The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe Part 48

As a young Lobster roamed about, Itself and mother being out, Their eyes at the same moment fell On a boiled lobster's scarlet sh.e.l.l "Look," said the younger; "is it true That we might wear so bright a hue?

No coral, if I trust mine eye, Can with its startling brilliance vie; While you and I must be content A dingy aspect to present."

"Proud heedless fool," the parent cried; "Know'st thou the penalty of pride?

The tawdry finery you wish, Has ruined this unhappy fish.

The hue so much by you desired By his destruction was acquired-- So be contented with your lot, Nor seek to change by going to pot."

TO SONG-BIRDS ON A SUNDAY.

PUNCH.

Silence, all! ye winged choir; Let not yon right reverend sire Hear your happy symphony: 'Tis too good for such as he.

On the day of rest divine, He poor townsfolk would confine In their crowded streets and lanes, Where they can not hear your strains.

All the week they drudge away, Having but one holiday; No more time for you, than that-- Unlike bishops, rich and fat.

Utter not your cheerful sounds, Therefore, in the bishop's grounds; Make him melody no more, Who denies you to the poor.

Linnet, hist! and blackbird, hus.h.!.+

Throstle, be a songless thrush; Nightingale and lark, be mute, Never sing to such a brute.

Robin, at the twilight dim, Never let thine evening hymn, Bird of red and ruthful breast, Lend the bishop's Port a zest.

Soothe not, birds, his lonesome hours, Keeping us from fields and flowers, Who to pen us tries, instead, 'Mong the intramural dead.

Only let the raven croak At him from the rotten oak; Let the magpie and the jay Chatter at him on his way.

And when he to rest has laid him, Let his ears the screech-owl harry; And the night-jar serenade him With a proper charivari.

THE FIRST SENSIBLE VALENTINE.

(ONE OF THE MOST ASTONIs.h.i.+NG FRUITS OF THE EMIGRATION MANIA.) PUNCH.

Let other swains, upon the best cream-laid Or wire-wove note, their amorous strains indite; Or, in despair, invoke the limner's aid To paint the sufferings they can not write:

Upon their page, transfixed with numerous darts, Let slender youths in agony expire; Or, on one spit, let two pale pink calves' hearts Roast at some fierce imaginary fire.

Let ANGELINA there, as in a bower Of shrubs, unknown to LINDLEY, she reposes, See her own ALFRED to the old church tower Led on by CUPID, in a chain of roses; Or let the wreath, when raised, a cage reveal, Wherein two doves their little bills entwine; (A vile device, which always makes me feel Marriage would only add your bills to mine.)

For arts like these I've neither skill nor time; But if you'll seek the Diggings, dearest maid, And share my fortune in that happier clime, Your berth is taken, and your pa.s.sage paid.

For reading, lately, in my list of things, "Twelve dozen s.h.i.+rts! twelve dozen collars," too!

The horrid host of b.u.t.tons and of strings Flashed on my spirit, and I thought--of you.

"Surely," I said, as in my chest I dived-- That vast receptacle of all things known-- "To teach this truth my outfit was contrived, It is not good for man to be alone!"

Then fly with me! My bark is on the sh.o.r.e (Her mark A 1, her size eight hundred tons), And though she's nearly full, can take some more Dry goods, by measurement--say GREEN and SONS.

Yes, fly with me! Had all our friends been blind, We might have married, and been happy HERE; But since young married folks the means must find The eyes of stern society to cheer, And satisfy its numerous demands, I think 'twill save us many a vain expense, If on our wedding cards this Notice stands, "At Home, at Ballarat, just three months hence!"

A SCENE ON THE AUSTRIAN FRONTIER.

PUNCH.

"Dey must not pa.s.s!" was the warning cry of the Austrian sentinel To one whose little knapsack bore the books he loved so well "Thev must not pa.s.s? Now, wherefore not?" the wond'ring tourist cried; "No English book can pa.s.s mit me;" the sentinel replied.

The tourist laughed a scornful laugh; quoth he, "Indeed, I hope There are few English books would please a Kaiser or a Pope; But these are books in common use: plain truths and facts they tell--"

"Der Teufel! Den dey MOST NOT pa.s.s!" said the startled sentinel.

"This Handbook to North Germany, by worthy Mr. MURRAY, Need scarcely put your government in such a mighty flurry; If tourists' handbooks be proscribed, pray have you ever tried To find a treasonable page in Bradshaws Railway Guide?

This map, again, of Switzerland--nay, man, you needn't start or Look black at such a little map, as if't were Magna Charta; I know it is the land of TELL, but, curb your idle fury-- We've not the slightest hope, to-day, to find a TELL in your eye (Uri)."

"Sturmwetter!" said the sentinel, "Come! cease dis idle babbles!

Was ist dis oder book I see? Das Haus mit sieben Gabbles?

I nevvare heard of him bifor, ver mosh I wish I had, For now Ich kann nicht let him pa.s.s, for fear he should be bad.

Das Haus of Commons it must be; Ja wohl! 'tis so, and den Die Sieben Gabbles are de talk of your chief public men; Potzmiekchen! it is dreadful books. Ja! Ja! I know him well; Hoch Himmel! here he most not pa.s.s:" said the learned sentinel.

"Dis PLATO, too, I ver mosh fear, he will corrupt the land, He has soch many long big words, Ich kann nicht onderstand."

"My friend," the tourist said, "I fear you're really in the way to Quite change the proverb, and be friends will neither Truth nor PLATO.

My books, 'tis true, are little worth, but they have served me long, And I regard the greatness less than the nature of the wrong; So, if the books must stay behind, I stay behind as well."

"Es ist mir nichts, mein lieber Freund," said the courteous sentinel.

ODE TO THE GREAT SEA-SERPENT ON HIS WONDERFUL REAPPEARANCE.

PUNCH.

From what abysses of the unfathom'd sea Turnest thou up, Great Serpent, now and then, If we may venture to believe in thee, And affidavits of sea-faring men?

What whirlpool gulf to thee affords a home!

Amid the unknown depths where dost thou dwell?

If--like the mermaid, with her gla.s.s and comb-- Thou art not what the vulgar call a Sell.

Art thou, indeed, a serpent and no sham?

Or, if no serpent, a prodigious eel, An ent.i.ty, though modified by flam, A basking shark, or monstrous kind of seal?

I'll think that thou a true Ophidian art; I can not say a reptile of the deep, Because thou dost not play a reptile's part; Thou swimmest, it appears, and dost not creep.

The Captain was not WALKER but M'QUHAE, I'll trust, by whom thou some time since wast seen And him who says he saw thee t'other day, I will not bid address the corps marine.

Sea-Serpent, art thou venomous or not?

What sort of snake may be thy cla.s.s and style?

That of Mud-Python, by APOLLO shot, And mentioned--rather often--by CARLYLE?

Or, art thou but a serpent of the mind?

Doubts, though subdued, will oft recur again-- A serpent of the visionary kind, Proceeding from the grog-oppressed brain?

Art thou a giant adder, or huge asp, And hast thou got a rattle at thy tail?