Tom, Dick, and Will, were little known to Fame;—

No matter;—

But to the Ale-house, oftentimes, they came,

To chatter.

It was the custom of these three

To sit up late;

And, o’er the embers of the Ale-house fire,

When steadier customers retire,

The choice Triumviri, d’ye see,

Held a debate.

Held a debate?—On politicks, no doubt.

Not so;—they care’d not who was in,

No, not a pin;—

Nor who was out.

All their discourse on modern Poets ran;

For in the Muses was their sole delight;—

They talk’d of such, and such, and such a man;

Of those who could, and those who could not write.

It cost them very little pains

To count the modern Poets, who had brains.

’Twas a small difficulty;—’twasn’t any;

They were so few:

But to cast up the scores of men

Who wield a stump they call a pen,

Lord! they had much to do,—

They were so many!

Buoy’d on a sea of fancy, Genius rises,

And like the rare Leviathan surprises;

But the small fry of scribblers!—tiny souls!

They wriggle thro’ the mud in shoals.

It would have raise’d a smile to see the faces

They made, and the ridiculous grimaces,

At many an author, as they overhaul’d him.

They gave no quarter to a calf,

Blown up with puff, and paragraph;

But, if they found him bad, they maul’d him.

On modern Dramatists they fell,

Pounce, vi et armis—tooth and nail—pell mell.

They call’d them Carpenters, and Smugglers;

Filching their incidents from ancient hoards,

And knocking them together, like deal boards:

And Jugglers;

Who all the town’s attention fix,

By making—Plays?—No, Sir, by making tricks.

The Versifiers—Heaven defend us!

They play’d the very devil with their rhymes.

They hope’d Apollo a new set would send us;

And then, invidiously enough,

Place’d modish verse, which they call’d stuff,

Against the writing of the elder times.

To say the truth, a modern versifier

Clap’d cheek by jowl

With Pope, with Dryden, and with Prior,

Would look most scurvily, upon my soul!

For Novels, should their critick hints succeed,

The Misses might fare better when they took ’em;

But it would fare extremely ill, indeed,

With gentle Messieurs Lane and Hookham.

“A Novel, now,” says Will, “is nothing more

Than an old castle,—and a creaking door,—

A distant hovel;—

Clanking of chains—a gallery—a light,—

Old armour—and a phantom all in white,—

And there’s a Novel!

“Scourge me such catch-penny inditers

Out of the land,” quoth Will—rousing in passion—

“And fy upon the readers of such writers,

Who bring them into fashion!”

Will rose in declamation. “’Tis the bane,”

Says he, “of youth;—’tis the perdition:

It fills a giddy female brain

With vice, romance, lust, terror, pain,—

With superstition.

“Were I Pastor in a boarding-school,

I’d quash such books in toto;—if I couldn’t,

Let me but catch one Miss that broke my rule,

I’d flog her soundly; damme if I wouldn’t.”

William, ’tis plain, was getting in a rage;

But, Thomas dryly said,—for he was cool—

“I think no gentleman would mend the age

By flogging Ladies at a Boarding-school.”

Dick knock’d the ashes from his pipe,

And said, “Friend Will,

You give the Novels a fair wipe;

But still,

While you, my friend, with passion run ’em down,

They’re in the hands of all the town.

“The reason’s plain,” proceeded Dick,

“And simply thus—

Taste, over-glutted, grows deprave’d, and sick,

And needs a stimulus.

“Time was,—(when honest Fielding writ)—

Tales full of Nature, Character, and Wit,

Were reckon’d most delicious boil’d and roast:

But stomachs are so cloy’d with novel-feeding,

Folks get a vitiated taste in reading,

And want that strong provocative, a Ghost.

“Or, to come nearer,

And put the case a little clearer:—

Mind, just like bodies, suffer enervation,

By too much use;

And sink into a state of relaxation,

With long abuse.

“Now, a Romance, with reading Debauchees,

Rouses their torpid powers when Nature fails;

And all these Legendary Tales

Are, to a worn-out mind, Cantharides.

“But how to cure the evil?” you will say:

“My Recipe is,—laughing it away.

“Lay bare the weak farrago of those men

Who fabricate such visionary schemes,

As if the night-mare rode upon their pen,

And trouble’d all their ink with hideous dreams.

“For instance—when a solemn Ghost stalks in,

And, thro’ a mystick tale is busy,

Strip me the Gentleman into his skin—

What is he?

“Truly, ridiculous enough:

Mere trash;—and very childish stuff.

“Draw but a Ghost, or Fiend, of low degree,

And all the bubble’s broken!—Let us see.”

On a wild Moor, all brown and bleak,

Where broods the heath-frequenting grouse,

There stood a tenement antique;

Lord Hoppergollop’s country house.

Here Silence reign’d, with lips of glue,

And undisturb’d maintain’d her law;

Save when the Owl cry’d “whoo! whoo! whoo!”

Or the hoarse Crow croak’d “caw! caw! caw!”

Neglected mansion!—for, ’tis said,

Whene’er the snow came feathering down,

Four barbed steeds,—from the Bull’s head,

Carried thy master up to town.

Weak Hoppergollop!—Lords may moan,

Who stake, in London, their estate,

On two, small, rattling, bits of bone;

On little figure, or on great.

Swift whirl the wheels.—He’s gone.—A Rose

Remains behind, whose virgin look,

Unseen, must blush in wintry snows,

Sweet, beauteous blossom!——’twas the Cook!

A bolder far than my weak note,

Maid of the Moor! thy charms demand:

Eels might be proud to lose their coat,

If skinn’d by Molly Dumpling’s hand.

Long had the fair one sat alone,

Had none remain’d save only she;—

She by herself had been—if one

Had not been left, for company.

’Twas a tall youth, whose cheek’s clear hue,

Was tinge’d with health and manly toil;—

Cabbage he sow’d; and, when it grew,

He always cut it off, to boil.

Oft would he cry, “Delve, Delve the hole!

And prune the tree, and trim the root!

And stick the wig upon the pole,

To scare the sparrows from the fruit!”

A small, mute favourite, by day,

Follow’d his step; where’er he wheels

His barrow round the garden gay,

A bob-tail cur is at his heels.

Ah, man! the brute creation see!

Thy constancy oft needs the spur!

While lessons of fidelity

Are found in every bob-tail cur.

Hard toil’d the youth, so fresh and strong,

While Bobtail in his face would look,

And mark’d his master troll the song,—

“Sweet Molly Dumpling! Oh, thou Cook!”

For thus he sung:—while Cupid smile’d;—

Please’d that the Gard’ner own’d his dart,

Which prune’d his passions, running wild,

And grafted true-love on his heart.

Maid of the Moor! his love return!

True love ne’er tints the cheek with shame:

When Gard’ners’ hearts, like hot-beds, burn,

A Cook may surely feed the flame.

Ah! not averse from love was she;

Tho’ pure as Heaven’s snowy flake;

Both love’d: and tho’ a Gard’ner he,

He knew not what it was to rake.

Cold blows the blast:—the night’s obscure:

The mansion’s crazy wainscots crack:

No star appear’d:—and all the Moor,

Like ev’ry other Moor,—was black.

Alone, pale, trembling, near the fire,

The lovely Molly Dumpling sat;

Much did she fear, and much admire

What Thomas Gard’ner could be at.

List’ning, her hand supports her chin;

But, ah! no foot is heard to stir:

He comes not, from the garden, in;

Nor he, nor little bobtail cur.

They cannot come, sweet maid! to thee;

Flesh, both of cur and man, is grass!

And what’s impossible can’t be;

And never, never, comes to pass!

She paces thro’ the hall antique,

To call her Thomas from his toil;

Opes the huge door;—the hinges creak;

Because the hinges wanted oil.

Thrice, on the threshold of the hall,

She “Thomas!” cried, with many a sob;

And thrice on Bobtail did she call,

Exclaiming, sweetly,—“Bob! Bob! Bob!”

Vain maid! a Gard’ner’s corpse, ’tis said,

In answers can but ill succeed;

And dogs that hear when they are dead,

Are very cunning Dogs indeed!

Back thro’ the hall she bent her way;

All, all was solitude around!

The candle shed a feeble ray,——

Tho’ a large mould of four to th’ pound.

Full closely to the fire she drew;

Adown her cheek a salt tear stole;

When, lo! a coffin out there flew,

And in her apron burnt a hole!

Spiders their busy death-watch tick’d;

A certain sign that Fate will frown;

The clumsy kitchen clock, too, click’d,

A certain sign it was not down.

More strong and strong her terrors rose;—

Her shadow did the maid appal;—

She tremble’d at her lovely nose,—

It look’d so long against the wall.

Up to her chamber, damp and cold,

She climb’d Lord Hoppergollop’s stair;—

Three stories high—long, dull, and old,—

As great Lords’ stories often are.

All Nature now appear’d to pause:

And “o’er the one half world seem’d dead;”

No “curtain’d sleep” had she;——because

She had no curtains to her bed.

List’ning she lay;—with iron din,

The clock struck Twelve; the door flew wide;

When Thomas, grimly, glided in,

With little Bobtail by his side.

Tall, like the poplar, was his size,

Green, green his waistcoat was, as leeks;

Red, red as beet-root, were his eyes;

Pale, pale as turnips, were his cheeks!

Soon as the Spectre she espied,

The fear-struck damsel faintly said,

“What wou’d my Thomas?”—he replied,

“Oh! Molly Dumpling! I am dead.

“All in the flower of youth I fell,

Cut off with health’s full blossom crown’d;I was not ill—but in a well

I tumble’d backwards, and was drown’d.

“Four fathom deep thy love doth lie:

His faithful dog his fate doth share;

We’re Fiends;—this is not he and I;

We are not here,—for we are there.

“Yes;—two foul Water-Fiends are we;

Maid of the Moor!—attend us now!

Thy hour’s at hand;—we come for thee!”

The little Fiend-Cur said “bow wow!”

“To wind her in her cold, cold grave,

A Holland sheet a maiden likes;

A sheet of water thou shalt have;

Such sheets there are in Holland Dykes.”

The Fiends approach; the Maid did shrink;

Swift thro’ the night’s foul air they spin;

They took her to the green well’s brink,

And, with a souse, they plump’d her in.

So true the fair, so true the youth,

Maids, to this day, their story tell:

And hence the proverb rose, that Truth

Lies in the bottom of a well.

A man, in many a country town, we know,

Professes openly with death to wrestle;

Ent’ring the field against the grimly foe,

Arm’d with a mortar and a pestle.

Yet, some affirm, no enemies they are;

But meet just like prize-fighters, in a Fair,Who first shake hands before they box,

Then give each other plaguy knocks,

With all the love and kindness of a brother:

So (many a suff’ring Patient saith)

Tho’ the Apothecary fights with Death,

Still they’re sworn friends to one another.

A member of this Æsculapian line,

Lived at Newcastle upon Tyne:

No man could better gild a pill:

Or make a bill;

Or mix a draught, or bleed, or blister;

Or draw a tooth out of your head;

Or chatter scandal by your bed;

Or give a clyster.

Of occupations these were quantum suff.:

Yet, still, he thought the list not long enough;

And therefore Midwifery he chose to pin to’t.This balance’d things:—for if he hurl’d

A few score mortals from the world,

He made amends by bringing others into’t.

His fame full six miles round the country ran;

In short, in reputation he was solus:

All the old women call’d him “a fine man!”

His name was Bolus.

Benjamin Bolus, tho’ in trade,

(Which oftentimes will Genius fetter)

Read works of fancy, it is said;

And cultivated the Belles Lettres.

And why should this be thought so odd?

Can’t men have taste who cure a phthysic;

Of Poetry tho’ Patron-God,

Apollo patronises physick.

Bolus love’d verse;—and took so much delight in’t,

That his prescriptions he resolve’d to write in’t.

No opportunity he e’er let pass

Of writing the directions, on his labels,

In dapper couplets,—like Gay’s Fables;

Or, rather, like the lines in Hudibras.

Apothecary’s verse!—and where’s the treason?

’Tis simply honest dealing:—not a crime;—

When patients swallow physick without reason,

It is but fair to give a little rhyme.

He had a Patient lying at death’s door,

Some three miles from the town,—it might be four;

To whom, one evening, Bolus sent an article,

In Pharmacy, that’s call’d cathartical.

And, on the label of the stuff,

He wrote this verse;

Which, one would think, was clear enough,

And terse:—

Next morning, early, Bolus rose;

And to the Patient’s house he goes;—

Upon his pad,

Who a vile trick of stumbling had:

It was, indeed, a very sorry hack;

But that’s of course:

For what’s expected from a horse

With an Apothecary on his back?

Bolus arrive’d; and gave a doubtful tap;—

Between a single and a double rap.—

Knocks of this kind

Are given by Gentlemen who teach to dance:

By Fiddlers, and by Opera-singers:

One loud, and then a little one behind;

As if the knocker fell, by chance,

Out of their fingers.

The Servant lets him in, with dismal face,

Long as a courtier’s out of place—

Portending some disaster;

John’s countenance as rueful look’d, and grim,

As if th’ Apothecary had physick’d him,—

And not his master.

“Well, how’s the Patient?” Bolus said:—

John shook his head.

“Indeed!—hum! ha!—that’s very odd!

He took the draught?”—John gave a nod.

“Well,—how?—what then?—speak out, you dunce!”

“Why then”—says John—“we shook him once.”

“Shook him!—how?”—Bolus stammer’d out:

“We jolted him about.”

“Zounds! Shake a Patient, man!—a shake won’t do.”

“No, Sir,—and so we gave him two.”

“Two shakes! od’s curse!

’Twould make the Patient worse.”

“It did so, Sir!—and so a third we tried.”

“Well, and what then?”—“then, Sir, my master died.”

Who has e’er been in London, that overgrown place,

Has seen “Lodgings to Let” stare him full in the face:

Some are good, and let dearly; while some, ’tis well known,

Are so dear, and so bad, they are best let alone.

WILL WADDLE, whose temper was studious and lonely,

Hire’d lodgings that took Single Gentlemen only;

But Will was so fat he appear’d like a ton;—

Or like Two Single Gentlemen roll’d into One.

He enter’d his rooms, and to bed he retreated;

But, all the night long, he felt fever’d, and heated;

And, tho’ heavy to weigh, as a score of fat sheep,

He was not, by any means, heavy to sleep.

Next night ’twas the same!—and the next;—and the next;

He perspire’d like an ox; he was nervous, and vex’d;

Week past after week; till, by weekly succession,

His weakly condition was past all expression.

In six months, his acquaintance began much to doubt him:

For his skin, “like a lady’s loose gown,” hung about him.

He sent for a Doctor; and cried, like a ninny,

“I have lost many pounds—make me well—there’s a guinea.”

The Doctor look’d wise:—“a slow fever,” he said:

Prescribe’d sudorificks,—and going to bed.

“Sudorificks in bed,” exclaim’d Will, “are humbugs!

I’ve enough of them there, without paying for drugs!”

Will kick’d out the Doctor:—but, when ill indeed,

E’en dismissing the Doctor don’t always succeed;

So, calling his host—he said—“Sir, do you know,

I’m the fat Single Gentleman, six months ago?

“Look’e, landlord, I think,” argued Will, with a grin,

“That with honest intentions you first took me in:

But from the first night—and to say it I’m bold—

I have been so damn’d hot, that I’m sure I caught cold.”

Quoth the landlord—“till now, I ne’er had a dispute;

I’ve let lodgings ten years;—I’m a Baker, to boot;

In airing your sheets, Sir, my wife is no sloven;

And your bed is immediately over my Oven.”

“The Oven!!!” says Will;—says the host, “why this passion?

In that excellent bed died three people of fashion.

Why so crusty, good Sir?”—“Zounds!” cries Will, in a taking,

“Who wouldn’t be crusty, with half a year’s baking?”

Will paid for his rooms;—cried the host, with a sneer,

“Well, I see you’ve been going away half a year:”

“Friend, we can’t well agree,—yet no quarrel”—Will said;—

“But I’d rather not perish, while you make your bread.”2