Chapter III: Preface (3)

That schooner, Bill, harn’t left the roads, with oranges and nuts!

MRS. F.

If seas have roads, they’re very rough--I never felt such ruts!

BOATMAN.

Its neap, ye see, she’s heavy lade, and couldn’t pass the bar.

MRS. F.

The bar! what, roads with turnpikes too? I wonder where they are!

BOATMAN.

Ho! brig ahoy! hard up! hard up! that lubber cannot steer!

MRS. F.

Yes, yes,--hard up upon a rock! I know some danger’s near!
Lord, there’s a wave! it’s coming in! and roaring like a bull!

BOATMAN.

Nothing, Ma’am, but a little slop! go large, Bill! keep her full!

MRS. F.

What, keep her full! what daring work! when full, she must go down!

BOATMAN.

Why, Bill, it lulls! ease off a bit--it’s coming off the town!
Steady your helm! we’ll clear the _Pint_! lay right for yonder pink!

MRS. F.

Be steady--well, I hope they can! but they’ve got a pint of drink!

BOATMAN.

Bill, give that sheet another haul--she’ll fetch it up this reach.

MRS. F.

I’m getting rather pale, I know, and they see it by that speech!
I wonder what it is, now, but--I never felt so queer!

BOATMAN.

Bill, mind your luff--why Bill, I say, she’s yawing--keep her near!

MRS. F.

Keep near! we’re going further off; the land’s behind our backs.

BOATMAN.

Be easy, Ma’am, it’s all correct, that’s only ‘cause we tacks:
We shall have to beat about a bit,--Bill, keep her out to sea.

MRS. F.

Beat who about? keep who at sea?--how black they look at me!

BOATMAN.

It’s veering round--I knew it would! oft with her head! stand by!

MRS. F.

Off with her head! whose? where? what with?--an axe I seem to spy!

BOATMAN.

She can’t not keep her own, you see; we shall have to pull her in!

MRS. F.

They’ll drown me, and take all I have! my life’s not worth a pin!

BOATMAN.

Look out you know, be ready, Bill--just when she takes the sand!

MRS. F.

The sand--O Lord! to stop my mouth! how every thing is plann’d!

BOATMAN.

The handspike, Bill--quick, bear a hand! now Ma’am, just step ashore!

MRS. F.

What! an’t I going to be kill’d--and welter’d in my gore?
Well, Heaven be praised! but I’ll not go a-sailing any more!

GOG AND MAGOG.

A GUILDHALL DUET.

MAGOG.

WHY, Gog, I say, it’s after One,
And yet no dinner carved;
Shall we endure this sort of fun,
And stand here to be starved?

GOG.

I really think our City Lords
Must be a shabby set;
I’ve stood here since King Charles’s time,
And had no dinner yet!

MAGOG.

I vow I can no longer stay;
I say, are we to dine to-day?

GOG.

My hunger would provoke a saint,
I’ve waited till I’m sick and faint;
I’ll tell you what, they’ll starve us both,
I’ll tell you what, they’ll stop our growth.

MAGOG.

I wish I had a round of beef
My hungry tooth to charm;
I’ve wind enough in my inside
To play the Hundredth Psalm.

GOG.

And yet they feast beneath our eyes
Without the least remorse;
This very week I saw the Mayor
A feeding like a horse!

MAGOG.

Such loads of fish, and flesh, and fowl,
To think upon it makes me growl!

GOG.

I wonder where the fools were taught,
That they should keep a giant short!
They’ll stop our growth, they’ll stop our growth;
They’ll starve us both, they’ll starve us both!

MAGOG.

They said, a hundred years ago,
That we should dine at One;
Why, Gog, I say, our meat by this
Is rather over-done.

GOG.

I do not want it done at all,
So hungry is my maw,
Give me an Alderman in chains,
And I will eat him raw!

MAGOG.

Of starving weavers they discuss,
And yet they never think of us.
I say, are we to dine to-day;
Are we to dine to-day?

GOG.

Oh dear, the pang it is to feel
So mealy-mouthed without a meal!

MAGOG.

I’ll tell you what, they’ll stop our growth!

GOG.

I’ll tell you what, they’ll starve us both!

BOTH.

They’ll stop our growth, they’ll starve us both!

THE SWEEP’S COMPLAINT.

“I like to meet a sweep--such as come forth with the dawn, or
somewhat earlier, with their little professional notes, sounding
like the _peep, peep_ of a young sparrow.”--ESSAYS OF ELIA.

----“A voice cried Sweep no more!
Macbeth hath murdered sweep.”--SHAKSPEARE.

One morning ere my usual time
I rose, about the seventh chime,
When little stunted boys that climb
Still linger in the street:
And as I walked, I saw indeed
A sample of the sooty breed,
Though he was rather run to seed,
In height about five feet.
A mongrel tint he seem’d to take,
Poetic simile to make,
DAY through his MARTIN ‘gan to break,
Quite overcoming jet.
From side to side he cross’d oblique,
Like Frenchman who has friends to seek,
And yet no English word can speak,
He walk’d upon the fret:
And while he sought the dingy job,
His lab’ring breast appear’d to throb
And half a hiccup half a sob
Betray’d internal woe.
To cry the cry he had by rote
He yearn’d, but law forbade the note,
Like Chanticleer with roupy throat,
He gaped--but not a crow!
I watch’d him, and the glimpse I snatch’d
Disclosed his sorry eyelids patch’d
With red, as if the soot had catch’d
That hung about the lid;
And soon I saw the tear-drop stray,
He did not care to brush away;
Thought I the cause he will betray--
And thus at last he did.

Well, here’s a pretty go! here’s a Gagging Act, if ever there was a gagging!
But I’m bound the members as silenced us, in doing it had plenty of magging.
They had better send us all off, they had, to the School for the Deaf and Dumb,
To unlarn us our mother tongues, and to make signs and be regularly mum.
But they can’t undo natur--as sure as ever the morning begins to peep,
Directly I open my eyes, I can’t help calling out Sweep
As natural as the sparrows among the chimbley-pots that say Cheep!
For my own part I find my suppress’d voice very uneasy,
And comparable to nothing but having your tissue stopt when you are sneezy.
Well, it’s all up with us! tho’ I suppose we mustn’t cry all up.
Here’s a precious merry Christmas, I’m blest if I can earn either bit or sup!
If crying Sweep, of mornings, is going beyond quietness’s border,
Them as pretends to be fond of silence oughtn’t to cry hear, hear, and
order, order.
I wonder Mr. Sutton, as we’ve sut-on too, don’t sympathise with us
As a Speaker what don’t speak, and that’s exactly our own cus.
God help us if we don’t not cry, how are we to pursue our callings?
I’m sure we’re not half so bad as other businesses with their bawlings.
For instance, the general postmen, that at six o’clock go about ringing,
And wake up all the babbies that their mothers have just got to sleep with
singing.
Greens oughtn’t to be cried no more than blacks--to do the unpartial job,
If they bring in a Sooty Bill, they ought to have brought in a Dusty Bob.
Is a dustman’s voice more sweet than ourn, when he comes a seeking arter the
cinders,
Instead of a little boy like a blackbird in spring, singing merrily under your
windows?
There’s the omnibus cads as plies in Cheapside, and keeps calling out Bank
and City;
Let his Worship, the Mayor, decide if our call of Sweep is not just as pretty.
I can’t see why the Jews should be let go about crying Old Close thro’ their
hooky noses,
And Christian laws should be ten times more hard than the old stone laws of Moses.
Why isn’t the mouths of the muffin-men compell’d to be equally shut?
Why, because Parliament members eat muffins, but they never eat no sut.
Next year there won’t be any May-day at all, we shan’t have no heart to dance,
And Jack in the Green will go in black like mourning for our mischance;
If we live as long as May, that’s to say, through the hard winter and pinching
weather,
For I don’t see how we’re to earn enough to keep body and soul together.
I only wish Mr. Wilberforce or some of them that pities the niggers,
Would take a peep down in our cellars, and look at our miserable starving figures,
A-sitting idle on our empty sacks, and all ready to eat each other,
And a brood of little ones crying for bread to a heart-breaking Father and Mother.
They haven’t a rag of clothes to mend, if their mothers had thread and needles,
But crawl naked about the cellars, poor things, like a swarm of common black
beadles.
If they’d only inquired before passing the Act and taken a few such peeps,
I don’t think that any real gentleman would have set his face against sweeps.
Climbin’s an ancient respectable art, and if History’s of any vally,
Was recommended by Queen Elizabeth to the great Sir Walter Raleigh,
When he wrote on a pane of glass how I’d climb, if the way I only knew,
And she writ beneath, if your heart’s afeard, don’t venture up the flue.
As for me I was always loyal, and respected all powers that are higher,
But how can I now say God save the King, if I an’t to be a Cryer?
There’s London milk, that’s one of the cries, even on Sunday the law allows,
But ought black sweeps, that are human beasts, to be worser off than black cows?
Do _we_ go calling about, when it’s church time, like the noisy Billingsgate
vermin,
And disturb the parson with “All alive O!” in the middle of a funeral sermon?
But the fish won’t keep, not the mackarel won’t, is the cry of the Parliament elves,
Every thing, except the sweeps I think, is to be allowed to keep themselves!
Lord help us! what’s to become of us if we mustn’t cry no more?
We shan’t do for black mutes to go a standing at a death’s door.
And we shan’t do to emigrate, no not even to the Hottentot nations,
For as time wears on, our black will wear off, and then think of our
situations!
And we should not do, in lieu of black-a-moor footmen, to serve ladies of
quality nimbly,
For when we’re drest in our sky-blue and silver, and large frills, all
clean and neat, and white silk stockings, if they pleased to desire
us to sweep the hearth, we couldn’t resist the chimbley.

THE CARELESSE NURSE MAYD.

I sawe a Mayd sitte on a Bank,
Beguiled by Wooer fayne and fond;
And whiles His flatterynge Vowes She drank,
Her Nurselynge slipt within a Pond!

All Even Tide they Talkde and Kist,
For She was fayre and He was Kinde;
The Sunne went down before She wist
Another Sonne had sett behinde!

With angrie Hands and frownynge Browe,
That deemed Her owne the Urchine’s Sinne,
She pluckt Him out, but he was nowe
Past being whipt for fallynge in.

She then begins to wayle the Ladde
With Shrikes that Echo answerde round--
O! foolishe Mayd to be soe sadde
The Momente that her Care was drownd!

JARVIS AND MRS. COPE.

A DECIDEDLY SERIOUS BALLAD.

In Bunhill Row, some years ago,
There lived one Mrs. Cope;
A pious woman she was call’d,
As Pius as a Pope.

Not pious in its proper sense,
But chatt’ring like a bird
Of sin and grace--in such a case
Mag-piety’s the word.

Cries she, “The Reverend Mr. Trigg
This day a text will broach,
And much I long to hear him preach,
So, Betty, call a coach.”

A bargain though she wish’d to make,
Ere they began to jog--
“Now, Coachman, what d’ye take me for?”
Says Coachman, “for a hog.”

But Jarvis, when he set her down,
A second _hog_ did lack--
Whereas she only offered him
One shilling and “a track.”

Said he, “There ain’t no tracks in Quaife,
You and your tracks be both--”

And, affidavit-like, he clench’d
Her shilling with an oath.

Said she, “I’ll have you fined for this,
And soon it shall be done,
I’ll have you up at Worship Street,
You wicked one, naught one!”

And sure enough at Worship Street
That Friday week they stood;
She said _bad_ language he had used,
And thus she “_made it good_.”

“He said two shilling was his fare,
And wouldn’t take no less--
I said one shilling was enough,--
And he said C--U--S!

“And when I raised my eyes at that,
He swore again at them,
I said he was a wicked man,
And he said D--A--M.”

Now Jarvy’s turn was come to speak,
So he stroked down his hair,
“All what she says is false--cause why?
I’ll swear I never swear!

“There’s old Joe Hatch, the waterman,
Can tell you what I am;
I’m one of seven children, all
Brought up without a Dam!

“He’ll say from two year old and less
Since ever I were nust,
If ever I said C--U--S,
I wish I may be cust!

“At Sion Cottage I takes up,
And raining all the while,
To go to New Jerusalem,
A wery long two mile.

“Well, when I axes for my fare,
She rows me in the street,
And uses words as is not fit
For coachmen to repeat!

“Says she,--I know where you will go,
You sinner! I know well,--
Your worship, it’s the P--I--T
Of E and double L;”

Now here his worship stopp’d the case--
Said he--I’ll fine you both!
And of the two--why Mrs. Cope’s
I think the biggest oath?”

A LAY OF REAL LIFE.

“Some are born with a wooden spoon in their mouths, and some with a golden ladle.”--GOLDSMITH.

“Some are born with tin rings in their noses, and some with silver ones.”--SILVERSMITH.

Who ruined me ere I was born,
Sold every acre, grass or corn,
And left the next heir all forlorn?
My Grandfather.

Who said my mother was no nurse,
And physicked me and made me worse,
Till infancy became a curse?
My Grandmother.

Who left me in my seventh year,
A comfort to my mother dear,
And Mr. Pope, the overseer?
My Father.

Who let me starve, to buy her gin,
Till all my bones came through my skin,
Then called me “ugly little sin?”
My Mother.

Who said my mother was a Turk,
And took me home--and made me work,
But managed half my meals to shirk?
My Aunt.

Who “of all earthly things” would boast,
“He hated other’s brats the most,”
And therefore made me feel my post?
My Uncle.

Who got in scrapes, an endless score,
And always laid them at my door,
Till many a bitter bang I bore?
My Cousin.

Who took me home when mother died,
Again with father to reside,
Black shoes, clean knives, run far and wide?
My Stepmother.

Who marred my stealthy urchin joys,
And when I played cried “What a noise!--
Girls always hector over boys--
My Sister.

Who used to share in what was mine,
Or took it all, did he incline,
‘Cause I was eight, and he was nine?
My Brother.

Who stroked my head, and said “Good lad,”
And gave me sixpence, “all he had;”
But at the stall the coin was bad?
My Godfather.

Who, gratis, shared my social glass,
But when misfortune came to pass,
Referr’d me to the pump? Alas!
My Friend.

Through all this weary world, in brief,
Who ever sympathised with grief,
Or shared my joy--my sole relief?
Myself.

THE LARK AND THE ROOK.

A FABLE.

“Lo! hear the gentle lark!”--SHAKESPEARE.

Once on a time--no matter where--
A lark took such a fancy to the air,
That though he often gazed beneath,
Watching the breezy down, or heath,
Yet very, very seldom he was found
To perch upon the ground.
Hour after hour,
Through ev’ry change of weather hard or soft,
Through sun and shade, and wind and show’r,
Still fluttering aloft;
In silence now, and now in song,
Up, up in cloudland all day long,
On weary wing, yet with unceasing flight,
Like to those Birds of Paradise, so rare,
Fabled to live, and love, and feed in air,
But never to alight.

It caused, of course, much speculation
Among the feather’d generation;
Who tried to guess the riddle that was in it--
The robin puzzled at it, and the wren,
The swallows, cock and hen,
The wagtail, and the linnet,
The yellowhammer, and the finch as well--
The sparrow ask’d the tit, who couldn’t tell,
The jay, the pie--but all were in the dark,
Till out of patience with the common doubt,
The Rook at last resolved to worm it out,
And thus accosted the mysterious Lark:--

“Friend, prithee, tell me why
You keep this constant hovering so high,
As if you had some castle in the air,
That you are always poising there,
A speck against the sky--
Neglectful of each old familiar feature
Of Earth that nursed you in your callow state--
You think you’re only soaring at heaven’s gate,
Whereas you’re flying in the face of Nature!”

“Friend,” said the Lark, with melancholy tone,
And in each little eye a dewdrop shone,
“No creature of my kind was ever fonder
Of that dear spot of earth
Which gave it birth--
And I was nestled in the furrow yonder!
Sweet is the twinkle of the dewy heath,
And sweet that thymy down I watch beneath,
Saluted often with a living sonnet:
But Men, vile Men, have spread so thick a scurf
Of dirt and infamy about the Turf,
I do not like to settle on it!”

MORAL.

Alas! how Nobles of another race
Appointed to the bright and lofty way
Too willingly descend to haunt a place
Polluted by the deeds of Birds of Prey!

A NOCTURNAL SKETCH.

Even is come; and from the dark Park, hark,
The signal of the setting sun--one gun!
And six is sounding from the chime, prime time
To go and see the Drury-Lane Dane slain,--
Or hear Othello’s jealous doubt spout out,--
Or Macbeth raving at that shade-made blade,
Denying to his frantic clutch much touch;--
Or else to see Ducrow with wide stride ride
Four horses as no other man can span;
Or in the small Olympic Pit, sit split
Laughing at Liston, while you quiz his phiz.

Anon Night comes, and with her wings brings things,
Such as, with his poetic tongue, Young sung;
The gas up-blazes with its bright white light,
And paralytic watchmen prowl, howl, growl,
About the streets and take up Pall-Mall Sal,
Who, hasting to her nightly jobs, robs fobs.

Now thieves to enter for your cash, smash, crash,
Past drowsy Charley, in a deep sleep, creep,
But frighten’d by Policeman B 3, flee,
And while they’re going, whisper low, “No go!”

Now puss, while folks are in their beds, treads leads,
And sleepers waking, grumble--“Drat that cat!”
Who in the gutter caterwauls, squalls, mauls
Some feline foe, and screams in shrill ill-will.

Now Bulls of Bashan, of a prize size, rise
In childish dreams, and with a roar gore poor
Georgy, or Charley, or Billy, willy-nilly;--
But Nursemaid in a nightmare rest, chest-press’d,
Dreameth of one of her old flames, James Games,

And that she hears--what faith is man’s--Ann’s banns
And his, from Reverend Mr. Rice, twice, thrice:
White ribbons flourish, and a stout shout out,
That upward goes, shows Rose knows those bows’ woes!

DOMESTIC ASIDES; OR, TRUTH IN PARENTHESES.

“I really take it very kind
This visit, Mrs. Skinner!
I have not seen you such an age--
(The wretch has come to dinner!)

“Your daughters, too, what loves of girls--
What heads for painters’ easels!
Come here and kiss the infant, dears,--
(And give it p’rhaps the measles!)

“Your charming boys I see are home
From Reverend Mr. Russel’s;
’Twas very kind to bring them both,--
(What boots for my new Brussels!)

“What! little Clara left at home?
Well, now, I call that shabby:
I should have loved to kiss her so,--
(A flabby, dabby babby!)

“And Mr. S., I hope he’s well;
Ah! though he lives so handy,
He never now drops in to sup,--
(The better for our brandy!)

“Come, take a seat--I long to hear
About Matilda’s marriage;
You’re come of course to spend the day!--
(Thank Heav’n, I hear the carriage!)

“What, must you go? next time I hope
You’ll give me longer measure;
Nay--I shall see you down the stairs--
(With most uncommon pleasure!)

“Good-bye! good-bye! remember all,
Next time you’ll take your dinners!
(Now, David, mind I’m not at home
In future to the Skinners!”)

JOHN DAY.

A PATHETIC BALLAD.

“A Day after the Fair.”--OLD PROVERB.

John Day he was the biggest man
Of all the coachman-kind,
With back too broad to be conceived
By any narrow mind.

The very horses knew his weight
When he was in the rear,
And wished his box a Christmas-box
To come but once a year.

Alas! against the shafts of love
What armour can prevail?
Soon Cupid sent an arrow through
His scarlet coat of mail.

The barmaid of the Crown he loved,
From whom he never ranged,
For tho’ he changed his horses there,
His love he never changed.

He thought her fairest of all fares,
So fondly love prefers;
And often, among twelve outsides,
Deemed no outside like hers.

One day as she was sitting down
Beside the porter-pump--
He came, and knelt with all his fat,
And made an offer plump.

Said she, my taste will never learn
To like so huge a man,
So I must beg you will come here
As little as you can.

But still he stoutly urged his suit,
With vows, and sighs, and tears,
Yet could not pierce her heart, altho’
He drove the Dart for years.

In vain he wooed, in vain he sued;
The maid was cold and proud,
And sent him off to Coventry,
While on his way to Stroud.

He fretted all the way to Stroud,
And thence all back to town;
The course of love was never smooth,
So his went up and down.

At last her coldness made him pine
To merely bones and skin;
But still he loved like one resolved
To love through thick and thin.

Oh, Mary, view my wasted back,
And see my dwindled calf;
Tho’ I have never had a wife,
I’ve lost my better half.

Alas, in vain he still assail’d
Her heart withstood the dint;
Though he had carried sixteen stone
He could not move a flint.

Worn out, at last he made a vow
To break his being’s link;
For he was so reduced in size
At nothing he could shrink.

Now some will talk in water’s praise
And waste a deal of breath,
But John, tho’ he drank nothing else--
He drank himself to death.

The cruel maid that caused his love,
Found out the fatal close,
For, looking in the butt, she saw
The butt-end of his woes.

Some say his spirit haunts the Crown,
But that is only talk--
For after riding all his life,
His ghost objects to walk.

NUMBER ONE.

VERSIFIED FROM THE PROSE OF A YOUNG LADY.

It’s very hard!--and so it is,
To live in such a row,
And witness this that every Miss
But me, has got a Beau.
For Love goes calling up and down,
But here he seems to shun;
I’m sure he has been asked enough
To call at Number One!

I’m sick of all the double knocks
That come to Number Four!
At Number Three, I often see
A Lover at the door:
And one in blue, at Number Two,
Calls daily like a dun,--
It’s very hard they come so near,
And not to Number One!

Miss Bell I hear has got a dear
Exactly to her mind,
By sitting at the window pane
Without a bit of blind;
But I go in the balcony,
Which she has never done,
Yet arts that thrive at Number Five
Don’t take at Number One!

’Tis hard with plenty in the street,
And plenty passing by,--
There’s nice young men at Number Ten,
But only rather shy;
And Mrs. Smith across the way
Has got a grown-up son,
But la! he hardly seems to know
There is a Number One!

There’s Mr. Wick at Number Nine,
But he’s intent on pelf,
And though he’s pious, will not love
His neighbour as himself.
At Number Seven there was a sale--
The goods had quite a run!
And here I’ve got my single lot
On hand at Number One!

My mother often sits at work
And talks of props and stays,
And what a comfort I shall be
In her declining days.
The very maids about the house
Have set me down a nun;
The sweethearts all belong to them
That call at Number One!

Once only when the flue took fire,
One Friday afternoon,
Young Mr. Long came kindly in
And told me not to swoon:
Why can’t he come again without
The Phœnix and the Sun!
We cannot always have a flue
On fire at Number One!

I am not old! I am not plain!
Nor awkward in my gait--
I am not crooked, like the bride
That went from Number Eight:
I’m sure white satin made her look
As brown as any bun--
But even beauty has no chance,
I think, at Number One!

At Number Six they say Miss Rose
Has slain a score of hearts,
And Cupid, for her sake, has been
Quite prodigal of darts.
The Imp they show with bended bow,
I wish he had a gun!
But if he had, he’d never deign
To shoot with Number One.

It’s very hard, and so it is,
To live in such a row!
And here’s a ballad singer come
To aggravate my woe.
Oh take away your foolish song
And tones enough to stun--
There is “Nae luck about the house,”
I know, at Number One!

THE DROWNING DUCKS.

Amongst the sights that Mrs. Bond
Enjoyed, yet grieved at more than others--
Were little ducklings in the pond,
Swimming about beside their mothers--
Small things like living water lilies,
But yellow as the daffo-_dillies_.

“It’s very hard,” she used to moan,
“That other people have their ducklings
To grace their waters--mine alone
Have never any pretty chucklings.”
For why!--each little yellow navy
Went down--all downy--to old Davy!

She had a lake--a pond I mean--
It’s wave was rather thick than pearly--
She had two ducks, their napes were green--
She had a drake, his tail was curly,--
Yet spite of drake, and ducks, and pond,
No little ducks had Mrs. Bond!

The birds were both the best of mothers--
The nests had eggs--the eggs had luck--
The infant D.’s came forth like others--
But there, alas! the matter stuck!
They might as well have all died addle,
As die when they began to paddle!

For when, as native instinct taught her,
The mother set her brood afloat,
They sank ere long right under water,
Like any overloaded boat;
They were web-footed too to see,
As ducks and spiders ought to be!

No peccant humour in a gander
Brought havoc on her little folks,--
No poaching cook--a frying pander
To appetite,--destroyed their yolks,--
Beneath her very eyes, Od’ rot ’em!
They went like plummets to the bottom.

The thing was strange--a contradiction
It seemed of nature and her works!
For little ducks, beyond conviction,
Should float without the help of corks:
Great Johnson it bewildered him!
To hear of chicks that could not swim.

Poor Mrs. Bond! what could she do
But change the breed--and she tried divers,
Which dived as all seemed born to do;
No little ones were e’er survivors--
Like those that copy gems, I’m thinking,
They all were given to die-sinking!

In vain their downy coats were shorn:
They floundered still;--Batch after batch went!
The little fools seemed only born
And hatched for nothing but a hatchment!
Whene’er they launched--oh sight of wonder!
Like fires the water “got them under!”

No woman ever gave their lucks
A better chance than Mrs. Bond did;
At last quite out of heart and ducks,
She gave her pond up and desponded;
For Death among the water lilies,
Cried “_Duc_ ad me,” to all her dillies.

But though resolved to breed no more,
She brooded often on this riddle--
Alas! twas darker than before!
At last, about the summer’s middle,
What Johnson, Mrs. Bond, or none did,
To clear the matter up the sun did!

The thirsty Sirius, dog-like, drank
So deep his furious tongue to cool,
The shallow waters sank and sank,
And lo, from out the wasted pool,
Too hot to hold them any longer,
There crawled some eels as big as conger!

I wish all folks would look a bit,
In such a case below the surface;
But when the eels were caught and split
By Mrs. Bond, just think of _her_ face,
In each inside at once to spy
A duckling turned to giblet pie!

The sight at once explained the case,
Making the Dame look rather silly,
The tenants of that _Eely Place_
Had found the way to _Pick a dilly_,
And so by under-water suction,
Had wrought the little ducks abduction.

DIBDIN MODERNIZED.

I _steamed_ from the Downs in the Nancy,
My jib how she _smoked_ through the breeze.
She’s a vessel as tight to my fancy
As ever _boil’d_ through the salt seas.

* * * * *

When up the _flue_ the sailor goes
And ventures on the _pot_,
The landsman, he no better knows,
But thinks hard is his lot.

Bold Jack with smiles each danger meets,
Weighs anchor, lights the log;
_Trims up the fire, picks out the slates_,
And drinks his can of grog.

* * * * *

Go patter to lubbers and swabs, do you see,
‘Bout danger, and fear, and the like;
But a _Boulton and Watt_ and good _Wall’s end_ give me;
And it an’t too a little I’ll strike.

Though the tempest our _chimney_ smack smooth shall down smite,
And shiver each _bundle_ of wood;
Clear the wreck, _stir the fire_, and stow everything tight,
And _boiling a gallop_ we’ll scud.

THE STORM

RE-WRITTEN.

Hark, the boatswain hoarsely bawling,
By shovel, tongues, and poker stand;
Down the scuttle quick be hauling,
Down your bellows, hand, boys, hand;
Now it freshens,--blow like blazes;
Now unto the coal-hole go;
Stir, boys, stir, don’t mind black faces,
Up your ashes nimbly throw.

Ply your bellows, raise the wind, boys,
See the valve is clear of course;
Let the paddles spin, don’t mind, boys,
Though the weather should be worse.
Fore and aft a proper draft get,
Oil the engines, see all clear;
Hands up, each a sack of coal get,
Man the boiler, cheer, lads, cheer.

Now the dreadful thunder’s roaring,
Peal on peal contending clash;
On our heads fierce rain falls pouring,
In our eyes the paddles splash.
One wide water all around us,
All above one smoke-black sky:
Different deaths at once surround us;
Hark! what means that dreadful cry?

The funnel’s gone! cries ev’ry tongue out,
The engineer’s washed off the deck;
A leak beneath the coal-hole’s sprung out
Call all hands to clear the wreck.
Quick, some coal, some nubbly pieces;
Come, my hearts, be stout and bold;
Plumb the boiler, speed decreases,
Four feet water getting cold.

While o’er the ship wild waves are beating,
We for wives or children mourn;
Alas! from hence there’s no retreating;
Alas! to them there’s no return.
The fire is out--we’ve burst the bellows,
The tinder-box is swamped below;
Heaven have mercy on poor fellows,
For only that can serve us now!

I’M NOT A SINGLE MAN.

“Double, single, and the rub.”--HOYLE.
“This, this is Solitude.”--BYRON.

I.

Well, I confess, I did not guess
A simple marriage vow
Would make me find all womenkind
Such unkind women now!
They need not, sure, as _distant_ be
As Javo or Japan,--
Yet every Miss reminds me this--
I’m not a single man!

II.

Once they made choice of my bass voice
To share in each duett;

So well I danced, I somehow chanced
To stand in every set:
They now declare I cannot sing,
And dance on Bruin’s plan;
Me draw!--me paint!--me anything!--
I’m not a single man!

III.

Once I was asked advice, and task’d
What works to buy or not,
And “would I read that passage out
I so admired in Scott?”
They then could bear to hear one read;
But if I now began,
How they would snub “My pretty page,”
I’m not a single man!

IV.

One used to stitch a collar then,
Another hemmed a frill;
I had more purses netted then
Than I could hope to fill.
I once could get a button on,
But now I never can--
My buttons then were Bachelor’s--
I’m not a single man!

V.

Oh how they hated politics
Thrust on me by papa:
But now my chat--they all leave that
To entertain mamma.
Mamma, who praises her own self,
Instead of Jane or Ann,
And lays “her girls” upon the shelf--
I’m not a single man!

VI.

Ah me, how strange it is the change,
In parlour and in hall!
They treat me so, if I but go
To make a morning call.
If they had hair in papers once,
Bolt up the stairs they ran;
They now sit still in dishabille--
I’m not a single man!

VII.

Miss Mary Bond was once so fond
Of Romans and of Greeks;
She daily sought my cabinet,
To study my antiques.
Well, now she doesn’t care a dump
For ancient pot or pan,
Her taste at once is modernised--
I’m not a single man!

VIII.

My spouse is fond of homely life,
And all that sort of thing;
I go to balls without my wife,
And never wear a ring:
And yet each Miss to whom I come,
As strange as Genghis Khan,
Knows by some sign, I can’t divine,--
I’m not a single man!

IX.

Go where I will, I but intrude;
I’m left in crowded rooms,
Like Zimmerman on Solitude,
Or Hervey at his tombs.
From head to heel, they make me feel
Of quite another clan;
Compelled to own, though left alone,
I’m not a single man!

X.

Miss Towne the toast, though she can boast
A nose of Roman line,
Will turn up even that in scorn
Of compliments of mine:
She should have seen that I have been
Her sex’s partisan,
And really married all I could--
I’m not a single man!

XI.

’Tis hard to see how others fare,
Whilst I rejected stand,--
Will no one take my arm because
They cannot have my hand?
Miss Parry, that for some would go
A trip to Hindostan,
With me don’t care to mount a stair--
I’m not a single man!

XII.

Some change, of course, should be in force
But, surely, not so much--
There may be hands I may not squeeze
But must I never touch?--
Must I forbear to hand a chair
And not pick up a fan?
But I have been myself picked up--
I’m not a single man!

XIII.

Others may hint a lady’s tint
Is purest red and white--
May say her eyes are like the skies,
So very blue and bright,--
_I_ must not say that she _has eyes_;
Or if I so began,
I have my fears about my ears,--
I’m not a single man!