By AMBROSE PHILIPS, Esq., From among those which suggested the next following Burlesque. ——?—— To Miss Margaret Pulteney, Daughter of Daniel
Pulteney, Esq., in the Nursery.
April 27, 1727. Dimply damsel, sweetly smiling, All caressing, none beguiling, Bud of beauty, fairly blowing, Every charm to nature owing, This and that new thing admiring, Much of this and that enquiring, Knowledge by degrees attaining, Day by day some virtue gaining, Ten years hence, when I leave chiming, Beardless poets, fondly rhyming (Fescu'd now, perhaps, in spelling), On thy riper beauties dwelling, Shall accuse each killing feature Of the cruel, charming creature, Whom I knew complying, willing, Tender, and averse to killing.
To Miss Charlotte Pulteney, in her Mother's Arms.
May 1, 1724. Timely blossom, infant fair, Fondling of a happy pair, Every morn, and every night, Their solicitous delight, Sleeping, waking, still at ease, Pleasing, without skill to please, Little gossip, blithe and hale, Tatling many a broken tale, Singing many a tuneless song, Lavish of a heedless tongue, Simple maiden, void of art, Babbling out the very heart, Yet abandon'd to thy will, Yet imagining no ill, Yet too innocent to blush, Like the linlet in the bush, To the mother-linnet's note Moduling her slender throat, Chirping forth thy petty joys, Wanton in the change of toys, Like the linnet green, in May, Flitting to each bloomy spray, Wearied then, and glad of rest, Like the linlet in the nest. This thy present happy lot, This, in time, will be forgot. Other pleasures, other cares, Ever-busy time prepares; And thou shalt in thy daughter see, This picture, once, resembled thee.
NAMBY PAMBY: OR, A PANEGYRIC ON THE NEW VERSIFICATION ADDRESSED TO A—— P——, ESQ. "Nauty Pauty Jack-a-dandy Stole a piece of sugar-candy From the Grocer's shoppy-shop, And away did hoppy-hop." All ye poets of the age, All ye witlings of the stage, Learn your jingles to reform: Crop your numbers, and conform: Let your little verses flow Gently, sweetly, row by row. Let the verse the subject fit, Little subject, little wit. Namby Pamby is your guide, Albion's joy, Hibernia's pride. Namby Pamby Pilli-pis, Rhimy pim'd on missy-mis; Tartaretta Tartaree From the navel to the knee; That her father's gracy-grace Might give him a placy-place. He no longer writes of mammy Andromache and her lammy, Hanging panging at the breast Of a matron most distrest. Now the venal poet sings Baby clouts, and baby things, Baby dolls and baby houses, Little misses, little spouses; Little playthings, little toys, Little girls, and little boys. As an actor does his part, So the nurses get by heart Namby Pamby's little rhymes, Little jingle, little chimes. Namby Pamby ne'er will die While the nurse sings lullaby. Namby Pamby's doubly mild, Once a man, and twice a child; To his hanging-sleeves restor'd, Now he foots it like a lord; Now he pumps his little wits, All by little tiny bits. Now methinks I hear him say, Boys and girls, come out to play, Moon does shine as bright as day. Now my Namby Pamby's found Sitting on the Friar's ground, Picking silver, picking gold, Namby Pamby's never old. Bally-cally they begin, Namby Pamby still keeps in. Namby Pamby is no clown, London Bridge is broken down: Now he courts the gay ladee, Dancing o'er the Lady-lee: Now he sings of lick-spit liar Burning in the brimstone fire; Liar, liar, lick-spit, lick, Turn about the candle-stick. Now he sings of Jacky Horner Sitting in the chimney corner, Eating of a Christmas pie, Putting in his thumb, oh, fie! Putting in, oh, fie! his thumb, Pulling out, oh, strange! a plum. Now he acts the Grenadier, Calling for a pot of beer. Where's his money? he's forgot, Get him gone, a drunken sot. Now on cock-horse does he ride; And anon on timber stride, See-and-saw and Sacch'ry down, London is a gallant town. Now he gathers riches in Thicker, faster, pin by pin. Pins apiece to see his show, Boys and girls flock row by row; From their clothes the pins they take, Risk a whipping for his sake; From their frocks the pins they pull, To fill Namby's cushion full. So much wit at such an age, Does a genius great presage. Second childhood gone and past, Should he prove a man at last, What must second manhood be, In a child so bright as he! Guard him, ye poetic powers, Watch his minutes, watch his hours: Let your tuneful Nine inspire him, Let poetic fury fire him: Let the poets one and all To his genius victims fall.
A WORD UPON PUDDING. From "A Learned Dissertation upon Dumpling," to which the preceding Poem was appended. What is a tart, a pie, or a pasty, but meat or fruit enclos'd in a wall or covering of pudding? What is a cake, but a bak'd pudding; or a Christmas pie, but a minc'd-meat pudding? As for cheese-cakes, custards, tansies, &c., they are manifest puddings, and all of Sir John's own contrivance; custard being as old, if not older, than Magna Charta. In short, pudding is of the greatest dignity and antiquity; bread itself, which is the very staff of life, being, properly speaking, a bak'd wheat pudding. To the satchel, which is the pudding-bag of ingenuity, we are indebted for the greatest men in church and state. All arts and sciences owe their original to pudding or dumpling. What is a bagpipe, the mother of all music, but a pudding of harmony? Or what is music itself, but a palatable cookery of sounds? To little puddings or bladders of colours we owe all the choice originals of the greatest painters. And indeed, what is painting, but a well-spread pudding, or cookery of colours? The head of man is like a pudding. And whence have all rhymes, poems, plots, and inventions sprang, but from that same pudding? What is poetry, but a pudding of words? The physicians, tho' they cry out so much against cooks and cookery, yet are but cooks themselves; with this difference only, the cooks' pudding lengthens life, the physicians' shortens it. So that we live and die by pudding. For what is a clyster, but a bag-pudding? a pill, but a dumpling? or a bolus, but a tansy, tho' not altogether so toothsome? In a word: physic is only a puddingizing or cookery of drugs. The law is but a cookery of quibbles and contentions,[64] * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * is but a pudding of * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Some swallow everything whole and unmix'd; so that it may rather be call'd a heap than a pudding. Others are so squeamish, the greatest mastership in cookery is requir'd to make the pudding palatable. The suet which others gape and swallow by gobs, must for these puny stomachs be minced to atoms; the plums must be pick'd with the utmost care, and every ingredient proportion'd to the greatest nicety, or it will never go down. The universe itself is but a pudding of elements. Empires, kingdoms, states and republics, are but puddings of people differently made up. The celestial and terrestrial orbs are decipher'd to us by a pair of globes or mathematical puddings. The success of war and fate of monarchies are entirely dependent on puddings and dumplings. For what else are cannonballs but military puddings? or bullets, but dumplings; with this difference only, they do not sit so well on the stomach as a good marrow pudding or bread pudding. In short, there is nothing valuable in art or nature, but what, more or less, has an allusion to pudding or dumpling. Why, then, should they be held in disesteem? Why should dumpling-eating be ridiculed, or dumpling-eaters derided? Is it not pleasant and profitable? Is it not ancient and honourable? Kings, princes, and potentates have in all ages been lovers of pudding. Is it not, therefore, of royal authority? Popes, cardinals, bishops, priests and deacons, have, time out of mind, been great pudding-eaters. Is it not, therefore, a holy and religious institution? Philosophers, poets, and learned men in all faculties, judges, privy councillors, and members of both houses, have, by their great regard to pudding, given a sanction to it that nothing can efface. Is it not, therefore, ancient, honourable, and commendable? Quare itaque fremuerunt Auctores? Why do, therefore, the enemies of good eating, the starveling authors of Grub Street, employ their impotent pens against pudding and pudding-headed, alias honest men? Why do they inveigh against dumpling-eating, which is the life and soul of good-fellowship; and dumpling-eaters, who are the ornaments of civil society? But, alas! their malice is their own punishment. The hireling author of a late scandalous libel, intituled, "The Dumpling-Eaters Downfall," may, if he has any eyes, now see his error, in attacking so numerous, so august, a body of people. His books remain unsold, unread, unregarded; while this treatise of mine shall be bought by all who love pudding or dumpling; to my bookseller's great joy, and my no small consolation. How shall I triumph, and how will that mercenary scribbler be mortified, when I have sold more editions of my books than he has copies of his? I, therefore, exhort all people, gentle and simple, men, women, and children, to buy, to read, to extol these labours of mine, for the honour of dumpling-eating. Let them not fear to defend every article; for I will bear them harmless. I have arguments good store, and can easily confute, either logically, theologically, or metaphysically, all those who dare oppose me. Let not Englishmen, therefore, be ashamed of the name of Pudding-eaters; but, on the contrary, let it be their glory. For let foreigners cry out ne'er so much against good eating, they come easily into it when they have been a little while in our land of Canaan; and there are very few foreigners among us who have not learn'd to make as great a hole in a good pudding, or sirloin of beef, as the best Englishman of us all. Why should we then be laughed out of pudding and dumpling? or why ridicul'd out of good living? Plots and politics may hurt us, but pudding cannot. Let us, therefore, adhere to pudding, and keep ourselves out of harm's way; according to the golden rule laid down by a celebrated dumpling-eater now defunct: "Be of your patron's mind, whate'er he says: Sleep very much; think little, and talk less: Mind neither good nor bad, nor right nor wrong; But eat your pudding, fool, and hold your tongue."—Prior.
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