by Joseph James (1800s)
As ever met a poet’s vision;
Though high-born Pride may close her een,
And call on Scorn for his derision.
I will maintain it, human hearts
Are better prompting smiling faces
Than aught vain Fashion’s school imparts
Of cold and studied grimaces.
And better far the homely jest
May ask our honest admiration,
Than wit, in splendid language drest,
Whose aim is Virtue’s degradation.
But, to our picture:—mark it well!
Tradition’s yearly acted story;
When laughing Joy rings Sorrow’s knell,
And social Pleasure shines in glory.
The string suspended from on high,
With fruit and flame at random swinging;
Quick comes the blazing candle by,
When at the apple teeth are springing.
See where his booby squireship waits,
With open mouth the prize to grapple;
Give me the power, ye dubious fates,
He’ll get a candle for an apple.
That laughing girl, too, asks to bite;
Ye flames, be sure your scorchings miss her;
Nought less than rapturous Delight,
Or rosy Innocence, should kiss her.
See where her friendly prompter stands,
Mark his keen eye, how swift it glances;
And how his fortune-favour’d hands
Repel or hurry her advances.
‘Tis pleasant, faith! to view the sport—
Not most life like, but like life really—
Whether we view the lasses court,
Or Patrick flourish his shillelah.
Here sits a sage card-reading dame,
A pythoness for divination!
Who tells known lovers, name for name,
The objects of their admiration.
She knows when maidens would be brides,—
Let non her wond’rous powers disparage;
Experience, more than witchcraft, guides,
Who dreams of love sure thinks of marriage.
Aye, try your fortunes, dearest girls,
And, if dark fate no more discovers,
Sure as the sun the dew impearls,
I’ll wage my life you all get lovers.
Who doubts that whiskey can inspire?
See here, at least, it is no fiction:
View you good-humoured rosy Friar
Give mother Church’s benediction.
And round about him many a glass
Is lifted to his rev’rence holy;
A toast! a toast! boys, let it pass,
Grief is another name for Folly.
So we’ll be merry and be wise;
Come follow on as I begin it—
“The tear that dims dear woman’s eyes,
Joy kiss away the self-same minute.”
Hurrah! hurrah! again! again!
With loudes, longest honours greet it;
Re-fill your glasses, boys! and then
Good Father Michael shall repeat it.
A pleasant picture! O, for power
To give them life, as now they ape it;
I’d give, methinks, Regina’s dower,
To my warm wishes so to shape it.
To mix among the jovial crowd,
And find them old familiar faces;
Dear human hearts, that shame the proud
Inhabitants of loftier places.
I’d come in where the kisses smack,
And forward through the crew advancing,
Slap the old fiddler on his back,
And whisper, “Set the girls a dancing.”
And, opening the bolted door,
Cry, come all in—the more the merrier!
Hag Care is dead, my boys, therefore
This very night we mean to bury her.
What is the fashion-crowded hall,
Where wealth and title sport their treasure?
How weak, how vain, how empty, all,
Compared with honest, homely pleasure.
All blithsome as the summer birds,
Rejoicing in the hour of plenty,
Whose welcome lies in fewest words,
Share all we have, so it content ye!
Give Pride her place, give Wealth her gold,
Give restless Power her soul’s ambition;
Give those who sell, and those who sold
Their country’s welfare—to perdition.
But, oh! when gay good Humour smiles
Where social Mirth makes happy faces,
Where Beauty fretful Care beguiles,
And honest Laughter sorrow chases.
There set the bard. My song is done;
ye critic folk forbear your stricture;
If the poor muse no praise hath won,
Why give your plaudits to the picture.
From Poetry, 1841
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