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He foams with censure, with applause he raves;
A dupe to rumors, and a tool to knaves:
He'll want no type his weakness to proclaim,
While such a thing as foolscap has a name.
The hasty gentleman, whose blood runs high;
Who picks a quarrel if you step awry;
Who can't a jest, a hint, or look endure !—
What is he?-What-Touch-paper to be sure.
What are our poets? (take them as they fall-
Good, bad, rich, poor, much read, not read at all,)
Them and their works in the same class you'll find:
They are the mere waste paper of mankind.
Observe the maiden, innocently sweet!
She's fair white paper! an unsullied sheet;
On which the happy man whom fate ordains,
May write his name, and take her for his pains.
One instance more, and only one, I'll bring!
"Tis the great man who scorns a little thing;
Whose thought, whose deeds, whose maxims are his own;
Formed on the feelings of his heart alone.
True, genuine, royal paper, is his breast:
Of all the kinds most precious, purest, best.
THE COUNTRY BUMPKIN AND RAZOR SELLER. .-P.Pindar.
A fellow, in a market town,
Most musical, cried razors up and down, And offered twelve for eighteen pence; Which, certainly seem'd wondrous cheap, And, for the money, quite a heap,
That every man would buy, with cash and sense.
A country bumpkin the great offer heard;
Poor Hodge,-who suffered by a broad black beard,
That seemed a shoe-brush stuck beneath his nose.
With cheerfulness the eighteen-pence he paid,
And, proudly, to himself, in whispers said-
"This rascal stole the razors, I suppose.
No matter if the fellow be a knave,
Provided that the razors shave;
It certainly will be a monstrous prize."
So home the clown, with his good fortune went,
Smiling, in heart and soul content.
And quickly soaped himself to ears and eyes.
Being well lathered, from a dish or tub,
Hodge now began, with grinning pain to grub-
Just like a hedger cutting furze :
'Twas a vile razor!-then the rest he try'd ;— All were impostors. "Ah!" Hodge sighed, "I wish my eighteen-pence was in my purse." In vain, to chase his beard, and bring the graces, He cut and dug and whined and stamped and swore; Brought blood, and danced, blasphemed, and made wry
And cursed each razor's body, o'er and o'er.
His muzzle, formed of opposition stuff,
Firm as a Foxite, would not lose its ruff;
So kept it-laughing at the steel and suds.
Hodge, in a passion, stretched his angry jaws,
Vowing the direst vengeance, with clenched claws,
On the vile CHEAT that sold the goods.
"Razors? a vile confounded dog!
Not fit to scrape a hog!"
Hodge sought the fellow-found him—and begun"P'rhaps, Master Razor-rogue! to you 'tis fun That people flay themselves out of their lives.
You rascal! for an hour have I been grubbing,
Giving my crying whiskers here a scrubbing
With razors just like oyster knives.
Sirrah! I tell you, you're a knave
To cry up razors that can't shave."
"Friend," quoth the razor man, “I'm not a knave
As for the razors you have bought,—
Upon my soul, I never thought
That they would shave.”
"Not think they'd shave?" quoth Hodge, with wond'ring
And voice not much unlike an Indian yell,
"What were they made for, then, you dog?" he cries, "Made!" quoth the fellow, with a smile—“ to sell.”
THE GASCON PEASANT AND THE FLIES.
At Neufchatel, in France, where they prepare
Cheeses that set us longing to be mites,
There dwelt a farmer's wife, famed for her rare
Skill in these small quadrangular delights.
Where they were made they were sold for the immense
Price of three sous apiece,
But as salt water made their charms increase,
In England, the fixed rate was eighteen pence.
This damsel had, to keep her in her farm,
To milk her cows, and feed her hogs,
A Gascon peasant, with a sturdy arm.
For digging, or for carrying logs:
But in his noddle, weak as any baby,
In fact a gaby:
And such a glutton when you came to feed him,
That Wantley's dragon, who "ate barns and churches
As if they were geese and turkeys,"
(Vide the Ballad) scarcely could exceed him.
One morn she had prepared a monstrous bowl
Of cream, like nectar!
And would'nt go to church (good careful soul)
Till she had left it safe with a protector :
So she gave strict injunctions to the Gascon,
To watch it, while his mistress was to mass gone.
Watch it he did; he never took his eyes off,
But licked his upper, then his under lip,
And doubled up his fist to drive the flies off,
Begrudging them the smallest sip,
Which if they got,
my Lord Salisbury, he heaved a sigh,
And cried, "Oh happy, happy fly!
How I do envy you your lot."
Each moment did his appetite grow stronger;
His bowels yearned;
At length he could not bear it any longer,
But, on all sides his looks he turned,
And, finding that the coast was clear, he quaffed The whole up at a draught.
Scudding from church, the farmer's wife
Flew to the dairy;
But stood aghast, and could not, for her life,
One sentence mutter,
Until she summoned breath enough to utter
"Hly St. Mary!"
And shortly with a face of scarlet,
The vixen (for she was a vixen) flew
Upon the varlet;
Asking the when, and where, and how, and who
Had gulped her cream, nor left an atom?
To which he made not separate replies,
But with a look of excellent digestion,
One answer made to every question,
"The flies, you rogue !-the flies, you guttling dog!
Behold your whiskers still are covered thickly;
Thief! Liar! Villain! Gormandizer! Hog!
I'll make you tell another story quickly."
So out she bounced, and brought with loud alarms,
Two stout Gens d'Arms,
Who bore him to the Judge :—a little prig
With angry bottle nose,
Like a red-cabbage-rose,
While lots of white ones flourish'd on his wig.
Looking at once both stern and wise,
He turned to the delinquent
And 'gan to question him, and catechise
As to which way the drink went.
Still the same dogged answers rise,
"The Flies, my lord,-the flies, the flies."
"Psha," quoth the Judge, half peevish, and half pompous, "Why you're non-compos;"
You should have watched the bowl, as she desired,
And killed the flies, you stupid clown." "What is it lawful then," the dolt inquired, "To kill the flies in this here town?" "The man's an ass!-What question's this? Lawful! you booby,-to be sure it is: You've my authority, where'er you meet 'em To kill the rogues, and if you like, to eat 'em!"
"Zooks," cried the rustic, "I'm right glad to hear it.
Constable, catch that thief! may I go hang
If yonder blue bottle (I know his face)
Is not the very leader of the gang
That stole the cream; let me come near it."
This said, he darted from his place,
And aiming one of his sledge-hammer blows
At a large fly upon the Judge's nose-
The luckless blue bottle he smashed;
And gratified a double grudge,
For the same catapult completely smashed
The bottle nose belonging to the Judge!
LODGINGS FOR SINGLE GENTLEMEN.
Who has e'er been in London, that overgrown place,
Has seen 66
Lodgings to Let" stare him full in the face: