The horses have been broken well,

All danger is rescinded, For some have broken both their knees

And some are broken winded.

If you've a friend at Chelsea end,

The stages are worth knowing — There is a sort, we call 'em short,

Although the longest going — For some will stop at Hatchett's shop,

Till you grow faint and sicky, Perched up behind, at last to find,

Your dinner is all dickey!

Lon stages run from every yard ;

But if you 're wise and frugal, You 'll never go with any Guard

That plays upon the bugle, “ Ye banks and braes," and other lays,

And ditties everlasting,
Like miners going all your way,

With boring and with blasting.

Instead of journeys, people now

May go upon a Gurney,
With steam to do the horses' work,

By powers of attorney ;
Tho' with a load it may explode,

And you may all be un-done!
And find you 're going up to Heaven,

Instead of up to London !

To speak of every kind of coach,

It is not my intention ;
But there is still one vehicle

Deserves a little mention;
The world a sage has called a stage,

With all its living lumber,
And Malthus swears it always bears

Above the proper number.

The law will transfer house or land

Forever and a day hence,
For lighter things, watch, brooches, rings,

You 'll never want conveyance;
Ho! stop the thief! my handkerchief!

It is no sight for laughter –
Away it goes, and leaves my nose

To join in running after !



“My Tables! Meat it is, I set it down!” – HAMLET.

I think it was Spring — but not certain I am –

When my passion began first to work ; But I know we were certainly looking for lamb,

And the season was over for pork.

'Twas at Christmas, I think, when I met with

Miss Chase, Yes,- for Morris had asked me to dine,And I thought I had never beheld such a face, Or so noble a turkey and chine.

(wild, Placed close by her side, it made others quite

With sheer envy to witness my luck ; How she blushed as I gave her some turtle, and

smiled As I afterwards offered some duck.

I looked and I languished, alas, to my cost,

Through three courses of dishes and meats ; Getting deeper in love — but my heart was quite


When it came to the trifle and sweets !

With a rent-roll that told of my houses and land,

To her parents I told my designs —
And then to herself I presented my hand,

With a very fine pottle of pines !

I asked her to have me for weal or for woe,

And she did not object in the least; — I can't tell the date — but we married, I know,

Just in time to have game at the feast.

We went to it certainly was the seaside;

For the next, the most blessed of morns,

I remember how fondly I gazed at my bride,

Sitting down to a plateful of prawns.

O never may memory lose sight of that year,

But still hallow the time as it ought, That season the “grass” was remarkably dear,

And the peas at a guinea a quart..

So happy, like hours, all our days seemed to haste,

A fond pair, such as poets have drawn, So united in heart — so congenial in taste,

We were both of us partial to brawn!

A long life I looked for of bliss with my bride,

But then Death – I ne'er dreamt about that! Oh there's nothing is certain in life, as I cried,

When my turbot eloped with the cat !

My dearest took ill at the turn of the year,

But the cause no physician could nab; But something it seemed like consumption, I fear,

It was just after supping on crab.

In vain she was doctored, in vain she was dosed,

Still her strength and her appetite pined ; She lost relish for what she had relished the most,

Even salmon she deeply declined.

For months still I lingered in hope and in doubt,

While her form it grew wasted and thin;

But the last dying spark of existence went out,

As the oysters were just coming in !

She died, and she left me the saddest of men

To indulge in a widower's moan,
Oh, I felt all the power of solitude then,

As I ate my first natives alone !

But when I beheld Virtue's friends in their cloaks,

And with sorrowful crape on their hats, O my grief poured a flood ! and the out-of-door

folks Were all crying — I think it was sprats !


“ Double, single, and the rub." — HOYLE.

“ This, this is Solitude." — BYRON.

WELL, I confess, I did not guess

A simple marriage vow
Would make me find all women-kind

Such unkind women now !
They need not, sure, as distant be

As Java or Japan,—
Yet every Miss reminds me this —

I'm not a single man!

« ForrigeFortsett »