Читать книгу The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe - Various - Страница 81

Oh, for a glance of that gay Muse's eye,

That lighten'd on Bandello's laughing tale,

And twinkled with a luster shrewd and sly,

When Giam Batttista bade her vision hail!—

Yet fear not, ladies, the naive detail

Given by the natives of that land canorous;

Italian license loves to leap the pale,

We Britons have the fear of shame before us,

And, if not wise in mirth, at least must be decorous.

In the far eastern clime, no great while since,

Lived Sultaun Solimaun, a mighty prince,

Whose eyes, as oft as they perform'd their round,

Beheld all others fix'd upon the ground;

Whose ears received the same unvaried phrase,

"Sultaun! thy vassal hears, and he obeys!"

All have their tastes—this may the fancy strike

Of such grave folks as pomp and grandeur like;

For me, I love the honest heart and warm

Of monarch who can amble round his farm,

Or when the toil of state no more annoys,

In chimney corner seek domestic joys—

I love a prince will bid the bottle pass,

Exchanging with his subjects glance and glass;

In fitting time, can, gayest of the gay,

Keep up the jest, and mingle in the lay—

Such Monarchs best our free-born humors suit,

But Despots must be stately, stern, and mute.

This Solimaun, Serendib had in sway—

And where's Serendib? may some critic say—

Good lack, mine honest friend, consult the chart,

Scare not my Pegasus before I start!

If Rennell has it not, you'll find, mayhap,

The isle laid down in Captain Sinbad's map—

Famed mariner! whose merciless narrations

Drove every friend and kinsman out of patience,

Till, fain to find a guest who thought them shorter,

He deign'd to tell them over to a porter—

The last edition see, by Long and Co.,

Rees, Hurst, and Orme, our fathers in the Row.

Serendib found, deem not my tale a fiction—

This Sultaun, whether lacking contradiction—

(A sort of stimulant which hath its uses,

To raise the spirits and reform the juices,

—Sovereign specific for all sorts of cures

In my wife's practice, and perhaps in yours),

The Sultaun lacking this same wholesome bitter,

Of cordial smooth for prince's palate fitter—

Or if some Mollah had hag-rid his dreams

With Degial, Ginnistan, and such wild themes

Belonging to the Mollah's subtle craft,

I wot not—but the Sultaun never laugh'd,

Scarce ate or drank, and took a melancholy

That scorn'd all remedy profane or holy;

In his long list of melancholies, mad,

Or mazed, or dumb, hath Burton none so had.

Physicians soon arrived, sage, ware, and tried,

As e'er scrawl'd jargon in a darken'd room;

With heedful glance the Sultaun's tongue they eyed,

Peep'd in his bath, and God knows where beside,

And then in solemn accent spoke their doom,

"His majesty is very far from well."

Then each to work with his specific fell;

The Hakim Ibrahim INSTANTER brought

His unguent Mahazzim al Zerdukkaut,

While Roompot, a practitioner more wily,

Relied on Ms. Munaskif all fillfily.

More and yet more in deep array appear,

And some the front assail, and some the rear;

Their remedies to reinforce and vary,

Came surgeon eke, and eke apothecary;

Till the tired Monarch, though of words grown chary,

Yet dropt, to recompense their fruitless labor,

Some hint about a bowstring or a saber.

There lack'd, I promise you, no longer speeches,

To rid the palace of those learned leeches.

Then was the council call'd—by their advice

(They deem'd the matter ticklish all, and nice,

And sought to shift it off from their own shoulders)

Tartars and couriers in all speed were sent,

To call a sort of Eastern Parliament

Of feudatory chieftains and freeholders—

Such have the Persians at this very day,

My gallant Malcolm calls them couroultai;—

I'm not prepared to show in this slight song

That to Serendib the same forms belong—

E'en let the learn'd go search, and tell me if I'm wrong.

The Omrahs, each with hand on scimitar,

Gave, like Sempronius, still their voice for war—

"The saber of the Sultaun in its sheath

Too long has slept, nor own'd the work of death,

Let the Tambourgi bid his signal rattle,

Bang the loud gong, and raise the shout of battle!

This dreary cloud that dims our sovereign's day,

Shall from his kindled bosom flit away,

When the bold Lootie wheels his courser round,

And the arm'd elephant shall shake the ground.

Each noble pants to own the glorious summons—

And for the charges—Lo! your faithful Commons!"

The Riots who attended in their places

(Serendib language calls a farmer Riot)

Look'd ruefully in one another's faces,

From this oration auguring much disquiet,

Double assessment, forage, and free quarters;

And fearing these as China-men the Tartars,

Or as the whisker'd vermin fear the mousers,

Each fumbled in the pockets of his trowsers.

And next came forth the reverend Convocation,

Bald heads, white beards, and many a turban green,

Imaum and Mollah there of every station,

Santon, Fakir, and Calendar were seen.

Their votes were various—some advised a Mosque

With fitting revenues should be erected,

With seemly gardens and with gay Kiosque,

To create a band of priests selected;

Others opined that through the realms a dole

Be made to holy men, whose prayers might profit

The Sultaun's weal in body and in soul.

But their long-headed chief, the Sheik Ul-Sofit,

More closely touch'd the point;—"Thy studious mood,"

Quoth he, "O Prince! hath thicken'd all thy blood,

And dull'd thy brain with labor beyond measure;

Wherefore relax a space and take thy pleasure,

And toy with beauty, or tell o'er thy treasure;

From all the cares of state, my Liege, enlarge thee,

And leave the burden to thy faithful clergy."

These counsels sage availed not a whit,

And so the patient (as is not uncommon

Where grave physicians lose their time and wit)

Resolved to take advice of an old woman;

His mother she, a dame who once was beauteous,

And still was called so by each subject duteous.

Now whether Fatima was witch in earnest,

Or only made believe, I can not say—

But she profess'd to cure disease the sternest,

By dint of magic amulet or lay;

And, when all other skill in vain was shown,

She deem'd it fitting time to use her own.

"Sympathia magica hath wonders done"

(Thus did old Fatima bespeak her son),

"It works upon the fibers and the pores,

And thus, insensibly, our health restores,

And it must help us here.—Thou must endure

The ill, my son, or travel for the cure.

Search land and sea, and get, where'er you can,

The inmost vesture of a happy man:

I mean his SHIRT, my son; which, taken warm

And fresh from off his back, shall chase your harm,

Bid every current of your veins rejoice,

And your dull heart leap light as shepherd-boy's."

Such was the counsel from his mother came;—

I know not if she had some under-game,

As doctors have, who bid their patients roam

And live abroad, when sure to die at home;

Or if she thought, that, somehow or another,

Queen-Regent sounded better than Queen-Mother;

But, says the Chronicle (who will go look it?)

That such was her advice—the Sultaun took it.

All are on board—the Sultaun and his train,

In gilded galley prompt to plow the main.

The old Rais was the first who question'd, "Whither?"

They paused—"Arabia," thought the pensive Prince,

"Was call'd The Happy many ages since—

For Mokha, Rais."—And they came safely thither.

But not in Araby, with all her balm,

Not where Judea weeps beneath her palm,

Not in rich Egypt, not in Nubian waste,

Could there the step of Happiness be traced.

One Copt alone profess'd to have seen her smile

When Bruce his goblet fill'd at infant Nile:

She bless'd the dauntless traveler as he quaff'd

But vanish'd from him with the ended draught.

"Enough of turbans," said the weary King.

"These dolimans of ours are not the thing;

Try we the Giaours, these men of coat, and cap, I

Incline to think some of them must be happy;

At least they have as fair a cause as any can,

They drink good wine and keep no Ramazan.

Then northward, ho!"—The vessel cuts the sea,

And fair Italia lies upon her lee.—

But fair Italia, she who once unfurl'd

Her eagle-banners o'er a conquer'd world,

Long from her throne of domination tumbled,

Lay, by her quondam vassals, sorely humbled,

The Pope himself look'd pensive, pale, and lean,

And was not half the man he once had been.

"While these the priest and those the noble fleeces,

Our poor old boot," they said, "is torn to pieces.

Its tops the vengeful claws of Austria feel,

And the Great Devil is rending toe and heel.

If happiness you seek, to tell you truly,

We think she dwells with one Giovanni Bulli;

A tramontane, a heretic—the buck,

Poffaredio! still has all the luck;

By land or ocean never strikes his flag—

And then—a perfect walking money-bag."

Off set our Prince to seek John Bull's abode,

But first took France—it lay upon the road.

Monsieur Baboon, after much late commotion,

Was agitated like a settling ocean,

Quite out of sorts, and could not tell what ail'd him,

Only the glory of his house had fail'd him;

Besides, some tumors on his noddle biding,

Gave indication of a recent hiding.

Our Prince, though Sultauns of such things are heedless,

Thought it a thing indelicate and needless

To ask, if at that moment he was happy.

And Monsieur, seeing that he was comme il faut, a

Loud voice muster'd up, for "Vive le Roi!"

Then whisper'd, "'Ave you any news of Nappy?"

The Sultaun answer'd him with a cross question—

"Pray, can you tell me aught of one John Bull,

That dwells somewhere beyond your herring-pool?"

The query seem'd of difficult digestion,

The party shrugg'd, and grinn'd, and took his snuff,

And found his whole good-breeding scarce enough.

Twitching his visage into as many puckers

As damsels wont to put into their tuckers

(Ere liberal Fashion damn'd both lace and lawn,

And bade the vail of modesty be drawn),

Replied the Frenchman, after a brief pause,

"Jean Bool!—I vas not know him—yes, I vas—

I vas remember dat, von year or two,

I saw him at von place call'd Vaterloo—

Ma foi! il s'est tres joliment battu,

Dat is for Englishman—m'entendez-vous?

But den he had wit him one damn son-gun,

Rogue I no like—dey call him Vellington."

Monsieur's politeness could not hide his fret,

So Solimaun took leave, and cross'd the strait.

John Bull was in his very worst of moods,

Raving of sterile farms and unsold goods;

His sugar-loaves and bales about he threw,

And on his counter beat the devil's tattoo.

His wars were ended, and the victory won,

But then, 'twas reckoning-day with honest John;

And authors vouch, 'twas still this Worthy's way,

"Never to grumble till he came to pay;

And then he always thinks, his temper's such,

The work too little, and the pay too much."

Yet grumbler as he is, so kind and hearty,

That when his mortal foe was on the floor,

And past the power to harm his quiet more,

Poor John had well-nigh wept for Bonaparte!

Such was the wight whom Solimaun salam'd—

"And who are you," John answer'd, "and be d—d?"

'A stranger come to see the happiest man—

So, signior, all avouch—in Frangistan.'—

"Happy? my tenants breaking on my hand;

Unstock'd my pastures, and untill'd my land;

Sugar and rum a drug, and mice and moths

The sole consumers of my good broadcloths—

Happy?—why, cursed war and racking tax

Have left us scarcely raiment to our backs."—

"In that case, signior, I may take my leave;

I came to ask a favor—but I grieve."—

"Favor?" said John, and eyed the Sultaun hard,

"It's my belief you came to break the yard!—

But, stay, you look like some poor foreign sinner—

Take that to buy yourself a shirt and dinner."—

With that he chuck'd a guinea at his head;

But, with due dignity, the Sultaun said,

"Permit me, sir, your bounty to decline;

A SHIRT indeed I seek, but none of thine.

Signior, I kiss your hands, so fare you well,"—

"Kiss and be d—d," quoth John, "and go to hell!"

Next door to John there dwelt his sister Peg,

Once a wild lass as ever shook a leg

When the blithe bagpipe blew—but, soberer now,

She DOUCELY span her flax and milk'd her cow.

And whereas erst she was a needy slattern,

Nor now of wealth or cleanliness a pattern,

Yet once a month her house was partly swept,

And once a week a plenteous board she kept.

And, whereas, eke, the vixen used her claws

And teeth of yore, on slender provocation.

She now was grown amenable to laws,

A quiet soul as any in the nation;

The sole remembrance of her warlike joys

Was in old songs she sang to please her boys.

John Bull, whom, in their years of early strife,

She wont to lead a cat-and-doggish life,

Now found the woman, as he said, a neighbor,

Who look'd to the main chance, declined no labor,

Loved a long grace, and spoke a northern jargon.

And was d—d close in making of a bargain.

The Sultaun enter'd, and he made his leg,

And with decorum courtesy'd sister Peg;

(She loved a book, and knew a thing or two,

And guess'd at once with whom she had to do).

She bade him "Sit into the fire," and took

Her dram, her cake, her kebbuck from the nook;

Ask'd him "About the news from Eastern parts:

And of her absent bairns, puir Highland hearts!

If peace brought down the price of tea and pepper,

And if the NITMUGS were grown ONY cheaper;—

Were there nae SPEERINGS of our Mungo Park—

Ye'll be the gentleman that wants the sark?

If ye wad buy a web o' auld wife's spinning

I'll warrant ye it's a weel-wearing linen."

Then up got Peg, and round the house 'gan scuttle

In search of goods her customer to nail,

Until the Sultaun strain'd his princely throttle

And hallo'd—"Ma'am, that is not what I ail.

Pray, are you happy, ma'am, in this snug glen?"—

"Happy?" said Peg; "What for d'ye want to ken?

Besides, just think upon this by-gane year,

Grain wadna pay the yoking of the pleugh."—

"What say you to the present?"—"Meal's sae dear,

To make their brose my bairns have scarce aneugh."—

"The devil take the shirt," said Solimaun,

"I think my quest will end as it began.—

Farewell, ma'am; nay, no ceremony, I beg"—

"Ye'll no be for the linen then?" said Peg.

Now, for the land of verdant Erin,

The Sultaun's royal bark is steering,

The Emerald Isle, where honest Paddy dwells,

The cousin of John Bull, as story tells.

For a long space had John, with words of thunder

Hard looks, and harder knocks, kept Paddy under,

Till the poor lad, like boy that's flogg'd unduly,

Had gotten somewhat restive and unruly.

Hard was his lot and lodging, you'll allow,

A wigwam that would hardly serve a sow;

His landlord, and of middle men two brace,

Had screw'd his rent up to the starving-place;

His garment was a top-coat, and an old one,

His meal was a potato, and a cold one;

But still for fun or frolic, and all that,

In the round world was not the match of Pat.

The Sultaun saw him on a holiday,

Which is with Paddy still a jolly day;

When mass is ended, and his load of sins

Confess'd, and Mother Church hath from her binns

Dealt forth a bonus of imputed merit,

Then is Pat's time for fancy, whim, and spirit!

To jest, to sing, to caper fair and free,

And dance as light as leaf upon the tree.

"By Mahomet," said Sultaun Solimaun,

"That ragged fellow is our very man!

Rush in and seize him—do not do him hurt,

But, will he nill he, let me have his SHIRT."

Shilela their plan was well-nigh after baulking

(Much less provocation will set it a-walking),

But the odds that foil'd Hercules foil'd Paddy Whack;

They seized, and they floor'd, and they stripp'd him—Alack

Up-bubboo! Paddy had not—a shirt to his back!!!

And the King, disappointed, with sorrow and shame

Went back to Serendib as sad as he came.