A Satire Anthology. Wells Carolyn

      DUBIUS is such a scrupulous good man —

      Yes, you may catch him tripping, if you can.

      He would not with a peremptory tone

      Assert the nose upon his face his own;

      With hesitation admirably slow,

      He humbly hopes – presumes – it may be so.

      His evidence, if he were called by law

      To swear to some enormity he saw,

      For want of prominence and just belief,

      Would hang an honest man and save a thief.

      Through constant dread of giving truth offence,

      He ties up all his hearers in suspense;

      Knows what he knows as if he knew it not;

      What he remembers, seems to have forgot;

      His sole opinion, whatsoe’er befall,

      Centring at last in having none at all.

      THE circle formed, we sit in silent state,

      Like figures drawn upon a dial-plate.

      “Yes, ma’am” and “No, ma’am” uttered softly, show

      Every five minutes how the minutes go.

      Each individual, suffering a constraint —

      Poetry may, but colours cannot, paint —

      As if in close committee on the sky,

      Reports it hot or cold, or wet or dry,

      And finds a changing clime a happy source

      Of wise reflection and well-timed discourse.

      We next inquire, but softly and by stealth,

      Like conservators of the public health,

      Of epidemic throats, if such there are

      Of coughs and rheums, and phthisic and catarrh.

      That theme exhausted, a wide chasm ensues,

      Filled up at last with interesting news:

      Who danced with whom, and who are like to wed;

      And who is hanged, and who is brought to bed,

      But fear to call a more important cause,

      As if ’twere treason against English laws.

      The visit paid, with ecstasy we come,

      As from a seven years’ transportation, home

      And there resume an unembarrassed brow,

      Recovering what we lost we know not how,

      The faculties that seemed reduced to naught,

      Expression, and the privilege of thought.

      I  OWN I like not Johnson’s turgid style,

      That gives an inch th’ importance of a mile;

      Casts of manure a wagon-load around,

      To raise a simple daisy from the ground;

      Uplifts the club of Hercules – for what?

      To crush a butterfly or brain a gnat;

      Creates a whirlwind from the earth, to draw

      A goose’s feather or exalt a straw;

      Sets wheels on wheels in motion – such a clatter —

      To force up one poor nipperkin of water;

      Bids ocean labour with tremendous roar

      To heave a cockle-shell upon the shore;

      Alike in every theme his pompous art,

      Heaven’s awful thunder or a rumbling cart!

      O  Boswell, Bozzy, Bruce, what’re thy name,

      Thou mighty shark for anecdote and fame,

      Thou jackal, leading lion Johnson forth

      To eat Macpherson midst his native north,

      To frighten grave professors with his roar,

      And shake the Hebrides from shore to shore,

      All hail!

      Triumphant thou through time’s vast gulf shalt sail,

      The pilot of our literary whale;

      Close to the classic Rambler shalt thou cling,

      Close as a supple courtier to a king;

      Fate shall not shake thee off with all its power,

      Stuck like a bat to some old ivied tower.

      Nay, though thy Johnson ne’er had blessed thy eyes,

      Paoli’s deeds had raised thee to the skies:

      Yes, his broad wing had raised thee (no bad hack),

      A tomtit twittering on an eagle’s back.

      WAS once a hen of wit not small

      (In fact, ’twas not amazing),

      And apt at laying eggs withal,

      Who, when she’d done, would scream and bawl,

      As if the house were blazing.

      A turkey-cock, of age mature,

      Felt thereat indignation;

      ’Twas quite improper, he was sure —

      He would no more the thing endure;

      So, after cogitation,

      He to the lady straight repaired,

      And thus his business he declared:

      “Madam, pray, what’s the matter,

      That always, when you’ve laid an egg,

      You make so great a clatter?

      I wish you’d do the thing in quiet.

      Do be advised by me, and try it.”

      “Advised by you!” the lady cried,

      And tossed her head with proper pride;

      “And what do you know, now I pray,

      Of the fashion of the present day,

      You creature ignorant and low?

      However, if you want to know,

      This is the reason why I do it:

      I lay my egg, and then review it!”

      WE bipeds, made up of frail clay,

      Alas! are the children of sorrow;

      And, though brisk and merry to-day,

      We may all be unhappy to-morrow.

      For sunshine’s succeeded by rain;

      Then, fearful of life’s stormy weather,

      Lest pleasure should only bring pain,

      Let us all be unhappy together.

      I