His fate should often tipplers strike.
Poor Mungo! there he welters like
A toast at bottom of a tankard !"
Next morn, a Publican whose tap
Had helped to drain the vat so dry,
Not having heard of the mishap,
Came to demand a fresh supply;
Protesting loudly that the last
All previous specimens surpassed-
Possessing a much richer gusto,
Than formerly it ever used to;
And begging, as a special favor,
More of exactly the same flavor.
Zounds!" cried the brewer, "that's a task
More difficult to grant, than ask!
Most gladly would I give the smack
Of the last beer to the ensuing ;
But, where am I to find a black
To be boiled down at every brewing ?"
25. THE FARMER'S BLUNDER.
A FARMER Once to London went,
pay the worthy squire his rent.
He comes, he knocks, soon entrance gains,—
Who at the door such guests detains?
Forth struts the squire, exceeding smart-
Farmer, you're welcome to my heart;
You've brought my rent then-to a hair!
The best of tenants, I declare !"
The steward's called, the account's made even,
The money paid, the receipt was given;
Well," said the squire, "now, you shall stay,
And dine with me, old friend, to-day;
I've here some ladies wondrous pretty,
And pleasant sparks, too, who will fit ye."
Hob scratched his ears, and held his hat,
And said-" No, zur, two words to that;
For look, d'ye zee, when I'ze to dine
With gentlefolks zo cruel fine,
I'ze use to make,--and 'tis no wonder,—
In word or deed, some plaguy blunder;
Zo, if your honor will permit,
I'll with your zarvants pick a bit."
"Poh!" says the squire, "it shan't be done,"
And to the parlor pushed him on.
To all around he nods and scrapes,
Not waiting-maid or butler 'scapes;
With often bidding takes his seat,
But at a distance mighty great.
Though often asked to draw his chair,
He nods, nor comes an inch more near.
By madam served with body bended,
With knife and fork, and arms extended,
He reached as far as he was able,
To plate that overhung the table;
With little morsels cheats his chops,
And in the passage some he drops.
To show where most his heart inclined,
He talked and drank to John behind.
When drank to in a modish way,
"Your love's sufficient, zur," he'd say;
And to be thought a man of manners,
Still rose to make his awkward honors.
"Tush," says the squire, "pray keep your sitting,"
"No, no," he cries, zur, 'tis not fitting;
Though I'm no scholar, versed in letters,
I knaws my duty to my betters."
Much mirth the farmer's ways afford,
And hearty laughs went round the board.
Thus, the first course was ended well,
But, at the next-Ah! what befell?
The dishes were now timely placed,
And table with fresh luxury graced.
When drank to by a neighboring charmer,
Up as usual starts the farmer.
wag, to carry on the joke,
Thus to his servant softly spoke :-
"Come hither Dick, step gently there,
And pull away the farmer's chair."
'Tis done: his congée made, the clown
Draws back, and stoops to sit him down;
But, by posteriors overweighed,
And of his trusty seat betrayed,
As men, at twigs, in rivers sprawling,
He caught the cloth to save his falling;
In vain, sad fortune, down he wallowed,
And rattling, all the dishes followed!
The fops soon lost their little wits,
The ladies squalled, some fell in fits;
Here tumbled turkeys, tarts, and widgeons,
And there, minced pies, and geese, and pigeons.
Lord! what ado 'twixt belles and beaux,
Some curse, some cry, and rub their clothes!
This lady raves, and that looks down,
And weeps and wails her spattered gown.
One spark bemoans his greaséd waistcoat;
One, "Rot him, he has spoiled my laced coat!"
Amidst the rout, the farmer, long
Some pudding sucked, and held his tongue;
At length he gets him on his breech,
And scrambles up to make his speech;
First rubs his eyes, mouth, nostrils twangs,
Then snaps his fingers, and harangues:
"Plague tak't, Ize tell you how'd 'twould be;
Look, here's a pickle, zurs, d'ye see
Peace, brute, begone!" the ladies cry: The beaux exclaim, "Fly, rascal, fly!"
"I'll tear his eyes out!" squeaks Miss Dolly; I'll pink his soul out!" roars a bully.
At this, the farmer shrinks with fear,
And thinking 'twas ill tarrying here,
Runs off, and cries, "Ay, kill me then,
Whene'er you catch me here again."
YE Alps audacious, through the heavens that rise,
To cramp the day and hide me from the skies;
Ye Gallic flags, that, o'er their heights unfurled,
Bear death to kings and freedom to the world,
I sing not you.
A softer theme I choose,
A virgin theme, unconscious of the Muse,
But fruitful, rich, well suited to inspire
The purest phrensy of poetic fire.
Despise it not, ye bards to terror steeled,
Who hurl your thunders round the epic field;
Nor ye who strain your midnight throats to sing
Joys that the vineyard and the still-house bring;
Or on some distant fair your notes employ,
And speak of raptures that you ne'er enjoy.
I sing the sweets I know, the charms I feel,
My morning incense, and my evening meal,
The sweets of Hasty Pudding. Come, dear bowl,
Glide o'er my palate, and inspire my soul.
The milk beside thee, smoking from the kine.
Its substance mingled, married in with thine,
Shall cool and temper thy superior heat,
And save the pains of blowing while I eat.
Thee, the soft nations round the warm Levant,
Polanta call; the French, of course, Polante.
E'en in thy native regions, how I blush
To hear the Pennsylvanians call thee Mush!
On Hudson's banks, while men of Belgic spawn,
Insult and eat thee by the name Suppawn.
All spurious appellations, void of truth:
I've better known thee from my earliest youth:
Thy name is Hasty Pudding! thus our sires
Were wont to greet thee fuming from the fires;
And while they argued in thy just defence,
With logic clear, they thus explained the sense:
"In haste the boiling cauldron, o'er the blaze,
Receives and cooks the ready powdered maize;
In haste 'tis served, and then in equal haste,
With cooling milk we eat the sweet repast.
No carving to be done, no knife to grate
The tender ear, and wound the stony plate;
But the smooth spoon, just fitted to the lip,
And taught with art the yielding mass to dip,
By frequent journeys to the bowl well stored,
Performs the hasty honors of the board."
Such is thy name, significant and clear,
A name, a sound to every Yankee dear,
But most to me, whose heart and palate chaste,
Preserve my pure, hereditary taste.
SONG OF THE SPEAKER.
WITH patience weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy as lead,
The Speaker sat in his chair of state,
Nodding his drowsy head;
And whilst the dull debate
Maintained its sluggish reign,
The dubious doze, which refuses repose,
Suggested these thoughts to his brain.
"Talk-talk-talk!
Whilst the cock is crowing aloof,
And talk-talk-talk!
Till the stars shine on the roof;
It's oh to be the slave,
The 'Infidel dog' of the Turk,
Rather than sit to superintend
This sham senatorial work!
"Talk-talk-talk!
The rattle never flags;
And what are its products? Little, alas,
But rhetoric's wretched rags!
A shattered joke, or a naked lie,
Of candor's cant a store,
And a whole so blank, that sleep I thank, If it cast its shadow o'er.
"Talk-talk-talk!
From weary chime to chime;
And talk-talk-talk!
As if silence were a crime
Oh,' and Order,' and 'Hear,'
Hear,' and Order,' and Oh'
Till every sense is as drowsy and dense
As the eye that hath lost its glow.
"Talk-talk-talk!
In the dull and heavy night,
And talk-talk-talk!
When the sun is warm and bright;
'Tis ever a winter to me,
No change the seasons bring,
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