EPIGRAMS BY S. T. COLERIDGE. COLOGNE.

In Köln, a town of monks and bones, And pavements fanged with murderous stones, And rags, and hags, and hideous wenches,— I counted two-and-seventy stenches, All well-defined and several stinks! Ye nymphs that reign o'er sewers and sinks, The river Rhine, it is well known, Doth wash your city of Cologne; But tell me, nymphs! what power divine Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine?
————

THE RAZOR-SELLER.

A fellow in a market-town, Most musical, cried razors up and down, And offered twelve for eighteen pence; Which certainly seemed wondrous cheap, And, for the money, quite a heap, As every man would buy, with cash and sense.

A country bumpkin the great offer heard,— Poor Hodge, who suffered by a broad black beard, That seemed a shoe-brush stuck beneath his nose: With cheerfulness the eighteen pence he paid, And proudly to himself in whispers said, "This rascal stole the razors, I suppose.

"No matter if the fellow be a knave. Provided that the razors shave; It certainly will be a monstrous prize." So home the clown, with his good fortune, went, Smiling in heart and soul content, And quickly soaped himself to ears and eyes.

Being well lathered from a dish or tub, Hodge now began with grinning pain to grub, Just like a hedger cutting furze; 'T was a vile razor!—then the rest he tried,— All were impostors. "Ah!" Hodge sighed, "I wish my eighteen pence within my purse."

In vain to chase his beard, and bring the graces, He cut, and dug, and winced, and stamped, and swore; Brought blood, and danced, blasphemed, and made wry faces, And cursed each razor's body o'er and o'er:

His muzzle formed of opposition stuff, Firm as a Foxite, would not lose its ruff; So kept it,—laughing at the steel and suds. Hodge, in a passion, stretched his angry jaws, Vowing the direst vengeance with clenched claws, On the vile cheat that sold the goods. "Razors! a mean, confounded dog, Not fit to scrape a hog!"

Hodge sought the fellow,—found him,—and begun: "P'rhaps, Master Razor-rogue, to you 't is fun, That people flay themselves out of their lives. You rascal; for an hour have I been grubbing, Giving my crying whiskers here a scrubbing, With razors just like oyster-knives. Sirrah! I tell you you're a knave, To cry up razors that can't shave!"

"Friend," quoth the razor-man, "I'm not a knave; As for the razors you have bought, Upon my soul, I never thought That they would shave." "Not think they'd shave!" quoth Hodge, with wondering eyes, And voice not much unlike an Indian yell; "What were they made for, then, you dog?" he cries. "Made," quoth the fellow with a smile,—"to sell."

DR. JOHN WOLCOTT. (Peter Pindar)

PAPER. A CONVERSATIONAL PLEASANTRY.

Some wit of old—such wits of old there were, Whose hints showed meaning, whose allusions care— By one brave stroke to mark all human kind, Called clear, blank paper every infant mind: Where still, as opening sense her dictates wrote, Fair virtue put a seal, or vice a blot.

The thought was happy, pertinent, and true; Methinks a genius might the plan pursue. I (can you pardon my presumption?)—I, No wit, no genius, yet for once will try.

Various the paper various wants produce,— The wants of fashion, elegance, and use. Men are as various; and, if right I scan, Each sort of paper represents some man.

Pray note the fop, half powder and half lace; Nice, as a bandbox were his dwelling-place; He's the gilt-paper, which apart you store, And lock from vulgar hands in the 'scrutoire.

Mechanics, servants, farmers, and so forth Are copy-paper of inferior worth; Less prized, more useful, for your desk decreed; Free to all pens, and prompt at every need.

The wretch whom avarice bids to pinch and spare, Starve, cheat, and pilfer, to enrich an heir, Is coarse brown paper, such as pedlers choose To wrap up wares, which better men will use.

Take next the miser's contrast, who destroys Health, fame, and fortune in a round of joys; Will any paper match him? Yes, throughout; He's a true sinking-paper, past all doubt. The retail politician's anxious thought Deems this side always right, and that stark naught; He foams with censure; with applause he raves; A dupe to rumors and a tool of knaves; He'll want no type, his weakness to proclaim, While such a thing as foolscap has a name.

The hasty gentleman, whose blood runs high, Who picks a quarrel, if you step awry, Who can't a jest, a hint, or look endure,— What is he?—what? Touch-paper, to be sure.

What are our poets, take them as they fall, Good, bad, rich, poor, much read, not read at all? They and their works in the same class you'll find; They are the mere waste-paper of mankind.

Observe the maiden, innocently sweet! She's fair, white paper, an unsullied sheet; On which the happy man whom fate ordains May write his name, and take her for his pains.

One instance more, and only one I'll bring; 'T is the great man who scorns a little thing; Whose thoughts, whose deeds, whose maxims, are his own, Formed on the feelings of his heart alone, True, genuine, royal paper is his breast; Of all the kinds most precious, purest, best.

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.

EPITAPH FOR THE TOMBSTONE ERECTED OVER THE MARQUIS OF ANGLESEA'S LEG, LOST AT WATERLOO.

Here rests, and let no saucy knave Presume to sneer and laugh, To learn that moldering in the grave Is laid a British Calf.

For he who writes these lines is sure, That those who read the whole Will find such laugh was premature, For here, too, lies a sole.

And here five little ones repose, Twin born with other five, Unheeded by their brother toes, Who all are now alive.

A leg and foot to speak more plain, Rests here of one commanding; Who though his wits he might retain, Lost half his understanding.

And when the guns, with thunder fraught, Poured bullets thick as hail, Could only in this way be taught To give the foe leg-bail.

And now in England, just as gay As in the battle brave, Goes to a rout, review, or play, With one foot in the grave.

Fortune in vain here showed her spite, For he will still be found, Should England's sons engage in fight, Resolved to stand his ground.

But Fortune's pardon I must beg; She meant not to disarm, For when she lopped the hero's leg, She did not seek his harm.

And but indulged a harmless whim; Since he could walk with one, She saw two legs were lost on him, Who never meant to run.

GEORGE CANNING.

RUDOLPH THE HEADSMAN. FROM "THIS IS IT."

Rudolph, professor of the headsman's trade, Alike was famous for his arm and blade. One day a prisoner Justice had to kill Knelt at the block to test the artist's skill. Bare-armed, swart-visaged, gaunt, and shaggy-browed, Rudolph the headsman rose above the crowd. His falchion lightened with a sudden gleam, As the pike's armor flashes in the stream. He sheathed his blade; he turned as if to go; The victim knelt, still waiting for the blow. "Why strikest not? Perform thy murderous act," The prisoner said. (His voice was slightly cracked.) "Friend, I have struck," the artist straight replied; "Wait but one moment, and yourself decide." He held his snuff-box,—"Now then, if you please!" The prisoner sniffed, and, with a crashing sneeze, Off his head tumbled, bowled along the floor, Bounced down the steps;—the prisoner said no more.

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

SONG OF ONE ELEVEN YEARS IN PRISON

Whene'er with haggard eyes I view This dungeon that I 'm rotting in, I think of those companions true Who studied with me at the U— niversity of Gottingen, niversity of Gottingen.

[Weeps and pulls out a blue kerchief, with which he wipes his eyes; gazing tenderly at it, he proceeds:]

Sweet kerchief, checked with heavenly blue, Which once my love sat knotting in— Alas, Matilda then was true! At least I thought so at the U— niversity of Gottingen, niversity of Gottingen.

[At the repetition of this line he clanks his chains in cadence.]

Barbs! barbs! alas! how swift you flew, Her neat post-wagon trotting in! Ye bore Matilda from my view; Folorn I languished at the U— niversity of Gottingen, niversity of Gottingen.

This faded form! this pallid hue! This blood my veins is clotting in! My years are many—they were few When first I entered at the U— niversity of Gottingen, niversity of Gottingen.

There first for thee my passion grew, Sweet, sweet Matilda Pottingen! Thou wert the daughter of my tu- tor, law-professor at the U— niversity of Gottingen, niversity of Gottingen.

Sun, moon, and thou, vain world, adieu, That kings and priests are plotting in; Here doomed to starve on water gru- el, never shall I see the U— niversity of Gottingen, niversity of Gottingen.

[During the last stanza he dashes his head repeatedly against the walls of his prison, and finally so hard as to produce a visible contusion. He then throws himself on the floor in an agony. The curtain drops, the music still continuingto play till it is wholly fallen.]

GEORGE CANNING.

LITTLE BILLEE.

There were three sailors of Bristol City Who took a boat and went to sea, But first with beef and captain's biscuits And pickled pork they loaded she.

There was gorging Jack, and guzzling Jimmy, And the youngster he was little Billee; Now when they'd got as far as the Equator, They'd nothing left but one split pea.

Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, "I am extremely hungaree." To gorging Jack says guzzling Jimmy, "We've nothing left, us must eat we."

Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, "With one another we shouldn't agree! There's little Bill, he's young and tender, We're old and tough, so let's eat he."

"O Billy! we're going to kill and eat you, So undo the button of your chemie." When Bill received this information, He used his pocket-handkerchie.

"First let me say my catechism Which my poor mother taught to me." "Make haste! make haste!" says guzzling Jimmy, While Jack pulled out his snickersnee.

Billy went up to the main-top-gallant mast, And down he fell on his bended knee, He scarce had come to the Twelfth Commandment When up he jumps—"There's land I see!

"Jerusalem and Madagascar And North and South Amerikee, There's the British flag a-riding at anchor, With Admiral Napier, K. C. B."

So when they got aboard of the Admiral's, He hanged fat Jack and flogged Jimmee, But as for little Bill he made him The Captain of a Seventy-three.

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

CAPTAIN REECE. [5]

Of all the ships upon the blue, No ship contained a better crew Than that of worthy Captain Reece, Commanding of The Mantelpiece.

He was adored by all his men, For worthy Captain Reece, R. N., Did all that lay within him to Promote the comfort of his crew.

If ever they were dull or sad, Their captain danced to them like mad, Or told, to make the time pass by, Droll legends of his infancy.

A feather-bed had every man, Warm slippers and hot-water can, Brown windsor from the captain's store, A valet, too, to every four.

Did they with thirst in summer burn, Lo, seltzogenes at every turn, And on all very sultry days Cream ices handed round on trays.

Then currant wine and ginger pops Stood handily on all the "tops:" And, also, with amusement rife, A "Zoetrope, or Wheel of Life."

New volumes came across the sea From Mister Mudie's libraree; The Times and Saturday Review Beguiled the leisure of the crew.

Kind-hearted Captain Reece. R. N., Was quite devoted to his men; In point of fact, good Captain Reece Beatified The Mantelpiece.

One summer eve, at half past ten, He said (addressing all his men), "Come, tell me, please, what I can do, To please and gratify my crew.

"By any reasonable plan I'll make you happy if I can; My own convenience count as nil; It is my duty, and I will."

Then up and answered William Lee (The kind captain's coxswain he, A nervous, shy, low-spoken man); He cleared his throat and thus began:

"You have a daughter, Captain Reece, Ten female cousins and a niece, A ma, if what I'm told is true, Six sisters, and an aunt or two.

"Now, somehow, sir, it seems to me, More friendly-like we all should be, If you united of 'em to Unmarried members of the crew.

"If you'd ameliorate our life, Let each select from them a wife; And as for nervous me, old pal, Give me your own enchanting gal!"

Good Captain Reece, that worthy man, Debated on his coxswain's plan: "I quite agree," he said, "O Bill; It is my duty, and I will.

"My daughter, that enchanting gurl, Has just been promised to an earl, And all my other familee To peers of various degree.

"But what are dukes and viscounts to The happiness of all my crew? The word I gave you I'll fulfil; It is my duty, and I will.

"As you desire it shall befall, I 'll settle thousands on you all, And I shall be, despite my hoard, The only bachelor on board."

The boatswain of The Mantelpiece, He blushed and spoke to Captain Reece: "I beg your honor's leave," he said, "If you would wish to go and wed.

"I have a widowed mother who Would be the very thing for you— She long has loved you from afar, She washes for you, Captain R."

The captain saw the dame that day— Addressed her in his playful way— "And did it want a wedding-ring? It was a tempting ickle sing!

"Well, well, the chaplain I will seek, We'll all be married this day week At yonder church upon the hill; It is my duty, and I will!"

The sisters, cousins, aunts, and niece, And widowed ma of Captain Reece, Attended there as they were bid; It was their duty, and they did.

WILLIAM SCHWENCK GILBERT.

THE YARN OF THE "NANCY BELL." FROM "THE BAB BALLADS."

'T was on the shores that round our coast From Deal to Ramsgate span, That I found alone, on a piece of stone, An elderly naval man.

His hair was weedy, his beard was long, And weedy and long was he; And I heard this wight on the shore recite, In a singular minor key:—

"O, I am a cook and a captain bold, And the mate of the Nancy brig, And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain's gig."

And he shook his fist and he tore his hair, Till I really felt afraid, For I couldn't help thinking the man had been drinking, And so I simply said:—

"O elderly man, it 's little I know Of the duties of men of the sea, And I'll eat my hand if I understand How you can possibly be

"At once a cook and a captain bold, And the mate of the Nancy brig, And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain's gig!"

Then he gave a hitch to his trousers, which Is a trick all seamen larn, And having got rid of a thumping quid He spun this painful yarn:—

"'T was in the good ship Nancy Bell That we sailed to the Indian sea, And there on a reef we come to grief, Which has often occurred to me.

"And pretty nigh all o' the crew was drowned (There was seventy-seven o' soul); And only ten of the Nancy's men Said 'Here' to the muster-roll.

"There was me, and the cook, and the captain bold, And the mate of the Nancy brig, And the bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain's gig.

"For a month we 'd neither wittles nor drink, Till a-hungry we did feel, So we drawed a lot, and accordin', shot The captain for our meal.

"The next lot fell to the Nancy's mate, And a delicate dish he made; Then our appetite with the midshipmite We seven survivors stayed.

"And then we murdered the bo'sun tight, And he much resembled pig; Then we wittled free, did the cook and me, On the crew of the captain's gig.

"Then only the cook and me was left, And the delicate question, 'Which Of us two goes to the kettle?' arose, And we argued it out as sich.

"For I loved that cook as a brother, I did, And the cook he worshipped me; But we 'd both be blowed if we 'd either be stowed In the other chap's hold, you see.

"I 'll be eat if you dines off me,' says Tom. 'Yes, that,' says I, 'you 'll be. I 'm boiled if I die, my friend,' quoth I; And 'Exactly so,' quoth he.

"Says he: 'Dear James, to murder me Were a foolish thing to do, For don't you see that you can't cook me, While I can—and will—cook you!'

"So he boils the water, and takes the salt And the pepper in portions true (Which he never forgot), and some chopped shalot, And some sage and parsley too.

"'Come here,' says he, with a proper pride, Which his smiling features tell; "'T will soothing be if I let you see How extremely nice you 'll smell."

"And he stirred it round, and round, and round, And he sniffed at the foaming froth; When I ups with his heels, and smothers his squeals In the scum of the boiling broth.

"And I eat that cook in a week or less, And as I eating be The last of his chops, why I almost drops, For a wessel in sight I see.
————

"And I never larf, and I never smile, And I never lark nor play; But I sit and croak, and a single joke I have—which is to say:

"O, I am a cook and a captain bold And the mate of the Nancy brig, And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain's gig!"

WILLIAM SCHWENCK GILBERT.

THE ART OF BOOK-KEEPING.

How hard, when those who do not wish To lend, thus lose, their books, Are snared by anglers—folks that fish With literary hooks— Who call and take some favorite tome, But never read it through; They thus complete their set at home By making one at you.

I, of my "Spenser" quite bereft, Last winter sore was shaken; Of "Lamb" I 've but a quarter left, Nor could I save my "Bacon"; And then I saw my "Crabbe" at last, Like Hamlet, backward go, And, as the tide was ebbing fast, Of course I lost my "Rowe."

My "Mallet" served to knock me down, Which makes me thus a talker, And once, when I was out of town, My "Johnson" proved a "Walker." While studying o'er the fire one day My "Hobbes" amidst the smoke, They bore my "Colman" clean away, And carried off my "Coke."

They picked my "Locke," to me far more Than Bramah's patent worth, And now my losses I deplore, Without a "Home" on earth. If once a book you let them lift, Another they conceal, For though I caught them stealing "Swift," As swiftly went my "Steele."

"Hope" is not now upon my shelf, Where late he stood elated, But, what is strange, my "Pope" himself Is excommunicated. My little "Suckling" in the grave Is sunk to swell the ravage, And what was Crusoe's fate to save, 'T was mine to lose—a "Savage."

Even "Glover's" works I cannot put My frozen hands upon, Though ever since I lost my "Foote" My "Bunyan" has been gone. My "Hoyle" with "Cotton" went oppressed, My "Taylor," too, must fail, To save my "Goldsmith" from arrest, In vain I offered "Bayle."

I "Prior" sought, but could not see The "Hood" so late in front, And when I turned to hunt for "Lee," O, where was my "Leigh Hunt"? I tried to laugh, old Care to tickle, Yet could not "Tickell" touch, And then, alack! I missed my "Mickle," And surely mickle's much.

'T is quite enough my griefs to feed, My sorrows to excuse, To think I cannot read my "Reid," Nor even use my "Hughes." My classics would not quiet lie,— A thing so fondly hoped; Like Dr. Primrose, I may cry, My "Livy" has eloped.

My life is ebbing fast away; I suffer from these shocks; And though I fixed a lock on "Gray," There's gray upon my locks. I 'm far from "Young," am growing pale, I see my "Butler" fly, And when they ask about my ail, 'T is "Burton" I reply.

They still have made me slight returns, And thus my griefs divide; For O, they cured me of my "Burns," And eased my "Akenside." But all I think I shall not say, Nor let my anger burn, For, as they never found me "Gay," They have not left me "Sterne."

THOMAS HOOD.

ADDRESS TO THE TOOTHACHE.

My curse upon thy venomed stang, That shoots my tortured gums alang; An' through my lugs gies mony a twang, Wi' gnawing vengeance! Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, Like racking engines.

When fevers burn, or ague freezes, Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes; Our neighbor's sympathy may ease us, Wi' pitying moan; But thee,—thou hell o' a' diseases, Aye mocks our groan.

Adown my beard the slavers trickle; I throw the wee stools o'er the mickle, As round the fire the giglets keckle To see me loup; While, raving mad, I wish a heckle Were in their doup.

O' a' the numerous human dools, Ill har'sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools, Or worthy friends raked i' the mools, Sad sight to see! The tricks o' knaves or fash o' fools, Thou bear'st the gree.

Where'er that place be priests ca' hell, Whence a' the tones o' mis'ry yell, And rankèd plagues their numbers tell, In dreadfu' raw, Thou, Toothache, surely bear'st the bell, Among them a';

O thou grim mischief-making chiel, And surely mickle 's much. Till daft mankind aft dance a reel In gore a shoe-thick!— Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal A fowmond's Toothache!

ROBERT BURNS.

TO THE TERRESTRIAL GLOBE. BY A MISERABLE WRETCH.

Roll on, thou ball, roll on! Through pathless realms of space Roll on! What though I 'm in a sorry case? What though I cannot meet my bills? What though I suffer toothache's ills? What though I swallow countless pills? Never you mind! Roll on!

Roll on, thou ball, roll on! Through seas of inky air Roll on! It 's true I 've got no shirts to wear, It 's true my butcher's bill is due, It 's true my prospects all look blue,— But don't let that unsettle you! Never you mind! Roll on! [It rolls on.

WILLIAM SCHWENCK GILBERT.

THE NOSE AND THE EYES.

Between Nose and Eyes a strange contest arose; The spectacles set them, unhappily, wrong; The point in dispute was, as all the world knows, To whom the said spectacles ought to belong.

So Tongue was the lawyer, and argued the cause, With a great deal of skill, and a wig full of learning, While chief baron Ear sat to balance the laws,— So famed for his talent in nicely discerning.

"In behalf of the Nose, it will quickly appear (And your lordship," he said, "will undoubtedly find) That the Nose has the spectacles always to wear, Which amounts to possession, time out of mind."

Then, holding the spectacles up to the court, "Your lordship observes, they are made with a straddle. As wide as the ridge of the Nose is; in short, Designed to sit close to it, just like a saddle.

"Again, would your lordship a moment suppose ('T is a case that has happened, and may happen again) That the visage or countenance had not a Nose, Pray, who would, or who could, wear spectacles then?

"On the whole, it appears, and my argument shows, With a reasoning the court will never condemn, That the spectacles, plainly, were made for the Nose, And the Nose was, as plainly, intended for them."

Then shifting his side (as a lawyer knows how), He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes: But what were his arguments, few people know, For the court did not think them equally wise.

So his lordship decreed, with a grave, solemn tone, Decisive and clear, without one if or but, That whenever the Nose put his spectacles on, By daylight or candlelight,—Eyes should be shut.

WILLIAM COWPER.

THE VOWELS: AN ENIGMA.

We are little airy creatures, All of different voice and features; One of us in glass is set, One of us you 'll find in jet, T'other you may see in tin, And the fourth a box within; If the fifth you should pursue, It can never fly from you.

JONATHAN SWIFT.

ALNWICK CASTLE.

Home of the Percys' high-born race, Home of their beautiful and brave, Alike their birth and burial place, Their cradle and their grave! Still sternly o'er the castle gate Their house's Lion stands in state, As in his proud departed hours; And warriors frown in stone on high, And feudal banners "flout the sky" Above his princely towers.

A gentle hill its side inclines, Lovely in England's fadeless green, To meet the quiet stream which winds Through this romantic scene As silently and sweetly still As when, at evening, on that hill, While summer's wind blew soft and low, Seated by gallant Hotspur's side, His Katherine was a happy bride, A thousand years ago.

I wandered through the lofty halls Trod by the Percys of old fame, And traced upon the chapel walls Each high, heroic name, From him who once his standard set Where now, o'er mosque and minaret, Glitter the Sultan's crescent moons, To him who, when a younger son, Fought for King George at Lexington, A major of dragoons.

That last half-stanza,—it has dashed From my warm lips the sparkling cup; The light that o'er my eyebeam flashed, The power that bore my spirit up Above this bank-note world, is gone; And Alnwick's but a market town, And this, alas! its market day, And beasts and borderers throng the way; Oxen and bleating lambs in lots, Northumbrian boors and plaided Scots, Men in the coal and cattle line; From Teviot's bard and hero land, From royal Berwick's beach of sand, From Wooller, Morpeth, Hexham, and Newcastle-upon-Tyne.

These are not the romantic times So beautiful in Spenser's rhymes, So dazzling to the dreaming boy; Ours are the days of fact, not fable, Of knights, but not of the round table, Of Bailie Jarvie, not Rob Roy; 'T is what "Our President," Monroe, Has called "the era of good feeling;" The Highlander, the bitterest foe To modern laws, has felt their blow, Consented to be taxed, and vote, And put on pantaloons and coat, And leave off cattle-stealing: Lord Stafford mines for coal and salt, The Duke of Norfolk deals in malt, The Douglas in red herrings; And noble name and cultured land, Palace, and park, and vassal band, Are powerless to the notes of hand Of Rothschilds or the Barings.

The age of bargaining, said Burke, Has come: to-day the turbaned Turk (Sleep, Richard of the lion heart! Sleep on, nor from your cerements start) Is England's friend and fast ally; The Moslem tramples on the Greek, And on the Cross and altar-stone, And Christendom looks tamely on, And hears the Christian maiden shriek, And sees the Christian father die; And not a sabre-blow is given For Greece and fame, for faith and heaven, By Europe's craven chivalry.

You'll ask if yet the Percy lives In the armed pomp of feudal state. The present representatives Of Hotspur and his "gentle Kate," Are some half-dozen serving-men In the drab coat of William Penn; A chambermaid, whose lip and eye, And cheek, and brown hair, bright and curling, Spoke nature's aristocracy; And one, half groom, half seneschal, Who bowed me through court, bower, and hall, From donjon keep to turret wall, For ten-and-six-pence sterling.

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.