The Humorous Poetry of the English Language | Page 6

be too wise, and
be an ape:--
In colors let thy soul be dressed, not crape.

"Roses shall smooth life's journey, and adorn;
Yet mind me--if,
through want of grace,
Thou mean'st to fling the blessing in my face,

Thou hast full leave to tread upon a thorn."
Yet some there are, of men, I think the worst,
Poor imps! unhappy, if
they can't be cursed--
Forever brooding over Misery's eggs,
As
though life's pleasure were a deadly sin;
Mousing forever for a gin

To catch their happiness by the legs.
Even at a dinner some will be unblessed,
However good the viands,
and well dressed:
They always come to table with a scowl,
Squint
with a face of verjuice o'er each dish,
Fault the poor flesh, and quarrel
with the fish,
Curse cook and wife, and, loathing, eat and growl.
A cart-load, lo, their stomachs steal,
Yet swear they can not make a
meal.
I like not the blue-devil-hunting crew!
I hate to drop the
discontented jaw!
O let me Nature's simple smile pursue,
And pick
even pleasure from a straw.
ADDRESS TO THE TOOTHACHE.
WRITTEN 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