The Poems of M. G. Lewis were deemed worthy of imitation by the authors of The Rejected Addresses, and Horace Smith accordingly wrote one entitled "Fire and Ale," of which Lord Jeffrey said in the Edinburgh Review, "Fire and Ale," by M. G. Lewis, exhibits not only a faithful copy of the spirited, loose, and flowing versification of that singular author, but a very just representation of that mixture of extravagance and jocularity which has impressed most of his writings with the character of a sort of farcical horror." FIRE AND ALE. My palate is parched with Pierian thirst, List, warriors and dames, while my lay is rehearsed, I sing of the singe of Miss Drury the first, The Fire King, one day, rather amorous felt; His breeches and boots were of tin, and the belt Sure never was skin half so scalding as his ! For the water, when he was baptised, gave a fizz, O! then there was glitter and fire in each eye, For two living coals were the symbols; * Sir William Harcourt. His teeth were calcined, and his tongue was so dry, From his nostrils a lava sulphureous flows, A snivelling fellow he's call'd by his foes, His wig is of flames curling over his head, He drinks gunpowder tea, melted sugar of lead, Each fire-nymph his kiss from her countenance shields, 'Twould soon set her cheekbone a frying; He spit in the Tenter-ground near Spital-fields, When he open'd his mouth, out there issued a blast (Nota bene, I do not mean swearing), But the noise that it made, and the heat that it cast, I've heard it from those who have seen it, surpassed A shot manufactory flaring. He blazed, and he blazed, as he gallop'd to snatch And who is the housemaid he means to enthral On his warming-pan knee-pan he clattering roll'd. And the housemaid his hand would have taken, But his hand, like his passion, was too hot to hold, And she soon let it go, but her new ring of gold All melted, like butter or bacon ! Oh! then she look'd sour, and indeed well she might, But, spite of her shrieks, the ignipotent knight, To the skies in a sky-rocket bore her. Look! look! 'tis the Ale King,* so stately and starch, He pops from his vat, like a cedar or larch; His spear is a spigot, his shield is a bung; He taps where the housemaid no more is, When lo! at his magical bidding, upsprung A second Miss Drury, tall, tidy, and young, And sported in loco sororis. Back, lurid in air, for a second regale, The Cinder King, hot with desire, Mr. Whitbread, the brewer, who was very active in the rebuilding of Drury Lane Theatre. But Water-and Shaw-are the things he must dread, And at sight of an engine he shakes his red head, And his teeth like a lunatic gnashes. But his fire-gnomes he multiplies lately so fast The flare that they make and the heat that they cast, He blazes and blazes; Shaw gallops to snatch And if London is wise she assistance will cali, (Eight verses omitted.) Punch. August 20, 1887. "Tales of Wonder," written and collected by M. G. Lewis, contained two ballads entitled "The Erl King" and "The Cloud King," both written by Lewis in his accustomed style of grim horror, with thunder, shrieks, and fury, and in the same volume he inserted an anonymous burlesque of these entitled "The Cinder King,' the humour of which would not be very apparent unless the two first-named poems were reprinted in full. They are neither of sufficient interest to merit the space this would require. A somewhat similar parody may be found in "The Blue Bag; or Toryana." London; Effingham Wilson, 1832. It is called "The Fire King, The Water King, and The Cotton King," and relates the quarrels of some politicians, well-known sixty years since, but now well nigh forgotten. One more parody of Lewis remains to be noted, it occurs in an exceedingly scarce volume of poems, "The School for Satire.' London, 1802, and is exceedingly interesting on account of its allusions to Monk Lewis's personal appearance, and his literary productions :— THE OLD HAG IN A RED CLOAK. With his spy-glass once spying in Parliament Street, "No sixpence I'll give thee to buy thee some bread," But as onward he strutted, and push'd thro' the crowd, "Though cold be thy heart, and thy feelings as cold, She spoke and then vanish'd at once from his sight, From the House about twelve to his house he repairs ; To creak seem'd the doors, and to crack seem'd the stairs; He put out the candle, his clothes off he threw, When St. Giles's struck one, and the door open flew. Then the Hag in a red cloak of Parliament Street, By a sort of a blue and a glimmering light Rode quite round his bedstead and full in his sight; And her breath breath'd the whiffings of gin through the room. "I ask'd thee," she cried, in a hoarse, hollow voice, "For sixpence, thou gav'st not while yet in thy choice; For punishment dread then, pretender, prepare, Which e'en to repentance I now cannot spare. "Know that she who so lately sustain'd your abuse, Is thy mother, oh shame! and my name Mother Goose; "Too soon thou outdidst all my wonders of old, "Depriv'd of a corner to hide my old head, "But vain are thy hopes to supplant me on earth, "Ye ghosts and hobgoblins, and horrible shapes, "Ye raw-heads and bloody-bones, spectres and shades, Then the ghosts and hobgoblins, and horrible shapes, And raw-heads and bloody bones, spectres and shades, And water-sprite swains, and transmogrified maids, |