Gave with his hand my chaise a shove,
And said, 'Go on, my pretty love;
Speak to 'em, little Nan.
'You've only got to curtsey, whisp-
er, hold your chin up, laugh, and lisp,
And then you're sure to take:
I've known the day when brats not quite
Thirteen, got fifty pounds a night;
Then why not Nancy Lake?'
But while I'm speaking, where's papa?
And where's my aunt? and where's mamma?
Where's Jack? O, there they sit !
They smile, they nod; I'll go my ways,
And order round poor Billy's chaise,
To join them in the pit.
And now, good gentlefolks, I go
To join mamma, and see the show;
So, bidding you adieu,
curtsey, like a pretty miss,
And if you'll blow to me a kiss,
I'll blow a kiss to you.
WHEN Summer's smiles rejoice the plains,
And deck the vale with flowers;
And blushing nymphs and gentle swains
With love beguile the hours;
Oh then conceive the ills that mock
The well-dress'd London sinner
Invited, just at seven o'clock
To join a daylight dinner.'
The sun, no trees the eyes to shade,
Glares full into the windows,
And scorches widow, wife and maid
Just as it does the Hindoos;
One's shoes look brown, one's black looks grey,
One's legs, if thin, look thinner;
There's nothing equals in its way
A London daylight dinner.
The cloth seems blue, the plates like, lead,
The faded carpet dirty,
Grey hairs peep out from each dark head,
And twenty looks like thirty.
You sit beside an heiress gay
And do your best to win her;
But oh! what can one do or say
If 'tis a daylight dinner?
A lovely dame, just forty-one,
At night a charming creature,
My praise unqualified had won,
In figure, form, and feature.
That she was born, without a doubt,
Before the days of Jenner,
By sitting next her, I found out,
Once at a daylight dinner.
Freckles, and moles, and holes, and spots,
The envious sun discloses,
And little bumps, and little dots,
On chin, and cheeks and noses.
Last Monday, Kate, when next me placed
(A most determined grinner),
Betrayed four teeth of mineral paste
Eating a daylight dinner.
WRITTEN AFTER SWIMMING FROM SESTOS TO ABYDOS 1
IF, in the month of dark December,
Leander, who was nightly wont
(What maid will not the tale remember?)
To cross thy stream, broad Hellespont,
If, when the wintry tempest roar'd,
He sped to Hero, nothing loath,
And thus of old thy current pour'd,
Fair Venus, how I pity both!
For me, degenerate modern wretch,
Though in the genial month of May,
My dripping limbs I faintly stretch,
And think I've done a feat to-day.
But since he cross'd the rapid tide,
According to the doubtful story,
To woo-and-Lord knows what beside,
And swam for Love, as I for glory';
'Twas hard to say who fared the best:
Sad mortals! thus the Gods still plague you! He lost his labour, I my jest ;
For he was drown'd, and I've the ague.
THE Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal's chair,
Bishop and abbot, and prior were there;
Many a monk, and many a friar,
Many a knight, and many a squire,
With a great many more of lesser degree,-
In sooth a goodly company;
And they served the Lord Primate on bended knee. Never I ween
Read of in books, or dreamt of in dreams,
Than the Cardinal Lord Archbishop of Rheims!
In and out through the motley rout,
That little Jackdaw kept hopping about;
Here and there like a dog in a fair,
Over comfits and cakes,
And dishes and plates,
Cowl and cope, and rochet and pall,
Mitre and crosier! he hopp'd upon all!
With saucy air he perch'd on the chair
Where, in state, the great Lord Cardinal sat
In the great Lord Cardinal's great red hat;
And he peer'd in the face
Of his Lordship's grace,
1 From the Ingoldsby Legends.
With a satisfied look, as if he would say,
'We two are the greatest folks here to-day!'
And the priests, with awe, as such freaks they saw,
Said, 'The devil must be in that little Jackdaw!'
The feast was over, the board was clear'd,
The flawns and the custards had all disappear'd,
And six little singing-boys,-dear little souls!
In nice clean faces, and nice white stoles,
Came, in order due, two by two,
Marching that grand refectory through!
A nice little boy held a golden ewer,
Emboss'd and filled with water, as pure
As any that flows between Rheims and Namur,
Which a nice little boy stood ready to catch
In a fine golden hand-basin made to match.
Two nice little boys, rather more grown,
Carried lavender-water and Eau de Cologne ;
And a nice little boy had a nice cake of soap,
Worthy of washing the hands of the Pope.
One little boy more
A napkin bore,
Of the best white diaper, fringed with pink,
And a Cardinal's Hat mark'd in 'permanent ink.'
The great Lord Cardinal turns at the sight
Of these nice little boys dress'd all in white:
From his finger he draws his costly turquoise
And, not thinking at all about little jackdaws,
Deposits it straight by the side of his plate,
While the nice little boys on his Eminence wait;
Till, when nobody's dreaming of any such thing,
That little Jackdaw hops off with the ring!
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