The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe Part 82

Deep in shady Cider Cellars I have dream'd o'er heavy wet, By the fountains of Damascus I have quaff'd the rich Sherbet, Regal Montepulciano drained beneath its native rock, On Johannis' sunny mountain frequent hiccup'd o'er my hock; I have bathed in b.u.t.ts of Xeres deeper than did e'er Monsoon, Sangaree'd with bearded Tartars in the Mountains of the Moon; In beer-swilling Copenhagen I have drunk your Danesman blind, I have kept my feet in Jena, when each bursch to earth declined; Gla.s.s for gla.s.s, in fierce Jamaica, I have shared the planter's rum, Drank with Highland dhuinie-wa.s.sels till each gibbering Gael grew dumb; But a stouter, bolder drinker--one that loved his liquor more-- Never yet did I encounter than our friend upon the floor!

Yet the best of us are mortal, we to weakness all are heir, He has fallen, who rarely stagger'd--let the rest of us beware!

We shall leave him, as we found him--lying where his manhood fell, 'Mong the trophies of the revel, for he took his tipple well.

Better't were we loosed his neckcloth, laid his throat and bosom bare, Pulled his Hobi's off, and turn'd his toes to taste the breezy air.

Throw the sofa cover o'er him, dim the flaring of the gas, Calmly, calmly let him slumber, and, as by the bar we pa.s.s, We shall bid that thoughtful waiter place beside him, near and handy, Large supplies of soda water, tumblers bottomed well with brandy, So when waking, he shall drain them, with that deathless thirst of his, Clinging to the hand that smote him, like a good 'un as he is!

FRANCESCA DA RIMINI.

TO BON GAULTIER.

WILLIAM AYTOUN.

ARGUMENT-An impa.s.sioned pupil of Leigh Hunt, having met Bon Gaultier at a Fancy Ball, declares the destructive consequences thus:

Didst thou not praise me, Gaultier, at the ball, Ripe lips, trim boddice, and a waist so small, With clipsome lightness, dwindling ever less, Beneath the robe of pea-y greeniness!

Dost thou remember, when with stately prance, Our heads went crosswise in the country dance; How soft, warm fingers, tipp'd like buds of balm, Trembled within the squeezing of thy palm; And how a cheek grew flush'd and peachy-wise At the frank lifting of thy cordial eyes?

Ah, me! that night there was one gentle thing, Who like a dove, with its scarce-feather'd wing, Flutter'd at the approach of thy quaint swaggering!

There's wont to be, at conscious times like these, An affectation of a bright-eyed ease-- A crispy-cheekiness, if so I dare Describe the swaling of a jaunty air; And thus, when swirling from the waltz's wheel, You craved my hand to grace the next quadrille.

That smiling voice, although it made me start, Boil'd in the meek o'erlifting of my heart; And, picking at my flowers, I said with free And usual tone, "Oh yes, sir, certainly!"

Like one that swoons, 'twixt sweet amaze and fear, I heard the music burning in my ear, And felt I cared not, so thou wert with me, If Gurth or Wamba were our vis-a-vis.

So, when a tall Knight Templar ringing came, And took his place against us with his dame, I neither turned away, nor bashful shrunk From the stern survey of the soldier-monk, Though rather more than full three-quarters drunk; But threading through the figure, first in rule, I paused to see thee plunge into La Poule.

Ah, what a sight was that? Not prurient Mars, Pointing his toe through ten celestial bars-- Not young Apollo, beamily array'd In tripsome guise for Juno's masquerade-- Not smartest Hermes, with his pinion girth, Jerking with freaks and s.n.a.t.c.hes down to earth, Look'd half so bold, so beautiful and strong, As thou when pranking thro' the glittering throng!

How the calm'd ladies looked with eyes of love On thy trim velvet doublet laced above; The hem of gold, that, like a wavy river, Flowed down into thy back with glancing s.h.i.+ver!

So bare was thy fine throat, and curls of black So lightsomely dropp'd on thy lordly back.

So crisply swaled the feather in thy bonnet, So glanced thy thigh, and spanning palm upon it, That my weak soul took instant flight to thee, Lost in the fondest gush of that sweet witchery!

But when the dance was o'er, and arm in arm (The full heart beating 'gainst the elbow warm), We pa.s.s'd to the great refreshment hall, Where the heap'd cheese-cakes and the comfits small Lay, like a hive of sunbeams, to burn Around the margin of the negus urn; When my poor quivering hand you finger'd twice, And, with inquiring accents, whisper'd "Ice, Water, or cream?" I could no more dissemble, But dropp'd upon the couch all in a tremble.

A swimming faintness misted o'er my brain, The corks seem'd starting from the brisk champagne, The custards fell untouch'd upon the floor, Thine eyes met mine. That night we danced no more!

LOUIS NAPOLEON'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY WILLIAM AYTOUN.

Guards! who at Smolensko fled-- No--I beg your pardon--bled!

For my Uncle blood you've shed, Do the same for me.

Now's the day and now's the hour, Heads to split and streets to scour; Strike for rank, promotion, power, Sawg, and eau de vie.

Who's afraid a child to kill?

Who respects a shopman's till?

Who would pay a tailor's bill?

Let him turn and flee.

Who would burst a goldsmith's door, Shoot a dun, or sack a store?

Let him arm, and go before-- That is, follow me!

See the mob, to madness riled, Up the barricades have piled; In among them, man and child, Unrelentingly!

Shoot the men! there's scarcely one In a dozen's got a gun: Stop them, if they try to run, With artillery!

Shoot the boys! each one may grow Into--of the state--a foe (Meaning by the state, you know, My supremacy!)

Shoot the girls and women old!

Those may bear us traitors bold-- These may be inclined to scold Our severity.

Sweep the streets of all who may Rashly venture in the way, Warning for a future day Satisfactory.

Then, when still'd is ev'ry voice, We, the nation's darling choice, Calling on them to rejoice, Tell them, FRANCE IS FREE.

THE BATTLE OF THE BOULEVARD WILLIAM AYTOUN.

On Paris, when the sun was low, The gay "Comique" made goodly show, Habitues crowding every row To hear Limnandier's opera.

But Paris showed another sight, When, mustering in the dead of night, Her masters stood, at morning light, The crack sha.s.seurs of Africa

By servants in my pay betrayed, Cavaignac, then, my prisoner made, Wrote that a circ.u.mstance delayed His marriage rite and revelry.

Then shook small Thiers, with terror riven; Then stormed Bedeau, while gaol-ward driven; And, swearing (not alone by Heaven), Was seized bold Lamoriciere.

But louder rose the voice of woe When soldiers sacked each cit's depot, And tearing down a helpless foe, Flashed Magnan's red artillery.

More, more arrests! Changarnier brave Is dragged to prison like a knave: No time allowed the swell to shave, Or use the least perfumery.

'Tis morn, and now Hortense's son (Perchance her spouse's too) has won The imperial crown. The French are done, Chawed up most incontestably.

Few, few shall write, and none shall meet; Suppressed shall be each journal-sheet; And every serf beneath my feet Shall hail the soldier's Emperor.

PUFFS POETICAL.

WILLIAM AYTOUM

I.

PARIS AND HELEN.

As the youthful Paris presses Helen to his ivory breast, Sporting with her golden tresses, Close and ever closer pressed.

He said: "So let me quaff the nectar, Which thy lips of ruby yield; Glory I can leave to Hector, Gathered in the tented field.

"Let me ever gaze upon thee, Look into thine eyes so deep; With a daring hand I won thee, With a faithful heart I'll keep.

"Oh, my Helen, thou bright wonder, Who was ever like to thee?

Jove would lay aside his thunder, So he might be blest like me.