Chapter XVIII: Part III (6)

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 suppressed 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 sympathize 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 heartbreaking Father and Mother. They havn'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. Climbing'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 ain'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 mackerel won't, is the cry of the Parliament elves, Everything, 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 were 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 DESERT-BORN[34]

"Fly to the desert, fly with me."--LADY HESTER STANHOPE.

[Footnote 34: For the purposes of his pun on "night-mare," Hood adroitly utilizes the story of the famous Lady Hester Stanhope, whom Kinglake, in his _Eothen_, first made familiar to so many of us. He there speaks of the "quiet women in Somersetshire," and their surprise when they learned that "the intrepid girl who used to break their vicious horses for them" was reigning over the wandering tribes of Western Asia!]

'Twas in the wilds of Lebanon, amongst its barren hills,-- To think upon it, even now, my very blood it chills!-- My sketch-book spread before me, and my pencil in my hand, I gazed upon the mountain range, the red tumultuous sand, The plumy palms, the sombre firs, the cedars tall and proud,-- When lo! a shadow pass'd across the paper like a cloud, And looking up I saw a form, apt figure for the scene, Methought I stood in presence of some oriental queen!

The turban on her head was white as any driven snow; A purple bandalette past o'er the lofty brow below, And thence upon her shoulders fell, by either jewell'd ear; In yellow folds voluminous she wore her long cachemere; Whilst underneath, with ample sleeves, a turkish robe of silk Enveloped her in drapery the color of new milk; Yet oft it floated wide in front, disclosing underneath A gorgeous Persian tunic, rich with many a broider'd wreath, Compelled by clasps of costly pearls around her neck to meet-- And yellow as the amber were the buskins on her feet! Of course I bowed my lowest bow--of all the things on earth, The reverence due to loveliness, to rank, or ancient birth, To pow'r, to wealth, to genius, or to anything uncommon, A man should bend the lowest in a _Desert_ to a _Woman_! Yet some strange influence stronger still, though vague and undefin'd, Compell'd me, and with magic might subdued my soul and mind; There was a something in her air that drew the spirit nigh, Beyond the common witchery that dwells in woman's eye! With reverence deep, like any slave of that peculiar land, I bowed my forehead to the earth, and kissed the arid sand; And then I touched her garment's hem, devoutly as a Dervise, Predestinated (so I felt) forever to her service.

Nor was I wrong in auguring thus my fortune from her face, She knew me, seemingly, as well as any of her race; "Welcome!" she cried, as I uprose submissive to my feet; "It was ordained that you and I should in this desert meet! Aye, ages since, before thy soul had burst its prison bars, This interview was promis'd in the language of the stars!" Then clapping, as the Easterns wont, her all-commanding hands, A score of mounted Arabs came fast spurring o'er the sands, Nor rein'd they up their foaming steeds till in my very face They blew the breath impetuous, and panting from the race. "Fear nought," exclaimed the radiant one, as I sprang off aloof, "Thy precious frame need never fear a blow from horse's hoof! Thy natal star was fortunate as any orb of birth, And fate hath held in store for thee the rarest gift of earth." Then turning to the dusky men, that humbly waited near, She cried, "Go bring the BEAUTIFUL--for lo! the MAN is here!"

Off went th' obsequious train as swift as Arab hoofs could flee, But Fancy fond outraced them all, with bridle loose and free, And brought me back, for love's attack, some fair Circassian bride, Or Georgian girl, the Harem's boast, and fit for sultan's side; Methought I lifted up her veil, and saw dark eyes beneath, Mild as gazelle's, a snowy brow, ripe lips, and pearly teeth, A swanlike neck, a shoulder round, full bosom, and a waist Not too compact, and rounded limbs, to oriental taste. Methought--but here, alas! alas! the airy dream to blight, Behold the Arabs leading up a mare of milky white! To tell the truth, without reserve, evasion, or remorse, The last of creatures in my love or liking is a horse: Whether in early youth some kick untimely laid me flat, Whether from born antipathy, as some dislike a cat, I never yet could bear the kind, from Meux's giant steeds Down to those little bearish cubs of Shetland's shaggy breeds;-- As for a warhorse, he that can bestride one _is_ a hero, Merely to look at such a sight my courage sinks to zero.

With lightning eyes, and thunder mane, and hurricanes of legs, Tempestuous tail--to picture him description vainly begs! His fiery nostrils send forth clouds of smoke instead of breath-- Nay, was it not a Horse that bore the grisly Shape of Death? Judge then how cold an ague-fit of agony was mine To see the mistress of my fate, imperious, make a sign To which my own foreboding soul the cruel sense supplied: "Mount, happy man, and _run away_ with your Arabian bride!"

Grim was the smile, and tremulous the voice with which I spoke, Like any one's when jesting with a subject not a joke, So men have trifled with the axe before the fatal stroke.

"Lady, if mine had been the luck in Yorkshire to be born, Or any of its _ridings_, this would be a blessed morn; But, hapless one! I cannot ride--there's something in a horse That I can always honor, but I never could endorse-- To speak still more commercially, in riding I am quite Averse to running long, and apt to be paid off at sight: In legal phrase, for every class to understand me still, I never was in stirrups yet a tenant but at will; Or, if you please, in artist terms, I never went a-straddle On any horse without 'a want of keeping' in the saddle. In short," and here I blush'd, abash'd and held my head full low, "I'm one of those whose infant ears have heard the chimes of Bow!"

The lady smiled, as houris smile, adown from Turkish skies, And beams of cruel kindness shone within her hazel eyes; "Stranger," she said, "or rather say, my nearest, dearest friend, There's something in your eyes, your air, and that high instep's bend, That tells me you're of Arab race,--whatever spot of earth, Cheapside, or Bow, or Stepney, had the honor of your birth, The East it is your country! Like an infant changed to nurse By fairies, you have undergone a nurtureship perverse; But this--these desert sands--these palms, and cedars waving wild, All, all, adopt thee as their own--an oriental child-- The cloud may hide the sun awhile--but soon or late, no doubt, The spirit of your ancestry will burst and sparkle out! I read the starry characters--and lo! 'tis written there, Thou wert foredoom'd of sons of men to ride upon this Mare, A Mare till now was never back'd by one of mortal mould, Hark, how she neighs, as if for thee she knew that she was foal'd!"

And truly--I devoutly wish'd a blast of the simoom Had stifled her!--the Mare herself appeared to mock my doom; With many a bound she caper'd round and round me like a dance, I feared indeed some wild caress would end the fearful prance, And felt myself, and saw myself--the phantasy was horrid!-- Like old Redgauntlet, with a shoe imprinted on my forehead! On bended knees, with bowing head, and hands uprais'd in pray'r, I begg'd the turban'd Sultaness the issue to forbear; I painted weeping orphan babes, around a widow'd wife, And drew my death as vividly as others draw from life; "Behold," I said, "a simple man, for such high feats unfit, Who never yet has learn'd to know the crupper from the bit, Whereas the boldest horsemanship, and first equestrian skill, Would well be task'd to bend so wild a creature to the will." Alas! alas! 'twas all in vain, to supplicate and kneel, The quadruped could not have been more cold to my appeal! "Fear nothing," said the smiling Fate, "when human help is vain, Spirits shall by thy stirrups fly, and fairies guide the rein; Just glance at yonder animal, her perfect shape remark, And in thy breast at once shall glow the oriental spark! As for thy spouse and tender babes, no Arab roams the wild But for a mare of such descent, would barter wife and child."

"Nay then," cried I--(heav'n shrive the lie!) "to tell the secret truth, 'Twas my unhappy fortune once to over-ride a youth! A playful child,--so full of life!--a little fair-haired boy, His sister's pet, his father's hope, his mother's darling joy! Ah me! the frantic shriek she gave! I hear it ringing now! That hour, upon the bloody spot, I made a holy vow; A solemn compact, deeply sworn, to witness my remorse, That never more these limbs of mine should mount on living horse!" Good Heav'n! to see the angry glance that flashed upon me now! A chill ran all my marrow through--the drops were on my brow! I knew my doom, and stole a glance at that accursed Mare, And there she stood, with nostrils wide, that snuff'd the sultry air. How lion-like she lash'd her flanks with her abundant tail; While on her neck the stormy mane kept tossing to the gale! How fearfully she roll'd her eyes between the earth and sky, As if in wild uncertainty to gallop or to fly! While with her hoof she scoop'd the sand as if before she gave My plunge into eternity she meant to dig my grave!

And I, that ne'er could calmly hear a horse's ears at play-- Or hear without a yard of jump his shrill and sudden neigh-- Whose foot within a stable-door had never stood an inch-- Whose hand to pat a living steed would feel an awful flinch,-- I that had never thrown a leg across a pony small, To scour the pathless desert on the tallest of the tall! For oh! it is no fable, but at ev'ry look I cast, Her restless legs seem'd twice as long as when I saw them last! In agony I shook,--and yet, although congealed by fears, My blood was boiling fast, to judge from noises in my ears; I gasp'd as if in vacuo, and thrilling with despair, Some secret Demon seem'd to pass his fingers through my hair.

I could not stir--I could not speak--I could not even see-- A sudden mist rose up between that awful Mare and me, I tried to pray, but found no words--tho' ready ripe to weep, No tear would flow,--o'er ev'ry sense a swoon began to creep,-- When lo! to bring my horrid fate at once unto the brunt, Two Arabs seized me from behind, two others in the front, And ere a muscle could be strung to try the strife forlorn, I found myself, Mazeppa-like, upon the Desert-Born!

Terrific was the neigh she gave, the moment that my weight Was felt upon my back, as if exulting in her freight; Whilst dolefully I heard a voice that set each nerve ajar,-- "Off with the bridle--quick!--and leave his guidance to his star!"

"Allah! il Allah!" rose the shout,--and starting with a bound, The dreadful Creature cleared at once a dozen yards of ground; And grasping at her mane with both my cold convulsive hands, Away we flew--away! away! across the shifting sands! My eyes were closed in utter dread of such a fearful race, But yet by certain signs I knew we went no earthly pace, For turn whichever way we might, the wind with equal force Rush'd like a horrid hurricane still adverse to our course-- One moment close at hand I heard the roaring Syrian Sea, The next is only murmur'd like the humming of a bee! And when I dared at last to glance across the wild immense, Oh ne'er shall I forget the whirl that met the dizzy sense!

What seem'd a little sprig of fern, ere lips could reckon twain, A palm of forty cubits high, we passed it on the plain! What tongue could tell,--what pencil paint,--what pen describe the ride? Now off--now on--now up--now down,--and flung from side to side! I tried to speak, but had no voice, to soothe her with its tone-- My scanty breath was jolted out with many a sudden groan-- My joints were racked--my back was strained, so firmly I had clung-- My nostrils gush'd, and thrice my teeth had bitten through my tongue-- When lo!--farewell all hope of life!--she turn'd and faced the rocks, None but a flying horse could clear those monstrous granite blocks! So thought I,--but I little knew the desert pride and fire, Deriv'd from a most deer-like dam, and lion-hearted sire; Little I guess'd the energy of muscle, blood, and bone, Bound after bound, with eager springs, she clear'd each massive stone;-- Nine mortal leaps were pass'd before a huge gray rock at length Stood planted there as if to dare her utmost pitch of strength-- My time was come! that granite heap my monument of death! She paused, she snorted loud and long, and drew a fuller breath; Nine strides and then a louder beat that warn'd me of her spring, I felt her rising in the air like eagle on the wing-- But oh! the crash!--the hideous shock!--the million sparks around! Her hindmost hoofs had struck the crest of that prodigious mound!

Wild shriek'd the headlong Desert-Born--or else 'twas demon's mirth, One second more, and Man and Mare roll'd breathless on the earth!

* * * * *

How long it was I cannot tell ere I revived to sense, And then but to endure the pangs of agony intense; For over me lay powerless, and still as any stone, The Corse that erst had so much fire, strength, spirit, of its own. My heart was still--my pulses stopp'd--midway 'twixt life and death, With pain unspeakable I fetch'd the fragment of a breath, Not vital air enough to frame one short and feeble sigh, Yet even that I loath'd because it would not let me die. Oh! slowly, slowly, slowly on, from starry night till morn, Time flapp'd along, with leaden wings, across that waste forlorn! I cursed the hour that brought me first within this world of strife-- A sore and heavy sin it is to scorn the gift of life-- But who hath felt a horse's weight oppress his laboring breast? Why, any who has had, like me, the NIGHT MARE on his chest.

AGRICULTURAL DISTRESS.

A PASTORAL REPORT.

One Sunday morning--service done-- 'Mongst tombstones shining in the sun, A knot of bumpkins stood to chat Of that and this, and this and that; What people said of Polly Hatch-- Which side had won the-cricket match; And who was cotch'd, and who was bowl'd;-- How barley, beans, and 'taters sold-- What men could swallow at a meal-- When Bumpstead Youths would ring a peal-- And who was taken off to jail-- And where they brew'd the strongest ale-- At last this question they address, "What's Agricultural Distress?"

HODGE.

"For my peart, it's a thought o' mine, It be the fancy farming line, Like yonder gemman,--him I mean, As took the Willa nigh the Green,-- And turn'd his cattle in the wheat; And gave his porkers hay to eat; And sent his footman up to town, To ax the Lonnon gentry down, To be so kind as make his hay, Exactly on St. Swithin's day;-- With consequences you may guess-- That's Hagricultural Distress."

DICKON.

"Last Monday morning, Master Blogg Com'd for to stick our bacon-hog; But th' hog he cock'd a knowing eye, As if he twigg'd the reason why, And dodg'd and dodg'd 'un such a dance, He didn't give the noose a chance; So Master Blogg at last lays off, And shams a rattle at the trough, When swish! in bolts our bacon-hog Atwixt the legs o' Master Blogg, And flops him down in all the muck, As hadn't been swept up by luck-- Now that, accordin' to my guess, Be Hagricultural Distress."

GILES.

"No, that arn't it, I tell 'ee flat; I'ze bring a worser case nor that!" "Last Friday week, I takes a start To Reading, with our horse and cart; Well, when I'ze set the 'taters down, I meets a crony at the Crown; And what betwixt the ale and Tom, It's dark afore I starts for home; So whipping hard, by long and late, At last we reaches nigh the gate, And, sure enough, there Master stand, A lantern flaring in his hand,-- 'Why, Giles,' says he, 'what's that 'un thear? Yond' chestnut horse bean't my bay mear! He bean't not worth a leg o' Bess!' There's Hagricultural Distress!"

HOB.

"That's nothin yet, to Tom's mishap! A-gooing through the yard, poor chap, Only to fetch his milking-pails, When up he shies like head or tails; Nor would the Bull let Tom a-be, Till he had toss'd the best o' three;-- And there lies Tom with broken bones, A surgeon's job for Doctor Jones; Well, Doctor Jones lays down the law, 'There's two crackt ribs, besides a jaw,-- Eat well,' says he, 'stuff out your case, For that will keep the ribs in place;' But how was Tom, poor chap, to chaw, Seeing as how he'd broke his jaw? That's summut to the pint--yes, yes, That's Hagricultural Distress!"

SIMON.

"Well, turn and turn about is fair: Tom's bad enough, and so's the mare; But nothing to my load of hay-- You see, 'twas hard on quarter-day, And cash was wanted for the rent; So up to Lonnon I was sent, To sell as prime a load of hay, As ever dried on summer's day.

"Well, standing in Whitechapel Road, A chap comes up to buy my load, And looks, and looks about the cart, Pretending to be 'cute and smart; But no great judge, as people say, 'Cause why? he never smelt the hay. Thinks I, as he's a simple chap, He'll give a simple price mayhap, Such buyers comes but now and then, So slap I axes nine pun' ten. 'That's dear,' says he, and pretty quick He taps his leathers with his stick. 'Suppose,' says he, 'we wet our clay, Just while we bargin 'bout the hay. So in we goes, my chap and me; He drinks to I, and I to he; At last, says I, a little gay, 'It's time to talk about that hay,' 'Nine pund,' says he, 'and I'm your man, Live, and let live--for that's my plan.' 'That's true,' says I, 'but still I say, It's nine pun' ten for that 'ere hay,' And so we chaffers for a bit, At long and last the odds we split; And off he sets to show the way, Where up a yard I leaves the hay. Then, from the pocket of his coat, He pulls a book, and picks a note. 'That's Ten,' says he--'I hope to pay Tens upon tens for loads of hay.' 'With all my heart, and soon,' says I, And feeling for the change thereby; But all my shillings com'd to five-- Says he, 'No matter, man alive! There's something in your honest phiz I'd trust, if twice the sum it is;-- You'll pay next time you come to town.' 'As sure,' says I, 'as corn is brown.' 'All right,' says he.--Thinks I 'huzza! He's got no bargain of the hay!'

"Well, home I goes, with empty cart, Whipping the horses pretty smart, And whistling ev'ry yard o' way, To think how well I'd sold the hay-- And just cotch'd Master at his greens And bacon, or it might be beans, Which didn't taste the worse sure_ly_, To hear his hay had gone so high. But lord! when I laid down the note, It stuck the victuals in his throat, And chok'd him till his face all grew Like pickling-cabbage, red and blue; With such big goggle eyes, Ods nails! They seem'd a-coming out like snails! 'A note,' says he, half mad with passion, 'Why, thou dom'd fool! thou'st took a flash 'un!' Now, wasn't that a pretty mess? That's Hagricultural Distress."

COLIN.

"Phoo! phoo! You're nothing near the thing! You only argy in a ring; 'Cause why? You never cares to look, Like me, in any larned book; But schollards know the wrong and right Of every thing in black and white.

"Well, Farming, that's its common name, And Agriculture be the same: So put your Farming first, and next Distress, and there you have your text. But here the question comes to press, What farming be, and what's distress? Why, farming is to plough and sow, Weed, harrow, harvest, reap, and mow, Thrash, winnow, sell,--and buy and breed The proper stock to fat and feed. Distress is want, and pain, and grief, And sickness,--things as wants relief; Thirst, hunger, age, and cold severe; In short, ax any overseer,-- Well, now, the logic for to chop, Where's the distress about a crop?"

"There's no distress in keeping sheep, I likes to see 'em frisk and leap; There's no distress in seeing swine Grow up to pork and bacon fine; There's no distress in growing wheat And grass for men or beasts to eat; And making of lean cattle fat, There's no distress, of course, in that. Then what remains?--But one thing more, And that's the _Farming of the Poor_!"

HODGE, DICKON, GILES, HOB, AND SIMON.

"Yea!--aye!--sure_ly_!--for sartin!--yes!-- _That's_ Hagricultural Distress!"

DOMESTIC POEMS.

"It's hame, hame, hame."--A. CUNNINGHAM.
"There's no place like home."--CLARI.

I. HYMENEAL RETROSPECTIONS.

O KATE! my dear Partner, through joy and through strife!
When I look back at Hymen's dear day,
Not a lovelier bride ever chang'd to a wife,
Though you're now so old, wizen'd, and gray!

Those eyes, then, were stars, shining rulers of fate!
But as liquid as stars in a pool;
Though now they're so dim, they appear, my dear Kate,
Just like gooseberries boil'd for a fool!

That brow was like marble, so smooth and so fair;
Though it's wrinkled so crookedly now,
As if time, when those furrows were made by the share,
Had been tipsy whilst driving his plough!

Your nose, it was such as the sculptors all chose,
When a Venus demanded their skill;
Though now it can hardly be reckon'd a nose,
But a sort of Poll-Parroty bill!

Your mouth, it was then quite a bait for the bees,
Such a nectar there hung on each lip;
Though now it has taken that lemon-like squeeze,
Not a blue-bottle comes for a sip!

Your chin, it was one of Love's favorite haunts,
From its dimple he could not get loose;
Though now the neat hand of a barber it wants,
Or a singe, like the breast of a goose!

How rich were those locks, so abundant and full,
With their ringlets of auburn so deep!
Though now they look only like frizzles of wool,
By a bramble torn off from a sheep!

That neck, not a swan could excel it in grace,
While in whiteness it vied with your arms;
Though now a grave 'kerchief you properly place,
To conceal that scrag-end of your charms!

Your figure was tall, then, and perfectly straight,
Though it now has two twists from upright--
But bless you! still bless you! my Partner! my Kate!
Though you be such a perfect old fright!

II.

The sun was slumbering in the West.
My daily labors past;
On Anna's soft and gentle breast
My head reclined at last;--
The darkness clos'd around, so dear
To fond congenial souls,
And thus she murmur'd at my ear,
"My love, we're out of coals!"

"That Mister Bond has call'd again,
Insisting on his rent;
And all the Todds are coming up
To see us, out of Kent;--
I quite forgot to tell you John
Has had a tipsy fall;--
I'm sure there's something going on
With that vile Mary Hall!--"

"Miss Bell has bought the sweetest silk,
And I have bought the rest--
Of course, if we go out of town,
Southend will be the best.--
I really think the Jones's house
Would be the thing for us;--
I think I told you Mrs. Pope
Had parted with her _nus_--

"Cook, by the way, came up to-day,
To bid me suit myself--
And what d'ye think? the rats have gnawed
The victuals on the shelf.--
And, lord! there's such a letter come,
Inviting you to fight!
Of course you don't intend to go--
God bless you, dear, good night!"

III. A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON, AGED THREE YEARS AND FIVE MONTHS.

Thou happy, happy elf!
(But stop,--first let me kiss away that tear)--
Thou tiny image of myself!
(My love, he's poking peas into his ear!)
Thou merry, laughing sprite!
With spirits feather-light,
Untouch'd by sorrow, and unsoil'd by sin--
(Good heav'ns! the child is swallowing a pin!)

Thou little tricksy Puck! With antic toys so funnily bestuck, Light as the singing bird that wings the air-- (The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!)

Thou darling of thy sire!
(Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore a-fire!)
Thou imp of mirth and joy!
In Love's dear chain so strong and bright a link,
Thou idol of thy parents--(Drat the boy!
There goes my ink!)

Thou cherub--but of earth;
Fit playfellow for Fays, by moonlight pale,
In harmless sport and mirth,
(That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail!)
Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey
From ev'ry blossom in the world that blows,
Singing in Youth's Elysium ever sunny,
(Another tumble!--that's his precious nose!)

Thy father's pride and hope!
(He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!)
With pure heart newly stamp'd from Nature's mint--
(Where _did_ he learn that squint?)
Thou young domestic dove!
(He'll have that jug off, with another shove!)
Dear nurseling of the hymeneal nest!
(Are those torn clothes his best?)
Little epitome of man!
(He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!)
Touch'd with the beauteous tints of dawning life--
(He's got a knife!)

Thou enviable being! No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing, Play on, play on, My elfin John! Toss the light ball--bestride the stick-- (I knew so many cakes would make him sick!) With fancies, buoyant as the thistle-down, Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk, With many a lamb-like frisk, (He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!) Thou pretty opening rose! (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!)

Balmy and breathing music like the South, (He really brings my heart into my mouth!) Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star,-- (I wish that window had an iron bar!) Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove,-- (I'll tell you what, my love, I cannot write, unless he's sent above!)

IV. A SERENADE.

"Lullaby, oh, lullaby!"
Thus I heard a father cry,
"Lullaby, oh, lullaby!"
The brat will never shut an eye;
Hither come, some power divine!
Close his lids, or open mine!

"Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
What the devil makes him cry?
Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
Still he stares--I wonder why,
Why are not the sons of earth
Blind, like puppies, from the birth?"

"Lullaby, oh, lullaby!"
Thus I heard the father cry;
"Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
Mary, you must come and try!--
Hush, oh, hush, for mercy's sake--
The more I sing, the more you wake!"

"Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
Fie, you little creature, fie!
Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
Is no poppy-syrup nigh?
Give him some, or give him all,
I am nodding to his fall!"

"Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
Two such nights, and I shall die!
Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
He'll be bruised, and so shall I,--"
"How can I from bedposts keep,
When I'm walking in my sleep?"

"Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
Sleep his very looks deny--
Lullaby, oh, lullaby;
Nature soon will stupefy--
My nerves relax,--my eyes grow dim--
Who's that fallen--me or him?"

THE GREEN MAN.

Tom Simpson was as nice a kind of man As ever lived--at least at number Four, In Austin Friars, in Mrs. Brown's first floor, At fifty pounds,--or thereabouts,--per ann. The Lady reckon'd him her best of lodgers, His rent so punctually paid each quarter,-- He did not smoke like nasty foreign codgers-- Or play French horns like Mr. Rogers-- Or talk his flirting nonsense to her daughter.-- Not that the girl was light behaved or courtable-- Still on one failing tenderly to touch, The Gentleman did like a drop too much, (Tho' there are many such) And took more Port than was exactly portable. In fact,--to put the cap upon the nipple, And try the charge,--Tom certainly _did_ tipple. He thought the motto was but sorry stuff On Cribb's Prize Cup--Yes, wrong in ev'ry letter-- That "D----d be he who first cries _Hold Enough!_" The more cups hold, and if enough, the better. And so to set example in the eyes Of Fancy's lads, and give a broadish hint to them, All his cups were of such ample size That he got into them.

Once in the company of merry mates, In spite of Temperance's if's and buts, So sure as Eating is set off with _plates_, His Drinking always was bound up with _cuts_! Howbeit, such Bacchanalian revels Bring very sad catastrophes about; Palsy, Dyspepsy, Dropsy, and Blue Devils, Not to forget the Gout. Sometimes the liver takes a spleenful whim To grow to Strasburg's regulation size, As if for those hepatical goose pies-- Or out of depth the head begins to swim-- Poor Simpson! what a thing occurred to him! 'Twas Christmas--he had drunk the night before,-- Like Baxter, who so "went beyond his last"-- _One_ bottle more, and then _one_ bottle more, Till oh! the red-wine _Ruby-con_ was pass'd! And homeward, by the short small chimes of day, With many a circumbendibus to spare, For instance, twice round Finsbury Square, To use a fitting phrase, he _wound_ his way.

Then comes the rising, with repentance bitter, And all the nerves--(and sparrows)--in a twitter, Till settled by the sober Chinese cup: The hands, o'er all, are members that make motions, A sort of wavering, just like the ocean's, Which has its swell, too, when it's getting up-- An awkward circumstance enough for elves Who shave themselves; And Simpson just was ready to go thro' it, When lo! the first short glimpse within the glass-- He jump'd--and who alive would fail to do it?-- To see however it had come to pass, One section of his face as green as grass! In vain each eager wipe, With soap--without--wet--hot or cold--or dry, Still, still, and still, to his astonished eye One cheek was green, the other cherry ripe! Plump in the nearest chair he sat him down, Quaking, and quite absorb'd in a deep study,-- But verdant and not brown,-- What could have happened to a tint so ruddy?

Indeed it was a very novel case, By way of penalty for being jolly, To have that evergreen stuck in his face, Just like the windows with their Christmas holly.

"All claret marks,"--thought he--Tom knew his forte-- "Are red--this color CANNOT come from Port!"

One thing was plain; with such a face as his, 'Twas quite impossible to ever greet Good Mrs. Brown; nay, any party meet, Altho' 'twas such a parti-colored phiz! As for the public, fancy Sarcy Ned, The coachman, flying, dog-like, at his head, With "Ax your pardon, Sir, but if you please-- Unless it comes too high-- Vere ought a feller, now, to go to buy The t'other half, Sir, of that 'ere green cheese?" His mind recoil'd--so he tied up his head, As with a raging tooth, and took to bed; Of course with feelings far from the serene, For all his future prospects seemed to be, To match his customary tea, Black, mixt with green.

Meanwhile, good Mrs. Brown Wondered at Mr. S. not coming down, And sent the maid up-stairs to learn the why; To whom poor Simpson, half delirious, Returned an answer so mysterious That curiosity began to fry; The more, as Betty, who had caught a snatch By peeping in upon the patient's bed, Reported a most bloody, tied-up head, Got over-night of course--"Harm watch, harm catch," From Watchmen in a boxing-match.

So, liberty or not,-- Good lodgers are too scarce to let them off in A suicidal coffin-- The dame ran up as fast as she could trot; Appearance,--"fiddle-sticks!" should not deter From going to the bed, And looking at the head: "La! Mister S----, he need not care for her! A married woman that had had Nine boys and gals, and none had turned out bad-- Her own dear late would come home late at night, And liquor always got him in a fight. She'd been in hospitals--she wouldn't faint At gores and gashes fingers wide and deep; She knew what's good for bruises and what ain't-- Turlington's Drops she made a pint to keep. Cases she'd seen beneath the surgent's hand-- Such skulls japann'd--she meant to say trepann'd! Poor wretches! you would think they'd been in battle, And hadn't hours to live, From tearing horses' kicks or Smithfield cattle, Shamefully over-driv!-- Heads forced to have a silver plate atop, To get the brains to stop. At imputations of the legs she'd been, And neither screech'd nor cried--" Hereat she pluck'd the white cravat aside, And lo! the whole phenomenon was seen-- "Preserve us all! He's going to gangrene!"

Alas! through Simpson's brain Shot the remark, like ball, with mortal pain; It tallied truly with his own misgiving, And brought a groan, To move a heart of stone-- A sort of farewell to the land of living! And as the case was imminent and urgent, He did not make a shadow of objection To Mrs. B.'s proposal for a "surgent," But merely gave a sigh of deep dejection, While down the verdant cheek a tear of grief Stole, like a dew-drop on a cabbage-leaf.

Swift flew the summons,--it was life or death! And in as short a time as he could race it, Came Doctor Puddicome, as short of breath, To try his Latin charms against _Hic Jacet_. He took a seat beside the patient's bed, Saw tongue--felt pulse--examined the bad cheek,-- Poked, strok'd, pinch'd, kneaded it--hemm'd-- shook his head-- Took a long solemn pause the cause to seek, (Thinking, it seem'd in Greek,) Then ask'd--'twas Christmas--"Had he eaten grass, Or greens--and if the cook was so improper To boil them up with copper, Or farthings made of brass; Or if he drank his Hock from dark green glass, Or dined at City Festivals, whereat There's turtle, and green fat?" To all of which, with serious tone of woe, Poor Simpson answered "No," Indeed he might have said in form auricular, Supposing Puddicome had been a monk-- He had not eaten (he had only drunk) Of anything "Particular." The Doctor was at fault; A thing so new quite brought him to a halt. Cases of other colors came in crowds, He could have found their remedy, and soon; But green--it sent him up among the clouds, As if he had gone up with Green's balloon!

Black with Black Jaundice he had seen the skin; From Yellow Jaundice yellow, From saffron tints to sallow;-- Then retrospective memory lugg'd in Old Purple Face, the Host at Kentish Town-- East Indians, without number, He knew familiarly, by heat done Brown, From tan to a burnt umber, Ev'n those eruptions he had never seen Of which the Caledonian Poet spoke, As "_rashes_ growing green"-- "Phoo! phoo! a rash grow green! Nothing of course, but a broad Scottish joke!" Then as to flaming visages, for those The Scarlet Fever answer'd, or the Rose-- But verdant! that was quite a novel stroke! Men turn'd to blue, by Cholera's last stage, In common practice he had really seen; But Green--he was too old, and grave, and sage, To think of the last stage to Turnham Green!

So matters stood in-doors--meanwhile without, Growing in going like all other rumors, The modern miracle was buzz'd about, By people of all humors, Native or foreign in their dialecticals; Till all the neighborhood, as if their noses Had taken the odd gross from little Moses, Seemed looking thro' green spectacles. "Green faces!" so they all began to comment-- "Yes--opposite to Druggists' lighted shops, But that's a flying color--never stops-- A bottle-green that's vanish'd in a moment. Green! nothing of the sort occurs to mind, Nothing at all to match the present piece; Jack in the Green has nothing of the kind-- Green-grocers are not green--nor yet green geese!" The oldest Supercargoes or Old Sailors Of such a case had never heard, From Emerald Isle to Cape de Verd; "Or Greenland!" cried the whalers. All tongues were full of the Green Man, and still They could not make him out with all their skill; No soul could shape the matter, head or tail-- But Truth steps in where all conjectures fail.

A long half hour, in needless puzzle, Our Galen's cane had rubbed against his muzzle; He thought, and thought, and thought and thought, and thought-- And still it came to nought, When up rush'd Betty, loudest of Town Criers, "Lord, Ma'am, the new Police is at the door! It's B, ma'am, Twenty-four,-- As brought home Mister S. to Austin Friars, And says there's nothing but a simple case-- He got that 'ere green face By sleeping in the kennel near the Dyer's!"

HIT OR MISS.

"Twa dogs, that were na thrang at hame,
Forgather'd ance upon a time."--BURNS.

One morn--it was the very morn September's sportive month was born-- The hour, about the sunrise, early; The sky gray, sober, still, and pearly, With sundry orange streaks and tinges Through daylight's door, at cracks and hinges: The air, calm, bracing, freshly cool, As if just skimm'd from off a pool; The scene, red, russet, yellow, laden, From stubble, fern, and leaves that deaden, Save here and there a turnip patch, Too verdant with the rest to match; And far a-field a hazy figure, Some roaming lover of the trigger. Meanwhile the level light perchance Pick'd out his barrel with a glance; For all around a distant popping Told birds were flying off or dropping. Such was the morn--a morn right fair To seek for covey or for hare-- When, lo! too far from human feet For even Ranger's boldest beat, A Dog, as in some doggish trouble, Came cant'ring through the crispy stubble, With dappled head in lowly droop, But not the scientific stoop; And flagging, dull, desponding ears, As if they had been soak'd in tears, And not the beaded dew that hung The filmy stalks and weeds among.

His pace, indeed, seem'd not to know An errand, why, or where to go, To trot, to walk, or scamper swift-- In short, he seem'd a dog adrift; His very tail, a listless thing, With just an accidental swing, Like rudder to the ripple veering, When nobody on board is steering.

So, dull and moody, canter'd on Our vagrant pointer, christen'd Don; When, rising o'er a gentle slope, That gave his view a better scope, He spied, some dozen furrows distant, But in a spot as inconsistent, A second dog across his track, Without a master to his back; As if for wages, workman-like, The sporting breed had made a strike, Resolv'd nor birds nor puss to seek, Without another paunch a week!

This other was a truant curly, But, for a spaniel, wondrous surely; Instead of curvets gay and brisk, He slouch'd along without a frisk, With dogged air, as if he had A good half mind to running mad; Mayhap the shaking at his ear Had been a quaver too severe; Mayhap the whip's "exclusive dealing" Had too much hurt e'en spaniel feeling, Nor if he had been cut, 'twas plain He did not mean to come again.

Of course the pair soon spied each other; But neither seem'd to own a brother; The course on both sides took a curve, As dogs when shy are apt to swerve; But each o'er back and shoulder throwing A look to watch the other's going, Till, having clear'd sufficient ground, With one accord they turn'd them round, And squatting down, for forms not caring, At one another fell to staring; As if not proof against a touch Of what plagues humankind so much, A prying itch to get at notions Of all their neighbor's looks and motions. Sir Don at length was first to rise-- The better dog in point of size, And, snuffing all the ground between, Set off, with easy jaunty mien; While Dash, the stranger, rose to greet him, And made a dozen steps to meet him-- Their noses touch'd, and rubb'd awhile (Some savage nations use the style), And then their tails a wag began, Though on a very cautious plan, But in their signals quantum suff. To say, "A civil dog enough."

Thus having held out olive branches, They sank again, though not on haunches, But couchant, with their under jaws Resting between the two forepaws, The prelude, on a luckier day, Or sequel, to a game of play: But now they were in dumps, and thus Began their worries to discuss, The Pointer, coming to the point The first, on times so out of joint.

"Well, Friend,--so here's a new September, As fine a first as I remember; And, thanks to such an early Spring, Plenty of birds, and strong on wing."

"Birds!" cried the little crusty chap, As sharp and sudden as a snap, "A weasel suck them in the shell! What matter birds, or flying well, Or fly at all, or sporting weather, If fools with guns can't hit a feather!"

"Ay, there's the rub, indeed,'" said Don, Putting his gravest visage on; "In vain we beat our beaten way, And bring our _organs_ into play, Unless the proper killing kind Of _barrel tunes_ are play'd behind: But when _we_ shoot,--that's me and Squire-- We hit as often as we fire."

"More luck for you!" cried little Woolly, Who felt the cruel contrast fully; "More luck for you, and Squire to boot! _We_ miss as often as we shoot!"

"Indeed!--No wonder you're unhappy! I thought you looking rather snappy; But fancied, when I saw you jogging, You'd had an overdose of flogging; Or p'rhaps the gun its range had tried While you were ranging rather wide."

"Me! running--running wide--and hit! Me shot! what, pepper'd?--Deuce a bit! I almost wish I had! That Dunce, My master, then would hit for once! Hit me! Lord, how you talk! why, zounds! He couldn't hit a pack of hounds!"

"Well, that must be a case provoking. What, _never_--but, you dog, you're joking! I see a sort of wicked grin About your jaw you're keeping in."

"A joke! an old tin kettle's clatter Would be as much a joking matter. To tell the truth, that dog-disaster Is just the type of me and master, When fagging over hill and dale, With his vain rattle at my tail, Bang, bang, and bang, the whole day's run, But _leading_ nothing but his gun-- The very shot I fancy hisses, It's sent upon such awful misses!"

"Of course it does! But p'rhaps the fact is Your master's hand is out of practice!"

"_Practice_?--No doctor, where you will, Has finer--but he cannot kill! These three years past, thro' furze and furrow, All covers I have hunted thorough; Flush'd cocks and snipes about the moors; And put up hares by scores and scores; Coveys of birds, and lots of pheasants;-- Yes, game enough to send in presents To ev'ry friend he has in town, Provided he had knock'd it down: But no--the whole three years together, He has not giv'n me flick or feather-- For all that I have had to do I wish I had been missing too!"

"Well,--such a hand would drive me mad; But is he truly quite so bad?"

"Bad!--worse!--you cannot underssore him; If I could put up, just before him, The great Balloon that paid the visit Across the water, he would miss it! Bite him! I do believe, indeed, It's in his very blood and breed! It marks his life, and, run all through it; What can be miss'd, he's sure to do it. Last Monday he came home to Tooting, Dog-tir'd, as if he'd been a-shooting, And kicks at me to vent his rage-- 'Get out!' says he--'I've miss'd the stage!' Of course, thought I--what chance of hitting? You'd miss the Norwich wagon, sitting!"

"Why, he must be the country's scoff! He ought to leave, and not let, off! As fate denies his shooting wishes, Why don't he take to catching fishes? Or any other sporting game, That don't require a bit of aim?"

"Not he!--Some dogs of human kind Will hunt by sight, because they're blind. My master angle!--no such luck! There he might strike, who never struck! My master shoots because he can't, And has an eye that aims aslant; Nay, just by way of making trouble, He's changed his single gun for double; And now, as girls a-walking do, His _misses_ go by two and two! I wish he had the mange, or reason As good, to miss the shooting season!"

"Why yes, it must be main upleasant To point to covey, or to pheasant, For snobs, who, when the point is mooting, Think _letting fly_ as good as shooting!"

"Snobs!--if he'd wear his ruffled shirts, Or coats with water-wagtail skirts, Or trowsers in the place of smalls, Or those tight fits he wears at balls, Or pumps, and boots with tops, mayhap, Why we might pass for Snip and Snap, And shoot like blazes! fly or sit, And none would stare, unless we hit. But no--to make the more combustion, He goes in gaiters and in fustian, Like Captain Ross, or Topping Sparks, And deuce a miss but some one marks! For Keepers, shy of such encroachers, Dog us about like common poachers! Many's the covey I've gone by, When underneath a sporting eye; Many a puss I've twigg'd, and pass'd her-- I miss 'em to prevent my master!"

"And so should I, in such a case! There's nothing feels so like disgrace, Or gives you such a scurvy look-- A kick and pail of slush from Cook, Clefsticks, or Kettle, all in one, As standing to a missing gun! It's whirr! and bang! and off you bound, To catch your bird before the ground: But no--a pump and ginger pop As soon would get a bird to drop! So there you stand, quite struck a-heap, Till all your tail is gone to sleep; A sort of stiffness in your nape, Holding your head well up to gape; While off go birds across the ridges, First small as flies, and then as midges, Cocksure, as they are living chicks, Death's Door is not at Number Six!"

"Yes! yes! and then you look at master, The cause of all the late disaster, Who gives a stamp, and raps on oath At gun, or birds, or maybe both; P'rhaps curses you, and all your kin, To raise the hair upon your skin! Then loads, rams down, and fits new caps, To go and hunt for more miss-haps!"

"Yes! yes! but, sick and sad, you feel But one long wish to go to heel; You cannot scent for cutting mugs-- Your nose is turning up, like Pug's; You can't hold up, but plod and mope; Your tail like sodden end of rope, That o'er a wind-bound vessel's side Has soak'd in harbor, tide and tide. On thorns and scratches, till that moment Unnoticed, you begin to comment; You never felt such bitter brambles, Such heavy soil, in all your rambles! You never felt your fleas so vicious! Till, sick of life so unpropitious, You wish at last, to end the passage, That you were dead, and in your sassage!"

"Yes! that's a miss from end to end! But, zounds! you draw so well, my friend, You've made me shiver, skin and gristle, As if I heard my master's whistle! Though how you came to learn the knack-- I thought your Squire was quite a crack!"

"And so he is!--He always hits-- And sometimes hard, and all to bits. But ere with him our tongues we task, I've still one little thing to ask; Namely, with such a random master, Of course you sometimes want a plaster? Such missing hands make game of more Than ever pass'd for game before-- A pounded pig--a widow's cat-- A patent ventilating hat-- For shot, like mud, when thrown so thick, Will find a coat whereon to stick!"