The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe Part 52

My aunt! my poor deluded aunt!

Her hair is almost gray; Why will she train that winter curl In such a spring-like way?

How can she lay her gla.s.ses down, And say she reads as well, When, through a double convex lens, She just makes out to spell?

Her father--grandpapa! forgive This erring lip its smiles-- Vowed she should make the finest girl Within a hundred miles; He sent her to a stylish school; 'T was in her thirteenth June; And with her, as the rules required, "Two towels and a spoon."

They braced my aunt against a board, To make her straight and tall; They laced her up, they starved her down, To make her light and small.

They pinched her feet, they singed her hair, They screwed it up with pins;-- O never mortal suffered more In penance for her sins.

So, when my precious aunt was done, My grandsire brought her back; (By daylight, lest some rabid youth Might follow on the track;) "Ah!" said my grandsire, as he shook Some powder in his pan, "What could this lovely creature do Against a desperate man!"

Alas! nor chariot, nor barouche, Nor bandit cavalcade, Tore from the trembling father's arms His all-accomplished maid.

For her how happy had it been!

And heaven had spared to me To see one sad, ungathered rose On my ancestral tree.

COMIC MISERIES.

JOHN G. SAXE.

My dear young friend, whose shining wit Sets all the room a-blaze, Don't think yourself a "happy dog,"

For all your merry ways; But learn to wear a sober phiz, Be stupid, if you can, It's such a very serious thing To be a funny man!

You're at an evening party, with A group of pleasant folks,-- You venture quietly to crack The least of little jokes,-- A lady doesn't catch the point, And begs you to explain-- Alas for one that drops a jest And takes it up again!

You're talking deep philosophy With very special force, To edify a clergyman With suitable discourse,-- You think you 've got him--when he calls A friend across the way, And begs you'll say that funny thing You said the other day!

You drop a pretty jeu-de-mot Into a neighbor's ears, Who likes to give you credit for The clever thing he hears, And so he hawks your jest about The old authentic one, Just breaking off the point of it, And leaving out the pun!

By sudden change in politics, Or sadder change in Polly, You, lose your love, or loaves, and fall A prey to melancholy, While every body marvels why Your mirth is under ban,-- They think your very grief "a joke,"

You're such a funny man!

You follow up a stylish card That bids you come and dine, And bring along your freshest wit (To pay for musty wine), You're looking very dismal, when My lady bounces in, And wonders what you're thinking of And why you don't begin!

You're telling to a knot of friends A fancy-tale of woes That cloud your matrimonial sky, And banish all repose-- A solemn lady overhears The story of your strife, And tells the town the pleasant news: You quarrel with your wife!

My dear young friend, whose shining wit Sets all the room a-blaze, Don't think yourself "a happy dog,"

For all your merry ways; But learn to wear a sober phiz, Be stupid, if you can, It's such a very serious thing To be a funny man!

IDEES NAPOLEONIENNES.

WILLIAM AYTOUN.

The impossibility of translating this now well-known expression (imperfectly rendered in a companion-work, "Ideas of Napoleonism"), will excuse the t.i.tle and burden of the present ballad being left in the original French.--TRANSLATOR.

Come, listen all who wish to learn How nations should be ruled, From one who from his youth has been In such-like matters school'd; From one who knows the art to please, Improve and govern men-- Eh bien! Ecoutez, aux Idees, Napoleoniennes!

To keep the mind intently fixed On number One alone-- To look to no one's interest, But push along your own, Without the slightest reference To how, or what, or when-- Eh bien! c'est la premiere Idee Napoleonienne.

To make a friend, and use him well, By which, of course, I mean To use him up--until he's drain'd Completely dry and clean Of all that makes him useful, and To kick him over then Without remorse--c'est une Idee Napoleonienne.

To sneak into a good man's house With sham credentials penn'd-- to sneak into his heart and trust, And seem his children's friend-- To learn his secrets, find out where He keeps his keys--and then To bone his spoons--c'est une Idee Napoleonienne.

To gain your point in view--to wade Through dirt, and slime, and blood-- To stoop to pick up what you want Through any depth of mud.

But always in the fire to thrust Some helpless cat's-paw, when Your chestnuts burn--c'est une Idee Napoleonienne.

To clutch and keep the lion's share-- To kill or drive away The wolves, that you upon the lambs May, unmolested, prey-- To keep a gang of jackals fierce To guard and stock your den, While you lie down--c'est une Idee Napoleonienne.

To bribe the base, to crush the good, And bring them to their knees-- To stick at nothing, or to stick At what or whom you please-- To stoop, to lie, to brag, to swear, Forswear, and swear again-- To rise--Ah! voia des Idees Napoleoniennes.

THE LAY OF THE LOVER'S FRIEND WILLIAM AYTOUN

Air--"The days we went a-gipsying."

I would all womankind were dead, Or banished o'er the sea; For they have been a bitter plague These last six weeks to me: It is not that I'm touched myself, For that I do not fear; No female face hath shown me grace For many a bygone year.

But 'tis the most infernal bore, Of all the bores I know, To have a friend who's lost his heart A short time ago.

Whene'er we steam it to Blackwall, Or down to Greenwich run, To quaff the pleasant cider cup, And feed on fish and fun; Or climb the slopes of Richmond Hill, To catch a breath of air: Then, for my sins, he straight begins To rave about his fair.

Oh, 'tis the most tremendous bore, Of all the bores I know, To have a friend who's lost his heart A short time ago.

In vain you pour into his ear Your own confiding grief; In vain you claim his sympathy, In vain you ask relief; In vain you try to rouse him by Joke, repartee, or quiz; His sole reply's a burning sigh, And "What a mind it is!"

O Lord! it is the greatest bore, Of all the bores I know, To have a friend who's lost his heart A short time ago.

I've heard her thoroughly described A hundred times, I'm sure; And all the while I've tried to smile, And patiently endure; He waxes, strong upon his pangs, And potters o'er his grog; And still I say, in a playful way-- "Why you're a lucky dog!"

But oh! it is the heaviest bore, Of all the bores I know, To have a friend who's lost his heart A short time ago.

I really wish he'd do like me When I was young and strong; I formed a pa.s.sion every week, But never kept it long.

But he has not the sportive mood-- That always rescued me, And so I would all women could Be banished o'er the sea.

For 'tis the most egregious bore, Of all the bores I know.

To have a friend who's lost his heart A short time ago.

PARODIES AND BURLESQUES

WINE.

JOHN GAY.

Nulla placere diu, nec vivere carmina possunt, Quae scribuntur aquae potoribus. HOR.