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Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
TOWN AND COUNTRY.
AN ODE.
O! Well may poets make a fuss
In summer time, and sigh “O rus!”
Of London pleasures sick:
My heart is all at pant to rest
In greenwood shades—my eyes detest
This endless meal of brick!

What joy have I in June’s return?

My feet are parch’d, my eyeballs burn,
I scent no flowery gust:
But faint the flagging zephyr springs,
With dry Macadam on its wings,
And turns me “dust to dust.”

My sun his daily course renews

Due east, but with no Eastern dews;
The path is dry and hot!
His setting shows more tamely still,
He sinks behind no purple hill,
But down a chimney’s pot!

O! but to hear the milkmaid blithe,

Or early mower wet his scythe
The dewy meads among!—
My grass is of that sort, alas!
That makes no hay—called sparrow-grass
By folks of vulgar tongue!

O! but to smell the woodbines sweet!

I think of cowslip cups—but meet
With very vile rebuffs!
For meadow-buds I get a whiff
Of Cheshire cheese,—or only sniff
The turtle made at Cuft’s.

How tenderly Rousseau reviewed

His periwinkles!—mine are stewed!
M bl !
 My rose blooms on a gown!—
I hunt in vain for eglantine,
And find my blue-bell on the sign
That marks the Bell and Crown:

Where are ye, birds! that blithely wing

From tree to tree, and gaily sing
Or mourn in thickets deep?
My cuckoo has some ware to sell,
The watchman is my Philomel,
My blackbird is a sweep!

Where are ye, linnet, lark, and thrush!

That perch on leafy bough and bush,
And tune the various song?
Two hurdigurdists, and a poor
Street-Handel grinding at my door,
Are all my “tuneful throng.”

Where are ye, early-purling streams,

Whose waves reflect the morning beams,
And colours of the skies?
My rills are only puddle-drains
From shambles, or reflect the stains
Of calimanco-dyes!

Sweet are the little brooks that run

O’er pebbles glancing in the sun,
Singing in soothing tones:—
Not thus the city streamlets flow;
They make no music as they go,
Though never “off the stones.”

Where are ye, pastoral pretty sheep,

That wont to bleat, and frisk, and leap
Beside your woolly dams?
Alas! instead of harmless crooks,
My Corydons use iron hooks,
And skin—not shear—the lambs
 And skin—not shear—the lambs.

The pipe whereon, in olden day,

The Arcadian herdsman used to play
Sweetly, here soundeth not;
But merely breathes unwholesome fumes,
Meanwhile the city boor consumes
The rank weed—“piping hot.”

All rural things are vilely mock’d,

On every hand the sense is shock’d,
With objects hard to bear:
Shades—vernal shades!—where wine is sold!
And, for a turfy bank, behold
An Ingram’s rustic chair!

Where are ye, London meads and bowers,

And gardens redolent of flowers
Wherein the zephyr wons?
Alas! Moor Fields are fields no more.
See Hatton’s Gardens bricked all o’er,
And that bare wood—St. John’s.

No pastoral scenes procure me peace;

I hold no Leasowes in my lease,
No cot set round with trees:
No sheep-white hill my dwelling flanks;
And Omnium furnishes my banks
With brokers—not with bees.

O! well may poets make a fuss

In summer time, and sigh “O rus!”
Of city pleasures sick:
My heart is all at pant to rest
In greenwood shades—my eyes detest
That endless meal of brick!
NO!
 No sun—no moon!
No morn—no noon—
No dawn—no dusk—no proper time of day—
No sky—no earthly view—
No distance looking blue—
No road—no street—no “t’other side the way”—
No end to any Row—
No indications where the Crescents go—
No top to any steeple—
No recognitions of familiar people—
No courtesies for showing ’em—
No knowing ’em!—
No travelling at all—no locomotion,
No inkling of the way—no notion—
“No go”—by land or ocean—
No mail—no post—
No news from any foreign coast—
No Park—no Ring—no afternoon gentility—
No company—no nobility—
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
No comfortable feel in any member—
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds,—
November!
 THE LOST HEIR.

“Oh, where, and oh where

Is my bonny laddie gone?”—Old Song

NE day, as I was going by

That part of Holborn christened
High,
I heard a loud and sudden cry
That chill’d my very blood;
And lo! from out a dirty alley,
Where pigs and Irish wont to rally,
I saw a crazy woman sally,
Bedaub’d with grease and mud.
She turn’d her East, she turn’d her West,
Staring like Pythoness possest,
With streaming hair and heaving breast
As one stark mad with grief.
This way and that she wildly ran,
Jostling with woman and with man—
Her right hand held a frying pan,
The left a lump of beef.
At last her frenzy seem’d to reach
A point just capable of speech,
And with a tone almost a screech,
As wild as ocean birds,
Or female Ranter mov’d to preach,
She gave her “sorrow words.”
“Oh Lord! oh dear, my heart will break, I shall go stick stark staring wild!
Has ever a one seen anything about the streets like a crying lost-looking
child?
Lawk help me, I don’t know where to look, or to run, if I only knew which
way—
A child as is lost about London streets, and especially Seven Dials, is a
needle in a bottle of hay.
I am all in a quiver—get out of my sight, do, you wretch, you little Kitty
M’Nab!
You promised to have half an eye on him, you know you did, you dirty
deceitful young drab.
The last time as ever I see him, poor thing, was with my own blessed
Motherly eyes,
Sitting as good as gold in the gutter, a playing at making little dirt pies.
I wonder he left the court where he was better off than all the other young
boys,
With two bricks, an old shoe, nine oyster-shells, and a dead kitten by way of
toys.
When his father comes home, and he always comes home as sure as ever
the clock strikes one,
He’ll be rampant, he will, at his child being lost; and the beef and the
inguns not done!
La bless you, good folks, mind your own consarns, and don’t be making a
mob in the street;
Oh Serjeant M’Farlane! you have not come across my poor little boy, have
you, in your beat?
Do, good people, move on! don’t stand staring at me like a parcel of stupid
stuck pigs;
Saints forbid! but he’s p’r’aps been inviggled away up a court for the sake
of his clothes by the prigs;
He’d a very good jacket, for certain, for I bought it myself for a shilling one
day in Rag Fair;
And his trousers considering not very much patch’d, and red plush, they
was once his Father’s best pair.
His shirt, it’s very lucky I’d got washing in the tub, or that might have gone
with the rest;
But he’d got on a very good pinafore with only two slits and a burn on the
But he d got on a very good pinafore with only two slits and a burn on the
breast.
He’d a goodish sort of hat, if the crown was sew’d in, and not quite so
much jagg’d at the brim.
With one shoe on, and the other shoe is a boot, and not a fit, and you’ll
know by that if it’s him.
Except being so well dress’d my mind would misgive, some old beggar
woman in want of an orphan,
Had borrow’d the child to go a begging with, but I’d rather see him laid out
in his coffin!
Do, good people, move on, such a rabble of boys! I’ll break every bone of
’em I come near,
Go home—you’re spilling the porter—go home—Tommy Jones, go along
home with your beer.
This day is the sorrowfullest day of my life, ever since my name was Betty
Morgan,
Them vile Savoyards! they lost him once before all along of following a
Monkey and an Organ.
Oh my Billy—my head will turn right round—if he’s got kiddynapp’d with
them Italians,
They’ll make him a plaster parish image boy, they will, the outlandish
tatterdemalions.
Billy—where are you, Billy?—I’m as hoarse as a crow, with screaming for
ye, you young sorrow!
And shan’t have half a voice, no more I shan’t, for crying fresh herrings to-
morrow.
Oh Billy, you’re bursting my heart in two, and my life won’t be of no more
vally,
If I’m to see other folks’ darlins, and none of mine, playing like angels in
our alley.
And what shall I do but cry out my eyes, when I looks at the old three-
legged chair
As Billy used to make coach and horses of, and there an’t no Billy there!
I would run all the wide world over to find him, if I only know’d where to
run,
Little Murphy, now I remember, was once lost for a month through stealing
a penny bun,—
The Lord forbid of any child of mine! I think it would kill me raily
T fi d Bill h ldi ’ hi li l i h d h Old B il
To find my Bill holdin’ up his little innocent hand at the Old Bailey.
For though I say it as oughtn’t, yet I will say, you may search for miles and
mileses
And not find one better brought up, and more pretty behaved, from one end
to t’other of St. Giles’s.
And if I call’d him a beauty, it’s no lie, but only as a Mother ought to speak;
You never set eyes on a more handsomer face, only it hasn’t been wash’d
for a week;
As for hair, tho’ it’s red, it’s the most nicest hair when I’ve time to just show
it the comb;
I’ll owe ’em five pounds, and a blessing besides, as will only bring him safe
and sound home.
He’s blue eyes, and not to be call’d a squint, though a little cast he’s
certainly got;
And his nose is still a good un, tho’ the bridge is broke, by his falling on a
pewter pint pot;
He’s got the most elegant wide mouth in the world, and very large teeth for
his age;
And quite as fit as Mrs. Murdockson’s child to play Cupid on the Drury
Lane Stage.
And then he has got such dear winning ways—but oh I never never shall
see him no more!
O dear! to think of losing him just after nursing him back from death’s
door!
Only the very last month when the windfalls, hang ’em, was at twenty a
penny!
And the threepence he’d got by grottoing was spent in plums, and sixty for
a child is too many.
And the Cholera man came and whitewash’d us all and, drat him, made a
seize of our hog.
It’s no use to send the Crier to cry him about, he’s such a blunderin’
drunken old dog;
The last time he was fetch’d to find a lost child, he was guzzling with his
bell at the Crown,
And went and cried a boy instead of a girl, for a distracted Mother and
Father about Town.
Billy—where are you, Billy, I say? come Billy, come home, to your best of
Mothers!
I’m scared when I think of them Cabroleys, they drive so, they’d run over
their own Sisters and Brothers.
Or may be he’s stole by some chimbly sweeping wretch, to stick fast in
narrow flues and what not,
And be poked up behind with a picked pointed pole, when the soot has
ketch’d, and the chimbly’s red hot.
Oh I’d give the whole wide world, if the world was mine, to clap my two
longin’ eyes on his face.
For he’s my darlin of darlins, and if he don’t soon come back, you’ll see me
drop stone dead on the place.
I only wish I’d got him safe in these two Motherly arms, and wouldn’t I hug
him and kiss him!
Lauk! I never knew what a precious he was—but a child don’t not feel like
a child till you miss him.
Why there he is! Punch and Judy hunting, the young wretch, it’s that Billy
as sartin as sin!
But let me get him home, with a good grip of his hair, and I’m blest if he
shall have a whole bone in his skin!”
SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND.
 ABLES entangling her,
Shipspars for mangling
her,
Ropes, sure of strangling her;
Blocks over-dangling her;
Tiller to batter her,
Topmast to shatter her,
Tobacco to spatter her;
Boreas blustering,
Boatswain quite flustering,
Thunder clouds mustering
To blast her with sulphur—
If the deep don’t engulph her;
Sometimes fear’s scrutiny
Pries out a mutiny,
Sniffs conflagration,
Or hints at starvation:—
All the sea-dangers,
Buccaneers, rangers,
Pirates, and Sallee-men,
Algerine galleymen,
Tornadoes and typhons,
And horrible syphons,
And submarine travels
Thro’ roaring sea-navels;
Every thing wrong enough,
Long boat not long enough,
Vessel not strong enough;
Pitch marring frippery,
The deck very slippery,
And the cabin—built sloping,
The Captain a-toping,
And the Mate a blasphemer,
That names his Redeemer,—
With inward uneasiness;
The cook, known by greasiness,
The victuals beslubber’d
The victuals beslubber d,
Her bed—in a cupboard;
Things of strange christening,
Snatch’d in her listening,
Blue lights and red lights
And mention of dead lights,
And shrouds made a theme of,
Things horrid to dream of,—
And buoys in the water
To fear all exhort her;
Her friend no Leander,
Herself no sea gander,
And ne’er a cork jacket
On board of the packet;
The breeze still a stiffening,
The trumpet quite deafening;
Thoughts of repentance,
And doomsday and sentence;
Everything sinister,
Not a church minister,—
Pilot a blunderer,
Coral reefs under her,
Ready to sunder her;
Trunks tipsy-topsy,
The ship in a dropsy;
Waves oversurging her,
Syrens a-dirgeing her;
Sharks all expecting her,
Sword-fish dissecting her,
Crabs with their hand-vices
Punishing land vices;
Sea-dogs and unicorns,
Things with no puny horns,
Mermen carnivorous—
“Good Lord deliver us!”
 ANACREONTIC.

BY A FOOTMAN.

T’S wery well to talk in praise

Of Tea and Water-drinking
ways,
In proper time and place;
Of sober draughts, so clear and cool,
Dipp’d out of a transparent pool
Reflecting heaven’s face.

Of babbling brooks, and purling rills,

And streams as gushes from the hills,
It’s wery well to talk;—
But what becomes of all sich schemes,
With ponds of ice, and running streams
As doesn’t even walk?

A PUBLIC DINNER.
A DAY’S SPORT ON THE MOORS.
When Winter comes with piercing cold,
And all the rivers, new or old,
Is frozen far and wide;
And limpid springs is solid stuff,
And crystal pools is hard enough
To skate upon and slide;—

What then are thirsty men to do,

But drink of ale, and porter too,
Champagne as makes a fizz;
Port, sherry, or the Rhenish sort,
And p’rhaps a drop of summut short—
The water-pipes is friz!
THE FORLORN SHEPHERD’S COMPLAINT.

AN UNPUBLISHED POEM, FROM SYDNEY.

 ELL! Here I am—no Matter how it suits,
A-keeping Company with them dumb
Brutes,
Old Park vos no bad Judge—confound his vig!
Of vot vood break the Sperrit of a Prig!

“The like of Me, to come to New Sow Wales

To go a-tagging arter Vethers’ Tails
And valk in Herbage as delights the Flock,
But stinks of Sweet Herbs vorser nor the Dock!

“To go to set this solitary Job

To Von whose Vork vos alvay in a Mob!
It’s out of all our Lines, for sure I am
Jack Shepherd even never kep a Lamb!

“I arn’t ashamed to say I sit and veep

To think of Seven Years of keepin Sheep,
The spooniest Beasts in Nater, all to Sticks,
And not a Votch to take for all their Ticks!

“If I’d fore-seed how Transports vood turn out

To only Baa! and Botanize about,
I’d quite as leaf have had the t’other Pool,
And come to Cotton as to all this Vool!

“Von only happy moment I have had

Since here I come to be a Farmer’s Cad,
And then I cotch’d a vild Beast in a Snooze,
And pick’d her Pouch of three young Kangaroos!

“Vot chance have I to go to Race or Mill?

Or show a sneaking Kindness for a Till;
And as for Vashings, on a hedge to dry,
I’d put the Natives’ Linen in my Eye!

“If this whole Lot of Mutton I could scrag,

And find a fence to turn it into Swag
And find a fence to turn it into Swag,
I’d give it all in Lonnon Streets to stand,
And if I had my pick, I’d say the Strand!

“But ven I goes, as maybe vonce I shall,

To my old crib to meet with Jack, and Sal,
I’ve been so gallows honest in this Place,
I shan’t not like to show my sheepish Face.

“It’s wery hard for nothing but a Box

Of Irish Blackguard to be keepin’ Flocks,
‘Mong naked Blacks, sich Savages to hus,
They’ve nayther got a Poker nor a Pus.

“But Folks may tell their Troubles till they’re sick

To dumb brute Beasts,—and so I’ll cut my Stick!
And vot’s the Use a Feller’s Eyes to pipe
Vere von can’t borrow any Gemman’s Vipe?’
 HUGGINS AND DUGGINS.

A PASTORAL AFTER POPE.

WO swains or clowns—but call them swains—

While keeping flocks on Salisbury Plains,
For all that tend on sheep as drovers,
Are turned to songsters, or to lovers,
Each of the lass he called his dear,
Began to carol loud and clear.

First Huggins sang, and Duggins then,

In the way of ancient shepherd men;
Who thus alternate hitch’d in song,
“All things by turns, and nothing long.”

HUGGINS.

Of all the girls about our place,

There’s one beats all in form and face,
Search through all Great and Little Bumpstead,
You’ll only find one Peggy Plumpstead.

DUGGINS.

To groves and streams I tell my flame,

I make the cliffs repeat her name:
When I’m inspired by gills and noggins,
The rocks re-echo Sally Hoggins!

HUGGINS.
 When I am walking in the grove,
I think of Peggy as I rove.
I’d carve her name on every tree,
But I don’t know my A, B, C.

DUGGINS.

Whether I walk in hill or valley,

I think of nothing else but Sally.
I’d sing her praise, but I can sing
No song, except “God save the King.”

HUGGINS.

My Peggy does all nymphs excel,

And all confess she bears the bell,—
Where’er she goes swains flock together,
Like sheep that follow the bellwether.

DUGGINS.

Sally is tall and not too straight,—

Those very poplar shapes I hate;
But something twisted like an S,—
A crook becomes a shepherdess.

HUGGINS.

When Peggy’s dog her arms imprison,

I often wish my lot was hisn;
How often I should stand and turn,
To get a pat from hands like hern.

DUGGINS.
I tell Sall’s lambs how blest they be,
To stand about and stare at she;
But when I look, she turns and shies,
And won’t bear none but their sheep’s-eyes?

HUGGINS.

Love goes with Peggy where she goes,—

Beneath her smile the garden grows;
Potatoes spring, and cabbage starts,
’Tatoes have eyes, and cabbage hearts!

HUGGINS.

Where Sally goes it’s always spring,

Her presence brightens every thing;
The sun smiles bright, but where her grin is,
It makes brass farthings look like guineas.

HUGGINS.

For Peggy I can have no joy,

She’s sometimes kind, and sometimes coy,
And keeps me, by her wayward tricks,
As comfortless as sheep with ticks.

DUGGINS.

Sally is ripe as June or May,

And yet as cold as Christmas day;
For when she’s asked to change her lot,
Lamb’s wool,—but Sally, she wool not.
SEE-VIEW—BROAD STAIRS.
 THE ISLE OF MAN.

HUGGINS.

Only with Peggy and with health,

I’d never wish for state or wealth;
Talking of having health and more pence,
I’d drink her health if I had fourpence.

DUGGINS.

Oh, how that day would seem to shine,

If Sally’s banns were read with mine;
She cries, when such a wish I carry,
“Marry come up!” but will not marry.
 PAIN IN A PLEASURE-BOAT.

A SEA ECLOCUE.

“I apprehend you!”—School of Reform.

Boatman.

HOVE off there!—ship the rudder, Bill—cast off! she’s under way!

Mrs. F.

She’s under what?—I hope she’s not! good gracious, what a spray!

Boatman.

Run out the jib, and rig the boom! keep clear of those two brigs!

Mrs. F.

I hope they don’t intend some joke by running of their rigs!

Boatman.

Bill, shift them bags of ballast aft—she’s rather out of trim!

Mrs. F.

Great bags of stones! they’re pretty things to help a boat to swim!

Boatman.

The wind is fresh—if she don’t scud, it’s not the breeze’s fault!

Mrs. F.
 Wind fresh, indeed, I never felt the air so full of salt!

Boatman.

That schooner, Bill, harn’t left the roads, with oranges and nuts!

Mrs. F.

If seas have roads, they’re very rough—I never felt such ruts!

Boatman.

Its neap, ye see, she’s heavy lade, and couldn’t pass the bar.

Mrs. F.

The bar! what, roads with turnpikes too? I wonder where they are!

Boatman.

Ho! brig ahoy! hard up! hard up! that lubber cannot steer!

Mrs. F.

Yes, yes,—hard up upon a rock! I know some danger’s near!

Lord, there’s a wave! it’s coming in! and roaring like a bull!

Boatman.

Nothing, Ma’am, but a little slop! go large, Bill! keep her full!

Mrs. F.

What, keep her full! what daring work! when full, she must go down!
 Boatman.

Why, Bill, it lulls! ease off a bit—it’s coming off the town!
Steady your helm! we’ll clear the Pint! lay right for yonder pink!

Mrs. F.

Be steady—well, I hope they can! but they’ve got a pint of drink!

Boatman.

Bill, give that sheet another haul—she’ll fetch it up this reach.

Mrs. F.

I’m getting rather pale, I know, and they see it by that speech!
I wonder what it is, now, but—I never felt so queer!

Boatman.

Bill, mind your luff—why Bill, I say, she’s yawing—keep her near!

Mrs. F.

Keep near! we’re going further off; the land’s behind our backs.

Boatman.

Be easy, Ma’am, it’s all correct, that’s only ‘cause we tacks:

We shall have to beat about a bit,—Bill, keep her out to sea.

Mrs. F.

Beat who about? keep who at sea?—how black they look at me!

Boatman.
 It’s veering round—I knew it would! oft with her head! stand by!

Mrs. F.

Off with her head! whose? where? what with?—an axe I seem to spy!

Boatman.

She can’t not keep her own, you see; we shall have to pull her in!

Mrs. F.

They’ll drown me, and take all I have! my life’s not worth a pin!

Boatman.

Look out you know, be ready, Bill—just when she takes the sand!

Mrs. F.

The sand—O Lord! to stop my mouth! how every thing is plann’d!

Boatman.

The handspike, Bill—quick, bear a hand! now Ma’am, just step ashore!

Mrs. F.

What! an’t I going to be kill’d—and welter’d in my gore?

Well, Heaven be praised! but I’ll not go a-sailing any more!
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