But possibly the men who make such fuss With Sunday pippins and old Trots infirm, Attach some other meaning to the term, As thus:

One market morning, in my usual rambles, Passing along Whitechapel's ancient shambles, Where meat was hung in many a joint and quarter, I had to halt awhile, like other folks, To let a killing butcher coax A score of lambs and fatted sheep to slaughter.

A sturdy man he looke'd to fell an ox, Bull-fronted, ruddy, with a formal streak Of well-greased hair down either cheek, As if he dee-dash-dee'd some other flocks Beside those woolly-headed stubborn blocks That stood before him, in vexatious huddle-- Poor little lambs, with bleating wethers group'd, While, now and then, a thirsty creature stoop'd And meekly snuff'd, but did not taste the puddle.

Fierce bark'd the dog, and many a blow was dealt, That loin, and chump, and scrag and saddle felt, Yet still, that fatal step they all declined it,-- And shunn'd the tainted door as if they smelt Onions, mint sauce, and lemon juice behind it.

At last there came a pause of brutal force, The cur was silent, for his jaws were full Of tangled locks of tarry wool, The man had whoop'd and holloed till dead hoarse.

The time was ripe for mild expostulation, And thus it stammer'd from a stander-by-- "Zounds!--my good fellow,--it quite makes me--why, It really--my dear fellow--do just try Conciliation!"

Stringing his nerves like flint, The sturdy butcher seized upon the hint,-- At least he seized upon the foremost wether,-- And hugg'd and lugg'd and tugg'd him neck and crop Just _nolens volens_ thro' the open shop-- If tails come off he didn't care a feather,-- Then walking to the door and smiling grim, He rubb'd his forehead and his sleeve together-- "There!--I have _con_ciliated him!"

Again--good-humoredly to end our quarrel-- (Good humor should prevail!) I'll fit you with a tale, Whereto is tied a moral.

Once on a time a certain English lass Was seized with symptoms of such deep decline, Cough, hectic flushes, ev'ry evil sign, That, as their wont is at such desperate pass, The Doctors gave her over--to an ass.

Accordingly, the grisly Shade to bilk, Each morn the patient quaff'd a frothy bowl Of asinine new milk, Robbing a shaggy suckling of a foal Which got proportionably spare and skinny-- Meanwhile the neighbors cried "Poor Mary Ann!

She can't get over it! she never can!"

When lo! to prove each prophet was a ninny The one that died was the poor wet-nurse Jenny.

To aggravate the case, There were but two grown donkeys in the place; And most unluckily for Eve's sick daughter, The other long ear'd creature was a male, Who never in his life had given a pail Of milk, or even chalk and water.

No matter: at the usual hour of eight Down trots a donkey to the wicket-gate, With Mister Simon Gubbins on his back,-- "Your sarvant, Miss",--a worry spring-like day,-- Bad time for hasses tho'! good lack! good lack!

Jenny be dead, Miss,--but I've brought ye Jack, He doesn't give no milk--but he can bray.

So runs the story, And, in vain self-glory, Some Saints would sneer at Gubbins for his blindness-- But what the better are their pious saws To ailing souls, than dry hee-haws, Without the milk of human kindness?

TO MY DAUGHTER[16]

ON HER BIRTHDAY.

[Footnote 16: Written at Ostend in September 1839.]

Dear Fanny! nine long years ago, While yet the morning sun was low, And rosy with the Eastern glow The landscape smiled-- Whilst lowed the newly-waken'd herds-- Sweet as the early song of birds, I heard those first, delightful words, "Thou hast a Child!"

Along with that uprising dew Tears glisten'd in my eyes, though few, To hail a dawning quite as new To me, as Time: It was not sorrow--not annoy-- But like a happy maid, though coy, With grief-like welcome even Joy Forestalls its prime.

So mayst thou live, dear! many years, In all the bliss that life endears, Not without smiles, nor yet from tears Too strictly kept: When first thy infant littleness I folded in my fond caress, The greatest proof of happiness Was this--I wept.

MISS KILMANSEGG AND HER PRECIOUS LEG.[17]

[Footnote 17: Originally published by instalments in Colburn's _New Monthly Magazine_ in 1840 and 1841, as one of a proposed series to be entitled "Rhymes for the Times."]

A GOLDEN LEGEND.

"What is here?

Gold! yellow, glittering, precious gold?"

_Timon of Athens_.

HER PEDIGREE.

I.

To trace the Kilmansegg pedigree To the very root of the family tree Were a task as rash as ridiculous: Through antediluvian mists as thick As London fog such a line to pick Were enough, in truth, to puzzle old Nick, Not to name Sir Harris Nicolas.

II.

It wouldn't require much verbal strain To trace the Kill-man, perchance, to Cain; But, waiving all such digressions, Suffice it, according to family lore, A Patriarch Kilmansegg lived of yore, Who was famed for his great possessions.

III.

Tradition said he feather'd his nest Through an Agricultural Interest In the Golden Age of Farming; When golden eggs were laid by the geese, And Colehian sheep wore a golden fleece, And golden pippins--the sterling kind Of Hesperus--now so hard to find-- Made Horticulture quite charming!

IV.

A Lord of Land, on his own estate, He lived at a very lively rate, But his income would bear carousing; Such acres he had of pastures and heath, With herbage so rich from the ore beneath, The very ewe's and lambkin's teeth Were turn'd into gold by browsing.

V.

He gave, without any extra thrift, A flock of sheep for a birthday gift To each son of his loins, or daughter: And his debts--if debts he had--at will He liquidated by giving each bill A dip in Pactolian water.

VI.

'Twas said that even his pigs of lead, By crossing with some by Midas bred, Made a perfect mine of his piggery.

And as for cattle, one yearling bull Was worth all Smithfield-market full Of the Golden Bulls of Pope Gregory.

VII.

The high-bred horses within his stud, Like human creatures of birth and blood, Had their Golden Cups and flagons: And as for the common husbandry nags, Their noses were tied in money-bags, When they stopp'd with the carts and wagons.

VIII.

Moreover, he had a Golden Ass, Sometimes at stall, and sometimes at grass, That was worth his own weight in money And a golden hive, on a Golden Bank, Where golden bees, by alchemical prank, Gather'd gold instead of honey.