The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe Part 81

[Ill.u.s.tration: Lowell]

THE HUSBAND'S PEt.i.tION.

WILLIAM AYTOUN.

Come hither, my heart's darling, Come, sit upon my knee, And listen, while I whisper, A boon I ask of thee.

You need not pull my whiskers So amorously, my dove; 'Tis something quite apart from The gentle cares of love.

I feel a bitter craving-- A dark and deep desire, That glows beneath my bosom Like coals of kindled fire.

The pa.s.sion of the nightingale, When singing to the rose, Is feebler than the agony That murders my repose!

Nay, dearest! do not doubt me, Though madly thus I speak-- I feel thy arms about me, Thy tresses on my cheek: I know the sweet devotion That links thy heart with mine-- I know my soul's emotion Is doubly felt by thine:

And deem not that a shadow Hath fallen across my love: No, sweet, my love is shadowless, As yonder heaven above.

These little taper fingers-- Ah! Jane, how white they be!-- Can well supply the cruel want That almost maddens me.

Thou wilt not sure deny me My first and fond request; I pray thee, by the memory Of all we cherish best-- By all the dear remembrance Of those delicicious days, When, hand in hand, we wandered Along the summer braes:

By all we felt, unspoken, When 'neath the early moon, We sat beside the rivulet, In the leafy month of June; And by the broken whisper, That fell upon my ear, More sweet than angel-music, When first I woo'd thee, dear!

By that great vow which bound thee Forever to my side, And by the ring that made thee My darling and my bride!

Thou wilt not fail nor falter, But bend thee to the task-- A BOILED SHEEP'S HEAD ON SUNDAY Is all the boon I ask.

THE BITER BIT.

WILLIAM AYTOUN.

The sun is in the sky, mother, the flowers are springing fair, And the melody of woodland birds is stirring in the air; The river, smiling to the sky, glides onward to the sea, And happiness is everywhere, oh, mother, but with me!

They are going to the church, mother--I hear the marriage bell It booms along the upland--oh! it haunts me like a knell; He leads her on his arm, mother, he cheers her faltering step, And closely to his side she clings--she does, the demirep!

They are crossing by the stile, mother, where we so oft have stood, The stile beside the shady thorn, at the corner of the wood; And the boughs, that wont to murmur back the words that won my ear, Wave their silver branches o'er him, as he leads his bridal fere.

He will pa.s.s beside the stream, mother, where first my hand he pressed, By the meadow where, with quivering lip, his pa.s.sion he confessed; And down the hedgerows where we've strayed again and yet again; But he will not think of me, mother, his broken-hearted Jane!

He said that I was proud, mother, that I looked for rank and gold, He said I did not love him--he said my words were cold; He said I kept him off and on, in hopes of higher game-- And it may be that I did, mother; but who hasn't done the same?

I did not know my heart, mother--I know it now too late; I thought that I without a pang could wed some n.o.bler mate; But no n.o.bler suitor sought me--and he has taken wing, And my heart is gone, and I am left a lone and blighted thing.

You may lay me in my bed, mother--my head is throbbing sore; And, mother, prithee, let the sheets be duly aired before; And, if you'd please, my mother dear, your poor desponding child, Draw me a pot of beer, mother, and, mother, draw it mild!

A MIDNIGHT MEDITATION.

BY SIR E------- B------- L-------.

WILLIAM AYTOUN

Fill me once more the foaming pewter up!

Another board of oysters, ladye mine!

To-night Lucullus with himself shall sup.

These mute inglorious Miltons are divine; And as I here in slippered ease recline, Quaffing of Perkins' Entire my fill, I sigh not for the lymph of Aganippe's rill.

A n.o.bler inspiration fires my brain, Caught from Old England's fine time-hallowed drink, I s.n.a.t.c.h the pot again and yet again, And as the foaming fluids shrink and shrink, Fill me once more, I say, up to the brink!

This makes strong hearts--strong heads attest its charm-- This nerves the might that sleeps in Britain's brawny arm!

But these remarks are neither here nor there.

Where was I? Oh, I see--old Southey's dead!

They'll want some bard to fill the vacant chair, And drain the annual b.u.t.t--and oh, what head More fit with laurel to be garlanded Than this, which, curled in many a fragrant coil, Breathes of Castalia's streams, and best Maca.s.sar oil?

I know a grace is seated on my brow, Like young Apollo's with his golden beams; There should Apollo's bays be budding now: And in my flashing eyes the radiance beams That marks the poet in his waking dreams.

When as his fancies cl.u.s.ter thick and thicker, He feels the trance divine of poesy and liquor.

They throng around me now, those things of air, That from my fancy took their being's stamp: There Pelham sits and twirls his glossy hair, There Clifford leads his pals upon the tramp; Their pale Zanoni, bending o'er his lamp, Roams through the starry wilderness of thought, Where all is every thing, and every thing is naught.

Yes, I am he, who sung how Aram won The gentle ear of pensive Madeline!

How love and murder hand in hand may run, Cemented by philosophy serene, And kisses bless the spot where gore has been!

Who breathed the melting sentiment of crime, And for the a.s.sa.s.sin waked a sympathy sublime!

Yes, I am he, who on the novel shed Obscure philosophy's enchanting light!

Until the public, wildered as they read, Believed they saw that which was not in sight-- Of course 'twas not for me to set them right; For in my nether heart convinced I am, Philosophy's as good as any other bam.

Novels three-volumed I shall write no more-- Somehow or other now they will not sell; And to invent new pa.s.sions is a bore-- I find the Magazines pay quite as well.

Translating's simple, too, as I can tell, Who've hawked at Schiller on his lyric throne, And given the astonished bard a meaning all my own.

Moore, Campbell, Wordsworth, their best days are gra.s.sed, Battered and broken are their early lyres.

Rogers, a pleasant memory of the past, Warmed his young hands at Smithfield's martyr fires, And, worth a plum, nor bays, nor b.u.t.t desires.

But these are things would suit me to the letter, For though this Stout is good, old Sherry's greatly better.

A fice for your small poetic ravers, Your Hunts, your Tennysons, your Milnes, and these!

Shall they compete with him who wrote "Maltravers,"

Prologue to "Alice or the Mysteries?"

No! Even now, my glance prophetic sees My own high brow girt with the bays about.

What ho, within there, ho! another pint of STOUT!

THE DIRGE OF THE DRINKER.

BY W------ E------ A------, ESQ.

WILLIAM AYTOUN.

Brothers, spare awhile your liquor, lay your final tumbler down; He has dropp'd--that star of honor--on the field of his renown!

Raise the wail, but raise it softly, lowly bending on your knees, If you find it more convenient, you may hiccup if you please.

Sons of Pantagruel, gently let your hip-hurraing sink, Be your manly accents clouded, half with sorrow, half with drink!

Lightly to the sofa pillow lift his head from off the floor; See how calm he sleeps, unconscious as the deadest nail in door!

Widely o'er the earth I've wander'd; where the drink most freely flow'd, I have ever reel'd the foremost, foremost to the beaker strode.