In doing well thou must be reckon'd
The first, and Mrs. Fry the second;
And twice a Job,-for, in thy fev'rish toils,
Thou wast all over roasts-as well as boils.
Thou wast indeed no dunce,
To treat thy subjects and thyself at once:
Many a hungry poet eats
His brains like thee,
But few there be
Could live so long on their receipts.
What living soul or sinner
Would slight thy invitation to a dinner,
Ought with the Danaides to dwell,
Draw gravy in a cullender, and hear
For ever in his ear
The pleasant tinkling of thy dinner bell.
Immortal Kitchener! thy fame
Shall keep itself when Time makes game Of other men's-yea, it shall keep, all weathers, And thou shalt be upheld by thy pen feathers. Yea, by the sauce of Michael Kelly!
Thy name shall perish never,
But be magnified for ever—
-By all whose eyes are bigger than their belly.
Yea, till the world is done-
-To a turn-and Time puts out the sun,
Shall live the endless echo of thy name.
But, as for thy more fleshy frame,
Ah! Death's carnivorous teeth will tittle
Thee out of breath, and eat it for cold victual;
But still thy fame shall be among the nations
Preserved to the last course of generations.
Ah me, my soul is touch'd with sorrow !
To think how flesh must pass away-
So mutton, that is warm to-day,
Is cold, and turn'd to hashes, on the morrow!
Farewell! I would say more, but I
Have other fish to fry.
OME sigh for this and that;
My wishes don't go far;
The world may wag at will,
So I have my cigar.
Some fret themselves to death
With Whig and Tory jar,
I don't care which is in,
So I have my cigar.
Sir John requests my vote,
And so does Mr. Marr;
I don't care how it goes,
So I have my cigar.
Some want a German row,
Some wish a Russian war;
I care not-I'm at peace,
So I have my cigar.
I never see the Post,
I seldom read the Star; The Globe I scarcely heed, So I have my cigar.
They tell me that Bank Stock
Is sunk much under par ;
It's all the same to me,
So I have my cigar.
Honours have come to men
My juniors at the Bar;
No matter-I can wait,
So I have my cigar.
Ambition frets me not;
A cab or glory's car Are just the same to me, So I have my cigar.
I worship no vain gods,
But serve the household Lar;
I'm sure to be at home,
So I have my cigar.
I do not seek for fame,
A General with a scar;
A private let me be,
So I have my cigar.
To have my choice among
The toys of life's bazaar,
The deuce may take them all
So I have my cigar.
Some minds are often tost
By tempests like a tar ;,
I always seem in port,
So I have my cigar.
The ardent flame of love
My bosom cannot char,
I smoke, but do not burn,
So I have my cigar.
They tell me Nancy Low
Has married Mr. R.;
The jilt! but I can live,
So I have my cigar.
"Give me old music-let me hear
The songs of days gone by!"-H. F. CHORLEY.
H! come, all ye who love to hear
An ancient song in ancient taste,
To whom all by-gone Music's dear
As verdant spots in Memory's waste!
Its name "The Ancient Concert" wrongs,
And has not hit the proper clef,
To wit, Old Folks, to sing Old Songs,
To Old Subscribers rather deaf.
Away, then, Hawes! with all your band;
Ye beardless boys, this room desert!
One youthful voice, or youthful hand,
Our concert-pitch would disconcert!
No bird must join our "vocal throng,"
The present age beheld at font:
Away, then, all ye "Sons of Song,"
Your Fathers are the men we want!
Away, Miss Birch, you're in your prime!
Miss Romer, seek some other door!
Go, Mrs. Shaw! till, counting time,
You count you're nearly fifty-four!
Go, Miss Novello, sadly young!
Go, thou composing Chevalier,
And roam the county towns among,
No Newcome will be welcome here!
Our Concert aims to give at night
The music that has had its day!
So, Rooke, for us you cannot write
Till time has made you Raven gray.
Your score may charm a modern ear,
Nay, ours, when three or fourscore old,
But in this Ancient atmosphere,
Fresh airs like yours would give us cold!
Go, Hawes, and Cawse, and Woodyat, go!
Hence, Shirreff, with those native curls;
And Master Coward ought to know
This is no place for boys and girls!
No Massons here we wish to see;
Nor is it Mrs. Seguin's sphere,
And Mrs. B-! Oh! Mrs. B--,
Such Bishops are not reverend here!
What! Grisi, bright and beaming thus !
To sing the songs gone gray with age!
No, Grisi, no,-but come to us
And welcome, when you leave the stage! Off, Ivanhoff!-till weak and harsh !— Rubini, hence with all the clan !
But come, Lablache, years hence, Lablache, A little shrivell'd thin old man.
Go, Mr. Phillips, where you please!
Away, Tom Cooke, and all your batʊh;
You'd run us out of breath with Glees,
And Catches that we could not catch.
Away, ye Leaders all, who lead
With violins, quite modern things;
To guide our Ancient band we need
Old fiddles out of leading strings!
But come, ye Songsters, over ripe,
That into "childish trebles break!"
And bring, Miss Winter, bring the pipe
That cannot sing without a shake!
Nay, come, ye Spinsters all, that spin
A slender thread of ancient voice,
Old notes that almost seem call'd in ;
At such as you we shall rejoice!
No thund'ring Thalbergs here shall balk,
Or ride your pet D-cadence o'er,
But fingers with a little chalk
Shall, moderato, keep the score !
No Broadwoods here, so full of tone,
But Harpsichords assist the strain :
No Lincoln's pipes, we have our own
Bird-Organ, built by Tubal-Cain.
And welcome! St. Cecilians, now
Ye willy-nilly, ex-good fellows,
Who will strike up, no matter how,
With organs that survive their bellows!
And bring, oh bring, your ancient styles
In which our elders lov'd to roam,
Those flourishes that strayed for miles,
Till some good fiddle led them home!
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