The Humorous Poetry of the English Language | Page 8

as I for Glory;
'Twere hard to say who fared the best:
Sad mortals! thus the gods still plague you!?He lost his labor, I my jest;
For he was drowned, and I've the ague
THE LISBON PACKET.
BYRON.
Huzza! Hodgson, we are going,?Our embargo's off at last;?Favorable breezes blowing?Bend the canvas o'er the mast.?From aloft the signal's streaming,?Hark! the farewell gun is fired;?Women screeching, tars blaspheming,?Tell us that our time's expired.
Here's a rascal?Come to task all,?Prying from the custom-house;
Trunks unpacking,?Cases cracking,?Not a corner for a mouse?'Scapes unsearched amid the racket,?Ere we sail on board the Packet.
Now our boatmen quit their mooring,?And all hands must ply the oar;?Baggage from the quay is lowering,?We're impatient--push from shore.?"Have a care! that case holds liquor--?Stop the boat--I'm sick--O Lord!"?"Sick, ma'am, damme, you'll be sicker?Ere you've been an hour on board."
Thus are screaming?Men and women,?Gemmen, ladies, servants, Jacks;
Here entangling,?All are wrangling,?Stuck together close as wax.--?Such the general noise and racket,?Ere we reach the Lisbon Packet.
Now we've reached her, lo! the captain,?Gallant Kid, commands the crew;?Passengers their berths are clapped in,?Some to grumble, some to spew.?"Hey day! call you that a cabin??Why, 'tis hardly three feet square;?Not enough to stow Queen Mab in--?Who the deuce can harbor there?"
"Who, sir? plenty--?Nobles twenty?Did at once my vessel fill."--
"Did they? Jesus,?How you squeeze us!?Would to God they did so still;?Then I'd 'scape the heat and racket?Of the good ship Lisbon Packet."
Fletcher! Murray! Bob! where are you??Stretched along the decks like logs--?Bear a hand, you jolly tar, you!?Here's a rope's end for the dogs.?Hobhouse muttering fearful curses,?As the hatchway down he rolls,?Now his breakfast, now his verses,?Vomits forth--and damns our souls.
"Here's a stanza?On Braganza--?Help!"--"A couplet?"--"No, a cup
Of warm water--"?"What's the matter?"?"Zounds! my liver's coming up;?I shall not survive the racket?Of this brutal Lisbon Packet."
Now at length we're off for Turkey,?Lord knows when we shall come back!?Breezes foul and tempests murky?May unship us in a crack.?But, since life at most a jest is,?As philosophers allow,?Still to laugh by far the best is,?Then laugh on--as I do now.
Laugh at all things,?Great and small things,?Sick or well, at sea or shore;
While we're quaffing,?Let's have laughing--?Who the devil cares for more?--?Some good wine! and who would lack it,?Even on board the Lisbon Packet?
TO FANNY.
THOMAS MOORE
Never mind how the pedagogue proses,?You want not antiquity's stamp,?The lip that's so scented by roses,?Oh! never must smell of the lamp.
Old Chloe, whose withering kisses?Have long set the loves at defiance,?Now done with the science of blisses,?May fly to the blisses of science!
Young Sappho, for want of employments,?Alone o'er her Ovid may melt,?Condemned but to read of enjoyments,?Which wiser Corinna had felt.
But for YOU to be buried in books--?Oh, FANNY! they're pitiful sages;?Who could not in ONE of your looks?Read more than in millions of pages!
Astronomy finds in your eye?Better light than she studies above,?And music must borrow your sigh?As the melody dearest to love.
In Ethics--'tis you that can check,?In a minute, their doubts and their quarrels?Oh! show but that mole on your neck,?And 'twill soon put an end to their morals.
Your Arithmetic only can trip?When to kiss and to count you endeavor;?But eloquence glows on your lip?When you swear that you'll love me forever
Thus you see what a brilliant alliance?Of arts is assembled in you--?A course of more exquisite science?Man never need wish to go through!
And, oh!--if a fellow like me?May confer a diploma of hearts,?With my lip thus I seal your degree,?My divine little Mistress of Arts!
YOUNG JESSICA.
THOMAS MOORE.
Young Jessica sat all the day,?In love-dreams languishingly pining,?Her needle bright neglected lay,?Like truant genius idly shining.?Jessy, 'tis in idle hearts?That love and mischief are most nimble;?The safest shield against the darts?Of Cupid, is Minerva's thimble.
A child who with a magnet play'd,?And knew its winning ways so wily,?The magnet near the needle laid,?And laughing, said, "We'll steal it slily."?The needle, having naught to do,?Was pleased to let the magnet wheedle,?Till closer still the tempter drew,?And off, at length, eloped the needle.
Now, had this needle turn'd its eye?To some gay reticule's construction,?It ne'er had stray'd from duty's tie,?Nor felt a magnet's sly seduction.?Girls would you keep tranquil hearts,?Your snowy fingers must be nimble;?The safest shield against the darts?Of Cupid, is Minerva's thimble.
RINGS AND SEALS.
THOMAS MOORE.
"Go!" said the angry weeping maid,?"The charm is broken!--once betray'd,?Oh! never can my heart rely?On word or look, on oath or sigh.?Take back the gifts, so sweetly given,?With promis'd faith and vows to heaven;?That little ring, which, night and morn,?With wedded truth my hand hath worn;?That seal which oft, in moments blest,?Thou hast upon my lip imprest,?And sworn its dewy spring should be?A fountain seal'd for only thee!?Take, take them back, the gift and vow,?All sullied, lost, and hateful, now!"
I took the ring--the seal I took,?While oh! her every tear and look?Were such as angels look and shed,?When man is by the world misled!?Gently I whisper'd, "FANNY, dear!?Not half thy lover's gifts