A Satire Anthology - Carolyn Wells 7 стр.

GOOD people all, of every sort,
Give ear unto my song;
And if you find it wondrous short
It cannot hold you long.

In Islington there was a man
Of whom the world might say
That still a godly race he ran
Wheneer he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad,
When he put on his clothes.

And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be,
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,
And curs of low degree.

This dog and man at first were friends,
But when a pique began,
The dog, to gain his private ends,
Went mad, and bit the man.

Around from all the neighbouring streets
The wondering neighbours ran,
And swore the dog had lost his wits
To bite so good a man.

The wound it seemed both sore and sad
To every Christian eye;
And while they swore the dog was mad,
They swore the man would die.

But soon a wonder came to light,
That showd the rogues they lied:
The man recoverd of the bite,
The dog it was that died.

WHENCE could arise this mighty critic spleen,
The muse a trifler, and her theme so mean?
What had I done that angry Heaven should send
The bitterest foe where most I wished a friend?
Oft hath my tongue been wanton at thy name,
And hailed the honours of thy matchless fame.
For me let hoary Fielding bite the ground,
So nobler Pickle stand superbly bound;
From Livys temples tear the historic crown,
Which with more justice blooms upon thine own.
Compared with thee, be all life-writers dumb,
But he who wrote the life of Tommy Thumb.
Who ever read The Regicide but swore
The author wrote as man neer wrote before?
Others for plots and under-plots may call;
Heres the right method have no plot at all!

DUBIUS is such a scrupulous good man
Yes, you may catch him tripping, if you can.
He would not with a peremptory tone
Assert the nose upon his face his own;
With hesitation admirably slow,
He humbly hopes presumes it may be so.
His evidence, if he were called by law
To swear to some enormity he saw,
For want of prominence and just belief,
Would hang an honest man and save a thief.
Through constant dread of giving truth offence,
He ties up all his hearers in suspense;
Knows what he knows as if he knew it not;
What he remembers, seems to have forgot;
His sole opinion, whatsoeer befall,
Centring at last in having none at all.

THE circle formed, we sit in silent state,
Like figures drawn upon a dial-plate.
Yes, maam and No, maam uttered softly, show
Every five minutes how the minutes go.
Each individual, suffering a constraint
Poetry may, but colours cannot, paint
As if in close committee on the sky,
Reports it hot or cold, or wet or dry,
And finds a changing clime a happy source
Of wise reflection and well-timed discourse.
We next inquire, but softly and by stealth,
Like conservators of the public health,
Of epidemic throats, if such there are
Of coughs and rheums, and phthisic and catarrh.
That theme exhausted, a wide chasm ensues,
Filled up at last with interesting news:
Who danced with whom, and who are like to wed;
And who is hanged, and who is brought to bed,
But fear to call a more important cause,
As if twere treason against English laws.
The visit paid, with ecstasy we come,
As from a seven years transportation, home
And there resume an unembarrassed brow,
Recovering what we lost we know not how,
The faculties that seemed reduced to naught,
Expression, and the privilege of thought.

I  OWN I like not Johnsons turgid style,
That gives an inch th importance of a mile;
Casts of manure a wagon-load around,
To raise a simple daisy from the ground;
Uplifts the club of Hercules for what?
To crush a butterfly or brain a gnat;
Creates a whirlwind from the earth, to draw
A gooses feather or exalt a straw;
Sets wheels on wheels in motion such a clatter
To force up one poor nipperkin of water;
Bids ocean labour with tremendous roar
To heave a cockle-shell upon the shore;
Alike in every theme his pompous art,
Heavens awful thunder or a rumbling cart!

O  Boswell, Bozzy, Bruce, whatre thy name,
Thou mighty shark for anecdote and fame,
Thou jackal, leading lion Johnson forth
To eat Macpherson midst his native north,
To frighten grave professors with his roar,
And shake the Hebrides from shore to shore,
All hail!
Triumphant thou through times vast gulf shalt sail,
The pilot of our literary whale;
Close to the classic Rambler shalt thou cling,
Close as a supple courtier to a king;
Fate shall not shake thee off with all its power,
Stuck like a bat to some old ivied tower.
Nay, though thy Johnson neer had blessed thy eyes,
Paolis deeds had raised thee to the skies:
Yes, his broad wing had raised thee (no bad hack),
A tomtit twittering on an eagles back.

WAS once a hen of wit not small
(In fact, twas not amazing),
And apt at laying eggs withal,
Who, when shed done, would scream and bawl,
As if the house were blazing.
A turkey-cock, of age mature,
Felt thereat indignation;
Twas quite improper, he was sure
He would no more the thing endure;
So, after cogitation,
He to the lady straight repaired,
And thus his business he declared:
Madam, pray, whats the matter,
That always, when youve laid an egg,
You make so great a clatter?
I wish youd do the thing in quiet.
Do be advised by me, and try it.
Advised by you! the lady cried,
And tossed her head with proper pride;
And what do you know, now I pray,
Of the fashion of the present day,
You creature ignorant and low?
However, if you want to know,
This is the reason why I do it:
I lay my egg, and then review it!

WE bipeds, made up of frail clay,
Alas! are the children of sorrow;
And, though brisk and merry to-day,
We may all be unhappy to-morrow.
For sunshines succeeded by rain;
Then, fearful of lifes stormy weather,
Lest pleasure should only bring pain,
Let us all be unhappy together.

I grant the best blessing we know
Is a friend, for true friendships a treasure;
And yet, lest your friend prove a foe,
Oh, taste not the dangerous pleasure.
Thus, friendships a flimsy affair;
Thus, riches and health are a bubble;
Thus, theres nothing delightful but care,
Nor anything pleasing but trouble.

If a mortal could point out that life
Which on earth could be nearest to heaven,
Let him, thanking his stars, choose a wife
To whom truth and honour are given.
But honour and truth are so rare,
And horns, when theyre cutting, so tingle,
That, with all my respect to the fair,
Id advise him to sigh, and live single.

It appears from these premises plain,
That wisdom is nothing but folly;
That pleasures a term that means pain,
And that joy is your true melancholy;
That all those who laugh ought to cry;
That tis fine frisk and fun to be grieving;
And that, since we must all of us die,
We should taste no enjoyment while living.

WAS once a hen of wit not small
(In fact, twas not amazing),
And apt at laying eggs withal,
Who, when shed done, would scream and bawl,
As if the house were blazing.
A turkey-cock, of age mature,
Felt thereat indignation;
Twas quite improper, he was sure
He would no more the thing endure;
So, after cogitation,
He to the lady straight repaired,
And thus his business he declared:
Madam, pray, whats the matter,
That always, when youve laid an egg,
You make so great a clatter?
I wish youd do the thing in quiet.
Do be advised by me, and try it.
Advised by you! the lady cried,
And tossed her head with proper pride;
And what do you know, now I pray,
Of the fashion of the present day,
You creature ignorant and low?
However, if you want to know,
This is the reason why I do it:
I lay my egg, and then review it!

WE bipeds, made up of frail clay,
Alas! are the children of sorrow;
And, though brisk and merry to-day,
We may all be unhappy to-morrow.
For sunshines succeeded by rain;
Then, fearful of lifes stormy weather,
Lest pleasure should only bring pain,
Let us all be unhappy together.

I grant the best blessing we know
Is a friend, for true friendships a treasure;
And yet, lest your friend prove a foe,
Oh, taste not the dangerous pleasure.
Thus, friendships a flimsy affair;
Thus, riches and health are a bubble;
Thus, theres nothing delightful but care,
Nor anything pleasing but trouble.

If a mortal could point out that life
Which on earth could be nearest to heaven,
Let him, thanking his stars, choose a wife
To whom truth and honour are given.
But honour and truth are so rare,
And horns, when theyre cutting, so tingle,
That, with all my respect to the fair,
Id advise him to sigh, and live single.

It appears from these premises plain,
That wisdom is nothing but folly;
That pleasures a term that means pain,
And that joy is your true melancholy;
That all those who laugh ought to cry;
That tis fine frisk and fun to be grieving;
And that, since we must all of us die,
We should taste no enjoyment while living.

I  AM a friar of orders gray,
And down in the valleys I take my way;
I pull not blackberry, haw, or hip;
Good store of venison fills my scrip;
My long bead-roll I merrily chant;
Whereer I walk no money I want;
And why Im so plump the reason I tell:
Who leads a good life is sure to live well.
What baron or squire,
Or knight of the shire,
Lives half so well as a holy friar?

After supper, of heaven I dream,
But that is a pullet and clouted cream;
Myself by denial I mortify
With a dainty bit of a warden-pie;
Im clothed in sackcloth for my sin
With old sack wine Im lined within;
A chirping cup is my matin song,
And the vespers bell is my bowl, ding-dong.
What baron or squire,
Or knight of the shire,
Lives half so well as a holy friar?

A  COUNTRY squire, of greater wealth than wit
(For fools are often blessd with fortunes smile),
Had built a splendid house, and furnishd it
In splendid style.

One thing is wanted, said a friend; for, though
The rooms are fine, the furniture profuse,
You lack a library, dear sir, for show,
If not for use.

Tis true; but, zounds! replied the squire with glee,
The lumber-room in yonder northern wing
(I wonder I neer thought of it) will be
The very thing.

Ill have it fitted up without delay
With shelves and presses of the newest mode.
And rarest wood, befitting every way
A squires abode.

And when the whole is ready, Ill despatch
My coachman a most knowing fellow down,
To buy me, by admeasurement, a batch
Of books in town.

But ere the library was half supplied
With all its pomp of cabinet and shelf,
The booby squire repented him, and cried
Unto himself:

This room is much more roomy than I thought;
Ten thousand volumes hardly would suffice
To fill it, and would cost, however bought,
A plaguy price.

Now, as I only want them for their looks,
It might, on second thoughts, be just as good,
And cost me next to nothing, if the books
Were made of wood.

It shall be so. Ill give the shaven deal
A coat of paint a colourable dress,
To look like calf or vellum, and conceal
Its nakedness.

And gilt and letterd with the authors name,
Whatever is most excellent and rare
Shall be, or seem to be (tis all the same),
Assembled there.

The work was done; the simulated hoards
Of wit and wisdom round the chamber stood.
In bindings some; and some, of course, in boards,
Were all of wood.

From bulky folios down to slender twelves,
The choicest tomes in many an even row,
Displayd their letterd backs upon the shelves,
A goodly show.

With such a stock, which seemingly surpassd
The best collection ever formd in Spain,
What wonder if the owner grew at last
Supremely vain?

What wonder, as he paced from shelf to shelf,
And connd their titles, that the Squire began,
Despite his ignorance, to think himself
A learned man?

Let every amateur, who merely looks
To backs and bindings, take the hint, and sell
His costly library; for painted books
Would serve as well.

BEYOND the sunny Philippines
An island lies, whose name I do not know;
But thats of little consequence, if so
You understand that there they had no hens,
Till, by a happy chance, a traveller,
After a while, carried some poultry there.
Fast they increased as anyone could wish,
Until fresh eggs became the common dish.