The Coachman.

There was a grand coachman,
    Who drove the Lord Mayor;
And never drove less than
    A carriage and pair.

He wore a red waistcoat,
    He carried a whip,
And when the boys saw him,
    They shouted "Hip! hip!"

Richard Hunter

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Richard Hunter

The Swinging Clown.

Richard Hunter, Simple Poetry

Mister Merryman.

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Algeria.

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The Imp.

Richard Hunter, Simple Poetry

English

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Blue-Coat.

His dressing-gown's blue, and
    His girdle is red;
He wears a black cap
    On top of his head.

He carries a candle
    To give you a light,
In case you should ever
    Get up in the night.

Richard Hunter

The Stage Coach.

No matter what the weather was, in good old stage coach days,
The driver with his ruddy face and spanking team of bays
Would spin along the turnpike road, o'er level stretch and hill,
That wound away from "Idleburg" to classic Nicholasville.

The depths beneath his seat were filled with leathern sacks of mail,
And all the coach's top at times was crowded to the rail
With trunks, valises, packages, and bundles by the score,
That must have weighed, it seemed to me, five thousand pounds or more.

And strapped within the bulging boot, that hung far out behind,
Was added weight enough to make a team of oxen blind;
And counting all the passengers that filled the coach within,
The load those horses had to drag--I thought it was a sin!

How proud of them the driver was! An...

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London Types - I. Bus-Driver

He's called The General from the brazen craft
And dash with which he sneaks a bit of road
And all its fares; challenged, or chafed, or chaffed,
Back-answers of the newest he'll explode;
He reins his horses with an air; he treats
With scoffing calm whatever powers there be;
He gets it straight, puts a bit on, and meets
His losses with both lip and pounds s. d.;
He arrogates a special taste in short;
Is loftily grateful for a flagrant smoke;
At all the smarter housemaids winks his court,
And taps them for half-crowns; being stoney-broke,
Lives lustily; is ever on the make;
And hath, I fear, none other gods but Fake.

William Ernest Henley

Playing At Soldiers.

"Who'll serve the King?"


What little urchin is there never
Hath had that early scarlet fever,
Of martial trappings caught?
Trappings well call'd - because they trap
And catch full many a country chap
To go where fields are fought!

What little urchin with a rag
Hath never made a little flag
(Our plate will show the manner),
And wooed each tiny neighbor still,
Tommy or Harry, Dick or Will,
To come beneath the banner!

Just like that ancient shape of mist,
In Hamlet, crying "'List, oh, 'list!"
Come, who will serve the king,
And strike frog-eating Frenchmen dead,
And cut off Bonyparty's head? -
And all that sort of thing.

So used I, when I was a boy,
To march with military toy,
And ape the soldier's life; -

Thomas Hood

The Legend Of Hamilton Tighe

The Captain is walking his quarter-deck,
With a troubled brow and a bended neck;
One eye is down through the hatchway cast,
The other turns up to the truck on the mast;
Yet none of the crew may venture to hint
'Our Skipper hath gotten a sinister squint!'

The Captain again the letter hath read
Which the bum-boat woman brought out to Spithead
Still, since the good ship sail'd away,
He reads that letter three times a-day;
Yet the writing is broad and fair to see
As a Skipper may read in his degree,
And the seal is as black, and as broad, and as flat,
As his own cockade in his own cock'd hat:
He reads, and he says, as he walks to and fro,
'Curse the old womanshe bothers me so!'

He pauses now, for the topmen hail
'On the larboard quarter a sail! a ...

Richard Harris Barham

The Cowboy.

There was a bold cowboy
    Came out of the west;
Of all the bold riders,
    This cowboy's the best.

The horse he brought with him
    Will not run away;
But stands by the side of
    His master all day.

Richard Hunter