The Humorous Poetry of the English Language | Page 8

grieve thee,
Friendliest of plants, that I must)
leave thee.
For thy sake; TOBACCO, I
Would do any thing but die,

And but seek to extend my days
Long enough to sing thy praise.

But, as she, who once hath been
A king's consort, is a queen
Ever
after, nor will bate
Any title of her state,

Though a widow, or
divorced,
So I, from thy converse forced,
The old name and style
retain,
A right Katherine of Spain;
And a seat, too, 'mongst the joys

Of the blest Tobacco Boys.
Where, though I, by sour physician,

Am debarr'd the full fruition
Of thy favors, I may catch
Some
collateral sweets, and snatch
Sidelong odors, that give life
like
glances from a neighbor's wife;
And still live in the by-places
And
the suburbs of thy graces;
And in thy holders take delight,
An
unconquer'd Canaanite.
WRITTEN AFTER SWIMMING FROM SESTOS TO ABYDOS.

BYRON.
If, in the month of dark December,
Leander, who was nightly wont,
(What maid will not the tale
remember?)
To cross thy stream broad Hellespont!
If, when the wint'ry tempest roar'd,
He sped to Hero nothing loth,
And thus of old thy current pour'd,
Fair Venus! how I pity both!
For ME, degenerate, modern wretch,
Though in the genial month of May,
My dripping limbs I faintly
stretch,
And think I've done a feat to-day.
But since he crossed the rapid tide,
According to the doubtful story,
To woo--and--Lord knows what
beside,
And swam for Love, as I for Glory;
'Twere hard to say who fared the best:
Sad mortals! thus the gods still plague you!
He lost his labor, I my
jest;
For he was drowned, and I've the ague
THE LISBON PACKET.
BYRON.

Huzza! Hodgson, we are going,
Our embargo's off at last;

Favorable breezes blowing
Bend the canvas o'er the mast.
From
aloft the signal's streaming,
Hark! the farewell gun is fired;
Women
screeching, tars blaspheming,
Tell us that our time's expired.
Here's a rascal
Come to task all,
Prying from the custom-house;
Trunks unpacking,
Cases cracking,
Not a corner for a mouse

'Scapes unsearched amid the racket,
Ere we sail on board the Packet.
Now our boatmen quit their mooring,
And all hands must ply the oar;

Baggage from the quay is lowering,
We're impatient--push from
shore.
"Have a care! that case holds liquor--
Stop the boat--I'm
sick--O Lord!"
"Sick, ma'am, damme, you'll be sicker
Ere you've
been an hour on board."
Thus are screaming
Men and women,
Gemmen, ladies, servants,
Jacks;
Here entangling,
All are wrangling,
Stuck together close as wax.--

Such the general noise and racket,
Ere we reach the Lisbon Packet.
Now we've reached her, lo! the captain,
Gallant Kid, commands the
crew;
Passengers their berths are clapped in,
Some to grumble,
some to spew.
"Hey day! call you that a cabin?
Why, 'tis hardly
three feet square;
Not enough to stow Queen Mab in--
Who the
deuce can harbor there?"
"Who, sir? plenty--
Nobles twenty
Did at once my vessel fill."--
"Did they? Jesus,
How you squeeze us!
Would to God they did so
still;
Then I'd 'scape the heat and racket
Of the good ship Lisbon
Packet."
Fletcher! Murray! Bob! where are you?

Stretched along the decks like

logs--
Bear a hand, you jolly tar, you!
Here's a rope's end for the
dogs.
Hobhouse muttering fearful curses,
As the hatchway down he
rolls,
Now his breakfast, now his verses,
Vomits forth--and damns
our souls.
"Here's a stanza
On Braganza--
Help!"--"A couplet?"--"No, a cup
Of warm water--"
"What's the matter?"
"Zounds! my liver's coming
up;
I shall not survive the racket
Of this brutal Lisbon Packet."
Now at length we're off for Turkey,
Lord knows when we shall come
back!
Breezes foul and tempests murky
May unship us in a crack.

But, since life at most a jest is,
As philosophers allow,
Still to
laugh by far the best is,
Then laugh on--as I do now.
Laugh at all things,
Great and small things,
Sick or well, at sea or
shore;
While we're quaffing,
Let's have laughing--
Who the devil cares for
more?--
Some good wine! and who would lack it,
Even on board
the Lisbon Packet?
TO FANNY.
THOMAS MOORE
Never mind how the pedagogue proses,
You want not antiquity's
stamp,
The lip that's so scented by roses,
Oh! never must smell of
the lamp.
Old Chloe, whose withering kisses
Have long set the loves at
defiance,
Now done with the science of blisses,
May fly to the
blisses of science!
Young Sappho, for want of employments,
Alone o'er her Ovid may
melt,
Condemned but to read of enjoyments,
Which wiser Corinna

had felt.
But for YOU to be buried in books--
Oh, FANNY! they're pitiful
sages;
Who could not in ONE of your looks
Read more than in
millions of pages!
Astronomy finds in your eye
Better light than she studies above,

And music must borrow your sigh
As the melody dearest to love.
In Ethics--'tis you that can check,
In a minute, their doubts and their
quarrels
Oh! show but that mole on your neck,
And 'twill soon put
an end to their morals.
Your Arithmetic only can trip
When to kiss and to count you
endeavor;
But eloquence glows on your lip
When you swear that
you'll love me forever
Thus you see what a brilliant alliance
Of arts is assembled in you--

A course of more exquisite science
Man never need wish to go
through!
And, oh!--if a fellow like me
May confer a diploma of hearts,
With
my