To Mr. Wrench At The English Opera House.[14]

Oh very pleasant Mr. Wrench,-- The first, upon the pit’s first bench, I’ve scrambled to my place, To hail thee on these summer boards With joy, even critic-craft affords, And watch thy welcome face!

Ere thou art come, how I rejoice To hear thy free and easy voice, Lounging about the slips; And then thy figure comes and owns The voice as careless as the tones That saunter from thy lips.

Oh come and cast a quiet glance, To glad a nameless friend, askance The lamps’ ascending glare; Better it is than bended knees, Heart-squeezing, and profound congés-- That old familiar air.

Even in the street, in that apt face, Full of gay gravity, I trace The soul of native whim; A constant, never-failing store Of quiet mirth, that ne’er runs o’er, But aye is near the brim.

Quoth I, “There goes a happy wight, Inimical to spleen and spite, And careless of all care; Who oils the ruffled waves of strife, And makes the work-day suit of life Of very easy wear.

Lord! if he had some people’s ills To cope--their hungry bonds and bills, How faintly they would tease; Things that have cost both tears and sighs-- Their foes, as motelings in his eyes-- Their duns, his summer fleas!

The stage, I guess, is not thy school-- Thou dost not antic like the fool That wept behind his mask; Thy playing is thy play--a sport-- A revel, as perform’d at Court, And not a trade--a task!

Gay Freeman, art thou hired for him? No--‘tis thy humour and thy whim To be that easy guest; Whereas whoever plays for pelf, (Like Bennett) only gives him-self, Or her--like Mrs. West!

Nay, thou--to look beyond the stage, Thy life is but another page Continued of the play; The same companionable sprite-- Thy whim and pleasantry by night Are with thee in the day!

LOVE, WITH A WITNESS.

He has shav’d off his whiskers and blacken’d his brows, Wears a patch and a wig of false hair,-- But it’s him--Oh it’s him!--we exchanged lovers’ vows, When I lived up in Cavendish Square.

He had beautiful eyes, and his lips were the same, And his voice was as soft as a flute-- Like a Lord or a Marquis he look’d when he came, To make love in his master’s best suit.

If I lived for a thousand long years from my birth, I shall never forget what he told; How he lov’d me beyond the rich women of earth, With their jewels and silver and gold?

When he kiss’d me and bade me adieu with a sigh, By the light of the sweetest of moons, Oh how little I dreamt I was bidding good-bye To my Missis’s tea-pot and spoons!

LINES BY A SCHOOL-BOY.

When I was first a scholar, I went to Dr. Monk, And elephant-like I had, sir, a cake put in my trunk; The Rev. Doctor Monk, sir, was very grave and prim, He stood full six foot high, sir, and we all looked up to him.

They didn’t pinch and starve us, as here they do at York, For every boy was ask’d, sir, to bring a knife and fork. And then I had a chum too, to fag and all of that, I made him sum up my sums too, and eat up all my fat.

For goodness we had prizes, and birch for doing ill, But none of the Birch that visits the bottom of Cornhill. And we’d half a dozen ushers to teach us Latin and Greek, And all we’d got in our heads, sir, was combed out once a week.

And then we had a shop, too, for lollipops and squibs, Where I often had a lick, sir, at Buonaparty’s ribs! Oh! if I was at Clapham, at my old school again, In the rod I could fancy honey, and sugar in the cane.