HUMOROUS POEMS.

TOBY TOSSPOT.

Alas! what pity 't is that regularity, Like Isaac Shove's, is such a rarity! But there are swilling wights in London town, Termed jolly dogs, choice spirits, alias swine, Who pour, in midnight revel, bumpers down, Making their throats a thoroughfare for wine.

These spendthrifts, who life's pleasures thus run on, Dozing with headaches till the afternoon, Lose half men's regular estate of sun, By borrowing too largely of the moon.

One of this kidney—Toby Tosspot hight— Was coming from the Bedford late at night; And being Bacchi plenus, full of wine, Although he had a tolerable notion Of aiming at progressive motion, 'T wasn't direct,—'t was serpentine. He worked with sinuosities, along, Like Monsieur Corkscrew, worming through a cork, Not straight, like Corkscrew's proxy, stiff Don Prong,—a fork.

At length, with near four bottles in his pate, He saw the moon shining on Shove's brass plate, When reading, "Please to ring the bell," And being civil beyond measure,

"Ring it!" says Toby,—"very well; I'll ring it with a deal of pleasure." Toby, the kindest soul in all the town, Gave it a jerk that almost jerked it down.

He waited full two minutes,—no one came; He waited full two minutes more;—and then Says Toby, "If he's deaf, I'm not to blame; I'll pull it for the gentleman again."

But the first peal woke Isaac in a fright, Who, quick as lightning, popping up his head, Sat on his head's antipodes, in bed, Pale as a parsnip,—bolt upright.

At length he wisely to himself doth say, calming his fears.— "Tush! 't is some fool has rung and run away;" When peal the second rattled in his ears.

Shove jumped into the middle of the floor; And, trembling at each breath of air that stirred, He groped down stairs, and opened the street door, While Toby was performing peal the third.

Isaac eyed Toby, fearfully askant, And saw he was a strapper, stout and tall; Then put this question, "Pray, sir, what d'ye want?" Says Toby, "I want nothing sir, at all."

"Want nothing! Sir, you've pulled my bell, I vow, As if you'd jerk it off the wire." Quoth Toby, gravely making him a bow, "I pulled it, sir, at your desire."

"At mine?" "Yes, yours; I hope I've done it well. High time for bed, sir; I was hastening to it; But if you write up, 'Please to ring the bell,' Common politeness makes me stop and do it."

GEORGE COLMAN THE YOUNGER.

THE MILKMAID.

A milkmaid, who poised a full pail on her head, Thus mused on her prospects in life, it is said: "Let me see,—I should think that this milk will procure One hundred good eggs, or fourscore, to be sure.

"Well then,—stop a bit,—it must not be forgotten, Some of these may be broken, and some may be rotten; But if twenty for accident should be detached, It will leave me just sixty sound eggs to be hatched.

"Well, sixty sound eggs,—no, sound chickens, I mean: Of these some may die,—we'll suppose seventeen, Seventeen! not so many—say ten at the most, Which will leave fifty chickens to boil or to roast.

"But then there's their barley: how much will they need? Why, they take but one grain at a time when they feed,— So that's a mere trifle; now then, let us see, At a fair market price how much money there'll be.

"Six shillings a pair—five—four—three-and-six. To prevent all mistakes, that low price I will fix; Now what will that make? fifty chickens, I said,— Fifty times three-and-sixpence—I'll ask Brother Ned.

"O, but stop,—three-and-sixpence a pair I must sell 'em; Well, a pair is a couple,—now then let us tell 'em; A couple in fifty will go (my poor brain!) Why, just a score times and five pair will remain.

"Twenty-five pair of fowls—now how tiresome it is That I can't reckon up so much money as this! Well, there's no use in trying, so let's give a guess,— I'll say twenty pounds, and it can't be no less.

"Twenty pounds, I am certain, will buy me a cow, Thirty geese and two turkeys,—eight pigs and a sow; Now if these turn out well, at the end of a year, I shall fill both my pockets with guineas, 't is clear."

Forgetting her burden, when this she had said, The maid superciliously tossed up her head; When, alas for her prospects! her milk-pail descended, And so all her schemes for the future were ended.

This moral, I think, may be safely attached,— "Reckon not on your chickens before they are hatched."

JEFFREYS TAYLOR.

MORNING MEDITATIONS.

Let Taylor preach, upon a morning breezy, How well to rise while nights and larks are flying,— For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.

What if the lark does carol in the sky, Soaring beyond the sight to find him out,— Wherefore am I to rise at such a fly? I'm not a trout.

Talk not to me of bees and such-like hums, The smell of sweet herbs at the morning prime,— Only lie long enough, and bed becomes A bed of time.

To me Dan Phœbus and his car are naught, His steeds that paw impatiently about,— Let them enjoy, say I, as horses ought, The first turn-out!

Right beautiful the dewy meads appear Besprinkled by the rosy-fingered girl; What then,—if I prefer my pillow-beer To early pearl?

My stomach is not ruled by other men's, And, grumbling for a reason, quaintly begs Wherefore should master rise before the hens Have laid their eggs?

Why from a comfortable pillow start To see faint flushes in the east awaken? A fig, say I, for any streaky part, Excepting bacon.

An early riser Mr. Gray has drawn, Who used to haste the dewy grass among, "To meet the sun upon the upland lawn,"— Well,—he died young.

With charwomen such early hours agree, And sweeps that earn betimes their bit and sup; But I'm no climbing boy, and need not be All up,—all up!

So here I lie, my morning calls deferring, Till something nearer to the stroke of noon;— A man that's fond precociously of stirring Must be a spoon.

THOMAS HOOD..

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG.

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— Whene'er 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 neighboring streets The wondering neighbors 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 showed the rogues they lied:— The man recovered of the bite. The dog it was that died!

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

OLD GRIMES.

Old Grimes is dead, that good old man,— We ne'er shall see him more; He used to wear a long black coat, All buttoned down before.

His heart was open as the day, His feelings all were true; His hair was some inclined to gray,— He wore it in a queue.

Whene'er he heard the voice of pain, His breast with pity burned; The large round head upon his cane From ivory was turned.

Kind words he ever had for all; He knew no base design; His eyes were dark and rather small, His nose was aquiline.

He lived at peace with all mankind, In friendship he was true; His coat had pocket-holes behind, His pantaloons were blue.

Unharmed, the sin which earth pollutes He passed securely o'er,— And never wore a pair of boots For thirty years or more.

But good Old Grimes is now at rest, Nor fears misfortune's frown; He wore a double-breasted vest,— The stripes ran up and down.

He modest merit sought to find, And pay it its desert; He had no malice in his mind, No ruffles on his shirt.

His neighbors he did not abuse,— Was sociable and gay; He wore large buckles on his shoes, And changed them every day.

His knowledge, hid from public gaze, He did not bring to view, Nor make a noise, town-meeting days, As many people do.

His worldly goods he never threw In trust to fortune's chances, But lived (as all his brothers do) In easy circumstances.

Thus undisturbed by anxious cares His peaceful moments ran; And everybody said he was A fine old gentleman.

ALBERT G. GREENE.

ELEGY ON MADAM BLAIZE.

Good people all, with one accord, Lament for Madam Blaize; Who never wanted a good word— From those who spoke her praise.

The needy seldom passed her door, And always found her kind; She freely lent to all the poor— Who left a pledge behind.

She strove the neighborhood to please, With manner wondrous winning; She never followed wicked ways— Unless when she was sinning.

At church, in silk and satins new, With hoop of monstrous size, She never slumbered in her pew— But when she shut her eyes.

Her love was sought, I do aver, By twenty beaux, or more; The king himself has followed her— When she has walked before.

But now her wealth and finery fled, Her hangers-on cut short all, Her doctors found, when she was dead— Her last disorder mortal.

Let us lament, in sorrow sore; For Kent Street well may say, That, had she lived a twelvemonth more— She had not died to-day.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

THE GRAVE-YARD. FROM "A FABLE FOR CRITICS."

Let us glance for a moment, 't is well worth the pains, And note what an average grave-yard contains; There lie levellers levelled, duns done up themselves, There are booksellers finally laid on their shelves, Horizontally there lie upright politicians, Dose-a-dose with their patients sleep faultless physicians, There are slave-drivers quietly whipt under-ground, There bookbinders, done up in boards, are fast bound, There card-players wait till the last trump be played, There all the choice spirits get finally laid, There the babe that's unborn is supplied with a berth, There men without legs get their six feet of earth, There lawyers repose, each wrapt up in his case, There seekers of office are sure of a place, There defendant and plaintiff get equally cast, There shoemakers quietly stick to the last, There brokers at length become silent as stocks, There stage-drivers sleep without quitting their box, And so forth and so forth and so forth and so on, With this kind of stuff one might endlessly go on; To come to the point, I may safely assert you Will find in each yard every cardinal virtue; (And at this just conclusion will surely arrive, That the goodness of earth is more dead than alive).

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY. A PATHETIC BALLAD.

Ben Battle was a soldier bold, And used to war's alarms; But a cannon-ball took off his legs, So he laid down his arms.

Now as they bore him off the field, Said he, "Let others shoot; For here I leave my second leg, And the Forty-second Foot."

The army-surgeons made him limbs: Said he, "They're only pegs; But there's as wooden members quite As represent my legs."

Now Ben he loved a pretty maid,— Her name was Nelly Gray; So he went to pay her his devours, When he devoured his pay.

But when he called on Nelly Gray, She made him quite a scoff; And when she saw his wooden legs, Began to take them off.

"O Nelly Gray! O Nelly Gray! Is this your love so warm? The love that loves a scarlet coat Should be more uniform."

Said she, "I loved a soldier once, For he was blithe and brave; But I will never have a man With both legs in the grave.

"Before you had those timber toes Your love I did allow; But then, you know, you stand upon Another footing now."

"O Nelly Gray! O Nelly Gray! For all your jeering speeches, At duty's call I left my legs In Badajos's breaches."

"Why, then," said she, "you've lost the feet Of legs in war's alarms, And now you cannot wear your shoes Upon your feats of arms!"

"O false and fickle Nelly Gray! I know why you refuse: Though I've no feet, some other man Is standing in my shoes.

"I wish I ne'er had seen your face; But, now a long farewell! For you will be my death;—alas! You will not be my Nell!"

Now when he went from Nelly Gray His heart so heavy got, And life was such a burden grown, It made him take a knot.

So round his melancholy neck A rope he did intwine, And, for his second time in life, Enlisted in the Line.

One end he tied around a beam, And then removed his pegs; And as his legs were off,—of course He soon was off his legs.

And there he hung till he was dead As any nail in town; For, though distress had cut him up, It could not cut him down.

A dozen men sat on his corpse, To find out why he died,— And they buried Ben in four cross-roads, With a stake in his inside.

THOMAS HOOD.

"But as they fetched a walk one day, They met a press-gang crew; And Sally she did faint away, Whilst Ben he was brought to."
—THOMAS HOOD.

FAITHLESS SALLY BROWN.

Young Ben he was a nice young man, A carpenter by trade; And he fell in love with Sally Brown, That was a lady's maid.

But as they fetched a walk one day, They met a press-gang crew; And Sally she did faint away, Whilst Ben he was brought to.

The boatswain swore with wicked words Enough to shock a saint, That, though she did seem in a fit, 'T was nothing but a feint.

"Come, girl," said he, "hold up your head, He'll be as good as me; For when your swain is in our boat A boatswain he will be."

So when they'd made their game of her, And taken off her elf, She roused, and found she only was A coming to herself.

"And is he gone, and is he gone?" She cried and wept outright; "Then I will to the water-side, And see him out of sight."

A waterman came up to her; "Now, young woman," said he, "If you weep on so, you will make Eye-water in the sea."

"Alas! they've taken my beau, Ben, To sail with old Benbow;" And her woe began to run afresh, As if she'd said, Gee woe!

Says he, "They've only taken him To the tender-ship, you see." "The tender-ship," cried Sally Brown,— "What a hard-ship that must be!"

"O, would I were a mermaid now, For then I'd follow him! But O, I'm not a fish-woman, And so I cannot swim.

"Alas! I was not born beneath The Virgin and the Scales, So I must curse my cruel stars, And walk about in Wales."

Now Ben had sailed to many a place That's underneath the world; But in two years the ship came home, And all her sails were furled.

But when he called on Sally Brown, To see how she got on, He found she'd got another Ben, Whose Christian-name was John.

"O Sally Brown! O Sally Brown! How could you serve me so? I've met with many a breeze before, But never such a blow!"

Then, reading on his 'bacco box, He heaved a heavy sigh, And then began to eye his pipe, And then to pipe his eye.

And then he tried to sing, "All's Well!" But could not, though he tried; His head was turned,—and so he chewed His pigtail till he died.

His death, which happened in his berth, At forty-odd befell; They went and told the sexton, and The sexton tolled the bell.

THOMAS HOOD..

ORATOR PUFF.

Mr. Orator Puff had two tones in his voice, The one squeaking thus, and the other down so; In each sentence he uttered he gave you your choice, For one half was B alt, and the rest G below. O! O! Orator Puff, One voice for an orator's surely enough.

But he still talked away, spite of coughs and of frowns, So distracting all ears with his ups and his downs, That a wag once, on hearing the orator say, "My voice is for war!" asked, "Which of them, pray?" O! O! Orator Puff, etc.

Reeling homeward one evening, top-heavy with gin, And rehearsing his speech on the weight of the crown, He tripped near a saw-pit, and tumbled right in, "Sinking fund" the last words as his noddle came down. O! O! Orator Puff, etc.

"Good Lord!" he exclaimed, in his he-and-she tones, "Help me out! Help me out! I have broken my bones!" "Help you out?" said a Paddy who passed, "what a bother! Why, there's two of you there—can't you help one another?" O! O! Orator Puff, One voice for an orator's surely enough.

THOMAS MOORE.

THE GOUTY MERCHANT AND THE STRANGER.

In Broad Street building (on a winter night), Snug by his parlor-fire, a gouty wight Sat all alone, with one hand rubbing His feet rolled up in fleecy hose: With t' other he'd beneath his nose The Public Ledger, in whose columns grubbing, He noted all the sales of hops, Ships, shops, and slops; Gum, galls, and groceries; ginger, gin, Tar, tallow, turmeric, turpentine, and tin; When lo! a decent personage in black Entered and most politely said,— "Your footman, sir, has gone his nightly track To the King's Head, And left your door ajar; which I Observed in passing by, And thought it neighborly to give you notice." "Ten thousand thanks; how very few get, In time of danger, Such kind attention from a stranger! Assuredly, that fellow's throat is Doomed to a final drop at Newgate: He knows, too, (the unconscionable elf!) That there's no soul at home except myself." "Indeed," replied the stranger (looking grave), "Then he's a double knave; He knows that rogues and thieves by scores Nightly beset unguarded doors: And see, how easily might one Of these domestic foes, Even beneath your very nose, Perform his knavish tricks; Enter your room, as I have done, Blow out your candles—thus—and thus— Pocket your silver candlesticks, And—walk off—thus"— So said, so done; he made no more remark Nor waited for replies, But marched off with his prize, Leaving the gouty merchant in the dark.

HORACE SMITH.

THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN. SHOWING HOW HE WENT FARTHER THAN HE INTENDED, AND CAME SAFE HOME AGAIN.

John Gilpin was a citizen Of credit and renown, A trainband captain eke was he Of famous London town.

John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear— "Though wedded we have been These twice ten tedious years, yet we No holiday have seen.

"To morrow is our wedding-day, And we will then repair Unto the Bell at Edmonton All in a chaise and pair.

"My sister and my sister's child, Myself and children three, Will fill the chaise; so you must ride On horseback after we."

He soon replied, "I do admire Of womankind but one, And you are she, my dearest dear: Therefore it shall be done.

"I am a linendraper bold, As all the world doth know, And my good friend the calender Will lend his horse to go."

Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, "That's well said; And for that wine is dear, We will be furnished with our own, Which is both bright and clear."

John Gilpin kissed his loving wife; O'erjoyed was he to find, That, though on pleasure she was bent, She had a frugal mind.

The morning came, the chaise was brought, But yet was not allowed To drive up to the door, lest all Should say that she was proud.

So three doors off the chaise was stayed, Where they did all get in; Six precious souls, and all agog To dash through thick and thin.

Smack went the whip, round went the wheels. Were never folks so glad; The stones did rattle underneath, As if Cheapside were mad.

John Gilpin at his horse's side Seized fast the flowing mane, And up he got in haste to ride. But soon came down again;

For saddle-tree scarce reached had he, His journey to begin, When, turning round his head, he saw Three customers come in.

So down he came; for loss of time, Although it grieved him sore, Yet loss of pence, full well he knew, Would trouble him much more.

'T was long before the customers Were suited to their mind, When Betty screaming came down stairs, "The wine is left behind!"

"Good lack!" quoth he, "yet bring it me, My leathern belt likewise, In which I bear my trusty sword When I do exercise."

Now Mistress Gilpin (careful soul!) Had two stone bottles found, To hold the liquor that she loved, And keep it safe and sound.

Each bottle had a curling ear, Through which the belt he drew, And hung a bottle on each side, To make his balance true.

Then over all, that he might be Equipped from top to toe, His long red cloak, well brushed and neat, He manfully did throw.

Now see him mounted once again Upon his nimble steed, Full slowly pacing o'er the stones, With caution and good heed.

But finding soon a smoother road Beneath his well-shod feet, The snorting beast began to trot, Which galled him in his seat.

"So, fair and softly," John he cried, But John he cried in vain; That trot became a gallop soon, In spite of curb and rein.

So stooping down, as needs he must Who cannot sit upright, He grasped the mane with both his hands, And eke with all his might.

His horse, who never in that sort Had handled been before. What thing upon his back had got Did wonder more and more.

Away went Gilpin, neck or naught; Away went hat and wig; He little dreamt, when he set out, Of running such a rig.

The wind did blow, the cloak did fly, Like streamer long and gay, Till, loop and button failing both, At last it flew away.

Then might all people well discern The bottles he had slung; A bottle swinging at each side, As hath been said or sung.

The dogs did bark, the children screamed, Up flew the windows all; And every soul cried out, "Well done!" As loud as he could bawl.

Away went Gilpin,—who but he? His fame soon spread around, "He carries weight! he rides a race! 'T is for a thousand pound!"

And still as fast as he drew near, 'T was wonderful to view, How in a trice the turnpike men Their gates wide open threw.

And now, as he went bowing down His reeking head full low, The bottles twain behind his back Were shattered at a blow.

Down ran the wine into the road, Most piteous to be seen, Which made his horse's flanks to smoke As they had basted been.

But still he seemed to carry weight, With leathern girdle braced; For all might see the bottle necks Still dangling at his waist.

Thus all through merry Islington These gambols did he play, Until he came unto the Wash Of Edmonton so gay;

And there he threw the wash about On both sides of the way, Just like unto a trundling mop, Or a wild goose at play.

At Edmonton his loving wife From the balcony spied Her tender husband, wondering much To see how he did ride.

"Stop, stop, John Gilpin!—Here's the house," They all at once did cry; "The dinner waits, and we are tired." Said Gilpin, "So am I!"

But yet his horse was not a whit Inclined to tarry there; For why?—his owner had a house Pull ten miles off, at Ware.

So like an arrow swift he flew, Shot by an archer strong; So did he fly—which brings me to The middle of my song.

Away went Gilpin out of breath, And sore against his will. Till at his friend the calender's His horse at last stood still.

The calender, amazed to see His neighbor in such trim, Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, And thus accosted him:

"What news? what news? your tidings tell; Tell me you must and shall,— Say why bareheaded you are come, Or why you come at all?"

Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, And loved a timely joke; And thus unto the calender In merry guise he spoke:

"I came because your horse would come; And, if I well forebode, My hat and wig will soon be here, They are upon the road."

The calender, right glad to find His friend in merry pin, Returned him not a single word, But to the house went in;

Whence straight he came with hat and wig; A wig that flowed behind, A hat not much the worse for wear, Each comely in its kind.

He held them up, and in his turn Thus showed his ready wit, "My head is twice as big as yours, They therefore needs must fit.

"But let me scrape the dirt away That hangs upon your face; And stop and eat, for well you may Be in a hungry case."

Said John, "It is my wedding-day, And all the world would stare, If wife should dine at Edmonton, And I should dine at Ware."

So turning to his horse, he said, "I am in haste to dine; 'T was for your pleasure you came here, You shall go back for mine."

Ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast! For which he paid full dear; For, while he spake, a braying ass Did sing most loud and clear;

Whereat his horse did snort, as he Had heard a lion roar, And galloped off with all his might, As he had done before.

Away went Gilpin, and away Went Gilpin's hat and wig: He lost them sooner than at first, For why?—they were too big.

Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw Her husband posting down Into the country far away, She pulled out half a crown;

And thus unto the youth she said, That drove them to the Bell, "This shall be yours when you bring back My husband safe and well."

The youth did ride, and soon did meet John coming back amain; Whom in a trice he tried to stop By catching at his rein;

But not performing what he meant, And gladly would have done, The frightened steed he frightened more, And made him faster run.

Away went Gilpin, and away Went postboy at his heels, The postboy's horse right glad to miss The lumbering of the wheels.

Six gentlemen upon the road, Thus seeing Gilpin fly, With postboy scampering in the rear, They raised the hue and cry:—

"Stop thief! stop thief!—a highwayman!" Not one of them was mute; And all and each that passed that way Did join in the pursuit.

And now the turnpike-gates again Flew open in short space; The toll-man thinking, as before, That Gilpin rode a race.

And so he did, and won it too, For he got first to town; Nor stopped till where he had got up He did again get down.

Now let us sing, "Long live the king, And Gilpin, long live he; And when he next doth ride abroad, May I be there to see!"

WILLIAM COWPER.