The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe Part 26

Exclaimed the man of wits: "I'll leave my wealth," said Brentford, "Sir Lawyer, as befits; And portion both their fortunes Unto their several wits."

"Your grace knows best," the lawyer said, "On your commands I wait."

"Be silent, sir," says Brentford, "A plague upon your prate!

Come, take your pen and paper, And write as I dictate."

The will, as Brentford spoke it, Was writ, and signed, and closed; He bade the lawyer leave him, And turned him round, and dozed; And next week in the church-yard The good old king reposed.

Tom, dressed in c.r.a.pe and hatband, Of mourners was the chief; In bitter self-upbraidings Poor Edward showed his grief; Tom hid his fat, white countenance In his pocket handkerchief.

Ned's eyes were full of weeping, He faltered in his walk; Tom never shed a tear, But onward he did stalk, As pompous, black, and solemn, As any catafalque.

And when the bones of Brentford-- That gentle king and just-- With bell, and book, and candle, Were duly laid in dust, "Now, gentlemen," says Thomas, "Let business be discussed.

"When late our sire beloved Was taken deadly ill, Sir Lawyer, you attended him, (I mean to tax your bill;) And, as you signed and wrote it, I pr'ythee read the will."

The lawyer wiped his spectacles, And drew the parchment out; And all the Brentford family Sat eager round about: Poor Ned was somewhat anxious, But Tom had ne'er a doubt.

"My son, as I make ready To seek my last long home, Some cares I had for Neddy, But none for thee, my Tom: Sobriety and order You ne'er departed from.

"Ned hath a brilliant genius, And thou a plodding brain; On thee I think with pleasure, On him with doubt and pain."

("You see, good Ned," says Thomas "What he thought about us twain.")

"Though small was your allowance, You saved a little store; And those who save a little Shall get a plenty more."

As the lawyer read this compliment, Tom's eyes were running o'er.

"The tortoise and the hare, Tom, Set out, at each his pace; The hare it was the fleeter, The tortoise won the race; And since the world's beginning, This ever was the case.

"Ned's genius, blithe and singing Steps gayly o'er the ground; As steadily you trudge it, He clears it with a bound; But dullness has stout legs, Tom, And wind that's wondrous sound.

"O'er fruits and flowers alike, Tom, You pa.s.s with plodding feet; You heed not one nor t'other, But onward go your beat, While genius stops to loiter With all that he may meet.

"And ever, as he wanders, Will have a pretext fine For sleeping in the morning, Or loitering to dine, Or dozing in the shade, Or basking in the s.h.i.+ne.

"Your little steady eyes, Tom, Though not so bright as those That restless round about him Your flas.h.i.+ng genius throws, Are excellently suited To look before your nose.

"Thank heaven, then, for the blinkers It placed before your eyes; The stupidest are weakest, The witty are not wise; O, bless your good stupidity, It is your dearest prize!

"And though my lands are wide, And plenty is my gold, Still better gifts from Nature, My Thomas, do you hold-- A brain that's thick and heavy, A heart that's dull and cold;

"Too dull to feel depression, Too hard to heed distress, Too cool to yield to pa.s.sion, Or silly tenderness.

March on--your road is open To wealth, Tom, and success.

"Ned sinneth in extravagance, And you in greedy l.u.s.t."

("I' faith," says Ned, "our father Is less polite than just.") "In you, son Tom, I've confidence, But Ned I can not trust.

"Wherefore my lease and copyholds, My lands and tenements, My parks, my farms, and orchards, My houses and my rents, My Dutch stock, and my Spanish stock, My five and three per cents;

"I leave to you, my Thomas--"

("What, all?" poor Edward said; "Well, well, I should have spent them, And Tom's a prudent head.") "I leave to you, my Thomas,-- To you, IN TRUST for Ned."

The wrath and consternation What poet e'er could trace That at this fatal pa.s.sage Came o'er Prince Tom his face; The wonder of the company, And honest Ned's amaze!

"'Tis surely some mistake,"

Good-naturedly cries Ned; The lawyer answered gravely, "'Tis even as I said; 'T was thus his gracious majesty Ordained on his death-bed.

"See, here the will is witnessed, And here's his autograph."

"In truth, our father's writing,"

Said Edward, with a laugh; "But thou shalt not be loser, Tom, We'll share it half and half."

"Alas! my kind young gentleman, This sharing can not be; 'Tis written in the testament That Brentford spoke to me, 'I do forbid Prince Ned to give Prince Tom a half-penny.

"'He hath a store of money, But ne'er was known to lend it; He never helped his brother; The poor he ne'er befriended; He hath no need of property He knows not how to spend it.

"'Poor Edward knows but how to spend, And thrifty Tom to h.o.a.rd; Let Thomas be the steward then, And Edward be the lord; And as the honest laborer Is worthy his reward,

"'I pray Prince Ned, my second son, And my successor dear, To pay to his intendant Five hundred pounds a year; And to think of his old father, And live and make good cheer.'"

Such was old Brentford's honest testament; He did devise his moneys for the best, And lies in Brentford church in peaceful rest.

Prince Edward lived, and money made and spent; But his good sire was wrong, it is confessed, To say his young son Thomas, never lent.

He did. Young Thomas lent at interest, And n.o.bly took his twenty-five per cent.

Long time the famous reign of Ned endured, O'er Chiswick, Fulham, Brentford, Putney, Kew; But of extravagance he ne'er was cured.

And when both died, as mortal men will do, 'T was commonly reported that the steward Was very much the richer of the two.

t.i.tMARSH'S CARMEN LILLIENSE.

W. MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

LILLE, Sept. 2, 1843.

My heart is weary, my peace is gone, How shall I e'er my woes reveal?

I have no money, I lie in p.a.w.n, A stranger in the town of Lille.

I.

With twenty pounds but three weeks since From Paris forth did t.i.tmarsh wheel, I thought myself as rich a prince As beggar poor I'm now at Lille.

Confiding in my ample means-- In troth, I was a happy chiel!

I pa.s.sed the gate of Valenciennes.

I never thought to come by Lille.

I never thought my twenty pounds Some rascal knave would dare to steal; I gayly pa.s.sed the Belgic bounds At Quievrain, twenty miles from Lille.

To Antwerp town I hastened post, And as I took my evening meal I felt my pouch,--my purse was lost, O Heaven! Why came I not by Lille?

I straightway called for ink and pen, To grandmamma I made appeal; Meanwhile a load of guineas ten I borrowed from a friend so leal.

I got the cash from grandmamma (Her gentle heart my woes could feel), But where I went, and what I saw, What matters? Here I am at Lille.

My heart is weary, my peace is gone, How shall I e'er my woes reveal?