The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe Part 61

Fas.h.i.+on from Moorfields, honor from Chick Lane; Bankers from Paper Buildings here resort, Bankrupts from Golden Square and Riches Court; From the Haymarket canting rogues in grain, Gulls from the Poultry, sots from Water Lane; The lottery cormorant, the auction shark, The full-price master, and the half-price clerk; Boys who long linger at the gallery-door, With pence twice five--they want but twopence more; Till some Samaritan the two-pence spares, And sends them jumping up the gallery-stairs.

Critics we boast who ne'er their malice balk, But talk their minds--we wish they'd mind their talk Big-worded bullies, who by quarrels live-- Who give the lie, and tell the lie they give; Jews from St. Mary's Ax, for jobs so wary, That for old clothes they'd even ax St. Mary; And bucks with pockets empty as their pate, Lax in their gaiters, laxer in their gait; Who oft, when we our house lock up, carouse With tippling tipstaves in a lock-up house.

Yet here, as elsewhere, Chance can joy bestow, Where scowling fortune seemed to threaten woe.

John Richard William Alexander Dwyer Was footman to Justinian Stubbs, Esquire; But when John Dwyer listed in the Blues, Emanuel Jennings polished Stubb's shoes.

Emanuel Jennings brought his youngest boy Up as a corn-cutter--a safe employ; In Holywell Street, St. Pancras, he was bred (At number twenty-seven, it is said), Facing the pump, and near the Granby's Head: He would have bound him to some shop in town, But with a premium he could not come down.

Pat was the urchin's name-a red haired youth, Ponder of purl and skittle-grounds than truth.

Silence, ye G.o.ds! to keep your tongue in awe, The Muse shall tell an accident she saw.

Pat Jennings in the upper gallery sat, But, leaning forward, Jennings lost his hat: Down from the gallery the beaver flew, And spurned the one to settle in the two.

How shall he act? Pay at the gallery-door Two s.h.i.+llings for what cost, when new, but four?

Or till half-price, to save his s.h.i.+lling, wait, And gain his hat again at half-past eight?

Now, while his fears antic.i.p.ate a thief, John Mullins whispers, "Take my handkerchief."

"Thank you," cries Pat; "but one won't make a line."

"Take mine," cries Wilson; and cries Stokes, "Take mine."

A motley cable soon Pat Jennings ties, Where Spitalfields with real India vies.

Like Iris' bow, down darts the painted clew, Starred, striped, and spotted, yellow, red, and blue, Old calico, torn silk, and muslin new.

George Green below, with palpitating hand Loops the last 'kerchief to the beaver's band-- Up soars the prize! The youth, with joy unfeigned, Regained the felt, and felt the prize regained; While to the applauding galleries grateful Pat Made a low bow, and touched the ransomed hat.

A TALE OF DRURY LANE [Footnote: "From the parody of Sir Walter Scott we know not what to select--It Is all good. The effect of the fire on the town, and the description of a fireman in his official apparel, may be quoted as amusing specimens of the MISAPPLICATION of the style and meter of Mr.

Scott's admirable romances."--Quarterly Review.

"'A Tale of Drury.' by Walter Scott, is, upon the whole, admirably execuated; though the introduction is rather tame. The burning is described with the mighty minstrel's characteristic love of localitics. The catastrophe is described with a spirit not unworthy of the name so ventureously a.s.sumed by the describer"--Edinburg Review.]

[A BURLESQUE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT'S METRICAL ROMANCES.

REJECTED ADDRESSES.]

HORACE SMITH.

[To be spoken by Mr. Kemble, In a suit of the Black Prince's Armor, borrowed from the Tower.]

Survey this s.h.i.+eld, all bossy bright-- These cuisses twin behold!

Look on my form in armor dight Of steel inlaid with gold; My knees are stiff in iron buckles, Stiff spikes of steel protect my knuckles.

These once belonged to sable prince, Who never did in battle wince; With valor tart as pungent quince, He slew the vaunting Gaul.

Rest there awhile, my bearded lance, While from green curtain I advance To yon foot-lights, no trivial dance, And tell the town what sad mischance Did Drury Lane befall.

THE NIGHT.

On fair Augusta's towers and trees Flittered the silent midnight breeze, Curling the foliage as it past, Which from the moon-tipped plumage cast A spangled light, like dancing spray, Then rea.s.sumed its still array; When as night's lamp unclouded hung, And down its full effulgence flung, It shed such soft and balmy power That cot and castle, hall and bower, And spire and dome, and turret height, Appear'd to slumber in the light.

From Henry's chapel, Rufus' Hall, To Savoy, Temple, and St. Paul, From Knightsbridge, Pancras, Camden Town, To Redriff Shadwell, Horsleydown, No voice was heard, no eye unclosed, But all in deepest sleep reposed.

They might have thought, who gazed around Amid a silence so profound, It made the senses thrill, That't was no place inhabited, But some vast city of the dead All was so hushed and still.

THE BURNING.

As chaos, which, by heavenly doom, Had slept in everlasting gloom, Started with terror and surprise When light first flashed upon her eyes So London's sons in night-cap woke, In bed-gown woke her dames; For shouts were heard 'mid fire and smoke, And twice ten hundred voices spoke "The playhouse is in flames!"

And, lo! where Catharine street extends, A fiery tail its l.u.s.ter lends To every window-pane; Blushes each spout in Martlet Court And Barbican, moth-eaten fort, And Covent Garden kennels sport, A bright ensanguined drain; Meux's new brewhouse shows the light, Rowland Hill's chapel, and the height Where patent shot they sell; The Tennis-Court, so fair and tall, Partakes the ray, with Surgeons' Hall, The ticket-porters' house of call.

Old Bedlam, close by London Wall, Wright's shrimp and oyster shop withal, And Richardson's Hotel.

Nor these alone, but far and wide, Across red Thames's gleaming tide, To distant fields the blaze was borne, And daisy white and h.o.a.ry thorn In borrowed l.u.s.ter seemed to sham The rose of red sweet Wil-li-am.

To those who on the hills around Beheld the flames from Drury's mound, As from a lofty altar rise, It seemed that nations did conspire To offer to the G.o.d of fire Some vast stupendous sacrifice!

The summoned firemen woke at call, And hied them to their stations all: Starting from short and broken snooze, Each sought his pond'rous hobnailed shoes, But first his worsted hosen plied, Plush breeches next, in crimson dyed, His nether bulk embraced; Then jacket thick, of red or blue, Whose ma.s.sy shoulder gave to view The badge of each respective crew, In tin or copper traced.

The engines thundered through the street, Fire-hook, pipe, bucket, all complete, And torches glared, and clattering feet Along the pavement paced.

And one, the leader of the band, From Charing Cross along the Strand, Like stag by beagles hunted hard, Ran till he stopped at Vin'gar Yard.

The burning badge his shoulder bore, The belt and oil-skin hat he wore, The cane he had, his men to bang, Showed foreman of the British gang-- His name was Higginbottom. Now 'Tis meet that I should tell you how The others came in view: The Hand-in-Hand the race begun.

Then came the Phoenix and the Sun, The Exchange, where old insurers run, The Eagle, where the new; With these came Rumford, b.u.mford, Cole, Robins from Hockley in the Hole, Lawson and Dawson, cheek by jowl, Crump from St. Giles's Pound: Whitford and Mitford joined the train, Huggins and Muggins from Chick Lane, And Clutterbuck, who got a sprain Before the plug was found.

Hobson and Jobson did not sleep, But ah! no trophy could they reap For both were in the Donjon Keep Of Bridewell's gloomy mound!

E'en Higginbottom now was posed, For sadder scene was ne'er disclosed, Without, within, in hideous show, Devouring flames resistless glow, And blazing rafters downward go, And never halloo "Heads below!"

Nor notice give at all.

The firemen terrified are slow To bid the pumping torrent flow, For fear the roof would fall.

Back, Robins, back; Crump, stand aloof!

Whitford, keep near the walls!

Huggins, regard your own behoof, For lo! the blazing rocking roof Down, down, in thunder falls!

An awful pause succeeds the stroke, And o'er the ruins volumed smoke, Rolling around its pitchy shroud, Concealed them from th' astonished crowd.

At length the mist awhile was cleared, When, lo! amid the wreck upreared, Gradually a moving head appeared, And Eagle firemen knew 'T was Joseph Muggins, name revered, The foreman of their crew.

Loud shouted all in signs of woe, "A Muggins! to the rescue, ho!"

And poured the hissing tide: Meanwhile the Muggins fought amain, And strove and struggled all in vain, For, rallying but to fall again, He tottered, sunk, and died!

Did none attempt, before he fell, To succor one they loved so well?

Yes, Higginbottom did aspire (His fireman's soul was all on fire), His brother chief to save; But ah! his reckless generous ire Served but to share his grave!

'Mid blazing beams and scalding streams, Through fire and smoke he dauntless broke, Where Muggins broke before.

But sulphury stench and boiling drench Destroying sight o'erwhelmed him quite, He sunk to rise no more.

Still o'er his head, while Fate he braved, His whizzing water-pipe he waved; "Whitford and Mitford, ply your pumps, You, Clutterbuck, come, stir your stumps, Why are you in such doleful dumps?

A fireman, and afraid of b.u.mps!-- What are they fear'd on? fools: 'od rot 'em!"

Were the last words of Higginbottom.

THE REVIVAL

Peace to his soul! new prospects bloom, And toil rebuilds what fires consume!

Eat we and drink we, be our ditty, "Joy to the managing committee!"

Eat we and drink we, join to rum Roast beef and pudding of the plum; Forth from thy nook, John Horner, come, With bread of ginger brown thy thumb, For this is Drury's gay day: Roll, roll thy hoop, and twirl thy tops, And buy, to glad thy smiling chops, Crisp parliament with lollypops, And fingers of the Lady.

Didst mark, how toiled the busy train, From morn to eve, till Drury Lane Leaped like a roebuck from the plain?

Ropes rose and sunk, and rose again, And nimble workmen trod; To realize bold Wyatt's plan Rushed may a howling Irishman; Loud clattered many a porter-can, And many a ragam.u.f.fin clan, With trowel and with hod.

Drury revives! her rounded pate Is blue, is heavenly blue with slate; She "wings the midway air," elate, As magpie, crow, or chough; White paint her modish visage smears, Yellow and pointed are her ears.

No pendant portico appears Dangling beneath, for Whitbread's shears Have cut the bauble off.

Yes, she exalts her stately head; And, but that solid bulk outspread, Opposed you on your onward tread, And posts and pillars warranted That all was true that Wyatt said, You might have deemed her walls so thick, Were not composed of stone or brick, But all a phantom, all a trick, Of brain disturbed and fancy-sick, So high she soars, so vast, so quick!

DRURY'S DIRGE.

[BY LAUBA MATILDA.--REJECTED ADDRESSES.]

HORACE SMITH.

"You praise our sires: but though they wrote with force, Their rhymes were vicious, and their diction coa.r.s.e: We want their STRENGTH, agreed; but we atone For that and more, by SWEETNESS all our own"--GIFFORD.

Balmy zephyrs, lightly flitting, Shade me with your azure wing; On Parna.s.sus' summit sitting, Aid me, Clio, while I sing.