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Now I was green, and she was green,
As a summer's squash might be ;
I and my Deborah Lee, —
Coveted her and me.
But somehow it happened a long time ago,
WHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS. That a chill March morning gave the shakes
FROM "THE BIGLOW PAPERS." To my beautiful Deborah Lee ;
Guvener B. is a sensible man; And the grim steam-doctor (drat him !) came,
He stays to his home an' looks arter his folks; And bore her away from me, –
He draws his furrer ez straight ez he can, The doctor and death, old partners they,
An' into nobody's tater-patch pokes ; — In the aguish countree.
But John P.
Robinson he The angels wanted her in heaven
Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B. (But they never asked for me), And that is the reason, I rather guess,
My! aint it terrible? Wut shall we du? In the aguish West countree,
We can't never choose him o' course, — thet's That the cold March wind, and the doctor, and .
Guess we shall hev to come round, (don't you ?) Took off my Deborah Lee –
An' go in fer thunder an' guns, an' all that ; My beautiful Deborah Lee —
Fer John P. From the warm sunshine and the opening flower,
Robinson he And bore her away from me.
Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B. Our love was as strong as a six-horse team,
Gineral C. is a dreffle smart man : Or the love of folks older than we,
He's ben on all sides thet give places or pelf, Or possibly wiser than we;
But consistency still wuz a part of his plan, But death, with the aid of doctor and steam,
He's ben true to one party, - an' thet is himWas rather too many for me;
self ;He closed the peepers and silenced the breath
So John P. Of my sweetheart Deborah Lee,
Robinson he And her form lies cold in the prairie mould,
Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C. Silent and cold, -ah me!
Gineral C. he goes in fer the war ;* The foot of the hunter shall press her grave,
He don't vally principle more 'n an old cud; And the prairie's sweet wild flowers
Wut did God make us raytional creeturs fer, In their odorous beauty around it wave
But glory an' gunpowder, plunder an' blood ? Through all the sunny hours, —
So John P. The still, bright summer hours ;
Robinson he And the birds shall sing in the tufted grass,
Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C. And the nectar-laden bee, With his dreamy hum, on his gauze wings pass, — We were gittin' on nicely up here to our village, She wakes no more to me;
With good old idees o' wut's right an' wut aint, Ah, nevermore to me!
We kind o’ thought Christ went agin war an' Though the wild birds sing and the wild flowers
An' thet eppyletts worn't the best mark of a She wakes no more to me.
But John P. Yet oft in the hush of the dim, still night,
Robinson he A vision of beauty I see
Sez this kind o' thing's an exploded idee. Gliding soft to my bedside, ---a phantom of light, Dear, beautiful Deborah Lee, —
Written at the time of the Mexican war, which was strongly
opposed by the AntiSlavery party as being unnecessary and My bride that was to be ;
The side of our country must ollers be took,
try; An' the angel thet writes all our sins in a book Puts the debit to him, an' to us the per con
fum : And thet all this big talk of our destinies Is half ov it ign’ance, an' t'other half rum ;
But John P.
THE NIGHT. On fair augusta's towers and trees Flitted the silent midnight breeze, Curling the foliage as it past, Which from the moon-tipped plumage cast A spangled light, like dancing spray, Then reassumed its still array ; When, as night's lamp unclouded hung, And down its full effulgence flung, It shed such soft and balmy power, That cot and castle, hall and bower, And spire and dome, and turret height, Appeared to slumber in the light. From Henry's Chapel, Rufus' Hall, To Savoy, Temple, and St. Paul; From Knightsbridge, Pancras, Camden Town, To Redriffe, Shadwell, Horsleydown, No voice was heard, no eye unclosed, But all in deepest sleep reposed. They might have thought who gazed around Amid a silence so profound
It made the senses thrill, That 't was no place inhabited, But some vast city of the dead,
All was so hushed and still.
In bedgown woke her dames ;
“The playhouse is in flames !” And, lo ! where Catherine Street extends, A fiery tail its lustre lends
To every window-pane ;
A bright ensanguined drain ;
Where Patent Shot they sell ;
And Richardson's Hotel.
A TALE OF DRURY LANE.
IMITATION OF SIR WALTER SCOTT.
“Thus he went on, stringing one extravagance upon another, in the style his books of chivalry had taught him, and imitating, as near as he could, their very phrase."- DON QUIXOTE.
To be spoken by Mr. Kemble, in a suit of the Black.
Prince's armor, borrowed from the Tower.
Did Drury Lane befall.
Back, Robins, back! Crump, stand aloof!
And Eagle firemen knew
The foreman of their crew. Loud shouted all in signs of woe, “A Muggins ! to the rescue, ho !"
And poured the hissing tide : Meanwhile the Muggins fought amain, And strove and struggled all in vain, For, rallying but to fall again,
He tottered, sunk, and died !
To those who on the hills around
As from a lofty altar rise,
Some vast, stupendous sacrifice !
His nether bulk embraced ; Then jacket thick, of red or blue, Whose massy shoulder gave to view The badge of each respective crew,
In tin or copper traced.
Along the pavement paced.
The others came in view :
The Eagle, where the new ;
Crump from St. Giles's Pound : Whitford and Mitford joined the train, Huggins and Muggins from Chick Lane, And Clutterbuck, who got a sprain
Before the plug was found.
Of Bridewell's gloomy mound !
Nor notice give at all.
For fear the roof should fall,
Did none attempt, before he fell,
His brother chief to save;
Served but to share his grave! 'Mid blazing beams and scalding streams, Through fire and smoke he dauntless broke,
Where Muggins broke before.
He sunk to rise no more.
HORACE SMITH. From the
IMITATION OF CRABBE.
Interior of a Theatre described. - Pit gradually fills. - The Check
taker. - Pit full. - The Orchestra tuned. - One fiddle rather dilatory. - Is reproved - and repents. - Evolutions of a Play-bill. - Its final Settlement on the Spikes. - The Gods taken to task --and why. - Motley Group of Play-goers. - Holywell Street, St. Pancras. - Emanuel Jennings binds his Son apprentice-not in London-- and why. - Episode of the Hat.
'Tis sweet to view, from half past five to six, | Our long wax-candles, with short cotton wicks,
Touched by the lamplighter's Promethean art, Bankers from Paper Buildings here resort,
Boys who long linger at the gallery door,
more; But when the multitude contracts the span,
Till some Samaritan the twopence spares,
Now the full benches to late-comers doom
Critics we boast who ne'er their malice balk,
But talk their minds, - we wish they'd mind Hark! the check-taker moody silence breaks,
their talk ; And bawling “Pitfull !" gives the check he takes; |
Big-worded bullies, who by quarrels live,-Yet onward still the gathering numbers cram,
Who give the lie, and tell the lie they give ; Contending crowders shout the frequent damn, Jews from St. Mary Axe, for jobs so wary, . And all is bustle, squeeze, row, jabbering, and jam.
That for old clothes they'd even axe St. Mary ;
And bucks with pockets empty as their pate, See to their desks Apollo's sons repair, — Lax in their gaiters, laxer in their gait; Swift rides the rosin o'er the horse's hair! Who oft, when we our house lock up, carouse In unison their various tones to tune, .
| With tippling tipstaves in a lock-up house. Murmurs the hautboy, growls the hoarse bassoon; | In soft vibration sighs the whispering lute, Yet here, as elsewhere, Chance can joy bestow, Tang goes the harpsichord, too-too the flute, For scowling Fortune seemed to threaten woe. Brays the loud trumpet, squeaks the fiddle sharp, Winds the French horn, and twangs the tingling John Richard William Alexander Dwyer harp;
Was footman to Justinian Stubbs, Esquire ; Till, like great Jove, the leader, figuring in,
But when John Dwyer listed in the Blues, Attunes to order the chaotic din.
Emanuel Jennings polished Stubbs's shoes. Now all seems hushed, - but, no, one fiddle will | Emanuel Jennings brought his youngest boy Give, half ashamed, a tiny flourish still.
Up as a corn-cutter, ~a safe employ ; Foiled in his crash, the leader of the clan
In Holy-well Street, St. Pancras, he was bred Reproves with frowns the dilatory man;
(At number twenty-seven, it is said), Then on his candlestick thrice taps his bow,
Facing the pump, and near the Granby's Head ; Nods a new signal, and away they go.
He would have bound him to some shop in town, Perchance, while pitand gallery cry “Hats off!” |
But with a premium he could not come down. And awed Consumption checks his chided cough,
Pat was the urchin's name, -- a red-haired youth, Some giggling daughter of the Queen of Love
Fonder of purl and skittle grounds than truth. Drops, reft of pin, her play-bill from above : Like Icarus, while laughing galleries clap,
Silence, ye gods ! to keep your tongues in awe, Soars, ducks, and dives in air the printed scrap;
The Muse shall tell an accident she saw. But, wiser far than he, combustion fears,
Pat Jennings in the upper gallery sat, And, as it flies, eludes the chandeliers ;
But, leaning forward, Jennings lost his hat: Till, sinking gradual, with repeated twirl,
Down from the gallery the beaver flew, It settles, curling, on a fiddler's curl ;
And spurned the one to settle in the two. Who from his powdered pate the intruder strikes,
ikes, How shall he act ? Pay at the gallery-door And, from mere malice, sticks it on the spikes.
KES | Two shillings for what cost, when new, but four ! Say, why these Babelstrains from Babeltongues? |
Or till half-price, to save his shilling, wait, Who's that calls - Silence !" with such leathern
And gain his hat again at half past eight ? lungs ?
Now, while his fears anticipate a thief, He who, in quest of quiet, “Silence !" hoots,
John Mullens whispers, "Take my handkerchier." Is apt to make the hubbub he imputes.
“Thank you," cries Pat; “but one won't make
a line." What various swainsourmotley walls contain!- "Take mine," cried Wilson ; and cried Stokes, Fashion from Moorfields, honor from Chick Lane; “Take mine.”
A motley cable soon Pat Jennings ties,
Now smoking and frothing
Its tumult and wrath in, Loops the last kerchief to the beaver's band, –
Till in this rapid race Upsoars the prize! The youth with joy unfeigned
On which it is bent, Regained the felt, and felt what he regained ;
It reaches the place While to the applauding galleries grateful Pat
Of its steep descent. Made a low bow, and touched the ransomed hat.
The cataract strong
Striking and raging
As if a war waging
Its caverns and rocks among ;
Rising and leaping,
Sinking and creeping,
Swelling and sweeping,
Showering and springing,
Flying and flinging,
Writhing and ringing,
Eddying and whisking,
Spouting and frisking,
Turning and twisting,
Around and around
With endless rebound :
Smiting and fighting,
A sight to delight in ;
Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound.
Receding and speeding,
And shocking and rocking,
And darting and parting,
And threading and spreading,
And whizzing and hissing,
And dripping and skipping,
And hitting and splitting,
And shining and twining,
And rattling and battling,
And shaking and quaking,
And pouring and roaring,
And waving and raving,
And tossing and crossing,
And flowing and going,
And running and stunning,
And foaming and roaming,
And dinning and spinning,
And dropping and hopping,
And working and jerking,
And guggling and struggling,
And heaving and cleaving,
And moaning and groaning;
And glittering and frittering,
And gathering and feathering,