  When Canning was challenged to find a rhyme for Julianna, he immediately wrote,— Walking in the shady grove With my Julianna, For lozenges I gave my love Ipecacuanha. Ipecacuanha lozenges, though a myth when the stanza was written, are now commonly sold by apothecaries. Three or four wits, while dining together, discussed the difficulty of finding rhymes for certain names. General Morris challenged any of the party to find a happy rhyme for his name; and the challenge was instantly taken up by John Brougham, whose facility at extempore rhyming is proverbial:— All hail to thee, thou gifted son! The warrior-poet Morris! ’Tis seldom that we see in one A CÆsar and a Horace. The rhyme so zealously sought has at length been found, and the epitaph completed. Here it is:— Attendre que de soi la vÉtustÉ triomphe, C’est absurde! Je vais au devant de la mort. Mourir a plus d’attraits quand on est jeune encore: A quoi bon devenir un vieillard monogomphe? Monogomphe; a brilliant Hellenism signifying “who has but a single tooth.” To get a rhyme in English for the word month was quite a matter of interest with curious people years ago, and somebody made it out or forced it by making a quatrain, in which a lisping little girl is described as saying:— ——I can get a rhyme for a month. I can thay it now, I thed it wunth! Another plan was to twist the numeral one into an ordinal. For instance:— Search through the works of Thackeray—you’ll find a rhyme to month; He tells us of Phil Fogarty, of the fighting onety-oneth! A parallel lisp is as follows:— “You can’t,” says Tom to lisping Bill, “Find any rhyme for month.” “A great mithtake,” was Bill’s reply; “I’ll find a rhyme at onth.” Among our numerous English rhymes, They say there’s none to month; I tried and failed a hundred times, But succeeded the hundred and onth. But these are hardly fair. The rhyme is good, but the English is bad. Christina Rosetti has done better in the admirable book of nursery rhymes which she has published under the title of Sing-Song:— How many weeks in a month? Four, as the swift moon runn’th— In both of these instances, however, the rhymes are evasions of the real issue. The problem is not to make a word by compounding two, or distorting one, but to find a word ready-made, in our unabridged dictionaries that will rhyme properly to month. We believe there is none. Nor is there a fair rhyme to the word silver, nor to spirit, nor to chimney. Horace Smith, one of the authors of the Rejected Addresses, once attempted to make one for chimney on a bet, and he did it in this way:— Standing on roof and by chimney Are master and ’prentice with slim knee. Another dissyllabic poser is liquid. Mr. C. A. Bristed attempts to meet it as follows:— After imbibing liquid, A man in the South Duly proceeds to stick quid (Very likely a thick quid) Into his mouth. And “Mickey Rooney” contributes this:— Shure Quicquid is a thick wit, If he can not rhyme to liquid, A thing that any Mick wid The greatest aise can do: Which they often cure the sick wid, That’s a dacent rhyme for liquid, And from a Mickey, too. Some one having challenged a rhyme for carpet, the following “lines to a pretty barmaid” were elicited in response:— Sweet maid of the inn, ’Tis surely no sin To toast such a beautiful bar pet; Believe me, my dear, Your feet would appear At home on a nobleman’s carpet. Rhymes were thus found for window:— A cruel man a beetle caught, And to the wall him pinned, oh! Then said the beetle to the crowd, “Though I’m stuck up I am not proud,” And his soul went out of the window. Bold Robin Hood, that archer good, Shot down fat buck and thin doe; Rough storms withstood in thick greenwood, Nor care for door or window. This for garden:— Though Afric’s lion be not here In showman’s stoutly barred den, An “Irish Lion” you may see At large in Winter Garden. The difficulty with porringer has thus been overcome:— The second James a daughter had, Too fine to lick a porringer; He sought her out a noble lad, And gave the Prince of Orange her. And in this stanza:— When nations doubt our power to fight, We smile at every foreign jeer; And with untroubled appetite, Still empty plate and porringer. I gave my darling child a lemon, That lately grew its fragrant stem on; And next, to give her pleasure more range I offered her a juicy orange, And nuts—she cracked them in the door-hinge. And many an ill, grim, And travel-worn pilgrim, has traveled far out of his way before succeeding with widow:— Who would not always as he’s bid do, Should never think to wed a widow. The jury found that Pickwick did owe Damages to Bardell’s widow. Pickwick loquitur:— Since of this suit I now am rid, O, Ne’er again I’ll lodge with a widow! Among the stubborn proper names are Tipperary and Timbuctoo. The most successful effort to match the latter was an impromptu by a gentleman who had accompanied a lady home from church one Sunday evening, and who found her hymn-book is his pocket next morning. He returned it with these lines:— My dear and much respected Jenny, You must have thought me quite a ninny For carrying off your hymn-book to My house. Had you thoughts visionary, And did you dream some missionary Had flown with it to Timbuctoo? Another attempt runs thus:— I went a hunting on the plains, The plains of Timbuctoo; I shot one buck for all my pains, And he was a slim buck too. An unattainable rhyme might be sought for Euxine, had not Byron said— ——Euxine, The dirtiest little sea that mortal ever pukes in. Take instead of rope, pistol, or dagger, a Desperate dash down the Falls of Niagara. A request for a rhyme for Mackonochie elicited numerous replies, one of which, in reference to a charitable occasion, begins thus:— Who, folk bestowing Their alms, when o’erflowing, The coffer unlocks? Fingers upon a key Placing, Mackonochie Opens the box. Canning’s amusing little extravaganza, with which everybody is familiar, beginning:— Whene’er with haggard eyes I view The dungeon that I’m rotting in, I think of the companions true Who studied with me at the U- niversity of Gottingen, has been parodied a hundred times; but it is itself a parody of Pindar, whose fashion of dividing words in his odes all students of the classics have abundant occasion to remember. The last stanza was appended by William Pitt,—a fact not generally known:— Sun, moon, and thou, vain world, adieu, That kings and priests are plotting in Here doomed to starve on water gru- el, never shall I see the U- niversity of Gottingen. Of these fantastic rhymes, Richard Harris Barham, has given us the finest examples in the language, in his celebrated “Ingoldsby Legends.” In the legend “Look at the Clock,” we have this:— “Having once gained the summit, and managed to cross it, he Rolls down the side with uncommon velocity.” “And, being of a temper somewhat warm, Would now and then seize upon small occasion, A stick or stool, or anything that round did lie, And baste her lord and master most confoundedly.” In the “Tragedy” we have one even more whimsical and comical:— “The poor little Page, too, himself got no quarter, but Was served the same way, And was found the next day With his heels in the air, and his head in the water-butt.” Byron has more than matched any of these in completeness of rhyme and extent, if we may call it so, of rhyming surface, and matched even himself in acidity of cynicism, in his couplet:— “——Ye lords of ladies intellectual, Come tell me, have they not hen-pecked you all.” Punch has some very funny samples of eccentric rhymes, of which the best is one that spells out the final word of a couplet, the last letter or two, making so many syllables rhyme with the ending word of the preceding line. Thus:— “Me drunk! the cobbler cried, the devil trouble you, You want to kick up a blest r-o-w, I’ve just returned from a teetotal party, Twelve on us jammed in a spring c-a-r-t, The man as lectured now, was drunk; why bless ye, He’s sent home in a c-h-a-i-s-e.” Twenty-five years or more ago, in Boston, Monday was the gathering time for Universalist clergymen, Tompkins’ book store being the place of rendezvous. At these unions, King, Chapin, Hosea Ballou, Whittemore, and other notabilities, were pretty sure to be present; and as it was immediately after the graver labors of the Sabbath, the parsons were apt to be in an unusually frisky condition. “I can give you a name, Brother Chapin, to which you cannot make a rhyme.” “Well, what is it?” “Brother Brimblecomb.” Without a moment’s pause, Chapin said:— “There was a man in our town, His name—they called it Brimblecomb; He stole the tailor’s needle and shears, But couldn’t make the thimble come.” Butler’s facility in overcoming stubborn words is amusing. For instance:— There was an ancient sage philosopher, Who had read Alexander Ross over. Coleridge, on the eve of his departure from GÖttingen, being requested by a student of the same class in the university to write in his Stammbuch, or album, complied as follows:— We both attended the same college, Where sheets of paper we did blur many; And now we’re going to sport our knowledge, In England I, and you in Germany. Father Prout, in his polyglot praise of rum punch, says:— Doth love, young chiel, one’s bosom ruffle? Would any feel ripe for a scuffle? The simplest plan is just to take a Well stiffened can of old Jamaica. That soft and balmy month, Beneath the sweetly beaming moon, And (wonth—hunth—sunth—bunth—I can’t find a rhyme to month). Years were to pass ere we should meet; A wide and yawning gulf Divides me from my love so sweet, While (ulf—sulf—dulf—mulf—stuck again; I can’t get any rhyme to gulf. I’m in a gulf myself). Oh, how I dreaded in my soul To part from my sweet nymph, While years should their long seasons roll Before (nymph—dymph—ymph—I guess I’ll have to let it go at that). Beneath my fortune’s stern decree My lonely spirit sunk, For a weary soul was mine to be And (hunk—dunk—runk—sk—that will never do in the world). She buried her dear, lovely face Within her azure scarf, She knew I’d take the wretchedness As well as (parf—sarf—darf—half-and-half; that won’t answer either). O, I had loved her many years, I loved her for herself; I loved her for her tender fears, And also for her (welf—nelf—helf—pelf; no, no; not for her pelf). I took between my hands her head, How sweet her lips did pouch! I kissed her lovingly and said: (Bouch—mouche—louche—ouch; not a bit of it did I say ouch!) I sorrowfully wrung her hand. My tears they did escape, My sorrow I could not command, And I was but a (sape—dape—fape—ape; well, perhaps I did feel like an ape). I gave to her a fond adieu, Sweet pupil of love’s school; I told her I would e’er be true, And always be a (dool—sool—mool—fool; since I come to think of it, I was a fool, for she fell in love with another fellow before I was gone a month). Even has come; and from the dark park, hark The signal of the setting sun—one gun! And six is sounding from the chime—prime time To go and see the Drury Lane Dane slain, Or hear Othello’s jealous doubt spout out, Or Macbeth raving at that shade-made blade, Denying to his frantic clutch much such; Or else to see Ducrow, with wide tide, stride Four horses as no other man can span; Or in the small Olympic pit, sit split, Laughing at Liston, while you quiz his phiz. Anon night comes, and with her wings brings things Such as, with his poetic tongue, Young sung: The gas up blazes with its bright white light, And paralytic watchmen prowl, howl, growl, About the streets, and take up Pall-Mall Sal, Who, trusting to her nightly jobs, robs fobs. Now thieves do enter for your cash, smash, crash, Past drowsy Charley, in a deep sleep, creep, But, frightened by policeman B 3, flee, And while they’re going, whisper low, “No go!” Now puss, while folks are in their beds, treads leads, And sleepers grumble, Drat that cat! Who in the gutter caterwauls, squalls, mauls Some feline foe, and screams in shrill ill will. Now bulls of Bashan, of a prize size, rise In childish dreams, and with a roar gore poor Georgy, or Charles, or Billy, willy nilly; But nurse-maid, in a night-mare rest, chest-pressed, Dreameth of one of her old flames, James GrÆmes, And that she hears—what faith is man’s—Ann’s banns And his, from Reverend Mr. Rice, twice, thrice; White ribbons flourish, and a stout shout out, That upward goes, shows Rose knows those beaux’ woes. |
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