THE‘ SQUIRE AT VAUXHALL.

Nothing so idle as to waste

This Life disputing upon Taste;

And most — let that sad Truth be written —

In this contentious Land of Britain,

Where each one holds “it seems to me”

Equivalent to Q. E. D.,

And if you dare to doubt his Word

Proclaims you Blockhead and absurd.

And then, too often, the Debate

Is not‘ twixt First and Second-rate,

Some narrow Issue, where a Touch

Of more or less can n't matter much,

But, and this makes the Case so sad,

Betwixt undoubted Good and Bad.

Nay,— there are some so strangely wrought,—

So warped and twisted in their Thought,—

That, if the Fact be but confest,

They like the baser Thing the best.

Take BOTTOM, who for one,‘ tis clear,

Possessed a “reasonable Ear;”

He might have had at his Command

The Symphonies of Fairy-Land;

Well, our immortal SHAKESPEAR owns

The Oaf preferred the “Tongs and Bones!”

‘ Squire HOMESPUN from Clod-Hall rode down,

As the Phrase is — “to see the Town;”

( The Town, in those Days, mostly lay

Betwixt the Tavern and the Play. )

Like all their Worships the J. P.' s,

He put up at the Hercules;

Then sallied forth on Shanks his Mare,

Rather than jolt it in a Chair,—

A curst, new-fangled Little-Ease,

That knocks your Nose against your Knees.

For the good‘ Squire was Country-bred,

And had strange Notions in his Head,

Which made him see in every Cur

The starveling Breed of Hanover;

He classed your Kickshaws and Ragoos

With Popery and Wooden Shoes;

Railed at all Foreign Tongues as Lingo,

And sighed o'er Chaos Wine for Stingo.

Hence, as he wandered to and fro,

Nothing could please him, high or low.

As Savages at Ships of War

He looked unawed on Temple-Bar;

Scarce could conceal his Discontent

With Fish-Street and the Monument;

And might ( except at Feeding-Hour )

Have scorned the Lion in the Tower,

But that the Lion's Race was run,

And — for the Moment — there was none.

At length, blind Fate, that drives us all,

Brought him at Even to Vauxhall,

What Time the eager Matron jerks

Her slow Spouse to the Water-Works,

And the coy Spinster, half-afraid

Consults the Hermit in the Shade.

Dazed with the Din and Crowd, the‘ Squire

Sank in a Seat before the Choir.

The FAUSTINETTA, fair and showy,

Warbled an Air from Arsinoë,

Playing her Bosom and her Eyes

As Swans do when they agonize.

Alas! to some a Mug of Ale

Is better than an Orphic Tale!

The‘ Squire grew dull, the‘ Squire grew bored;

His chin dropt down; he slept; he snored.

Then, straying thro’ the “poppied Reign,”

He dreamed him at Clod-Hall again;

He heard once more the well-known Sounds,

The Crack of Whip, the Cry of Hounds.

He rubbed his Eyes, woke up, and lo!

A Change had come upon the Show.

Where late the Singer stood, a Fellow,

Clad in a Jockey's Coat of Yellow,

Was mimicking a Cock that crew.

Then came the Cry of Hounds anew,

Yoicks! Stole Away! and harking back;

Then Ringwood leading up the Pack.

The‘ Squire in Transport slapped his Knee

At this most hugeous Pleasantry.

The sawn Wood followed; last of all

The Man brought something in a Shawl,—

Something that struggled, scraped, and squeaked

As Porkers do, whose tails are tweaked.

Our honest‘ Squire could scarcely sit

So excellent he thought the Wit.

But when Sir Wag drew off the Sheath

And showed there was no Pig beneath,

His pent-up Wonder, Pleasure, Awe,

Exploded in a long Guffaw:

And, to his dying Day, he'd swear

That Naught in Town the Bell could bear

From “Jockey wi’ the Yellow Coat

That had a Farm-Yard in his Throat!”

MORAL THE FIRST you may discover:

The‘ Squire was like TITANIA'S lover;

He put a squeaking Pig before

The Harmony of CLAYTON'S Score.

MORAL THE SECOND — not so clear;

But still it shall be added here:

He praised the Thing he understood;

‘ Twere well if every Critic would.