The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe Part 28

Poor Jane had scarce become a wife, Before her husband sought to make her The pink of country-polished life, And prim and formal as a Quaker.

One day the tutor went abroad, And simple Jenny sadly missed him; When he returned, behind her lord She slyly stole, and fondly kissed him!

The husband's anger rose!--and red And white his face alternate grew!

"Less freedom, ma'am!"--Jane sighed and said "OH, DEAR! I DIDN'T KNOW 'TWAS YOU!"

SATIRICAL

THE RABBLE: OR, WHO PAYS!

SAMUEL BUTLER.

How various and innumerable Are those who live upon the rabble!

'Tis they maintain the Church and State, Employ the priest and magistrate; Bear all the charge of government, And pay the public fines and rent; Defray all taxes and excises, And impositions of all prices; Bear all th' expense of peace and war, And pay the pulpit and the bar; Maintain all churches and religions, And give their pastors exhibitions; And those who have the greatest flocks Are primitive and orthodox; Support all schismatics and sects, And pay them for tormenting texts; Take all their doctrines off their hands, And pay 'em in good rents and lands; Discharge all costly offices, The doctor's and the lawyer's fees, The hangman's wages, and the scores Of caterpillar bawds and wh.o.r.es; Discharge all damages and costs Of Knights and Squires of the Post; All statesmen, cut-purses, and padders, And pay for all their ropes and ladders; All pettifoggers, and all sorts Of markets, churches, and of courts; All sums of money paid or spent, With all the charges incident, Laid out, or thrown away, or given To purchase this world, h.e.l.l or Heaven.

THE CHAMELEON.

MATTHEW PRIOR.

As the Chameleon who is known To have no colors of its own: But borrows from his neighbor's hue His white or black, his green or blue; And struts as much in ready light, Which credit gives him upon sight: As if the rainbow were in tail Settled on him, and his heirs male; So the young squire, when first he comes From country school to Will or Tom's: And equally, in truth is fit To be a statesman or a wit; Without one notion of his own, He saunters wildly up and down; Till some acquaintance, good or bad, Takes notice of a staring lad; Admits him in among the gang: They jest, reply, dispute, harangue; He acts and talks, as they befriend him, Smear'd with the colors which they lend him, Thus merely, as his fortune chances, His merit or his vice advances.

If haply he the sect pursues, That road and comment upon news; He takes up their mysterious face: He drinks his coffee without lace.

This week his mimic tongue runs o'er What they have said the week before; His wisdom sets all Europe right, And teaches Marlborough when to fight.

Or if it be his fate to meet With folks who have more wealth than wit He loves cheap port, and double bub; And settles in the hum-drum club: He earns how stocks will fall or rise; Holds poverty the greatest vice; Thinks wit the bane of conversation; And says that learning spoils a nation.

But if, at first, he minds his. .h.i.ts, And drinks champagne among the wits!

Five deep he toasts the towering la.s.ses; Repeats you verses wrote on gla.s.ses; Is in the chair; prescribes the law; And lies with those he never saw.

MERRY ANDREW.

MATTHEW PRIOR.

SLY Merry Andrew, the last Southwark fair (At Barthol'mew he did not much appear: So peevish was the edict of the Mayor) At Southwark, therefore, as his tricks he show'd, To please our masters, and his friends the crowd; A huge neat's tongue he in his right hand held: His left was with a huge black pudding fill'd.

With a grave look in this odd equipage, The clownish mimic traverses the stage: Why, how now, Andrew! cries his brother droll, To-day's conceit, methinks, is something dull: Come on, sir, to our worthy friends explain, What does your emblematic wors.h.i.+p mean?

Quoth Andrew; Honest English let us speak: Your emble--(what d' ye call 't) is heathen Greek.

To tongue or pudding thou hast no pretense: Learning thy talent is, but mine is sense.

That busy fool I was, which thou art now; Desirous to correct, not knowing how: With very good design, but little wit, Blaming or praising things, as I thought fit I for this conduct had what I deserv'd; And dealing honestly, was almost starv'd.

But, thanks to my indulgent stars, I eat; Since I have found the secret to be great.

O, dearest Andrew, says the humble droll, Henceforth may I obey and thou control; Provided thou impart thy useful skill.-- Bow then, says Andrew; and, for once, I will.-- Be of your patron's mind, whate'er he says; Sleep very much: think little; and talk less; Mind neither good nor bad, nor right nor wrong, But eat your pudding, slave; and hold your tongue.

A reverend prelate stopp'd his coach and six, To laugh a little at our Andrew's tricks; But when he heard him give this golden rule, Drive on (he cried); this fellow is no fool.

JACK AND JOAN.

MATTHEW PRIOR.

Stet quicunque volet potens Aulae culmine lubrico, &c. SENECA.

Interr'd beneath this marble stone Lie sauntering Jack and idle Joan.

While rolling threescore years and one Did round this globe their courses run; If human things went ill or well; If changing empires rose or fell; The morning past, the evening came, And found this couple still the same.

They walk'd and eat, good folks: what then?

Why then they walk'd and eat again: They soundly slept the night away; They just did nothing all the day; And having buried children four, Would not take pains to try for more; Nor sister either had, nor brother; They seem'd just tallied for each other.

Their moral and economy Most perfectly they made agree: Each virtue kept its proper bound, Nor trespa.s.s'd on the other's ground, Nor fame, nor censure they regarded; They neither punish'd nor rewarded.

He cared not what the footman did; Her maids she neither prais'd nor chid; So every servant took his course; And bad at first, they all grew worse.

Slothful disorder filled his table; And s.l.u.ttish plenty deck'd her table.

Their beer was strong; their wine was port; Their meal was large; their grace was short.

They gave the poor the remnant meat, Just when it grew not fit to eat.

They paid the church and parish rate; And took, but read not the receipt: For which they claim their Sunday's due, Of slumbering in an upper pew.

No man's defects sought they to know; So never made themselves a foe, No man's good deeds did they commend; So never rais'd themselves a friend.

Nor cherish'd they relations poor; That might decrease their present store: Nor barn nor house did they repair; That might oblige their future heir.

They neither added nor confounded; They neither wanted nor abounded.

Each Christmas they accompts did clear, And wound their bottom round the year.

Nor tear or smile did they employ At news of public grief or joy.

When bells were rung, and bonfires made, If ask'd they ne'er denied their aid; Their jug was to the ringers carried, Whoever either died, or married.

Their billet at the fire was found, Whoever was depos'd, or crown'd.

Nor good, nor bad, nor fools, nor wise; They would not learn, nor could advise: Without love, hatred, joy, or fear, They led--a kind of--as it were: Nor wish'd, nor car'd, nor laugh'd, nor cried: And so they liv'd, and so they died.

THE PROGRESS OF POETRY. DEAN SWIFT

The farmer's goose, who in the stubble Has fed without restraint or trouble, Grown fat with corn and sitting still, Can scarce get o'er the barn-door sill; And hardly waddles forth to cool Her belly in the neighboring pool: Nor loudly cackles at the door; For cackling shows the goose is poor.

But, when she must be turn'd to graze, And round the barren common strays, Hard exercise, and harder fare, Soon make my dame grow lank and spare Her body light, she tries her wings, And scorns the ground, and upward springs While all the parish, as she flies, Hear sounds harmonious from the skies.

Such is the poet fresh in pay, The third night's profits of his play; His morning draughts till noon can swill Among his brethren of the quill: With good roast beef his belly full, Grown lazy, foggy, fat, and dull, Deep sunk in plenty and delight, What poet e'er could take his flight?

Or, stuff'd with phlegm up to the throat What poet e'er could sing a note?

Nor Pegasus could bear the load Along the high celestial road; The steed, oppress'd, would break his To raise the lumber from the earth.

But view him in another scene, When all his drink is Hippocrene, His money spent, his patrons fail, His credit out for cheese and ale; His two-years' coat so smooth and Through every thread it lets in air With hungry meals his body pines His guts and belly full of wind; And like a jockey for a race, His flesh brought down to flying case: Now his exalted spirit loathes Enc.u.mbrances of food and clothes; And up he rises like a vapor, Supported high on wings of paper.

He singing flies, and flying sings, While from below all Grub street rings.

TWELVE ARTICLES.

DEAN SWIFT.

I.

Lest it may more quarrels breed, I will never hear you read,