World's Best Poetry, Volume 9: Tragedy and Humor (Part 1) — How Paddy Got 'Under Government' by Anonymous

HOW PADDY GOT "UNDER GOVERNMENT."

A place under Government Was all that Paddy wanted.

He married soon a scolding wife, And thus his wish was granted.

ANONYMOUS.

II. MISCELLANEOUS.

SAINT ANTHONY'S SERMON TO THE FISHES.

Saint Anthony at church Was left in the lurch, So he went to the ditches And preached to the fishes;

They wriggled their tails, In the sun glanced their scales.

The carps, with their spawn, Are all hither drawn;

Have opened their jaws, Eager for each clause.

No sermon beside Had the carps so edified.

Sharp-snouted pikes, Who keep fighting like tikes, Now swam up harmonious To hear Saint Antonius.

No sermon beside Had the pikes so edified.

And that very odd fish, Who loves fast-days, the cod-fish,-- The stock-fish, I mean,-- At the sermon was seen.

No sermon beside Had the cods so edified.

Good eels and sturgeon, Which aldermen gorge on, Went out of their way To hear preaching that day.

No sermon beside Had the eels so edified.

Crabs and turtles also, Who always move slow, Made haste from the bottom, As if the Devil had got 'em.

No sermon beside Had the crabs so edified.

Fish great and fish small, Lords, lackeys, and all, Each looked at the preacher Like a reasonable creature: At God's word, They Anthony heard.

The sermon now ended, Each turned and descended;

The pikes went on stealing, The eels went on eeling: Much delighted were they, But preferred the old way.

The crabs are backsliders, The stock-fish thick-siders, The carps are sharp-set;

All the sermon forget: Much delighted were they, But preferred the old way.

ANONYMOUS.

KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY.

FROM "PERCY'S RELIQUES."

An ancient story I'll tell you anon Of a notable prince that was called King John;

And he ruled England with main and with might, For he did great wrong, and maintained little right.

And I'll tell you a story, a story so merry, Concerning the Abbot of Canterbury;

How for his house-keeping and high renowne, They rode poste for him to fair London towne.

An hundred men the king did heare say, The abbot kept in his house every day;

And fifty golde chaynes without any doubt, In velvet coates waited the abbot about.

"How now, father abbot, I hear it of thee, Thou keepest a farre better house than mee;

And for thy house-keeping and high renowne, I feare thou work'st treason against my crowne."

"My liege," quo' the abbot, "I would it were knowne I never spend nothing, but what is my owne;

And I trust your grace will doe me no deere, For spending of my owne true-gotten geere."

"Yes, yes, father abbot, thy fault it is highe, And now for the same thou needest must dye;

For except thou canst answer me questions three, Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodie.

"And first," quo' the king, "when I'm in this stead, With my crowne of golde so faire on my head, Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe, Thou must tell me to one penny what I am worthe.

"Secondly, tell me, without any doubt, How soone I may ride the whole world about;

And at the third question thou must not shrink, But tell me here truly what I do think."

"O these are hard questions for my shallow witt.

Nor I cannot answer your grace as yet: But if you will give me but three weeks' space, Ile do my endeavor to answer your grace."

"Now three weeks' space to thee will I give, And that is the longest time thou hast to live;

For if thou dost not answer my questions three, Thy lands and the livings are forfeit to mee."

Away rode the abbot all sad at that word, And he rode to Cambridge, and Oxenford;

But never a doctor there was so wise, That could with his learning an answer devise.

Then home rode the abbot of comfort so cold, And he met his shepheard a-going to fold: "How now, my lord abbot, you are welcome home;

What news do you bring us from good King John?"

"Sad news, sad news, shepheard, I must give, That I have but three days more to live;

For if I do not answer him questions three, My head will be smitten from my bodie.

"The first is to tell him, there in that stead, With his crowne of golde so fair on his head, Among all his liege-men so noble of birth, To within one penny of what he is worth.

"The seconde, to tell him without any doubt, How soone he may ride this whole world about;

And at the third question I must not shrinke, But tell him there truly what he does thinke."

"Now cheare up, sire abbot, did you never hear yet, That a fool he may learne a wise man witt?

Lend me horse, and serving-men, and your apparel, And He ride to London to answere youre quarrel.

"Nay, frowne not, if it hath bin told unto me, I am like your lordship, as ever may be;

And if you will but lend me your gowne, There is none shall know us at fair London towne."

"Now horses and serving-men thou shalt have.

With sumptuous array most gallant and brave, With crozier, and mitre, and rochet, and cope, Fit to appear 'fore our fader the pope."

"Now welcome, sire abbot," the king he did say, "'T is well thou'rt come back to keepe thy day: For and if thou canst answer my questions three, Thy life and thy living both saved shall be.

"And first, when thou seest me here in this stead, With my crowne of golde so fair on my head, Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe, Tell me to one penny what I am worthe."

"For thirty pence our Saviour was sold Among the false Jews, as I have bin told, And twenty-nine is the worth of thee, For I thinke thou art one penny worser than he."

The king he laughed, and swore by Saint Bittel, "I did not think I had been worth so littel!

--Now secondly tell me, without any doubt, How soone I may ride this whole world about."

"You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same Until the next morning he riseth againe;

And then your grace need not make any doubt But in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about."

The king he laughed, and swore by Saint Jone, "I did not think it could be gone so soone!

--Now from the third question thou must not shrinke, But tell me here truly what I do thinke."

"Yea, that shall I do, and make your grace merry;

You thinke I'm the Abbot of Canterbury;

But I'm his poor shepheard, as plain you may see, That am come to beg pardon for him and for me."

The king he laughed, and swore by the Masse, "Ile make thee lord abbot this day in his place!"

"Now naye, my liege, be not in such speede, For alacke I can neither write ne reade."

"Four nobles a week then I will give thee, For this merry jest thou hast showne unto me;

And tell the old abbot when thou comest home, Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John."

ANONYMOUS.

GLUGGITY GLUG.

FROM "THE MYRTLE AND THE VINE."

A jolly fat friar loved liquor good store, And he had drunk stoutly at supper;

He mounted his horse in the night at the door, And sat with his face to the crupper: "Some rogue," quoth the friar, "quite dead to remorse, Some thief, whom a halter will throttle, Some scoundrel has cut off the head of my horse, While I was engaged at the bottle, Which went gluggity, gluggity--glug--glug--glug."

The tail of the steed pointed south on the dale, 'Twas the friar's road home, straight and level;

But, when spurred, a horse follows his nose, not his tail, So he scampered due north, like a devil: "This new mode of docking," the friar then said, "I perceive doesn't make a horse trot ill;

And 't is cheap,--for he never can eat off his head While I am engaged at the bottle, Which goes gluggity, gluggity--glug--glug--glug."

The steed made a stop,--in a pond he had got, He was rather for drinking than grazing;

Quoth the friar, "'Tis strange headless horses should trot, But to drink with their tails is amazing!"

Turning round to see whence this phenomenon rose, In the pond fell this son of a pottle;

Quoth he, "The head's found, for I'm under his nose,-- I wish I were over a bottle, Which goes gluggity, gluggity--glug--glug--glug!"

GEORGE COLMAN THE YOUNGER.

I AM A FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY.

FROM THE OPERA OF "ROBIN HOOD."

I am a friar of orders gray, And down in the valleys I take my way;

I pull not blackberry, haw, or hip,-- Good store of venison fills my scrip;

My long bead-roll I merrily chant;

Where'er I walk no money I want;

And why I'm so plump the reason I tell,-- Who leads a good life is sure to live well.

What baron or squire, Or knight of the shire, Lives half so well as a holy friar?

After supper of heaven I dream, But that is a pullet and clouted cream;

Myself, by denial, I mortify-- With a dainty bit of a warden-pie;

I'm clothed in sackcloth for my sin,-- With old sack wine I'm lined within;

A chirping cup is my matin song, And the vesper's bell is my bowl, ding dong.

What baron or squire, Or knight of the shire, Lives half so well as a holy friar?

JOHN O'KEEFFE.

GOOD ALE.

I cannot eat but little meat,-- My stomach is not good;

But, sure, I think that I can drink With him that wears a hood.

Though I go bare, take ye no care;

I nothing am a-cold,-- I stuff my skin so full within Of jolly good ale and old.

_Back and side go bare, go bare;

Both foot and hand go cold;

But, belly, God send thee good ale enough, Whether it be new or old!

_ I love no roast but a nut-brown toast, And a crab laid in the fire;

A little bread shall do me stead,-- Much bread I not desire.

No frost, nor snow, nor wind, I trow, Can hurt me if I wold,-- I am so wrapt, and thorowly lapt Of jolly good ale and old.

_Back and side_, etc. And Tyb, my wife, that as her life Loveth well good ale to seek, Full oft drinks she, till you may see The tears run down her cheek;

Then doth she trowl to me the bowl, Even as a malt-worm should;

And saith, "Sweetheart, I took my part Of this jolly good ale and old."

_Back and side_, etc. Now let them drink till they nod and wink, Even as good fellows should do;

They shall not miss to have the bliss Good ale doth bring men to;

And all poor souls that have scoured bowls, Or have them lustily trowled, God save the lives of them and their wives, Whether they be young or old!

_Back and side go bare, go bare;

Both foot and hand go cold;

But, belly, God send thee good ale enough, Whether it be new or old!

_ JOHN STILL.

THE PILGRIMS AND THE PEAS.

A brace of sinners, for no good, Were ordered to the Virgin Mary's shrine, Who at Loretto dwelt, in wax, stone, wood, And in a fair white wig looked wondrous fine.

Fifty long miles had those sad rogues to travel, With something in their shoes much worse than gravel;

In short, their toes so gentle to amuse, The priest had ordered peas into their shoes: A nostrum famous in old popish times For purifying souls that stunk of crimes: A sort of apostolic salt, Which popish parsons for its powers exalt, For keeping souls of sinners sweet, Just as our kitchen salt keeps meat.

The knaves set off on the same day, Peas in their shoes, to go and pray;

But very different was their speed, I wot: One of the sinners galloped on, Swift as a bullet from a gun;

The other limped, as if he had been shot.

One saw the Virgin soon, Peccavi cried, Had his soul whitewashed all so clever;

Then home again he nimbly hied, Made fit with saints above to live forever.

In coming back, however, let me say, He met his brother rogue about half-way,-- Hobbling, with outstretched arms and bended knees, Cursing the souls and bodies of the peas;

His eyes in tears, his cheeks and brow in sweat, Deep sympathizing with his groaning feet.

"How now," the light-toed, whitewashed pilgrim broke, "You lazy lubber!"

"Ods curse it!"

cried the other, "'t is no joke;

My feet, once hard as any rock, Are now as soft as blubber.

"Excuse me, Virgin Mary, that I swear, As for Loretto, I shall not get there;

No, to the devil my sinful soul must go, For damme if I ha'n't lost every toe.

But, brother sinner, pray explain How 't is that you are not in pain.

What power hath worked a wonder for your toes, Whilst I just like a snail am crawling, Now swearing, now on saints devoutly bawling, Whilst not a rascal comes to ease my woes?

"How is 't that you can like a greyhound go, Merry as if that naught had happened, burn ye!"

"Why," cried the other, grinning, "you must know, That just before I ventured on my journey, To walk a little more at ease, I took the liberty to _boil my peas_."

DR.

JOHN WOLCOTT (_Peter Pindar_).

THE VICAR OF BRAY.

[3] In good King Charles's golden days, When loyalty no harm meant, A zealous high-churchman was I, And so I got preferment.

To teach my flock I never missed: Kings were by God appointed, And lost are those that dare resist Or touch the Lord's anointed.

_And this is law that I 'll maintain Until my dying day, sir, That whatsoever king shall reign, Still I 'll be the Vicar of Bray, sir.

_ When royal James possessed the crown, And popery came in fashion, The penal laws I hooted down, And read the Declaration;

The Church of Rome I found would fit Full well my constitution;

And I had been a Jesuit But for the Revolution.

_And this is law_, etc. When William was our king declared, To ease the nation's grievance;

With this new wind about I steered, And swore to him allegiance;

Old principles I did revoke, Set conscience at a distance;

Passive obedience was a joke, A jest was non-resistance.

_And this is law_, etc. When royal Anne became our queen, The Church of England's glory, Another face of things was seen, And I became a Tory;

Occasional conformists base, I blamed their moderation;

And thought the Church in danger was, By such prevarication.

_And this is law_, etc. When George in pudding-time came o'er, And moderate men looked big, sir, My principles I changed once more, And so became a Whig, sir;

And thus preferment I procured From our new faith's-defender, And almost every day adjured The Pope and the Pretender.

_And this is law_, etc. The illustrious house of Hanover, And Protestant succession, To these I do allegiance swear-- While they can keep possession: For in my faith and loyalty I nevermore will falter, And George my lawful king shall be-- Until the times do alter.

_And this is law that I 'll maintain Until my dying day, sir, That whatsoever king shall reign, Still I 'll be the Vicar of Bray, sir.

_ ANONYMOUS.

[3] "The Vicar of Bray in Berkshire, England, was Simon Alleyn, or Allen, who held his place from 1540 to 1588. He was a Papist under the reign of Henry the Eighth, and a Protestant under Edward the Sixth.

He was a Papist again under Mary, and once more became a Protestant in the reign of Elizabeth.

When this scandal to the gown was reproached for his versatility of religious creeds, and taxed for being a turn-coat and an inconstant changeling, as Fuller expresses it, he replied: 'Not so neither; for if I changed my religion, I am sure I kept true to my principle, which is to live and die the Vicar of Bray.'

"--DISRAELI.

HUDIBRAS' SWORD AND DAGGER.

FROM "HUDIBRAS," PART I.

His puissant sword unto his side Near his undaunted heart was tied, With basket hilt that would hold broth, And serve for fight and dinner both.

In it he melted lead for bullets To shoot at foes, and sometimes pullets, To whom he bore so fell a grutch He ne'er gave quarter to any such.

The trenchant blade, Toledo trusty, For want of fighting was grown rusty, And ate into itself, for lack Of somebody to hew and hack.

The peaceful scabbard, where it dwelt, The rancor of its edge had felt;

For of the lower end two handful It had devoured, it was so manful;

And so much scorned to lurk in case, As if it durst not show its face.

* * * * * This sword a dagger had, his page, That was but little for his age, And therefore waited on him so As dwarfs unto knight-errants do.

It was a serviceable dudgeon, Either for fighting or for drudging.

When it had stabbed or broke a head, It would scrape trenchers or chip bread, Toast cheese or bacon, though it were To bait a mouse-trap 't would not care;

'T would make clean shoes, and in the earth Set leeks and onions, and so forth: It had been 'prentice to a brewer, Where this and more it did endure;

But left the trade, as many more Have lately done on the same score.

DR.

SAMUEL BUTLER.

THE FINE OLD ENGLISH GENTLEMAN.

[4] I'll sing you a good old song, Made by a good old pate, Of a fine old English gentleman Who had an old estate, And who kept up his old mansion At a bountiful old rate;

With a good old porter to relieve The old poor at his gate, Like a fine old English gentleman All of the olden time.

His hall so old was hung around With pikes and guns and bows, And swords, and good old bucklers, That had stood some tough old blows;

'T was there "his worship" held his state In doublet and trunk hose, And quaffed his cup of good old sack, To warm his good old nose, Like a fine, etc. When winter's cold brought frost and snow, He opened house to all;

And though threescore and ten his years, He featly led the ball;

Nor was the houseless wanderer E'er driven from his hall;

For while he feasted all the great, He ne'er forgot the small;

Like a fine, etc. But time, though old, is strong in flight, And years rolled swiftly by;

And Autumn's falling leaves proclaimed This good old man must die!

He laid him down right tranquilly, Gave up life's latest sigh;

And mournful stillness reigned around, And tears bedewed each eye, For this good, etc. Now surely this is better far Than all the new parade Of theatres and fancy balls, "At home" and masquerade: And much more economical, For all his bills were paid.

Then leave your new vagaries quite, And take up the old trade Of a fine old English gentleman, All of the olden time.

ANONYMOUS.

[4] Modelled upon an old black-letter song, called "The Old and Young Courtier."

TOBY TOSSPOT.

Alas!

what pity 't is that regularity, Like Isaac Shove's, is such a rarity!

But there are swilling wights in London town, Termed jolly dogs, choice spirits, alias swine, Who pour, in midnight revel, bumpers down, Making their throats a thoroughfare for wine.

These spendthrifts, who life's pleasures thus run on, Dozing with headaches till the afternoon, Lose half men's regular estate of sun, By borrowing too largely of the moon.

One of this kidney--Toby Tosspot hight-- Was coming from the Bedford late at night;

And being _Bacchi plenus_, full of wine, Although he had a tolerable notion Of aiming at progressive motion, 'T wasn't direct,--'t was serpentine.

He worked with sinuosities, along, Like Monsieur Corkscrew, worming through a cork, Not straight, like Corkscrew's proxy, stiff Don Prong,--a fork.

At length, with near four bottles in his pate, He saw the moon shining on Shove's brass plate, When reading, "Please to ring the bell," And being civil beyond measure, "Ring it!"

says Toby,--"very well;

I'll ring it with a deal of pleasure."

Toby, the kindest soul in all the town, Gave it a jerk that almost jerked it down.

He waited full two minutes,--no one came;

He waited full two minutes more;--and then Says Toby, "If he's deaf, I'm not to blame;

I'll pull it for the gentleman again."

But the first peal woke Isaac in a fright, Who, quick as lightning, popping up his head, Sat on his head's antipodes, in bed, Pale as a parsnip,--bolt upright.

At length he wisely to himself doth say, calming his fears.

-- "Tush!

't is some fool has rung and run away;"

When peal the second rattled in his ears.

Shove jumped into the middle of the floor;

And, trembling at each breath of air that stirred, He groped down stairs, and opened the street door, While Toby was performing peal the third.

Isaac eyed Toby, fearfully askant, And saw he was a strapper, stout and tall;

Then put this question, "Pray, sir, what d'ye want?"

Says Toby, "I want nothing sir, at all."

"Want nothing!

Sir, you've pulled my bell, I vow, As if you'd jerk it off the wire."

Quoth Toby, gravely making him a bow, "I pulled it, sir, at your desire."

"At mine?"

"Yes, yours; I hope I've done it well.

High time for bed, sir; I was hastening to it;

But if you write up, 'Please to ring the bell,' Common politeness makes me stop and do it."

GEORGE COLMAN THE YOUNGER.

THE MILKMAID.

A milkmaid, who poised a full pail on her head, Thus mused on her prospects in life, it is said: "Let me see,--I should think that this milk will procure One hundred good eggs, or fourscore, to be sure.

"Well then,--stop a bit,--it must not be forgotten, Some of these may be broken, and some may be rotten;

But if twenty for accident should be detached, It will leave me just sixty sound eggs to be hatched.

"Well, sixty sound eggs,--no, sound chickens, I mean: Of these some may die,--we'll suppose seventeen, Seventeen!

not so many--say ten at the most, Which will leave fifty chickens to boil or to roast.

"But then there's their barley: how much will they need?

Why, they take but one grain at a time when they feed,-- So that's a mere trifle; now then, let us see, At a fair market price how much money there'll be.

"Six shillings a pair--five--four--three-and-six.

To prevent all mistakes, that low price I will fix;

Now what will that make?

fifty chickens, I said,-- Fifty times three-and-sixpence--_I'll ask Brother Ned_.

"O, but stop,--three-and-sixpence a _pair_ I must sell 'em;

Well, a pair is a couple,--now then let us tell 'em;

A couple in fifty will go (my poor brain!

) Why, just a score times and five pair will remain.

"Twenty-five pair of fowls--now how tiresome it is That I can't reckon up so much money as this!

Well, there's no use in trying, so let's give a guess,-- I'll say twenty pounds, _and it can't be no less_.

"Twenty pounds, I am certain, will buy me a cow, Thirty geese and two turkeys,--eight pigs and a sow;

Now if these turn out well, at the end of a year, I shall fill both my pockets with guineas, 't is clear."

Forgetting her burden, when this she had said, The maid superciliously tossed up her head;

When, alas for her prospects!

her milk-pail descended, And so all her schemes for the future were ended.

This moral, I think, may be safely attached,-- "Reckon not on your chickens before they are hatched."

JEFFREYS TAYLOR.

MORNING MEDITATIONS.

Let Taylor preach, upon a morning breezy, How well to rise while nights and larks are flying,-- For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as _lying_.

What if the lark does carol in the sky, Soaring beyond the sight to find him out,-- Wherefore am I to rise at such a fly?

I'm not a trout.

Talk not to me of bees and such-like hums, The smell of sweet herbs at the morning prime,-- Only lie long enough, and bed becomes A bed of _time_.

To me Dan Phoebus and his car are naught, His steeds that paw impatiently about,-- Let them enjoy, say I, as horses ought, The first turn-out!

Right beautiful the dewy meads appear Besprinkled by the rosy-fingered girl;

What then,--if I prefer my pillow-beer To early pearl?

My stomach is not ruled by other men's, And, grumbling for a reason, quaintly begs Wherefore should master rise before the hens Have laid their eggs?

Why from a comfortable pillow start To see faint flushes in the east awaken?

A fig, say I, for any streaky part, Excepting bacon.

An early riser Mr. Gray has drawn, Who used to haste the dewy grass among, "To meet the sun upon the upland lawn,"-- Well,--he died young.

With charwomen such early hours agree, And sweeps that earn betimes their bit and sup;

But I'm no climbing boy, and need not be All up,--all up!

So here I lie, my morning calls deferring, Till something nearer to the stroke of noon;-- A man that's fond precociously of _stirring_ Must be a spoon.

THOMAS HOOD.

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG.

Good people all, of every sort, Give ear unto my song;

And if you find it wondrous short, It cannot hold you long.

In Islington there was a man Of whom the world might say, That still a godly race he ran-- Whene'er he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he had, To comfort friends and foes: The naked every day he clad-- When he put on his clothes.

And in that town a dog was found, As many dogs there be, Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, And curs of low degree.

This dog and man at first were friends;

But when a pique began, The dog to gain his private ends, Went mad, and bit the man.

Around from all the neighboring streets The wondering neighbors ran, And swore the dog had lost his wits, To bite so good a man!

The wound it seemed both sore and sad To every Christian eye: And while they swore the dog was mad, They swore the man would die.

But soon a wonder came to light, That showed the rogues they lied:-- The man recovered of the bite.

The dog it was that died!

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

OLD GRIMES.

Old Grimes is dead, that good old man,-- We ne'er shall see him more;

He used to wear a long black coat, All buttoned down before.

His heart was open as the day, His feelings all were true;

His hair was some inclined to gray,-- He wore it in a queue.

Whene'er he heard the voice of pain, His breast with pity burned;

The large round head upon his cane From ivory was turned.

Kind words he ever had for all;

He knew no base design;

His eyes were dark and rather small, His nose was aquiline.

He lived at peace with all mankind, In friendship he was true;

His coat had pocket-holes behind, His pantaloons were blue.