The Book of Humorous Verse
Chapter 61 : Lying varlet, thought he, thus to take in old Nick!But it's some satisfaction, my

Lying varlet, thought he, thus to take in old Nick!

But it's some satisfaction, my lad, To know thou art paid beforehand for the trick, For the sixpence I gave thee is bad.

And then it came into his head By oracular inspiration, That what he had seen and what he had said In the course of this visitation, Would be published in the Morning Post For all this reading nation.

Therewith in second sight he saw The place and the manner and time, In which this mortal story Would be put in immortal rhyme.

That it would happen when two poets Should on a time be met, In the town of Nether Stowey, In the s.h.i.+re of Somerset.

There while the one was shaving Would he the song begin; And the other when he heard it at breakfast, In ready accord join in.

So each would help the other, Two heads being better than one; And the phrase and conceit Would in unison meet, And so with glee the verse flow free, In ding-dong chime of sing-song rhyme, Till the whole were merrily done.

And because it was set to the razor, Not to the lute or harp, Therefore it was that the fancy Should be bright, and the wit be sharp.

But, then, said Satan to himself, As for that said beginner, Against my infernal Majesty, There is no greater sinner.

He hath put me in ugly ballads With libelous pictures for sale; He hath scoff'd at my hoofs and my horns, And has made very free with my tail.

But this Mister Poet shall find I am not a safe subject for whim; For I'll set up a School of my own, And my Poets shall set upon him.

He went to a coffee-house to dine, And there he had soy in his dish; Having ordered some soles for his dinner, Because he was fond of flat fish.

They are much to my palate, thought he, And now guess the reason who can, Why no bait should be better than place, When I fish for a Parliament-man.

But the soles in the bill were ten s.h.i.+llings; Tell your master, quoth he, what I say; If he charges at this rate for all things, He must be in a pretty good way.

But mark ye, said he to the waiter, I'm a dealer myself in this line, And his business, between you and me, Nothing like so extensive as mine.

Now soles are exceedingly cheap, Which he will not attempt to deny, When I see him at my fish-market, I warrant him, by-and-by.

As he went along the Strand Between three in the morning and four He observed a queer-looking person Who staggered from Perry's door.

And he thought that all the world over In vain for a man you might seek, Who could drink more like a Trojan Or talk more like a Greek.

The Devil then he prophesied It would one day he matter of talk, That with wine when smitten, And with wit moreover being happily bitten, The erudite bibber was he who had written The story of this walk.

A pretty mistake, quoth the Devil; A pretty mistake I opine!

I have put many ill thoughts in his mouth, He will never put good ones in mine.

And whoever shall say that to Porson These best of all verses belong, He is an untruth-telling wh.o.r.e-son, And so shall be call'd in the song.

And if seeking an illicit connection with fame, Any one else should put in a claim, In this comical compet.i.tion; That excellent poem will prove A man-trap for such foolish ambition, Where the silly rogue shall be caught by the leg, And exposed in a second edition.

Now the morning air was cold for him Who was used to a warm abode; And yet he did not immediately wish, To set out on his homeward road.

For he had some morning calls to make Before he went back to h.e.l.l; So thought he I'll step into a gaming-house, And that will do as well; But just before he could get to the door A wonderful chance befell.

For all on a sudden, in a dark place, He came upon General ----'s burning face; And it struck him with such consternation, That home in a hurry his way did he take, Because he thought, by a slight mistake 'Twas the general conflagration.

_Robert Southey._

FATHER MOLLOY

OR, THE CONFESSION

Paddy McCabe was dying one day, And Father Molloy he came to confess him; Paddy pray'd hard he would make no delay, But forgive him his sins and make haste for to bless him.

"First tell me your sins," says Father Molloy, "For I'm thinking you've not been a very good boy."

"Oh," says Paddy, "so late in the evenin', I fear, 'Twould throuble you such a long story to hear, For you've ten long miles o'er the mountains to go, While the road _I've_ to travel's much longer, you know.

So give us your blessin' and get in the saddle, To tell all my sins my poor brain it would addle; And the docther gave ordhers to keep me so quiet-- 'Twould disturb me to tell all my sins, if I'd thry it, And your Reverence has towld us, unless we tell _all_, 'Tis worse than not makin' confession at all.

So I'll say in a word I'm no very good boy-- And, therefore, your blessin', sweet Father Molloy."

"Well, I'll read from a book," says Father Molloy, "The manifold sins that humanity's heir to; And when you hear those that your conscience annoy, You'll just squeeze my hand, as acknowledging thereto."

Then the father began the dark roll of iniquity, And Paddy, thereat, felt his conscience grow rickety, And he gave such a squeeze that the priest gave a roar-- "Oh, murdher," says Paddy, "don't read any more, For, if you keep readin', by all that is thrue, Your Reverence's fist will be soon black and blue; Besides, to be throubled my conscience begins, That your Reverence should have any hand in my sins, So you'd betther suppose I committed them all, For whether they're great ones, or whether they're small, Or if they're a dozen, or if they're fourscore, 'Tis your Reverence knows how to absolve them, asth.o.r.e; So I'll say in a word, I'm no very good boy-- And, therefore, your blessin', sweet Father Molloy."

"Well," says Father Molloy, "if your sins I forgive, So you must forgive all your enemies truly; And promise me also that, if you should live, You'll leave off your old tricks, and begin to live newly."

"I forgive ev'rybody," says Pat, with a groan, "Except that big vagabone Micky Malone; And him I will murdher if ever I can--"

"Tut, tut," says the priest, "you're a very bad man; For without your forgiveness, and also repentance, You'll ne'er go to Heaven, and that is my sentence."

"Poo!" says Paddy McCabe, "that's a very hard case-- With your Reverence and Heaven I'm content to make pace; But with Heaven and your Reverence I wondher--_Och hone_-- You would think of comparin' that blackguard Malone-- But since I'm hard press'd and that I _must_ forgive, I forgive--if I die--but as sure as I live That ugly blackguard I will surely desthroy!-- So, _now_ for your blessin', sweet Father Molloy!"

_Samuel Lover._

THE OWL-CRITIC

"Who stuffed that white owl?" No one spoke in the shop, The barber was busy, and he couldn't stop; The customers, waiting their turns, were all reading The "Daily," the "Herald," the "Post," little heeding The young man who blurted out such a blunt question; Not one raised a head, or even made a suggestion; And the barber kept on shaving.

"Don't you see, Mr. Brown,"

Cried the youth, with a frown, "How wrong the whole thing is, How preposterous each wing is How flattened the head is, how jammed down the neck is-- In short, the whole owl, what an ignorant wreck 't is!

I make no apology; I've learned owl-eology.

I've pa.s.sed days and nights in a hundred collections, And cannot be blinded to any deflections Arising from unskilful fingers that fail To stuff a bird right, from his beak to his tail.

Mister Brown! Mister Brown!

Do take that bird down, Or you'll soon be the laughing-stock all over town!"

And the barber kept on shaving.

"I've _studied_ owls, And other night-fowls, And I tell you What I know to be true; An owl cannot roost With his limbs so unloosed; No owl in this world Ever had his claws curled, Ever had his legs slanted, Ever had his bill canted, Ever had his neck screwed Into that att.i.tude.

He can't _do_ it, because 'Tis against all bird-laws.

Anatomy teaches, Ornithology preaches, An owl has a toe That _can't_ turn out so!

I've made the white owl my study for years, And to see such a job almost moves me to tears!

Mr. Brown, I'm amazed You should be so gone crazed As to put up a bird In that posture absurd!

To _look_ at that owl really brings on a dizziness; The man who stuffed _him_ don't half know his business!"

And the barber kept on shaving.

"Examine those eyes.