The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe Part 65

Not so thy Perryan Pens!

True to their M's and N's, They do not with a whizzing zig-zag split, Straddle, turn up their noses, sulk, and spit, Or drop large dots, Hugh full-stop blots, Where even semicolons were unfit.

They will not frizzle up, or, broom-like, drudge In sable sludge-- Nay, bought at proper "Patent Perryan" shops, They write good grammar, sense, and mind their stops Compose both prose and verse, the sad and merry-- For when the editor, whose pains compile The grown-up Annual, or the Juvenile, Vaunteth his articles, not women's, men's, But lays "by the most celebrated Pens,"

What means he but thy Patent Pens, my Perry?

Pleasant they are to feel!

So firm! so flexible! composed of steel So finely tempered--fit for tenderest Miss To give her pa.s.sion breath, Or kings to sign the warrant stern of death-- But their supremest merit still is this, Write with them all your days, Tragedy, Comedy, all kinds of plays-- (No dramatist should ever be without 'em)-- And, just conceive the bliss-- There is so little of the goose about 'em, One's safe from any hiss!

Ah! who can paint that first great awful night, Big with a blessing or a blight, When the poor dramatist, all fume and fret, Fuss, fidget, fancy, fever, funking, fright, Ferment, fault-fearing, faintness--more f's yet: Flushed, frigid, flurried, flinching, fitful, flat, Add famished, fuddled, and fatigued, to that, Funeral, fate-foreboding--sits in doubt, Or rather doubt with hope, a wretched marriage To see his play upon the stage come out; No stage to him! it is Thalia's carriage, And he is sitting on the spikes behind it, Striving to look as if he didn't mind it!

Witness how Beazley vents upon his hat His nervousness, meanwhile his fate is dealt He kneads, molds, pummels it, and sits it flat, Squeezes and twists it up, until the felt, That went a beaver in, comes out a rat!

Miss Mitford had mis-givings, and in fright, Upon Rienzi's night, Gnawed up one long kid glove, and all her bag, Quite to a rag.

Knowles has confessed he trembled as for life, Afraid of his own "Wife;"

Poole told me that he felt a monstrous pail Of water backing him, all down his spine-- "The ice-brook's temper"--pleasant to the chine!

For fear that Simpson and his Co. should fail.

Did Lord Glengall not frame a mental prayer, Wishing devoutly he was Lord knows where?

Nay, did not Jerrold, in enormous drouth, While doubtful of Nell Gwynne's eventful luck, Squeeze out and suck More oranges with his one fevered mouth Than Nelly had to hawk from north to south?

Yea, Buckstone, changing color like a mullet, Refused, on an occasion, once, twice, thrice, From his best friend, an ice, Lest it should hiss in his own red-hot gullet.

Doth punning Peake not sit upon the points Of his own jokes, and shake in all his joints, During their trial?

'Tis past denial.

And does not Poc.o.c.k, feeling, like a peac.o.c.k, All eyes upon him, turn to very meac.o.c.k?

And does not Planche, tremulous and blank, Meanwhile his personages tread the boards, Seem goaded by sharp swords, And called upon himself to "walk the plank?"

As for the Dances, Charles and George to boot, What have they more Of ease and rest, for sole of either foot, Than bear that capers on a hotted floor!

Thus pending--does not Matthews, at sad shift For voice, croak like a frog in waters fenny?-- Serle seem upon the surly seas adrift?-- And Kenny think he's going to Kilkenny?-- Haynes Bayly feel Old ditto, with the note Of Cotton in his ear, a mortal grapple About his arms, and Adam's apple Big as a fine Dutch codling in his throat?

Did Rodwell, on his chimney-piece, desire Or not to take a jump into the fire?

Did Wade feel as composed as music can?

And was not Bernard his own Nervous Man?

Lastly, don't Farley, a bewildered elf, Quake at the Pantomime he loves to cater, And ere its changes ring transform himself?

A frightful mug of human delf?

A spirit-bottle--empty of "the cratur"?

A leaden-platter ready for the shelf?

A thunderstruck dumb-waiter?

To clench the fact, Myself, once guilty of one small rash act, Committed at the Surrey, Quite in a hurry, Felt all this flurry, Corporal worry, And spiritual scurry, Dram-devil--attic curry!

All going well, From prompter's bell, Until befell A hissing at some dull imperfect dunce-- There's no denying I felt in all four elements at once!

My head was swimming, while my arms were flying!

My legs for running--all the rest was frying!

Thrice welcome, then, for this peculiar use, Thy pens so innocent of goose!

For this shall dramatists, when they make merry, Discarding port and sherry, Drink--"Perry!"

Perry, whose fame, pennated, is let loose To distant lands, Perry, admitted on all hands, Text, running, German, Roman, For Patent Perryans approached by no man!

And when, ah me! far distant be the hour!

Pluto shall call thee to his gloomy bower, Many shall be thy pensive mourners, many!

And Penury itself shall club its penny To raise thy monument in lofty place, Higher than York's or any son of War; While time all meaner effigies shall bury, On due pentagonal base Shall stand the Parian, Perryan, periwigged Perry, Perched on the proudest peak of Penman Mawr!

A THEATRICAL CURIOSITY.

CRUIKSHANK'S OMNIBUS.

Once in a barn theatric, deep in Kent, A famed tragedian--one of tuneful tongue-- Appeared for that night only--'t was Charles Young.

As Rolla he. And as that Innocent, The Child of hapless Cora, on there went A smiling, fair-hair'd girl. She scarcely flung A shadow, as she walk'd the lamps among-- So light she seem'd, and so intelligent!

That child would Rolla bear to Cora's lap: s.n.a.t.c.hing the creature by her tiny gown, He plants her on his shoulder,--All, all clap!

While all with praise the Infant Wonder crown, She lisps in Rolla's ear,--"LOOK OUT, OLD CHAP, OR ELSE I'M BLOW'D IF YOU DON'T HAVE ME DOWN!"

SIDDONS AND HER MAID.

W. S. LANDOR

SIDDONS. I leave, and unreluctant, the repast; The herb of China is its crown at last.

Maiden! hast thou a thimble in thy gear?

MAID. Yes, missus, yes.

SIDDONS. Then, maiden, place it here, With penetrated, penetrating eyes.

MAID. Mine? missus! are they?

SIDDONS. Child! thou art unwise, Of needles', not of woman's eyes, I spake.

MAID. O dear me! missus, what a sad mistake!

SIDDONS. Now canst thou tell me what was that which led Athenian Theseus into labyrinth dread?

MAID. He never told me: I can't say, not I, Unless, mayhap, 't was curiosity.

SIDDENS. Fond maiden!

MAID. No, upon my conscience, madam!

If I was fond of 'em I might have had 'em.

SIDDENS. Avoid! avaunt! beshrew me! 'tis in vain That Shakspeare's language germinates again.

THE SECRET SORROW.

PUNCH

Oh! let me from the festive board To thee, my mother, flee; And be my secret sorrow shared By thee--by only thee!

In vain they spread the glitt'ring store, The rich repast, in vain; Let others seek enjoyment there, To me 'tis only pain.

There WAS a word of kind advice-- A whisper soft and low, But oh! that ONE resistless smile!

Alas! why was it so?

No blame, no blame, my mother dear.

Do I impute to YOU, But since I ate that currant tart I don't know what to do!

SONG FOR PUNCH DRINKERS.

AFTER SCHILLER.

PUNCH.