A Selection from the Works of Frederick Locker - LightNovelsOnl.com
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He eyes my gold chain, as if anxious to crib it; He looks just as if he'd been blown from a gibbet.
I pause ... and pa.s.s on--and beside the club fire I settle that Sophy is all I desire.
As I walk from the club, and am deep in a strophe, Which rolls upon all that's delicious in Sophy, I half tumble over an "object" unnerving-- So frightful a hag must be "highly deserving."
She begs--my heart's moved--but I've much circ.u.mspection; I stifle remorse with the soothing reflection That cases of vice are by no means a rarity-- The worst vice of all's indiscriminate charity.
Am I right? How I wish that our clerical guides Would settle this question--and others besides!
For always to harden one's fiddlestrings thus, If it's wholesome for beggars, is hurtful for us.
A few minutes later--how pleasant for me!-- I am seated by Sophy at five-o'clock tea: Her table is loaded, for when a girl marries, What cartloads of rubbish they send her from _Barry's_!
"There's a present for you!" Yes, my sweet Sophy's thrift Has enabled the darling to buy me a gift.
And she slips in my hand--the delightfully sly Thing-- A paper-weight formed of a bronze lizard writhing.
"What a charming _cadeau_! and," says I, "so well made; But are you aware, you extravagant jade, That in casting this metal a live, harmless lizard Was cruelly tortured in ghost and in gizzard?"
"Pooh, pooh," says my lady (I ought to defend her, Her head is too giddy, her heart's much too tender), "Hopgarten protests they've no feeling--and so It was nothing but muscular movement, you know."
Thinks I--when I've said _au revoir_, and depart-- (A Comb in my pocket, a Weight at my heart),-- And when wretched mendicants writhe, we've a notion That begging is only a muscular motion.
The Angora Cat
Good pastry is vended In Cite Fadette,-- Madame Pons constructs splendid _Brioche_ and _galette_!
Monsieur Pons is so fat that He's laid on the shelf,-- Madame Pons had a cat that Was fat as herself.
Long hair--soft as satin,-- A musical purr-- 'Gainst the window she'd flatten Her delicate fur.
Once I drove Lou to see what Our neighbours were at, When, in rapture, cried she, "What An exquisite cat!
"What whiskers! She's purring All over. A gale Of contentment is stirring Her feathery tail.
"Monsieur Pons, will you sell her?"-- "_Ma femme est sortie_, Your offer I'll tell her, But--will she?" says he.
Yet Pons was persuaded To part with the prize!
(Our bargain was aided, My Lou, by your eyes!)
From his _legitime_ save him-- My fate I prefer!
For I warrant she gave him _Un mauvais quart d'heure_.
I'm giving a pleasant Grimalkin to Lou, --Ah, Puss, what a present I'm giving to you!
ON A PORTRAIT OF DR. LAURENCE STERNE,
BY SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS.
When Punch gives friend and foe their due, Can unwashed mirth grow riper?
Yet when the curtain falls, how few Remain to pay the piper!
If pathos should thy bosom stir To tears, more sweet than laughter, Oh, bless its kind interpreter, And love him ever after!
Dear Parson of the roguish eye!
Thy face has grown historic, Since saint and sinner flocked to buy The homilies of Yorick.
I fain would add one blossom to The chaplet Fame has wreathed thee.
My friends, the crew that Yorick drew Accept, as friends bequeathed thee.
At Shandy Hall I like to stop And see my ancient crony, Or in the lane meet Dr. Slop Astride a slender pony.
Mine uncle, on his bowling-green, Still storms a breach in Flanders; And faithful Trim, starch, tall, and lean, With Bridget still philanders.
And here again they visit us By happy inspiration, The "fortunes of Pisistratus,"
A tale of fascination.
But lay his magic volume by, And thank the Great Enchanter;-- Our loins are girded, let us try A sentimental canter....
A Temple quaint of latest growth Expands, where Art and Science Astounded by our lack of both, Have founded an alliance.
One picture there all pa.s.sers scan, It rivets friend and stranger: Come, gaze on yonder guileless man, And tremble for his danger.
Mine uncle's bluff--his waistcoat's buff,-- The heart beneath is tender.-- Bewitching widow! Hold! Enough!
Thou fairest of thy gender.
The limner's art!--the poet's pen!-- Posterity the story Shall tell how these three gifted men Have wrought for Yorick's glory.
O name not easily forgot!
Our love, dear Shade, we show thee, Regretting thy misdeeds, but not Forgetting what we owe thee.
A SKETCH IN SEVEN DIALS.
Minnie, in her hand a sixpence, Toddled off to buy some b.u.t.ter; (Minnie's pinafore was spotless) Back she brought it to the gutter, Gleeful, radiant, as she thus did, Proud to be so largely trusted.
One, two, three small steps she'd taken, Blissfully came little Minnie, When, poor darling! down she tumbled, Daubed her hands and face and pinny!
Dropping too, the little s.l.u.t, her Pat of b.u.t.ter in the gutter.
Never creep back so despairing-- Dry those eyes, my little fairy: All of us start off in high glee, Many come back quite _contrairy_.
I've mourned sixpences in scores too, Damaged hopes and pinafores too.
