And Fortune's favoured care-
The wealthy-born, for whom she hath
Mac-Adamised the future path—
The Nabob's pampered heir!
Some brightly starred-some evil born,—
For honour some, and some for scorn,—
For fair or foul renown!
Good, bad, indiff'rent-none may lack!
Look, here's a White, and there's a Black,
And there's a Creole brown!
Some laugh and sing, some mope and weep,
And wish their "frugal sires would keep
Their only sons at home;"
Some tease the future tense, and plan
The full-grown doings of the man,
And pant for years to come!
A foolish wish! There's one at hoop;
And four at fives and five who stoop
The marble taw to speed!
And one that curvets in and out,
Reining his fellow Cob about,-
Would I were in his steed!
Yet he would gladly halt and drop
That boyish harness off, to swop
With this world's heavy van-
To toil, to tug. O little fool!
While thou canst be a horse at school,
To wish to be a man!
Perchance thou deem'st it were a thing
To wear a crown,-to be a king!
And sleep on regal down!
Alas thou know'st not kingly cares
Far happier is thy head that wears
That hat without a crown!
And dost thou think that years acquir
New added joys? Dost think thy sire
More happy than his son?
That manhood's mirth ?-Oh, go thy ways
To Drury-lane when
And see how forced our fun!
Thy taws are brave!-thy tops are rare!
Our tops are spun with coils of care,
Our dumps are no delight!—
The Elgin marbles are but tame,
And 'tis at best a sorry game
To fly the Muse's kite!
Our hearts are dough, our heels are lead, Our topmost joys fall dull and dead
Like balls with no rebound!
And often with a faded eye
We look behind, and send a sigh
Towards that merry ground!
Then be contented. Thou hast got
The most of heaven in thy young lot;
There's sky-blue in thy cup!
Thou'lt find thy Manhood all too fast-
Soon come, soon gone! and Age at last
A sorry breaking-up!
* This blank exists in the original.
WHAT little urchin is there never
Hath had that early scarlet fever,
Of martial trappings caught?
Trappings well call'd-because they trap
And catch full many a country chap
To go where fields are fought!
What little urchin with a rag
Hath never made a little flag,
(Our plate will show the manner,
And wooed each tiny neighbour still
Tommy or Harry, Dick or Will,
To come beneath the banner!
Just like that ancient shape of mist,
In Hamlet, crying, "List, O 'list!"
Come, who will serve the king,
And strike frog-eating Frenchmen dead
And cut off Boneyparty's head?—
And all that sort of thing.
So used I, when I was a boy,
To march with military toy,
And ape the soldier's life ;-
And with a whistle or a hum,
I thought myself a Duke of Drum
At least, or Earl of Fife.
With gun of tin and sword of lath,
Lord! how I walk'd in glory's path
With regimental mates,
By sound of trump and rub-a-dubs—
To 'siege the washhouse-charge the tubs—
Or storm the garden gates.
Ah me! my retrospective soul !
As over memory's muster-roll
I cast my eyes anew,
My former comrades all the while
Rise up before me, rank and file,
And form in dim review.
Ay, there they stand, and dress in line,
Lubbock, and Fenn, and David Vine,
And dark "Jamaeky Forde!".
And limping Wood, and "Cockey Hawes,"
Our captain always made, because
Long Lawrence, Natty Smart, and Soame,
Who said he had a gun at home,
But that was all a brag;
Ned Ryder, too, that used to sham
A prancing horse, and big Sam Lamb
That would hold up the flag!
Tom Anderson, and " Dunny White,"
Who never right-abouted right,
For he was deaf and dumb;
Jack Pike, Jem Crack, and Sandy Gray
And Dickey Bird, that wouldn't play
Unless he had the drum.
And Peter Holt, and Charley Jepp,
A chap that never kept the step-
No more did "Surly Hugh;"
Bob Harrington, and “Fighting Jim "—
We often had to halt for him,
To let him tie his shoe.
"Quarrelsome Scott," and Martin Dick,
That kill'd the bantam cock, to stick
The plumes within his hat;
Bill Hook, and little Tommy Grout
That got so thump'd for calling out
"Eyes right!" to "Squinting Matt."
Dan Simpson, that, with Peter Dodd,
Was always in the awkward squad,
And those two greedy Blakes,
That took our money to the fair
To buy the corps a trumpet there,
And laid it out in cakes.
Where are they now?-an open war
With open mouth declaring for?—
Or fall'n in bloody fray?
Compell'd to tell the truth I am,
Their fights all ended with the sham,
Their soldiership in play.
Brave Soame sends cheeses out in trucks,
And Martin sells the cock he plucks,
And Jepp now deals in wine;
Harrington bears a lawyer's bag,
And warlike Lamb retains his flag,
But on a tavern sign.
They tell me Cocky Hawes's sword
Is seen upon a broker's board :
And as for "Fighting Jim,"
In Bishopsgate, last Whitsuntide,
His unresisting cheek I spied
Beneath a quaker brim !
Quarrelsome Scott is in the church,
For Ryder now your eye must search
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