A Satire Anthology

FROM “ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS”

A  MAN must serve his time to ev’ry tradeSave censure; critics all are ready-made.Take hackney’d jokes from Miller, got by rote,With just enough of learning to misquote;A mind well skill’d to find or forge a fault,A turn for punning, call it Attic salt;To Jeffrey go, be silent and discreet;His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet.Fear not to lie – ’twill seem a sharper hit;Shrink not from blasphemy – ’twill pass for wit;Care not for feeling; pass your proper jest,And stand a critic, hated yet caress’d.And shall we own such judgment? No! as soonSeek roses in December, ice in June,Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff,Believe a woman or an epitaph,Or any other thing that’s false, beforeYou trust in critics, who themselves are sore;Or yield one single thought to be misledBy Jeffrey’s heart or Lambe’s Bœotian head.To these young tyrants, by themselves misplaced,Combined usurpers on the throne of taste;To these, when authors bend in humble awe,And hail their voice as truth, their word as law —While these are censors, ’twould be sin to spare;While such are critics, why should I forbear?But yet, so near all modern worthies run,’Tis doubtful whom to seek or whom to shun;Nor know we when to spare or where to strike,Our bards and censors are so much alike.Then should you ask me why I venture o’erThe path which Pope and Gifford trod before;If not yet sicken’d, you can still proceed;Go on; my rhyme will tell you as you read.“But hold!” exclaims a friend – “here’s some neglect:This, that, and t’other line seems incorrect.”What then? the self-same blunder Pope has got,And careless Dryden – “Ay, but Pye has not.”Indeed! ’tis granted, faith! but what care I?Better to err with Pope than shine with Pye.Lord Byron.

TO WOMAN

WOMAN, experience might have told meThat all must love thee who behold thee;Surely experience might have taught,Thy firmest promises are naught;But, placed in all thy charms before me,All I forget, but to adore thee.O Memory! thou choicest blessing,When join’d with hope, when still possessing;But how much cursed by every lover,When hope is fled, and passion’s over!Woman, that fair and fond deceiver,How prompt are striplings to believe her!How throbs the pulse when first we viewThe eye that rolls in glossy blue,Or sparkles black, or mildly throwsA beam from under hazel brows!How quick we credit every oath,And hear her plight the willing troth!Fondly we hope ’twill last for aye,When, lo! she changes in a day.This record will forever stand,“Woman, thy vows are trac’d in sand.”Lord Byron.

A COUNTRY HOUSE PARTY

THE gentlemen got up betimes to shootOr hunt: the young, because they liked the sport —The first thing boys like after play and fruit;The middle-aged to make the day more short;For ennui is a growth of English root,Though nameless in our language: we retortThe fact for words, and let the French translateThat awful yawn which sleep cannot abate.The elderly walk’d through the library,And tumbled books, or criticised the pictures,Or saunter’d through the gardens piteously,And made upon the hothouse several strictures;Or rode a nag which trotted not too high,Or on the morning papers read their lectures;Or on the watch their longing eyes would fix,Longing, at sixty, for the hour of six.But none were gêné: the great hour of unionWas rung by dinner’s knell; till then all wereMasters of their own time – or in communion,Or solitary, as they chose to bearThe hours, which how to pass is but to few known.Each rose up at his own, and had to spareWhat time he chose for dress, and broke his fastWhen, where, and how he chose for that repast.The ladies – some rouged, some a little pale —Met the morn as they might. If fine, they rode,Or walk’d; if foul, they read, or told a tale,Sung, or rehearsed the last dance from abroad;Discuss’d the fashion which might next prevail,And settled bonnets by the newest code;Or cramm’d twelve sheets into one little letter,To make each correspondent a new debtor.For some had absent lovers, all had friends.The earth has nothing like a she-epistle,And hardly heaven – because it never ends.I love the mystery of a female missal,Which, like a creed, ne’er says all it intends,But, full of cunning as Ulysses’ whistleWhen he allured poor Dolon. You had betterTake care what you reply to such a letter.Then there were billiards; cards, too, but no dice —Save in the clubs, no man of honour plays;Boats when ’twas water, skating when ’twas ice,And the hard frost destroy’d the scenting days:And angling, too, that solitary vice,Whatever Izaak Walton sings or says:The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb, in his gulletShould have a hook, and a small trout to pull it.With evening came the banquet and the wine;The conversazione; the duet,Attuned by voices more or less divine(My heart or head aches with the memory yet).The four Miss Rawbolds in a glee would shine;But the two youngest loved more to be setDown to the harp – because to music’s charmsThey added graceful necks, white hands and arms.Sometime a dance (though rarely on field-days,For then the gentlemen were rather tired)Display’d some sylph-like figures in its maze:Then there was small-talk ready when required;Flirtation, but decorous; the mere praiseOf charms that should or should not be admired.The hunters fought their fox-hunt o’er again.And then retreated soberly – at ten.The politicians, in a nook apart,Discuss’d the world, and settled all the spheres:The wits watch’d every loophole for their art,To introduce a bon mot, head and ears.Small is the rest of those who would be smart.A moment’s good thing may have cost them yearsBefore they find an hour to introduce it;And then, even then, some bore may make them lose it.But all was gentle and aristocraticIn this our party; polish’d, smooth, and cold,As Phidian forms cut out of marble Attic.There now are no Squire Westerns, as of old;And our Sophias are not so emphatic,But fair as then, or fairer to behold.We have no accomplish’d blackguards, like Tom Jones,But gentlemen in stays, as stiff as stones.They separated at an early hour —That is, ere midnight, which is London’s noon;But in the country, ladies seek their bowerA little earlier than the waning moon.Peace to the slumbers of each folded flower —May the rose call back its true colour soon!Good hours of fair cheeks are the fairest tinters,And lower the price of rouge – at least some winters.Lord Byron.

GREEDINESS PUNISHED

IT was the cloister Grabow, in the land of Usedom;For years had God’s free goodness to fill its larder come:They might have been contented!Along the shore came swimming, to give the monks good cheerWho dwelt within the cloister, two fishes every year:They might have been contented!Two sturgeons – two great fat ones; and then this law was set,That one of them should yearly be taken in a net:They might have been contented!The other swam away then until next year came round,Then with a new companion he punctually was found:They might have been contented!So then again they caught one, and served him in the dish,And regularly caught they, year in, year out, a fish:They might have been contented!One year, the time appointed two such great fishes brought,The question was a hard one, which of them should be caught:They might have been contented!They caught them both together, but every greedy wightJust spoiled his stomach by it; it served the gluttons right:They might have been contented!This was the least of sorrows: hear how the cup ran o’er!Henceforward to the cloister no fish came swimming more:They might have been contented!So long had God supplied them of his free grace alone,That now it is denied them, the fault is all their own:They might have been contented!Friedrich Rückert.

WOMAN

ALL honour to woman, the sweetheart, the wife,The delight of our firesides by night and by day,Who never does anything wrong in her life,Except when permitted to have her own way.Fitz-Greene Halleck.

THE RICH AND THE POOR MAN

SO goes the world. If wealthy, you may callThis friend, that brother – friends and brothers all;Though you are worthless, witless, never mind it;You may have been a stable-boy – what then?’Tis wealth, good sir, makes honourable men.You seek respect, no doubt, and you will find it.But if you’re poor, Heaven help you! Though your sireHad royal blood within him, and though youPossess the intellect of angels, too,’Tis all in vain; the world will ne’er inquireOn such a score. Why should it take the pains?’Tis easier to weigh purses, sure, than brains.I once saw a poor devil, keen and clever,Witty and wise; he paid a man a visit,And no one noticed him, and no one everGave him a welcome. “Strange,” cried I, “whence it is so!”He walked on this side, then on that,He tried to introduce a social chat;Now here, now there, in vain he tried;Some formally and freezingly replied, and someSaid by their silence, “Better stay at home.”A rich man burst the door —As Crœsus rich, I’m sure;He could not pride himself upon his witNor wisdom, for he had not got a bit:He had what’s better – he had wealth.What a confusion! All stand up erect!These crowd around to ask him of his health;These bow in honest duty and respect;And these arrange a sofa or a chair,And these conduct him there.“Allow me, sir, the honour;” then a bowDown to the earth. Is’t possible to showMeet gratitude for such kind condescension?The poor man hung his head,And to himself he said,“This is indeed beyond my comprehension.”Then looking round,One friendly face he found,And said, “Pray tell me, why is wealth preferredTo wisdom?” “That’s a silly question, friend,”Replied the other; “have you never heard,A man may lend his storeOf gold or silver ore,But wisdom none can borrow, none can lend?”Sir John Bowring.(From the Russian of Kremnitzer.)

OZYMANDIAS

I  MET a traveller from an antique land,Who said: “Two vast and trunkless legs of stoneStand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,Tell that its sculptor well those passions readWhich yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.And on the pedestal these words appear:‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!’Nothing besides remains. Round the decayOf that colossal wreck, boundless and bareThe lone and level sands stretch far away.”Percy Bysshe Shelley.

CUI BONO?

WHAT is hope? A smiling rainbowChildren follow through the wet.’Tis not here – still yonder, yonder;Never urchin found it yet.What is life? A thawing iceboardOn a sea with sunny shore.Gay we sail; it melts beneath us;We are sunk, and seen no more.What is man? A foolish baby;Vainly strives, and fights, and frets;Demanding all, deserving nothing,One small grave is what he gets!Thomas Carlyle.

FATHER-LAND AND MOTHER-TONGUE

OUR Father-land! And would’st thou knowWhy we should call it Father-land?It is, that Adam here belowWas made of earth by Nature’s hand;And he, our father, made of earth,Hath peopled earth on ev’ry hand,And we, in memory of his birth,Do call our country “Father-land.”At first, in Eden’s bowers, they say,No sound of speech had Adam caught,But whistled like a bird all day,And may be ’twas for want of thought.But Nature, with resistless laws,Made Adam soon surpass the birds;She gave him lovely Eve, because,If he’d a wife, they must have words.And so, the native land, I hold,By male descent is proudly mine;The language, as the tale hath told,Was given in the female line.And thus, we see, on either hand,We name our blessings whence they’ve sprung;We call our country Father-land;We call our language Mother-tongue.Samuel Lover.

FATHER MOLLOY

OR, THE CONFESSION

PADDY McCABE was dying one day,And Father Molloy he came to confess him;Paddy pray’d hard he would make no delay,But forgive him his sins and make haste for to bless him.“First tell me your sins,” says Father Molloy,“For I’m thinking you’ve not been a very good boy.”“Oh,” says Paddy, “so late in the evenin’, I fear,’Twould throuble you such a long story to hear,For you’ve ten long miles o’er the mountains to go,While the road I’ve to travel’s much longer, you know.So give us your blessin’ and get in the saddle;To tell all my sins my poor brain it would addle;And the docther gave ordhers to keep me so quiet —’Twould disturb me to tell all my sins, if I’d thry it,And your Reverence has tould us, unless we tell all,’Tis worse than not makin’ confession at all.So I’ll say in a word I’m no very good boy —And, therefore, your blessin’, sweet Father Molloy.”“Well, I’ll read from a book,” says Father Molloy,“The manifold sins that humanity’s heir to;And when you hear those that your conscience annoy,You’ll just squeeze my hand, as acknowledging thereto.”Then the father began the dark roll of iniquity,And Paddy, thereat, felt his conscience grow rickety,And he gave such a squeeze that the priest gave a roar.“Oh, murdher,” says Paddy, “don’t read any more,For, if you keep readin’, by all that is thrue,Your Reverence’s fist will be soon black and blue;Besides, to be throubled my conscience begins,That your Reverence should have any hand in my sins,So you’d betther suppose I committed them all,For whether they’re great ones, or whether they’re small,Or if they’re a dozen, or if they’re fourscore,’Tis your Reverence knows how to absolve them, astore;So I’ll say in a word, I’m no very good boy —And, therefore, your blessin’, sweet Father Molloy.”“Well,” says Father Molloy, “if your sins I forgive,So you must forgive all your enemies truly;And promise me also that, if you should live,You’ll leave off your old tricks, and begin to live newly.”“I forgive ev’rybody,” says Pat, with a groan,“Except that big vagabone Micky Malone;And him I will murdher if ever I can – ”“Tut, tut,” says the priest, “you’re a very bad man;For without your forgiveness, and also repentance,You’ll ne’er go to heaven, and that is my sentence.”“Poo!” says Paddy McCabe, “that’s a very hard case —With your Reverence and heaven I’m content to make pace;But with heaven and your Reverence I wondher —Och hone—You would think of comparin’ that blackguard Malone.But since I’m hard press’d, and that I must forgive,I forgive, if I die – but as sure as I liveThat ugly blackguard I will surely desthroy!So, now for your blessin’, sweet Father Molloy!”Samuel Lover.

GAFFER GRAY

(From “Hugh Trevor.”)HO! why dost thou shiver and shake,Gaffer Gray?And why does thy nose look so blue?“’Tis the weather that’s cold,’Tis I’m grown very old,And my doublet is not very new,Well-a-day!”Then line thy worn doublet with ale,Gaffer Gray!And warm thy old heart with a glass.“Nay, but credit I’ve none,And my money’s all gone;Then say how may that come to pass?Well-a-day!”Hie away to the house on the brow,Gaffer Gray,And knock at the jolly priest’s door.“The priest often preachesAgainst worldly riches,But ne’er gives a mite to the poor,Well-a-day!”The lawyer lives under the hill,Gaffer Gray;Warmly fenced both in back and in front.“He will fasten his locks,And will threaten the stocks,Should he ever more find me in want,Well-a-day!”The squire has fat beeves and brown ale,Gaffer Gray;And the season will welcome you there.“His beeves and his beer,And his merry New Year,Are all for the flush and the fair,Well-a-day!”My keg is but low, I confess,Gaffer Gray;What then? While it lasts, man, we’ll live.“The poor man alone,When he hears the poor moan,Of his morsel a morsel will give,Well-a-day!”Thomas Holcroft.

COCKLE V. CACKLE

THOSE who much read advertisement and bills,Must have seen puffs of Cockle’s pills,Call’d Anti-bilious,Which some physicians sneer at, supercilious,But which we are assured, if timely taken,May save your liver and bacon;Whether or not they really give one ease,I, who have never tried,Will not decide;But no two things in union go like these,Viz., quacks and pills – save ducks and pease.Now Mrs. W. was getting sallow,Her lilies not of the white kind, but yellow,And friends portended was preparing forA human pâté périgord;She was, indeed, so very far from well,Her son, in filial fear, procured a boxOf those said pellets to resist bile’s shocks,And, tho’ upon the ear it strangely knocks,To save her by a Cockle from a shell!But Mrs. W., just like Macbeth,Who very vehemently bids us “throwBark to the Bow-wows,” hated physic so,It seem’d to share “the bitterness of death”:Rhubarb, magnesia, jalap, and the kind,Senna, steel, asafœtida, and squills,Powder or draught; but least her throat inclinedTo give a course to boluses or pills.No, not to save her life, in lung or lobe,For all her lights’ or liver’s sake,Would her convulsive thorax undertakeOnly one little uncelestial globe!’Tis not to wonder at, in such a case,If she put by the pill-box in a placeFor linen rather than for drugs intended;Yet, for the credit of the pills, let’s say,After they thus were stow’d away,Some of the linen mended.But Mrs. W. by disease’s dint,Kept getting still more yellow in her tint,When lo! her second son, like elder brother,Marking the hue on the parental gills,Brought a new charge of Anti-turmeric Pills,To bleach the jaundiced visage of his mother;Who took them – in her cupboard – like the other.“Deeper and deeper still,” of course,The fatal colour daily grew in force;Till daughter W., newly come from Rome,Acting the selfsame filial, pillial part,To cure mamma, another dose brought homeOf Cockles – not the Cockles of her heart!These going where the others went before,Of course she had a very pretty store.And then some hue of health her cheek adorning,The medicine so good must be,They brought her dose on dose, which sheGave to the up-stairs cupboard, “night and morning”;Till, wanting room at last for other stocks,Out of the window one fine day she pitch’dThe pillage of each box, and quite enrich’dThe feed of Mister Burrell’s hens and cocks.A little Barber of a bygone day,Over the way,Whose stock in trade, to keep the least of shops,Was one great head of Kemble – that is, John —Staring in plaster, with a Brutus on,And twenty little Bantam fowls, with crops.Little Dame W. thought, when through the sashShe gave the physic wings,To find the very thingsSo good for bile, so bad for chicken rash,For thoughtless cock and unreflecting pullet!But while they gathered up the nauseous nubbles,Each peck’d itself into a peck of troubles,And brought the hand of Death upon its gullet.They might as well have addled been, or rattled,For long before the night – ah, woe betideThe pills! – each suicidal Bantam died,Unfatted!Think of poor Burrell’s shock,Of Nature’s debt to see his hens all payers,And laid in death as Everlasting Layers,With Bantam’s small ex-Emperor, the Cock,In ruffled plumage and funereal hackle,Giving, undone by Cockle, a last cackle!To see as stiff as stone his unlive stock,It really was enough to move his block.Down on the floor he dash’d, with horror big,Mr. Bell’s third wife’s mother’s coachman’s wig;And with a tragic stare like his own Kemble,Burst out with natural emphasis enough,And voice that grief made tremble,Into that very speech of sad Macduff:“What! all my pretty chickens and their dam,At one fell swoop!Just when I’d bought a coop,To see the poor lamented creatures cram!”After a little of this mood,And brooding over the departed brood,With razor he began to ope each craw,Already turning black, as black as coals;When lo! the undigested cause he saw —“Pison’d by goles!”To Mrs. W.’s luck a contradiction,Her window still stood open to conviction;And by short course of circumstantial labour,He fix’d the guilt upon his adverse neighbour.Lord! how he rail’d at her, declaring how,He’d bring an action ere next term of Hilary;Then, in another moment, swore a vowHe’d make her do pill-penance in the pillory!She, meanwhile distant from the dimmest dreamOf combating with guilt, yard-arm or arm-yard,Lapp’d in a paradise of tea and cream;When up ran Betty with a dismal scream:“Here’s Mr. Burrell, ma’am, with all his farmyard!”Straight in he came, unbowing and unbending,With all the warmth that iron and a barberCan harbour;To dress the head and front of her offending,The fuming phial of his wrath uncorking;In short, he made her pay him altogether,In hard cash, very hard, for ev’ry feather,Charging, of course, each Bantam as a Dorking.Nothing could move him, nothing make him supple,So the sad dame, unpocketing her loss,Had nothing left but to sit hands across,And see her poultry “going down ten couple.”Now birds by poison slain,As venom’d dart from Indian’s hollow cane,Are edible; and Mrs. W.’s thrift —She had a thrifty vein —Destined one pair for supper to make shift —Supper, as usual, at the hour of ten.But ten o’clock arrived, and quickly pass’d —Eleven – twelve – and one o’clock at last,Without a sign of supper even then!At length, the speed of cookery to quicken,Betty was called, and with reluctant feet,Came up at a white heat:“Well, never I see chicken like them chicken!My saucepans, they have been a pretty while in ’em!Enough to stew them, if it comes to that,To flesh and bones, and perfect rags; but dratThose Anti-biling Pills! there is no bile in ’em!”Thomas Hood.

OUR VILLAGE

OUR village, that’s to say, not Miss Mitford’s village, but our village of Bullock’s Smithy,Is come into by an avenue of trees, three oak pollards, two elders, and a withy;And in the middle there’s a green, of about not exceeding an acre and a half;It’s common to all and fed off by nineteen cows, six ponies, three horses, five asses, two foals, seven pigs and a calf!Besides a pond in the middle, as is held by a sort of common law lease,And contains twenty ducks, six drakes, three ganders, two dead dogs, four drowned kittens, and twelve geese.Of course the green’s cropt very close, and does famous for bowling when the little village boys play at cricket;Only some horse, or pig, or cow, or great jackass, is sure to come and stand right before the wicket.There’s fifty-five private houses, let alone barns and workshops, and pig-sties, and poultry huts, and such-like sheds,With plenty of public-houses – two Foxes, one Green Man, three Bunch of Grapes, one Crown, and six King’s Heads.The Green Man is reckoned the best, as the only one that for love or money can raiseA postillion, a blue jacket, two deplorable lame white horses, and a ramshackle “neat post-chaise!”There’s one parish church for all the people, whatsoever may be their ranks in life or their degrees,Except one very damp, small, dark, freezing cold, little Methodist Chapel of Ease;And close by the churchyard, there’s a stone-mason’s yard, that when the time is seasonableWill furnish with afflictions sore and marble urns and cherubims, very low and reasonable.There’s a cage comfortable enough; I’ve been in it with Old Jack Jeffery and Tom Pike;For the Green Man next door will send you in ale, gin, or anything else you like.I can’t speak of the stocks, as nothing remains of them but the upright post;But the pound is kept in repairs for the sake of Cob’s horse as is always there almost.There’s a smithy of course, where that queer sort of a chap in his way, Old Joe Bradley,Perpetually hammers and stammers, for he stutters and shoes horses very badly.There’s a shop of all sorts that sells everything, kept by the widow of Mr. Task;But when you go there it’s ten to one she’s out of everything you ask.You’ll know her house by the swarm of boys, like flies, about the old sugary cask:There are six empty houses and not so well papered inside as out.For bill-stickers won’t beware, but stick notices of sales and election placards all about.That’s the Doctor’s with a green door, where the garden pots in the window is seen;A weakly monthly rose that don’t blow, and a dead geranium, and a tea plant with five black leaves, and one green.As for hollyhocks at the cottage doors, and the honeysuckles and jasmines, you may go and whistle;But the Tailor’s front garden grows two cabbages, a dock, a ha’porth of pennyroyal, two dandelions, and a thistle!There are three small orchards – Mr. Busby’s the schoolmaster’s is the chief —With two pear trees that don’t bear; one plum, and an apple that every year is stripped by a thief.There’s another small day-school too, kept by the respectable Mrs. Gaby,A select establishment for six little boys, and one big, and four little girls and a baby;There’s a rectory with pointed gables and strange odd chimneys that never smokes,For the Rector don’t live on his living like other Christian sort of folks;There’s a barber once a week well filled with rough black-bearded, shock-headed churls,And a window with two feminine men’s heads, and two masculine ladies in false curls;There’s a butcher, and a carpenter’s, and a plumber, and a small green grocer’s, and a baker,But he won’t bake on a Sunday; and there’s a sexton that’s a coal merchant besides, and an undertaker;And a toy-shop, but not a whole one, for a village can’t compare with the London shops;One window sells drums, dolls, kites, carts, bats, Clout’s balls, and the other sells malt and hops.And Mrs. Brown, in domestic economy, not to be a bit behind her betters,Lets her house to a milliner, a watchmaker, a rat-catcher, a cobbler, lives in it herself, and it’s the post-office for letters.Now I’ve gone through all the village – ay, from end to end, save and except one more house,But I haven’t come to that – and I hope I never shall – and that’s the village Poor House!Thomas Hood.