The Saint alone his preference retains
For bills of penalties and pains,
And marks his narrow code with legal rigour !
Why shun, as worthless of affiliation,
What men of all political persuasion
Extol-and even use upon occasion-
That Christian principle, Conciliation?
But possibly the men who make such fuss
With Sunday pippins and old Trots infirm,
Attach some other meaning to the term,
As thus:
One market morning, in my usual rambles,
Passing along Whitechapel's ancient shambles,
Where meat was hung in many a joint and quarter,
I had to halt awhile, like other folks,
To let a killing butcher coax
A score of lambs and fatted sheep to slaughter.
A sturdy man he look'd to fell an ox,
Bull-fronted, ruddy, with a formal streak
Of well-greased hair down either cheek,
As if he dee-dash-dee'd some other flocks
Beside those woolly-headed stubborn blocks
That stood before him, in vexatious huddle-
Poor little lambs, with bleating wethers group'd,
While, now and then, a thirsty creature stoop'd
And meekly snuff'd, but did not taste the puddle.
Fierce bark'd the dog, and many a blow was dealt,
That loin, and chump, and scrag and saddle felt,
Yet still, that fatal step they all declined it,-
And shunn'd the tainted door as if they smelt
Onions, mint sauce, and lemon juice behind it.
At last there came a pause of brutal force,
The cur was silent, for his jaws were full
Of tangled locks of tarry wool,
The man had whoop'd and holloed till dead hoarse.
The time was ripe for mild expostulation,
And thus it stammer'd from a stander-by-
"Zounds!—my good fellow,—it quite makes me why,
It really my dear fellow-do just try
Conciliation!"
Stringing his nerves like flint,
The sturdy butcher seized upon the hint,—
At least he seized upon the foremost wether,-
And hugg'd and lugg'd and tugg'd him neck and crop
Just nolens volens thro' the open shop-
If tails come off he didn't care a feather,-
Then walking to the door and smiling grim,
He rubb'd his forehead and his sleeve together-
"There I have conciliated him!"
Again-good-humouredly to end our quarrel—-
(Good humour should prevail !)
I'll fit you with a tale,
Whereto is tied a moral.
Once on a time a certain English lass
Was seized with symptoms of such deep decline,
Cough, hectic flushes, ev'ry evil sign,
That, as their wont is at such desperate pass,
The Doctors gave her over-to an ass.
Accordingly, the grisly Shade to bilk,
Each morn the patient quaff'd a frothy bowl
Of asinine new milk,
Robbing a shaggy suckling of a foal
Which got proportionably spare and skinny— Meanwhile the neighbours cried "Poor Mary Ann!
She can't get over it! she never can!"
When lo! to prove each prophet was a ninny
The one that died was the poor wet-nurse Jenny.
There were but two grown donkeys in the place;
And most unluckily for Eve's sick daughter,
The other long-ear'd creature was a male,
Who never in his life had given a pail
Of milk, or even chalk and water.
No matter at the usual hour of eight
Down trots a donkey to the wicket-gate,
With Mister Simon Gubbins on his back,-
"Your sarvant, Miss,-a werry spring-like day,-
Bad time for hasses tho'! good lack! good lack!
Jenny be dead, Miss, but I'ze brought ye Jack,
He doesn't give no milk-but he can bray."
So runs the story,
And, in vain self-glory,
Some Saints would sneer at Gubbins for his blindnessBut what the better are their pious saws
To ailing souls, than dry hee-haws,
Without the milk of human kindness?
DEAR Fanny! nine long years ago,
While yet the morning sun was low,
And rosy with the Eastern glow
The landscape smiled-
Whilst lowed the newly-waken'd herds—
Sweet as the early song of birds,
I heard those first, delightful words, "Thou hast a Child!"
Along with that uprising dew
Tears glisten'd in my eyes, though few,
To hail a dawning quite as new
It was not sorrow-not annoy-
But like a happy maid, though coy,
With grief-like welcome even Joy
Forestalls its prime.
So mayst thou live, dear! many years, In all the bliss that life endears,
Not without smiles, nor yet from tears Too strictly kept:
When first thy infant littleness
I folded in my fond caress,
The greatest proof of happiness
Was this I wept.
MISS KILMANSEGG AND HER PRECIOUS LEG
Gold! yellow, glittering, precious gold?"
To trace the Kilmansegg pedigree
To the very root of the family tree
Were a task as rash as ridiculous :
Through antediluvian mists as thick
As London fog such a line to pick
Were enough, in truth, to puzzle old Nick,-
Not to name Sir Harris Nicolas.
It wouldn't require much verbal strain
To trace the Kill-man, perchance, to Cain;
But, waiving all such digressions,
Suffice it, according to family lore,
A Patriarch Kilmansegg lived of yore,
Who was famed for his great possessions.
Tradition said he feather'd his nest
Through an Agricultural Interest
In the Golden Age of Farming;
When golden eggs were laid by the geese,
And Colchian sheep wore a golden fleece,
And golden pippins-the sterling kind
Of Hesperus-now so hard to find-
Made Horticulture quite charming!
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