

'Tis true as I live--I had coax'd brother BOB so (You'll hardly make out what I'm writing, I sob so), For some little gift on my birth-day--September The thirtieth, dear, I'm eighteen, you remember-- That BOB to a shop kindly order'd the coach (Ah, little thought I who the shopman would prove), To bespeak me a few of those mouchoirs de poche, Which, in happier hours, I have sighed for, my love-- (The most beautiful things--two Napoleons the price-- And one's name in the corner embroidered so nice!) Well, with heart full of pleasure, I enter'd the shop, But--ye G.o.ds, what a phantom!--I thought I should drop-- There he stood, my dear DOLLY--no room for a doubt-- There, behind the vile counter, these eyes saw him stand, With a piece of French cambric before him roll'd out, And that horrid yard-measure upraised in his hand!

Oh--Papa all along knew the secret, 'tis clear-- 'T was a SHOPMAN he meant by a "Brandenburg," dear!

The man, whom I fondly had fancied a King, And when THAT too delightful illusion was past, As a hero had worship'd--vile treacherous thing-- To turn out but a low linen-draper at last!

My head swam round--the wretch smil'd, I believe, But his smiling, alas! could no longer deceive-- I fell back on BOB--my whole heart seem'd to wither, And, pale as a ghost, I was carried back hither!

I only remember that BOB, as I caught him, With cruel facetiousness said--"Curse the Kiddy, A staunch Revolutionist always I've thought him, But now I find out he's a COUNTER one, BIDDY!"

Only think, my dear creature, if this should be known To that saucy satirical thing, MISS MALONE!

What a story 't will be at Shandangen forever!

What laughs and what quizzing she'll have with the men!

It will spread through the country--and never, oh never Can BIDDY be seen at Kilrandy again!

Farewell--I shall do something desperate, I fear-- And ah! if my fate ever reaches your ear, One tear of compa.s.sion my DOLL will not grudge To her poor--broken-hearted--young friend, BIDDY FUDGE

Nota Bene,--I'm sure you will hear with delight, That we're going, all three, to see BRUNET to-night A laugh will revive me--and kind Mr. c.o.x (Do you know him?) has got us the Governor's box.

[Ill.u.s.tration: POPE.]

THE LITERARY LADY.

RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.

What motley cares Corilla's mind perplex, Whom maids and metaphors conspire to vex!

In studious dishabille behold her sit, A lettered gossip and a household wit; At once invoking, though for different views, Her G.o.ds, her cook, her milliner and muse.

Bound her strewed room a frippery chaos lies, A checkered wreck of notable and wise, Bills, books, caps, couplets, combs, a varied ma.s.s, Oppress the toilet and obscure the gla.s.s; Unfinished here an epigram is laid, And there a mantua-maker's bill unpaid.

There new-born plays foretaste the town's applause, There dormant patterns pine for future gauze.

A moral essay now is all her care, A satire next, and then a bill of fare.

A scene she now projects, and now a dish; Here Act the First, and here, Remove with Fish.

Now, while this eye in a fine frenzy rolls, That soberly casts up a bill for coals; Black pins and daggers in one leaf she sticks, And tears, and threads, and bowls, and thimbles mix.

NETLEY ABBEY.

[Footnote: A noted ruin, much frequented by pleasure-parties.]

R. HARRIS RARHAM

I saw thee, Netley, as the sun Across the western wave Was sinking slow, And a golden glow To thy roofless towers he gave; And the ivy sheen With its mantle of green That wrapt thy walls around, Shone lovehly bright In that glorious light, And I felt 't was holy ground.

Then I thought of the ancient time-- The days of thy monks of old,-- When to matin, and vesper, and compline chime, The loud Hosanna roll'd, And, thy courts and "long-drawn aisles" among, Swell'd the full tide of sacred song.

And then a vision pa.s.s'd Across my mental eye; And silver shrines, and shaven crowns, And delicate ladies, in bombazeen gowns, And long white vails, went by; Stiff, and staid, and solemn, and sad,-- --But one, methought, wink'd at the Gardener-lad!

Then came the Abbot, with miter and ring, And pastoral staff, and all that sort of thing, And a monk with a book, and a monk with a bell, And "dear linen souls,"

In clean linen stoles, Swinging their censers, and making a smell.-- And see where the Choir-master walks in the rear With front severe And brow austere, Now and then pinching a little boy's ear When he chants the responses too late or too soon, Or his Do, Re, Mi, Fa, Sol, La's not quite in tune.

(Then you know They'd a "movable Do,"

Not a fix'd one as now--and of course never knew How to set up a musical Hullah-baloo.) It was, in sooth, a comely sight, And I welcom'd the vision with pure delight.

But then "a change came o'er"

My spirit--a change of fear-- That gorgeous scene I beheld no more, But deep beneath the bas.e.m.e.nt floor A dungeon dark and drear!

And there was an ugly hole in the wall-- For an oven too big,--for a cellar too small!

And mortar and bricks All ready to fix, And I said, "Here's a Nun has been playing some tricks!-- That horrible hole!--it seems to say, 'I'm a grave that gapes for a living prey!'"

And my heart grew sick, and my brow grew sad-- And I thought of that wink at the Gardener-lad.

Ah me! ah me!--'tis sad to think That maiden's eye, which was made to wink, Should here be compelled to grow blear and blink, Or be closed for aye In this kind of way, Shut out forever from wholesome day, Wall'd up in a hole with never a c.h.i.n.k, No light,--no air,--no victuals,--no drink!-- And that maiden's lip, Which was made to sip, Should here grow wither'd and dry as a chip!

--That wandering glance and furtive kiss, Exceedingly naughty, and wrong, I wis, Should yet be considered so much amiss As to call for a sentence severe as this!-- And I said to myself, as I heard with a sigh The poor lone victim's stifled cry, "Well, I can't understand How any man's hand COULD wall up that hole in a Christian land!

Why, a Mussulman Turk Would recoil from the work, And though, when his ladies run after the fellows, he Stands not on trifles, if madden'd by jealousy, Its objects, I'm sure, would declare, could they speak, In their Georgian, Circa.s.sian, or Turkish, or Greek, 'When all's said and done, far better it was for us, Tied back to back And sewn up in a sack, To be pitch'd neck-and-heels from a boat in the Bosphorus!'

Oh! a saint 't would vex To think that the s.e.x Should be no better treated than Combe's double X!

Sure some one might run to the Abbess, and tell her A much better method of stocking her cellar."

If ever on polluted walls Heaven's right arm in vengeance falls,-- If e'er its justice wraps in flame The black abodes of sin and shame, That justice, in its own good time, Shall visit, for so foul a crime, Ope desolation's floodgate wide, And blast thee, Netley, in thy pride!

Lo where it comes!--the tempest lowers,-- It bursts on thy devoted towers; Ruthless Tudor's bloated form Rides on the blast, and guides the storm I hear the sacrilegious cry, "Down--with the nests, and the rooks will fly!"

Down! down they come--a fearful fall-- Arch, and pillar, and roof-tree, and all, Stained pane, and sculptured stone, There they lie on the greensward strown-- Moldering walls remain alone!

Shaven crown Bombazeen gown, Miter, and crosier, and all are flown!

And yet, fair Netley, as I gaze Upon that gray and moldering wall.

The glories of thy palmy days Its very stones recall!-- They "come like shadows, so depart"-- I see thee as thou wert--and art--

Sublime in ruin!--grand in woe!

Lone refuge of the owl and bat; No voice awakes thine echoes now!

No sound--good gracious!--what was that?

Was it the moan, The parting groan Of her who died forlorn and alone, Embedded in mortar, and bricks, and stone?-- Full and clear On my listening ear It comes--again--near and more near-- Why zooks! it's the popping of Ginger Beer --I rush to the door-- I tread the floor, By abbots and abbesses trodden before, In the good old chivalric days of yore, And what see I there?-- In a rush-bottom'd chair A hag surrounded by crockery-ware, Vending, in cups, to the credulous throng A nasty decoction miscall'd Souchong,-- And a squeaking fiddle and "wry-necked fife"

Are screeching away, for the life!--for the life!

Danced to by "All the World and his Wife."

Tag, Rag, and Bobtail, are capering there, Worse scene, I ween, than Bartlemy Fair!-- Two or three chimney-sweeps, two or three clowns, Playing at "pitch and toss," sport their "Browns,"

Two or three damsels, frank and free, Are ogling, and smiling, and sipping Bohea.

Parties below, and parties above, Some making tea, and some making love.

Then the "toot--toot--toot"

Of that vile demi-flute,-- The detestable din Of that cracked violin, And the odors of "Stout," and tobacco, and gin!

"--Dear me!" I exclaim'd, "what a place to be in!"

And I said to the person who drove my "shay"

(A very intelligent man, by the way), "This, all things considered, is rather too gay!

It don't suit my humor,--so take me away!

Dancing! and drinking!--cigar and song!

If not profanation, it's 'coming it strong,'

And I really consider it all very wrong.-- --Pray, to whom does this property now belong?"-- He paus'd, and said, Scratching his head, "Why I really DO think he's a little to blame, But I can't say I knows the gentleman's name!"

"Well--well!" quoth I, As I heaved a sigh, And a tear-drop fell from my twinkling eye, "My vastly good man, as I scarcely doubt That some day or other you'll find it out, Should he come in your way, Or ride in your 'shay'

(As perhaps he may), Be so good as to say That a Visitor whom you drove over one day, Was exceedingly angry, and very much scandalized, Finding these beautiful ruins so Vandalized, And thus of their owner to speak began, As he ordered you home in haste, No DOUBT HE'S A VERY RESPECTABLE MAN, But--'_I_ CAN'T SAY MUCH FOR HIS TASTE!'"