The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe - LightNovelsOnl.com
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And what did he do with his deadly darts, This goblin of grisly bone?
He dabbled and spilled man's blood, and he killed Like a butcher that kills his own.
The first he slaughtered it made him laugh (For the man was a coffin-maker), To think how the mutes, and men in black suits, Would mourn for an undertaker.
Death saw two Quakers sitting at church; Quoth he, "We shall not differ."
And he let them alone, like figures of stone, For he could not make them stiffer.
He saw two duellists going to fight, In fear they could not smother; And he shot one through at once--for he knew They never would shoot each other.
He saw a watchman fast in his box, And he gave a snore infernal; Said Death, "He may keep his breath, for his sleep Can never be more eternal."
He met a coachman driving a coach So slow that his fare grew sick; But he let him stray on his tedious way, For Death only wars on the QUICK.
Death saw a tollman taking a toll, In the spirit of his fraternity; But he knew that sort of man would extort, Though summoned to all eternity.
He found an author writing his life, But he let him write no further; For Death, who strikes whenever he likes, Is jealous of all self-murther!
Death saw a patient that pulled out his purse, And a doctor that took the sum; But he let them be--for he knew that the "fee"
Was a prelude to "faw" and "fum."
He met a dustman ringing a bell, And he gave him a mortal thrust; For himself, by law, since Adam's flaw, Is contractor for all our dust.
He saw a sailor mixing his grog, And he marked him out for slaughter; For on water he scarcely had cared for death, And never on rum-and-water.
Death saw two players playing at cards, But the game wasn't worth a dump, For he quickly laid them flat with a spade, To wait for the final trump!
THE BACHELOR'S DREAM.
THOMAS HOOD.
My pipe is lit, my grog is mixed, My curtains drawn and all is snug; Old Puss is in her elbow chair, And Tray is sitting on the rug.
Last night I had a curious dream, Miss Susan Bates was Mistress Mogg-- What d'ye think of that, my cat?
What d'ye think of that, my dog?
She look'd so fair, she sang so well, I could but woo and she was won; Myself in blue, the bride in white, The ring was placed, the deed was done!
Away we went in chaise-and-four, As fast as grinning boys could flog-- What d'ye think of that my cat?
What d'ye think of that my dog?
What loving tete-a-tetes to come!
What tete-a-tetes must still defer!
When Susan came to live with me, Her mother came to live with her!
With sister Belle she couldn't part, But all MY ties had leave to jog-- What d'ye think of that, my cat?
What d'ye think of that, my dog?
The mother brought a pretty Poll-- A monkey, too, what work he made!
The sister introduced a beau-- My Susan brought a favorite maid.
She had a tabby of her own,-- A snappish mongrel christened Grog,-- What d'ye think of that, my cat?
What d'ye think of that, my dog?
The monkey bit--the parrot screamed, All day the sister strummed and sung, The petted maid was such a scold!
My Susan learned to use her tongue; Her mother had such wretched health, She sat and croaked like any frog-- What d'ye think of that, my cat?
What d'ye think of that, my dog?
No longer Deary, Duck, and Love, I soon came down to simple "M!"
The very servants crossed my wish, My Susan let me down to them.
The poker hardly seemed my own, I might as well have been a log-- What d'ye think of that, my cat?
What d'ye think of that, my dog?
My clothes they were the queerest shape!
Such coats and hats she never met!
My ways they were the oddest ways!
My friends were such a vulgar set!
Poor Tompkinson was snubbed and huffed, She could not bear that Mister Blogg-- What d'ye think of that, my cat?
What d'ye think of that, my dog?
At times we had a spar, and then Mamma must mingle in the song-- The sister took a sister's part-- The maid declared her master wrong-- The parrot learned to call me "Fool!"
My life was like a London fog-- What d'ye think of that, my cat?
What d'ye think of that, my dog?
My Susan's taste was superfine, As proved by bills that had no end; _I_ never had a decent coat-- _I_ never had a coin to spend!
She forced me to resign my club, Lay down my pipe, retrench my grog-- What d'ye think of that, my cat?
What d'ye think of that, my dog?
Each Sunday night we gave a rout To fops and flirts, a pretty list; And when I tried to steal away I found my study full of whist!
Then, first to come, and last to go, There always was a Captain Hogg-- What d'ye think of that, my cat?
What d'ye think of that, my dog?
Now was not that an awful dream For one who single is and snug-- With p.u.s.s.y in the elbow-chair, And Tray reposing on the rug?-- If I must totter down the hill 'Tis safest done without a clog-- What d'ye think of that, my cat?
What d'ye think of that, my dog?
ON SAMUEL ROGERS.
LORD BYRON.
Question.
Nose and chin would shame a knocker, Wrinkles that would puzzle c.o.c.ker: Mouth which marks the envious scorner, With a scorpion in each corner, Turning its quick tail to sting you In the place that most may wring you: Eyes of lead-like hue, and gummy; Carca.s.s picked out from some mummy Bowels (but they were forgotten, Save the liver, and that's rotten); Skin all sallow, flesh all sodden-- Form the Devil would frighten G.o.d in.
Is't a corpse stuck up for show, Galvanized at times to go With the Scripture in connection, New proof of the resurrection?
Vampyre, ghost, or ghoul, what is it?
I would walk ten miles to miss it.
Answer.
Many pa.s.sengers arrest one, To demand the same free question.
Shorter's my reply, and franker-- That's the Bard, the Beau, the Banker.
Yet if you could bring about, Just to turn him inside out, Satan's self would seem less sooty, And his present aspect--Beauty.
