« 前へ次へ »
He saw a turnkey in a trice
Unfetter a troublesome blade ; “ Nimbly” quoth he, “ do the fingers move If a man be but used to his trade.”
With but little expedition,
On the slave-trade abolition.
He saw an old acquaintance
As he pass’d by a Methodist meeting ;She holds a consecrated key,
And the devil nods her a greeting.
She turned up her nose, and said,
“ Avaunt! my name's Religion,” And she looked to Mr. And leered like a love-sick pigeon.
XIV. He saw a certain minister
(A minister to his mind) Go up into a certain house,
With a majority behind.
The devil quoted Genesis,
Like a very learned clerk,
Went up into the ark.”
He took from the poor,
And he gave to the rich,
For he was not afraid of the
It was general conflagration.
THE TWO ROUND SPACES ON THE
See the apology for the “ Fire, Famine, and Slaughter,” in first volume. This is the first time the author ever published these lines. He would have been glad, had they perished; but they have now been printed repeatedly in magazines, and he is told that the verses will not perish. Here, therefore, they are owned, with a hope that they will be taken-as assuredly they were composed-in mere sport.
The devil believes that the Lord will come,
On an old Christmas-day in a snowy blast: Till he bids the trump sound, neither body nor soul stirs,
[bolsters. For the dead men's heads have slipt under their
Oh! ho! brother bard, in our church-yard,
And under it lies a counsellor keen. 'Twould be a square tomb, if it were not too long, And 'tis fenced round with irons sharp, spearlike,
This fellow from Aberdeen hither did skip,
This counsellor sweet,
This Scotchman complete,
On the sixth of January,
Brother bard, ho! ho!
Believe it, or no,
Two round spaces void of snow.
In the house of privity
Of that ancient family. On those two places void of snow, There have sate in the night for an hour or so, Before sunrise, and after cock-crow,
He kicking his heels, she cursing her corns,
The devil, and his grannam,
With a snow-blast to fan 'em;
TO A COMIC AUTHOR, ON AN ABUSIVE REVIEW.
What though the chilly wide-mouth'd quacking
chorus From the rank swamps of murk Review-land croak: So was it, neighbour, in the times before us, When Momus, throwing on his Attic cloak, Romped with the Graces; and each tickled Muse (That Turk, Dan Phæbus, whom bards call divine, Was married to—at least, he kept-all nine) Fled, but still with reverted faces ran; Yet, somewhat the broad freedoms to excuse, They had allur'd the audacious Greek to use, Swore they mistook him for their own good man. This Momus-Aristophanes on earth Men called him-maugre all his wit and worth Was croaked and gabbled at. How then, should you, Or I friend, hope to 'scape the skulking crew ? No! laugh, and say aloud, in tones of glee, “ I hate the quacking tribe, and they hate me!”
CONSTANCY TO AN IDEAL OBJECT.
Since all that beat about in Nature's range,