The Sated One. [Impromptu After Christmas Dinner.] Punch
It may not be—go maidens, go,
Nor tempt me to the mistletoe;
I once could dance beneath its bough,
But must not, will not, can not, now!
A weight—a load within I bear;
It is not madness nor despair;
But I require to be at rest,
So that my burden may-digest!
SAPPHICS OF THE CABSTAND
1
PUNCH.
FRIEND OF SELF-GOVERNMENT.
Seedy Cab-driver, whither art thou going?
Sad is thy fate—reduced to law and order,
Local self-government yielding to the gripe of
Centralization.
Victim of FITZROY! little think the M.P.s,
Lording it o’er cab, ’bus, lodging-house, and grave-yard,
Of the good times when every Anglo Saxon’s
House was his castle.
Say, hapless sufferer, was it Mr. CHADWICK—
Underground foe to the British Constitution—
Or my LORD SHAFTESBURY, put up MR. FITZROY
Thus to assail you?
Was it the growth of Continental notions,
Or was it the Metropolitan police-force
Prompted this blow at Laissez-faire, that free and
Easiest of doctrines?
Have you not read Mr. TOULMIN SMITH’S great work on
Centralization? If you haven’t, buy it;
Meanwhile I should be glad at once to hear your
View on the subject.
Cab-Driver
View on the subject? jiggered if I’ve got one;
Only I wants no centrylisin’, I don’t—
Which I suppose it’s a crusher standin’ sentry
Hover a cabstand.
Whereby if we gives e’er a word o’ cheek to
Parties as rides, they pulls us up like winkin’—
And them there blessed beaks is down upon us
Dead as an ’ammer!
As for Mr. TOULMIN SMITH, can’t say I knows him—
But as you talks so werry like a gem’man,
Perhaps you’re goin in ‘ansome style to stand a
Shillin’ a mile, sir?
Friend of Self — Government
I give a shilling? I will see thee hanged first—
Sixpence a mile—or drive me straight to Bow-street—
Idle, ill-mannered, dissipated, dirty,
Insolent rascal!
JUSTICE TO SCOTLAND. 2 [AN UNPUBLISHED POEM BY BURNS.] COMMUNICATED BY THE EDINBURG SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING CIVILIZATION IN ENGLAND PUNCH.
O mickle yeuks the keckle doup,
An’ a’ unsicker girns the graith,
For wae and wae the crowdies loup
O’er jouk an’ hallan, braw an’ baith.
Where ance the coggie hirpled fair,
And blithesome poortith toomed the loof
There’s nae a burnie giglet rare
But blaws in ilka jinking coof.
The routhie bield that gars the gear
Is gone where glint the pawky een.
And aye the stound is birkin lear
Where sconnered yowies wheepen yestreen.
The creeshie rax wi’ skelpin’ kaes
Nae mair the howdie bicker whangs,
Nor weanies in their wee bit claes
Glour light as lammies wi’ their sangs.
Yet leeze me on my bonnie byke!
My drappie aiblins blinks the noo,
An’ leesome luve has lapt the dyke
Forgatherin’ just a wee bit fou.
And SCOTIA! while thy rantin’ lunt
Is mirk and moop with gowans fine,
I’ll stowlins pit my unco brunt,
An’ cleek my duds for auld lang syne.
THE POETICAL COOKERY-BOOK.
PUNCH
THE STEAK.
Air.—“The Sea.”
Of Steak—of Steak—of prime Rump Steak—
A slice of half-inch thickness take,
Without a blemish, soft and sound;
In weight a little more than a pound.
Who’d cook a Stake—who’d cook a Steak—
Must a fire clear proceed to make:
With the red above and the red below,
In one delicious genial glow.
If a coal should come, a blaze to make,
Have patience! You mustn’t put on your Steak.
First rub—yes, rub—with suet fat,
The gridiron’s bars, then on it flat
Impose the meat; and the fire soon
Will make it sing a delicious tune.
And when ’tis brown’d by the genial glow,
Just turn the upper side below.
Both sides with brown being cover’d o’er,
For a moment you broil your Steak no more,
But on a hot dish let it rest,
And add of butter a slice of the best;
In a minute or two the pepper-box take,
And with it gently dredge your Steak.
When seasoned quite, upon the fire
Some further time it will require;
And over and over be sure to turn
Your Steak till done—nor let it burn;
For nothing drives me half so wild
As a nice Rump Steak in the cooking spiled.
I’ve lived in pleasure mixed with grief,
On fish and fowl, and mutton and beef,
With plenty of cash, and power to range,
But my Steak I never wished to change:
For a Steak was always a treat to me,
At breakfast, luncheon, dinner, or tea.
ROASTED SUCKING-PIG.
AIR—“Scots wha has.”
Cooks who’d roast a Sucking-pig,
Purchase one not over big;
Coarse ones are not worth a fig;
So a young one buy.
See that he is scalded well
(That is done by those who sell),
Therefore on that point to dwell,
Were absurdity.
Sage and bread, mix just enough,
Salt and pepper quantum suff.,
And the Pig’s interior stuff,
With the whole combined.
To a fire that’s rather high,
Lay it till completely dry;
Then to every part apply
Cloth, with butter lined.
Dredge with flour o’er and o’er,
Till the Pig will hold no more;
Then do nothing else before
’Tis for serving fit.
Then scrape off the flour with care;
Then a butter’d cloth prepare;
Rub it well; then cut—not tear—
Off the head of it.
Then take out and mix the brains
With the gravy it contains;
While it on the spit remains,
Cut the Pig in two.
Chop the sage, and chop the bread
Fine as very finest shred;
O’er it melted butter spread—
Stinginess won’t do.
When it in the dish appears,
Garnish with the jaws and ears;
And when dinner-hour nears,
Ready let it be.
Who can offer such a dish
May dispense with fowl and fish;
And if he a guest should wish,
Let him send for me!
BEIGNET DE POMME.
AIR—“Home, Sweet Home.”
’Mid fritters and lollipops though we may roam,
On the whole, there is nothing like Beignet de Pomme.
Of flour a pound, with a glass of milk share,
And a half pound of butter the mixture will bear.
Pomme! Pomme! Beignet de Pomme!
Of Beignets there’s none like the Beignet de Pomme!
A Beignet de Pomme, you will work at in vain,
If you stir not the mixture again and again;
Some beer, just to thin it, may into it fall;
Stir up that, with three whites of eggs, added to all.
Pomme! Pomme! Beignet de Pomme!
Of Beignets there’s none like the Beignet de Pomme!
Six apples, when peeled, you must carefully slice,
And cut out the cores—if you ’ll take my advice;
Then dip them in batter, and fry till they foam,
And you’ll have in six minutes your Beignet de Pomme.
Pomme! Pomme! Beignet de Pomme!
Of Beignets there’s none like the Beignet de Pomme!
CHERRY PIE.
AIR—“Cherry Ripe.”
Cherry Pie! Cherry Pie! Pie! I cry,
Kentish cherries you may buy.
If so be you ask me where
To put the fruit, I’ll answer “There!”
In the dish your fruit must lie,
When you make your Cherry Pie.
Cherry Pie! Cherry Pie! etc.
Cherry Pie! Cherry Pie! Pie! I cry,
Full and fair ones mind you buy
Whereabouts the crust should go,
Any fool, of course will know;
In the midst a cup may lie,
When you make your Cherry Pie.
Cherry Pie! Cherry Pie! etc.
DEVILED BISCUIT.
AIR—“A Temple of Friendship.”
“A nice Devil’d Biscuit,” said JENKINS enchanted,
“I’ll have after dinner—the thought is divine!”
The biscuit was bought, and he now only wanted—
To fully enjoy it—a glass of good wine.
He flew to the pepper, and sat down before it,
And at peppering the well-butter’d biscuit he went;
Then, some cheese in a paste mix’d with mustard spread o’er it
And down to be grill’d to the kitchen ’twas sent.
“Oh! how,” said the Cook, “can I this think of grilling,
When common the pepper? the whole will be flat.
But here’s the Cayenne; if my master is willing,
I’ll make, if he pleases, a devil with that.”
So the Footman ran up with the Cook’s observation
To JENKINS, who gave him a terrible look:
“Oh, go to the devil!” forgetting his station,
Was the answer that JENKINS sent down to the Cook.
RED HERRINGS.
AIR—“Meet Me By Moonlight.”
Meet me at breakfast alone,
And then I will give you a dish
Which really deserves to be known,
Though it’s not the genteelest of fish.
You must promise to come, for I said
A splendid Red Herring I’d buy—
Nay, turn not away your proud head;
You’ll like it, I know, when you try.
If moisture the Herring betray,
Drain, till from moisture ’tis free;
Warm it through in the usual way,
Then serve it for you and for me.
A piece of cold butter prepare,
To rub it when ready it lies;
Egg-sauce and potatoes don’t spare,
And the flavor will cause you surprise
IRISH STEW.
AIR—“Happy Land.”
Irish stew, Irish stew!
Whatever else my dinner be,
Once again, once again,
I’d have a dish of thee.
Mutton chops, and onion slice,
Let the water cover,
With potatoes, fresh and nice;
Boil, but not quite over,
Irish stew, Irish stew!
Ne’er from thee, my taste will stray.
I could eat
Such a treat
Nearly every day.
La, la, la, la!
BARLEY BROTH.
Air—“The King, God bless him!”
A basin of Barley Broth make, make for me;
Give those who prefer it, the plain:
No matter the broth, so of barley it be,
If we ne’er taste a basin again.
For, oh I when three pounds of good mutton you buy,
And of most of its fat dispossess it,
In a stewpan uncover’d, at first, let it lie;
Then in water proceed to dress it.
Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!
In a stewpan uncover’d, at first, let it lie;
Then in water proceed to dress it.
What a teacup will hold—you should first have been told—
Of barley you gently should boil;
The pearl-barley choose—’tis the nicest that’s sold—
All others the mixture might spoil.
Of carrots and turnips, small onions, green peas
(If the price of the last don’t distress one),
Mix plenty; and boil altogether with these
Your basin of Broth when you dress one.
Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!
Two hours together the articles boil;
There’s your basin of Broth, if you’d dress one.
CALF’S HEART.
Air—“Maid of Athens, ere we part.”
Maid of all work, as a part
Of my dinner, cook a heart;
Or, since such a dish is best,
Give me that, and leave the rest.
Take my orders, ere I go;
Heart of calf we’ll cook thee so.
Buy—to price you’re not confined—
Such a heart as suits your mind:
Buy some suet—and enough
Of the herbs required to stuff;
Buy some le non-peel—and, oh!
Heart of calf, we’ll fill thee so.
Buy some onions—just a taste—
Buy enough, but not to waste;
Buy two eggs of slender shell
Mix, and stir the mixture well;
Crumbs of bread among it throw;
Heart of calf we’ll roast thee so.
Maid of all work, when ’tis done,
Serve it up to me alone:
Rich brown gravy round it roll,
Marred by no intruding coal;
Currant jelly add—and lo!
Heart of calf, I’ll eat thee so.
THE CHRISTMAS PUDDING.
AIR—“Jeannette and Jeannott.”
If you wish to make a pudding in which every one delights,
Of a dozen new-laid eggs you must take the yolks and whites;
Beat them well up in a basin till they thoroughly combine,
And shred and chop some suet particularly fine;
Take a pound of well-stoned raisins, and a pound of currants dried, A pound of pounded sugar, and a pound of peel beside; Stir them all well up together with a pound of wheaten flour, And let them stand and settle for a quarter of an hour;
Then tie the pudding in a cloth, and put it in the pot,— Some people like the water cold, and some prefer it hot; But though I don’t know which of these two methods I should praise, I know it ought to boil an hour for every pound it weighs.
Oh! if I were Queen of France, or, still better, Pope of Rome,
I’d have a Christmas pudding every day I dined at home;
And as for other puddings whatever they might be,
Why those who like the nasty things should eat them all for me.
APPLE PIE.
AIR-“All that’s bright must fade.”
All new dishes fade—
The newest oft the fleetest;
Of all the pies now made,
The Apple’s still the sweetest;
Cut and come again,
The syrup upward springing!
While my life and taste remain,
To thee my heart is clinging.
Other dainties fade—
The newest oft the fleetest;
But of all the pies now made,
The Apple’s still the sweetest.
Who absurdly buys
Fruit not worth the baking?
Who wastes crust on pies
That do not pay for making?
Better far to be
An Apple Tartlet buying,
Than to make one at home, and see
On it there’s no relying:
That all must be weigh’d,
When thyself thou treatest—
Still a pie home-made
Is, after all, the sweetest.
Who a pie would make,
First his apple slices;
Then he ought to take
Some cloves—the best of spices:
Grate some lemon rind,
Butter add discreetly;
Then some sugar mix—but mind
The pie’s not made too sweetly.
Every pie that’s made
With sugar, is completest;
But moderation should pervade—
Too sweet is not the sweetest.
Who would tone impart,
Must—if my word is trusted—
Add to his pie or tart
A glass of port—old crusted
If a man of taste,
He, complete to make it,
In the very finest paste
Will inclose and bake it.
Pies have each their grade;
But, when this thou eatest,
Of all that e’er were made,
You’ll say ’tis best and sweetest.
LOBSTER SALAD.
AIR-“Blue Bonnets Over The Border.”
Take, take, lobsters and lettuces;
Mind that they send you the fish that you order:
Take, take, a decent-sized salad bowl,
One that’s sufficiently deep in the border.
Cut into many a slice
All of the fish that’s nice,
Place in the bowl with due neatness and order:
Then hard-boil’d eggs you may
Add in a neat array
All round the bowl, just by way of a border.
Take from the cellar of salt a proportion:
Take from the castors both pepper and oil,
With vinegar, too—but a moderate portion—
Too much of acid your salad will spoil.
Mix them together,
You need not mind whether
You blend them exactly in apple-pie order;
But when you’ve stirr’d away,
Mix up the whole you may—
All but the eggs, which are used as a border.
Take, take, plenty of seasoning;
A teaspoon of parsley that’s chopp’d in small pieces:
Though, though, the point will bear reasoning,
A small taste of onion the flavor increases.
As the sauce curdle may,
Should it: the process stay,
Patiently do it again in due order;
For, if you chance to spoil
Vinegar, eggs, and oil,
Still to proceed would on lunacy border.
STEWED STEAK
AIR—“Had I a Heart for Falsehood Framed.”
Had I pound of tender Steak,
I’d use it for a stew;
And if the dish you would partake,
I’ll tell you what to do.
Into a stew-pan, clean and neat,
Some butter should be flung:
And with it stew your pound of meat,
A tender piece—but young.
And when you find the juice express’d
By culinary art,
To draw the gravy off, were best,
And let it stand apart.
Then, lady, if you’d have a treat,
Be sure you can’t be wrong
To put more butter to your meat,
Nor let it stew too long.
And when the steak is nicely done,
To take it off were best;
And gently let it fry alone,
Without the sauce or zest;
Then add the gravy—with of wine
A spoonful in it flung;
And a shalot cut very fine—
Let the shalot be young.
And when the whole has been combined,
More stewing ’t will require;
Ten minutes will suffice—but mind
Don’t have too quick a fire.
Then serve it up—’t will form a treat!
Nor fear you’ve cook’d it wrong;
GOURMETS in all the old ’t will meet,
And GOURMANDS in the young.
GREEN PEA SOUP.
AIR—“The Ivy Green.”
Oh! a splendid Soup is the true Pea Green
I for it often call;
And up it comes in a smart tureen,
When I dine in my banquet hall.
When a leg of mutton at home is boil’d,
The liquor I always keep,
And in that liquor (before ’tis spoil’d)
A peck of peas I steep.
When boil’d till tender they have been,
I rub through a sieve the peas so green.
Though the trouble the indolent may shock,
I rub with all my power;
And having return’d them to the stock,
I stew them for more than an hour;
Then of younger peas I take some more,
The mixture to improve,
Thrown in a little time before
The soup from the fire I move.
Then seldom a better soup is seen,
Than the old familiar soup Pea Green.
Since first I began my household career, How many my dishes have been!
But the one that digestion never need fear,
Is the simple old soup Pea Green.
The giblet may tire, the gravy pall,
And the turtle lose its charm;
But the Green Pea triumphs over them all,
And does not the slightest harm.
Smoking hot in a smart tureen,
A rare soup is the true Pea Green!
TRIFLE.
AIR—“The Meeting of the Waters.”
There’s not in the wide world so tempting a sweet
As that Trifle where custard and macaroons meet;
Oh! the latest sweet tooth from my head must depart
Ere the taste of that Trifle shall not win my heart.
Yet it is not the sugar that’s thrown in between,
Nor the peel of the lemon so candied and green;
’Tis not the rich cream that’s whipp’d up by a mill:
Oh, no! it is something more exquisite still.
’Tis that nice macaroons in the dish I have laid,
Of which a delicious foundation is made;
And you’ll find how the last will in flavor improve,
When soak’d with the wine that you pour in above.
Sweet PLATEAU of Trifle! how great is my zest
For thee, when spread o’er with the jam I love best,
When the cream white of eggs—to be over thee thrown,
With a whisk kept on purpose—is mingled in one!
MUTTON CHOPS.
AIR—“Come dwell with me.”
Come dine with me, come dine with me,
And our dish shall be, our dish shall be,
A Mutton Chop from the butcher’s shop—
And how I cook it you shall see.
The Chop I choose is not too lean;
For to cut off the fat I mean.
Then to the fire I put it down,
And let it fry until ’tis brown.
Come dine with me; yes, dine with me, etc.
I’ll fry some bread cut rather fine,
To place betwixt each chop of mine;
Some spinach, or some cauliflowers,
May ornament this dish of ours.
I will not let thee once repine
At having come with me to dine:
’T will be my pride to hear thee say,
“I have enjoy’d my Chop, to-day.”
Come, dine with me; yes, dine with me;
Dine, dine, dine, with me, etc.
BARLEY WATER.
AIR—“On the Banks of Allan Water.”
For a jug of Barley Water
Take a saucepan not too small;
Give it to your wife or daughter,
If within your call.
If her duty you have taught her,
Very willing each will be
To prepare some Barley Water
Cheerfully for thee.
For a jug of Barley Water,
Half a gallon, less or more,
From the filter that you bought her,
Ask your wife to pour.
When a saucepan you have brought her
Polish’d bright as bright can be,
In it empty all the water,
Either you or she.
For your jug of Barley Water
(’Tis a drink by no means bad),
Some two ounces and a quarter
Of pearl barley add.
When ’tis boiling, let your daughter
Skim from blacks to keep it free;
Added to your Barley Water
Lemon rind should be.
For your jug of Barley Water
(I have made it very oft),
It must boil, so tell your daughter,
Till the barley’s soft.
Juice of a small lemon’s quarter
Add; then sweeten all like tea;
Strain through sieve your Barley Water—
’Twill delicious be.
BOILED CHICKEN.
AIR—“Norah Creina.”
Lesbia hath a fowl to cook;
But, being anxious not to spoil it,
Searches anxiously our book,
For how to roast, and how to boil it.
Sweet it is to dine upon—
Quite alone, when small its size is;—
And, when cleverly ’tis done,
Its delicacy quite surprises. Oh! my tender pullet dear!
My boiled—not roasted—tender Chicken;
I can wish
No other dish,
With thee supplied, my tender Chicken!
Lesbia, take some water cold,
And having on the fire placed it,
And some butter, and be bold—
When ’tis hot enough—taste it.
Oh! the Chicken meant for me
Boil before the fire grows dimmer,
Twenty minutes let it be
In the saucepan left to simmer.
Oh, my tender Chicken dear!
My boil’d, delicious, tender Chicken!
Rub the breast
(To give a zest)
With lemon-juice, my tender Chicken.
Lesbia hath with sauce combined
Broccoli white, without a tarnish;
’Tis hard to tell if ’tis design’d
For vegetable or for garnish.
Pillow’d on a butter’d dish,
My Chicken temptingly reposes,
Making gourmands for it wish,
Should the savor reach their noses.
Oh, my tender pullet dear!
My boiled—not roasted—tender Chicken
Day or night,
Thy meal is light,
For supper, e’en, my tender Chicken.
STEWED DUCK AND PEAS.
AIR—“My Heart and Lute.”
I give thee all, I can no more,
Though poor the dinner be;
Stew’d Duck and Peas are all the store
That I can offer thee.
A Duck, whose tender breast reveals
Its early youth full well;
And better still, a Pea that peels
From fresh transparent shell.
Though Duck and Peas may fail, alas!
One’s hunger to allay;
At least for luncheon they may pass,
The appetite to stay,
If seasoned Duck an odor bring
From which one would abstain,
The Peas, like fragrant breath of Spring,
Set all to rights again.
I give thee all my kitchen lore,
Though poor the offering be;
I’ll tell thee how ’tis cook’d, before
You come to dine with me:
The Duck is truss’d from head to heels,
Then stew’d with butter well;
And streaky bacon, which reveals
A most delicious smell
When Duck and Bacon in a mass
You in the stew-pan lay,
A spoon around the vessel pass,
And gently stir away:
A table-spoon of flour bring, A quart of water bring,
Then in it twenty onions fling,
And gently stir again.
A bunch of parsley, and a leaf
Of ever-verdant bay,
Two cloves—I make my language brief—
Then add your Peas you may!
And let it simmer till it sings
In a delicious strain,
Then take your Duck, nor let the strings
For trussing it remain.
The parsley fail not to remove,
Also the leaf of bay;
Dish up your Duck—the sauce improve
In the accustom’d way,
With pepper, salt, and other things,
I need not here explain:
And, if the dish contentment brings,
You’ll dine with me again.
Curry
Three pounds of veal my darling girl prepares,
And chops it nicely into little squares;
Five onions next prepares the little minx
(The biggest are the best her Samiwel thinks).
And Epping butter, nearly half a pound,
And stews them in a pan until they’re brown’d.
What’s next my dexterous little girl will do?
She pops the meat into the savory stew,
With curry powder, table-spoonfulls three,
And milk a pint (the richest that may be);
And, when the dish has stewed for half-an-hour,
A lemon’s ready juice she’ll o’er it pour:
Then, bless her! then she gives the luscious pot
A very gentle boil—and serves quite hot.
P.S. Beef, mutton, rabbit, if you wish;
Lobsters, or prawns, or any kind of fish
Are fit to make A CURRY. ’Tis, when done,
A dish for emperors to feed upon.
The Railway Gilpin. Punch
JOHN GILPIN is a citizen;
For lineage of renown,
The famed JOHN GILPIN’S grandson, he
Abides in London town.
To our JOHN GILPIN said his dear,
“Stewed up here as we’ve been
Since Whitsuntide, ’tis time that we
Should have a change of scene.
“To-morrew is a leisure day,
And we’ll by rail repair
Unto the Nell at Dedmanton,
And take a breath of air.
“My sister takes our eldest child;
The youngest of our three
Will go in arms, and so the ride
Won’t so expensive be.”
JOHN soon replied, “I don’t admire
That railway, I, for one;
But you know best, my dearest dear
And so it must be done.
“I, as a linen-draper bold,
Will bear myself, and though
’Tis Friday by the calendar,
Will risk my limbs, and go.”
Quoth MISTRESS GILPIN, “Nicely said:
And then, besides, look here,
We’ll go by the Excursion Train,
Which makes it still less dear.”
JOHN GILPIN poked his clever wife,
And slightly smiled to find
That though on peril she was bent,
She had a careful mind.
The morning came; a cab was sought:
The proper time allow’d
To reach the station door; but lo!
Before it stood a crowd.
For half an hour they there were stay’d,
And when they did get in—
“No train! a hoax!” cried clerks, agog
To swear through thick and thin.
“Yea!” went the throats; stamp went the heels
Were never folks so mad,
The disappointment dire beneath;
All cried “it was too bad!”
JOHN GILPIN home would fain have hied,
But he must needs remain,
Commanded by his willful bride,
And take the usual train.
’T was long before our passengers
Another train could find,
When—stop! one ticket for the fares
Was lost or left behind!
“Good lack!” quoth JOHN, “yet try it on.”
“’T won’t do,” the Guard replies;
And bearing wife and babes on board,
The train without him flies.
Now see him in a second train,
Behind the iron steed,
Borne on, slap dash-for life or bones
With small concern or heed.
Away went GILPIN, neck or naught,
Exclaiming, “Dash my wig!
Oh, here’s a game! oh, here’s a go!
A running such a rig!”
A signal, hark!—the whistle screamed—
Smash! went the windows all:
“An accident!” cried out each one,
As loud as he could bawl.
Away went GILPIN, never mind—
His brain seemed spinning round;
Thought he, “This speed a killing pace
Will prove, I’ll bet a pound!”
And still, as stations they drew near,
The whistle shrilly blew,
And in a trice, past signal-men,
The train like lightning flew.
Thus, all through merry Killbury,
Without a stop shot they;
But paused, to ‘scape a second smash,
At Dedmanton so gay.
At Dedmanton his loving wife,
On platform waiting, spied
Her tender husband, striving much
To let himself outside.
“Hallo! JOHN GILPIN, here we are—
Come out!” they all did cry;
“To death with waiting we are tired!”
“Guard!” shouted GILPIN, “Hi!”
But no—the train was not a bit
Arranged to tarry there,
For why?—because ’t was an Express,
And did dispatches bear.
So, in a second, off it flew
Again, and dashed along,
As if the deuce’t were going to,
With motive impulse strong.
Away went GILPIN, on the breath
Of puffing steam, until
They came unto their journey’s end,
Where they at last stood still
And then—best thing that he could do—
He book’d himself for Town;
They stopped at every station up,
Till he again got down.
Says GILPIN, “Sing, Long live the QUEEN,
And eke long life to me;
And ere I’ll trust that Line again,
Myself I blest will see!”
ELEGY.
WRITTEN IN A RAIL WAY STATION.
PUNCH.
The Station clock proclaims the close of day;
The hard-worked clerks drop gladly off to tea;
The last train starts upon its dangerous way,
And leaves the place to darkness and to me.
Now fades the panting engine’s red tail-light,
And all the platform solemn stillness holds,
Save where the watchmen, pacing for the night,
By smothered coughs announce their several colds.
Behind that door of three-inch planking made, Those frosted panes
placed too high up to peep,
All in their iron safes securely laid,
The cooked account-books of the Railway sleep.
The Debts to credit side so neatly borne,
What should be losses, profits proved instead;
The Dividends those pages that adorn
No more shall turn the fond Shareholder’s head.
Oft did the doubtful to their balance yield,
Their evidence arithmetic could choke:
How jocund were they that to them appealed!
How many votes of thanks did they provoke!
Let not Derision mock KING HUDSON’S toil,
Who made things pleasant greenhorns to allure;
Nor prudery give hard names unto the spoil
’Twas glad to share—while it could share secure.
All know the way that he his fortune made,
How he bought votes and consciences did hire;
How hands that Gold and Silver-sticks have swayed
To grasp his dirty palm would oft aspire,
Till these accounts at last their doctored page,
Thanks to mischance and panic, did unroll,
When virtue suddenly became the rage,
And wiped George Hudson out of fashion’s scroll.
Full many a noble Lord who once serene
The feasts at Albert Gate was glad to share,
For tricks he blushed not at, or blushed unseen,
Now cuts the Iron King with vacant stare.
For those who, mindful of their money fled,
Rejoice in retribution, sure though late—
Should they, by ruin to reflection led,
Ask PUNCH to point the moral of his fate,
Haply that wooden-headed sage may say,
“Oft have I seen him, in his fortune’s dawn,
When at his levees elbowing their way,
Peer’s ermine might be seen and Bishop’s lawn.
“There the great man vouchsafed in turn to each
Advice, what scrip or shares ’twas best to buy,
There his own arts his favorites he would teach,
And put them up to good things on the sly.
“Till to the House by his admirers borne,
Warmed with Champagne in flustered speech he strove,
And on through commerce, colonies, and corn,
Like engine, without break or driver, drove.
“Till when he ceased to dip in fortune’s till,
Out came one cooked account—of our M. P.;
Another came—yet men scarce ventured, still,
To think their idol such a rogue could be.
“Until those figures set in sad array
Proved how his victims he had fleeced and shorn
Approach and read (if thou canst read) my lay,
Writ on him more in sadness than in scorn.”
The Epitaph
Here lies, the gilt rubbed off his sordid earth,
A man whom Fortune made to Fashion known;
Though void alike of breeding, parts, or birth,
God Mammon early marked him for his own.
Large was his fortune, but he bought it dear;
When he won foully he did freely spend.
He plundered no one knows how much a-year,
But Chancery o’ertook him in the end.
No further seek his frailties to disclose:
For many of his sins should share the load:
While he kept rising, who asked how he rose?
While we could reap, what cared we how he sowed?
THE BOA AND THE BLANKET.3 AN APOLOGUE OF THE ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS.—[AFTER WARREN.] PUNCH.
It is talked of Now! Was talked of Yesterday!
May be muttered to-morrow! What?—
THE BOA THAT BOLTED THE BLANKET,
Speckled Enthusiast!
It was full moon’s full moonlight! The Shilling
I had paid down at the Gate
Seem’d hung in Heaven. To NEWTON’S EYE
(As Master of the Mint).
A Splendid, yea, Celestial Shilling!
I was alone, with Nothing to Speak of
But Creation!
Yes! Gigantic NOAH’S Ark of twenty times her tonnage,
Lay crouch’d, and purring, and velvety, and fanged
About me!
Cane-colored tigers—rug-spotted Leopards—
Snakes (ah, CUPID!) knit and interknit—to true love knots
Semblable!
Striped Zebra—Onager Calcitrant—Common Ass,
And I—and all were there!
The bushy Squirrel with his half-cracked Nut,
Slept. The Boar of Allemagne snored.
The Lion’s Cage was hot with heat of blood:
And Peace in Curtain Ring linked two Ring Doves!
In Gardens Zoological and Regent,
I, meditating, stood!
And still the moon looked wondrous like a Shilling,
Impartial Moon, that showed me all.
My heart fluttered as tho’ winged from Mercury!
I moved—approached the Snake-House!
Oh, the balm of Paradise that came and went!
The silver gleams of Eden shooting down the trembling strings
Of my melodious heart!
Down—down to its coral roots!
I dashed aside the human tear; and—yes—prepared myself
With will, drunk from the eyes of Hope, to gaze upon the Snake!
The Boa!!
The Python!!!
The Anaconda!!!!
A Boa was there! A Boa, ’neath Crystal Roof!
And rabbits, taking the very moonlight in their paws,
Washed their meek faces. Washed, then hopped!
“And so (I couldn’t help it) so,” I groaned—“the ancient Snake—
That milk-white thing—and innocent—trustful!
And then, Death—Death—
And lo! there, typical, it is—it is—
THE BLANKET!!
Death shred of living thing that cropped the flower;
And, thoughtless, bleated forth its little baa-a!”
Away! I will not tarry! Let the Boa sleep,
And Rabbits, that have given bills to destiny,
Meet his demand at three and six months’ date!
(We know such Boas and rabbits,
Know we not?)
Let me pass on!
And here ’tis cool; nay, even cold
Without the Snake-House!
The Moon still glistens, and again I think
Of Multitudes who’ve paid and stared, and yawned and wandered here!
The city muckworm, who
Prom peacock orient, scarce could tell a cock
Of hay!
Though be ye sure, a guinea from a guinea-pig
He knows, and (as for money)
Ever has his squeak for’t!
Here, too, paused the wise, sagacious man,
Master of probabilities!
He sees the tusk of elephant—the two tusks—
And, with a thought, cuts ’em into cubes—
And with another thought—another—and another-
Tells (to himself) how oft, in twenty years
Those spotted squares shall come up sixes!
And this in living elephant!
And HER MAJESTY has trod these Walks,
Accompanied
By
PRINCE ALBERT,
THE PRINCE OF WALES,
THE PRINCESS ROYAL,
And
The Rest of the Royal Children!—
She saw the Tiger!
Did she think of TIPPOO SAIB’S Tiger’s Head?
She saw the Lion!
Thought she of one of her own Arms?
She did NOT see the Unicorn; but
(With her gracious habits of condescension)
Did she think of him a bit the less?
Thoughts crowd upon me-cry move on!
And now I am here; and whether I will or no,
I feel I’m jolly!
The Chameleons are asleep, and, like the Cabinet
(Of course i mean the Whigs),
Know not, when they rise to-morrow,
What color they will wake!—
The baby elephant seems prematurely old:
Its infant hide all corrugate with thoughts
Of cakes and oranges given it by boys;
Alas! in Chancery now, and paralytic!
This is very sad. No more of it!
Ha! ha! here sits the Ape—the many-colored wight!
Thou hast marked him, with nose of scarlet sealing-wax,
And so be-colored with prismatic hues,
As though he had come from sky to earth—
Sliding and wiping a fresh-painted rainbow!
Hush! I have made a perfect circle!
And at the Snake-House once again I stand!
Such is life!
Eh! Oh! Help! Murder! Dreadful Accident!
To be conceived—Oh, perhaps!
Described—Oh, never!
Keepers are up, and crowd about the box—
The Boa’s box—with unconcerned rabbits!
Not so the Boa! Look! Behold!
And where’s the Blanket?
In the Boa’s inside place! The Monster mark!
How he writhes and wrestles with the wool, as though
He had within him rolls and rolls
Of choking, suffocating influenza,
That lift his eyes from out their sockets!—Of fleecy phlegm
That will neither in or out, but mid-way
Seem to strangle!
Silence and wonder settle on the crowd;
From whom instinctively and breathlessly,
Ascend two pregnant questions!
“Will the Boa bolt the blanket?
Will the blanket choke the Boa?”
Such the problem!
And then men mark and deduce
Differently
“The Blanket Is England: The Boa the Pope, Will the Pope Disgorge His Bull?”
“The Blanket’s Free Trade: The Corn-Gorged Folk Is the Boa With Plenty Stifled!”
“The Blanket’s Reform to Gag the Mob, and Naught to Satisfy!”
But I, a lofty and an abstract man,
A creature of a higher element
Than ever nourished the wood
Ordained for ballot-boxes—I
Say nothing; until a Keeper comes to me, and,
Hooking his fore-finger in his forehead’s lock,
Says—“What’s your opinion, Sir?
If Boas will bolt Blankets, Boas must:
If Snakes will rush upon their end, why not?”
“My friend,” said I, “The Blanket and the Boa—
You will conceive me—are a type, yes, just a type,
Of this our day.
The dumb and monstrous, tasteless appetite
Of stupid Boa, to gobble up for food
What needs must scour or suffocate,
Not nourish!
My friend, let the wool of that one blanket
Warm but the back of one live sheep,
And the Boa would bolt the animal entire,
And flourish on his meal, transmuting flesh and bones,
And turning them to healthful nutriment!
Believe this vital truth;
The stomach may take down and digest
And sweetly, too, a leg of mutton;
That would turn at and reject
One little ball of worsted!”
On saying this I turned away,
Feeling adown the small-o’-the back
That gentle warmth that waits upon us, when WE KNOW
We have said a good thing;
Knowing it better than the vain world
Ever can or ever will
Reader, I have sung my song!
The BOA AND THE B——, like new-found star,
Is mine no longer; but the world’s!—
Tell me, how have I sung it? With what note?
With note akin that immortal bard
The snow-white Swan of Avon?
Or haply, to that
—RARA AVIS,
—That has
—“Tried WARREN’S?”
THE DILLY AND THE D’S.
4
[AN APOLOGUE OF THE OXFORD INSTALLATION.]
BY S—L W—RR—N, Q.S., LL.D., F.R.S
PUNCH.
Part First
Oh, Spirit! Spirit of Literature,
Alien to Law!
Oh, Muse! ungracious to thy sterner sister, THEMIS,
Whither away?—Away!
Far from my brief—Brief with a fee upon it,
Tremendous!
And probably—before my business is concluded—
A REFRESHER—nay, several!!
Whither whirlest thou thy thrall?
Thy willing thrall?
“NOW AND THEN;”
But not just at this moment,
If you please, Spirit!
No, let me read and ponder on
THE PLEADINGS.
Declaration!
Plea!!
Replication!!!
Rejoinder!!!!
Surrejoinder!!!!!
Rebutter!!!!!!
Surrebutter!!!!!!!
ETC! ETC!! ETC!!!
It may not be. The Muse—
As ladies often are—
Though lovely, is obstinate,
And will have her own way!
* * * *
And am I not
As well as a Q.S.,
An F.R.S.
And LL.D.?
Ask BLACKWOOD
The reason why, and he will tell you,
So will the Mayor—
The MAYOR OF HULL!
I obey, Spirit.
Hang my brief—’tis gone!—
To-morrow let my junior cram me in Court.
Whither away? Where am I?
What is it I behold?
In space, or out of space? I know not.
In fact
I’ve not the least idea if I’m crazy.
Or sprung—sprung?
I’ve only had a pint of Port at dinner
And can’t be sprung—
Oh, no!—Shame on the thought!
I see a coach!—
Is it a coach?
Not exactly.
Yet it has wheels—
Wheels within wheels—and on the box
A driver, and a cad behind,
And Horses—Horses?—
Bethink thee—Worm!—
Are they Horses? or that race
Lower than Horses, but with longer ears
And less intelligence—
In fact—“EQUI ASINI,”
Or in vernacular
JACKASSES?
’Tis not a coach exactly—
Now I see on the panels—
Pricked out and flourished—
A word! A magic word—
“THE DILLY!”—“THE DERBY DILLY!”
Oh Dilly! Dilly!—all thy passengers
Are outsiders—
The road is rough and rutty—
And thy driver, like NIMSHI’S son—
Driveth
Furiously!
And the cad upon the monkey-board
The monkey-board behind,
Scorneth the drag—but goes
Downhill like mad.
He hath a Caucasian brow!
A son of SHEM, is he,
Not of HAM—
Nor JAPHETH—
In fact a Jew—
But see, the pace
Grows faster—and more fast—in fact—
I may say
A case of Furious driving!
Take care, you’ll be upset—
Look out!
Holloa!
* * * *
Horrible! Horrible!! Horrible!!
The Dilly—
With all its precious freight
Of men and Manners—
Is gone!
Gone to immortal
SMASH!
Pick up the pieces! Let me wipe my eyes!
Oh Muse—lend me my scroll
To do it with, for I have lost
My wipe!
Part Second
* * * Again upon the road
The road to where?
To nowhere in particular!
Ah, no—I thank thee, Muse—
That hint—’tis a finger-post,
And “he that runs may read”—
He that runs?
But I am not running—
I am riding—
How came I here?—what am I riding on?
Who are my fellow-passengers?
Ah, ha!
I recognize them now!
The Coach—
The Box—
The Driver—
And the Cad—
I’m on the Dilly, and the Dilly Is on the road again
And now I see
That finger-post!
It saith
“To Oxford
Fifty-two miles.”
And, hark! a chorus!
From all the joyous load,
Driver and cad, and all!
“We go,” they sing—
To OXFORD TO BE DOCTORED.”
To be Doctored?
Then, wherefore
Are ye so cheerful?
I was not cheerful in my early days—
Days of my buoyant boyhood—
When, after inglutition
Of too much
Christmas pudding,
Or Twelfth cake saccharine,
I went, as we go now,
To be Doctored!
Salts!
Senna and Rhubarb!!
Jalap and Ipecacuanha!!!
And Antimonial Wine!!!!
“WORM!
IDIOT!!
DONKEY!!!”
Said the free-spoken Muse
“With them thou goest to be doctored, too,
Not in medicine—but in Law—
All these—and thou—
Are going to be made
HONORARY
LL.D.s!
Behold!
And know thy company
Be thou familiar with them,
But by no means vulgar—
For familiarity breeds contempt;
And no man is a hero
To his VALET-DE-CHAMBRE!
So ponder and perpend.”
DERBY!
The wise, the meek, the chivalrous—
Mirror of knightly graces
And daily dodges;
Who always says the right things
At the right time,
And never forgets himself as others—
Nor changes his side
Nor his opinion—
A STANLEY to the core, as ready
To fight
As erst on FLODDEN FIELD
His mail-clad ancestor.—
See the poem
Of MARMION,
By SIR WALTER SOOTT!
DIZZY!
Dark—supple—subtle—
With mind lithe as the limbs
Of ISHMAEL’S sons, his swart progenitors—
With tongue sharp as the spear
That o’er Sahara
Flings the blue shadow
Of the crown of ostrich feathers—
As described so graphically
By LAYARD, in his recent book
On Nineveh!
With tongue as sharp
As aspic’s tooth of NILUS,
Or sugary
Upon the occasion
As is the date
Of TAFILAT.
DIZZY, the bounding Arab
Of the political arena—
As swift to whirl
Right about face—
As strong to leap
From premise to conclusion—
As great in balancing
A budget—
Or flinging headlong
His somersets
Over sharp swords of adverse facts,
As were his brethren of EL-ARISH,
Who
Some years ago exhibited—
With rapturous applause—
At Astley’s Amphitheater—
And subsequently
At Vauxhall Gardens!
* * * * *
Clustering, front and back
On box and knife-board,
See, petty man;
Behold! and thank thy stars
That led thee—Worm—
THEE, that art merely a writer
And a barrister,
Although a man of elegant acquirements,
A gentleman and a scholar—
Nay, F.R.S. to boot—
Into such high society,
Among such SWELLS,
And REAL NOBS!
Behold! ten live LORDS! and lo *! no end
Of Ex-Cabinet Ministers!
Oh! happy, happy, happy,
Oh, happy SAM!
Say, isn’t this worth, at the least
“TEN THOUSAND A YEAR!”
* * * * *
And these are all, to day at least—-
Thy fellows!
Going to be made
LL.D.s, even as thyself—
And thou shalt walk in silk attire.
And hob and nob with all the mighty of the earth,
And lunch in Hall—
In Hall!
Where lunched before thee,
But on inferior grub,
That first great SAM—
SAM JOHNSON!
And LAUD, and ROGER BACON,
And CRANMER, LATIMER,
And RIDLEY,
And CYRIL JACKSON—and a host besides,
Whom at my leisure
I will look up
In WOOD’S
“ATHENAE OXONIENSES”
Only to think!
How BLACKWOOD
Is honored!
ALISON! AYTOUN!
BULWER!!!
And last, not least
The great SAM GANDERAM!!!!
Oh EBONY!
Oh MAGA!
And oh
Our noble selves!
Notes
1 See The Friend of Humanity and the Knife-Grinder
2 In this poem the Scottish words and phrases are all
ludicrously misapplied
3 A few days before this burlesque of Warren appeared, a boa-constrictor in the London Zoological Gardens swallowed the blanket that had served as its bed.
4 Burlesque of Warren’s Poem of “The Lily and the Bee,”
published at the home of the great Exhibition of 1851.