The Humorous Poetry of the English Language | Page 6

WHEN THE AUTHOR WAS GRIEVOUSLY TORMENTED BY THAT DISORDER.
ROBERT BURNS.
My curse upon thy venom'd stang,?That shoots my tortur'd gums alang;?And thro' 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 neighbors' sympathy may ease us,
Wi' pitying moan;?But thee--thou hell o' a' diseases,
Aye mocks our groan!
A down my beard the slavers trickle!?I kick 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 num'rous human dools,?Ill har'sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools,?Or worthy friends rak'd 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 ranked plagues their numbers tell,
In dreadfu' raw,?Thou, Toothache, surely bear'st the bell,
Amang them a';
O thou grim mischief-making chiel,?That gars the notes of discord squeel,?'Till daft mankind aft dance a reel
In gore a shoe-thick;--?Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal
A towmond's Toothache!
THE PIG.
A COLLOQUIAL POEM.
ROBERT SOUTHEY
Jacob! I do not like to see thy nose?Turn'd up in scornful curve at yonder pig,?It would be well, my friend, if we, like him,?Were perfect in our kind!..And why despise?The sow-born grunter?..He is obstinate,?Thou answerest; ugly, and the filthiest beast?That banquets upon offal. ...Now I pray you?Hear the pig's counsel.
Is he obstinate??We must not, Jacob, be deceived by words;?We must not take them as unheeding hands?Receive base money at the current worth?But with a just suspicion try their sound,?And in the even balance weigh them well?See now to what this obstinacy comes:?A poor, mistreated, democratic beast,?He knows that his unmerciful drivers seek?Their profit, and not his. He hath not learned?That pigs were made for man,...born to be brawn'd?And baconized: that he must please to give?Just what his gracious masters please to take;?Perhaps his tusks, the weapons Nature gave?For self-defense, the general privilege;?Perhaps,...hark, Jacob! dost thou hear that horn??Woe to the young posterity of Pork!?Their enemy is at hand.
Again. Thou say'st?The pig is ugly. Jacob, look at him!?Those eyes have taught the lover flattery.?His face, ...nay, Jacob! Jacob! were it fair?To judge a lady in her dishabille??Fancy it dressed, and with saltpeter rouged.?Behold his tail, my friend; with curls like that?The wanton hop marries her stately spouse:?So crisp in beauty Amoretta's hair?Rings round her lover's soul the chains of love.?And what is beauty, but the aptitude?Of parts harmonious? Give thy fancy scope,?And thou wilt find that no imagined change?Can beautify this beast. Place at his end?The starry glories of the peacock's pride,?Give him the swan's white breast; for his horn-hoofs?Shape such a foot and ankle as the waves?Crowded in eager rivalry to kiss?When Venus from the enamor'd sea arose;...?Jacob, thou canst but make a monster of him!?All alteration man could think, would mar?His pig-perfection.
The last charge,...he lives?A dirty life. Here I could shelter him?With noble and right-reverend precedents,?And show by sanction of authority?That 'tis a very honorable thing?To thrive by dirty ways. But let me rest?On better ground the unanswerable defense.?The pig is a philosopher, who knows?No prejudice. Dirt?...Jacob, what is dirt??If matter,...why the delicate dish that tempts?An o'ergorged epicure to the last morsel?That stuffs him to the throat-gates, is no more.?If matter be not, but as sages say,?Spirit is all, and all things visible?Are one, the infinitely modified,?Think, Jacob, what that pig is, and the mire?Wherein he stands knee-deep!
And there! the breeze?Pleads with me, and has won thee to a smile?That speaks conviction. O'er yon blossom'd field?Of beans it came, and thoughts of bacon rise.
SNUFF.
ROBERT SOUTHEY.
A delicate pinch! oh how it tingles up?The titillated nose, and fills the eyes?And breast, till in one comfortable sneeze?The full-collected pleasure bursts at last!?Most rare Columbus! thou shalt be for this?The only Christopher in my calendar.?Why, but for thee the uses of the nose?Were half unknown, and its capacity?Of joy. The summer gale that from the heath,?At midnoon glowing with the golden gorse,?Bears its balsamic odor, but provokes?Not satisfies the sense; and all the flowers,?That with their unsubstantial fragrance tempt?And disappoint, bloom for so short a space,?That half the year the nostrils would keep lent,?But that the kind tobacconist admits?No winter in his work; when Nature sleeps?His wheels roll on, and still administer?A plenitude of joy, a tangible smell.
What are Peru and those Golcondan mines?To thee, Virginia? miserable realms,?The produce of inhuman toil, they send?Gold for the greedy, jewels for the vain.?But thine are COMMON comforts!...To omit?Pipe-panegyric and tobacco-praise,?Think what a general joy the snuff-box gives,?Europe, and far above Pizarro's name?Write Raleigh in thy records of renown!?Him let the school-boy bless if he behold?His master's box produced, for when he sees?The thumb and finger of authority?Stuffed up the nostrils: when hat, head, and wig?Shake all; when on the waistcoat black, brown dust,?From the oft-reiterated pinch profuse?Profusely scattered, lodges