XII

WHIMSEY

AN ELEGY

ON THE GLORY OF HER s.e.x, MRS. MARY BLAIZE

Good people all, with one accord, Lament for Madam Blaize, Who never wanted a good word-- From those who spoke her praise.

The needy seldom pa.s.s'd her door, And always found her kind; She freely lent to all the poor-- Who left a pledge behind.

She strove the neighborhood to please With manners wondrous winning; And never follow'd wicked ways-- Unless when she was sinning.

At church, in silks and satins new, With hoop of monstrous size, She never slumber'd in her pew-- But when she shut her eyes.

Her love was sought, I do aver, By twenty beaux and more; The King himself has follow'd her-- When she has walk'd before.

But now, her wealth and finery fled, Her hangers-on cut short all; The doctors found, when she was dead-- Her last disorder mortal.

Let us lament, in sorrow sore, For Kent Street well may say, That had she lived a twelvemonth more She had not died to-day.

_Oliver Goldsmith._

PARSON GRAY

A quiet home had Parson Gray, Secluded in a vale; His daughters all were feminine, And all his sons were male.

How faithfully did Parson Gray The bread of life dispense-- Well "posted" in theology, And post and rail his fence.

'Gainst all the vices of the age He manfully did battle; His chickens were a biped breed, And quadruped his cattle.

No clock more punctually went, He ne'er delayed a minute-- Nor ever empty was his purse, When he had money in it.

His piety was ne'er denied; His truths. .h.i.t saint and sinner; At morn he always breakfasted; He always dined at dinner.

He ne'er by any luck was grieved, By any care perplexed-- No filcher he, though when he preached, He always "took" a text.

As faithful characters he drew As mortal ever saw; But ah! poor parson! when he died, His breath he could not draw!

_Oliver Goldsmith._

THE IRISHMAN AND THE LADY

There was a lady liv'd at Leith, A lady very stylish, man; And yet, in spite of all her teeth, She fell in love with an Irishman-- A nasty, ugly Irishman, A wild, tremendous Irishman, A tearing, swearing, thumping, b.u.mping, ranting, roaring Irishman.

His face was no ways beautiful, For with small-pox 'twas scarr'd across; And the shoulders of the ugly dog Were almost double a yard across.

Oh, the lump of an Irishman, The whiskey-devouring Irishman, The great he-rogue with his wonderful brogue--the fighting, rioting Irishman!

One of his eyes was bottle-green, And the other eye was out, my dear; And the calves of his wicked-looking legs Were more than two feet about, my dear.

Oh, the great big Irishman, The rattling, battling Irishman-- The stamping, ramping, swaggering, staggering, leathering swash of an Irishman!

He took so much of Lundy-foot That he used to snort and snuffle--O!

And in shape and size the fellow's neck Was as bad as the neck of a buffalo.

Oh, the horrible Irishman, The thundering, blundering Irishman-- The slashing, dashing, smashing, lashing, thrashing, hashing Irishman!

His name was a terrible name, indeed, Being Timothy Thady Mulligan; And whenever he emptied his tumbler of punch He'd not rest till he fill'd it full again.

The boosing, bruising Irishman, The 'toxicated Irishman-- The whiskey, frisky, rummy, gummy, brandy, no dandy Irishman!

This was the lad the lady lov'd, Like all the girls of quality; And he broke the skulls of the men of Leith, Just by the way of jollity.

Oh, the leathering Irishman, The barbarous, savage Irishman-- The hearts of the maids, and the gentlemen's heads, were bothered, I'm sure, by this Irishman!

_William Maginn._

THE CATARACT OF LODORE

"How does the water Come down at Lodore?"

My little boy asked me Thus, once on a time; And moreover he tasked me To tell him in rhyme.

Anon at the word, There first came one daughter, And then came another, To second and third The request of their brother, And to hear how the water Comes down at Lodore, With its rush and its roar, As many a time They had seen it before.

So I told them in rhyme, For of rhymes I had store; And 'twas in my vocation For their recreation That so I should sing; Because I was Laureate To them and the King.

From its sources which well In the tarn on the fell; From its fountains In the mountains, Its rills and its gills; Through moss and through brake, It runs and it creeps For a while till it sleeps In its own little lake.

And thence at departing, Awakening and starting, It runs through the reeds, And away it proceeds, Through meadow and glade, In sun and in shade, And through the wood-shelter, Among crags in its flurry, Helter-skelter, Hurry-skurry, Here it comes sparkling, And there it lies darkling; Now smoking and frothing Its tumult and wrath in, Till, in this rapid race On which it is bent, It reaches the place Of its steep descent.

The cataract strong Then plunges along, Striking and raging As if a war waging Its caverns and rocks among; Rising and leaping, Sinking and creeping, Swelling and sweeping, Showering and springing, Flying and flinging, Writhing and wringing, Eddying and whisking, Spouting and frisking, Turning and twisting Around and around With endless rebound: Smiting and fighting, A sight to delight in; Confounding, astounding, Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound.

Collecting, projecting, Receding and speeding, And shocking and rocking, And darting and parting, And threading and spreading, And whizzing and hissing, And dripping and skipping, And hitting and splitting, And shining and twining, And rattling and battling, And shaking and quaking, And pouring and roaring, And waving and raving, And tossing and crossing, And flowing and going, And running and stunning, And foaming and roaming, And dinning and spinning, And dropping and hopping, And working and jerking, And guggling and struggling, And heaving and cleaving, And moaning and groaning; And glittering and frittering, And gathering and feathering, And whitening and brightening, And quivering and shivering, And hurrying and skurrying, And thundering and floundering;

Dividing and gliding and sliding, And falling and brawling and sprawling, And driving and riving and striving, And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling, And sounding and bounding and rounding, And bubbling and troubling and doubling, And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling, And clattering and battering and shattering;

Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting, Delaying and straying and playing and spraying.

Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing, Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling, And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming, And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing, And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping, And curling and whirling and purling and twirling, And thumping and plumping and b.u.mping and jumping, And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing; And so never ending, but always descending, Sounds and motions forever and ever are blending, All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar,-- And this way the water comes down at Lodore.

_Robert Southey._