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A Satire Anthology
Автор
Год написания книги
2017
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His lyric effusions have tickled the town;
Dukes, dowagers, dandies, are eager to trace
The fountain of verse in the verse-maker’s face;
While, proud as Apollo, with peers tête-à-tête,
From Monday till Saturday dining off plate,
His heart full of hope, and his head full of gain,
The Poet of Fashion dines out in Park Lane.
Now lean-jointured widows who seldom draw corks,
Whose teaspoons do duty for knives and for forks,
Send forth, vellum-covered, a six-o’clock card,
And get up a dinner to peep at the bard;
Veal, sweetbread, boiled chickens, and tongue crown the cloth,
And soup à la reine, little better than broth.
While, past his meridian, but still with some heat,
The Poet of Fashion dines out in Sloane Street.
Enrolled in the tribe who subsist by their wits,
Remember’d by starts, and forgotten by fits,
Now artists and actors, the bardling engage,
To squib in the journals, and write for the stage.
Now soup à la reine bends the knee to ox-cheek,
And chickens and tongue bow to bubble and squeak.
While, still in translation employ’d by “the Row,”
The Poet of Fashion dines out in Soho.
Pushed down from Parnassus to Phlegethon’s brink,
Toss’d, torn, and trunk-lining, but still with some ink,
Now squat city misses their albums expand,
And woo the worn rhymer for “something offhand”;
No longer with stinted effrontery fraught,
Bucklersbury now seeks what St. James’ once sought,
And (oh, what a classical haunt for a bard!)
The Poet of Fashion dines out in Barge-yard.
James Smith.
CHRISTMAS OUT OF TOWN
FOR many a winter in Billiter Lane,
My wife, Mrs. Brown, was not heard to complain;
At Christmas the family met there to dine
On beef and plum-pudding, and turkey and chine.
Our bark has now taken a contrary heel;
My wife has found out that the sea is genteel.
To Brighton we duly go scampering down,
For nobody now spends his Christmas in town.
Our register-stoves, and our crimson-baized doors,
Our weather-proof walls, and our carpeted floors,
Our casements well fitted to stem the north wind,
Our arm-chair and sofa, are all left behind.
We lodge on the Steyne, in a bow-window’d box,
That beckons up-stairs every Zephyr that knocks;
The sun hides his head, and the elements frown,
But nobody now spends his Christmas in town.
In Billiter Lane, at this mirth-moving time,
The lamp-lighter brought us his annual rhyme;
The tricks of Grimaldi were sure to be seen;
We carved a twelfth-cake, and we drew king and queen.
These pastimes gave oil to Time’s round-about wheel,
Before we began to be growing genteel;
’Twas all very well for a cockney or clown,
But nobody now spends his Christmas in town.
At Brighton I’m stuck up in Donaldson’s shop,
Or walk upon bricks till I’m ready to drop;
Throw stones at an anchor, look out for a skiff,
Or view the Chain-pier from the top of the cliff:
Till winds from all quarters oblige me to halt,
With an eye full of sand and a mouth full of salt,
Yet still I am suffering with folks of renown,
For nobody now spends his Christmas in town.
In gallop the winds at the full of the moon,
And puff up the carpet like Sadler’s balloon;
My drawing-room rug is besprinkled with soot,
And there is not a lock in the house that will shut.
At Mahomet’s steam-bath I lean on my cane,
And murmur in secret, “Oh, Billiter Lane!”
But would not express what I think for a crown,
For nobody now spends his Christmas in town.
The Duke and the Earl are no cronies of mine;
His Majesty never invites me to dine;
The Marquis won’t speak when we meet on the pier,
Which makes me suspect that I’m nobody here.
If that be the case, why, then welcome again
Twelfth-cake and snap-dragon in Billiter Lane.
Next winter I’ll prove to my dear Mrs. Brown
That Nobody now spends his Christmas in town.
James Smith.
ETERNAL LONDON
AND is there, then, no earthly place
Where we can rest in dream Elysian,
Without some cursed round English face
Dukes, dowagers, dandies, are eager to trace
The fountain of verse in the verse-maker’s face;
While, proud as Apollo, with peers tête-à-tête,
From Monday till Saturday dining off plate,
His heart full of hope, and his head full of gain,
The Poet of Fashion dines out in Park Lane.
Now lean-jointured widows who seldom draw corks,
Whose teaspoons do duty for knives and for forks,
Send forth, vellum-covered, a six-o’clock card,
And get up a dinner to peep at the bard;
Veal, sweetbread, boiled chickens, and tongue crown the cloth,
And soup à la reine, little better than broth.
While, past his meridian, but still with some heat,
The Poet of Fashion dines out in Sloane Street.
Enrolled in the tribe who subsist by their wits,
Remember’d by starts, and forgotten by fits,
Now artists and actors, the bardling engage,
To squib in the journals, and write for the stage.
Now soup à la reine bends the knee to ox-cheek,
And chickens and tongue bow to bubble and squeak.
While, still in translation employ’d by “the Row,”
The Poet of Fashion dines out in Soho.
Pushed down from Parnassus to Phlegethon’s brink,
Toss’d, torn, and trunk-lining, but still with some ink,
Now squat city misses their albums expand,
And woo the worn rhymer for “something offhand”;
No longer with stinted effrontery fraught,
Bucklersbury now seeks what St. James’ once sought,
And (oh, what a classical haunt for a bard!)
The Poet of Fashion dines out in Barge-yard.
James Smith.
CHRISTMAS OUT OF TOWN
FOR many a winter in Billiter Lane,
My wife, Mrs. Brown, was not heard to complain;
At Christmas the family met there to dine
On beef and plum-pudding, and turkey and chine.
Our bark has now taken a contrary heel;
My wife has found out that the sea is genteel.
To Brighton we duly go scampering down,
For nobody now spends his Christmas in town.
Our register-stoves, and our crimson-baized doors,
Our weather-proof walls, and our carpeted floors,
Our casements well fitted to stem the north wind,
Our arm-chair and sofa, are all left behind.
We lodge on the Steyne, in a bow-window’d box,
That beckons up-stairs every Zephyr that knocks;
The sun hides his head, and the elements frown,
But nobody now spends his Christmas in town.
In Billiter Lane, at this mirth-moving time,
The lamp-lighter brought us his annual rhyme;
The tricks of Grimaldi were sure to be seen;
We carved a twelfth-cake, and we drew king and queen.
These pastimes gave oil to Time’s round-about wheel,
Before we began to be growing genteel;
’Twas all very well for a cockney or clown,
But nobody now spends his Christmas in town.
At Brighton I’m stuck up in Donaldson’s shop,
Or walk upon bricks till I’m ready to drop;
Throw stones at an anchor, look out for a skiff,
Or view the Chain-pier from the top of the cliff:
Till winds from all quarters oblige me to halt,
With an eye full of sand and a mouth full of salt,
Yet still I am suffering with folks of renown,
For nobody now spends his Christmas in town.
In gallop the winds at the full of the moon,
And puff up the carpet like Sadler’s balloon;
My drawing-room rug is besprinkled with soot,
And there is not a lock in the house that will shut.
At Mahomet’s steam-bath I lean on my cane,
And murmur in secret, “Oh, Billiter Lane!”
But would not express what I think for a crown,
For nobody now spends his Christmas in town.
The Duke and the Earl are no cronies of mine;
His Majesty never invites me to dine;
The Marquis won’t speak when we meet on the pier,
Which makes me suspect that I’m nobody here.
If that be the case, why, then welcome again
Twelfth-cake and snap-dragon in Billiter Lane.
Next winter I’ll prove to my dear Mrs. Brown
That Nobody now spends his Christmas in town.
James Smith.
ETERNAL LONDON
AND is there, then, no earthly place
Where we can rest in dream Elysian,
Without some cursed round English face
Другие электронные книги автора Carolyn Wells
Последний отзыв
Книга дельная. Без воды, приводятся реальные кейсы и способы их разрешения. Много практичных полезных советов и методик. Кое-что уже испробовала в дел...
Далее