I know where great estates descend
That here is Boyhood's legal end,
And easily can comprehend

How “ Manors make the Man."
But as for me, I was not born
To quitrent of a peppercorn,
And gain no ground this blessed morn

From Beersheba to Dan.

No barrels broach - no bonfires make!
To roast a bullock for my sake,
Who in the country have no stake,

Would be too like a quiz ;
No banners hoist - let off no gun —
Pitch no marquee – devise no fun —
But think when man is Twenty-One

What new delights are his !

What is the moral legal fact —
Of age to day, I'm free to act
For self— free, namely, to contract

Engagements, bonds, and debts ;
I'm free to give my I OU,
Sign, draw, accept, as majors do ;
And free to lose my freedom too

For want of due assets.

I am of age, to ask Miss Ball,
Or that great heiress, Miss Duval,
To go to church, hump, squint, and all,

And be my own for life.
But put such reasons on their shelves,
To tell the truth between ourselves,
I'm one of those contented elves

Who do not want a wife.

What else belongs to Manhood still ?

I'm old enough to make my will · With valid clause and codicil

Before in turf I lie.
But I have nothing to bequeath
In earth, or waters underneath,
And in all candour let me breathe,

I do not want to die.

Away! if this be Manhood's forte,
Put by the sherry and the port –
No ring of bells — no rustic sport –

No dance — no merry pipes !
No flowery garlands — no bouquet -
No Birthday Ode to sing or say —
To me it seems this is a day

For bread and cheese and swipes.

To justify the festive cup
What horrors here are conjured up !
What things of bitter bite and sup,

Poor wretched Twenty-One’s !
No landed lumps, but frumps and humps,

(Discretion's Days are far from trumps) VOL. III.

Domestic discord, dowdies, dumps,

Death, dockets, debts, and duns !

If you must drink, oh drink “ the King
Reform — the Church — the Press — the

Drink Aldgate Pump -- or any thing,

Before a toast like this !
Nay, tell me, coming thus of age,
And turning o'er this sorry page,
Was young Nineteen so far from sage ?

Or young Eighteen from bliss ?

Till this dull, cold, wet, happy morn -
No sign of May about the thorn,-
Were Love and Bacchus both unborn ?

Had Beauty not a shape ?
Make answer, sweet Kate Finnerty!
Make answer, lads of Trinity!
Who sipped with me Divinity,

And quaffed the ruby grape !

No flummery then from flowery lips,
No three times three and hip-hip-hips,
Because I'm ripe and full of pips —

I like a little green.
To put me on my solemn oath,
If sweep-like I could stop my growth
I would remain, and nothing loth,

A boy — about nineteen.

My friends, excuse me these rebukes !
Were I a monarch's son, or duke's,
Go to the Vatican of Meux

And broach his biggest barrels -
Impale whole elephants on spits -
Ring Tom of Lincoln till he splits,
And dance into St. Vitus' fits,

And break your winds with carols !

But ah! too well you know my lot,
Ancestral acres greet me not,
My freehold's in a garden-pot,

And barely worth a pin.
Away then with all festive stuff!
Let Robins advertise and puff
My “ Man’s Estate,” I'm sure enough

I shall not buy it in.



“Our Crummie is a dainty cow." - Scotch Song.

On that first Saturday in May,
When Lords and Ladies, great and grand,
Repair to see what each R. A.
Has done since last they sought the Strand,

In red, brown, yellow, green, or blue,
In short, what ’s called the private view,
Amongst the guests — the deuce knows how
She got in there without a row -
There came a large and vulgar dame
With arms deep red, and face the same,
Showing in temper not a Saint;
No one could guess for why she came,
Unless perchance to “scour the Paint.”

From wall to wall she forced her way,
Elbowed Lord Durham - poked Lord Grey -
Stamped Stafford's toes to make him move,
And Devonshire's Duke received a shove;
The great Lord Chancellor felt her nudge,
She made the Vice, his Honour, budge,
And gave a pinch to Park the Judge.
As for the ladies, in this stir,
The highest rank gave way to her.
From number one and number two,
She searched the pictures through and through,
On benches stood, to inspect the high ones,
And squatted down to scan the shy ones.
And as she went from part to part,
A deeper red each cheek became,
Her very eyes lit up in flame,
That made each looker-on exclaim,
“ Really an ardent love of art ! ”
Alas, amidst her inquisition,
Fate brought her to a sad condition ;

« ForrigeFortsett »