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
North. Alternately-

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.
Tickler. The Blue and Yellow.

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,
That comes forth in the stillness of night—
That near the Guse-dubs like a phantom is seen-
That haunts the Salt-market, the Gorbals, the Green,
And avoids the approach of the light?

'Tis the Ghost of the Gander-the unavenged Ghost-
The spirit disturbed and distressed

Of him who erewhile of his tribe was the boast,
Whom 'twas shocking to slay, and inhuman to roast,
The unfortunate Goose of the West!

We all must remember-we never can cease
To think of his proudest display,

When first in the grand competition of Geese,
He appeared like an over-fed Hero of Grease,
And triumphantly carried the day.

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—
And the nettles might still have been proud to produce
The Gander that carried the prize!

But, flushed with his conquest, elated with fame,
And swoln with preposterous pride,
With gabble unheard-of in wild goose or tame,
The Gander in person and conduct became
The Pest of the Queen of the Clyde.

We do not insist on his manner and mien-
For these we might find an excuse—

But his gabble was gross, and his conduct obscene,
And he openly dwelt among creatures—unclean-
A shameless and scandalous Goose!

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,
Nor describe how he flourished and fell-
We all know his folly-and as for his fate,
Remembrance must long be oppressed with the weight
Of that "strange insupportable smell!"

And now that his carcass at length is at rest,
And rankles in rotten repose-

When the regent of day has gone down in the West,
His spirit thus wanders, unpitied, unblest,

And noxious still to the nose !

The Ghost of a Goose is a curious sight-
A strange enough phantom at best:
But far may you travel, before you shall light
On such a preposterous spirit of night

As the Ghost of the Goose of the West!

His figure, his gesture, his aspect, his air,
His waddle-they still are the same-
But his ill-fated carcass is naked and bare,
Displaying the marks of a recent affair,

That his friends are unwilling to name.

And a spirit like this, in a garb of Goose-skin,
Where plumage refuses to grow,

Is doubly absurd, when there hangs at his chin,
The shadowy shape of a Trophy of Tin,

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,
"Just thinking" of oysters and ale,

1 A hotel in Glasgow.

THE GHOST OF THE GANDER.

The plan of the evening is quite overset,-
For the Ghost of a Goose is a very bad whet,—
And the Knights of the Shell turn tail!

By the church of Saint Mungo he often has sat,
On a tombstone, awaiting the day,

When the rest of the ghosts, and the owl, and the bat,
Alarmed at a phantom so fetid and fat,

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—
Description despairs in describing the tone

Of the ill-fated Ghost of the Goose!

And although 'twas a rule among spirits of old
To speak not, except in reply,-

With the Ghost of the Gander this rule doesn't hold,
For he always is ready his "tale to unfold,"
With a sad and a sulphurous sigh!

With accent unearthly, and piteous look,
He curses the day he was dress'd-

He calls for revenge on the scullion, the cook—
But chief upon him who the task undertook
Of dissecting the Goose of the West!

But long may he wander alarming the night,
And vengeance invoking in vain-

For no one in Glasgow e'er pitied his plight,
And many there are who would even delight
If he could be dissected again!

There are Masses for many a spirit's repose,
And spells that can lay them at rest ;

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,
But it concludes in Suffocation
From memory of that Smell!

Tickler. Faugh! faugh! faugh!