THE sea, the sea, the open sea, It runneth the earth's wide region round: It plays with the clouds, it mocks the skies, Or like a cradled creature lies. I'm on the sea, I'm on the sea, I am where I would ever be, With the blue above and the blue below, If a storm should come and awake the deep, I love, O how I love to ride The waves were white, and red the morn, I have lived since then in calm and strife, Full fifty summers a rover's life, THE pipe, the pipe, the German pipe! They float my head's wide regions round; My hookha wide! my hookha deep! With the smoke above, and smoke below, And smoke wheresoe'er I go. If a storm (like a Chinese gong) should ring What matters that? I'll smoke and sing. What matters, &c. I love-oh! how I love to smoke, I never breathed the dull tame air, I hope your comment on this line is "clever!" For fear of growing at all lackadaisical I hasten to lay down my pen parody-sical; In truth these stanzas concluding with somewhat 'Bout "birth" and "death," which things I can't come I've only one word, and that's to crave pardon, These sweet pretty verses that I've been so hard on. From The Individual. Cambridge, January 31, 1837. THE GIN, THE GIN! THE gin the gin! Hodge's Cordial Gin! It fairly makes our heads to spin ; It gives us marks, and without bound, It turneth our head completely round; It plays with our eyes, it mocks our brain, And sends us rolling in the drain. I love the gin! I love the gin! Or ever live among butts below, For the juniper's taste so well I know; If a drunken storm should rise, and a row begin, What matter? We'll settle it all with Gin. I love, I love-oh, how I love to bide, I never tasted watery swipes, But I always found they gave me the gripes; No three-outs I'll have, but my whack to the brim. The gin it flow'd the glasses to adorn, THE MAIL! THE MAIL! ANONYMOUS. THE Mail! The Mail! The Royal Mail, She runneth from Cork to Dublin straight, I'm on the Mail, I'm on the Mail! I am where I would ever sail, With the dust before and the dust behind, I love, O! how I love to drive, Or why the panting leaders blow, And my native place I always hail, For I was born, was born in the "Royal Mail." The roads were rough, and red the morn, In the noisy hour when I was born, The leaders jobled, and out they flung, As welcomed to life the coachman's child. Full fifty summers and not grown thin, Must come on the fast light bounding Stage. From Wiseheart's New Comic Songster, Dublin. THE ROAD, THE road, the road, the turnpike road! Horses against horses on it contend; Men laugh at the gate, they bilk the tolls, Or stop and pay like honest souls. I'm on the road, I'm on the road, I'm never so blithe as when abroad, If the opposition appears in sight What matters-we'll soon make that all right. I love-oh! how I love to ride, With a smiling damsel by my side, Where every prad keeps well his pace, Nor draws my eye from the sweet one's face. I never heard the angry sea roar, But I love the dry land more and more; And away have flown to my box and reins. No date. For whips and wheel sounds are my favourite strains; On my team is all my care bestow'd, For I was born on the turnpike road! The clouds were dark, and grey the morn, In the hazy hour when I was born; The guard he whistled, the coach it roll'd, And the outriders shrieked and shivered with cold, And never was heard such a curious din, As when the road-child the world popt in. I have driven since then in fair and rough, And death, whenever he looks for me, THE STEAK. OF steak, of steak-of prime rump steak- If a coal should come, a blaze to make, Have patience! You mustn't put on your steak. First rub-yes, rub-with suet fat, The gridiron's bars, then on it flat, And when 'tis brown'd by the genial glow, Both sides with brown being cover'd o'er, And add of butter a slice of the best; When seasoned quite, upon the fire As a nice rump steak in the cooking spiled. I've lived in pleasure mixed with grief, On fish and fowl, and mutton and beef; With plenty of cash, and power to range, But my steak I never wished to change : For a steak was always a treat to me, At breakfast, luncheon, dinner, or tea. Punch. THE TEA! THE TEA! THE tea! the tea! the genuine tea! It fills the teapot, and from the spout, I'm for the tea! I'm for the tea! I love-oh! how I love to sip, The green-green tea with my willing lip, I never sat down with a dull tame "bore," For 'twas blent with the flavour of good green tea. I think I may say six thousand pounds That is little enough-but one's heart's in the skies- I'm in the See, I'm in the See, I am where I may ever be. Suppose I do not choose to go, What do you say then; yes or no? Of the whole of the income I stand possessed, And I can't be turn'd out of my mother's nest, For a Mother the Church has been to me, And I was born for her fattest See. I love my See, my wealthy See, I scorn the idea of Simony; But I must take care what I'm about, THE TEA. By Carry Bornwall. THE tea! the tea! the beef, beef tea! I like beef-tea! I like beef-tea, I'm satisfied, and aye shall be, With the brew I love, with the brew I know, If the price should rise, or meat be cheap I love--oh, how I love to guide The strong beef-tea to its place inside, I never have drunk the dull souchong, OPERATIC MEM. "When the C. from the chest is produced for the first time, the delight of the tenor is supposed to be so great that he bursts out into something like the following: THE C! The c! The ALTO C! Most singers never get past B, Nor reach that most expensive sound. The C, which now at last I've found,— The C that treasure which to gain, Lessees shall hunt no more in vain. I'm up to C! I'm up to C! I am where I ne'er hoped to be!" 1853. Diogenes, Volume ii. THE VAN-DEMON. THE Van, the Van! the hurrying Van! Jolly the day when the Van was born, In the noddle of Pickford, or Chaplin and Horne; Our admiral grew paler, and paler, as we flew, Still talk'd he to the officers, and smiled upon the crew; And he look'd up at the heavens, and he look'd down on the sea, And at last he saw the creature that was following in our lee! He shook-'twas but an instant: for speedily the pride Ran crimson to his heart, till all chances he defied; It threw boldness on his forehead, gave firmness to his breath, And he look'd like some grim warrior new risen up from death! B. W. PROCTER. SONG OF JULY. JULY is a rare old fellow, He's a month when the sun does shine; Hurra, hurra! though we don't know why, The fickle cuckoo leaves us, But that's the way with them all. Then hurra, hurra! though we don t know why, For that blazing month--a hot July. THE RETURN OF THE OMNIBUS. How gallantly, how merrily, we ride along the lane, The passengers all hope to catch the eight o'clock uptrain; The wind is fresh, the clouds of dust do in our faces fly, Like coming from the Derby, when the roads are always dry: And all along is triumph: large crows above us sweep; Small boys rush out to shout at us, and maids from win dows peep. A free-school urchin hangs behind some way upon the road Oh! proud must be our omnibus of such a jolly load! And proud is Tom, the driver, too, who smiles, and well he may, Of twice three people (in and out) who'll each a shilling pay; He's proud, too, of that old grey horse, who earns so very hard The hay and water he shall have when once more in his yard. Oh, would that I were Tom, to drive and order with a word, That old grey horse, whose harness is made up of tape and cord, I'd shout unto the free-school boy who's hanging on our lee, 'If you don't mind, I'll whip behind, as quickly you shall see.' Our driver pale, and paler grew; but, as we went along, Still talked he to the passengers, and then he hummed a song; And first he looked behind him, and then he looked on straight; And then we thought we heard him say 'I think we is too late.' He shook-'twas but an instant-we saw his fearful plight, The village clock struck eight just then; but that is never right. He flogged the old grey horse along, till he was out of breath, And when he reached the station doors he turned as pale as death. We heard a bell, and then a pause, and then a bell again! We knew our fine old omnibus had missed the 'eight uptrain.' And next we heard a rush of steam, but nothing could we see, But a whistle and a puff among the fir-trees on our lee. We watched the passing vapour till it vanished round the steep, Then back again t'wards home with all our luggage did we creep; But never from that moment, having once been 'sold,' again We patronised the omnibus that always missed the train. From A Pottle of Strawberries, by Albert Smith. THE ALDERMAN. (By a Parishioner of St. Stephen's, Walbrook.) How gallantly, how merrily, they ride upon their way; Fleet Street is in commotion, the Queen comes here to-day! The Aldermen are mounted, and sitting bolt-upright, Like riders in whose eyes it is no joke to hold on tight. All London owns their triumph, they ride along two deep, Small boys come up to look at them, their seats so well they keep. In their wake, as mild as new milk, stand policemen stiff and stark ; Oh! who would not be Aldermen, in such a famous lark? How crazily, how lazily, We creep along the sea; Our upper works are straining, Our hull is rolling free; Our lower ports they baffle Like scuppers, through whose leaky seams E'en coal-brigs o'er us triumph, Green's ships come up to look at us- And proud must be our Admiral Whate'er the doctors say; He has fought with them and conquered, Oh, if I were an Admiral I wouldn't be on board, "Just find a place for me, Our Admiral grew paler, And bluer and more blue, His stomach well might be, He heaved-'twas but an instant- His nausea to hide. So he mopped his poor old forehead, That night the surgeon's whisper Went round the mess to say, In a Bath-chair wheeled was he, Wrapped in fleecy hosiery! That night a glass of toddy Sent him cozily to sleep, Did we venture out to sea. Punch. January 15, 1853. ·:0: THE RETURN OF THE MEMBERS. From the great Naval Review in 1853. How speedily, how puffingly they glide along the rail, The M.P.'s who went down at morn to see the fleet in sail; And now they're going back to town to sit again to-night, Like creatures who've no Factory Bill to guard their labour's right; And some are jolly, some can scarce their eyelids open keep, And some who have been queer all day now are gone to sleep; But in one carriage one young member ventures this remark, How proud must be the admiral of every glorious bark!" |