12.-OUT, JOHN.
THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.
[See page 236.]
OUT, John! out, John! what are you about, John!
If you don't say "Out," at once, you make the fellow doubt, John!
Say I'm out, whoever calls; and hide my hat and cane, John!
Say you've not the least idea when I shall come again, John.
Let the people leave their bills, but tell them not to call, John;
Say I'm courting Miss Rupee, and mean to pay them all, John.
Run, John! run, John! there's another dun, John;
If it's Prodger, bid him call to-morrow week at one, John,
If he says he saw me at the window, as he knocked, John,
Make a face, and shake your head, and tell him you are shocked,
John;
Take your pocket-handkerchief, and put it to your eye, John;
Say your master's not the man to bid you tell a lie, John.
Oh! John, go, John! there's Noodle's knock, I know, John;
Tell him that all yesterday you sought him high and low, John.
Tell him, just before he came, you saw me mount the hill, John ;
Say-you think I'm only gone to pay his little bill, John;
Then, I think, you'd better add-that if I miss to-day, John,
You're sure I mean to call when next I pass his way, John.
Hie, John! fly, John! I will tell you why, John
If there is not Grimshaw at the corner, let me die, John.
He will hear of no excuse-
e-I'm sure he'll search the house, John,
Peeping into corners hardly fit to hold a mouse, John;
Beg he'll take a chair and wait-I know he wont refuse, John-
And I'll pop through the little door that opens on the mews, John.
13.-THE LADIES' PETITION.
DEAR Doctor, let it not transpire
How much your lectures we admire,
How at your eloquence we wonder,
When you explain the cause of thunder,
Of lightning, and of electricity,
With so much plainness and simplicity;
The origin of rocks and mountains,
Of seas and rivers, lakes and fountains;
Of rain and hills, of frost and snow,
And all the storms and winds that blow;
Besides a hundred wonders more,
Of which we never heard before.
But now, dear Doctor, not to flatter,
There is a most important matter,
A matter which you never touch on,
A matter which our thoughts run much on;
A subject, if we right conjecture,
That well deserves, a long, long lecture,
Which all the ladies would approve―
The "Natural History of Love!"
Deny us not, dear Doctor Moyce;
Oh, list to our entreating voice!
Tell us why our poor tender hearts
So easily admit love's darts.
Teach us the marks of love's beginning;
What makes us think a beau so winning!
What makes us think a coxcomb witty,
A black coat wise, a red coat pretty;
Why we believe such horrid lies,
That we are angels from the skies,
Our teeth like pearl, our cheeks like roses,
Our eyes like stars, such charming noses!
Explain our dreams, awake or sleeping;
Explain our blushing, laughing, weeping;
Teach us, dear Doctor, if you can,
To humble that proud creature, Man:
To turn the wise ones into fools,
The proud and insolent to tools;
To make them all run helter skelter
Their necks into the marriage halter:
Then leave us to ourselves with these,
We'll turn and rule them as we please.
Dear Doctor, if you grant our wishes,
We promise you five hundred kisses;
And, rather than the affair be blundered,
We'll give you six score to the hundred.
THOMAS HOOD.
[See page 429.]
BEN BATTLE was a soldier bold,
And used to war's alarms;
But a cannon-ball took off his legs,
So he laid down his arms!
Now as they bore him off the field,
Said he, "Let others shoot,
For here I leave my second leg,
And the Forty-second Foot!"
Now Ben he loved a pretty maid,
Her name was Nelly Gray,
So he went to pay her his devours,
When he devoured his pay.
But when he called on Nelly Gray,
She made him quite a scoff;
And when she saw his wooden legs,
Began to take them off!
"Oh! Nelly Gray; oh! Nelly Gray,
Is this your love so warm?
The love that loves a scarlet coat
Should be more uniform."
Said she, "I loved a soldier once,
For he was blythe and brave;
But I will never have a man
With both legs in the grave!
"Before you had those timber toes,
Your love I did allow;
But then, you know, you stand upon
Another footing now!"
"Oh! Nelly Gray; oh! Nelly Gray,
For all your jeering speeches,
At duty's call I left my legs
In Badajos's breaches!"
"Why, then," said she, "you've lost the feet
Of legs in war's alarms,
And now you cannot wear your shoes
Upon your feats of arms."
"Oh! false and fickle Nelly Gray,
I know why you refuse;
Though I've no feet-some other man
Is standing in my shoes.
"I wish I ne'er had seen your face, But now, a long farewell!
you will be my death; alas!
You will not be my Nell!"
Now, when he went from Nelly Gray,
His heart so heavy got,
And life was such a burden grown,
It made him take a knot.
So round his melancholy neck
A rope he did entwine,
And, for his second time in life,
Enlisted in the Line.
One end he tied around a beam,
And then removed his pegs,
And, as his legs were off, of course,
He soon was off his legs.
And there he hung till he was dead
As any nail in town;
For, though distress had cut him up,
It could not cut him down.
A dozen men sat on his corpse,
To find out why he died;
And they buried Ben in four cross-roads,
With a stake in his inside.
15. THE SEPTEMBER GALE.
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
[Mr. Holmes is an American physician, and was born at Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1809. He commenced writing in the American periodicals about 1836. His collected poems have commanded a large sale.]
I'm not a chicken; I have seen
Full many a chill September,
And though I was a youngster then,
That gale I well remember;
The day before, my kite-string snapped,
And I, my kite pursuing,
The wind whisked off my palm-leaf hat ;-
For me two storms were brewing.
It came as quarrels sometimes do,
When married folks get clashing:
There was a heavy sigh or two,
Before the fire was flashing,—
A little stir among the clouds,
Before they rent asunder,-
A little rocking of the trees,
And then came on the thunder.
Lord! how the ponds and rivers boiled,
And how the shingles rattled!
And oaks were scattered on the ground
As if the Titans battled;
And all above was in a howl,
And all below a clatter,-
The earth was like a frying-pan,
Or some such hissing matter.
It chanced to be our washing day,
And all our things were drying;
The storm came roaring through the lines,
And set them all a flying;
I saw the shirts and petticoats
Go riding off like witches;
I lost-ah! bitterly I wept-
I lost my Sunday breeches.
I saw them straddling through the air,
Alas! too late to win them;
I saw them chase the clouds as if
The devil had been in them;
They were my darlings and my pride,
My boyhood's only riches,-
"Farewell, farewell," I faintly cried,-
"My breeches! O my breeches !"
That night I saw them in my dreams,
How changed from what I knew them!
The dews had steeped their faded threads,
The winds had whistled through them
I saw the wide and ghastly rents
Where demon claws had torn them;
A hole was in their amplest part,
As if an imp had worn them.
I have had many happy years,
And tailors kind and clever,
But those young pantaloons have gone
For ever and for ever!
And not till fate has cut the last
Of all my earthly stitches,
This aching heart shall cease to mourn
My loved, my long-lost breeches.
16.-KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY.
[Thomas Percy was born at Bridgnorth, in Salop, 1728, and educated at Christchurch, Oxford. He became chaplain to the King, was promoted to the deanery of Carlisle, and advanced to the bishopric of Dromore, where he died in 1811. In 1765 he published his "Reliques of English Poetry," a selection of the best lyrical pieces then known; many of which, however, he tampered with in a manner not altogether in accordance with antiquarian taste. He was himself a tender and graceful poet.]
AN ancient story Ile tell you anon
Of a notable prince, that was called King John;
And he ruled England with maine and with might,
For he did great wrong, and maintain'd little right.
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