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A Satire Anthology

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Год написания книги
2017
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She vowed for such pleasure she’d break it again.
’Twas hay-making season – I can’t tell the reason —
Misfortunes will never come single, ’tis plain;
For very soon after poor Kitty’s disaster
The devil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine.

    Edward Lysaght.

THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE KNIFE-GRINDER

FRIEND OF HUMANITY

“NEEDY Knife-grinder, whither are you going?
Rough is the road, your wheel is out of order;
Bleak blows the blast; your hat has got a hole in’t,
So have your breeches!

“Weary Knife-grinder, little think the proud ones,
Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike
Road, what hard work ’tis crying all day, ‘Knives and
Scissors to grind O!’

“Tell me, Knife-grinder, how came you to grind knives?
Did some rich man tyrannically use you?
Was it the squire? or parson of the parish?
Or the attorney?

“Was it the squire, for killing of his game? or
Covetous parson, for his tithes distraining?
Or roguish lawyer, made you lose your little
All in a lawsuit?

“(Have you not read the ‘Rights of Man,’ by Tom Paine?)
Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids,
Ready to fall, as soon as you have told your
Pitiful story.”

KNIFE-GRINDER

“Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, sir,
Only last night, a-drinking at the Chequers,
This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were
Torn in a scuffle.

“Constables came up, for to take me into
Custody; they took me before the justice;
Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish —
Stocks for a vagrant.

“I should be glad to drink your Honour’s health in
A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence;
But for my part, I never love to meddle
With politics, sir.”

FRIEND OF HUMANITY

“I give thee sixpence! I will see thee damned first —
Wretch! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance —
Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded,
Spiritless outcast!”

(Kicks the Knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit in a transport of Republican enthusiasm and universal philanthropy.)

    George Canning.

NORA’S VOW

HEAR what Highland Nora said:
“The Earlie’s son I will not wed,
Should all the race of Nature die,
And none be left but he and I.
For all the gold, for all the gear,
And all the lands both far and near,
That ever valour lost and won,
I would not wed the Earlie’s son.”

“A maiden’s vows,” old Callum spoke,
“Are lightly made and lightly broke.
The heather on the mountain’s height
Begins to bloom in purple light;
The frost-wind soon shall sweep away
That lustre deep from glen and brae;
Yet Nora, ere its bloom be gone,
May blithely wed the Earlie’s son.”

“The swan,” she said, “the lake’s clear breast
May barter for the eagle’s nest;
The Awe’s fierce stream may backward turn,
Ben Cruaichan fall, and crush Kilchurn;
Our kilted clans, when blood is high,
Before their foes may turn and fly;
But I, were all these marvels done,
Would never wed the Earlie’s son.”

Still in the water-lily’s shade
Her wonted nest the wild swan made,
Ben Cruaichan stands as fast as ever,
Still downward foams the Awe’s fierce river;
To shun the clash of foeman’s steel,
No Highland brogue has turn’d the heel;
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