For the woes of mankind the enthusiast wept, Till losing his balance, as sleeping men will, The pensive enthusiast roll'd down the hill. His forehead was struck 'gainst a sharp pointed rock, All the brains that he had, were beat out by the shock ;From his terrible fate, this moral is found, When you sleep out of doors, choose a piece of plain ground. THE RAPE OF THE TRAP. A BALLAD. From Dodsley's Collection, 1775 "Twas in the land of learning, The Muse's favourite station, Such pranks, of late, Were play'd by a rat, As gave them consternation! All in a college study, Where books were in great plenty, This rat would devour More sense in an hour, Than I could write-in twenty. His breakfast, half the morning, He constantly attended; For evening-song, His dinner scarce was ended. Huge tomes of geo-graphy, Was to him a dish of tea, And a kingdom-bread and butter. Such havoc, spoil, and rapine, With grief my muse rehearses; He spared not even heroics, Of King Arthurs, by the score, Than-all the world beside does. But if the desperate potion Might chance to over-dose him ; To check its rage, A trap in haste and anger, Was bought, you need not doubt on't ; And such was the gin, Were a lion once in, He could not, I think, get out on't. With cheese, not books, 'twas baited ; G Since none, I tell ye that, Whether scholar or rat, Minds books, when he has other diet. But more of trap and bait, sir, Why should I sing-or either? Since the rat, with mickle pride, All their sophistry defied; And dragg'd them away together, Both trap and bait were vanish'd, It now may seem, Had then a dozen or more in, Then answer this, ye sages (Nor think I mean to wrong ye); Dan Prior's mice, I own it, Were vermin of condition ; But the rat, who chiefly learn'd What rats alone concern'd, Was the deeper politician. That England's topsy-turvy, Is clear from these mishaps, sir, Since traps, we may determine, Will no longer take our vermin, But vermin take our traps, sir. Let sophs, by rats infested, Then trust in cats to catch 'em ; No mortal sits-to watch 'em. THE DEAD ALIVE. BERANGER. Pierre Jean de Béranger, the greatest lyric poet that France has produced, was born at Paris in 1780. The influence of his songs on the public mind during the Revolutions of 1830 and 1848 is now matter of history. Speaking of his songs, Goethe says, 'They are so full of mature cultivation, of grace, wit, and subtlest irony; they are so artistically finished, and their language is so masterly, that he is admired not only by France, but by the whole of civilized Europe.' In the present volume, we, of course, can only exhibit the humorous side of Béranger's muse. Ilis perception of the ludicrous was undoubtedly great, but it is in the composition of political and patriotic lyrics that his greatest power lay. He died in 1857, leaving an Autobiography, which was afterwards published. A volume of excellent translations from Béranger, by Robert B. Brough, appeared in London in 1856, and from it we have extracted the following poem, as also that of the King of Yvetot,' which appears in another part of the present volume. WHEN a bore gets hold of me, Dull and over bearing, 6 When a snob his £ s. d. Jingles in his breeches, Be so kind as pray I'm as dead as ditches. When a birthday's champagne-corks Round my ears are clicking, Marking time with well-oil'd works, I'm alive and kicking. Kings and their supremacy Be so kind as pray for me, When a trip to Muscovy I'm as dead as mutton. See who first wants picking From the dead man's field below, I'm alive and kicking. When great scribes to poetry March, by notions big led, Be so kind as pray for me, I'm as dead as pig-lead. |