The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe Part 57

Unwilling in the list to be enrolled, Whitbread contemplated the knights of Peg, Then to his generous sovereign made a leg, And said, "He was afraid he was too old.

He thanked however his most gracious king, For offering to make him SUCH A THING."

But, ah! a different reason 'twas I fear!

It was not age that bade the man of beer The proffered honor of the monarch shun: The tale of Margaret's knife, and royal fright, Had almost made him d.a.m.n the NAME of knight, A tale that farrowed such a world of fun.

He mocked the prayer too by the king appointed, Even by himself the Lord's Anointed:-- A foe to FAST too, is he, let me tell ye; And though a Presbyterian, can not think Heaven (quarrelling with meat and drink) Joys in the grumble of a hungry belly!

Now from the table with Caesarean air Up rose the monarch with his laureled brow, When Mr. Whitbread, waiting on his chair, Expressed much thanks, much joy, and made a bow.

Miss Whitbread now so quick her curtsies drops, Thick as her honored father's Kentish hops; Which hop-like curtsies were returned by dips That never hurt the royal knees and hips; For hips and knees of queens are sacred things, That only bend on gala days Before the best of kings, When odes of triumph sound his praise.--

Now through a thundering peal of kind huzzas, Proceeding some from hired* and unhired jaws, The raree-show thought proper to retire; Whilst Whitbread and his daughter fair Surveyed all Chiswell-street with lofty air, For, lo! they felt themselves some six feet higher *[Footnote: When his majesty goes to a play-house, or brew-house, or parliament, the Lord Chamberlain provides some pounds' worth of mob to huzza their beloved monarch. At the play-house about forty wide- mouthed fellows are hired on the night of their majesties' appearance, at two s.h.i.+llings and sixpence per head, with the liberty of seeing the play GRATIS. These STENTORS are placed in different parts of the theater, who, immediately on the royal entry into the stage-box, set up [illeg.] of loyalty; to whom their majesties, with sweetest smiles, acknowledge the obligation by a genteel bow, and an elegant curtesy.

This congratulatory noise of the Stentors is looked on by many, particularly country ladies and gentlemen, as an infallible thermometer, that ascertains the warmth of the national regard--P. P.]

Such, Thomas, is the way to write!

Thus shouldst thou birth-day songs indite; Then stick to earth, and leave the lofty sky: No more of ti tum tum, and ti tum ti.

Thus should an honest laureate write of kings-- Not praise them for IMAGINARY THINGS; I own I can not make my stubborn rhyme Call every king a character sublime; For conscience will not suffer me to wander So very widely from the paths of candor.

I know full well SOME kings are to be seen, To whom my verse so bold would give the spleen, Should that bold verse declare they wanted BRAINS I won't say that they NEVER brains possessed-- They MAY have been with such a present blessed, And therefore fancy that some STILL remains;

For every well-experienced surgeon knows, That men who with their legs have parted, Swear that they've felt a pain in all their TOES, And often at the twinges started; They stared upon their oaken stumps in vain!

Fancying the toes were all come back again.

If men, then, who their absent toes have mourned, Can fancy those same toes at times returned; So kings, in matters of intelligences, May fancy they have stumbled on their senses.

Yes, Tom--mine is the way of writing ode-- Why liftest thou thy pious eyes to G.o.d!

Strange disappointment in thy looks I read; And now I hear thee in proud triumph cry, "Is this an action, Peter, this a deed To raise a monarch to the sky?

Tubs, porter, pumps, vats, all the Whitbread throng, Rare things to figure in the Muse's song!"

Thomas, I here protest, I want no quarrels On kings and brewers, porter, pumps, and barrels-- Far from the dove-like Peter be such strife, But this I tell thee, Thomas, for a fact-- Thy Caesar never did an act More wise, more glorious in his life.

Now G.o.d preserve all wonder-hunting kings, Whether at Windsor, Buckingham, or Kew-house: And may they never do more foolish things Than visiting Sam Whitbread and his brewhouse.

THE AUTHOR AND THE STATESMAN [ADDRESSED BY FIELDING TO SIR ROBERT WALPOLE.]

While at the helm of state you ride, Our nation's envy, and its pride; While foreign courts with wonder gaze, And curse those councils which they praise; Would you not wonder, sir, to view Your bard a greater man than you?

Which that he is you can not doubt, When you have read the sequel out.

You know, great sir, that ancient fellows, Philosophers, and such folks, tell us, No great a.n.a.logy between Greatness and happiness is seen.

If then, as it might follow straight, WRETCHED to be, is to be GREAT; Forbid it, G.o.ds, that you should try What'tis to be so great as I!

The family that dines the latest, Is in our street esteem'd the greatest; But latest hours must surely fall 'Fore him who never dines at all.

Your taste in architect, you know, Hath been admired by friend and foe: But can your earthly domes compare With all my castles--in the air?

We're often taught it doth behoove as To think those greater who're above us; Another instance of my glory, Who live above you, twice two story; And from my garret can look down On the whole street of ARLINGTON.

Greatness by poets still is painted With many followers acquainted: This too doth in my favor speak; YOUR levee is but twice a week; From mine I can exclude but one day, My door is quiet on a Sunday.

Nor in the manner of attendance, Doth your great bard claim less ascendance Familiar you to admiration May be approached by all the nation; While I, like the Mogul in INDO, Am never seen but at my window.

If with my greatness you're offended, The fault is easily amended; For I'll come down, with wondrous ease, Into whatever PLACE you please.

I'm not ambitious; little matters Will serve us great, but humble creatures.

Suppose a secretary o' this isle, Just to be doing with a while; Admiral, gen'ral, judge, or bishop: Or I can foreign treaties dish up.

If the good genius of the nation Should call me to negotiation, Tuscan and French are in my head, LATIN I write, and GREEK--I read.

If you should ask, what pleases best?

To get the most, and do the least.

What fittest for?--You know, I'm sure; I'm fittest for--a SINE-CURE.

THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE KNIFE GRINDER.

[Footnote: Some stanzas of the original poem, by Southey, are here subjoined:]

ANTI-JACOBIN.

FRIEND OF HUMANITY.

[Footnote: The "Friend of Humanity" was intended for Mr. Tierney, M.P.

for Southwark, who in early times was among the more forward of the Reformers. "He was," says Lord Brougham, "an a.s.siduous member of the Society of Friends of the People, and drew up the much and justly celebrated Pet.i.tion in which that useful body laid before the House of Commons all the more striking particulars of its defective t.i.tle to the office of representing the people, which that House then, as now, but with far less reason, a.s.sumed.]

"Needy Knife-grinder! whither are you going?

Rough is the road, your wheel is out of order-- Bleak blows the blast; your hat has got a hole in't, So have your breeches!"

THE WIDOW.

SAPPHIOS

Cold was the night wind; drifting fast the snows fell: Wide were the downs, and shelterless and naked; When a poor wand'rer struggled on her journey, Weary and way-sore.

Drear were the downs, more dreary her reflections; Cold was the night wind, colder was her bosom: She had no home, the world was all before her.

She had no shelter.

Fast o'er the heath a chariot rattled by her: "Pity me!" feebly cried the poor night wanderer, "Pity me, strangers! lest with cold and hunger Here I should perish."

"Weary Knife-grinder! little think the proud ones, Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike- road, what hard work 'tis crying all day 'Knives and "'Scissors to grind O!'

Tell me, Knife-grinder, how came you to grind knives?

Did some rich man tyrannically use you?

Was it the squire? or parson of the parish?

Or the attorney?

"Was it the squire, for killing of his game? or Covetous parson, for his t.i.thes distraining?

Or roguish lawyer, made you lose your little All in a lawsuit?

"(Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom Paine?)Drops of compa.s.sion tremble on my eyelids, Ready to fall, as soon as you have told your Pitiful story."

KNIFE-GRINDER.

"Story! G.o.d bless you! I have none to tell, sir, Only last night a-drinking at the Chequers, This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were Torn in a scuffle.