Lobster – and duck – and toasted cheese –
If they don’t get an awful squeeze,
I’m very much mistaken!
“He is immensely fat, and so
Well suits the occupation:
In point of fact, if you must know,
We used to call him years ago,
[530] ‘The Mayor and Corporation’!
“The day he was elected Mayor
I know that every Sprite meant
To vote for me, but did not dare –
He was so frantic with despair
And furious with excitement.
“When it was over, for a whim,
He ran to tell the king;
And being the reverse of slim,
A two-mile trot was not for him
[540] A very easy thing.
“So, to reward him for his run,
(As it was baking hot,
And he was over twenty stone,)
The king proceeded, half in fun,
To knight him on the spot.”
“ ’Twas a great liberty to take!”
(I fired up like a rocket.)
“He did it just for punning’s sake –
‘The man,’ says Johnson, ‘that would make
[550] A pun, would pick a pocket!’”
“A man,” said he, “is not a king.”
I argued for a while,
And did my best to prove the thing –
The Phantom merely listening
With a contemptuous smile.
At last, when, breath and patience spent,
I had recourse to smoking –
“Your aim,” he said, “is excellent:
But – when you call it argument –
[560] Of course you’re only joking?”
Stung by his cold and snaky eye,
I roused myself at length
To say “At least I do defy
The veriest sceptic to deny
That union is strength!”
“That’s true enough,” said he, “yet stay –”
I listened in all meekness –
“Union is strength, I’m bound to say;
In fact, the thing’s as clear as day;
[570] But onions – are a weakness.”
Canto VI – Dyscomfyture
As one who strives a hill to climb,
Who never climbed before:
Who finds it, in a little time,
Grow every moment less sublime,
And votes the thing a bore:
Yet, having once begun to try,
Dares not desert his quest,
But, climbing, ever keeps his eye
On one small hut against the sky,
[580] Wherein he hopes to rest:
Who climbs till nerve and force be spent,
With many a puff and pant:
Who still, as rises the ascent,
In language grows more violent,
Although in breath more scant:
Who, climbing, gains at length the place
That crowns the upward track;
And, entering with unsteady pace,
Receives a buffet in the face
[590] That lands him on his back:
And feels himself, like one in sleep,
Glide swiftly down again,
A helpless weight, from steep to steep,
Till, with a headlong giddy sweep,
He drops upon the plain –
So I, that had resolved to bring
Conviction to a ghost,
And found it quite a different thing
From any human arguing,
[600] Yet dared not quit my post:
But, keeping still the end in view
To which I hoped to come,
I strove to prove the matter true
By putting everything I knew
Into an axiom:
Commencing every single phrase
With “therefore” or “because,”
I blindly reeled, a hundred ways,
About the syllogistic maze,
[610] Unconscious where I was.
Quoth he “That’s regular clap-trap –
Don’t bluster any more.
Now do be cool and take a nap!
You’re such a peppery old chap
As never was before!
“You’re like a man I used to meet,
Who got one day so furious
In arguing, the simple heat
Scorched both his slippers off his feet!”
[620] I said “That’s very curious!”
And sounds perhaps like fibs:
But still it’s true as true can be –
As sure as your name’s Tibbs,” said he.
I said “My name’s not Tibbs.”
“Not Tibbs!” he cried – his tone became
A shade or two less hearty –
“Why, no,” said I: “my proper name
Is Tibbets –” “Tibbets?” “Aye, the same.”
[630] “Why, then YOU’RE NOT THE PARTY!”
With that he struck the board a blow
That shivered half the glasses;
“Why couldn’t you have told me so
Three quarters of an hour ago?
You king of all the asses!
“To walk four miles through mud and rain,
To spend the night in smoking,
And then to find that it’s in vain –
And I’ve to do it all again –
[640] It’s really too provoking!
“Don’t talk!” he cried, as I began
To mutter some excuse.
“Who can have patience with a man
That’s got no more discretion than
An idiotic goose?
“To keep me waiting here, instead
Of telling me at once
That this was not the house!” he said.
“There, that’ll do – be off to bed!
[650] Don’t gape like that, you dunce!”
“It’s very fine to throw the blame
On me in such a fashion!
Why didn’t you enquire my name
The very minute that you came?”
I answered in a passion.
“Of course it worries you a bit
To come so far on foot –
But how was I to blame for it?”
“Well, well!” said he, “I must admit
[660] That isn’t badly put.
“And certainly you’ve given me
The best of wine and victual –
Excuse my violence,” said he,
“But accidents like this, you see,
They put one out a little.
“ ’Twas my fault after all, I find –
Shake hands, old Turnip-top!”
The name was hardly to my mind,
But, as no doubt he meant it kind,
[670] I let the matter drop.
“Good-night, old Turnip-top, good-night!
When I am gone, perhaps
They’ll send you some inferior Sprite,
Who’ll keep you in a constant fright
And spoil your soundest naps.
“Tell him you’ll stand no sort of trick;
Then, if he leers and chuckles,
You just be handy with a stick,
(Mind that it’s pretty hard and thick,)
[680] And rap him on the knuckles!
“Then carelessly remark ‘Old coon!
Perhaps you’re not aware
That, if you don’t behave, you’ll soon
Be chuckling to another tune –
And so you’d best take care!’
“That’s the right way to cure a Sprite
Of such-like goings-on –
But, gracious me! It’s nearly light!
Good-night, old Turnip-top, good-night!”
[690] A nod, and he was gone.
Canto VII – Sad Souvenaunce
“What’s this?” I pondered. “Have I slept?
Or can I have been drinking?”
But soon a gentler feeling crept
Upon me, and I sat and wept
An hour or so, like winking.
Then, as my tears could never bring
My favourite phantom back,
It seemed to me the proper thing
To mix another glass, and sing
[700] The following Coronach.
Coronach
“And art thou gone, beloved ghost?
Best of familiars!
Nay then, farewell, my duckling roast,
Farewell, farewell, my tea and toast,
My meerschaum and cigars!
“The hues of life are dull and grey,
The sweets of life insipid,
When thou, my charmer, art away –
Old brick, or rather, let me say,
[710] Old parallelepiped!”
Instead of singing verse the third,
I ceased; abruptly, rather –
But, after such a splendid word,
I felt that it would be absurd
To try it any farther.
“No need for Bones to hurry so!”
Thought I. “In fact, I doubt
If it was worth his while to go –
And who is Tibbs, I’d like to know,
[720] To make such work about?
“If Tibbs is anything like me,
It’s possible,” I said,
“He won’t be over-pleased to be
Dropped in upon at half-past three,
After he’s snug in bed.
“And if Bones plagues him anyhow –
Squeaking and all the rest of it,
As he was doing here just now –
I prophesy there’ll be a row,
[730] And Tibbs will have the best of it!”
So with a yawn I went my way
To seek the welcome downy,
And slept, and dreamed till break of day
Of Poltergeist and Fetch and Fay
And Leprechaun and Brownie!
And never since, by sea or land,
On mountain or on plain,
’Mid Arctic snow, or Afric sand –
Not even “in the Strand, the Strand!”
[740] Has Bones appeared again.
A Quaker friend accosted me –
Tall, stiff, as any column –
“Thee’rt out of sorts, I fear,” said he;
“Verily I am grieved to see
Thee go’st so grave and solemn.”
“The ghost’s not grave,” I said, “but gay;
Not solemn, but convivial:
I’m ‘out of spirits,’ you should say,
Not ‘out of sorts’ –” he turned away,
[750] Thinking the answer trivial.
For years I’ve not been visited
By any kind of Sprite;
Yet still they echo in my head,
Those parting words, so kindly said,
“Old Turnip-top, good-night!”
A Valentine
Feb. 13, 1860
To a friend at Radley College, who had complained “that I was glad enough to see him when he came, but did not seem to miss him if he stayed away.”
And cannot pleasures, while they last,
Be actual, unless, when past,
They leave us shuddering and aghast,
With anguish smarting?
And cannot friends be fond and fast,
And yet bear parting?
And must I then, at Friendship’s call,
Calmly resign the little all
(Trifling, I grant, it is, and small)
[10] I have of gladness,
And lend my being to the thrall
Of gloom and sadness?
And think you that I should be dumb,
And full dolorum omnium
Excepting when you choose to come
And share my dinner?
At other times be sour and glum,
And daily thinner?
Must he then only live to weep,
[20] Who’d prove his friendship true and deep,
By day a lonely shadow creep,
At night rest badly,
Oft muttering in his broken sleep
The name of Radley?
The lover, if, for certain days,
His fair one be denied his gaze,
Sinks not in grief and wild amaze,
But, wiser wooer,
He spends the time in writing lays,
[30] And posts them to her.
And if he be an Oxford Don,
Or “Jonson’s learned sock be on,”
A touching Valentine anon
The post shall carry,
When thirteen days are come and gone
Of February.
Farewell, dear friend, and when we meet
In desert waste or crowded street,
Perhaps before this week shall fleet,
[40] Perhaps to-morrow,
I trust to find your heart the seat
Of wasting sorrow.
A Sea Dirge
There are certain things – as, a spider, a ghost,
The income-tax, gout, an umbrella for three –
That I hate, but the thing that I hate the most
Is a thing they call the Sea.
Pour some salt water over the floor –
Ugly I’m sure you’ll allow it to be:
Suppose it extended a mile or more,
That’s very like the Sea.
Beat a dog till it howls outright –
[10] Cruel, but all very well for a spree:
Suppose that he did so day and night,
That would be like the Sea.
I had a vision of nursery-maids;
Tens of thousands passed by me –
All leading children with wooden spades,
And this was by the Sea.
Who invented those spades of wood?
Who was it cut them out of the tree?
None, I think, but an idiot could –
[20] Or one that loved the Sea.
It is pleasant and dreamy, no doubt, to float
With “thoughts as boundless, and souls as free”!
But, suppose you are very unwell in the boat,
How do you like the Sea?
“But it makes the intellect clear and keen –”
Prove it! Prove it! How can it be?
“Why, what does ‘B sharp’ (in music) mean.
If not the ‘natural C’?”
What, keen? With such questions as “When’s high tide?
[30] Is shelling shrimps an improvement to tea?
Are donkeys adapted for Man to ride?”
Such are our thoughts by the Sea.
There is an insect that people avoid
(Whence is derived the verb “to flee”);
Where have you been by it most annoyed?
In lodgings by the Sea.
If you like coffee with sand for dregs,
A decided hint of salt in your tea,
And a fishy taste in the very eggs –
[40] By all means choose the Sea.
And if, with these dainties to drink and eat,
You prefer not a vestige of grass or tree,
And a chronic state of wet in your feet,
Then – I recommend the Sea.
For I have friends who dwell by the coast –
Pleasant friends they are to me!
It is when I am with them I wonder most
That anyone likes the Sea.
They take me a walk: though tired and stiff,
[50] To climb the heights I madly agree;
And, after a tumble or so from the cliff,
They kindly suggest the Sea.
I try the rocks, and I think it cool
That they laugh with such an excess of glee,
As I heavily slip into every pool
That skirts the
cold cold Sea.
Once I met a friend in the street,
With wife, and nurse, and children three –
Never again such a sight may I meet
[60] As that party from the Sea!
Their looks were sullen, their steps were slow,
Convicted felons they seemed to be:
“Are you going to prison, dear friend?” “Oh no!
We’re returning – from the Sea!”
Ye Carpette Knyghte
I have a horse – a ryghte good horse –
Ne doe I envie those
Who scoure ye plaine yn headie course,
Tyll soddaine on theire nose
They lyghte wyth unexpected force –
Yt ys – a horse of clothes.
I have a saddel – “Say’st thou soe?
Wyth styrruppes, Knyghte, to boote?”
I sayde not that – I answere “Noe” –
[10] Yt lacketh such, I woot –
It ys a mutton – saddel, loe!
Parte of ye fleecie brute.
I have a bytte – a ryghte good bytt –
As schall bee seene yn tyme.
Ye jawe of horse yt wyll not fytte;
Yts use ys more sublyme.
Fayre Syr, how deemest thou of yt?
Yt ys – thys bytte of rhyme.
Hiawatha’s Photographing
In these days of imitation, I can claim no sort of merit for this slight attempt at doing what is known to be so easy. Any one who knows what verse is, with the slightest ear for rhythm, can throw off a composition in the easy running metre of “The Song of Hiawatha”. Having, then, distinctly stated that I challenge no attention, in the following little poem, to its merely verbal jingle, I must beg the candid reader, to confine his criticism, to its treatment of the subject.
From his shoulder Hiawatha
Took the camera of rosewood,
Made of sliding, folding rosewood;
Neatly put it all together.
In its case it lay compactly,
Folded into nearly nothing;
But he opened out the hinges,
Pushed and pulled the joints and hinges,
Till it looked all squares and oblongs,
[10] Like a complicated figure
In the Second Book of Euclid.
This he perched upon a tripod,
And the family in order
Sat before him for their pictures.
Mystic, awful was the process.
First, a piece of glass he coated
With Collodion, and plunged it
In a bath of Lunar Caustic
Carefully dissolved in water:
[20] There he left it certain minutes.
Secondly, my Hiawatha
Made with cunning hand a mixture
Of the acid Pyro-gallic,
And of Glacial Acetic,
And of Alcohol and water:
This developed all the picture.