The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe Part 55

Tom, soon as e'er thou strik'st thy golden lyre, Thy brother Peter's muse is all on fire, To sing of kings and queens, and such rare folk Yet, 'midst thy heap of compliments so fine, Say, may we venture to believe a line?

You Oxford wits most dearly love a joke.

Son of the Nine, thou writest well on naught; Thy thundering stanza, and its pompous thought, I think, must put a dog into a laugh: Edward and Harry were much braver men Than this new-christened hero of thy pen.

Yes, laurelled Odeman, braver far by half;

Though on Blackheath and Wimbledon's wide plain, George keeps his hat off in a shower of rain; Sees swords and bayonets without a dread, Nor at a volley winks, nor ducks his head:

Although at grand reviews he seems so blest, And leaves at six o'clock his downy nest, Dead to the charms of blanket, wife, and bolster; Unlike his officers, who, fond of cramming, And at reviews afraid of thirst and famine, With bread and cheese and brandy fill their holsters.

Sure, Tom, we should do justice to Queen Bess: His present majesty, whom Heaven long bless With wisdom, wit, and art of choicest quality, Will never get, I fear, so fine a niche As that old queen, though often called old b--ch, In fame's colossal house of immortality.

As for John Dryden's Charles--that king Indeed was never any mighty thing; He merited few honors from the pen: And yet he was a devilish hearty fellow, Enjoyed his beef, and bottle, and got mellow, And mind--kept company with GENTLEMEN:

For, like some kings, in hobby grooms, Knights of the manger, curry-combs, and brooms, Lost to all glory, Charles did not delight-- Nor joked by day with pages, servant-maids, Large, red-polled, blowzy, hard two-handed jades: Indeed I know not what Charles did by night.

Thomas, I AM of CANDOR a GREAT lover; In short, I'm candor's self all over; Sweet as a candied cake from top to toe; Make it a rule that Virtue shall be praised, And humble Merit from the ground be raised: What thinkest thou of Peter now?

Thou cryest "Oh! how false! behold thy king, Of whom thou scarcely say'st a handsome thing; That king has virtues that should make thee stare."

Is it so?--Then the sin's in me-- 'Tis my vile optics that can't see; Then pray for them when next thou sayest a prayer.

But, p'rhaps aloft on his imperial throne, So distant, O ye G.o.ds! from every one, The royal virtues are like many a star, From this our pigmy system rather far: Whose light, though flying ever since creation, Has not yet pitched upon our nation.

[Footnote: Such was the sublime opinion of the Dutch astronomer, Huygens]

Then may the royal ray be soon explored-- And Thomas, if thou'lt swear thou art not humming, I'll take my spying-gla.s.s and bring thee word The instant I behold it coming.

But, Thomas Warton, without joking, Art thou, or art thou not, thy sovereign smoking?

How canst thou seriously declare, That George the Third With Cressy's Edward can compare, Or Harry?--'Tis too bad, upon my word: George is a clever king, I needs must own, And cuts a jolly figure on the throne.

Now thou exclaim'st, "G.o.d rot it! Peter, pray What to the devil shall I sing or say?"

I'll tell thee what to say, O tuneful Tom: Sing how a monarch, when his son was dying, His gracious eyes and ears was edifying, By abbey company and kettle drum: Leaving that son to death and the physician, Between two fires-a forlorn-hope condition; Two poachers, who make man their game, And, special marksmen! seldom miss their aim.

Say, though the monarch did not see his son, He kept aloof through fatherly affection; Determined nothing should be done, To bring on useless tears, and dismal recollection.

For what can tears avail, and piteous sighs?

Death heeds not howls nor dripping eyes; And what are sighs and tears but wind and water, That show the leakiness of feeble nature?

Tom, with my simile thou wilt not quarrel; Like air and any sort of drink, Whizzing and oozing through each c.h.i.n.k, That proves the weakness of the barrel.

Say--for the prince, when wet was every eye, And thousands poured to heaven the pitying sigh Devout; Say how a King, unable to dissemble, Ordered Dame Siddons to his house, and Kemble, To spout:

Gave them ice creams and wines, so dear!

Denied till then a thimble full of beer; For which they've thanked the author of this meter, Videlicet, the moral mender, Peter Who, in his Ode on Ode, did dare exclaim, And call such royal avarice, a shame.

Say--but I'll teach thee how to make an ode; Thus shall thy labors visit fame's abode, In company with my immortal lay; And look, Tom--thus I fire away--

BIRTH-DAY ODE.

This day, this very day, gave birth, Not to the brightest monarch upon earth, Because there are some brighter and as big; Who love the arts that man exalt to heaven, George loves them also, when they're given To four-legged Gentry, christened dog and pig.*

Whose deeds in this our wonder-hunting nation Prove what a charming thing is education.

*[Footnote: The dancing dogs and wise pig have formed a considerable part of the royal amus.e.m.e.nt.]

Full of the art of brewing beer, The monarch heard of Mr. Whitbread's fame: Quoth he unto the queen "My dear, my dear, Whitbread hath got a marvelous great name; Charly, we must, must, must see Whitbread brew-- Rich as us, Charly, richer than a Jew: Shame, shame, we have not yet his brewhouse seen!"

Thus sweetly said the king unto the queen!

Red-hot with novelty's delightful rage, To Mr. Whitbread forth he sent a page, To say that majesty proposed to view, With thirst of wondrous knowledge deep inflamed, His vats, and tubs, and hops, and hogsheads famed, And learn the n.o.ble secret how to brew.

Of such undreamt-of honor proud, Meet reverently the brewer bowed; So humbly (so the humble story goes,) He touched even terra firma with his nose;

Then said unto the page, hight Billy Ramus, "Happy are we that our great king should name us, As worthy unto majesty to show, How we poor Chiswell people brew."

Away sprung Billy Ramus quick as thought, To majesty tha welcome tidings brought, How Whitbread, staring, stood like any stake, And trembled--then the civil things he said-- On which the king did smile and nod his head: For monarchs like to see their subjects quake:

Such horrors unto kings most pleasant are, Proclaiming reverence and humility: High thoughts, too, all those shaking fits declare Of kingly grandeur and great capability!

People of worship, wealth, and birth, Look on the humbler sons of earth, Indeed in a most humble light, G.o.d knows!

High stations are like Dover's towering cliffs, Where ships below appear like little skiffs, While people walking on the strand like crows.

Muse, sing the stir that Mr. Whitbread made; Poor gentleman! most terribly afraid He should not charm enough his guests divine: He gave his maids new ap.r.o.ns, gowns and smocks; And lo! two hundred pounds were spent in frocks, To make the apprentices and draymen fine:

Busy as horses in a field of clover, Dogs, cats, and chairs, and stools, were tumbled over, Amid the Whitbread rout of preparation, To treat the lofty ruler of the nation.

Now moved king, queen, and princesses so grand, To visit the first brewer in the land; Who sometimes swills his beer and grinds his meat In a snug corner christened Chiswell-street; But oftener charmed with fashionable air, Amid the gaudy great of Portman-square.

Lord Aylesbury, and Denbigh's Lord ALSO, His grace the Duke of Montague LIKEWISE.

With Lady Harcourt joined the raree-show, And fixed all Smithfield's marveling eyes: For lo! a greater show ne'er graced those quarters, Since Mary roasted, just like crabs, the martyrs.

Arrived, the king broad grinned, and gave a nod To smiling Whitbread, who, had G.o.d Come with his angels to behold his beer, With more respect he never could have met-- Indeed the man was in a sweat, So much the brewer did the king revere.

Her majesty contrived to make a dip: Light as a feather then the king did skip, And asked a thousand questions, with a laugh, Before poor Whitbread comprehended half.

Reader, my Ode should have a simile-- Well, in Jamaica, on a tamarind tree, Five hundred parrots, gabbling just like Jews, I've seen--such noise the feathered imps did make, As made my very pericranium ache-- Asking and telling parrot news:

Thus was the brewhouse filled with gabbling noise, Whilst draymen and the brewer's boys, Devoured the questions that the king did ask: In different parties were they staring seen, Wondering to think they saw a king and queen!

Behind a tub were some, and some behind a cask.

Some draymen forced themselves (a pretty luncheon) Into the mouth of many a gaping puncheon; And through the bung-hole winked with curious eye, To view, and be a.s.sured what sort of things Were princesses, and queens, and kings, For whose most lofty station thousands sigh!

And lo! of all the gaping puncheon clan, Few were the mouths that had not got a man!

Now majesty into a pump so deep Did with an opera-gla.s.s so curious peep: Examining with care each wondrous matter That brought up water!

Thus have I seen a magpie in the street, A chattering bird we often meet, A bird for curiosity well known; With head awry, And cunning eye, Peep knowingly into a marrow-bone.

And now his curious majesty did stoop To count the nails on every hoop; And, lo! no single thing came in his way, That, full of deep research, he did not say, "What's this! hae, hae? what's that? what's this? what's that?"

So quick the words, too, when he deigned to speak, As if each syllable would break his neck.

Thus, to the world of GREAT whilst others crawl, Our sovereign peeps into the world of SMALL; Thus microscopic genuises explore Things that too oft provoke the public scorn, Yet swell of useful knowledges the store, By finding systems in a pepper-corn.

Now boasting Whitbread serious did declare, To make the majesty of England stare, That he had b.u.t.ts enough, he knew, Placed side by side, to reach along to Kew: On which the king with wonder swiftly cried, "What, if they reach to Kew then, side by side, What would they do, what, what, placed end to end?"