The Book of Humorous Verse Part 113

Cursed be the marriage contract, that enslaved thy soul to greed!

Cursed be the sallow lawyer, that prepared and drew the deed!

Cursed be his foul apprentice, who the loathsome fees did earn!

Cursed be the clerk and parson--cursed be the whole concern!

Oh, 'tis well that I should bl.u.s.ter; much I'm like to make of that.

Better comfort have I found in singing "All Around My Hat."

But that song, so wildly plaintive, palls upon my British ears.

'Twill not do to pine for ever: I am getting up in years.

Can't I turn the honest penny, scribbling for the weekly press, And in writing Sunday libels drown my private wretchedness?

Oh, to feel the wild pulsation that in manhood's dawn I knew, When my days were all before me, and my years were twenty-two;

When I smoked my independent pipe along the Quadrant wide, With the many larks of London flaring up on every side;

When I went the pace so wildly, caring little what might come, Coffee-milling care and sorrow, with a nose-adapted thumb;

Felt the exquisite enjoyment, tossing nightly off, oh, heavens!

Brandy at the Cider Cellars, kidneys smoking-hot at Evans';

Or in the Adelphi sitting, half in rapture, half in tears, Saw the glorious melodrama conjure up the shades of years--

Saw Jack Sheppard, n.o.ble stripling, act his wondrous feats again, Snapping Newgate's bars of iron, like an infant's daisy chain;

Might was right, and all the terrors which had held the world in awe Were despised and prigging prospered, spite of Laurie, spite of law.

In such scenes as these I triumphed, ere my pa.s.sion's edge was rusted, And my cousin's cold refusal left me very much disgusted!

Since, my heart is sore and withered, and I do not care a curse Whether worse shall be the better, or the better be the worse.

Hark! my merry comrades call me, bawling for another jorum; They would mock me in derision, should I thus appear before 'em.

Womankind no more shall vex me, such, at least, as go arrayed In the most expensive satins, and the newest silk brocade.

I'll to Afric, lion-haunted, where the giant forest yields Rarer robes and finer tissue than are sold at Spitalfields.

Or to burst all chains of habit, flinging habit's self aside, I shall walk the tangled jungle in mankind's primeval pride;

Feeding on the luscious berries and the rich casava root, Lots of dates and lots of guavas, cl.u.s.ters of forbidden fruit.

Never comes the trader thither, never o'er the purple main Sounds the oath of British commerce, or the accents of c.o.c.kaigne.

There, methinks, would be enjoyment, where no envious rule prevents; Sink the steamboats! Cuss the railways! Rot, oh, rot the Three per Cents!

There the pa.s.sions, cramped no longer, shall have s.p.a.ce to breathe, my cousin!

I will take some savage woman--nay, I'll take at least a dozen.

There I'll rear my young mulattoes, as no Bond Street brats are reared: They shall dive for alligators, catch the wild goats by the beard,

Whistle to the c.o.c.katoos, and mock the hairy-faced baboon, Wors.h.i.+p mighty Mumbo Jumbo, in the mountains of the Moon.

I, myself, in far Timbuctoo, leopard's blood will daily quaff, Ride a-tiger-hunting, mounted on a thorough-bred giraffe.

Fiercely shall I shout the war-whoop, as some sullen stream he crosses, Startling from their noon-day slumbers iron-bound rhinoceroses.

Fool! Again, the dream, the fancy! But I know my words are mad, For I hold the gray barbarian lower than the Christian cad.

I, the swell, the city dandy! I to seek such horrid places, I to haunt with squalid Negroes, blubber-lips, and monkey faces!

I to wed with Coromantees! I, who managed--very near-- To secure the heart and fortune of the widow s.h.i.+llibeer!

Stuff and nonsense! Let me never fling a single chance away.

Maids ere now, I know, have loved me, and another maiden may.

_Morning Post_ (_The Times_ won't trust me), help me, as I know you can; I will pen an advertis.e.m.e.nt--that's a never-failing plan:

"|Wanted|--By a bard in wedlock, some young interesting woman.

Looks are not so much an object, if the s.h.i.+ners be forthcoming!

"Hymen's chains, the advertiser vows, shall be but silken fetters.

Please address to A. T., Chelsea. N.B.--You must pay the letters."

That's the sort of thing to do it. Now I'll go and taste the balmy.

Rest thee with thy yellow nabob, spider-hearted cousin Amy!

_Aytoun_ and _Martin._

ONLY SEVEN.

A PASTORAL STORY AFTER WORDSWORTH

I marvell'd why a simple child, That lightly draws its breath, Should utter groans so very wild, And look as pale as Death.

Adopting a parental tone, I ask'd her why she cried; The damsel answered with a groan, "I've got a pain inside!

"I thought it would have sent me mad Last night about eleven."

Said I, "What is it makes you bad?

How many apples have you had?"

She answered, "Only seven!"

"And are you sure you took no more, My little maid?" quoth I; "Oh, please, sir, mother gave me four, But _they_ were in a pie!"