Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Frank Hayman

Frank Hayman.

Frank Hayman once, a brother of the brush,
Had talents much distinguished in his day,
But for his art he hardly cared a rush,
If some odd mischief stumbled in his way.

This wag was deemed by all the social tribe
A jovial, easy, careless, pleasant fellow,
Fond of a frolic, ready at a gibe,
And sometimes in his cups a little mellow.

There was a famous place, yclept Vauxhall,
Where cits, good folks, regaled with merry hearts,
And oft to busy waiters eager bawl
For fresh supplies of ham, and beef, and tarts.

There might you see of boxes many a row,
For such as like to sup in state designed,
With pictures decked, that made a goodly show;
Now in these pictures Hayman's skill we find.

Frank Hayman, tempted by a pleasant day,
After a long contention with the gout,
A foe that oft besieged him, sallied out,
To breathe fresh air, and while an hour away;
It chanced as he was strolling, void of care,
A drunken porter passed him with a hare.

The hare was o'er- his shoulder flung,
Dangling behind in piteous plight,
And as he crept, in zig-zag style,
Making the most of every mile,
From side to side poor pussy swung,
As if each moment taking flight.

A dog, who saw the man's condition,
A lean and hungry politician,
On the look-out was lurking close behind,
A sly and subtle chap, of most sagacious smell,
Like politicians of a higher kind,
Ready to snap at anything that fell.

The porter staggered on, the dog kept near,
Watching the lucky minute for a bite,
Now made a spring, and then drew back with fear,
While Hayman followed, tittering at the sight.

Through many a street the tipsy porter reels,
Then stops—as if to solemn thought inclined—
The watchful dog was ready at his heels,
And Hayman hobbled on, not far behind.

Then rolling on again, the man surveyed
One of those happy mansions where
A cordial drop imparts its cheering aid
To all the thirsty sons of care.

The sight of this refreshing place,
The scent that hails him from the door,
Arrest at once his rambling pace—
As they had often done before.

Straight on a bench without he stretched along,
Regardless of the passing throng,
And soon his weary eyelids close,
While Somnus soothes him to repose
The hare now prostrate at his back,
This was the time to get a snack.

The dog, unable longer to refrain,
Gazed at the hare,
Who caused his care,
Jumpt and bit, jumpt and bit, jumpt and bit, and bit again.
At length, when he had cleared away the rest,
The sated spoiler finished on the breast.

Then having made a hearty meal,
He careless turned upon his heel,
Nor thought of asking "What's to pay?"
But scampered at his ease away.

At length, our porter's slumber o'er,
He jogged on, tottering as before,
Unconscious any body kind
Had eased him of his load behind.
Now on the houses turned his eye,
As if his journey's end were nigh,
Then read the paper in his hand,
And made a stand—
Hayman drew near, with eager mien,
To mark the closing of the scene,
Expecting straight a furious din,
His features ready for a grin.

And now we need but mention one thing more,
To show how much he must have liked the whim;
Though drunk, our porter hit at last the door,
And Hayman found the hare was sent to him.