But lork! it's many folk's belief they're only good at prosing,
For Catnach swears he never saw a verse of their composing;
And when a piece of poetry has stood its public trials,
If pop'lar, it gets printed off at once in Seven Dials,
And then about all sorts of streets, by every little monkey,
It's chanted like the 'Dog's Meat Man,' or 'If I had a Donkey.'
Whereas, as Mr. Catnach says, and not a bad judge neither,
No ballad worth a ha'penny has ever come from either,
And him as writ 'Jim Crow,' he says, and got such lots of dollars,
Would make a better Chairman for the Glorious Apollers.
Howsomever that's the meaning of the squabble that arouses
This neighbourhood, and quite disturbs all decent Heads of Houses,
Who want to have their dinners and their parties, as is reason,
In Christian peace and charity according to the season.
But from Number Thirty-Nine-since this electioneering job,
Ay, as far as Number Ninety, there's an everlasting mob;
Till the thing is quite a nuisance, for no creature passes by,
But he gets a card, a pamphlet, or a summut in his eye;
And a pretty noise there is!-what with canvassers and spouters,
For in course each side is furnish'd with its backers and its touters;
And surely among the Clergy to such pitches it is carried,
You can hardly find a Parson to get buried or get married;
Or supposing any accident that suddenly alarms,
If you're dying for a surgeon, you must fetch him from the Arms '
While the Schoolmasters and Tooters are neglecting of their scholars,
To write about a Chairman for the Glorious Apollers.
Well, that, sir, is the racket; and the more the sin and shame
Of them that help to stir it up, and propagate the same;
Instead of vocal ditties, and the social flowing cup,-
But they'll be the House's ruin, or the shutting of it up,
With their riots and their hubbubs, like a garden full of bears,
While they've damaged many articles and broken lots of squares,
And kept their noble Club Room in a perfect dust and smother,
By throwing Morning Heralds, Times, and Standards at each other;
Not to name the ugly language Gemmen oughtn't to repeat,
And the names they call each other-for I've heard 'em in the street-
Such as Traitors, Guys, and Judases, and Vipers, and what not,
For Pasley and hs divers ain't so blowing-up a lot.
And then such awful swearing!—for there's one of them that cusses
Enough to shock the cads that hang on opposition 'busses;
For he cusses every member that 's agin him at the poll,
As I wouldn't cuss a donkey, tho' it hasn't got a soul;
And he cusses all their families, Jack, Harry, Bob or Jim,
To the babby in the cradle, if they don't agree with him.
Whereby, altho' as yet they have not took to use their fives,
Or, according as the fashion is, to sticking with their knives,
I'm bound there'll be some milling yet, and shakings by the collars,
Afore they choose a Chairman for the Glorious Apollers!
To be sure it is a pity to be blowing such a squall,
Instead of clouds, and every man his song, and then his call—
And as if there wasn't Whigs enough and Tories to fall out,
Besides politics in plenty for our splits to be about,-
Why, a cornfield is sufficient, sir, as anybody knows,
For to furnish them in plenty who are fond of picking crows-
Not to name the Maynooth Catholics, and other Irish stews,
To agitate society and loosen all its screws;
And which all may be agreeable and proper to their spheres,—
But it's not the thing for musicals to set us by the ears.
And as to College larning, my opinion for to broach,
And I've had it from my cousin, and he driv a college coach,
And so knows the University, and all as there belongs,
And he says that Oxford's famouser for sausages than songs,
And seldom turns a poet out like Hudson that can chant,
As well as make such ditties as the Free and Easies want,
Or other Tavern Melodists I can't just call to mind-
But it's not the classic system for to propagate the kind,
Whereby it so may happen as that neither of them Scholars
May be the proper Chairman for the Glorious Apollers!
For my part in the matter, if so be I had a voice,
It's the best among the vocalists I'd honour with the choice;
Or a poet as could furnish a new Ballad to the bunch;
Or at any rate the surest hand at mixing of the punch;
'Cause why, the members meet for that and other tuneful frolics-
And not to say, like Muffincaps, their Catichiz and Collec's.
But you see them there Itinerants that preach so long and loud,
And always takes advantage like the prigs of any crowd,
Have brought their jangling voices, and as far as they can compass,
Have turn'd a tavern shindy to a seriouser rumpus,
And him as knows most hymns-altho' I can't see how it follers-
They want to be the Chairman of the Glorious Apollers!
Well, that's the row-and who can guess the upshot after all?
Whether Harmony will ever make the Arms' her House of call,
Or whether this here mobbing-as some longish heads foretell it,
Will grow to such a riot that the Oxford Blues must quell it.
Howsomever, for the present, there's no sign of any peace,
For the hubbub keeps a-growing, and defies the New Police ;-
But if I was in the Vestry, and a leading sort of Man,
Or a Member of the Vocals, to get backers for my plan,
Why, I'd settle all the squabble in the twinkle of a needle,
For I'd have another candidate-and that's the Parish Beadle,
Who makes such lots of Poetry, himself, or else by proxy,
And no one never has no doubts about his orthodoxy ;
Whereby if folks was wise-instead of either of them Scholars,
And straining their own lungs along of contradictious hollers,
They'll lend their ears to reason, and take my advice as follers,
Namely-Bumble for the Chairman of the Glorious Apollers!
ON THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY
TAKEN BY THE DAGUERREOTYPE
YES, there are her features! her brow, and her hair,
And her eyes, with a look so seraphic,
Her nose, and her mouth, with the smile that is there,
Truly caught by the Art Photographic !
Yet why should she borrow such aid of the skies,
When by many a bosom's confession,
Her own lovely face, and the light of her eyes,
Are sufficient to make an impression?
'The rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle.'-Byron.
ONE day, it was before a civic dinner,
Two London Aldermen, no matter
which,
Cordwainer, Girdler, Patten-maker,
Skinner-
But both were florid, corpulent, and
rich,
And both right fond of festive demolition,
Set forth upon a secret expedition. Yet not, as might be fancied from the token,
To Pudding Lane, Pie Corner, or the Street
Of Bread, or Grub, or anything to eat, Or Drink, as Milk, or Vintry, or Portsoken,
Nuts, oranges, and lemons, Each pungent spice, and aromatic gum,
Gas, pepper, soaplees, brandy, gin,
and rum;
Alamode-beef and greens-the Lon-
don soil-
Glue, coal, tobacco, turpentine and
oil,
Bark, assafoetida, squills, vitriol, hops, In short, all whiffs, and sniffs, and puffs, and snuffs,
From metals, minerals, and dyewood stuffs,
Fruits, victual, drink, solidities, or
slops-
In flasks, casks, bales, trucks, wag-
gons, taverns, shops,
Boats, lighters, cellars, wharfs, and
warehouse-tops,
That, as we walk upon the river's
ridge,
Assault the nose-below the bridge.
Tingled a bell that served to bring
The wire-drawn genius of the ring,
A species of commercial Samuel
Weller-
To whom Sir Peter-tipping him a wink,
And something else to drink-
Show us the cellar.'
Obsequious bowed the man, and led the way
Down sundry flights of stairs, where windows small,
Dappled with mud, let in a dingy rayA dirty tax, if they were tax'd at all. 70 At length they came into a cellar damp,
With venerable cobwebs fringed around,
A cellar of that stamp Which often harbours vintages renown'd,
The feudal Hock, or Burgundy the courtly,
With sherry, brown or golden,
Or port, so olden,
Bereft of body 'tis no longer portlyBut old or otherwise-to be veracious
That cobwebb'd cellar, damp, and dim, and spacious,
Held nothing crusty--but crustaceous.
Prone, on the chilly floor, Five splendid Turtles-such a five! Natives of some West Indian shore, Were flapping all alive, Late landed from the Jolly Planter's yawl
In Providence or Ascension, Can throw a lively turtle on its back!' 'Aye!' cried Sir John, and with a score of nods,
Thoughtful of classical symposium, 'There's food for Gods!
There's nectar! there's ambrosium! There's food for Roman Emperors to eat
Oh, there had been a treat (Those ancient names will sometimes hobble us)
For Helio-gobble-us ! '
There were a feast for Alexander's
The real sort-none of your mock or spurious!'
And then he mention'd Aldermen deceased,
And how Tertullian had enjoy'd such foison;
And speculated on that verdigrease
That isn't poison.
'Talk of your Spring, and verdure, and all that!
|