PREFACE TO THE FOURTH EDITION.

The custom of inditing a preface is one which is perhaps more honoured in the breach than in the observance: nevertheless, I cannot allow the present opportunity to pass without returning my hearty thanks and acknowledgments to my Critics, and the Press generally, for the indulgent consideration I have received at their hands, and for the discriminating advice, of which, in revising this edition, I have gladly availed myself. Many of the minor pieces-introduced in the first instance principally as vehicles for illustrations have been omitted, and others of a somewhat less trivial character substituted.

These alterations have, to a certain extent, modified the original design of the book, as conveyed by its title; but the unexpectedly flattering reception accorded to the two most serious poems, the "Night Mail North," and the "Derby Day," (the former haying been quoted at length in nine Reviews) led me to think that the change might not be disadvantageous.

I have had on the whole but few hard knocks to complain of; certainly fewer than, considering the nature of some of the poems, I had reason to expect. For these adverse criticisms, which were no doubt the expression of the genuine opinions of their writers, I bear no grudge. As the Author of "The Season" pointedly phrases it, I could "have escaped censure only by escaping notice."

WEYBRIDGE,

20 May, 1862.

THE NIGHT MAIL NORTH

(Euston Square, 1840.)

OW then, take your seats! for Glasgow

and the North;

Chester!—Carlisle!—Holyhead,

and the wild Frith of Forth.

Clap on the steam, and sharp's

the word

"You men in scarlet cloth:—

"Are there any more passengers,

For the Night.. Mail.. to the North!"

Are there any more passengers?

Yes three-but they can't get in,

Too late, too late!-How they bellow and knock,

They might as well try to soften a rock

As the heart of that fellow in green.

For the Night Mail North? what Ho—

(No use to struggle, you can't get thro')

My young and lusty one—

Whither away from the gorgeous town?—

"For the lake and the stream and the heather brown,

"And the double-barrell'd gun!"

For the Night Mail North, I say?—

You with the eager eyes—

You with the haggard face and pale?—

'From a ruin'd hearth and a starving brood,

"A crime and a felon's gaol!"

For the Night Mail North, old man?—

Old statue of despair—

Why tug and strain at the iron gate?

"My daughter!!" Ha! too late, too late,

She is gone, you may safely swear;

She has given you the slip, d'you hear?

She has left you alone in your wrath,—

And she's off and away, with a glorious start,

To the home of her choice, with the man of her heart,

By the Night Mail North!

Wh———ish R———ush

Wh——-ish r———ush.——-

"What's all that hullabaloo?

"Keep fast the gates there-who is this

"That insists on bursting thro'?"

A desp'rate man whom none may withstand,

For look, there is something clench'd in his hand—-

Tho' the bearer is ready to drop—-

He waves it wildly to and fro,

And hark! how the crowd are shouting below—-

"Back!"—-

And back the opposing barriers go,

"A reprieve for the Cannongate murderer Ho!

"In the Queen's name—-

"STOP.

"Another has confessed the crime."

Whish—rush—whish—rush—-

The Guard has caught the flutt'ring sheet,

Now forward and northward! fierce and fleet,

Thro' the mist and the dark and the driving sleet,

As if life and death were in it;

'Tis a splendid race! a race against Time,—-

And a thousand to one we win it.

Look at those flitting ghosts—-

The white-arm'd finger posts—-

If we're moving the eighth of an inch, I say,

We're going a mile a minute!

A mile a minute—for life or death—-

Away, away! though it catches one's breath,

The man shall not die in his wrath:

The quivering carriages rock and reel—-

Hurrah! for the rush of the grinding steel!

The thundering crank, and the mighty wheel!—

Are there any more pasengers

For the Night.. Mail.. to the North?

SONG OF IN-THE-WATER.

(By L—g—f—R.)

HEN the summer night

descended

Sleepy on the White—

Witch water;

Came a lithe and lovely

maiden,

Gazing on the silent water—

Gazing on the gleaming river—

With her azure eyes and tender,—

On the river, glancing forward,

Till the laughing waves sprang upward,

Dancing in her smile of sunshine

Curling ev'ry dimpled ripple

As they sprang into the starlight;

As they clasp'd her charm'd reflection

Glowing to their silver bosoms—

As they whisper'd, "Fairest, fairest,

"Rest upon our crystal bosoms!"

And she straightway did according:—

Down into the water stept she,

Down into the shining river,

Like a red deer in the sunset—

Like a ripe leaf in the autumn:

From her lips like roses snow-fill'd,

Came a soft and dreamy murmur.

Softer than the breath of summer.

Softer than the murmring river!

Sighs that melted as the snows melt.

Silently and sweetly melted;

Words that mingled with the crisping

Foam upon the billow resting.

From the forest shade primeval,

Piggey-Wiggey look'd out at her;

He, the very Youthful Porker—

He, the Everlasting Granter—

Gazed upon her there, and wonder'd!

With his nose out, rokey-pokey—

And his tail up, curley-wurley—

Wonder'd what on earth the row meant.

Wonder'd what the girl was up to—

What the deuce her little game was?

And she floated down the river,

Like a water-proof Ophelia—

For her crinoline sustained her!!

THE FIGHT FOR THE CHAMPIONSHIP.

By L —d M—l— y.

TOLD BY AN ANCIENT GLADIATOR TO HIS GREAT GRANDMOTHER.

I.

ARGE Heenan of Benicia,

By ninety-nine gods he

swore,

That the bright Belt of

England

Should grace her sons

no more.

By ninety-nine he swore it,

And named the "fisting" day.—

East and west and south and north

Sir Richard Mayne rode wildly forth

His cohorts to array!

II.

East and west and south and north

The smart Detectives flew—

South and north and east and west

They watch'd the long day thro'.

West and south—east and north—

The word went flashing by,

"Look out for Sayers and Heenan,

"Policemen—mind your eye!"

III.

Sir Robert's azure heroes

Look'd out uncommon keen,

From park and plain and prairie,

From heath and upland green;

From Essex fens and fallows,

From Hampshire—dale and down—

From Sussex' hundred leagues of sand,

To Shropshire's fat and flow'ry land

And Cheshire's wild and wasted strand,

And Yorkshire's heather brown;—

And so, of course, the fight came off

A dozen miles from Town.

IV.

Then first stept out great Heenan,

Unmatch'd for breadth and length;

And in his chest it might be guess'd,

He had unpleasant strength.

And to him went the Sayers

That look'd both small and thin,

But well each practised eye could read

The Lion and the Bull-dog breed,—

And from each fearless stander-by

Arose that genuine British cry,

"Go in, my boy,—and win!"

V.

And he "went in"—and smote him

Through mouth-piece and through cheek;

And Heenan smote him back again

Into the ensuing week;

Full seven days thence he smote him

With one prodigious crack,

And th' undaunted Champion straight

Discern'd that he was five feet eight,

When flat upon his back:—

Whilst a great shout of laughter

Rang from the Yankee pack.

VI.

As springs the Whitworth bullet

Out sprang the Champion then,

And dealt the huge Benician

A vast thump on the chin;

And thrice and four times strongly

Drove in the shatt'ring blow;

And thrice and four times waver'd

The herculean foe;

And his great arms swung wildly,

Like ship-masts, to and fro.

VII.

But now no sound of laughter

Was heard on either side,

Whilst feint, and draw, and rally,

The cautious Bruisers tried;

And long they spared and counter'd,

Till Heenan sped a thrust

So fierce and quick, it swept away

Th' opposing guard like sapling spray,—

And for the second time that day

The Champion bit the dust.

VIII.

Short time lay English Sayers

Upon the ground at length,

Short time his Yankee foeman

Had triumph in his strength;

Right to the eye he smote him

And his soul went with the blow—

Such blow no other hand could dash

Such blow no other arm could smash—

The giant tottered low;

And for a space they spong'd his face,

And thought the eye would go.

IX.

Time's up!—Again they battle;

Again the strokes" fly free;

But Sayers' right arm—that arm of pride—

Now dangles pow'rless by his side,

Plain for all eyes to see;

And thro' that long and desp'rate shock—

Two mortal hours on the clock—

By sheer indomitable pluck

With his left hand fought he!

X.

With his left hand he fought him,

Though he was sore in pain,—

Full twenty times hurl'd backward,

Still pressing on again!

With his left hand he fought him,

Till each could fight no more;

Till Sayers could scarcely strike a blow,

Till Heenan could not see his foe—

Such fighting England never knew

Upon her soil before!

XI.

They gave him of the standard

Gold coinage of the realm,

As much as one stout guardsman

Could carry in his helm;

They made him an ovation

On the Exchange hard by,—

And they may slap their pockets

In witness if I lie.

XII.

And ev'ry soul in England

Was glad, both high and low,

And books were voted snobbish,

And "gloves" were all the go;

And each man told the story,

Whilst ladies' hearts did melt,

How Sayers, the British Champion,

Did battle for the Belt.

XIII.

And still, when Yankees swagger

Th' almighty "stars and stripes,"

And put eternal bunkum

Into their neighbours' pipes,—

With joke and gibe and banter

Long shall the tale be told,

How stout Tom Sayers kept the Belt

And Yankee Doodle sold!

THE PETITION

H! pause awhile, kind gentleman,

Nor turn thy face away;

There is a boon that I must ask,

A pray'r that I would pray.

Thou hast a gentle wife at home?

A son—perchance like me—

And children fair with golden hair

To cling around thy knee?

Then by their love I pray thee,

And by their merry tone;

By home, and all its tender joys,

Which I have never known,—

By all the smiles that hail thee now;

By ev'ry former sigh;

By ev'ry pang that thou hast felt

When lone, perchance, as I,—

By youth and all its blossoms bright,

By manhood's ripen'd fruits,

By Faith and Hope and Charity—

Yer'll let me clean yer boots!

HOW THE DAUGHTERS COME DOWN AT DUNOON

(By R—b—t S—th—y.)

"There standyth on the one tide of Dunoon, a hill or moleock of passynge steepnesse, and right slipperie withal; wherepon in gaye timet, ye youths and ye maidens of that towne do exceedingly disport themselvet and take their pleasaunce; runnynge both uppe and downe with great glee and to the much endangerment of their fair nekkes."

Kirke's Memoirs

OW do the Daughters

Come down at Dunoon?

Daintily:—

Gingerly

Tenderly;

Fairily;

Glidingly,

Slidingly,

Slippingly

Trippingly

Skippingly

Clippingly!—

Dashing and flying,

And clashing and shying,

And starting and bolting,

And darting and jolting,

And rushing and crushing,

And leaping and creeping,

And tottering and staggering,

And lumbering and slithering,

And hurrying and skurrying,

And worrying and flurrying,

Feathers a-flying all—bonnets untying all—

Crinolines rapping and flapping and slapping all,

Balmorals dancing and glancing entrancing all,—

Feats of activity—

Nymphs on declivity—

Mothers in extacies—

Fathers in vextacies—

Lady-loves whisking and frisking and clinging on

True-lovers puffing and blowing and springing on,

Flushing and blushing and wriggling and giggling on,

Teazing and pleasing and wheezing and squeezing on,

Everlastingly falling and bawling and sprawling on,

Rumbling and tumbling and grumbling and stumbling

on,

Any fine afternoon,

About July or June—

That's just how the Daughters

Come down at Dunoon!

'THE POET CLOSE.'

(Mr. "Barney Maguire's" Account.)

CH! botheration! what a perturbation

And exasperation in the Press arose,

At the first mintion of the Queen's intintion

To confer a pinsion on the Poet Close!

There was the True-Blues-Man and the Farthing—

Newsman

All in the confushan fighting cheek by jowl;

And the Whigs and Tories forgett'n their furies

In their indignation and giniral howl!

The TittlerTattle and the Penny-Rattle

Led off the battle with a puny squake,

Whilst the Big-Tin-Kettle and the 'heavy metal'

His hash for to settle took the liberty to spake;—

"Shure'twas most ongracious, not to say owdacious,

And enough to bring the water to their eyes,

To take the loaves and fishes from the chilthren's dishes

And bestow the Royal Bounty in such wise.

"If so be that noble Er-rls and infarior chur-rls

Has parties they don't love and daresen't bate,

Let them squeeze their purses to choke off the curses

And not foist their verses on the Public State!

'Twas worse than jobbery, and a right down robbery,

For to give the ruffian fifty pounds a year,—

Becase the swate nobilities were dhreading his civilities,

And ould Lord Lonsdale in a state of bodily fear.

"Themselves despiting, there was Carlisle writing,

And Brougham inditing of saft-sardering notes,

And Viscount Palmerston a-chuckling at the harm he's

done,

And dipping his fingers in the county votes.—

'Twould be a wrong entirely, to be remimber'd direly,

If the scribbling blackguard on 'the List' was placed,

And should the Legislature support the crature

Then for sartin shure the counthry was disgraced!"

So the papers thunder'd, and the people wonder'd

Whose nose had blunder'd into this hornet's nist;

And the Queen, Heav'n bless her! the Roy'1 Rehdresser,

Struck Close's name out of the Civil List

Och! then, what a rowing and a rubadub-dow-ing

And universal crowing fill'd the air,

With a gin'ral hissing,—but Lord Pam was missing,

And making for the house-top by the garret-stair!

THE DU CHILLU CONTROVERSY

(After the "Snapping Turtle.")

AVE you read B. P. Du Chaillu?

Chaillu of the Big Baboon?

He who slew the fierce Gorilla

In the Mountains of the Moon?

All day long that injured party

Rested on the boughs his chin;

Strangling spifflicated niggers

Just to keep his biceps in.

Nightly several score of lions

Yielded up their worthless lives;

And there was a cry in Mickbos,

For the King had lost his wives.

Wrathful was the sable monarch

At their unexpected hops;

For the brute had cook'd the gruel

Of the Nymphs who cook'd the chops!

Thro' this land of death and danger,

Mandrake-swamp and stagnant fen,—

Where the spiders look like asses,

And the asses grow like men,—

Where the Shniego-Bmouvé sitteth

Hairless underneath his hat,

And a white man is a dainty

Irresistible if fat,—

Where the alligator gambols—

Whale like—in the black lagoon;—

Went unscathed B. P. Du Chaillu,

Chaillu of the Big Baboon!

Found the Shniego-Bmouvé squatting,

Hairless,'neath the tropic moon

Saw the spiders—saw the asses—

(When he gazed in the Lagoon)—

Twigg'd the Crocodile stupendous,

Winking with ferocious eye,—

Met the Cannibals—the feasters

On cold missionary pie;—

Shot, and bagg'd, the fierce Gorilla,

To the music of the drum,—

Heard, fifteen miles off, his roaring,

Mellow'd to a gentle—hum!

What, you doubt me! gen'rous public,

Hear me swear it's no take in—

Owen says the throat's a larynx,

And look here's the beggar's skin!

ADVERTISEMENT

OST, stolen, or stray'd!—During Satur—

day's fog—

A confoundedly ugly terrier dog.

Coat short, fore-legs long, color mud—

dyish black.

(Item—bites freely:)—no hair on the

back:—

Whoso brings the above to Old-Lady Place East,

Will be rewarded!! (by getting rid of the beast).

OUR SWEET RECRUITING SERGEANTS.

"Down before his feet she knelt,

Her locks of gold Ml o'er her."

Edward and Philippa.

OME look from the window with me,

Charley love,

They are marching this way thro' the

gloom;

With clatter of steel,

And echoing peal,

And a ringing reverb'rating hum

As they come;—

'Tis the tuck of the Volunteer drum!

'Tis the tuck of the Volunteer drum,

Charley love.

Our own Volunteers, Caro mine,—

See, now their arms glance!

"Front form!—left—advance!"—

As the long column wheels into line

It's divine

To watch how their bayonets shine.

From village and town they have drawn,

Charley love,

They've gather'd from lowland and height,—

Their lasses have braced

The swords to their waist,

And armed them for England and Right,

and to fight

For the banner that's waving to night.

Gallant hearts! they are bound to our own,

Charley love,

They are link'd by each tie that endears,—

By hopes and by pray'rs—

By smiles and by tears—

Long, long ring those shouts in our ears!

Hark, three cheers—

Three times three for our brave Volunteers!

Adieu! the bright pageant grows dark,

Charley love,

Their ranks are beginning to fade—

The last glimmer dies—

There's a mist in my eyes!—

Their voices come faint thro' the shade,

I'm afraid

That's good night to our Rifle Brigade!

SONNET

TO HIMSELF.

FF! off! thou art an ass, thou art

an ass,

"Thou man of endless words and

little sense,

"Of pigmy powers and conceit im—

mense—

"Thou art a Donkey!

Take a bit of grass?"

Oh, Martin! Oh, my Tupper! thus exclaims

A groveling Age, grown envious of thy fames,—

Thy boundless sonnets, and Proverbial bays:

Blest Silence! lovéd Silence! thou art Heavn!—

(See my remarks in "Sonnet 47")—

Yet will I breathe my pleasant Poems forth

Innumerable. Hundreds more—ay tens

Of thousands! Sweet etherial rhymes,

I hold ye here! and hug ye—all the lot;—

A monstrous pile of quintessential rot!!