The following lines are from a book written by M. Halpine, under the sobriquet of “Private Miles O’Reilly,” during the Civil War in the United States. They have some merit apart from their peculiar versification, and the idea of comparing the “march past” of veteran troops in war time with the parade of the old gladiators is a happy one. Morituri te Salutant. “‘Morituri te salutant!’ say the soldiers as they pass;
Not in uttered words they say it, but we feel it as they pass—
‘We, who are about to perish, we salute thee as we pass!’
Nought of golden pomp and glitter mark the veterans as they pass—
Travel-stained, but bronzed and sinewy, firmly, proudly, how they pass;
And we hear them, ‘Morituri te salutant!’ as they pass.
On his pawing steed, the General marks the waves of men that pass,
And his eyes at times are misty, now are blazing, as they pass,
For his breast with pride is swelling, as the stalwart veterans pass,
Gallant chiefs their swords presenting, trail them proudly as they pass—
Battle banners, torn and glorious, dip saluting as they pass;
Brazen clangours shake the welkin, as the manly squadrons pass.
Oh, our comrades! gone before us, in the last review to pass,
Never more to earthly chieftain dipping colours as you pass,
Heaven accord you gentle judgment when before the Throne you pass!” | “About the year 1775 there was a performer named Cervetti in the orchestra of Drury Lane Theatre, to whom, the gods had given the appropriate name of Nosey, from his enormous staysail, that helped to carry him before the wind. ‘Nosey!’ shouted from the galleries, was the signal, or word of command, for the fiddlers to strike up. This man was originally an Italian merchant of good repute; but failing in business, he came over to England, and adopted music for a profession. He had a notable knack of loud yawning, with which he sometimes unluckily filled up Garrick’s expressive pauses, to the infinite annoyance of Garrick and the laughter of the audience. In the summer of 1777 he played at Vauxhall, at the age of ninety-eight.” Upon such another nose was the following lines written: The Roman Nose. “That Roman nose! that Roman nose!
Has robbed my bosom of repose;
For when in sleep my eyelids close,
It haunts me still, that Roman nose!
Between two eyes as black as sloes
The bright and flaming ruby glows:
That Roman nose! that Roman nose!
And beats the blush of damask rose.
I walk the streets, the alleys, rows;
I look at all the Jems and Joes;
And old and young, and friends and foes,
But cannot find a Roman nose!
Then blessed be the day I chose
That nasal beauty of my beau’s;
And when at last to Heaven I goes,
I hope to spy his Roman nose!”
—Merrie England. | Mrs. Thrale, on her thirty-fifth birthday, remarked to Dr. Johnson, that no one would send her verses now that she had attained that age, upon which the Doctor, without the least hesitation, recited the following lines: Thirty-Five. “Oft in danger, yet alive,
We are come to thirty-five;
Long may better years arrive,
Better years than thirty-five.
Could philosophers contrive
Life to stop at thirty-five,
Time his hours should never drive
O’er the bounds of thirty-five.
High to soar, and deep to dive,
Nature gives at thirty-five;
Ladies, stock and tend your hive,
Trifle not at thirty-five;
For, howe’er we boast and strive,
Life declines from thirty-five;
He that ever hopes to thrive,
Must begin by thirty-five;
And all who wisely wish to wive,
Must look on Thrale at thirty-five.” | Moore, in his “Life of Sheridan,” says that he (Sheridan) “had a sort of hereditary fancy for difficult trifling in poetry; particularly to that sort which consists in rhyming to the same word through a long string of couplets, till every rhyme that the language supplies for it is exhausted,” a task which must have required great patience and perseverance. Moore quotes some dozen lines entitled “To Anne,” wherein a lady is made to bewail the loss of her trunk, and she thus rhymes her lamentations: “Have you heard, my dear Anne, how my spirits are sunk?
Have you heard of the cause? Oh, the loss of my trunk!
From exertion or firmness I’ve never yet slunk,
But my fortitude’s gone with the loss of my trunk!
Stout Lucy, my maid, is a damsel of spunk,
Yet she weeps night and day for the loss of my trunk!
I’d better turn nun, and coquet with a monk,
For with whom can I flirt without aid from my trunk?
········
Accursed be the thief, the old rascally hunks,
Who rifles the fair, and lays hold on their trunks!
He who robs the king’s stores of the least bit of junk,
Is hanged—while he’s safe who has plundered my trunk!
There’s a phrase among lawyers when nunc’s put for tunc;
But nunc and tunc both, must I grieve for my trunk!
Huge leaves of that great commentator, old Brunck,
Perhaps was the paper that lined my poor trunk!” &c. &c. | From another of these trifles of Sheridan, Moore gives the following extracts: “Muse, assist me to complain,
While I grieve for Lady Jane;
I ne’er was in so sad a vein,
Deserted now by Lady Jane.
Lord Petre’s house was built by Payne,
No mortal architect made Jane.
If hearts had windows, through the pane
Of mine, you’d see Lady Jane.
At breakfast I could scarce refrain
From tears at missing Lady Jane;
Nine rolls I ate, in hope to gain
The roll that might have fallen to Jane.” | John Skelton, a poet of the fifteenth century, in great repute as a wit and satirist, was inordinately fond of writing in lines of three or four syllables, and also of iteration of rhyme. This perhaps was the cause of his writing much that was mere doggerel, as this style scarcely admits of the conveyance of serious sentiment. Occasionally, however, his miniature lines are interesting, as in this address to Mrs. Margaret Hussey: “Merry Margaret,
As midsummer flower,
Gentle as falcon,
Or hawk of the tower,
With solace and gladness,
Much mirth and no madness,
All good and no badness,
So joyously,
So maidenly,
So womanly,
Her demeaning,
In everything
Far, far passing
That I can indite
Or suffice to write
Of merry Margaret,
As midsummer flower,
Gentle as falcon,
Or hawk of the tower.” | The following national pasquinade we find in Egerton Brydges’ “Censura Literaria Restituta,” written in commemoration of the failure of Spain by her Invincible Armada to invade Britain. The iteration of metre is all that approaches in it to the style of Skelton, of whose verse it is an imitation: “A Skeltonical salutation
Or condign gratulation,
At the just vexation
Of the Spanish nation,
That in a bravado
Spent many a crusado
In setting forth an Armado
England to invado.
Pro cujus memoria
Ye may well be soria,
Full small may be your gloria
When ye shall hear this storia,
Then will ye cry and roria,
We shall see her no moria.
O king of Spaine!
Is it not a paine
To thy hearte and braine,
And every vaine,
To see thy traine
For to sustaine
Withouten gaine,
The world’s disdaine;
Which despise
As toies and lies,
With shoutes and cries,
Thy enterprise;
As fitter for pies
And butterflies
Then men so wise?
O waspish king!
Where’s now thy sting.
The darts or sling,
Or strong bowstring,
That should us wring,
And under bring?
Who every way
Thee vexe and pay
And beare the sway
By night and day,
To thy dismay
In battle array,
And every fray?
O pufte with pride!
What foolish guide
Made thee provide
To over-ride
This land so wide,
From side to side;
And then untride,
Away to slide,
And not to abide;
But all in a ring
Away to fling?”
&c. &c. | Epitaph on Dr. William Maginn. “Here, early to bed, lies kind William Maginn,
Who with genius, wit, learning, life’s trophies to win,
Had neither great lord, nor rich cit of his kin,
Nor discretion to set himself up as to tin;
So his portion soon spent, like the poor heir of Lynn,
He turned author, ere yet there was beard on his chin;
And whoever was out, or whoever was in,
For your Tories his fine Irish brains he would spin;
Who received prose and verse with a promising grin,
‘Go a-head, you queer fish, and more power to your fin!’
But to save from starvation stirr’d never a pin.
Light for long was his heart, tho’ his breeches were thin,
Else his acting, for certain, was equal to Quin:
But at last he was beat, and sought help of the bin:
(All the same to the doctor, from claret to gin!)
Which led swiftly to gaol, with consumption therein.
It was much, when the bones rattled loose in the skin,
He got leave to die here, out of Babylon’s din.[8]
Barring drink and the girls, I ne’er heard of a sin,—
Many worse, better few, than bright, broken Maginn!” | The Musical Ass. “The fable which I now present,
Occurred to me by accident:
And whether bad or excellent,
Is merely so by accident.
A stupid ass this morning went
Into a field by accident:
And cropped his food, and was content,
Until he spied by accident
A flute, which some oblivious gent
Had left behind by accident;
When, sniffing it with eager scent,
He breathed on it by accident,
And made the hollow instrument
Emit a sound by accident.
‘Hurrah, hurrah!’ exclaimed the brute,
‘How cleverly I play the flute!’
A fool, in spite of nature’s bent,
May shine for once,—by accident.” | The above is a translation from the “Fabulas Litterarias” of Tomaso de Yriarte (1750-1790). Yriarte conceived the idea of making moral truths the themes for fables in the style of Æsop, and these he composed in every variety of verse which seemed at all suitable. Even when the leading idea presents no remarkable incident, Yriarte’s fables please by their simplicity. Boxiana. “I hate the very name of box;
It fills me full of fears;
It minds me of the woes I’ve felt
Since I was young in years.
They sent me to a Yorkshire school,
Where I had many knocks;
For there my schoolmates box’d my ears,
Because I could not box.
I packed my box; I picked the locks,
And ran away to sea;
And very soon I learnt to box
The compass merrily.
I came ashore; I called a coach
And mounted on the box:
The coach upset against a post,
And gave me dreadful knocks.
I soon got well; in love I fell,
And married Martha Box;
To please her will, at famed Box Hill
I took a country box.
I had a pretty garden there,
All bordered round with box;
But ah! alas! there lived next door
A certain Captain Knox.
He took my wife to see the play;—
They had a private box:
I jealous grew, and from that day
I hated Captain Knox.
I sold my house; I left my wife;
And went to Lawyer Fox,
Who tempted me to seek redress
All from a jury-box.
I went to law, whose greedy maw
Soon emptied my strong box;
I lost my suit, and cash to boot,
All through that crafty Fox.
The name of box I therefore dread,
I’ve had so many shocks;
They’ll never end; for when I’m dead
They’ll nail me in a box.” | The Ruling Power. “Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold!
Bright and yellow, hard and cold,
Molten, graven, hammered, and rolled;
Heavy to get, and light to hold;
Hoarded, bartered, bought and sold,
Stolen, borrowed, squandered, doled;
Spurned by the young, but hugged by the old,
To the very verge of the churchyard mould;
Price of many a crime untold;
Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold!
Good or bad, a thousandfold!”
—T. Hood. | Nahum Fay on the Loss of his Wife. “Just eighteen years ago this day,
Attired in all her best array—
For she was airy, young, and gay,
And loved to make a grand display,
While I the charges would defray—
My Cara Sposa went astray;
By night eloping in a sleigh,
With one whose name begins with J,
Resolved with me she would not stay,
And be subjected to my sway;
Because I wish’d her to obey,
Without reluctance or delay,
And never interpose her nay,
Nor any secrets e’er betray.
But wives will sometimes have their way,
And cause, if possible, a fray;
Then who so obstinate as they?
She therefore left my house for aye,
Before my hairs had turned to gray,
Or I’d sustained the least decay,
Which caused at first some slight dismay:
For I considered it foul play.
Now where she’s gone I cannot say,
For I’ve not seen her since the day
When Johnston took her in his sleigh,
To his seductive arts a prey,
And posted off to Canada.
Now when her conduct I survey,
And in the scale of justice weigh,
Who blames me, if I do inveigh
Against her to my dying day?
But live as long as live I may,
I’ve always purposed not to pay
(Contract whatever debts she may)
A shilling for her; but I pray
That when her body turns to clay,
If mourning friends should her convey
To yonder graveyard, they’ll not lay
Her body near to Nahum Fay.” | The Radenovitch. A SONG OF A NEW DANCE. “Are you anxious to bewitch?
You must learn the Radenovitch!
Would you gain of fame a niche?
You must dance the Radenovitch!
’Mong the noble and the rich,
All the go’s the Radenovitch!
It has got to such a pitch,
All must dance the Radenovitch!
If without a flaw or hitch
You can dance the Radenovitch,
Though you’ve risen from the ditch
(Yet have learned the Radenovitch),
You’ll get on without a hitch,
Dancing of the Radenovitch.
If for glory you’ve an itch,
Learn to dance the Radenovitch;
And, though corns may burn and twitch,
While you foot the Radenovitch;
In your side though you’ve a stitch,
All along o’ the Radenovitch,
You will gain an eminence which
You will owe the Radenovitch!
Therefore let the Maitre’s switch
Teach your toes the Radenovitch!” | Footman Joe. “Would you see a man that’s slow?
Come and see our footman Joe:
Most unlike the bounding roe,
Or an arrow from a bow,
Or the flight direct of crow,
Is the pace of footman Joe;
Crabs that hobble to and fro,
In their motions copy Joe.
Snails, contemptuous as they go,
Look behind and laugh at Joe.
An acre any man may mow,
Ere across it crawleth Joe.
Trip on light fantastic toe,
Ye that tripping like, for Joe;
Measured steps of solemn woe
Better suit with solid Joe.
Danube, Severn, Trent, and Po,
Backward to their source will flow
Ere despatch be made by Joe.
Letters to a Plenipo
Send not by our footman Joe.
Would you Job’s full merit know,
Ring the bell, and wait for Joe;
Whether it be king or no,
’Tis just alike to lazy Joe.
Legal process none can show,
If your lawyer move like Joe.
Death, at last, our common foe,
Must trip up the heels of Joe;
And a stone shall tell—‘Below,
Hardly changed, still sleepeth Joe.
Loud shall the final trumpet blow,
But the last corner will be Joe!’”
—G. Hebert. | To a Lady WHO ASKED FOR A POEM OF NINETY LINES. “Task a horse beyond his strength
And the horse will fail at length;
Whip a dog, the poor dog whines—
Yet you ask for ninety lines.
Though you give me ninety quills,
Built me ninety paper-mills,
Showed me ninety inky Rhines,
I could not write ninety lines.
Ninety miles I’d walk for you,
Till my feet were black and blue;
Climb high hills, and dig deep mines,
But I can’t write ninety lines.
Though my thoughts were thick as showers,
Plentiful as summer flowers,
Clustering like Italian vines,
I could not write ninety lines.
When you have drunk up the sea,
Floated ships in cups of tea,
Plucked the sun from where it shines,
Then I’ll write you ninety lines.
Even the bard who lives on rhyme,
Teaching silly words to chime,
Seldom sleeps, and never dines,—
He could scarce write ninety lines.
Well you know my love is such,
You could never ask too much;
Yet even love itself declines
Such a work as ninety lines.
Though you frowned with ninety frowns,
Bribed me with twice ninety towns,
Offered me the starry signs,
I could not write ninety lines.
Many a deed I’ve boldly done
Since my race of life begun;
But my spirit peaks and pines
When it thinks of ninety lines.
Long I hope for thee and me
Will our lease of this world be;
But though hope our fate entwines,
Death will come ere ninety lines.
Ninety songs the birds will sing,
Ninety beads the child will string;
But his life the poet tines,
If he aims at ninety lines.
Ask me for a thousand pounds,
Ask me for my house and grounds;
Levy all my wealth in fines,
But don’t ask for ninety lines.
I have ate of every dish—
Flesh of beast, and bird, and fish;
Briskets, fillets, knuckles, chines,
But eating won’t make ninety lines.
I have drunk of every cup,
Till I drank whole vineyards up;
German, French, and Spanish wines,
But drinking won’t make ninety lines.
Since, then, you have used me so,
To the Holy Land I’ll go;
And at all the holy shrines
I shall pray for ninety lines.
Ninety times a long farewell,
All my love I could not tell,
Though ’twas multiplied by nines,
Ninety times these ninety lines.”
—H. G. Bell. | We give the following curious old ballad a place here, not only on account of the iteration of rhyme, but also as the original of the macaronic verses on p. 95: The Wig and the Hat. “The elderly gentleman’s here,
With his cane, his wig, and his hat;
A good-humoured man all declare,
But then he’s o’erloaded with fat.
By the side of a murmuring stream
This elderly gentleman sat
On the top of his head was his wig,
And a-top of his wig was his hat.
The wind it blew high and blew strong,
As this elderly gentleman sat,
And bore front his head in a trice
And plunged in the river his hat.
The gentleman then took his cane,
Which lay on his lap as he sat,
And dropped in the river his wig
In attempting to get out his hat.
Cool reflection at length came across,
While this elderly gentleman sat;
So he thought he would follow the stream,
And look for his fine wig and hat.
His breast it grew cold with despair,
And full in his eye madness sat;
So he flung in the river his cane,
To swim with his wig and his hat.
His head, being thicker than common,
O’er-balanced the rest of his fat,
And in plunged this son of a woman
To follow his wig, cane, and hat.
A Newfoundland dog was at hand—
No circumstance could be more pat—
The old man he brought safe to land,
Then fetched out his wig, cane, and hat.
The gentleman, dripping and cold,
Seem’d much like a half-drowned rat,
But praised his deliverer so bold,
Then adjusted his cane, wig, and hat.
Now homeward the gentleman hied,
But neither could wear wig or hat;
The dog followed close at his side,
Fawn’d, waggled his tail, and all that.
The gentleman, filled with delight,
The dog’s master hastily sought;
Two guineas set all things to right,
For that sum his true friend he bought.
From him the dog never would part,
But lived much caressed for some years;
Till levelled by Death’s fatal dart,
When the gentleman shed many tears.
Then buried poor Tray in the Green.
And placed o’er the grave a small stone,
Whereon a few lines may be seen,
Expressive of what he had done.” |
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