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A Satire Anthology
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Год написания книги
2017
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Popping up near to break the vision?
’Mid northern lakes, ’mid southern vines,
Unholy cits we’re doomed to meet;
Nor highest Alps, nor Apennines,
Are sacred from Threadneedle Street.
If up the Simplon’s path we wind,
Fancying we leave this world behind,
Such pleasant sounds salute one’s ear
As, “Baddish news from ’Change, my dear:
The Funds (phew! curse this ugly hill!)
Are lowering fast (what! higher still?)
And (zooks! we’re mounting up to heaven!)
Will soon be down to sixty-seven.”
Go where we may, rest where we will,
Eternal London haunts us still.
The trash of Almack’s or Fleet-Ditch —
And scarce a pin’s-head difference which —
Mixes, though even to Greece we run,
With every rill from Helicon.
And if this rage for travelling lasts,
If cockneys of all sets and castes,
Old maidens, aldermen, and squires,
Will leave their puddings and coal fires,
To gape at things in foreign lands
No soul among them understands;
If Blues desert their coteries,
To show off ’mong the Wahabees;
If neither sex nor age controls,
Nor fear of Mamelukes forbids
Young ladies, with pink parasols,
To glide among the Pyramids:
Why, then, farewell all hope to find
A spot that’s free from London-kind!
Who knows, if to the West we roam,
But we may find some Blue “at home”
Among the Blacks of Carolina,
Or, flying to the eastward, see,
Some Mrs. Hopkins taking tea
And toast upon the Wall of China?
Thomas Moore.
THE MODERN PUFFING SYSTEM
UNLIKE those feeble gales of praise
Which critics blew in former days,
Our modern puffs are of a kind
That truly, really “raise the wind”;
And since they’ve fairly set in blowing,
We find them the best trade-winds going.
What storm is on the deep – and more
Is the great power of Puff on shore,
Which jumps to glory’s future tenses
Before the present even commences,
And makes “immortal” and “divine” of us,
Before the world has read one line of us.
In old times, when the god of song
Drew his own two-horse team along,
Carrying inside a bard or two
Booked for posterity “all through,”
Their luggage a few close-packed rhymes
(Like yours, my friend, for after-times),
So slow the pull to Fame’s abode
That folks oft slumbered on the road;
And Homer’s self sometimes, they say,
Took to his nightcap on the way.
But now, how different is the story
With our new galloping sons of glory,
Who, scorning all such slack and slow time,
Dash to posterity in no time!
Raise but one general blast of puff
To start your author – that’s enough:
In vain the critics sit to watch him,
Try at the starting-post to catch him;
He’s off – the puffers carry it hollow —
The critics, if they please, may follow;
Ere they’ve laid down their first positions,
He’s fairly blown through six editions!
In vain doth Edinburgh dispense
Her blue and yellow pestilence
(That plague so awful in my time
To young and touchy sons of rhyme);
The Quarterly, at three months’ date,
To catch the Unread One comes too late;
And nonsense, littered in a hurry,
Becomes “immortal” spite of Murray.
Thomas Moore.
LYING
I do confess, in many a sigh,
My lips have breath’d you many a lie,
And who, with such delights in view,
Would lose them for a lie or two?
Nay – look not thus, with brow reproving:
Lies are, my dear, the soul of loving!
If half we tell the girls were true,
’Mid northern lakes, ’mid southern vines,
Unholy cits we’re doomed to meet;
Nor highest Alps, nor Apennines,
Are sacred from Threadneedle Street.
If up the Simplon’s path we wind,
Fancying we leave this world behind,
Such pleasant sounds salute one’s ear
As, “Baddish news from ’Change, my dear:
The Funds (phew! curse this ugly hill!)
Are lowering fast (what! higher still?)
And (zooks! we’re mounting up to heaven!)
Will soon be down to sixty-seven.”
Go where we may, rest where we will,
Eternal London haunts us still.
The trash of Almack’s or Fleet-Ditch —
And scarce a pin’s-head difference which —
Mixes, though even to Greece we run,
With every rill from Helicon.
And if this rage for travelling lasts,
If cockneys of all sets and castes,
Old maidens, aldermen, and squires,
Will leave their puddings and coal fires,
To gape at things in foreign lands
No soul among them understands;
If Blues desert their coteries,
To show off ’mong the Wahabees;
If neither sex nor age controls,
Nor fear of Mamelukes forbids
Young ladies, with pink parasols,
To glide among the Pyramids:
Why, then, farewell all hope to find
A spot that’s free from London-kind!
Who knows, if to the West we roam,
But we may find some Blue “at home”
Among the Blacks of Carolina,
Or, flying to the eastward, see,
Some Mrs. Hopkins taking tea
And toast upon the Wall of China?
Thomas Moore.
THE MODERN PUFFING SYSTEM
UNLIKE those feeble gales of praise
Which critics blew in former days,
Our modern puffs are of a kind
That truly, really “raise the wind”;
And since they’ve fairly set in blowing,
We find them the best trade-winds going.
What storm is on the deep – and more
Is the great power of Puff on shore,
Which jumps to glory’s future tenses
Before the present even commences,
And makes “immortal” and “divine” of us,
Before the world has read one line of us.
In old times, when the god of song
Drew his own two-horse team along,
Carrying inside a bard or two
Booked for posterity “all through,”
Their luggage a few close-packed rhymes
(Like yours, my friend, for after-times),
So slow the pull to Fame’s abode
That folks oft slumbered on the road;
And Homer’s self sometimes, they say,
Took to his nightcap on the way.
But now, how different is the story
With our new galloping sons of glory,
Who, scorning all such slack and slow time,
Dash to posterity in no time!
Raise but one general blast of puff
To start your author – that’s enough:
In vain the critics sit to watch him,
Try at the starting-post to catch him;
He’s off – the puffers carry it hollow —
The critics, if they please, may follow;
Ere they’ve laid down their first positions,
He’s fairly blown through six editions!
In vain doth Edinburgh dispense
Her blue and yellow pestilence
(That plague so awful in my time
To young and touchy sons of rhyme);
The Quarterly, at three months’ date,
To catch the Unread One comes too late;
And nonsense, littered in a hurry,
Becomes “immortal” spite of Murray.
Thomas Moore.
LYING
I do confess, in many a sigh,
My lips have breath’d you many a lie,
And who, with such delights in view,
Would lose them for a lie or two?
Nay – look not thus, with brow reproving:
Lies are, my dear, the soul of loving!
If half we tell the girls were true,
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