The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe Part 60

Mamma said, "No, she sha'n't!"

Well, after many a sad reproach, They got into a hackney-coach, And trotted down the street.

I saw them go: one horse was blind, The tails of both hung down behind, Their shoes were on their feet.

The chaise in which poor brother Bill Used to be drawn to Pentonville, Stood in the lumber-room: I wiped the dust from off the top, While Molly mopped it with a mop, And brushed it with a broom.

My uncle's porter, Samuel Hughes, Came in at six to black the shoes, (I always talk to Sam:) So what does he, but takes, and drags Me in the chaise along the flags, And leaves me where I am.

My father's walls are made of brick, But not so tall and not so thick As these; and, goodness me!

My father's beams are made of wood, But never, never half so good As those that now I see.

What a large floor! 'tis like a town!

The carpet, when they lay it down, Won't hide it, I'll be bound; And there's a row of lamps!--my eye!

How they do blaze! I wonder why They keep them on the ground.

At first I caught hold of the wing, And kept away; but Mr. Thing- umbob, the prompter man, Gave with his hand my chaise a shove, And said, "Go on, my pretty love; Speak to 'em little Nan.

"You've only got to curtsy, whisper, hold your chin up, laugh and lisp, And then you're sure to take: I've known the day when brats, not quite Thirteen, got fifty pounds a night; Then why not Nancy Lake?"

But while I'm speaking, where's papa?

And where's my aunt? and where's mamma?

Where's Jack? O there they sit!

They smile, they nod; I'll go my ways, And order round poor Billy's chaise, To join them in the pit.

And now, good gentlefolks, I go To join mamma, and see the show; So, bidding you adieu, I curtsy like a pretty miss, And if you'll blow to me a kiss, I'll blow a kiss to you.

[Blow a kiss, and exit.]

PLAY-HOUSE MUSINGS.

A BURLESQUE IMITATION OF COLERIDGE.--REJECTED ADDRESSES.

JAMES SMITH

My pensive Public, wherefore look you sad?

I had a grandmother, she kept a donkey To carry to the mart her crockery-ware, And when that donkey looked me in the face, His face was sad I and you are sad, my Public.

Joy should be yours: this tenth day of October Again a.s.sembles us in Drury Lane.

Long wept my eye to see the timber planks That hid our ruins; many a day I cried, Ah me! I fear they never will rebuild it!

Till on one eve, one joyful Monday eve, As along Charles-street I prepared to walk.

Just at the corner, by the pastrycook's, I heard a trowel tick against a brick.

I looked me up, and straight a parapet Uprose at least seven inches o'er the planks.

Joy to thee, Drury! to myself I said: He of the Blackfriars' Road, who hymned thy downfall In loud Hosannahs, and who prophesied That flames, like those from prostrate Solyma, Would scorch the hand that ventured to rebuild thee, Has proved a lying prophet. From that hour, As leisure offered, close to Mr. Spring's Box-office door, I've stood and eyed the builders.

They had a plan to render less their labors; Workmen in olden times would mount a ladder With hodded heads, but these stretched forth a pole From the wall's pinnacle, they placed a pulley Athwart the pole, a rope athwart the pulley; To this a basket dangled; mortar and bricks Thus freighted, swung securely to the top, And in the empty basket workmen twain Precipitate, unhurt, accosted earth.

Oh! 't was a goodly sound, to hear the people Who watched the work, express their various thoughts!

While some believed it never would be finished, Some, on the contrary, believed it would.

I've heard our front that faces Drury Lane Much criticised; they say 'tis vulgar brick-work, A mimic manufactory of floor-cloth.

One of the morning papers wished that front Cemented like the front in Brydges-street; As now it looks, they call it Wyatt's Mermaid, A handsome woman with a fish's tail.

White is the steeple of St. Bride's in Fleet-street, The Albion (as its name denotes) is white; Morgan and Saunders' shop for chairs and tables Gleams like a snow-ball in the setting sun; White is Whitehall. But not St. Bride's in Fleet-street, The spotless Albion, Morgan, no, nor Saunders, Nor white Whitehall, is white as Drury's face.

Oh, Mr. Whitbread! fie upon you, sir!

I think you should have built a colonnade; When tender Beauty, looking for her coach, Protrudes her gloveless hand, perceives the shower, And draws the tippet closer round her throat, Perchance her coach stands half a dozen off, And, ere she mounts the step, the oozing mud Soaks through her pale kid slipper. On the morrow, She coughs at breakfast, and her gruff papa Cries, "There you go! this comes of playhouses!"

To build no portico is penny wise: Heaven grant it prove not in the end pound foolis.h.!.+

Hail to thee, Drury! Queen of Theaters!

What is the Regency in Tottenham-street, The Royal Amphitheater of Arts, Astley's, Olympic, or the Sans Pareil, Compared with thee? Yet when I view thee pushed Back from the narrow street that christened thee, I know not why they call thee Drury Lane.

Amid the freaks that modern fas.h.i.+on sanctions, It grieves me much to see live animals Brought on the stage. Grimaldi has his rabbit, Laurent his cat, and Bradbury his pig; Fie on such tricks! Johnson, the machinist Of former Drury, imitated life Quite to the life. The elephant in Blue Beard, Stuffed by his hand, wound round his lithe proboscis As spruce as he who roared in Padmanaba.

[Footnote: "Padmanaba," viz., in a pantomime called Harlequin in Padmanaba. This elephant, some years afterward, was exhibited over Exeter 'Change, where it was found necessary to destroy the poor animal by discharges of musketry. When he made his entrance in the pantomime above-mentioned, Johnson, the machinist of the rival house, exclaimed, "I should be very sorry if I could not make a better elephant than that!"]

Naught born on earth should die. On hackney stands I reverence the coachman who cries "Gee,"

And spares the lash. When I behold a spider Prey on a fly, a magpie on a worm, Or view a butcher with horn-handled knife Slaughter a tender lamb as dead as mutton, Indeed, indeed, I'm very, very sick!

[EXIT HASTILY.]

THE THEATER.

[Footnote: "'The Theater,' by the Rev. G. Crabbe, we rather think, is the best piece in the collection. It is an exquisite and most masterly imitation, not only of the peculiar style, but of the taste, temper, and manner of description of that most original author. * * *

It does not aim, of course, at any shadow of his pathos or moral sublimity, but seems to us to be a singularly faithful copy of his pa.s.sages of mere description."--Edinburg Review.]

[A BURLESQUE IMITATION OF CEABBE.--REJECTED ADDRESSES.]

JAMES SMITH.

Interior of a Theater described.--Pit gradually fills.-The Check-taker.--Pit full.--The Orchestra tuned.--One Fiddle rather dilatory.--Is reproved--and repents.--Evolutions of a Play-bill.--Its final Settlement on the Spikes.--The G.o.ds taken to task--and why.-- Motley Group of Play-goers.--Holywell-street, St. Pancras.--Emanuel Jennings binds his Son apprentice--not in London--and why.--Episode of the Hat.

'Tis sweet to view, from half-past five to six, Our long wax-candles, with short cotton wicks, Touched by the lamplighter's Promethean art, Start into light, and make the lighter start; To see red Phoebus through the gallery-pane Tinge with his beams the beams of Drury Lane; While gradual parties fill our widened pit, And gape, and gaze, and wonder, ere they sit.

At first, while vacant seats give choice and ease, Distant or near, they settle where they please; But when the mult.i.tude contracts the span, And seats are rare, they settle where they can.

Now the full benches to late comers doom No room for standing, miscalled STANDING-ROOM.

Hark! the check-taker moody silence breaks, And bawling "Pit full!" gives the checks he takes; Yet onward still the gathering numbers cram, Contending crowders shout the frequent d.a.m.n, And all is bustle, squeeze, row, jabbering, and jam.

See to their desks Apollo's sons repair-- Swift rides the rosin o'er the horse's hair!

In unison their various tones to tune, Murmurs the hautboy, growls the coa.r.s.e ba.s.soon; In soft vibration sighs the whispering lute, Tang goes the harpsichord, too-too the flute, Brays the loud trumpet, squeaks the fiddle sharp, Winds the French horn, and tw.a.n.gs the tingling harp Till, like great Jove, the leader, fingering in, Attunes to order the chaotic din.

Now all seems hushed--but, no, one fiddle will Give half-ashamed, a tiny flourish still.

Foiled in his clash, the leader of the clan Reproves with frowns the dilatory man: Then on his candlestick thrice taps his bow, Nods a new signal, and away they go.

Perchance, while pit and gallery cry "Hats off!"

And awed Consumption checks his chided cough, Some giggling daughter of the Queen of Love Drops, 'reft of pin, her play-bill from above: Like Icarus, while laughing galleries clap, Soars, ducks, and dives in air the printed sc.r.a.p; But, wiser far than he, combustion fears, And, as it flies, eludes the chandeliers; Till, sinking gradual, with repeated twirl, It settles, curling, on a fiddler's curl; Who from his powdered pate the intruder strikes, And, for mere malice, sticks it on the spikes.

Say, why these Babel strains from Babel tongues?

Who's that calls "Silence!" with such leathern lungs?

He who, in quest of quiet, "Silence!" hoots, Is apt to make the hubbub he imputes.

What various swains our motley walls contain!