When full of tay and cake,
O’Brine began to spake;
But juice a one could hear him, for a sudden roar Of a ragamuffin rout
Began to yell and shout,
And frighten the propriety of Shannon shore.
As Smith O’Brine harangued,
They batthered and they banged:
Tim Doolan’s doors and windies down they tore; They smashed the lovely windies
(Hung with muslin from the Indies), Purshuing of their shindies upon Shannon shore.
With throwing of brickbats,
Drowned puppies and dead rats,
These ruffin democrats themselves did lower; Tin kettles, rotten eggs,
Cabbage-stalks, and wooden legs,
They flung among the patriots of Shannon shore.
O the girls began to scrame
And upset the milk and crame;
And the honorable gintlemin, they cursed and swore: And Mitchil of Belfast,
‘Twas he that looked aghast,
When they roasted him in effigy by Shannon shore.
O the lovely tay was spilt
On that day of Ireland’s guilt;
Says Jack Mitchil, “I am kilt! Boys, where’s the back door? ‘Tis a national disgrace:
Let me go and veil me face;”
And he boulted with quick pace from the Shannon shore.
“Cut down the bloody horde!”
Says Meagher of the sword,
“This conduct would disgrace any blackamore;” But the best use Tommy made
Of his famous battle blade
Was to cut his own stick from the Shannon shore.
Immortal Smith O’Brine
Was raging like a line;
‘Twould have done your sowl good to have heard him roar; In his glory he arose,
And he rushed upon his foes,
But they hit him on the nose by the Shannon shore.
Then the Futt and the Dthragoons
In squadthrons and platoons,
With their music playing chunes, down upon us bore; And they bate the rattatoo,
But the Peelers came in view,
And ended the shaloo on the Shannon shore.
You’ve all heard of Larry O’Toole,
Of the beautiful town of Drumgoole; He had but one eye,
To ogle ye by–
Oh, murther, but that was a jew’l!
He made of de girls, dis O’Toole.
‘Twas he was the boy didn’t fail,
That tuck down pataties and mail;
He never would shrink
From any sthrong dthrink,
Was it whisky or Drogheda ale;
This Larry would swallow a pail.
Oh, many a night at the bowl,
With Larry I’ve sot cheek by jowl;
He’s gone to his rest,
Where’s there’s dthrink of the best, And so let us give his old sowl
For ’twas he made the noggin to rowl.
THE ROSE OF FLORA.
Sent by a Young Gentleman of Quality to Miss Br-dy, of Castle Brady.
On Brady’s tower there grows a flower, It is the loveliest flower that blows,– At Castle Brady there lives a lady,
(And how I love her no one knows); Her name is Nora, and the goddess Flora
Presents her with this blooming rose.
“O Lady Nora,” says the goddess Flora, “I’ve many a rich and bright parterre;
In Brady’s towers there’s seven more flowers, But you’re the fairest lady there:
Not all the county, nor Ireland’s bounty, Can projuice a treasure that’s half so fair!”
What cheek is redder? sure roses fed her! Her hair is maregolds, and her eye of blew. Beneath her eyelid, is like the vi’let,
That darkly glistens with gentle jew! The lily’s nature is not surely whiter
Than Nora’s neck is,–and her arrums too.
“Come, gentle Nora,” says the goddess Flora, My dearest creature, take my advice,
There is a poet, full well you know it, Who spends his lifetime in heavy sighs,– Young Redmond Barry, ’tis him you’ll marry, If rhyme and raisin you’d choose likewise.”
THE LAST IRISH GRIEVANCE.
On reading of the general indignation occasioned in Ireland by the appointment of a Scotch Professor to one of HER MAJESTY’S Godless colleges, MASTER MOLLOY MOLONY, brother of THADDEUS MOLONY, Esq., of the Temple, a youth only fifteen years of age, dashed off the following spirited lines:–
As I think of the insult that’s done to this nation, Red tears of rivinge from me fatures I wash, And uphold in this pome, to the world’s daytistation, The sleeves that appointed PROFESSOR M’COSH.
I look round me counthree, renowned by exparience, And see midst her childthren, the witty, the wise,– Whole hayps of logicians, potes, schollars, grammarians, All ayger for pleeces, all panting to rise;
I gaze round the world in its utmost diminsion; LARD JAHN and his minions in Council I ask; Was there ever a Government-pleece (with a pinsion) But children of Erin were fit for that task?
What, Erin beloved, is thy fetal condition? What shame in aych boosom must rankle and burrun, To think that our countree has ne’er a logician In the hour of her deenger will surrev her turrun!
On the logic of Saxons there’s little reliance, And, rather from Saxons than gather its rules, I’d stamp under feet the base book of his science, And spit on his chair as he taught in the schools!
O false SIR JOHN KANE! is it thus that you praych me? I think all your Queen’s Universitees Bosh; And if you’ve no neetive Professor to taych me, I scawurn to be learned by the Saxon M’COSH.
There’s WISEMAN and CHUME, and His Grace the Lord Primate, That sinds round the box, and the world will subscribe; ‘Tis they’ll build a College that’s fit for our climate, And taych me the saycrets I burn to imboibe!
‘Tis there as a Student of Science I’ll enther, Fair Fountain of Knowledge, of Joy, and Contint! SAINT PATHRICK’S sweet Statue shall stand in the centher, And wink his dear oi every day during Lint.
And good Doctor NEWMAN, that praycher unwary, ‘Tis he shall preside the Academee School, And quit the gay robe of ST. PHILIP of Neri, To wield the soft rod of ST. LAWRENCE O’TOOLE!
THE BALLADS OF POLICEMAN X.
THE WOLFE NEW BALLAD OF JANE RONEY AND MARY BROWN.
An igstrawnary tail I vill tell you this veek– I stood in the Court of A’Beckett the Beak, Vere Mrs. Jane Roney, a vidow, I see,
Who charged Mary Brown with a robbin of she.
This Mary was pore and in misery once, And she came to Mrs. Roney it’s more than twelve monce. She adn’t got no bed, nor no dinner nor no tea, And kind Mrs. Roney gave Mary all three.
Mrs. Roney kep Mary for ever so many veeks, (Her conduct disgusted the best of all Beax,) She kep her for nothink, as kind as could be, Never thinkin that this Mary was a traitor to she.
“Mrs. Roney, O Mrs. Roney, I feel very ill; Will you just step to the Doctor’s for to fetch me a pill?” “That I will, my pore Mary,” Mrs. Roney says she; And she goes off to the Doctor’s as quickly as may be.
No sooner on this message Mrs. Roney was sped, Than hup gits vicked Mary, and jumps out a bed; She hopens all the trunks without never a key– She bustes all the boxes, and vith them makes free.
Mrs. Roney’s best linning, gownds, petticoats, and close, Her children’s little coats and things, her boots, and her hose, She packed them, and she stole ’em, and avay vith them did flee. Mrs. Roney’s situation–you may think vat it vould be!
Of Mary, ungrateful, who had served her this vay, Mrs. Roney heard nothink for a long year and a day. Till last Thursday, in Lambeth, ven whom should she see But this Mary, as had acted so ungrateful to she?
She was leaning on the helbo of a worthy young man, They were going to be married, and were walkin hand in hand; And the Church bells was a ringing for Mary and he, And the parson was ready, and a waitin for his fee.
When up comes Mrs. Roney, and faces Mary Brown, Who trembles, and castes her eyes upon the ground. She calls a jolly pleaseman, it happens to be me; I charge this yonng woman, Mr. Pleaseman, says she.
“Mrs. Roney, O, Mrs. Roney, O, do let me go, I acted most ungrateful I own, and I know, But the marriage bell is a ringin, and the ring you may see, And this young man is a waitin,” says Mary says she.
“I don’t care three fardens for the parson and clark, And the bell may keep ringin from noon day to dark. Mary Brown, Mary Brown, you must come along with me; And I think this young man is lucky to be free.”
So, in spite of the tears which bejew’d Mary’s cheek, I took that young gurl to A’Beckett the Beak; That exlent Justice demanded her plea–
But never a sullable said Mary said she.
On account of her conduck so base and so vile, That wicked young gurl is committed for trile, And if she’s transpawted beyond the salt sea, It’s a proper reward for such willians as she.
Now you young gurls of Southwark for Mary who veep, From pickin and stealin your ands you must keep, Or it may be my dooty, as it was Thursday veek, To pull you all hup to A’Beckett the Beak.
THE THREE CHRISTMAS WAITS.
My name is Pleaceman X;
Last night I was in bed,
A dream did me perplex,
Which came into my Edd.
I dreamed I sor three Waits
A playing of their tune,
At Pimlico Palace gates,
All underneath the moon.
One puffed a hold French horn,
And one a hold Banjo,
And one chap seedy and torn
A Hirish pipe did blow.
They sadly piped and played,
Dexcribing of their fates;
And this was what they said,
Those three pore Christmas Waits:
“When this black year began,
I was a great great man,
And king both vise and great,
And Munseer Guizot by me did show
As Minister of State.
“But Febuwerry came,
And brought a rabble rout,
And me and my good dame
And children did turn out,
And us, in spite of all our right.
Sent to the right about.
“I left my native ground,
I left my kin and kith,
I left my royal crownd,
Vich I couldn’t travel vith,
And without a pound came to English ground, In the name of Mr. Smith.
“Like any anchorite
I’ve lived since I came here,
I’ve kep myself quite quite,
I’ve drank the small small beer,
And the vater, you see, disagrees vith me And all my famly dear.
“O Tweeleries so dear,
O darling Pally Royl,
Vas it to finish here
That I did trouble and toyl?
That all my plans should break in my ands, And should on me recoil?
“My state I fenced about
Vith baynicks and vith guns;
My gals I portioned hout,
Rich vives I got my sons;
O varn’t it crule to lose my rule,
My money and lands at once?
“And so, vith arp and woice,
Both troubled and shagreened,
I hid you to rejoice,
O glorious England’s Queend!
And never have to veep, like pore Louis-Phileep, Because you out are cleaned.
“O Prins, so brave and stout,
I stand before your gate;
Pray send a trifle hout
To me, your pore old Vait;
For nothink could be vuss than it’s been along vith us In this year Forty-eight.”
“Ven this bad year began,”
The nex man said, seysee,
“I vas a Journeyman,
A taylor black and free,
And my wife went out and chaired about, And my name’s the bold Cuffee.
“The Queen and Halbert both
I swore I would confound,
I took a hawfle hoath
To drag them to the ground;
And sevral more with me they swore
Aginst the British Crownd.
“Aginst her Pleacemen all
We said we’d try our strenth;
Her scarlick soldiers tall
We vow’d we’d lay full lenth;
And out we came, in Freedom’s name, Last Aypril was the tenth.
“Three ‘undred thousand snobs
Came out to stop the vay,
Vith sticks vith iron knobs,
Or else we’d gained the day.
The harmy quite kept out of sight,
And so ve vent avay.
“Next day the Pleacemen came–
Rewenge it was their plann–
And from my good old dame
They took her tailor-mann:
And the hard hard beak did me bespeak To Newgit in the Wann.
“In that etrocious Cort
The Jewry did agree;
The Judge did me transport,
To go beyond the sea:
And so for life, from his dear wife They took poor old Cuffee.
“O Halbert, Appy Prince!
With children round your knees,
Ingraving ansum Prints,
And taking hoff your hease;
O think of me, the old Cuffee,
Beyond the solt solt seas!
“Although I’m hold and black,
My hanguish is most great;
Great Prince, O call me back,
And I vill be your Vait!
And never no more vill break the Lor, As I did in ‘Forty-eight.”
The tailer thus did close
(A pore old blackymore rogue),
When a dismal gent uprose,
And spoke with Hirish brogue:
“I’m Smith O’Brine, of Royal Line,
Descended from Rory Ogue.
“When great O’Connle died,
That man whom all did trust,
That man whom Henglish pride
Beheld with such disgust,
Then Erin free fixed eyes on me,
And swoar I should be fust.
“‘The glorious Hirish Crown,’
Says she, ‘it shall be thine:
Long time, it’s wery well known,
You kep it in your line;
That diadem of hemerald gem
Is yours, my Smith O’Brine.
“‘Too long the Saxon churl
Our land encumbered hath;
Arise my Prince, my Earl,
And brush them from thy path:
Rise, mighty Smith, and sveep ’em vith The besom of your wrath.’
“Then in my might I rose,
My country I surveyed,
I saw it filled with foes,
I viewed them undismayed;
‘Ha, ha!’ says I, ‘the harvest’s high, I’ll reap it with my blade.’
“My warriors I enrolled,
They rallied round their lord;
And cheafs in council old
I summoned to the board–
Wise Doheny and Duffy bold,
And Meagher of the Sword.
“I stood on Slievenamaun,
They came with pikes and bills;
They gathered in the dawn,
Like mist upon the hills,
And rushed adown the mountain side
Like twenty thousand rills.
“Their fortress we assail;
Hurroo! my boys, hurroo!
The bloody Saxons quail
To hear the wild Shaloo:
Strike, and prevail, proud Innesfail, O’Brine aboo, aboo!
“Our people they defied;
They shot at ’em like savages,
Their bloody guns they plied
With sanguinary ravages:
Hide, blushing Glory, hide
That day among the cabbages!
“And so no more I’ll say,
But ask your Mussy great.
And humbly sing and pray,
Your Majesty’s poor Wait:
Your Smith O’Brine in ‘Forty-nine
Will blush for ‘Forty-eight.”
LINES ON A LATE HOSPICIOUS EWENT.*
BY A GENTLEMAN OF THE FOOTGUARDS (BLUE).
I paced upon my beat
With steady step and slow,
All huppandownd of Ranelagh Street: Ran’lagh St. Pimlico.
While marching huppandownd
Upon that fair May morn,
Beold the booming cannings sound,
A royal child is born!
The Ministers of State
Then presnly I sor,
They gallops to the Pallis gate,
In carridges and for.
With anxious looks intent,
Before the gate they stop,
There comes the good Lord President, And there the Archbishopp.
Lord John he next elights;
And who comes here in haste?
‘Tis the ero of one underd fights,
The caudle for to taste.
Then Mrs. Lily, the nuss,
Towards them steps with joy;
Says the brave old Duke, “Come tell to us, Is it a gal or a boy?”
Says Mrs. L. to the Duke,
“Your Grace, it is A PRINCE.”
And at that nuss’s bold rebuke,
He did both laugh and wince.
He vews with pleasant look
This pooty flower of May,
Then, says the wenarable Duke,
“Egad, it’s my buthday.”
By memory backwards borne,
Peraps his thoughts did stray
To that old place where he was born, Upon the first of May.
Perhaps he did recal
The ancient towers of Trim;
And County Meath and Dangan Hall
They did rewisit him.
I phansy of him so
His good old thoughts employin’;
Fourscore years and one ago
Beside the flowin’ Boyne.
His father praps he sees,
Most Musicle of Lords,
A playing maddrigles and glees
Upon the Arpsicords.
Jest phansy this old Ero
Upon his mother’s knee!
Did ever lady in this land
Ave greater sons than she?
And I shoudn be surprize
While this was in his mind,
If a drop there twinkled in his eyes Of unfamiliar brind.
. . . . .
To Hapsly Ouse next day
Drives up a Broosh and for,
A gracious prince sits in that Shay I mention him with Hor!)
They ring upon the bell,
The Porter shows his Ed,
(He fought at Vaterloo as vell,
And vears a Veskit red).
To see that carriage come,
The people round it press:
“And is the galliant Duke at ome?”
“Your Royal Ighness, yes.”
He stepps from out the Broosh
And in the gate is gone;
And X, although the people push,
Says wary kind, “Move hon.”
The Royal Prince unto
The galliant Duke did say,
“Dear duke, my little son and you
Was born the self same day.
“The Lady of the land,
My wife and Sovring dear,
It is by her horgust command
I wait upon you here.
“That lady is as well
As can expected be;
And to your Grace she bid me tell
This gracious message free.
“That offspring of our race,
Whom yesterday you see,
To show our honor for your Grace,
Prince Arthur he shall be.
“That name it rhymes to fame;
All Europe knows the sound:
And I couldn’t find a better name
If you’d give me twenty pound.
“King Arthur had his knights
That girt his table round,
But you have won a hundred fights,
Will match ’em I’ll be bound.
“You fought with Bonypart,
And likewise Tippoo Saib;
I name you then with all my heart
The Godsire of this babe.”
That Prince his leave was took,
His hinterview was done.
So let us give the good old Duke
Good luck of his god-son.
And wish him years of joy
In this our time of Schism,
And hope he’ll hear the royal boy
His little catechism.
And my pooty little Prince
That’s come our arts to cheer,
Let me my loyal powers ewince
A welcomin of you ere.
And the Poit-Laureat’s crownd,
I think, in some respex,
Egstremely shootable might be found For honest Pleaseman X.
* The birth of Prince Arthur.
THE BALLAD OF ELIZA DAVIS.
Galliant gents and lovely ladies,
List a tail vich late befel,
Vich I heard it, bein on duty,
At the Pleace Hoffice, Clerkenwell.
Praps you know the Fondling Chapel,
Vere the little children sings:
(Lor! I likes to hear on Sundies
Them there pooty little things!
In this street there lived a housemaid, If you particklarly ask me where–
Vy, it vas at four-and-tventy
Guilford Street, by Brunsvick Square.
Vich her name was Eliza Davis,
And she went to fetch the beer:
In the street she met a party
As was quite surprized to see her.
Vich he vas a British Sailor,
For to judge him by his look:
Tarry jacket, canvass trowsies,
Ha-la Mr. T. P. Cooke.
Presently this Mann accostes
Of this hinnocent young gal–
“Pray,” saysee, “excuse my freedom, You’re so like my Sister Sal!
“You’re so like my Sister Sally,
Both in valk and face and size,
Miss, that–dang my old lee scuppers, It brings tears into my heyes!”
“I’m a mate on board a wessel,
I’m a sailor bold and true;
Shiver up my poor old timbers,
Let me be a mate for you!
“What’s your name, my beauty, tell me;” And she faintly hansers, “Lore,
Sir, my name’s Eliza Davis,
And I live at tventy-four.”
Hoftimes came this British seaman,
This deluded gal to meet;
And at tventy-four was welcome,
Tventy-four in Guilford Street.
And Eliza told her Master
(Kinder they than Missuses are),
How in marridge he had ast her,
Like a galliant Brittish Tar.
And he brought his landlady vith him, (Vich vas all his hartful plan),
And she told how Charley Thompson
Reely vas a good young man.
And how she herself had lived in
Many years of union sweet,
Vith a gent she met promiskous,
Valkin in the public street.
And Eliza listened to them,
And she thought that soon their bands Vould be published at the Fondlin,
Hand the clergymen jine their ands.
And he ast about the lodgers,
(Vich her master let some rooms),
Likevise vere they kep their things, and Vere her master kep his spoons.
Hand this vicked Charley Thompson
Came on Sundy veek to see her;
And he sent Eliza Davis
Hout to fetch a pint of beer.
Hand while pore Eliza vent to
Fetch the beer, dewoid of sin,
This etrocious Charley Thompson
Let his wile accomplish hin.
To the lodgers, their apartments,
This abandingd female goes,
Prigs their shirts and umberellas;
Prigs their boots, and hats, and clothes.
Vile the scoundrel Charley Thompson,
Lest his wictim should escape,
Hocust her vith rum and vater,
Like a fiend in huming shape.
But a hi was fixt upon ’em
Vich these raskles little sore;
Namely, Mr. Hide, the landlord
Of the house at tventy-four.
He vas valkin in his garden,
Just afore he vent to sup;
And on looking up he sor the
Lodgers’ vinders lighted hup.
Hup the stairs the landlord tumbled;
Something’s going wrong, he said;
And he caught the vicked voman
Underneath the lodgers’ bed.
And he called a brother Pleaseman,
Vich vas passing on his beat;
Like a true and galliant feller,
Hup and down in Guilford Street.
And that Pleaseman able-bodied
Took this voman to the cell;
To the cell vere she was quodded,
In the Close of Clerkenwell.
And though vicked Charley Thompson
Boulted like a miscrant base,
Presently another Pleaseman
Took him to the self-same place.
And this precious pair of raskles
Tuesday last came up for doom;
By the beak they was committed,
Vich his name was Mr. Combe.
Has for poor Eliza Davis,
Simple gurl of tventy-four,
SHE I ope, vill never listen
In the streets to sailors moar.
But if she must ave a sweet-art,
(Vich most every gurl expex,)
Let her take a jolly pleaseman;
Vich his name peraps is–X.
DAMAGES, TWO HUNDRED POUNDS.
Special Jurymen of England! who admire your country’s laws, And proclaim a British Jury worthy of the realm’s applause; Gayly compliment each other at the issue of a cause Which was tried at Guildford ‘sizes, this day week as ever was.
Unto that august tribunal comes a gentleman in grief, (Special was the British Jury, and the Judge, the Baron Chief,) Comes a British man and husband–asking of the law relief; For his wife was stolen from him–he’d have vengeance on the thief.
Yes, his wife, the blessed treasure with the which his life was crowned,
Wickedly was ravished from him by a hypocrite profound. And he comes before twelve Britons, men for sense and truth renowned, To award him for his damage, twenty hundred sterling pound.
He by counsel and attorney there at Guildford does appear, Asking damage of the villain who seduced his lady dear: But I can’t help asking, though the lady’s guilt was all too clear, And though guilty the defendant, wasn’t the plaintiff rather queer?
First the lady’s mother spoke, and said she’d seen her daughter cry But a fortnight after marriage: early times for piping eye. Six months after, things were worse, and the piping eye was black, And this gallant British husband caned his wife upon the back.
Three months after they were married, husband pushed her to the door, Told her to be off and leave him, for he wanted her no more. As she would not go, why HE went: thrice he left his lady dear; Left her, too, without a penny, for more than a quarter of a year.
Mrs. Frances Duncan knew the parties very well indeed, She had seen him pull his lady’s nose and make her lip to bleed; If he chanced to sit at home not a single word he said: Once she saw him throw the cover of a dish at his lady’s head.
Sarah Green, another witness, clear did to the jury note How she saw this honest fellow seize his lady by the throat, How he cursed her and abused her, beating her into a fit, Till the pitying next-door neighbors crossed the wall and witnessed it.
Next door to this injured Briton Mr. Owers a butcher dwelt; Mrs. Owers’s foolish heart towards this erring dame did melt; (Not that she had erred as yet, crime was not developed in her), But being left without a penny, Mrs. Owers supplied her dinner– God be merciful to Mrs. Owers, who was merciful to this sinner!
Caroline Naylor was their servant, said they led a wretched life, Saw this most distinguished Briton fling a teacup at his wife; He went out to balls and pleasures, and never once, in ten months’ space,
Sat with his wife or spoke her kindly. This was the defendant’s case.
Pollock, C.B., charged the Jury; said the woman’s guilt was clear: That was not the point, however, which the Jury came to hear; But the damage to determine which, as it should true appear, This most tender-hearted husband, who so used his lady dear–
Beat her, kicked her, caned her, cursed her, left her starving, year by year,
Flung her from him, parted from her, wrung her neck, and boxed her ear–
What the reasonable damage this afflicted man could claim, By the loss of the affections of this guilty graceless dame?
Then the honest British Twelve, to each other turning round, Laid their clever heads together with a wisdom most profound: And towards his Lordship looking, spoke the foreman wise and sound;– “My Lord, we find for this here plaintiff, damages two hundred pound.”
So, God bless the Special Jury! pride and joy of English ground, And the happy land of England, where true justice does abound! British jurymen and husbands, let us hail this verdict proper: If a British wife offends you, Britons, you’ve a right to whop her.
Though you promised to protect her, though you promised to defend her, You are welcome to neglect her: to the devil you may send her: You may strike her, curse, abuse her; so declares our law renowned; And if after this you lose her,–why, you’re paid two hundred pound.
THE KNIGHT AND THE LADY.
There’s in the Vest a city pleasant
To vich King Bladud gev his name,
And in that city there’s a Crescent Vere dwelt a noble knight of fame.
Although that galliant knight is oldish, Although Sir John as gray, gray air,
Hage has not made his busum coldish, His Art still beats tewodds the Fair!
‘Twas two years sins, this knight so splendid, Peraps fateagued with Bath’s routines,
To Paris towne his phootsteps bended In sutch of gayer folks and seans.
His and was free, his means was easy, A nobler, finer gent than he
Ne’er drove about the Shons-Eleesy, Or paced the Roo de Rivolee.
A brougham and pair Sir John prowided, In which abroad he loved to ride;
But ar! he most of all enjyed it,
When some one helse was sittin’ inside!
That “some one helse” a lovely dame was Dear ladies you will heasy tell–
Countess Grabrowski her sweet name was, A noble title, ard to spell.
This faymus Countess ad a daughter
Of lovely form and tender art;
A nobleman in marridge sought her,
By name the Baron of Saint Bart.
Their pashn touched the noble Sir John, It was so pewer and profound;
Lady Grabrowski he did urge on
With Hyming’s wreeth their loves to crownd.
“O, come to Bath, to Lansdowne Crescent,” Says kind Sir John, “and live with me;
The living there’s uncommon pleasant– I’m sure you’ll find the hair agree.
“O, come to Bath, my fair Grabrowski, And bring your charming girl,” sezee;
“The Barring here shall have the ouse-key, Vith breakfast, dinner, lunch, and tea.
“And when they’ve passed an appy winter, Their opes and loves no more we’ll bar; The marridge-vow they’ll enter inter,
And I at church will be their Par.”
To Bath they went to Lansdowne Crescent, Where good Sir John he did provide
No end of teas and balls incessant, And hosses both to drive and ride.
He was so Ospitably busy,
When Miss was late, he’d make so bold Upstairs to call out, “Missy, Missy,
Come down, the coffy’s getting cold!”
But O! ’tis sadd to think such bounties Should meet with such return as this;
O Barring of Saint Bart, O Countess Grabrowski, and O cruel Miss!
He married you at Bath’s fair Habby,
Saint Bart he treated like a son– And wasn’t it uncommon shabby
To do what you have went and done!
My trembling And amost refewses
To write the charge which Sir John swore, Of which the Countess he ecuses,
Her daughter and her son-in-lore.
My Mews quite blushes as she sings of The fatle charge which now I quote:
He says Miss took his two best rings off, And pawned ’em for a tenpun note.
“Is this the child of honest parince, To make away with folks’ best things?
Is this, pray, like the wives of Barrins, To go and prig a gentleman’s rings?”
Thus thought Sir John, by anger wrought on, And to rewenge his injured cause,
He brought them hup to Mr. Broughton, Last Vensday veek as ever waws.
If guiltless, how she have been slandered! If guilty, wengeance will not fail:
Meanwhile the lady is remanded
And gev three hundred pouns in bail.
JACOB HOMNIUM’S HOSS.
A NEW PALLICE COURT CHANT.
One sees in Viteall Yard,
Vere pleacemen do resort,
A wenerable hinstitute,
‘Tis call’d the Pallis Court.
A gent as got his i on it,
I think ’twill make some sport.
The natur of this Court
My hindignation riles:
A few fat legal spiders
Here set & spin their viles;
To rob the town theyr privlege is,
In a hayrea of twelve miles.
The Judge of this year Court
Is a mellitary beak,
He knows no more of Lor
Than praps he does of Greek,
And prowides hisself a deputy
Because he cannot speak.
Four counsel in this Court–
Misnamed of Justice–sits;
These lawyers owes their places to
Their money, not their wits;
And there’s six attornies under them, As here their living gits.
These lawyers, six and four,
Was a livin at their ease,
A sendin of their writs abowt,
And droring in the fees,
When their erose a cirkimstance
As is like to make a breeze.
It now is some monce since,
A gent both good and trew
Possest an ansum oss vith vich
He didn know what to do:
Peraps he did not like the oss;
Peraps he was a scru.
This gentleman his oss
At Tattersall’s did lodge;
There came a wulgar oss-dealer,
This gentleman’s name did fodge,
And took the oss from Tattersall’s
Wasn that a artful dodge?
One day this gentleman’s groom
This willain did spy out,
A mounted on this oss
A ridin him about;
“Get out of that there oss, you rogue,” Speaks up the groom so stout.
The thief was cruel whex’d
To find himself so pinn’d;
The oss began to whinny,
The honest gloom he grinn’d;
And the raskle thief got off the oss And cut avay like vind.
And phansy with what joy
The master did regard
His dearly bluvd lost oss again
Trot in the stable yard!
Who was this master good
Of whomb I makes these rhymes?
His name is Jacob Homnium, Exquire; And if I’d committed crimes,
Good Lord I wouldn’t ave that mann
Attack me in the Times!
Now shortly after the groomb
His master’s oss did take up,
There came a livery-man
This gentleman to wake up;
And he handed in a little bill,
Which hangered Mr. Jacob.
For two pound seventeen
This livery-man eplied,
For the keep of Mr. Jacob’s oss,
Which the thief had took to ride.
“Do you see anythink green in me?”
Mr. Jacob Homnium cried.
“Because a raskle chews
My oss away to robb,
And goes tick at your Mews
For seven-and-fifty bobb,
Shall I be call’d to pay?–It is
A iniquitious Jobb.”
Thus Mr. Jacob cut
The conwasation short;
The livery-man went ome,
Detummingd to ave sport,
And summingsd Jacob Homnium, Exquire, Into the Pallis Court.
Pore Jacob went to Court,
A Counsel for to fix,
And choose a barrister out of the four, An attorney of the six:
And there he sor these men of Lor,
And watch’d ’em at their tricks.
The dreadful day of trile
In the Pallis Court did come;
The lawyers said their say,
The Judge look’d wery glum,
And then the British Jury cast
Pore Jacob Hom-ni-um.
O a weary day was that
For Jacob to go through;
The debt was two seventeen
(Which he no mor owed than you),
And then there was the plaintives costs, Eleven pound six and two.
And then there was his own,
Which the lawyers they did fix
At the wery moderit figgar
Of ten pound one and six.
Now Evins bless the Pallis Court,
And all its bold ver-dicks!
I cannot settingly tell
If Jacob swaw and cust,
At aving for to pay this sumb;
But I should think he must,
And av drawn a cheque for L24 4s. 8d. With most igstreme disgust.
O Pallis Court, you move
My pitty most profound.
A most emusing sport
You thought it, I’ll be bound,
To saddle hup a three-pound debt,
With two-and-twenty pound.
Good sport it is to you
To grind the honest pore,
To pay their just or unjust debts
With eight hundred per cent. for Lor; Make haste and get your costes in,
They will not last much mor!
Come down from that tribewn,
Thou shameless and Unjust;
Thou Swindle, picking pockets in
The name of Truth august:
Come down, thou hoary blasphemy,
For die thou shalt and must.
And go it, Jacob Homnium,
And ply your iron pen,
And rise up, Sir John Jervis,
And shut me up that den;
That sty for fattening lawyers in,
On the bones of honest men.
The night was stormy and dark,
The town was shut up in sleep:
Only those were abroad who were out on a lark, Or those who’d no beds to keep.
I pass’d through the lonely street,
The wind did sing and blow;
I could hear the policeman’s feet
Clapping to and fro.
There stood a potato-man
In the midst of all the wet;
He stood with his ‘tato-can
In the lonely Hay-market.
Two gents of dismal mien,
And dank and greasy rags,
Came out of a shop for gin,
Swaggering over the flags:
Swaggering over the stones,
These shabby bucks did walk;
And I went and followed those seedy ones, And listened to their talk.
Was I sober or awake?
Could I believe my ears?
Those dismal beggars spake
Of nothing but railroad shares.
I wondered more and more:
Says one–“Good friend of mine,
How many shares have you wrote for, In the Diddlesex Junction line?”
“I wrote for twenty,” says Jim,
“But they wouldn’t give me one;”
His comrade straight rebuked him
For the folly he had done:
“O Jim, you are unawares
Of the ways of this bad town;
I always write for five hundred shares, And THEN they put me down.”
“And yet you got no shares,”
Says Jim, “for all your boast;”
“I WOULD have wrote,” says Jack, “but where Was the penny to pay the post?”
“I lost, for I couldn’t pay
That first instalment up;
But here’s ‘taters smoking hot–I say, Let’s stop, my boy, and sup.”
And at this simple feast
The while they did regale,
I drew each ragged capitalist
Down on my left thumbnail.
Their talk did me perplex,
All night I tumbled and tost,
And thought of railroad specs,
And how money was won and lost.
“Bless railroads everywhere,”
I said, “and the world’s advance;
Bless every railroad share
In Italy, Ireland, France;
For never a beggar need now despair, And every rogue has a chance.”
A WOEFUL NEW BALLAD
OF THE PROTESTANT CONSPIRACY TO TAKE THE POPE’S LIFE.
(BY A GENTLEMAN WHO HAS BEEN ON THE SPOT.)
Come all ye Christian people, unto my tale give ear, ‘Tis about a base consperracy, as quickly shall appear; ‘Twill make your hair to bristle up, and your eyes to start and glow, When of this dread consperracy you honest folks shall know.
The news of this consperracy and villianous attempt, I read it in a newspaper, from Italy it was sent: It was sent from lovely Italy, where the olives they do grow, And our holy father lives, yes, yes, while his name it is No NO.
And ’tis there our English noblemen goes that is Puseyites no longer,
Because they finds the ancient faith both better is and stronger, And ’tis there I knelt beside my lord when he kiss’d the POPE his toe,
And hung his neck with chains at St. Peter’s Vinculo.
And ’tis there the splendid churches is, and the fountains playing grand,
And the palace of PRINCE TORLONIA, likewise the Vatican; And there’s the stairs where the bagpipe-men and the piffararys blow.
And it’s there I drove my lady and lord in the Park of Pincio.
And ’tis there our splendid churches is in all their pride and glory,
Saint Peter’s famous Basilisk and Saint Mary’s Maggiory; And them benighted Prodestants, on Sunday they must go Outside the town to the preaching-shop by the gate of Popolo.
Now in this town of famous Room, as I dessay you have heard, There is scarcely any gentleman as hasn’t got a beard. And ever since the world began it was ordained so, That there should always barbers he wheresumever beards do grow.
And as it always has been so since the world it did begin, The POPE, our Holy Potentate, has a beard upon his chin; And every morning regular when cocks begin to crow, There comes a certing party to wait on POPE PIO.
There comes a certing gintlemen with razier, soap, and lather, A shaving most respectfully the POPE, our Holy Father. And now the dread consperracy I’ll quickly to you show, Which them sanguinary Prodestants did form against NONO.
Them sanguinary Prodestants, which I abore and hate, Assembled in the preaching-shop by the Flaminian gate; And they took counsel with their selves to deal a deadly blow Against our gentle Father, the Holy POPE PIO.
Exhibiting a wickedness which I never heard or read of; What do you think them Prodestants wished? to cut the good Pope’s head off!
And to the kind POPE’S Air-dresser the Prodestant Clark did go, And proposed him to decapitate the innocent PIO.
“What hever can be easier,” said this Clerk–this Man of Sin, “When you are called to hoperate on His Holiness’s chin, Than just to give the razier a little slip–just so?– And there’s an end, dear barber, of innocent PIO!”
The wicked conversation it chanced was overerd By an Italian lady; she heard it every word: Which by birth she was a Marchioness, in service forced to go With the parson of the preaching-shop at the gate of Popolo.
When the lady heard the news, as duty did obleege, As fast as her legs could carry her she ran to the Poleege. “O Polegia,” says she (for they pronounts it so), “They’re going for to massyker our Holy POPE PIO.
“The ebomminable Englishmen, the Parsing and his Clark, His Holiness’s Air-dresser devised it in the dark! And I would recommend you in prison for to throw These villians would esassinate the Holy POPE PIO?
“And for saving of His Holiness and his trebble crownd I humbly hope your Worships will give me a few pound; Because I was a Marchioness many years ago, Before I came to service at the gate of Popolo.”
That sackreligious Air-dresser, the Parson and his man Wouldn’t, though ask’d continyally, own their wicked plan– And so the kind Authoraties let those villians go That was plotting of the murder of the good PIO NONO.
Now isn’t this safishnt proof, ye gentlemen at home, How wicked is them Prodestants, and how good our Pope at Rome? So let us drink confusion to LORD JOHN and LORD MINTO, And a health unto His Eminence, and good PIO NONO.
THE LAMENTABLE BALLAD OF THE FOUNDLING OF SHOREDITCH.
Come all ye Christian people, and listen to my tail, It is all about a doctor was travelling by the rail, By the Heastern Counties’ Railway (vich the shares I don’t desire), From Ixworth town in Suffolk, vich his name did not transpire.
A travelling from Bury this Doctor was employed With a gentleman, a friend of his, vich his name was Captain Loyd, And on reaching Marks Tey Station, that is next beyond Colchest- er, a lady entered into them most elegantly dressed.
She entered into the Carriage all with a tottering step, And a pooty little Bayby upon her bussum slep; The gentlemen received her with kindness and siwillaty, Pitying this lady for her illness and debillaty.
She had a fust-class ticket, this lovely lady said, Because it was so lonesome she took a secknd instead. Better to travel by secknd class, than sit alone in the fust, And the pooty little Baby upon her breast she nust.
A seein of her cryin, and shiverin and pail, To her spoke this surging, the Ero of my tail; Saysee you look unwell, Ma’am, I’ll elp you if I can, And you may tell your ease to me, for I’m a meddicle man.
“Thank you, Sir,” the lady said, “I only look so pale, Because I ain’t accustom’d to travelling on the Rale; I shall be better presnly, when I’ve ad some rest:” And that pooty little Baby she squeeged it to her breast.
So in the conwersation the journey they beguiled, Capting Loyd and the meddicle man, and the lady and the child, Till the warious stations along the line was passed, For even the Heastern Counties’ trains must come in at last.
When at Shoreditch tumminus at lenth stopped the train, This kind meddicle gentleman proposed his aid again. “Thank you, Sir,” the lady said, “for your kyindness dear; My carridge and my osses is probibbly come here.
“Will you old this baby, please, vilst I step and see?” The Doctor was a famly man: “That I will,” says he. Then the little child she kist, kist it very gently, Vich was sucking his little fist, sleeping innocently.
With a sigh from her art, as though she would have bust it, Then she gave the Doctor the child–wery kind he nust it: Hup then the lady jumped hoff the bench she sat from, Tumbled down the carridge steps and ran along the platform.
Vile hall the other passengers vent upon their vays, The Capting and the Doctor sat there in a maze; Some vent in a Homminibus, some vent in a Cabby, The Capting and the Doctor vaited vith the babby.
There they sat looking queer, for an hour or more, But their feller passinger neather on ’em sore: Never, never back again did that lady come To that pooty sleeping Hinfnt a suckin of his Thum!
What could this pore Doctor do, bein treated thus, When the darling Baby woke, cryin for its nuss? Off he drove to a female friend, vich she was both kind and mild, And igsplained to her the circumstance of this year little child.
That kind lady took the child instantly in her lap, And made it very comfortable by giving it some pap; And when she took its close off, what d’you think she found? A couple of ten pun notes sewn up, in its little gownd!
Also in its little close, was a note which did conwey That this little baby’s parents lived in a handsome way And for his Headucation they reglarly would pay, And sirtingly like gentlefolks would claim the child one day, If the Christian people who’d charge of it would say, Per adwertisement in The Times where the baby lay.
Pity of this bayby many people took,
It had such pooty ways and such a pooty look; And there came a lady forrard (I wish that I could see Any kind lady as would do as much for me;
And I wish with all my art, some night in MY night gownd, I could find a note stitched for ten or twenty pound)– There came a lady forrard, that most honorable did say, She’d adopt this little baby, which her parents cast away.
While the Doctor pondered on this hoffer fair, Comes a letter from Devonshire, from a party there, Hordering the Doctor, at its Mar’s desire, To send the little Infant back to Devonshire.
Lost in apoplexity, this pore meddicle man, Like a sensable gentleman, to the Justice ran; Which his name was Mr. Hammill, a honorable beak, That takes his seat in Worship Street, four times a week.
“O Justice!” says the Doctor, “instrugt me what to do. I’ve come up from the country, to throw myself on you; My patients have no doctor to tend them in their ills, (There they are in Suffolk without their drafts and pills!)
“I’ve come up from the country, to know how I’ll dispose Of this pore little baby, and the twenty pun note, and the close, And I want to go back to Suffolk, dear Justice, if you please, And my patients wants their Doctor, and their Doctor wants his feez.”
Up spoke Mr. Hammill, sittin at his desk, “This year application does me much perplesk; What I do adwise you, is to leave this babby In the Parish where it was left, by its mother shabby.”
The Doctor from his worship sadly did depart– He might have left the baby, but he hadn’t got the heart To go for to leave that Hinnocent, has the law allows, To the tender mussies of the Union House.
Mother, who left this little one on a stranger’s knee, Think how cruel you have been, and how good was he! Think, if you’ve been guilty, innocent was she; And do not take unkindly this little word of me: Heaven be merciful to us all, sinners as we be!
THE ORGAN-BOY’S APPEAL.
“WESTMINSTER POLICE COURT.–Policeman X brought a paper of doggerel verses to the MAGISTRATE, which had been thrust into his hands, X said, by an Italian boy, who ran away immediately afterwards.
“The MAGISTRATE, after perusing the lines, looked hard at X, and said he did not think they were written by an Italian.
“X, blushing, said he thought the paper read in Court last week, and which frightened so the old gentleman to whom it was addressed, was also not of Italian origin.”
O SIGNOR BRODERIP, you are a wickid ole man, You wexis us little horgin-boys whenever you can: How dare you talk of Justice, and go for to seek To pussicute us horgin-boys, you senguinary Beek?
Though you set in Vestminster surrounded by your crushers, Harrogint and habsolute like the Hortocrat of hall the Rushers, Yet there is a better vurld I’d have you for to know, Likewise a place vere the henimies of horgin-boys will go.
O you vickid HEROD without any pity!
London vithout horgin-boys vood be a dismal city. Sweet SAINT CICILY who first taught horgin-pipes to blow, Soften the heart of this Magistrit that haggerywates us so!
Good Italian gentlemen, fatherly and kind, Brings us over to London here our horgins for to grind; Sends us out vith little vite mice and guinea-pigs also A popping of the Veasel and a Jumpin of JIM CROW.
And as us young horgin-boys is grateful in our turn We gives to these kind gentlemen hall the money we earn, Because that they vood vop up as wery wel we know Unless we brought our hurnings back to them as loves us so.
O MR. BRODERIP! wery much I’m surprise, Ven you take your valks abroad where can be your eyes? If a Beak had a heart then you’d compryend Us pore little horgin-boys was the poor man’s friend.
Don’t you see the shildren in the droring-rooms Clapping of their little ands when they year our toons? On their mothers’ bussums don’t you see the babbies crow And down to us dear horgin-boys lots of apence throw?
Don’t you see the ousemaids (pooty POLLIES and MARIES), Ven ve bring our urdigurdis, smiling from the hairies? Then they come out vith a slice o’ cole puddn or a bit o’ bacon or so And give it us young horgin-boys for lunch afore we go.
Have you ever seen the Hirish children sport When our velcome music-box brings sunshine in the Court? To these little paupers who can never pay Surely all good horgin-boys, for GOD’S love, will play.
Has for those proud gentlemen, like a serting B–k (Vich I von’t be pussonal and therefore vil not speak), That flings their parler-vinders hup von ve begin to play And cusses us and swears at us in such a wiolent way,
Instedd of their abewsing and calling hout Poleece Let em send out JOHN to us vith six-pence or a shillin apiece. Then like good young horgin-boys avay from there we’ll go, Blessing sweet SAINT CICILY that taught our pipes to blow.
Air–“Il y avait un petit navire.”
There were three sailors of Bristol city Who took a boat and went to sea.
But first with beef and captain’s biscuits And pickled pork they loaded she.
There was gorging Jack and guzzling Jimmy, And the youngest he was little Billee.
Now when they got as far as the Equator They’d nothing left but one split pea.
Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy,
“I am extremely hungaree.”
To gorging Jack says guzzling Jimmy, “We’ve nothing left, us must eat we.”
Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy,
“With one another we shouldn’t agree! There’s little Bill, he’s young and tender, We’re old and tough, so let’s eat he.
“Oh! Billy, we’re going to kill and eat you, So undo the button of your chemie.”
When Bill received this information He used his pocket handkerchie.
“First let me say my catechism,
Which my poor mamy taught to me.”
“Make haste, make haste,” says guzzling Jimmy, While Jack pulled out his snickersnee.
So Billy went up to the main-top gallant mast, And down he fell on his bended knee.
He scarce had come to the twelfth commandment When up he jumps. “There’s land I see:
“Jerusalem and Madagascar,
And North and South Amerikee:
There’s the British flag a riding at anchor, With Admiral Napier, K.C.B.”
So when they got aboard of the Admiral’s He hanged fat Jack and flogged Jimmee;
But as for little Bill he made him
The Captain of a Seventy-three.
* As different versions of this popular song have been set to music and sung, no apology is needed for the insertion in these pages of what is considered to be the correct version.
THE END OF THE PLAY.
The play is done; the curtain drops,
Slow falling to the prompter’s bell: A moment yet the actor stops,
And looks around, to say farewell. It is an irksome word and task;
And, when he’s laughed and said his say, He shows, as he removes the mask,
A face that’s anything but gay.
One word, ere yet the evening ends,
Let’s close it with a parting rhyme, And pledge a hand to all young friends,
As fits the merry Christmas time.* On life’s wide scene you, too, have parts, That Fate ere long shall bid you play;
Good night! with honest gentle hearts A kindly greeting go alway!
Goodnight–I’d say, the griefs, the joys, Just hinted in this mimic page,
The triumphs and defeats of boys,
Are but repeated in our age.
I’d say, your woes were not less keen, Your hopes more vain than those of men; Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen
At forty-five played o’er again.
I’d say, we suffer and we strive,
Not less nor more as men, than boys; With grizzled beards at forty-five,
As erst at twelve in corduroys.
And if, in time of sacred youth,
We learned at home to love and pray, Pray Heaven that early Love and Truth
May never wholly pass away.
And in the world, as in the school,
I’d say, how fate may change and shift; The prize be sometimes with the fool,
The race not always to the swift.
The strong may yield, the good may fall, The great man be a vulgar clown,
The knave be lifted over all,
The kind cast pitilessly down.
Who knows the inscrutable design?
Blessed be He who took and gave!
Why should your mother, Charles, not mine, Be weeping at her darling’s grave?**
We bow to Heaven that will’d it so, That darkly rules the fate of all,
That sends the respite or the blow, That’s free to give, or to recall.
This crowns his feast with wine and wit: Who brought him to that mirth and state? His betters, see, below him sit,
Or hunger hopeless at the gate.
Who bade the mud from Dives’ wheel
To spurn the rags of Lazarus?
Come, brother, in that dust we’ll kneel, Confessing Heaven that ruled it thus.
So each shall mourn, in life’s advance, Dear hopes, dear friends, untimely killed; Shall grieve for many a forfeit chance,
And longing passion unfulfilled.
Amen! whatever fate be sent,
Pray God the heart may kindly glow, Although the head with cares be bent,
And whitened with the winter snow.
Come wealth or want, come good or ill, Let young and old accept their part,
And bow before the Awful Will,
And bear it with an honest heart,
Who misses or who wins the prize.
Go, lose or conquer as you can;
But if you fail, or if you rise,
Be each, pray God, a gentleman.
A gentleman, or old or young!
(Bear kindly with my humble lays); The sacred chorus first was sung
Upon the first of Christmas days:
The shepherds heard it overhead–
The joyful angels raised it then:
Glory to Heaven on high, it said,
And peace on earth to gentle men.
My song, save this, is little worth;
I lay the weary pen aside,
And wish you health, and love, and mirth, As fits the solemn Christmas-tide.
As fits the holy Christmas birth,
Be this, good friends, our carol still– Be peace on earth, be peace on earth,
To men of gentle will.
* These verses were printed at the end of a Christmas Book (1848- 9), “Dr. Birch and his Young Friends.”
** C.B ob. 29th November, 1848. aet. 42.
How spake of old the Royal Seer?
(His text is one I love to treat on.) This life of ours he said is sheer
O Student of this gilded Book,
Declare, while musing on its pages, If truer words were ever spoke
By ancient, or by modern sages!
The various authors’ names but note,* French, Spanish, English, Russians, Germans: And in the volume polyglot,
Sure you may read a hundred sermons!
What histories of life are here,
More wild than all romancers’ stories; What wondrous transformations queer,
What homilies on human glories!
What theme for sorrow or for scorn!
What chronicle of Fate’s surprises– Of adverse fortune nobly borne,
Of chances, changes, ruins, rises!
Of thrones upset, and sceptres broke, How strange a record here is written!
Of honors, dealt as if in joke;
Of brave desert unkindly smitten.
How low men were, and how they rise!
How high they were, and how they tumble! O vanity of vanities!
O laughable, pathetic jumble!
Here between honest Janin’s joke
And his Turk Excellency’s firman,
I write my name upon the book:
I write my name–and end my sermon.
O Vanity of vanities!
How wayward the decrees of Fate are; How very weak the very wise,
How very small the very great are!
What mean these stale moralities,
Sir Preacher, from your desk you mumble? Why rail against the great and wise,
And tire us with your ceaseless grumble?
Pray choose us out another text,
O man morose and narrow-minded!
Come turn the page–I read the next, And then the next, and still I find it.
Read here how Wealth aside was thrust, And Folly set in place exalted;
How Princes footed in the dust,
While lackeys in the saddle vaulted.
Though thrice a thousand years are past, Since David’s son, the sad and splendid, The weary King Ecclesiast,
Upon his awful tablets penned it,–
Methinks the text is never stale,
And life is every day renewing
Fresh comments on the old old tale
Of Folly, Fortune, Glory, Ruin.
Hark to the Preacher, preaching still He lifts his voice and cries his sermon, Here at St. Peter’s of Cornhill,
As yonder on the Mount of Hermon;
For you and me to heart to take
(O dear beloved brother readers)
To-day as when the good King spake
Beneath the solemn Syrian cedars.
* Between a page by Jules Janin, and a poem by the Turkish Ambassador, in Madame de R—-‘s album, containing the autographs of kings, princes, poets, marshals, musicians, diplomatists, statesmen, artists, and men of letters of all nations.