268 BRAYING-ASS AND MULE. Tickler. Neither the Gander nor the Jackass, James, but the Sun. Elated by the glowing charms of the rosy morn, my soul delights in the gabble of geese on a common-but as I wander pensive at to-fall of the day, then, for love or money, your Jackass, with ears, legs, lungs, and jaws, all "stepping westwards," and enacting, in a solo, for his own enjoyment, the Vicar of Bray, worthy to be a Bishop. Shepherd. What say ye to a Mule? North. The young American, in his most amusing volumes, A Year in Spain,1 has exhausted the subject. Shepherd. What's your wull, sir? North. "I hate a mule," quoth he, "most thoroughly, for there is something abortive in everything it does, even to its very bray. An ass, on the contrary, has something hearty and whole-souled about it. Jack begins his bray with a modest whistle, rising gradually to the top of his powers, like the progressive eloquence of a well-adjusted oration, and then as gradually declining to a natural conclusion; but the mule commences with a voice like thunder, and then, as if sorry for what he has done, he stops like a bully when throttled in the midst of a threat, or a clown who has begun a fine speech, and has not courage to finish it." Shepherd. Haw! haw! haw! That's capital, man. North. As Alexander of Macedon said of old, that had he not been Alexander, he would have wished to be Diogenes, so, we may presume, had the hero of Glasgow not been a Gander, he would have chosen to be a Tickler. Mule or Jackass? Shepherd. Ay-that is the question. Each Shepherd. Day about. North. On Tuesday, beginning his bray with a modest whistle, and throughout his performance just such an original as the lively American has drawn the animated picture of Friday, like a bully throttled in the midst of a threat Tickler. And cudgeled along the Trongate North. Till his back was like the Edinburgh Review. on 1 A Year in Spain, which was successfully republished in England, was written by the late Alexander Slidell (afterwards Mackenzie) of the U. S. Navy-American Editor. SONG THE GHOST OF THE GANDER. North. Or Blackwood's Magazine. Tickler. A lively green. Shepherd. Needing nae certificat. Tickler. But no more nonsense. Now for your song. (NORTH-clearing his pipes with a caulker—sings.) THE GHOST OF THE GANDER. Oh! what is that figure, and what can it mean, 'Tis the Ghost of the Gander-the unavenged Ghost- Of him who erewhile of his tribe was the boast, We all must remember-we never can cease When first in the grand competition of Geese, And oh had he made but a different use Of his triumph of shape and of size, He still might have lived—a respectable Goose— But, flushed with his conquest, elated with fame, We do not insist on his manner and mien- But his gabble was gross, and his conduct obscene, 269 270 THE GHOST OF THE GANDER. And, hating the blessings he never could share, How loudly his anger arose 'Gainst the great, and the good, and the brave, and the fair, Whom, in the true spirit of spiteful despair He accounted his natural foes! But the life of the Gander we need not relate, And now that his carcass at length is at rest, When the regent of day has gone down in the West, And noxious still to the nose ! The Ghost of a Goose is a curious sight- As the Ghost of the Goose of the West! His figure, his gesture, his aspect, his air, That his friends are unwilling to name. And a spirit like this, in a garb of Goose-skin, Is doubly absurd, when there hangs at his chin, The Medal he gain'd at the show. Thus nightly he waddles around and around Each loved and familiar scene The Goose-dubs, of course, are his favourite ground— But sometimes the spectre may even be found Near the door of the very Tontine! 1 And there, when the usual party are met, 1 A hotel in Glasgow. THE GHOST OF THE GANDER. The plan of the evening is quite overset,- By the church of Saint Mungo he often has sat, When the rest of the ghosts, and the owl, and the bat, Have fled with a shriek of dismay ! And oh! but to hear him when making his moan In that region remote and recluse— It is not a gabble—it is not a groan— Of the ill-fated Ghost of the Goose! And although 'twas a rule among spirits of old With the Ghost of the Gander this rule doesn't hold, With accent unearthly, and piteous look, He calls for revenge on the scullion, the cook— But long may he wander alarming the night, For no one in Glasgow e'er pitied his plight, There are Masses for many a spirit's repose, But who would e'er dream of assuaging the woes Of one so offensive to eyes, ears, and nose, As the Ghost of the Goose of the West! Tickler. Bravissimo! Bravissimo! Shepherd. Anchor! Anchor! 271 North. I have done so, James. I have brought my verse to an anchor. 272 SONG HERE A FOUL HULK LIES. Tickler. Encore! Encore- encore -Kit-encore Shepherd. That's what I mean, sir. Hangcur! Hangcur! Hangcur! North. No-gentlemen. Pardon me. But feeling myself in voice, I have no objection to compound with a parody on "Tom Bowling." After that, let us set in to serious thinking. You must suppose the Gander buried in a dunghill. Tickler. No violent supposition, certainly, sir. The fainting-fits-the fumigation On these my Song would dwell, Tickler. Faugh! faugh! faugh! |