The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe Part 66

Four be the elements, Here we a.s.semble 'em, Each of man's world And existence an emblem.

Press from the lemon The slow flowing juices-- Bitter is life In its lessons and uses.

Bruise the fair sugar lumps-- Nature intended Her sweet and severe To be everywhere blended.

Pour the still water-- Unwarning by sound, Eternity's ocean Is hemming us round.

Mingle the spirit, The life of the bowl-- Man is an earth-clod Unwarmed by a soul!

Drink of the stream Ere its potency goes!-- No bath is refres.h.i.+ng Except while it glows!

THE SONG OF THE HUMBUGGED HUSBAND.

PUNCH.

She's not what fancy painted her-- I'm sadly taken in: If some one else had won her, I Should not have cared a pin.

I thought that she was mild and good As maiden e'er could be; I wonder how she ever could Have so much humbugg'd me.

They cl.u.s.ter round and shake my hand-- They tell me I am blest: My case they do not understand-- I think that I know best.

They say she's fairest of the fair-- They drive me mad and madder.

What do they mean by it? I swear I only wish they had her.

'Tis true that she has lovely locks, That on her shoulders fall; What would they say to see the box In which she keeps them all?

Her taper fingers, it is true, 'Twere difficult to match: What would they say if they but knew How terribly they scratch?

TEMPERANCE SONG.

PUNCH.

AIR--FRIEND OF MY SOUL.

Friend of my soul, this water sip, Its strength you need not fear; Tis not so luscious as egg-flip, Nor half so strong as beer.

Like Jenkins when he writes, It can not touch the mind; Unlike what he indites, No nausea leaves behind.

LINES

ADDRESSED TO ** **** ***** ON THE 29TH Of SEPTEMBER WHEN WE PARTED FOR THE LAST TIME.

PUNCH.

I have watch'd thee with rapture, and dwelt on thy charms, As link'd in Love's fetters we wander'd each day; And each night I have sought a new life in thy arms, And sigh'd that our union could last not for aye.

But thy life now depends on a frail silken thread, Which I even by kindness may cruelly sever, And I look to the moment of parting with dread, For I feel that in parting I lose thee forever.

Sole being that cherish'd my poor troubled heart!

Thou know'st all its secrets--each joy and each grief; And in sharing them all thou did'st ever impart To its sorrows a gentle and soothing relief.

The last of a long and affectionate race, As thy days are declining I love thee the more, For I feel that thy loss I can never replace-- That thy death will but leave me to weep and deplore.

Unchanged, thou shalt live in the mem'ry of years, I can not--I will not--forget what thou wert!

While the thoughts of thy love as they call forth my tears, In fancy will wash thee once more--MY LAST s.h.i.+RT.

GRUB-STREET.

MADNESS.

PUNCH.

There is a madness of the heart, not head-- That in some bosoms wages endless war; There is a throe when other pangs are dead, That shakes the system to its utmost core.

There is a tear more scalding than the brine That streams from out the fountain of the eye, And like the lava leaves a scorched line, As in its fiery course it rusheth by.

What is that madness? Is it envy, hate, Or jealousy more cruel than the grave, With all the attendants that upon it wait And make the victim now despair, now rave?

It is when hunger, clam'ring for relief, Hears a shrill voice exclaim, "That graceless sinner, The cook, has been, and gone, and burnt the beef, And spilt the tart--in short, she's dish'd the dinner!"

THE BANDIT'S FATE.

PUNCH.

He wore a brace of pistols the night when first we met, His deep-lined brow was frowning beneath his wig of jet, His footsteps had the moodiness, his voice the hollow tone, Of a bandit-chief, who feels remorse, and tears his hair alone-- I saw him but at half-price, yet methinks I see him now, In the tableau of the last act, with the blood upon his brow.

A private bandit's belt and boots, when next we met, he wore His salary, he told me, was lower than before; And standing at the O. P. wing he strove, and not in vain, To borrow half a sovereign, which he never paid.

I saw it but a moment--and I wish I saw it now-- As he b.u.t.toned up his pocket with a condescending bow.

And once again we met; but no bandit chief was there; His rouge was off, and gone that head of once luxuriant hair He lodges in a two-pair back, and at the public near, He can not liquidate his "chalk," or wipe away his beer.

I saw him sad and seedy, yet methinks I see him now, In the tableau of the last act, with the blood upon his brow.

LINES WRITTEN AFTER A BATTLE.

BY AN a.s.sISTANT SURGEON OF THE NINETEENTH NANKEENS.

PUNCH.

Stiff are the warrior's muscles, Congeal'd, alas! his chyle; No more in hostile tussles Will he excite his bile.

Dry is the epidermis, A vein no longer bleeds-- And the communis vermis Upon the warrior feeds.