The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe Part 67

Compress'd, alas! the thorax, That throbbed with joy or pain; Not e'en a dose of borax Could make it throb again.

Dried up the warrior's throat is, All shatter'd too, his head: Still is the epiglottis-- The warrior is dead.

THE PHRENOLOGIST TO HIS MISTRESS.

PUNCH.

Though largely developed's my organ of order, And though I possess my destructiveness small, On suicide, dearest, you'll force me to border, If thus you are deaf to my vehement call

For thee veneration is daily extending, On a head that for want of it once was quite flat; If thus with my pa.s.sion I find you contending, My organs will swell till they've knocked off my hat

I know, of perceptions, I've none of the clearest; For while I believe that by thee I'm beloved, I'm told at my pa.s.sion thou secretly sneerest; But oh! may the truth unto me never be proved!

I'll fly to Deville, and a cast of my forehead I'll send unto thee;--then upon thee I'll call.

Rejection--alas! to the lover how horrid-- When 'tis pa.s.sion that SPURS-HIM, 'tis bitter as GALL.

THE CHEMIST TO HIS LOVE.

PUNCH.

I love thee, Mary, and thou lovest me-- Our mutual flame is like th' affinity That doth exist between two simple bodies: I am Pota.s.sium to thine Oxygen.

'Tis little that the holy marriage vow Shall shortly make us one. That unity Is, after all, but metaphysical O, would that I, my Mary, were an acid, A living acid; thou an alkali Endow'd with human sense, that, brought together, We both might coalesce into one salt, One h.o.m.ogeneous crystal. Oh! that thou Wert Carbon, and myself were Hydrogen; We would unite to form olefiant gas, Or common coal, or naphtha--would to heaven That I were Phosphorus, and thou wert Lime!

And we of Lime composed a Phosphuret.

I'd be content to be Sulphuric Acid, So that thou might be Soda. In that case We should be Glauber's Salt. Wert thou Magnesia Instead we'd form that's named from Epsom.

Couldst thou Pota.s.sa be, I Aqua-fortis, Our happy union should that compound form, Nitrate of Potash--otherwise Saltpeter.

And thus our several natures sweetly blent, We'd live and love together, until death Should decompose the fleshly TERTIUM QUID, Leaving our souls to all eternity Amalgamated. Sweet, thy name is Briggs And mine is Johnson. Wherefore should not we Agree to form a Johnsonate of Briggs?

We will. The day, the happy day, is nigh, When Johnson shall with beauteous Briggs combine.

A BALLAD OF BEDLAM.

PUNCH.

O, lady wake!--the azure moon Is rippling in the verdant skies, The owl is warbling his soft tune, Awaiting but thy snowy eyes.

The joys of future years are past, To-morrow's hopes have fled away; Still let us love, and e'en at last, We shall be happy yesterday.

The early beam of rosy night Drives off the ebon morn afar, While through the murmur of the light The huntsman winds his mad guitar.

Then, lady, wake! my brigantine Pants, neighs, and prances to be free; Till the creation I am thine, To some rich desert fly with me.

STANZAS TO AN EGG.

[BY A SPOON.]

PUNCH.

Pledge of a feather'd pair's affection, Kidnapped in thy downy nest, Soon for my breakfast--sad reflection!-- Must thou in yon pot be drest.

What are the feelings of thy mother?

Poor bereaved, unhappy hen!

Though she may lay, perchance, another, Thee she ne'er will see again.

Yet do not mourn. Although above thee Never more shall parent brood.

Know, dainty darling! that I love thee Dearly as thy mother could.

A FRAGMENT.

PUNCH.

His eye was stern and wild,--his cheek was pale and cold as clay; Upon his tightened lip a smile of fearful meaning lay; He mused awhile--but not in doubt--no trace of doubt was there; It was the steady solemn pause of resolute despair.

Once more he look'd upon the scroll--once more its words he read-- Then calmly, with unflinching hand, its folds before him spread.

I saw him bare his throat, and seize the blue cold-gleaming steel, And grimly try the tempered edge he was so soon to feel!

A sickness crept upon my heart, and dizzy swam my head,-- I could not stir--I could not cry--I felt benumb'd and dead; Black icy horrors struck me dumb, and froze my senses o'er; I closed my eyes in utter fear, and strove to think no more.

Again I looked,--a fearful change across his face had pa.s.s'd-- He seem'd to rave,--on cheek and lip a flaky foam was cast; He raised on high the glittering blade--then first I found a tongue-- "Hold, madman! stay thy frantic deed!" I cried, and forth I sprung; He heard me, but he heeded not; one glance around he gave; And ere I could arrest his hand, he had begun to SHAVE!

EATING SONG.

PUNCH.

Oh! carve me yet another slice, O help me to more gravy still, There's naught so sure as something nice To conquer care, or grief to kill.

I always loved a bit of beef, When Youth and Bliss and Hope were mine; And now it gives my heart relief In sorrow's darksome hour--to dine!

THE SICK CHILD.

[BY THE HOn.o.bABLE WILHELMINA SKEGGS.]

PUNCH.

A weakness seizes on my mind--I would more pudding take; But all in vain--I feel--I feel--my little head will ache.

Oh! that I might alone be left, to rest where now I am, And finish with a piece of bread that pot of currant jam.

I gaze upon the cake with tears, and wildly I deplore That I must take a powder if I touch a morsel more, Or oil of castor, smoothly bland, will offer'd be to me, In wave pellucid, floating on a cup of milkless tea.

It may be so--I can not tell--I yet may do without; They need not know, when left alone, what I have been about.

I long to eat that potted beef--to taste that apple-pie; I long--I long to eat some more, but have not strength to try.

I gasp for breath, and now I know I've eaten far too much; Not one more crumb of all the feast before me can I touch.