The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe Part 51

[Ill.u.s.tration: CHAUCER]

SELLING OFF AT THE OPERA HOUSE A POETICAL CATALOGUE.

PUNCH.

Lot One, The well-known village, with bridge, and church, and green, Of half a score divertiss.e.m.e.nts the well-remembered scene, Including six substantial planks, forming the eight-inch ridge On which the happy peasantry came dancing down the bridge.

Lot Two, A Sheet of Thunder. Lot Three, A Box of Peas Employed in sending storms of hail to rattle through the trees.

Lot Four, A Canvas Mossy Bank for Cupids to repose.

Lot Five, The old Stage Watering-pot, complete--except the nose.

Lot Six, The favorite Water-mill, used for Amina's dream, Complete, with practicable wheel, and painted canvas stream.

Lots Seven to Twelve, Some sundries--A Pair of Sylphide's Wings; Three dozen Druid's Dresses (one of them wanting strings).

Lots Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen--Three Services of Plate In real papier mache--all in a decent state; One of these services includes--its value to increase-- A full dessert, each plate of fruit forming a single piece.

Lot Seventeen, The Gilded Cup, from which Genarro quaffed, Mid loud applause, night after night, Lucrezia's poisoned draught.

Lots Eighteen, Nineteen, Twenty, Three rich White Satin Skirts, Lot Twenty-one, A set of six Swiss Peasants' Cotton Shirts.

Lot Twenty-two, The sheet that backed Mascaniello's tent.

Lot Twenty-three, The Long White Wig--in wool--of Bide-the-Bent.

Lots Twenty-three to Forty, The Fish--Soles, Cod, and Dace-- For pelting the Vice-regal Guard in Naples' Market-place.

Lot Forty-one, Vesuvius, rather the worse for wear.

Lots Forty-two to Fifty, Priests' Leggings--at per pair.

Lot Fifty-one, The well-known Throne, with canopy and seat, And plank in front, for courtiers to kneel at Sovereigns' feet.

Lot Fifty-two, A Royal Robe of Flannel, nearly white, Warranted equal to Cashmere--upon the stage at night-- With handsome ermine collar thrown elegantly back; The tails of twisted worsted--pale yellow, tipped with black.

Lots Fifty-three to Sixty, Some Jewellery rare-- The Crown of Semiramide--complete, with false back hair; The Order worn by Ferdinand, when he proceeds to fling His sword and medals at the feet of the astonished king.

Lot Sixty-one, The Bellows used in Cinderella's song.

Lot Sixty-two, A Doc.u.ment. Lot Sixty-three, A Gong.

Lots Sixty-four to Eighty, Of Wigs a large array, Beginning at the Druids down to the present day.

Lot Eighty-one, The Bedstead on which Amina falls.

Lots Eighty-two to Ninety, Some sets of Outer Walls.

Lot Ninety-one, The Furniture of a Grand Ducal Room, Including Chair and Table. Lot Ninety-two, A Tomb.

Lot Ninety-three, A set of Kilts. Lot Ninety-four, A Rill.

Lot Ninety-five, A Scroll, To form death-warrant, deed, or will.

Lot Ninety-six, An ample fall of best White Paper Snow.

Lot Ninety-seven, A Drinking-cup, brimmed with stout extra tow.

Lot Ninety-eight, A Set of Clouds, a Moon, to work on flat; Water with practicable boat. Lot Ninety-nine, A Hat.

Lot Hundred, Ma.s.sive Chandelier. Hundred and one, A Bower.

Hundred and two, A Canvas Grove. Hundred and three, A Tower.

Hundred and four, A Fountain. Hundred and five, Some Rocks.

Hundred and six, The Hood that hides the Prompter in his box.

WONDERS OF THE VICTORIAN AGE.

PUNCH.

Our gracious Queen--long may she fill her throne-- Has been to see Louis Napoleon.

The Majesty of England--bless her heart!-- Has cut her mutton with a Bonaparte; And Cousin Germans have survived the view Of Albert taking luncheon at St. Cloud.

In our young days we little thought to see Such legs stretched under such mahogany; That British Royalty would ever share At a French Palace, French Imperial fare: Nor eat--as we should have believed at school-- The croaking tenant of the marshy pool.

At the Trois Freres we had not feasted then, As we have since, and hope to do again.

This great event of course could not take place Without fit prodigies for such a case; The brazen pig-tail of King George the Third Thrice with a horizontal motion stirr'd, Then rose on end, and stood so all day long, Amid the cheers of an admiring throng.

In every lawyer's office Eldon shed From plaster nose three heavy drops of red.

Each Statue, too, of Pitt turn'd up the point Of its proboscis--was that out of joint?

While Charles James Fox's grinn'd from ear to ear, And Peel's emitted frequent cries of "Hear!"

TO THE PORTRAIT OF "A GENTLEMAN,"

IN THE ATHENAEUM GALLERY.

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

It may be so--perhaps thou hast A warm and loving heart; I will not blame thee for thy face, Poor devil as thou art.

That thing, thou fondly deem'st a nose, Unsightly though it be,-- In spite of all the cold world's scorn, It may be much to thee.

Those eyes,--among thine elder friends Perhaps they pa.s.s for blue;-- No matter,--if a man can see, What more have eyes to do?

Thy mouth--that fissure in thy face By something like a chin,-- May be a very useful place To put thy victual in.

I know thou hast a wife at home, I know thou hast a child, By that subdued, domestic smile Upon thy features mild.

That wife sits fearless by thy side, That cherub on thy knee; They do not shudder at thy looks, They do not shrink from thee.

Above thy mantel is a hook,-- A portrait once was there; It was thine only ornament,-- Alas! that hook is bare.

She begged thee not to let it go, She begged thee all in vain: She wept,--and breathed a trembling prayer To meet it safe again.

It was a bitter sight to see That picture torn away; It was a solemn thought to think What all her friends would say!

And often in her calmer hours, And in her happy dreams, Upon its long-deserted hook The absent portrait seems.

Thy wretched infant turns his head In melancholy wise, And looks to meet the placid stare Of those unbending eyes.

I never saw thee, lovely one,-- Perchance I never may; It is not often that we cross Such people in our way;

But if we meet in distant years, Or on some foreign sh.o.r.e, Sure I can take my Bible oath I've seen that face before.

MY AUNT.

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

My aunt! my dear unmarried aunt!

Long years have o'er her flown; Yet still she strains the aching clasp That binds her virgin zone; I know it hurts her--though she looks As cheerful as she can; Her waist is ampler than her life, For life is but a span.