The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe Part 1

The Humourous Poetry of the English Language.

by James Parton.

PREFACE.

The design of the projector of this volume was, that it should contain the Best of the shorter humorous poems in the literatures of England and the United States, except:

Poems so local or cotemporary in subject or allusion, as not to be readily understood by the modern American reader;

Poems which, from the freedom of expression allowed in the healthy ages, can not now be read aloud in a company of men and women;

Poems that have become perfectly familiar to every body, from their incessant reproduction in school-books and newspapers; and

Poems by living American authors, who have collected their humorous pieces from the periodicals in which most of them originally appeared, and given them to the world in their own names.

Holmes, Saxe, and Lowell are, therefore, only REPRESENTED in this collection. To have done more than fairly represent them, had been to infringe rights which are doubly sacred, because they are not protected by law. To have done less would have deprived the reader of a most convenient means of observing that, in a kind of composition confessed to be among the most difficult, our native wits are not excelled by foreign.

The editor expected to be embarra.s.sed with a profusion of material for his purpose. But, on a survey of the poetical literature of the two countries, it was discovered that, of really excellent humorous poetry, of the kinds universally interesting, untainted by obscenity, not marred by coa.r.s.eness of language, nor obscured by remote allusion, the quant.i.ty in existence is not great. It is thought that this volume contains a very large proportion of the best pieces that haveappeared.

An unexpected feature of the book is, that there is not a line in it by a female hand. The alleged foibles of the Fair have given occasion to libraries of comic verse; yet, with diligent search, no humorous poems by women have been found which are of merit sufficient to give them claim to a place in a collection like this. That lively wit and graceful gayety, that quick perception of the absurd, which ladies are continually displaying in their conversation and correspondence, never, it seems, suggest the successful epigram, or inspire happy satirical verse.

The reader will not be annoyed by an impertinent superfluity of notes.

At the end of the volume may be found a list of the sources from which its contents have been taken. For the convenience of those who live remote from biographical dictionaries, a few dates and other particulars have been added to the mention of each name. For valuable contributions to this portion of the volume, and for much well-directed work upon other parts of it, the reader is indebted to Mr. T. BUTLER GUNN, of this city.

There is, certainly, nothing more delightful than the fun of a man of genius. Humor, as Mr. Thackeray observes, is charming, and poetry is charming, but the blending of the two in the same composition is irresistible. There is much nonsense in this book, and some folly, and a little ill-nature; but there is more wisdom than either. They who possess it may congratulate themselves upon having the largest collection ever made of the sportive effusions of genius.

MISCELLANEOUS.

TO MY EMPTY PURSE.

CHAUCER.

To you, my purse, and to none other wight, Complain I, for ye be my lady dere; I am sorry now that ye be light, For, certes, ye now make me heavy chere; Me were as lefe be laid upon a bere, For which unto your mercy thus I crie, Be heavy againe, or els mote I die.

Now vouchsafe this day or it be night, That I of you the blissful sowne may here, Or see your color like the sunne bright, That of yellowness had never pere; Ye are my life, ye be my hertes stere, Queen of comfort and of good companie, Be heavy again, or else mote I die.

Now purse, thou art to me my lives light, And saviour, as downe in this world here, Out of this towne helpe me by your might, Sith that you will not be my treasure, For I am slave as nere as any frere, But I pray unto your curtesie, Be heavy again, or els mote I die.

TO CHLOE.

AN APOLOGY FOR GOING INTO THE COUNTRY.

PETER PINDAR.

Chloe, we must not always be in heaven, For ever toying, ogling, kissing, billing; The joys for which I thousands would have given, Will presently be scarcely worth a s.h.i.+lling.

Thy neck is fairer than the Alpine snows, And, sweetly swelling, beats the down of doves; Thy cheek of health, a rival to the rose; Thy pouting lips, the throne of all the loves; Yet, though thus beautiful beyond expression, That beauty fadeth by too much possession.

Economy in love is peace to nature, Much like economy in worldly matter; We should be prudent, never live too fast; Profusion will not, can not, always last.

Lovers are really spendthrifts--'tis a shame-- Nothing their thoughtless, wild career can tame, Till penury stares them in the face; And when they find an empty purse, Grown calmer, wiser, how the fault they curse, And, limping, look with such a sneaking grace!

Job's war-horse fierce, his neck with thunder hung, Sunk to an humble hack that carries dung.

Smell to the queen of flowers, the fragrant rose-- Smell twenty times--and then, my dear, thy nose Will tell thee (not so much for scent athirst) The twentieth drank less flavor than the FIRST.

Love, doubtless, is the sweetest of all fellows; Yet often should the little G.o.d retire-- Absence, dear Chloe, is a pair of bellows, That keeps alive the sacred fire.

TO A FLY,

TAKEN OUT OF A BOWL OF PUNCH.

PETER PINDAR.

Ah! poor intoxicated little knave, Now senseless, floating on the fragrant wave; Why not content the cakes alone to munch?

Dearly thou pay'st for buzzing round the bowl; Lost to the world, thou busy sweet-lipped soul-- Thus Death, as well as Pleasure, dwells with Punch.

Now let me take thee out, and moralize-- Thus 'tis with mortals, as it is with flies, Forever hankering after Pleasure's cup: Though Fate, with all his legions, be at hand, The beasts, the draught of Circe can't withstand, But in goes every nose--they must, will sup.

Mad are the pa.s.sions, as a colt untamed!

When Prudence mounts their backs to ride them mild, They fling, they snort, they foam, they rise inflamed, Insisting on their own sole will so wild.

Gadsbud! my buzzing friend, thou art not dead; The Fates, so kind, have not yet snapped thy thread; By heavens, thou mov'st a leg, and now its brother.

And kicking, lo, again, thou mov'st another!

And now thy little drunken eyes unclose, And now thou feelest for thy little nose, And, finding it, thou rubbest thy two hands Much as to say, "I'm glad I'm here again."

And well mayest thou rejoice--'tis very plain, That near wert thou to Death's unsocial lands.

And now thou rollest on thy back about, Happy to find thyself alive, no doubt-- Now turnest--on the table making rings, Now crawling, forming a wet track, Now shaking the rich liquor from thy back, Now fluttering nectar from thy silken wings.

Now standing on thy head, thy strength to find, And poking out thy small, long legs behind; And now thy pinions dost thou briskly ply; Preparing now to leave me--farewell, fly!

Go, join thy brothers on yon sunny board, And rapture to thy family afford-- There wilt thou meet a mistress, or a wife, That saw thee drunk, drop senseless in the stream Who gave, perhaps, the wide-resounding scream, And now sits groaning for thy precious life.

Yes, go and carry comfort to thy friends, And wisely tell them thy imprudence ends.

Let buns and sugar for the future charm; These will delight, and feed, and work no harm-- While Punch, the grinning, merry imp of sin, Invites th' unwary wanderer to a kiss, Smiles in his face, as though he meant him bliss, Then, like an alligator, drags him in.

MAN MAY BE HAPPY.

PETER PINDAR.

"Man may be happy, if he will:"

I've said it often, and I think so still; Doctrine to make the million stare!