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Up at a Villa-Down in the City 1867

Is it ever hot in the square? There's a fountain to spout and splash!

In the shade it sings and springs; in the shine such foambows flash

On the horses with curling fish-tails, that prance and paddle

and pash

Round the lady atop in the conch-fifty gazers do not abash,

Though all that she wears is some weeds round her waist in a sort of sash.

All the year round at the villa, nothing's to see though you linger,

Except yon cypress that points like Death's lean lifted fore

finger.

Some think fireflies pretty, when they mix in the corn and

mingle,

Or thrid the stinking hemp till the stalks of it seem a-tingle. Late August or early September, the stunning cicala is

shrill

And the bees keep their tiresome whine round the resinous firs on the hill.

Enough of the seasons, I spare you the months of the fever and chill.

Ere you open your eyes in the city, the blessed church-bells begin:

No sooner the bells leave off, than the diligence rattles in: You get the pick of the news, and it costs you never a

pin.

By and by there's the travelling doctor gives pills, lets blood, draws teeth;

Or the Pulcinello-trumpet breaks up the market beneath. At the post-office such a scene-picture-the new play, piping hot!

And a notice how, only this morning, three liberal thieves were shot.

Above it, behold the Archbishop's most fatherly of rebukes, And beneath, with his crown and his lion, some little new law of the Duke's!

Or a sonnet with flowery marge, to the Reverend Don Soand-so,

Who is Dante, Boccaccio, Petrarca, St. Jerome, and Cicero, "And moreover," (the sonnet goes rhyming), "the skirts of St. Paul has reached,

Having preached us those six Lent-lectures more unctuous than ever he preached."

Noon strikes, here sweeps the procession! our Lady borne smiling and smart

With a pink gauze gown all spangles, and seven swords stuck in her heart!

Bang-whang-whang, goes the drum, tootle-te-tootle the fife; No keeping one's haunches still: it's the greatest pleasure in life.

But bless you, it's dear-it's dear! fowls, wine, at double the rate.

They have clapped a new tax upon salt, and what oil pays passing the gate

It's a horror to think of. And so, the villa for me, not the city!.

Beggars can scarcely be choosers: but still-ah, the pity, the pity!

Look, two and two go the priests, then the monks with cowls and sandals,

And the penitents dressed in white skirts, a-holding the yellow candles;

One, he carries a flag up straight, and another a cross with handles,

And the Duke's guard brings up the rear, for the better prevention of scandals.

Bang-whang-whang, goes the drum, tootle-te-tootle the fife. Oh, a day in the city-square, there is no such pleasure in life! Robert Browning [1812-1889]

ALL SAINTS'

IN a church which is furnished with mullion and gable, With altar and reredos, with gargoyle and groin,

The penitents' dresses are sealskin and sable,

The odor of sanctity's-eau-de-cologne.

An Address to the Unco Guid 1869

But only could Lucifer, flying from Hades,

Gaze down on this crowd with its paniers and paints, He would say, as he looked at the lords and the ladies, "Oh, where is All Sinners' if this is All Saints'?" Edmund Yates [1831-1894]

AN ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID, OR THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS

Он

My son, these.maxims make a rule,
And lump them aye thegither:

The Rigid Righteous is a fool

The Rigid Wise anither:

The cleanest corn that e'er was dight
May hae some pyles o' caff in;
Sae ne'er a fellow-creature slight
For random fits o' daffin.

SOLOMON-Eccles. vii, 16.

OH ye wha are sae guid yoursel',

Sae pious and sae holy,

Ye've naught to do but mark and tell
Your neebor's fauts and folly:-
Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill,
Supplied wi' store o' water,
The heaped happer's ebbing still,
And still the clap plays clatter.

Hear me, ye venerable core,

As counsel for poor mortals,
That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door,
For glaikit Folly's portals!

I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes,
Would here propone defences,

Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes,
Their failings and mischances.

Ye see your state wi' theirs compared,
And shudder at the niffer;

But cast a moment's fair regard,

What maks the mighty differ?
Discount what scant occasion gave

That purity ye pride in,

And (what's aft mair than a' the lave)
Your better art o' hidin'.

Think, when your castigated pulse
Gies now and then a wallop,
What ragings must his veins convulse,
That still eternal gallop:

Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail,

Right on ye scud your sea-way;—
But in the teeth o' baith to sail,
It makes an unco lee-way.

See Social Life and Glee sit down,
All joyous and unthinking,
Till, quite transmugrified, they've grown
Debauchery and Drinking:

Oh, would they stay to calculate
The eternal consequences;

Or your more dreaded hell to state,
Damnation of expenses!

Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames,
Tied up in godly laces,

Before ye gie poor Frailty names,
Suppose a change o' cases;
A dear-loved lad, convenience snug,
A treacherous inclination,-
But, let me whisper i' your lug,

Ye're aiblins nae temptation.

Then gently scan your brother man,

Still gentler sister woman;

Though they may gang a kennin' wrang,

To step aside is human:

One point must still be greatly dark,

The moving why they do it; And just as lamely can ye mark How far perhaps they rue it.

Who made the heart, 'tis He alone
Decidedly can try us;

He knows each chord,-its various tone,

Each spring, its various bias:

The Deacon's Masterpiece

Then at the balance let's be mute;

We never can adjust it;

What's done we partly may compute,

But know not what's resisted.

1871

Robert Burns [1759-1796]

THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE, OR THE
WONDERFUL "ONE-HOSS SHAY"

A LOGICAL STORY

HAVE you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay,
That was built in such a logical way
It ran a hundred years to a day,

And then, of a sudden, it-ah, but stay,
I'll tell you what happened without delay,
Scaring the parson into fits,

Frightening people out of their wits,—
Have you ever heard of that, I say?

Seventeen hundred and fifty-five.
Georgius Secundus was then alive,―
Snuffy old drone from the German hive.
That was the year when Lisbon-town
Saw the earth open and gulp her down,
And Braddock's army was done so brown,
Left without a scalp to its crown.
It was on the terrible Earthquake-day
That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay.

Now in building of chaises, I tell you what,
There is always somewhere a weakest spot,-
In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill,
In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill,
In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace,-lurking still,
Find it somewhere you must and will,-
Above or below, or within or without,-
And that's the reason, beyond a doubt,
That a chaise breaks down, but doesn't wear out.

But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do,
With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell yeou,")

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