The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe Part 100

There was a lady lived at Leith, A lady very stylish, man, And yet, in spite of all her teeth, She fell in love with an Irishman, A nasty, ugly Irishman, A wild tremendous Irishman, A tearing, swearing, thumping, b.u.mping, ranting, roaring Irishman.

II.

His face was no ways beautiful, For with small-pox 't was scarred across: And the shoulders of the ugly dog Were almost doubled a yard across.

O the lump of an Irishman, The whiskey devouring Irishman-- The great he-rogue with his wonderful brogue, the fighting, rioting Irishman.

III.

One of his eyes was bottle green, And the other eye was out, my dear; And the calves of his wicked-looking legs Were more than two feet about, my dear, O, the great big Irishman, The rattling, battling Irishman-- The stamping, ramping, swaggering, staggering, leathering swash of an Irishman.

IV.

He took so much of Lundy-foot, That he used to snort and snuffle--O, And in shape and size the fellow's neck Was as bad as the neck of a buffalo.

O, the horrible Irishman, The thundering, blundering Irishman-- The slas.h.i.+ng, das.h.i.+ng, smas.h.i.+ng, las.h.i.+ng, thras.h.i.+ng, has.h.i.+ng Irishman.

V.

His name was a terrible name, indeed, Being Timothy Thady Mulligan; And whenever he emptied his tumbler of punch, He'd not rest till he fill'd it full again, The boozing, bruising Irishman, The 'toxicated Irishman-- The whiskey, frisky, rummy, gummy, brandy, no dandy Irishman.

VI.

This was the lad the lady loved, Like all the girls of quality; And he broke the skulls of the men of Leith, Just by the way of jollity, O, the leathering Irishman, The barbarous, savage Irishman-- The hearts of the maids and the gentlemen's heads were bothered I'm sure by this Irishman.

A _CAT_ALECTIC MONODY!

CRUIKSHANK'S OMNIBUS.

A CAT I sing, of famous memory, Though CATachrestical my song may be; In a small garden CATacomb she lies, And CATaclysms fill her comrades' eyes; Borne on the air, the CATacoustic song Swells with her virtues' CATalogue along; No CATaplasm could lengthen out her years, Though mourning friends shed CATaracts of tears.

Once loud and strong her CATachist-like voice It dwindled to a CATcall's squeaking noise; Most CATegorical her virtues shone, By CATenation join'd each one to one;-- But a vile CATchpoll dog, with cruel bite, Like CATling's cut, her strength disabled quite; Her CATerwauling pierced the heavy air, As CATaphracts their arms through legions bear; 'Tis vain! as CATerpillars drag away Their lengths, like CATtle after busy day, She ling'ring died, nor left in kit KAT the Embodyment of this CATastrophe.

A NEW SONG OF NEW SIMILES.

JOHN BAY

My pa.s.sion is as mustard strong; I sit all sober sad; Drunk as a piper all day long, Or like a March-hare mad.

Round as a hoop the b.u.mpers flow; I drink, yet can't forget her; For though as drunk as David's sow I love her still the better.

Pert as a pear-monger I'd be, If Molly were but kind; Cool as a cuc.u.mber could see The rest of womankind.

Like a stuck pig I gaping stare, And eye her o'er and o'er; Lean as a rake, with sighs and care, Sleek as a mouse before.

Plump as a partridge was I known, And soft as silk my skin; My cheeks as fat as b.u.t.ter grown, But as a goat now thin!

I melancholy as a cat, Am kept awake to weep; But she, insensible of that, Sound as a top can sleep.

Hard is her heart as flint or stone, She laughs to see me pale; And merry as a grig is grown, And brisk as bottled ale.

The G.o.d of Love at her approach Is busy as a bee; Hearts sound as any bell or roach, Are smit and sigh like me.

Ah me! as thick as hops or hail The fine men crowd about her; But soon as dead as a door-nail Shall I be, if without her.

Straight as my leg her shape appears, O were we join'd together!

My heart would be scot-free from cares And lighter than a feather.

As fine as five-pence is her mien, No drum was ever tighter; Her glance is as the razor keen, And not the sun is brighter

As soft as pap her kisses are, Methinks I taste them yet; Brown as a berry is her hair, Her eyes as black as jet.

As smooth as gla.s.s, as white as curds Her pretty hand invites; Sharp as her needle are her words, Her wit like pepper bites.

Brisk as a body-louse she trips, Clean as a penny drest; Sweet as a rose her breath and lips, Round as the globe her breast.

Full as an egg was I with glee, And happy as a king: Good Lord! how all men envied me!

She loved like any thing.

But false as h.e.l.l, she, like the wind, Chang'd, as her s.e.x must do; Though seeming as the turtle kind, And like the gospel true.

If I and Molly could agree, Let who would take Peru!

Great as an Emperor should I be, And richer than a Jew.

Till you grow tender as a chick, I'm dull as any post; Let us like burs together stick, And warm as any toast.

You'll know me truer than a die, And wish me better sped; Flat as a flounder when I lie, And as a herring dead.

Sure as a gun she'll drop a tear And sigh, perhaps, and wish, When I am rotten as a pear, And mute as any fish.

REMINISCENCES OP A SENTIMENTALIST.

THOMAS HOOD.

"My TABLES! MEAT it is, _I_ SET IT down!"--Hamlet

I think it was Spring--but not certain I am-- When my pa.s.sion began first to work; But I know we were certainly looking for lamb, And the season was over for pork.

'T was at Christmas, I think, when I met with Miss Chase, Yes--for Morris had asked me to dine-- And I thought I had never beheld such a face, Or so n.o.ble a turkey and chine.

Placed close by her side, it made others quite wild With sheer envy, to witness my luck; How she blushed as I gave her some turtle, and smiled As I afterward offered some duck.

I looked and I languished, alas! to my cost, Through three courses of dishes and meats; Getting deeper in love--but my heart was quite lost When it came to the trifle and sweets.

With a rent-roll that told of my houses and land, To her parents I told my designs-- And then to herself I presented my hand, With a very fine pottle of pines!