The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe Part 5

There I was birched! there I was bred!

There like a little Adam fed From Learning's woeful tree!

The weary tasks I used to con!-- The hopeless leaves I wept upon!-- Most fruitful leaves to me!

The summoned cla.s.s!--the awful bow!-- I wonder who is master now And wholesome anguish sheds!

How many ushers now employs, How many maids to see the boys Have nothing in their heads!

And Mrs. S * * *?--Doth she abet (Like Pallas in the palor) yet Some favored two or three-- The little Crichtons of the hour, Her m.u.f.fin-medals that devour, And swill her prize--bohea?

Ay, there's the playground! there's the lime, Beneath whose shade in summer's prime So wildly I have read!-- Who sits there NOW, and skims the cream Of young Romance, and weaves a dream Of Love and Cottage-bread?

Who struts the Randall of the walk?

Who models tiny heads in chalk?

Who scoops the light canoe?

What early genius buds apace?

Where's Poynter? Harris? Bowers? Chase!

Hal Baylis? blithe Carew?

Alack! they're gone--a thousand ways!

And some are serving in "the Greys,"

And some have perished young!-- Jack Harris weds his second wife; Hal Baylis drives the WAYNE of life; And blithe Carew--is hung!

Grave Bowers teaches A B C To Savages at Owhyee; Poor Chase is with the worms!-- All are gone--the olden breed!-- New crops of mushroom boys succeeds, "And push us from our FORMS!"

Lo! where they scramble forth, and shout, And leap, and skip, and mob about, At play where we have played!

Some hop, some run (some fall), some twine Their crony arms; some in the shine, And some are in the shade!

Lo there what mixed conditions run!

The orphan lad; the widow's son; And Fortune's favored care-- The wealthy born, for whom she hath Macadamized the future path-- The nabob's pampered heir!

Some brightly starred--some evil born-- For honor some, and some for scorn-- For fair or foul renown!

Good, bad, indifferent--none they lack!

Look, here's a white, and there's a black!

And there's a creole brown!

Some laugh and sing, some mope and weep, And wish THEIR frugal sires would keep Their only sons at home;-- Some tease the future tense, and plan The full-grown doings of the man, And pant for years to come!

A foolish wish! There's one at hoop; And four at FIVES! and five who stoop The marble taw to speed!

And one that curvets in and out, Reining his fellow-cob about, Would I were in his STEED!

Yet he would gladly halt and drop That boyish harness off, to swop With this world's heavy van-- To toil, to tug. O little fool!

While thou can be a horse at school To wish to be a man!

Perchance thou deem'st it were a thing To wear a crown--to be a king!

And sleep on regal down!

Alas! thou know'st not kingly cares; Far happier is thy head that wears That hat without a crown!

And dost thou think that years acquire New added joys? Dost think thy sire More happy than his son?

That manhood's mirth?--O, go thy ways To Drury-lane when----PLAYS, And see how FORCED our fun!

Thy taws are brave!--thy tops are rare!-- OUR tops are spun with coils of care, Our DUMPS are no delight!-- The Elgin marbles are but tame, And 'tis at best a sorry game To fly the Muse's kite!

Our hearts are dough, our heels are lead, Our topmost joys fall dull and dead, Like b.a.l.l.s with no rebound!

And often with a faded eye We look behind, and send a sigh Toward that merry ground!

Then be contented. Thou hast got The most of heaven in thy young lot; There's sky-blue in thy cup!

Thou'lt find thy manhood all too fast-- Soon come, soon gone! and age at last A sorry BREAKING UP!

SCHOOL AND SCHOOL-FELLOWS.

W. MACKWORTH PRAED.

Twelve years ago I made a mock Of filthy trades and traffics: I wondered what they meant by stock; I wrote delightful sapphics: I knew the streets of Rome and Troy, I supped with fates and furies; Twelve years ago I was a boy, A happy boy at Drury's.

Twelve years ago!--how many a thought Of faded pains and pleasures, Those whispered syllables have brought From memory's h.o.a.rded treasures!

The fields, the forms, the beasts, the books.

The glories and disgraces, The voices of dear friends, the looks Of old familiar faces.

Where are my friends?--I am alone, No playmate shares my beaker-- Some lie beneath the church-yard stone, And some before the Speaker; And some compose a tragedy, And some compose a rondo; And some draw sword for liberty, And some draw pleas for John Doe.

Tom Mill was used to blacken eyes, Without the fear of sessions; Charles Medler loathed false quant.i.ties, As much as false professions; Now Mill keeps order in the land, A magistrate pedantic; And Medler's feet repose unscanned Beneath the wide Atlantic.

Wild Nick, whose oaths made such a din, Does Dr. Martext's duty; And Mullion, with that monstrous chin, Is married to a beauty; And Darrel studies, week by week, His Mant and not his Manton; And Ball, who was but poor at Greek, Is very rich at Canton.

And I am eight-and-twenty now-- The world's cold chain has bound me; And darker shades are on my brow, And sadder scenes around me: In Parliament I fill my seat, With many other noodles; And lay my head in Germyn-street, And sip my hock at Doodle's.

But often when the cares of life, Have set my temples aching, When visions haunt me of a wife, When duns await my waking, When Lady Jane is in a pet, Or Hobby in a hurry, When Captain Hazard wins a bet, Or Beauheu spoils a curry:

For hours and hours, I think and talk Of each remembered hobby: I long to lounge in Poet's Walk-- Or shiver in the lobby; I wish that I could run away From House, and court, and levee, Where bearded men appear to-day, Just Eton boys, grown heavy;

That I could bask in childhood's sun, And dance o'er childhood's roses; And find huge wealth in one pound one, Vast wit and broken noses; And pray Sir Giles at Datchet Lane, And call the milk-maids Houris; That I could be a boy again-- A happy boy at Drury's!

THE VICAR.

W. MACKWORTH PRAED

Some years ago, ere Time and Taste Had turned our parish topsy-turvy, When Darnel Park was Darnel Waste, And roads as little known as scurvy, The man who lost his way between St. Marys' Hill and Sandy Thicket, Was always shown across the Green, And guided to the Parson's Wicket.

Back flew the bolt of lisson lath; Fair Margaret in her tidy kirtle, Led the lorn traveler up the path, Through clean-clipped rows of box and myrtle: And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray, Upon the parlor steps collected, Wagged all their tails, and seemed to say, "Our master knows you; you're expected!"

Up rose the Reverend Doctor Brown, Up rose the Doctor's "winsome marrow;"

The lady lay her knitting down, Her husband clasped his ponderous Barrow; Whate'er the stranger's caste or creed, Pundit or papist, saint or sinner, He found a stable for his steed, And welcome for himself, and dinner.

If, when he reached his journey's end, And warmed himself in court or college, He had not gained an honest friend, And twenty curious sc.r.a.ps of knowledge:-- If he departed as he came, With no new light on love or liquor,-- Good sooth the traveler was to blame, And not the Vicarage, or the Vicar.

His talk was like a stream which runs With rapid change from rocks to roses; It slipped from politics to puns: It pa.s.sed from Mohammed to Moses: Beginning with the laws which keep The planets in their radiant courses, And ending with some precept deep For dressing eels or shoeing horses.