The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 13, No. 364, April 4, 1829
TekstSPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS
APRIL FOOLS
This day, beyond all contradiction,
This day is all thine own, Queen Fiction!
And thou art building castles boundless
Of groundless joys, and griefs as groundless;
Assuring beauties that the border
Of their new dress is out of order;
And schoolboys that their shoes want tying;
And babies that their dolls are dying.
Lend me, lend me, some disguise;
I will tell prodigious lies:
All who care for what I say
Shall be April fools to-day.
First I relate how all the nation
Is ruined by Emancipation:
How honest men are sadly thwarted;
How beads and faggots are imported;
How every parish church looks thinner;
How Peel has asked the Pope to dinner;
And how the Duke, who fought the duel,
Keeps good King George on water-gruel.
Thus I waken doubts and fears
In the Commons and the Peers;
If they care for what I say,
They are April fools to-day.
Next I announce to hall and hovel
Lord Asterisk's unwritten novel.
It's full of wit, and full of fashion,
And full of taste, and full of passion;
It tells some very curious histories,
Elucidates some charming mysteries,
And mingles sketches of society
With precepts of the soundest piety.
Thus I babble to the host
Who adore the "Morning Post;"
If they care for what I say.
They are April fools to-day.
Then to the artist of my raiment
I hint his bankers have stopped payment;
And just suggest to Lady Locket
That somebody has picked her pocket—
And scare Sir Thomas from the city,
By murmuring, in a tone of pity,
That I am sure I saw my Lady
Drive through the Park with Captain Grady.
Off my troubled victims go,
Very pale and very low;
If they care for what I say,
They are April fools to-day.
I've sent the learned Doctor Trepan
To feel Sir Hubert's broken kneepan;
'Twill rout doctor's seven senses
To find Sir Hubert charging fences!
I've sent a sallow parchment scraper
To put Miss Trim's last will on paper;
He'll see her, silent as a mummy,
At whist with her two maids and dummy.
Man of brief, and man of pill,
They will take it very ill;
If they care for what I say,
They are April fools to-day.
And then to her, whose smiles shed light on
My weary lot last year at Brighton,
I talk of happiness and marriage,
St. George's and a travelling carriage.
I trifle with my rosy fetters,
I rave about her 'witching letters,
And swear my heart shall do no treason
Before the closing of the season.
Thus I whisper in the ear
Of Louisa Windermere—
If she cares for what I say,
She's an April fool to-day.
And to the world I publish gaily
That all things are improving daily;
That suns grow warmer, streamlets clearer,
And faith more firm, and love sincerer—
That children grow extremely clever—
That sin is seldom known, or never—
That gas, and steam, and education,
Are, killing sorrow and starvation!
Pleasant visions—but, alas
How those pleasant visions pass!
If you care for what I say,
You're an April fool to-day.
Last, to myself, when night comes round me,
And the soft chain of thought has bound me,
I whisper, "Sir, your eyes are killing—
You owe no mortal man a shilling—
You never cringe for star or garter,
You're much too wise to be a martyr—
And since you must, be food for vermin,
You don't feel much desire for ermine!"
Wisdom is a mine, no doubt,
If one can but find it out—
But whate'er I think or say,
I'm an April fool to-day,
London Magazine.
"WATER BEWITCHED."
A widow of the name of Betty Falla kept an alehouse in one of the market-towns frequented by the Lammermuir ladies, (Dunse, we believe,) and a number of them used to lodge at her house during the fair. One year Betty's ale turned sour soon after the fair; there had been a thunder-storm in the interim, and Betty's ale was, as they say in that country, "strongest in the water." Betty did not understand the first of these causes, and she did not wish to understand the latter. The ale was not palatable; and Betty brewed again to the same strength of water. Again it thundered, and again the swipes became vinegar. Betty was at her wit's end,—no long journey; but she was breathless.
Having got to her own wit's end, Betty naturally wished to draw upon the stock of another; and where should she find it in such abundance as with the minister of the parish. Accordingly, Betty put on her best, got her nicest basket, laid a couple of bottles of her choicest brandy in the bottom, and over them a dozen or two of her freshest eggs; and thus freighted, she fidgetted off to the manse, offered her peace-offering, and hinted that she wished to speak with his reverence in "preevat."
"What is your will, Betty?" said the minister of Dunse. "An unco uncanny mishap," replied the tapster's wife.
"Has Mattie not been behaving?" said the minister. "Like an innocent lamb," quoth Betty Falla.
"Then—?" said the minister, lacking the rest of the query. "Anent the yill," said Betty.
"The ale!" said the minister; "has any body been drinking and refused to pay?"
"Na," said Betty, "they winna drink a drap."
"And would you have me to encourage the sin of drunkenness?" asked the minister.
"Na, na," said Betty, "far frae that; I only want your kin' han' to get in yill again as they can drink."
"I am no brewer, Betty," said the minister gravely.
"Gude forfend, Sir," said Betty, "that the like o' you should be evened to the gyle tub. I dinna wish for ony thing o' the kind."—"Then what is the matter?" asked the minister.
"It's witched, clean witched; as sure as I'm a born woman," said Betty.
"Naebody else will drink it, an' I canna drink it mysel'."
"You must not be superstitious, Betty," said the minister. "I'm no ony thing o' the kin'," said Betty, colouring, "an' ye ken it yoursel'; but twa brousts wadna be vinegar for naething." (She lowered her voice.) "Ye mun ken, Sir, that o' a' the leddies frae the Lammermuir, that hae been comin' and gaen, there was an auld rudas wife this fair, an' I'm certie she's witched the yill; and ye mun just look into ye'r buiks, an' tak off the withchin!"
"When do you brew, Betty?"—"This blessed day, gin it like you, Sir."
"Then, Betty, here is the thing you want, the same malt and water as usual?"
–"Nae difference, Sir?"
"Then when you have put the water to the malt, go three times round the vat with the sun, and in pli's name put in three shoolfu's of malt; and when you have done that, go three times round the vat, against the sun, and, in the devil's name, take out three bucketfuls of water; and take my word for it, the ale will be better."
"Thanks to your reverence; gude mornin."—Ibid.
THE GATHERER
"A snapper-up of unconsidered trifles."
SHAKSPEARE.
SONG
By Mr. Gay
The sun was sunk beneath the hills,
The western clouds were lin'd with gold,
The sky was clear, the winds were still,
The flocks were pent within their fold:
When from the silence of the grove,
Poor Damon thus despair'd of love.
Who seeks to pluck the fragrant rose
From the bare rock, or oozy beach,
Who from each barren weed that grows,
Expects the grape, or blushing peach.
With equal faith may hope to find
The truth of love in woman-kind.
I have no herds, no fleecy care,
No fields that wave with golden grain,
No meadows green, or gardens fair,
A damsel's venal heart to gain.
Then all in vain my sighs must prove,
For I, alas! have naught but love.
How wretched is the faithful youth,
Since women's hearts are bought and
sold,
They ask no vows of sacred truth,
Whene'er they sigh, they sigh for gold.
Gold can the frowns of scorn remove,
But I, alas! have naught but love.
To buy the gems of India's coast,
What gold, what treasure will suffice,
Not all their fire can ever boast
The living lustre of her eyes.
For thee the world too cheap must prove,
But I, alas! have naught but love.
O Sylvia! since no gems, nor ore
Can with thy brighter charms compare,
Consider that I proffer more
More seldom found, a heart sincere.
Let treasure meaner beauty's move,
Who pays thy worth, must pay in love.
MR. HOOD'S NEW SONGS
The following "announcement" is so characteristic and amusing, that we copy it verbatim et literatim:—The author of "Whims and Oddities" has the honour of informing the public, that, encouraged by the popularity of the Ballads in the first and second series of that work, he intends to communicate a succession of similar vocal crotchets, to run alone without the help of an octavo. Sally Brown, Faithless Nelly Gray, and Mary's Ghost, have been patronised by many public and private singers; but unfortunately they were adapted to as many airs—sometimes even to jigs; and the natural result was an occasional falling-out between the words and the melodies. Judging that it would be better for those verses to be regularly married to music, than that they should form temporary connexions with any rambling tunes about town, Mr. J. Blewitt has at last kindly provided them with airs that are airs of character, and made their alliance with music of the correct and permanent kind. The same gentleman has undertaken the same good office for the forthcoming Comic Ballads; and his well-known skill and talent will insure that all unhappy differences between Sound and Sense will be amicably composed. In fact, the words and the airs will be intended for each other from the cradle—like Paul and Virginia. It is intended that the new Ballads shall start in couples. Two to make a Number, and a number of Numbers may be bound to the library, as a volume, for a term of years. The work will be set with variations. Occasionally there will be a duet or trio, to accommodate those timid vocalists who do not choose to make themselves particular in a solo, or those other singers of sociable habits who prefer giving tongue in a pack. One word about the words. They will be "merry and wise." Not a jest will be admitted that might be liable to misconstruction by the Council of Nice. The Comic Muse has been too apt to mistake liberty for license, and has been proportionably licentious; the Comic Ballads will be as particular as Seneca or Aesop in their regard for good morals. Nothing, in short, will be inserted but what is cut out for the female ear. To conclude—the said Melodies will be issued by Messrs. Clementi and Co., of Cheapside. Be sure to ask for "Comic Melodies," as all others are counterfeits, and not benefits, to the proprietors. The first Number is expected to commence, like Blue Bonnets, with "March;" and the work will be continued regularly through every other month in the calendar.
The other day, a man of ninety-nine was buried at Père-la-chaise, at Paris, and was followed to his grave by twenty children, fifteen grand-children and great grand-children. Happily, such populators are not common! The deceased, it appears, had buried six wives, and married the seventh: he died in the full enjoyment of his senses, and assured his numerous progeny that he did not regret life, as he knew he was about to rejoin the six beloved partners of his days, who had gone before him. Few men, we fear, would be consoled by such an idea in their last moments, or at any moment of their existence!—Literary Gaz.