Bridle in hand, each vale he scours, of course To find out something like a chestnut-horse; But no such animal the meadows cropped; Till under a large tree Sir Peter stopped, Caught at a branch and shook it, when down fell
A fine horse-chestnut in its prickly shell.
"There, Tom, take that." " Well, sir, and what beside?' "Why, since you 're booted, saddle it and ride."
"Ride! what, a chestnut, sir?"
For I can prove that chestnut is a horse : Not from the doubtful, fusty, musty rules Of Locke and Bacon, antiquated fools! Nor old Malebranche, blind pilot into knowledge; But by the laws of wit and Eton college: As you have proved, and which I don't deny, That a pie-John 's the same as a John-pie, The matter follows, as a thing of course, That a horse-chestnut is a chestnut-horse."
JACOB, I do not love to see thy nose Turned 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 thee Hear the pig's counsel.
We must not, Jacob, be deceived by words, By sophist sounds. A 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 brawned And baconized. As for his ugliness, -
Nay, Jacob, look at him ;
Those eyes have taught the lover flattery.
Behold his tail, my friend; with curls like that
The wanton hop marries her stately spouse: And what is beauty but the aptitude Of parts harmonious: give fancy scope,
And thou wilt find that no imagined change Can beautify the beast. All would but mar His pig perfection.
The last charge, - he lives A dirty life. Here I could shelter him With precedents right reverend and noble, And show by sanction of authority, That 't is 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 The o'ergorged epicure is nothing more. And there, that breeze
Pleads with me, and has won thee to the smile That speaks conviction. O'er yon blossomed field
Of beans it came, and thoughts of bacon rise.
And court Miss Bell; but there your court No thoroughfare shall be.
"Unless you now give up your suit,
You may repert your love;
I, who have shot a pigeon match, Can shoot a turtle dove.
"So, pray, before you woo her more, Consider what you do.
Now gold is oft for silver changed, And that for copper red; But these two went away to give Each other change for lead.
But first they found a friend apiece, This pleasant thought to give,
That when they both were dead, they'd have Two seconds yet to live.
If I withdraw the charge, will then Your ramrod do the same ?"
Said Mr. B., "I do agree;
But think of honor's courts, If we go off without a shot, There will be strange reports
"But look! the morning now is bright, Though cloudy it begun;
Why can't we aim above, as if We had called out the sun?"
So up into the harmless air Their bullets they did send; And may all other duels have That upshot in the end.
FRANK HAYMAN dearly loved a pleasant joke, And after long contention with the gout, A foe that oft besieged him, sallied out To breathe fresh air, and appetite provoke. It chanced as he was strolling void of care, A drunken porter passed him with a hare; The hare was o'er his shoulder flung, Dangling behind in piteous plight,
And as he crept in zigzag style, Making the most of every mile, From side to side poor pussy swung, As if each moment taking flight.
The porter staggered on; the dog kept near, Watching each lucky moment for a bite,
Now made a spring, and then drew back in fear, While Hayman followed, tittering at the sight Through many a street our tipsy porter goes, Then 'gainst a cask in solemn thought reclined; The watchful dog the happy moment knows, And Hayman cheers him on not far behind.
Encouraged thus, what dog would dare refrain ?
He jumped and bit, and jumped and bit, and jumped and bit Till having made a hearty meal,
He careless turned upon his heel, And trotted at his case away,
Nor thought of asking
And here some sage, with moral spleen may say, "This Hayman should have driven the dog away ! The effects of vice the blameless should not bear, And folks that are not drunkards lose their hare."
Not so unfashionably good,
The waggish Hayman laughing stood, Until our porter's stupor o'er, He jogged on, tottering as before, Unconscious any body kind
Had eased him of his load behind; Now on the houses bent his eye, As if his journey's end were nigh, Then read a paper in his hand, And made a stand. -
Hayman drew near with eager mien, To mark the closing of the scene,
His mirth up to the brim;
The porter read the address once more,
And hiccoughed, "Where 's one Hayman's door?
I've got a hare for him!"
'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In the hope that St. Nicholas soon would be there.
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