  Impartial Fog! Imperial Smellfungus! Great Cacafogo! High (and low) Mundungus! Wherever born,— Whether in Allan's or in Holland's bog, Or where the wakeful Morn Dresses herself by starlight—at the Pole, Nature's impassable goal; Or whether born and bred on agueish Essex' shore, With stagnant waters greenly mantled o'er;— Thou least-illustrious visitor! Poking thy foreign way along, Link-led and stumbling, Blind-led and fumbling, And always in the wrong; Thou great unsung of song! Inimical to light as an inquisitor, But not so blood-ferocious, Dark-hooded, and atrocious; For, give thee undisturb'd thy gloomy way,— Uninterrupted, let thee clap A dark extinguisher on lightsome Day, On early Morning a night-cap, And 'tis remarkable how easy, Though somewhat queasy, Thou slumberest—how Session-long thy stay! And very marvellous how Innocuously quiet! Passive as Daniel in the lions' den— The living Daniel—flung to rav'nous men,— (Delicious picking, Although no chicken!) Who lick their longing chaps, and get a precious licking!— Daniel, who dreads that any row Should spring up anywhere, and he not breed the riot! All hail, great Fog! not but a leetle rain— A small, slight drizzling of natural, moist sorrow— Would make our dark perplexities more plain, And give us hopes of seeing a to-morrow! Dear Fog, abate the vigour Of your full-volumed breath! Day was a dingy white Till you "put out the light," Like black Othello When stifling his dear wife to death; And, here, you've gone and made the comely fellow A pretty figure,— A horrid Nigger! Hear me, if you're a hearkener!— An English day at best is but a darkener At any time o' year; (It costs housekeepers many A pretty pound and penny To see that clear.) Look through the lustrous city, And you will think 'tis pity That Phoebus— So shrewd a god, good at a rhyme And rebus— Should waste his precious time In trying to look down Upon this independent town; And pertinaciously keep poking— (While all the city wags are joking At his egregious folly And failure melancholy)— Poking his ineffectual beams between the clouds, Hovering sootily over it in crowds To intercept his rays, And turn them other ways. He ought by this time to have known— (His chaste, night-wandering sister, Who does contrive to glister, She should have told him)—that London, day and night, Is better lit by gas than by his sultry light. Come, brighten up, great Fog, and don't look gloomy While I can see you—for these eyes grow rheumy! Clear up, for Heaven's and dear London's sakes: For, while you're groping here, there's sad mistakes Making in every possible direction, And some without detection! There's some one, as I've struggled through the Strand, Has had his hand In my coat-pocket more than half a minute, Though there is nothing but one sonnet in it! La! bless me! well, how odd! why, I declare It is my own hand I've detected there!— I think that wasn't me that trod upon my toes? There—dear me! why I've hit some other person's nose! Lord! how the Simpson swears, And hits about, and tears, While I keep snug, and leave the angry ass Just room enough to let his passion pass, And laugh to hear him give himself such ultra-Donkey airs! Madam, I really beg a person of your charms A thousand pardons For running so unbidden to your arms! "Och! for five fardens Your honour's wilcum as the flowers in May To call agin there any day! And p'r'aps it's you don't want a basket-woman?"— Kitty Malone, by all that's Irish-human!— "Och! long life to your honour! May your eyes Be iver jist as bright as the Green Island's skies, And niver foggy!" I add—"Nor groggy; Ay, Katty?" "'Od dra't ye!" For if to Kate some female errors fall, Pay her gin-score, and you whitewash them all. Now, which way should I turn to escape the Strand? "Fait', then, it's handy—turn to your right hand!" 'Gad! I'm so posed, I know not left from right; But, here goes—anywhere! Oh, guide me, Sight! Heaven bless me! what Is this I've run against, and fix'd it to the spot? Bless the dear child! you really shouldn't stand In people's way In such a day. Dear me! I've stunn'd her so, she cannot speak, Not even shriek! How pale she turns—white as a Greenland ghost! Oh, horror! what a hue! What shall I—can I do! Her face is frozen-cold—her eyes all whites! Here, help! watch! murder! lights! oh, lights!—— Zounds! what a fool I am! Why, here have I Been wasting all this morbid sympathy— This tenderness and pity—on a post! Come, that is strange and laughable enough! Talk of the drolleries of "Blind-man's buff," And "Catch who can," This is as laughable, And chaffable, To a good-humour'd man!— (Between parentheses, and just by way Of November, 1837. |
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