A Satire Anthology. Wells Carolyn

lay there, as dead as a salmon.

      Oh, had I a voice that was stronger than steel,

      With twice fifty tongues to express what I feel,

      And as many good mouths, yet I never could utter

      All the speeches my lord made to Lady Bunbutter!

      So polite all the time, that he ne’er touched a bit,

      While she ate up his rolls and applauded his wit;

      For they tell me that men of true taste, when they treat,

      Should talk a great deal, but they never should eat;

      And if that be the fashion, I never will give

      Any grand entertainment as long as I live;

      For I’m of opinion, ’tis proper to cheer

      The stomach and bowels as well as the ear.

      Nor me did the charming concerto of Abel

      Regale like the breakfast I saw on the table;

      I freely will own I the muffins preferred

      To all the genteel conversation I heard.

      E’en though I’d the honour of sitting between

      My Lady Stuff-damask and Peggy Moreen,

      Who both flew to Bath in the nightly machine.

      Cries Peggy: “This place is enchantingly pretty;

      We never can see such a thing in the city.

      You may spend all your lifetime in Cateaton Street,

      And never so civil a gentleman meet;

      You may talk what you please, you may search London through,

      You may go to Carlisle’s, and to Almack’s, too,

      And I’ll give you my head if you find such a host,

      For coffee, tea, chocolate, butter, and toast.

      How he welcomes at once all the world and his wife,

      And how civil to folks he ne’er saw in his life!”

      “These horns,” cries my lady, “so tickle one’s ear,

      Lord! what would I give that Sir Simon was here!

      To the next public breakfast Sir Simon shall go,

      For I find here are folks one may venture to know.

      Sir Simon would gladly his lordship attend,

      And my lord would be pleased with so cheerful a friend.”

      So, when we had wasted more bread at a breakfast

      Than the poor of our parish have ate for this week past,

      I saw, all at once, a prodigious great throng

      Come bustling, and rustling, and jostling along;

      For his lordship was pleased that the company now

      To my Lady Bunbutter should courtesy and bow;

      And my lady was pleased, too, and seemed vastly proud

      At once to receive all the thanks of a crowd.

      And when, like Chaldeans, we all had adored

      This beautiful image set up by my lord,

      Some few insignificant folk went away,

      Just to follow the employments and calls of the day;

      But those who knew better their time how to spend,

      The fiddling and dancing all chose to attend.

      Miss Clunch and Sir Toby performed a cotillion,

      Just the same as our Susan and Bob the postilion;

      All the while her mamma was expressing her joy

      That her daughter the morning so well could employ.

      Now, why should the Muse, my dear mother, relate

      The misfortunes that fall to the lot of the great?

      As homeward we came, ’tis with sorrow you’ll hear

      What a dreadful disaster attended the peer;

      For whether some envious god had decreed

      That a naiad should long to ennoble the breed,

      Or whether his lordship was charmed to behold

      His face in the stream, like Narcissus of old,

      In handing old Lady B – and daughter,

      This obsequious lord tumbled into the water;

      But a nymph of the flood brought him safe to the boat,

      And I left all the ladies a-cleaning his coat.

Christopher Anstey.

      AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG

      GOOD people all, of every sort,

      Give ear unto my song;

      And if you find it wondrous short

      It cannot hold you long.

      In Islington there was a man

      Of whom the world might say

      That still a godly race he ran

      Whene’er he went to pray.

      A kind and gentle heart he had,

      To comfort friends and foes;

      The naked every day he clad,

      When he put on his clothes.

      And in that town a dog was found,

      As many dogs there be,

      Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,

      And curs of low degree.

      This dog and man at first were friends,

      But when a pique began,

      The dog, to gain his private ends,

      Went mad, and bit the man.

      Around from all the neighbouring streets

      The wondering neighbours ran,

      And swore the dog had lost his wits

      To bite so good a man.

      The wound it seemed both sore and sad

      To every Christian eye;

      And while they swore the dog was mad,

      They swore the man would die.

      But soon a wonder came to light,

      That show’d the rogues they lied:

      The man recover’d of the bite,

      The dog it was that died.

Oliver Goldsmith.

      ON SMOLLETT

      WHENCE could arise this mighty critic spleen,

      The muse a trifler, and her theme so mean?

      What had I done that angry Heaven should send

      The bitterest foe where most I wished a friend?

      Oft hath my tongue been wanton at thy name,

      And hailed the honours of thy matchless fame.

      For me let hoary Fielding bite the ground,

      So nobler Pickle stand superbly bound;

      From Livy’s temples tear the historic crown,

      Which with more justice blooms upon thine own.

      Compared with thee, be all life-writers dumb,

      But he who wrote the life of Tommy Thumb.

      Who ever read “The Regicide” but swore

      The author wrote as