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+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 44798 ***
+
+[Illustration: 004]
+
+THE BOOK OF BALLADS
+
+
+By Various
+
+
+Edited by BON GAULTIER
+
+
+Illustrated by DOYLE, LEECH, CROMQUILL
+
+
+Eleventh Edition
+
+
+1870
+
+
+[Illustration: 005]
+
+
+[Illustration: 011]
+
+
+[Illustration: 012]
+
+
+[Illustration: 015]
+
+
+
+
+
+
+THE BROKEN PITCHER
+
+
+  It {003}was a Moorish maiden was sitting by a well,
+  And what the maiden thought of, I cannot, cannot tell,
+  When by there rode a valiant knight from the town of
+           Oviedo--
+  Alphonzo Guzman was he hight, the Count of Tololedo.
+
+
+  "Oh, maiden, Moorish maiden, why sitt'st thou by the
+           spring?
+  Say, dost thou seek a lover, or any other thing?
+  Why dost thou look upon me, with eyes so dark and wide,
+  And wherefore doth the pitcher lie broken by thy side?"
+
+
+  "I {004}do not seek a lover, thou Christian knight so gay,
+  Because an article like that hath never come my way;
+  And why I gaze upon you, I cannot, cannot tell,
+  Except that in your iron hose you look uncommon swell.
+
+
+  "My pitcher it is broken, and this the reason is,--
+  A shepherd came behind me, and tried to snatch a kiss;
+  I would not stand his nonsense, so ne'er a word I spoke,
+  But scored him on the costard, and so the jug was broke.
+
+
+  "My uncle, the Alcaydè, he waits for me at home,
+  And will not take his tumbler until Zorayda come:
+  I cannot bring him water--the pitcher is in pieces--
+  And so I'm sure to catch it, 'cos he wallops all his nieces."
+
+
+  "Oh, maiden, Moorish maiden! wilt thou be ruled by me!
+  So wipe thine eyes and rosy lips, and give me kisses three;
+  And I'll give thee my helmet, thou kind and courteous lady,
+  To carry home the water to thy uncle, the Alcaydè."
+
+
+  He lighted down from off his steed--he tied him to a
+        tree--
+  He bent him to the maiden, and he took his kisses three;
+  "To wrong thee, sweet Zorayda, I swear would be a sin!"
+  And he knelt him at the fountain, and he dipped his
+        helmet in.
+
+
+  Up {005}rose the Moorish maiden--behind the knight she steals,
+  And caught Alphonzo Guzman in a twinkling by the heels:
+  She tipped him in, and held him down beneath the bub-
+  bling water,--
+  "Now, take thou that for venturing to kiss Al Hamet's
+         daughter!"
+
+
+  A Christian maid is weeping in the town of Oviedo;
+  She waits the coming of her love, the Count of Tololedo.
+  I pray you all in charity, that you will never tell,
+  How he met the Moorish maiden beside the lonely well.
+
+
+[Illustration: 017]
+
+
+[Illustration: 018]
+
+
+
+
+
+
+DON FERNANDO GOMERSALEZ
+
+
+        From the Spanish of Astley's.
+
+
+  Don {006}Fernando Gomersalez! basely have
+      they borne thee down;
+  Paces ten behind thy charger is thy
+      glorious body thrown;
+  Fetters have they bound upon thee--iron
+      fetters, fast and sure;
+  Don Fernando Gomersalez, thou art cap-
+      tive to the Moor!
+
+
+  Long {007}within a dingy dungeon pined that brave and noble
+         knight,
+  For the Saracenic warriors well they knew and feared his
+         might;
+  Long he lay and long he languished on his dripping bed
+         of stone,
+  Till the cankered iron fetters ate their way into his bone.
+
+
+  On the twentieth day of August--'twas the feast of false
+         Mahound--
+  Came the Moorish population from the neighbouring cities
+         round;
+  There to hold their foul carousal, there to dance and there
+         to sing,
+  And to pay their yearly homage to Al-Widdicomb, the
+        King!
+
+
+  First they wheeled their supple coursers, wheeled them at
+         their utmost speed,
+  Then they galloped by in squadrons, tossing far the light
+         jereed;
+  Then around the circus racing, faster than the swallow
+         flies,
+  Did they spurn the yellow sawdust in the rapt spectators'
+         eyes.
+
+
+[Illustration: 020]
+
+
+  Proudly {008}did the Moorish monarch every passing warrior
+          greet,
+  As he sate enthroned above them, with the lamps beneath
+         his feet;
+  "Tell me, thou black-bearded Cadi! are there any in the
+         land,
+  That against my janissaries dare one hour in combat stand?"
+
+
+  Then the bearded Cadi answered--"Be not wroth, my lord
+         the King,
+  If thy faithful slave shall venture to observe one little thing;
+  Valiant, {009}doubtless, are thy warriors, and their beards are
+          long and hairy,
+  And a thunderbolt in battle is each bristly janissary:
+
+
+  "But I cannot, O my sovereign, quite forget that fearful
+         day,
+  "When I saw the Christian army in its terrible array;
+  When they charged across the footlights like a torrent
+   down its bed,
+  With the red cross floating o'er them, and Fernando at
+        their head!
+
+
+  "Don Fernando Gomersalez! matchless chieftain he in war,
+  Mightier than Don Sticknejo, braver than the Cid Bivar!
+  Not a cheek within Grenada, O my King, but wan and
+        pale is,
+  When they hear the dreaded name of Don Fernando
+       Gomersalez!"
+
+
+  "Thou shalt see thy champion, Cadi! hither quick the
+        captive bring!"
+  Thus in wrath and deadly anger spoke Al-Widdicomb, the
+        King:
+  "Paler than a maiden's forehead is the Christian's hue, I
+         ween,
+  Since a year within the dungeons of Grenada he hath
+        been!"
+
+
+  Then {010}they brought the Gomersalez, and they led the
+         warrior in;
+  Weak and wasted seemed his body, and his face was pale
+        and thin;
+  But the ancient fire was burning, unallayed, within his eye,
+  And his step was proud and stately, and his look was stern
+         and high.
+
+
+  Scarcely from tumultuous cheering could the galleried
+        crowd refrain,
+  For they knew Don Gomersalez and his prowess in the
+        plain;
+  But they feared the grizzly despot and his myrmidons in
+         steel,
+  So their sympathy descended in the fruitage of Seville.
+
+
+  "Wherefore, monarch, hast thou brought me from the
+        dungeon dark and drear,
+  Where these limbs of mine have wasted in confinement
+        for a year?
+  Dost thou lead me forth to torture?--Rack and pincers
+        I defy!
+  Is it that thy base grotesquos may behold a hero die?"
+
+
+  "Hold thy peace, thou Christian caitiff, and attend to what
+         I say!
+  Thou art called the starkest rider of the Spanish cur's array:
+  If {011}thy courage be undaunted, as they say it was of yore,
+  Thou mayst yet achieve thy freedom,--yet regain thy
+        native shore.
+
+
+  "Courses three within this circus 'gainst my warriors shalt
+          thou run,
+  Ere yon weltering pasteboard ocean shall receive yon
+        muslin sun;
+  Victor--thou shalt have thy freedom; but if stretched
+         upon the plain,
+  To thy dark and dreary dungeon they shall hale thee back
+         again."
+
+
+  "Give me but the armour, monarch, I have worn in many
+         a field,
+  Give me but my trusty helmet, give me but my dinted
+        shield;
+  And my old steed, Bavieca, swiftest courser in the ring,
+  And I rather should imagine that I'll do the business, King!"
+
+
+  Then they carried down the armour from the garret where
+         it lay,
+  O! but it was red and rusty, and the plumes were shorn
+         away:
+  And they led out Bavieca from a foul and filthy van,
+  For the conqueror had sold him to a Moorish dogs'-meat
+         man.
+
+
+  When {012}the steed beheld his master, then he whinnied loud
+          and free,
+  And, in token of subjection, knelt upon each broken knee;
+  And a tear of walnut largeness to the warrior's eyelids
+         rose,
+  As he fondly picked a bean-straw from his coughing
+        courser's nose.
+
+
+  "Many a time, O Bavieca, hast thou borne me through
+        the fray!
+  Bear me but again as deftly through the listed ring this
+         day;
+  Or if thou art worn and feeble, as may well have come to
+         pass,
+  Time it is, my trusty charger, both of us were sent to grass!"
+
+
+  Then he seized his lance, and vaulting in the saddle sate
+         upright;
+  Marble seemed the noble courser, iron seemed the mailèd
+         knight;
+  And a cry of admiration burst from every Moorish lady.
+  "Five to four on Don Fernando!" cried the sable-bearded
+         Cadi.
+
+
+  Warriors three from Alcantara burst into the listed space,
+  Warriors three, all bred in battle, of the proud Alhambra
+         race:
+  Trumpets {013}sounded, coursers bounded, and the foremost
+         straight went down,
+  Tumbling, like a sack of turnips, just before the jeering
+         Clown.
+
+
+  In the second chieftain galloped, and he bowed him to the
+         King,
+  And his saddle-girths were tightened by the Master of the
+         Ring;
+  Through three blazing hoops he bounded ere the desperate
+         fight began--
+  Don Fernando! bear thee bravely!--'tis the Moor Abdor-
+         rhoman!
+
+
+  Like a double streak of lightning, clashing in the sulphurous
+          sky,
+  Met the pair of hostile heroes, and they made the sawdust
+  And the Moslem spear so stiffly smote on Don Fernando's
+         mail,
+  That he reeled, as if in liquor, back to Bavieca's tail:
+
+
+  But he caught the mace beside him, and he griped it hard
+         and fast,
+  And he swung it starkly upwards as the foeman bounded
+         past;
+  And {014}the deadly stroke descended through, the skull and
+         through the brain,
+  As ye may have seen a poker cleave a cocoa-nut in twain.
+
+
+  Sore astonished was the monarch, and the Moorish warriors
+         all,
+  Save the third bold chief, who tarried and beheld his
+        brethren fall;
+  And the Clown, in haste arising from the footstool where
+         he sat,
+  Notified the first appearance of the famous Acrobat;
+
+
+  Never on a single charger rides that stout and stalwart
+         Moor,--
+  Five beneath his stride so stately bear him o'er the
+        trembling floor;
+  Five Arabians, black as midnight--on their necks the rein
+         he throws,
+  And the outer and the inner feel the pressure of his toes.
+
+
+  Never wore that chieftain armour; in a knot himself he
+        ties,
+  With his grizzly head appearing in the centre of his
+        thighs,
+  Till the petrified spectator asks, in paralysed alarm,
+  Where may be the warrior's body,--which is leg, and
+        which is arm?
+
+
+[Illustration: 027]
+
+
+  "Sound [015]the charge!" The coursers started; with a yell
+         and furious vault,
+  High in air the Moorish champion cut a wondrous somer-
+        sault;
+  O'er the head of Don Fernando like a tennis-ball he sprung,
+  Caught him tightly by the girdle, and behind the crupper
+         hung.
+
+
+  Then his dagger Don Fernando plucked from out its
+        jewelled sheath,
+  And he struck the Moor so fiercely, as he grappled him
+        beneath,
+  That {016}the good Damascus weapon sank within the folds
+         of fat,
+  And as dead as Julius Cæsar dropped the Gordian
+        Acrobat.
+
+
+  Meanwhile fast the sun was sinking--it had sunk beneath
+         the sea,
+  Ere Fernando Gomersalez smote the latter of the three;
+  And Al-Widdicomb, the monarch, pointed, with a bitter
+         smile,
+  To the deeply-darkening canvass;--blacker grew it all the
+         while.
+
+
+  "Thou hast slain my warriors, Spaniard! but thou hast
+         not kept thy time;
+  Only two had sunk before thee ere I heard the curfew
+        chime;
+  Back thou goest to thy dungeon, and thou mayst be
+        wondrous glad
+  That thy head is on thy shoulders for thy work to-day,
+         my lad!
+
+
+  "Therefore all thy boasted valour, Christian dog, of no
+         avail is!"
+  Dark as midnight grew the brow of Don Fernando Gomer-
+         salez;--
+  Stiffly {017}sate he in his saddle, grimly looked around the
+         ring,
+  Laid his lance within the rest, and shook his gauntlet at
+         the King.
+
+
+  "O, thou foul and faithless traitor! wouldst thou play me
+         false again?
+  Welcome death and welcome torture, rather than the
+        captive's chain!
+  But I give thee warning, caitiff! Look thou sharply to
+        thine eye--
+  Unavenged, at least in harness, Gomersalez shall not
+        die!"
+
+
+  Thus he spoke, and Bavieca like an arrow forward flew,
+  Right and left the Moorish squadron wheeled to let the
+        hero through;
+  Brightly gleamed the lance of vengeance--fiercely sped
+        the fatal thrust--
+  From his throne the Moorish monarch tumbled lifeless in
+        the dust.
+
+
+  Speed thee, speed thee, Bavieca! speed thee faster than
+         the wind!
+  Life and freedom are before thee, deadly foes give chase
+         behind!
+
+
+[Illustration: 030]
+
+
+  Speed {018}thee up the sloping spring-board; o'er the bridge
+            that spans the seas;
+  Yonder gauzy moon will light thee through the grove of
+          canvas trees.
+  Close {019}before thee, Pampeluna spreads her painted paste-
+          board gate!
+  Speed thee onward, gallant courser, speed thee with thy
+         knightly freight!
+
+
+  Victory! The town receives them!--Gentle ladies, this
+         the tale is,
+  Which I learned in Astley's Circus, of Fernando Gomer-
+         salez.
+
+
+[Illustration: 031]
+
+
+[Illustration: 032]
+
+
+
+
+
+
+THE COURTSHIP OF OUR CID
+
+
+  What {020}a pang of sweet emotion
+  Thrilled the Master of the Ring,
+  When he first beheld the lady
+  Through the stabled portal spring!
+  Midway in his wild grimacing
+  Stopped the piebald-visaged Clown
+  And the thunders of the audience
+  Nearly brought the gallery down.
+
+
+  Donna {021}Inez Woolfordinez!
+  Saw ye ever such a maid,
+  With the feathers swaling o'er her,
+  And her spangled rich brocade?
+  In her fairy hand a horsewhip,
+  On her foot a buskin small,
+  So she stepped, the stately damsel,
+  Through the scarlet grooms and all.
+
+
+  And she beckoned for her courser,
+  And they brought a milk-white mare;
+  Proud, I ween, was that Arabian
+  Such a gentle freight to bear:
+  And the Master moved to greet her,
+  With a proud and stately walk;
+  And, in reverential homage,
+  Rubbed her soles with virgin chalk.
+
+
+  Round she flew, as Flora flying
+  Spans the circle of the year;
+  And the youth of London, sighing,
+  Half forgot the ginger-beer--
+  Quite forgot the maids beside them;
+  As they surely well might do,
+  When she raised two Roman candles,
+  Shooting fireballs red and blue!
+  Swifter {022}than the Tartar's arrow,
+
+
+  Lighter than the lark in flight,
+  On the left foot now she bounded,
+  Now she stood upon the right.
+  Like a beautiful Bacchante,
+  Here she soars, and there she kneels,
+  While amid her floating tresses
+  Flash two whirling Catherine wheels!
+  Hark! the blare of yonder trumpet!
+
+
+  See, the gates are opened wide!
+  Room, there, room for Gomersalez,--
+  Gomersalez in his pride!
+  Rose the shouts of exultation,
+  Rose the cat's triumphant call,
+  As he bounded, man and courser,
+  Over Master, Clown, and all!
+  Donna Inez Woolfordinez!
+
+
+  Why those blushes on thy cheek?
+  Doth thy trembling bosom tell thee,
+  He hath come thy love to seek?
+  Fleet thy Arab, but behind thee
+  He is rushing like a gale;
+  One foot on his coal-black's shoulders,
+  And the other on his tail!
+  Onward, {023}onward, panting maiden!
+
+
+  He is faint, and fails, for now
+  By the feet he hangs suspended
+  From his glistening saddle-bow.
+  Down are gone both cap and feather,
+  Lance and gonfalon are down!
+  Trunks, and cloak, and vest of velvet,
+  He has flung them to the Clown,
+  Faint and failing! Up he vaulteth,
+  Fresh as when he first began;
+  All in coat of bright vermilion,
+  'Quipped as Shaw, the Lifeguardsman;
+  Eight and left his whizzing broadsword,
+  Like a sturdy flail, he throws;
+  Cutting out a path unto thee
+  Through imaginary foes.
+
+
+  Woolfordinez! speed thee onward!
+  He is hard upon thy track,--
+  Paralysed is Widdicombez,
+  Nor his whip can longer crack;
+  He has flung away his broadsword,
+  'Tis to clasp thee to his breast.
+  Onward!--see, he bares his bosom,
+  Tears away his scarlet vest;
+  Leaps {024}from out his nether garments,
+  And his leathern stock unties--
+  As the flower of London's dustmen,
+  Now in swift pursuit he flies.
+
+
+  Nimbly now he cuts and shuffles,
+  O'er the buckle, heel and toe!
+  Flaps his hands in his tail-pockets,
+  Winks to all the throng below!
+
+
+  Onward, onward rush the coursers;
+  Woolfordinez, peerless girl,
+  O'er the garters lightly bounding
+  From her steed with airy whirl!
+  Gomersalez, wild with passion,
+  Danger--all but her--forgets;
+  Wheresoe'er she flies, pursues her,
+  Casting clouds of somersets!
+
+
+  Onward, onward rush the coursers;
+  Bright is Gomersalez' eye;
+  Saints protect thee, Woolfordinez,
+  For his triumph sure is nigh:
+  Now his courser's flanks he lashes,
+  O'er his shoulder flings the rein,
+  And his feet aloft he tosses,
+  Holding stoutly by the mane!
+
+
+  Then, {025}his feet once more regaining,
+  Doffs his jacket, doffs his smalls,
+  And in graceful folds around him
+  A bespangled tunic falls.
+  Pinions from his heels are bursting,
+  His bright locks have pinions o'er them;
+  And the public see with rapture
+  Maia's nimble son before them.
+
+
+  Speed thee, speed thee, Woolfordinez!
+  For a panting god pursues;
+  And the chalk is very nearly
+  Rubbed from thy White satin shoes;
+  Every bosom throbs with terror,
+  You might hear a pin to drop;
+  All is hushed, save where a starting
+  Cork gives out a casual pop.
+
+
+  One smart lash across his courser,
+  One tremendous bound and stride,
+  And our noble Cid was standing
+  By his Woolfordinez' side!
+  With a god's embrace he clasped her,
+  Raised her in his manly arms;
+  And the stables' closing barriers
+  Hid his valour, and her charms!
+
+
+[Illustration: 041]
+
+
+
+
+
+
+AMERICAN BALLADS
+
+
+
+
+
+
+THE FIGHT WITH THE SNAPPING TURTLE
+
+
+
+
+
+
+FYTTE FIRST
+
+
+  Have {029}you heard of Philip Slingsby,
+  Slingsby of the manly chest;
+  How he slew the Snapping Turtle
+  In the regions of the 'West?
+
+
+  Every day the huge Cawana
+  Lifted up its monstrous jaws;
+  And it swallowed Langton Bennett,
+  And digested Rufus Dawes.
+
+
+  Riled, {030}I ween, was Philip Slingsby,
+  Their untimely deaths to hear;
+  For one author owed him money,
+  And the other loved him dear.
+
+
+  "Listen now, sagacious Tyler,
+  Whom the loafers all obey;
+  What reward will Congress give me,
+  If I take this pest away?"
+
+
+  Then sagacious Tyler answered,
+  "You're the ring-tailed squealer! Less
+  Than a hundred heavy dollars
+  Won't be offered you, I guess!
+
+
+  "And a lot of wooden nutmegs
+  In the bargain, too, we'll throw--
+  Only you just fix the critter.
+  Won't you liquor ere you go?"
+
+
+  Straightway leaped the valiant Slingsby
+  Into armour of Seville,
+  With a strong Arkansas toothpick
+  Screwed in every joint of steel.
+
+
+  "Come thou with me, Cullen Bryant,
+  Come with me, as squire, I pray;
+  Be the Homer of the battle
+  Which I go to wage to-day."
+
+
+  So {031}they went along careering
+  With a loud and martial tramp,
+  Till they neared the Snapping Turtle
+  In the dreary Swindle Swamp.
+
+
+  But when Slingsby saw the water,
+  Somewhat pale, I ween, was he.
+  "If I come not back, dear Bryant,
+  Tell the tale to Melanie!
+
+
+  "Tell her that I died devoted,
+  Victim to a noble task!
+  Han't you got a drop of brandy
+  In the bottom of your flask?"
+
+
+  As he spoke, an alligator
+  Swam across the sullen creek;
+  And the two Columbians started,
+  When they heard the monster shriek;
+
+
+  For a snout of huge dimensions
+  Rose above the waters high,
+  And took down the alligator,
+  As a trout takes down a fly.
+
+
+  "'Tarnal death! the Snapping Turtle!"
+  Thus the squire in terror cried;
+  But the noble Slingsby straightway
+  Drew the toothpick from his side.
+
+
+  "Fare {032}thee well!" he cried, and dashing
+  Through the waters, strongly swam:
+  Meanwhile, Cullen Bryant, watching,
+  Breathed a prayer and sucked a dram.
+
+
+  Sudden from the slimy bottom
+  Was the snout again upreared,
+  With a snap as loud as thunder,--
+  And the Slingsby disappeared.
+
+
+  Like a mighty steam-ship foundering,
+  Down the monstrous vision sank;
+  And the ripple, slowly rolling,
+  Plashed and played upon the bank.
+
+
+  Still and stiller grew the water,
+  Hushed the canes within the brake;
+  There was but a kind of coughing
+  At the bottom of the lake.
+
+
+  Bryant wept as loud and deeply
+  As a father for a son--
+  "He's a finished 'coon, is Slingsby,
+  And the brandy's nearly done!"
+
+
+
+
+
+
+FYTTE SECOND.
+
+
+  In a {033}trance of sickening anguish,
+  Cold and stiff, and sore and damp,
+  For two days did Bryant linger
+  By the dreary Swindle Swamp;
+
+
+  Always peering at the water,
+  Always waiting for the hour
+  When those monstrous jaws should open
+  As he saw them ope before..
+
+
+  Still in vain;--the alligators
+  Scrambled through the marshy brake,
+  And the vampire leeches gaily
+  Sucked the garfish in the lake.
+
+
+  But the Snapping Turtle never
+  Rose for food or rose for rest,
+  Since he lodged the steel deposit
+  In the bottom of his chest.
+
+
+  Only always from the bottom
+  Sounds of frequent coughing rolled,
+  Just as if the huge Cawana
+  Had a most confounded cold.
+
+
+  On {034}the bank lay Cullen Bryant,
+  As the second moon arose,
+  Gouging on the sloping greensward
+  Some imaginary foes;
+
+
+  When the swamp began to tremble,
+  And the canes to rustle fast,
+  As though some stupendous body
+  Through their roots were crushing past.
+
+
+  And the waters boiled and bubbled,
+  And, in groups of twos and threes,
+  Several alligators bounded,
+  Smart as squirrels, up the trees.
+
+
+  Then a hideous head was lifted,
+  With such huge distended jaws,
+  That they might have held Goliath
+  Quite as well as Rufus Dawes.
+
+
+  Paws of elephantine thickness
+  Dragged its body from the bay,
+  And it glared at Cullen Bryant
+  In a most unpleasant way.
+
+
+  Then it writhed as if in torture,
+  And it staggered to and fro;
+  And its very shell was shaken
+  In the anguish of its throe:
+
+
+  And {035}its cough grew loud and louder,
+  And its sob more husky thick!
+  For, indeed, it was apparent
+  That the beast was very sick.
+
+
+[Illustration: 047]
+
+
+  Till, {036}at last, a spasmy vomit
+  Shook its carcass through and through,
+  And as if from out a cannon,
+  All in armour Slingsby flew.
+
+
+  Bent and bloody was the bowie
+  Which he held within his grasp;
+  And he seemed so much exhausted
+  That he scarce had strength to gasp--
+
+
+  "Gouge him, Bryant! darn ye, gouge him!
+  Gouge him while he's on the shore!"
+  Bryant's thumbs were straightway buried
+  Where no thumbs had pierced before.
+
+
+  Right from out their bony sockets
+  Did he scoop the monstrous balls;
+  And, with one convulsive shudder,
+  Dead the Snapping Turtle falls!
+
+
+              ****
+
+
+  "Post the tin, sagacious Tyler!"
+  But the old experienced file,
+  Leering first at Clay and Webster,
+  Answered, with a quiet smile--
+
+
+  "Since {037}you dragged the 'tarnal crittur
+  From the bottom of the ponds,
+  Here's the hundred dollars due you,
+  _All in Pennsylvanian Bonds!_"
+
+
+[Illustration: 049]
+
+
+
+
+
+
+THE LAY OF MR COLT.
+
+
+[The {038}story of Mr Colt, of which our Lay contains merely the sequel,
+is this: A New York printer, of the name of Adams, had the effrontery
+to call upon him one day for payment of an account, which the
+independent Colt settled by cutting his creditor's head to fragments
+with an axe. He then packed his body in a box, sprinkling it with salt,
+and despatched it to a packet bound for New Orleans. Suspicions having
+been excited, he was seized and tried before Judge Kent. The trial is,
+perhaps, the most disgraceful upon the records of any country. The
+ruffian's mistress was produced in court, and examined, in disgusting
+detail, as to her connection with Colt, and his movements during the
+days and nights succeeding the murder. The head of the murdered man was
+bandied to and fro in the court, handed up to the jury, and commented on
+by witnesses and counsel; and to crown the horrors of the whole
+proceeding, the wretch's own counsel, a Mr Emmet, commencing the defence
+with a cool admission that his client took the life of Adams, and
+following it up by a de-tail of the whole circumstances of this most
+brutal-murder in the first person, as though he himself had been the
+murderer, ended by telling the jury, that his client was "_entitled to
+the sympathy_ of a jury of his country," as "a young man just entering
+into life, _whose prospects, probably, have been permanently blasted_."
+Colt was found guilty; but a variety of exceptions were taken to the
+charge by the judge, and after a long series of appeals, which _occupied
+more than a year from the date of conviction_, the sentence of death was
+ratified by Governor Seward. The rest of Colt's story is told in our
+ballad.]
+
+
+
+
+
+
+STREAK THE FIRST.
+
+
+  And now the sacred rite was done, and the marriage-knot
+        was tied,
+  And Colt withdrew his blushing wife a little way aside;
+  "Let's go," he said, "into my cell; let's go alone, my dear;
+  I fain would shelter that sweet face from the sheriff's
+  odious leer.
+
+
+  The {039}jailer and the hangmen, they are waiting both for
+        me,--
+  I cannot bear to see them wink so knowingly at thee!
+  Oh, how I loved thee, dearest! They say that I am
+        wild,
+  That a mother dares not trust me with the weasand of
+        her child;
+
+
+  They say my bowie-knife is keen to sliver into halves
+  The carcass of my enemy, as butchers slay their calves.
+  They say that I am stern of mood, because, like salted
+         beef,
+  I packed my quartered foeman up, and marked him  'prime
+         tariff;'
+
+
+  Because I thought to palm him on the simple-souled John
+         Bull,
+  And clear a small percentage on the sale at Liverpool;
+  It may be so, I do not know--these things, perhaps,
+        may be;
+  But surely I have always been a gentleman to thee!
+
+
+  Then come, my love, into my cell, short bridal space is
+         ours,--
+  Nay, sheriff, never look thy watch--I guess there's good
+         two hours.
+  We'll shut the prison doors and keep the gaping world
+         at bay,
+  For love is long as 'tarnity, though I must die to-day!"
+
+
+
+
+
+
+STREAK THE SECOND.
+
+
+  The {040}clock is ticking onward,
+  It nears the hour of doom,
+  And no one yet hath entered
+  Into that ghastly room.
+
+
+  The jailer and the sheriff,
+  They are walking to and fro:
+  And the hangman sits upon the steps,
+  And smokes his pipe below.
+
+
+  In grisly expectation
+  The prison all is bound,
+  And, save expectoration,
+  You cannot hear a sound.
+
+
+  The turnkey stands and ponders,--,
+  His hand upon the bolt,--
+  "In twenty minutes more, I guess,
+  'Twill all be up with Colt!"
+
+
+  But see, the door is opened!
+  Forth comes the weeping bride;
+  The courteous sheriff lifts his hat,
+  And saunters to her side,--
+
+
+  "I beg your pardon, Mrs C.,
+  But is your husband ready?"
+  "I {041}guess you'd better ask himself,"
+  Replied the woeful lady.
+
+
+  The clock is ticking onward,
+  The minutes almost run,
+  The hangman's pipe is nearly out,
+  'Tis on the stroke of one.
+
+
+  At every grated window,
+  Unshaven faces glare;
+  There's Puke, the judge of Tennessee,
+  And Lynch, of Delaware;
+
+
+  And Batter, with the long black beard,
+  Whom Hartford's maids know well;
+  And Winkinson, from Fish Kill Reach,
+  The pride of New Rochelle;
+
+
+  Elkanah Nutts, from Tarry Town,
+  The gallant gouging boy;
+  And 'coon-faced Bushwhack, from the hills
+  That frown o'er modern Troy;
+
+
+  Young Julep, whom our Willis loves,
+  Because, 'tis said, that he
+  One morning from a bookstall filched
+  The tale of "Melanie;"
+
+
+  And Skunk, who fought his country's fight
+  Beneath the stripes and stars,--
+  All thronging at the windows stood,
+  And gazed between the bars.
+
+
+  The {042}little hoys that stood behind
+  (Young thievish imps were they!)
+  Displayed considerable _nous_
+  On that eventful day;
+
+
+  For bits of broken looking-glass
+      They held aslant on high,
+  And there a mirrored gallows-tree
+      Met their delighted eye. *
+
+
+                       * A fact.
+
+
+  The clock is ticking onward;
+  Hark! Hark! it striketh one!
+  Each felon draws a whistling breath,
+  "Time's up with Colt! he's done
+
+
+  The sheriff looks his watch again,
+  Then puts it in his fob,
+  And turns him to the hangman,--
+  "Get ready for the job."
+
+
+  The jailer knocketh loudly,
+  The turnkey draws the bolt,
+  And pleasantly the sheriff says,
+  "We're waiting, Mister Colt!"
+
+
+  No answer! no! no answer!
+  All's still as death within;
+  The sheriff eyes the jailer,
+  The jailer strokes his chin.
+
+
+  "I {043}shouldn't wonder, Nahum, if
+  It were as you suppose."
+  The hangman looked unhappy, and
+  The turnkey blew his nose.
+
+
+  They entered. On his pallet
+  The noble convict lay,--
+  The bridegroom on his marriage-bed,
+  But not in trim array.
+
+
+  His red right hand a razor held,
+  Fresh sharpened from the hone,
+  And his ivory neck was severed,
+  And gashed into the bone.
+
+
+  ****
+
+
+  And when the lamp is lighted
+  In the long November days,
+  And lads and lasses mingle
+  At the shucking of the maize;
+
+
+  When pies of smoking pumpkin
+  Upon the table stand,
+  And bowls of black molasses
+  Go round from hand to hand;
+
+
+  When slap-jacks, maple-sugared,
+  Are hissing in the pan,
+  And cider, with a dash of gin,
+  Foams in the social can;
+
+
+  When {044}the goodman wets his whistle,
+  And the goodwife scolds the child;
+  And the girls exclaim convulsively,
+  "Have done, or I'll be riled!"
+
+
+  When the loafer sitting next them
+  Attempts a sly caress,
+  And whispers, "O! you 'possum,
+  You've fixed my heart, I guess!"
+
+
+  With laughter and with weeping,
+  Then shall they tell the tale,
+  How Colt his foeman quartered,
+  And died within the jail.
+
+
+  [Illustration: 056]
+
+
+
+
+
+
+THE DEATH OF JABEZ DOLLAR
+
+
+[Before {045}the following poem, which originally appeared in 'Fraser's
+Magazine,' could have reached America, intelligence was received in
+this country of an affray in Congress, very nearly the counterpart of
+that which the Author has here imagined in jest. It was very clear, to
+any one who observed the state of public manners in America, that such
+occurrences _must_ happen, sooner or later. The Americans apparently
+felt the force of the satire, as the poem was widely reprinted
+throughout the States. It subsequently returned to this country,
+embodied in an American work on American manners, where it
+characteristically appeared as the writer's _own_ production; and it
+afterwards went the round of British newspapers, as an amusing satire,
+by an American, of his countrymen's foibles!]
+
+
+  The Congress met, the day was wet, Van Buren took the
+        chair;
+  On either side, the statesman pride of far Kentuck was
+        there.
+  With moody frown, there sat Calhoun, and slowly in his
+        cheek
+  His quid he thrust, and slaked the dust, as Webster rose
+         to speak.
+
+
+  Upon that day, near gifted Clay, a youthful member sat,
+  And like a free American upon the floor he spat;
+  Then turning round to Clay, He said, and wiped his manly
+         chin,
+  "What kind of Locofoco's that, as wears the painter's
+      skin?"
+
+
+  "Young {046}man," quoth Clay, "avoid the way of Slick of
+         Tennessee;
+  Of gougers fierce, the eyes that pierce, the fiercest gouger
+         he;
+  He chews and spits, as there he sits, and whittles at the
+         chairs,
+  And in his hand, for deadly strife, a bowie-knife he
+        bears.
+
+
+  "Avoid that knife. In frequent strife its blade, so long
+         and thin,
+  Has found itself a resting-place his rivals' ribs within."
+  But coward fear came never near young Jabez Dollar's
+         heart,--
+  "Were he an alligator, I would rile him pretty smart!"
+
+
+  Then up he rose, and cleared his nose, and looked toward
+         the chair;
+  He saw the stately stripes and stars,--our country's flag
+         was there!
+  His heart beat high, with eldritch cry upon the floor he
+         sprang,
+  Then raised his wrist, and shook his fist, and spoke his
+         first harangue.
+
+
+  "Who {047}sold the nutmegs made of wood--the clocks that
+         wouldn't figure?
+  Who grinned the bark off gum-trees dark--the everlasting
+         nigger?
+  For twenty cents, ye Congress gents, through 'tarnity I'll
+         kick
+  That man, I guess, though nothing less than 'coon-faced
+         Colonel Slick!"
+
+
+  The {047}Colonel smiled--with frenzy wild,--his very beard
+         waxed blue,--
+  His shirt it could not hold him, so wrathy riled he grew;
+  He foams and frets, his knife he whets upon his seat
+         below--
+  He sharpens it on either side, and whittles at his toe,--
+
+
+  "Oh! waken snakes, and walk your chalks!" he cried,
+         with ire elate;
+  "Darn my old mother, but I will in wild cats whip my
+        weight!
+  Oh! 'tarnal death, I'll spoil your breath, young Dollar, and
+         your chaffing,--
+  Look to your ribs, for here is that will tickle them without
+         laughing!"
+
+
+  His {048}knife he raised--with, fury crazed, he sprang across
+         the hall;
+  He cut a caper in the air--he stood before them all:
+  He never stopped to look or think if he the deed should
+         do,
+  But spinning sent the President, and on young Dollar
+        flew.
+
+
+  They met--they closed--they sank--they rose,--in vain
+        young Dollar strove--
+  For, like a streak of lightning greased, the infuriate Colonel
+          drove
+  His bowie-blade deep in his side, and to the ground they
+         rolled,
+  And, drenched in gore, wheeled o'er and o'er, locked in
+         each other's hold.
+
+
+  With fury dumb--with nail and thumb--they struggled
+        and they thrust,--
+  The blood ran red from Dollar's side, like rain, upon the
+         dust;
+  He nerved his might for one last spring, and as he sank
+         and died,
+  Reft of an eye, his enemy fell groaning by his side.
+
+
+  Thus {049}did he fall within the hall of Congress, that brave
+         youth;
+  The bowie-knife has quenched his life of valour and of
+        truth;
+  And still among the statesmen throng at Washington they
+        tell
+  How nobly Dollar gouged his man--how gallantly he fell.
+
+
+[Illustration: 061]
+
+
+[Illustration: 062]
+
+
+
+
+
+
+THE  ALABAMA  DUEL
+
+
+  "Young {050}chaps, give ear, the case is clear. You, Silas
+         Fixings, you
+  Pay Mister Nehemiali Dodge them dollars as you're due.
+  You are a bloody cheat,--you are. But spite of all your
+         tricks, it
+  Is not in you Judge Lynch to do. No! nohow you can
+         fix it!"
+
+
+  Thus {051}spake Judge Lynch, as there he sat in Alabama's
+         forum,
+  Around he gazed, with legs upraised upon the bench before
+         him;
+  And, as he gave this sentence stern to him who stood
+         beneath,
+  Still with his gleaming bowie-knife he slowly picked his
+         teeth.
+
+
+  It was high noon, the month was June, and sultry was the
+         air,
+  A cool gin-sling stood by his hand, his coat hung o'er his
+         chair;
+  All naked were his manly arms, and shaded by his hat,
+  Like an old senator of Rome that simple Archon sat.
+
+
+  "A bloody cheat?--Oh, legs and feet!" in wrath young
+         Silas cried;
+  And springing high into the air, he jerked his quid
+         aside.
+  "No man shall put my dander up, or with my feelings
+         trifle,
+  As long as Silas Fixings wears a bowie-knife and rifle."
+
+
+  "If your shoes pinch," replied Judge Lynch, "you'll very,
+         soon have ease;
+  I'll give you satisfaction, squire, in any way you please;
+  What are your weapons?--knife or gun?--at both I'm
+         pretty spry!"
+  "Oh! 'tarnal death, you're spry, you are?" quoth Silas;
+         "so am I!"
+
+
+  Hard by the town a forest stands, dark with the shades
+         of time,
+  And they have sought that forest dark at morning's early
+         prime;
+  Lynch, backed by Nehemiah Dodge, and Silas with a
+        friend,
+  And half the town in glee came down to see that contest's
+         end.
+
+
+  They led their men two miles apart, they measured out
+         the ground;
+  A belt of that, vast wood it was, they notched the trees
+         around;
+  Into the tangled brake they turned them off, and neither
+         knew
+  Where he should seek his wagered foe, how get him into
+         view.
+
+
+[Illustration: 065]
+
+
+  With {053}stealthy tread, and stooping head,
+        from tree to tree they passed,
+  They crept beneath the crackling furze, they
+        held their rifles fast:
+
+
+  Hour passed on hour, the noonday sun
+        smote fiercely down, but yet
+  No sound to the expectant crowd proclaimed
+        that they had met.
+
+
+  And now the sun was going down, when,
+        hark! a rifle's crack!
+  Hush--hush! another strikes the air,--and
+         all their breath draw back,--
+  Then crashing on through bush and briar,
+   the crowd from either side
+  Rush in to see whose rifle sure with blood
+        the moss has dyed.
+
+
+  Weary {054}with watching up and down, brave Lynch con-
+         ceived a plan,
+  An artful dodge whereby to take at unawares his man;
+  He hung his hat upon a bush, and hid himself hard by;
+  Young Silas thought he had him fast, and at the hat let
+         fly.
+  It fell; up sprang young Silas,--he hurled his gun
+        away;
+  Lynch fixed him with his rifle, from the ambush where he
+         lay.
+
+
+  The bullet pierced his manly breast--yet, valiant to the
+         last,
+  Young Fixings drew his bowie-knife, and up his foxtail *
+         cast.
+
+
+              * The Yankee substitute for the _chapeau de soie_.
+
+
+  With tottering step and glazing eye he cleared the space
+         between,
+  And stabbed the air as stabs in grim Macbeth the younger
+         Kean:
+  Brave Lynch received him with a bang that stretched him
+         on the ground,
+  Then sat himself serenely down till all the crowd drew
+         round.
+
+
+  They {055}hailed him with triumphant cheers--in him each
+         loafer saw
+  The bearing bold that could uphold the majesty of law;
+  And, raising him aloft, they bore him homewards at his
+         ease,--
+  That noble judge, whose daring hand enforced his own
+        decrees.
+
+
+  They buried Silas Fixings in the hollow where he fell,
+  And gum-trees wave above his grave--that tree he loved
+         so well;
+  And the 'coons sit chattering o'er him when the nights are
+         long and damp;
+  But he sleeps well in that lonely dell, the Dreary 'Possum
+         Swamp.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+THE AMERICAN'S APOSTROPHE TO BOZ
+
+
+[Rapidly {056}as oblivion does its work nowadays, the burst of amiable
+indignation with which enlightened America received the issue of Boz's
+_Notes_ can scarcely yet be forgotten. Not content with waging a
+universal rivalry in the piracy of the work, Columbia showered upon its
+author the riches of its own choice vocabulary of abuse; while some of
+her more fiery spirits threw out playful hints as to the propriety of
+gouging the "stranger," and furnishing him with a permanent suit of tar
+and feathers, in the very improbable event of his paying them a second
+visit. The perusal of these animated expressions of free opinion
+suggested the following lines, which those who remember Boz's book, and
+the festivities with which he was all but hunted to death, will at once
+understand. We hope we have done justice to the bitterness and
+"immortal hate" of these thin-skinned sons of freedom. When will Americans
+cease to justify the ridicule of Europe, by bearing rebuke, or even
+misrepresentation, calmly as a great nation should?]
+
+
+  Sneak across the wide Atlantic, worthless London's puling
+         child,
+  Better that its waves should bear thee, than the land thou
+         hast reviled;
+  Better in the stifling cabin, on the sofa thou shouldst lie,
+  Sickening as the fetid nigger bears the greens and bacon by;
+  Better, when the midnight horrors haunt the strained and
+         creaking ship,
+  Thou shouldst yell in vain for brandy with a fever-sodden
+         lip;
+
+
+  When amid the deepening darkness and the lamp's ex-
+         piring shade,
+  From {057}the bagman's berth above thee comes the bountiful
+         cascade,
+  Better than upon the Broadway thou shouldst be at noon-
+         day seen,
+  Smirking like a Tracy Tupman with a Mantalini mien,
+  With a rivulet of satin falling o'er thy puny chest,
+  Worse than even P. Willis for an evening party drest!
+
+
+  We received thee warmly--kindly--though we knew thou
+        wert a quiz,
+  Partly for thyself it may be, chiefly for the sake of Phiz!
+  Much we bore, and much we suffered, listening to remorse-
+         less spells
+  Of that Smike's unceasing drivellings, and these everlast-
+         ing Nells.
+  When you talked of babes and sunshine, fields, and all
+        that sort of thing,
+  Each Columbian inly chuckled, as he slowly sucked his
+        sling;
+
+
+  And though all our sleeves were bursting, from the many
+         hundreds near
+  Not one single scornful titter rose on thy complacent ear.
+  Then to show thee to the ladies, with our usual want of sense
+  We engaged the place in Park Street at a ruinous expense;
+  Even our own three-volumed Cooper waived his old pre-
+        scriptive right,
+  And deluded Dickens figured first on that eventful night.
+
+
+   Clusters {058}of uncoated Yorkers, vainly striving to be cool,
+   Saw thee desperately plunging through, the perils of La
+          Poule:
+   And their muttered exclamation drowned the tenor of the
+          tune,--
+   "Don't he beat all natur hollow? Don't He foot it like a
+           'coon?"
+   Did we spare our brandy-cocktails, stint thee of our whisky-
+           grogs?
+   Half the juleps that we gave thee would have floored a
+          Newman Noggs;
+
+
+   And thou took'st them in so kindly, little was there then
+          to blame,
+   To thy parched and panting palate sweet as mother's milk
+          they came.
+   Did the hams of old Virginny find no favour in thine
+          eyes?
+   Came no soft compunction o'er thee at the thought of
+          pumpkin pies?
+   Could not all our chicken fixings into silence fix thy scorn?
+   Did not all our cakes rebuke thee, Johnny, waffle, dander,
+           corn?
+
+
+  Could not all our care and coddling teach, thee how to
+          draw it mild?
+  Well, no matter, we deserve it. Serves us right! We
+          spoilt the child!
+  You, {059}forsooth, must come crusading, boring us with broad-
+          est hints
+  Of your own peculiar losses by American reprints.
+  Such an impudent remonstrance never in our face was flung;
+  Lever stands it, so does Ainsworth; _you_, I guess, may hold
+          your tongue.
+
+
+  Downpour throats you'd cram your projects, thick and hard
+         as pickled salmon,
+  That, I s'pose, you call free trading,--I pronounce it utter
+          gammon.
+  No, my lad, a 'cuter vision than your own might soon
+        have seen
+  That a true Columbian ogle carries little that is green;
+  That we never will surrender useful privateering rights,
+  Stoutly won at glorious Bunker's Hill, and other famous
+         fights;
+
+
+  That we keep our native dollars for our native scribbling
+         gents,
+  And on British manufacture only waste our straggling cents;
+  Quite enough we pay, I reckon, when we stump of these a few
+  For the voyages and travels of a freshman such as you.
+
+
+  I have been at Niagara, I have stood beneath the Falls,
+  I have marked the water twisting over its rampagious walls;
+  But "a holy calm sensation," one, in fact, of perfect peace,
+  Was as much my first idea as the thought of Christmas
+        geese.
+  As for {060}"old familiar faces," looking through the misty air,
+  Surely you were strongly liquored when you saw your
+  Chuckster there.
+
+
+  One familiar face, however, you will very likely see,
+  If you'll only treat the natives to a call in Tennessee,
+  Of a certain individual, true Columbian every inch,
+  In a high judicial station, called by 'mancipators, Lynch.
+  Half an hour of conversation with his worship in a wood,
+  Would, I strongly notion, do you an infernal deal of good.
+
+
+  Then you'd understand more clearly than you ever did
+         before,
+  Why an independent patriot freely spits upon the floor,
+  Why he gouges when he pleases, why he whittles at the
+         chairs,
+  Why for swift and deadly combat still the bowie-knife he
+         bears,--
+  Why he sneers at the old country with republican disdain,
+  And, unheedful of the negro's cry, still tighter draws his
+        chain.
+
+
+  All these things the judge shall teach thee of the land
+         thou hast reviled;
+  Get thee o'er the wide Atlantic, worthless London's puling
+         child!
+
+
+
+
+
+
+MISCELLANEOUS  BALLADS
+
+
+[Illustration: 075]
+
+
+
+
+
+
+THE STUDENT OF JENA
+
+
+  Once--'twas {063}when I lived at Jena--
+  At a Wirthshous' door I sat;
+  And in pensive contemplation
+  Ate the sausage thick and fat'
+  Ate the kraut that never sourer
+  Tasted to my lips than here;
+  Smoked my pipe of strong canaster,
+  Sipped my fifteenth jug of beer;
+  Gazed upon the glancing river,
+  Gazed upon the tranquil pool,
+  Whence {064}the silver-voiced Undine,
+  When the nights were calm and cool,
+  As the Baron Fouqué tells us,
+  Rose from out her shelly grot,
+  Casting glamour o'er the waters,
+  Witching that enchanted spot.
+
+
+  From the shadow which the coppice
+  Flings across the rippling stream,
+  Did I hear a sound of music--
+  Was it thought or was it dream?
+  There, beside a pile of linen,
+  Stretched along the daisied sward,
+  Stood a young and blooming maiden--
+  'Twas her thrush-like song I heard.
+
+
+  Evermore within the eddy
+  Did she plunge the white chemise;
+  And her robes were losely gathered
+  Rather far above her knees;
+  Then my breath at once forsook me,
+  For too surely did I deem
+  That I saw the fair Undine
+  Standing in the glancing stream--
+  And I felt the charm of knighthood;
+  And from that remembered day,
+  Every evening to the Wirthshaus
+  Took I my enchanted way.
+
+
+  Shortly {065}to relate my story,
+  Many a week of summer long
+  Came I there, when beer-o'ertaken,
+  With my lute and with my song;
+  Sang in mellow-toned soprano
+  All my love and all my woe,
+  Till the river-maiden answered,
+  Lilting in the stream below:--
+  "Fair Undine! sweet Undine!
+  Dost thou love as I love thee?"
+  "Love is free as running water,"
+  Was the answer made to me.
+
+
+  Thus, in interchange seraphic,
+  Did I woo my phantom fay,
+  Till the nights grew long and chilly,
+  Short and shorter grew the day;
+  Till at last--'twas dark and gloomy,
+  Dull and starless was the sky,
+  And my steps were all unsteady,
+  For a little flushed was I,--
+  To the well-accustomed signal
+  No response the maiden gave;
+  But I heard the waters washing,
+  And the moaning of the wave.
+
+
+  Vanished {066}was my own Undine,
+  All her linen, too, was gone;
+  And I walked about lamenting
+  On the river bank alone.
+  Idiot that I was, for never
+  Had I asked the maiden's name.
+  Was it Lieschen--was it Gretchen?
+  Had she tin, or whence she came?
+  So I took my trusty meerschaum,
+  And I took my lute likewise;
+  Wandered forth in minstrel fashion,
+  Underneath the louring skies;
+  Sang before each comely Wirthshaus,
+  Sang beside each purling stream,
+  That same ditty which I chanted
+  When Undine was my theme,
+  Singing, as I sang at Jena,
+  When the shifts were hung to dry,
+  "Fair Undine! young Undine!
+  Dost thou love as well as I?"
+
+
+  But, alas! in field or village,
+  Or beside the pebbly shore,
+  Did I see those glancing ankles,
+  And the white robe never more;
+  And {067}no answer came to greet me,
+  No sweet voice to mine replied;
+  But I heard the waters rippling,
+  And the moaning of the tide.
+
+
+[Illustration: 079]
+
+
+[Illustration: 080]
+
+
+
+
+
+
+THE LAY OF THE JEBITE
+
+
+  There {068}is a sound that's dear to me,
+  It haunts me in my sleep;
+  I wake, and, if I hear it not,
+  I cannot choose but weep.
+
+
+  Above the roaring of the wind,
+  Above the river's flow,
+  Methinks I hear the mystic cry
+  Of "Clo!--Old Clo!"
+
+
+  The exile's song, it thrills among
+  The dwellings of the free,
+  Its {69}sound is strange to English ears,
+  But 'tis not strange to me;
+
+
+  For it hath shook the tented field
+  In ages long ago,
+  And hosts have quailed before the cry
+  Of "Clo!--Old Clo!"
+
+
+  Oh, lose it not! forsake it not!
+  And let no time efface
+  The memory of that solemn sound,
+  The watchword of our race;
+
+
+  For not by dark and eagle eye
+  The Hebrew shall you know,
+  So well as by the plaintive cry
+  Of "Clo!--Old Clo!"
+
+
+  Even now, perchance, by Jordan's banks,
+  Or Sidon's sunny walls,
+  Where, dial-like, to portion time,
+  The palm-tree's shadow falls,
+
+
+  The pilgrims, wending on their way,
+  Will linger as they go,
+  And listen to the distant cry
+  Of "Clo!--Old Clo!"
+
+
+[Illustration: 082]
+
+
+
+
+
+
+BURSCH GROGGNEBURG
+
+
+     [After the manner of Schiller.]
+
+
+  "Bursch! {070}if foaming beer content ye,
+      Come and drink your fill;
+  In our cellars there is plenty;
+      Himmel! how you swill!
+  That the liquor hath allurance,
+      Well I understand;
+  But 'tis really past endurance,
+      When you squeeze my hand!"
+
+
+  And he heard her as if dreaming,
+      Heard her half in awe;
+  And {071}the meerschaum's smoke came streaming
+      From his open jaw:
+  And his pulse heat somewhat quicker
+      Than it did before,
+  And he finished off his liquor,
+      Staggered through the door;
+
+
+  Bolted off direct to Munich,
+      And within the year
+  Underneath his German tunic
+      Stowed whole butts of beer.
+  And he drank like fifty fishes,
+      Drank till all was blue;
+  For he felt extremely vicious--
+      Somewhat thirsty too.
+
+
+  But at length this dire deboshing
+      Drew towards an end;
+  Few of all his silver groschen
+      Had he left to spend.
+  And he knew it was not prudent
+      Longer to remain;
+  So, with weary feet, the student
+      Wended home again.
+
+
+  At the tavern's well-known portal
+      Knocks he as before,
+  And a {072}waiter, rather mortal,
+      Hiccups through the door--
+  "Master's sleeping in the kitchen
+      You'll alarm the house;
+  Yesterday the Jungfrau Fritchen
+      Married baker Kraus!"
+
+
+  Like a fiery comet bristling,
+      Rose the young man's hair,
+  And, poor soul! he fell a-whistling
+      Out of sheer despair.
+  Down the gloomy street in silence,
+      Savage-calm he goes;
+  But he did no deed of vi'lence--
+      Only blew his nose.
+
+
+  Then he hired an airy garret
+      Near her dwelling-place;
+  Grew a beard of fiercest carrot,
+      Never washed his face;
+  Sate all day beside the casement,
+      Sate a dreary man;
+  Found in smoking such an easement
+      As the wretched can;
+
+
+  Stared for hours and hours together.
+      Stared yet more and more;
+  Till {073}in fine and sunny weather.
+      At the baker's door,
+  Stood, in apron white and mealy,
+      That beloved dame,
+  Counting out the loaves so freely,
+      Selling of the same.
+
+
+  Then like a volcano puffing,
+      Smoked he out his pipe;
+  Sighed and supped on ducks and stuffing,
+      Ham and kraut and tripe;
+  Went to bed, and, in the morning,
+      Waited as before,
+  Still his eyes in anguish turning
+      To the baker's door;
+
+
+  Till, with apron white and mealy,
+      Came the lovely dame,
+  Counting out the loaves so freely,
+      Selling of the same.
+  So one day--the fact's amazing!--
+      On his post he died!
+  And they found the body gazing
+      At the baker's bride.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+NIGHT AND MORNING
+
+
+       [Not by Sir E. Bulwer Lytton.]
+
+
+  "Thy {074}coffee, Tom, 's untasted,
+      And thy egg is very cold;
+  Thy cheeks are wan and wasted,
+      Not rosy as of old.
+
+
+  My boy, what has come o'er ye?
+      You surely are not well!
+  Try some of that ham before ye,
+      And then, Tom, ring the bell!"
+
+
+  "I cannot eat, my mother,
+      My tongue is parched and bound,
+  And my head, somehow or other,
+      Is swimming round and round.
+
+
+  In my Eyes there is a fulness,
+      And my pulse is beating quick;
+  On my brain is a weight of dulness:
+      Oh, mother, I am sick!"
+
+
+  "These {075}long, long nights of watching
+      Are killing you outright;
+  The evening dews are catching,
+      And you're out every night.
+
+
+  Why does that horrid grumbler,
+      Old Inkpen, work you so?"
+  "My head! Oh, that tenth tumbler!
+      'Twas that which wrought my woe!"
+
+
+
+
+
+
+THE BITTER BIT
+
+
+  The {076}sun is in the sky, mother, the flowers are springing
+         fair,
+  And the melody of woodland birds is stirring in the air;
+  The river, smiling to the sky, glides onward to the sea,
+  And happiness is everywhere, oh mother, but with me!
+
+
+  They are going to the church, mother,--I hear the mar-
+         riage-bell;
+  It booms along the upland,--oh! it haunts me like a
+         knell;
+  He leads her on his arm, mother, he cheers her faltering
+         step,
+  And closely to his side she clings,--she does, the demirep!
+
+
+  They are crossing by the stile, mother, where we so oft
+         have stood,
+  The stile beside the shady thorn, at the corner of the
+         wood;
+  And the boughs, that wont to murmur back the words
+        that won my ear,
+  Wave their silver blossoms o'er him, as he leads his bridal
+         fere.
+
+
+  He will pass {077}beside the stream, mother, where first my
+         hand he pressed,
+  By the meadow where, with quivering lip, his passion he
+         confessed;
+  And down the hedgerows where we've strayed again and
+         yet again;
+  But he will not think of me, mother, his broken-hearted
+         Jane!
+
+
+  He said that I was proud, mother,--that I looked for rank
+         and gold;
+  He said I did not love him,--he said my words were
+        cold;
+  He said I kept him off and on, in hopes of higher
+        game--
+  And it may be that I did, mother; but who hasn't done
+        the same?
+
+
+  I did not know my heart, mother,--I know it now too
+        late;
+  I thought that I without a pang could wed some nobler
+        mate;
+  But no nobler suitor sought me,--and he has taken wing,
+  And my heart is gone, and I am left a lone and blighted
+         thing.
+
+
+  You {078}may lay me in my "bed, mother,--my head is throb-
+         bing sore;
+  And, mother, prithee, let the sheets be duly aired before;
+  And, if you'd do a kindness to your poor desponding
+         child,
+  Draw me a pot of beer, mother--and, mother, draw it mild!
+
+
+[Illustration: 090]
+
+
+
+
+
+
+THE MEETING
+
+
+  Once {079}I lay beside a fountain,
+  Lulled me with its gentle song,
+  And my thoughts o'er dale and mountain
+     With the clouds were borne along.
+
+
+  There I saw old castles flinging
+  Shadowy gleams on moveless seas,
+  Saw gigantic forests swinging
+     To and fro without a breeze;
+
+
+  And in dusky alleys straying,
+  Many a giant shape of power,
+  Troops of nymphs in sunshine playing,
+     Singing, dancing, hour on hour.
+
+
+  I, too, trod these plains Elysian,
+  Heard their ringing tones of mirth,
+  But a brighter, fairer vision
+     Called me back again to earth.
+
+
+  From the forest shade advancing,
+  See, where comes a lovely May;
+  The dew, like gems, before her glancing,
+     As she brushes it away!
+
+
+  Straight {080}I rose, and ran to meet her,
+  Seized her hand--the heavenly blue
+  Of her eyes smiled brighter, sweeter,
+     As she asked me--"Who are you?"
+
+
+  To that question came another--
+  What its aim I still must doubt--
+  And she asked me, "How's your mother?
+     Does she know that you are out?"
+
+
+  "No! my mother does not know it,
+  Beauteous, heaven-descended muse!"
+  "Then be off, my handsome poet,
+     And say I sent you with the news!"
+
+
+[Illustration: 093]
+
+
+
+
+
+
+THE CONVICT AND THE AUSTRALIAN LADY
+
+
+  Thy {081}skin is dark as jet, ladye,
+     Thy cheek is sharp and high,
+  And there's a cruel leer, love,
+     Within thy rolling eye:
+
+
+  These tangled ebon tresses
+     No comb hath e'er gone through;
+  And thy forehead, it is furrowed by
+     The elegant tattoo!
+
+
+  I love {082}thee,--oh, I love thee,
+     Thou strangely-feeding maid!
+  Nay, lift not thus thy boomerang,
+     I meant not to upbraid!
+
+
+  Come, let me taste those yellow lips
+     That ne'er were tasted yet,
+  Save when the shipwrecked mariner
+     Passed through them for a whet.
+
+
+  Nay, squeeze me not so tightly!
+     For I am gaunt and thin;
+  There's little flesh to tempt thee
+     Beneath a convict's skin.
+
+
+  I came not to be eaten;
+      I sought thee, love, to woo;
+  Besides, bethink thee, dearest,
+      Thou'st dined on cockatoo.
+
+
+  Thy father is a chieftain!
+      Why, that's the very thing!
+  Within my native country
+      I too have been a king.
+
+
+  Behold this branded letter,
+      Which nothing can efface!
+  It is the royal emblem,
+      The token of my race!
+
+
+  But {083}rebels rose against me,
+      And dared my power disown--
+  You've heard, love, of the judges?
+      They drove me from my throne.
+
+
+  And I have wandered hither,
+      Across the stormy sea,
+  In search of glorious freedom,--
+      In search, my sweet, of thee!
+
+
+  The bush is now my empire,
+      The knife my sceptre keen;
+  Come with me to the desert wild,
+      And be my dusky queen.
+
+
+  I cannot give thee jewels,
+      I have nor sheep nor cow,
+  Yet there are kangaroos, love,
+      And colonists enow.
+
+
+  We'll meet the unwary settler,
+      As whistling home he goes,
+  And I'll take tribute from him,
+      His money and his clothes.
+
+
+  Then on his bleeding carcass
+      Thou'lt lay thy pretty paw,
+  And lunch upon him roasted,
+      Or, if you like it, raw!
+
+
+  Then {084}come with me, my princess,
+      My own Australian dear,
+  Within this grove of gum-trees
+      We'll hold our bridal cheer!
+
+
+  Thy heart with love is heating,
+      I feel it through my side:--
+  Hurrah, then, for the noble pair,
+      The Convict and his Bride!
+
+
+
+
+
+
+DOLEFUL LAY OF THE HONORABLE  J. O. UWINS
+
+
+  Come and listen, lords and ladies,
+  To a woeful lay of mine;
+  He whose tailor's bill unpaid is,
+  Let him now his ear incline!
+
+
+  Let him hearken to my story,
+  How the noblest of the land
+  Pined in piteous purgatory,
+  'Neath a sponging Bailiffs hand.
+
+
+  I. O. Uwins! I. O. Uwins!
+  Baron's son although thou be,
+  Thou must pay for thy misdoings
+  In the country of the free!
+
+
+  None of all thy sire's retainers
+  To thy rescue now may come;
+  And there lie some score detainers
+  With Abednego, the bum.
+
+
+  Little recked he of his prison
+  Whilst the sun was in the sky:
+  Only when the moon was risen
+  Did you hear the captive's cry.
+
+
+  For till then, cigars and claret
+  Lulled him in oblivion sweet;
+  And {086}he much, preferred a garret,
+  For his drinking, to the street.
+
+
+  But the moonlight, pale and broken,
+  Pained at soul the Baron's son;
+  For he knew, by that soft token,
+  That the larking had begun;--
+
+
+  That the stout and valiant Marquis
+  Then was leading forth his swells,
+  Milling some policeman's carcass,
+  Or purloining private bells.
+
+
+  So he sat in grief and sorrow,
+  Rather drunk than otherwise,
+  Till the golden gush of morrow
+  Dawned once more upon his eyes:
+
+
+  Till the sponging Bailiff's daughter,
+  Lightly tapping at the door,
+  Brought his draught of soda-water,
+  Brandy-bottomed as before.
+
+
+  "Sweet Rebecca! has your father,
+  Think you, made a deal of brass?"
+  And she answered--"Sir, I rather
+  Should imagine that he has."
+
+
+  Uwins then, his whiskers scratching,
+  Leered upon the maiden's face,
+  And, {087}her hand with ardour catching,
+  Folded her in close embrace.
+
+
+  "La, Sir! let alone--you fright me!"
+  Said the daughter of the Jew:
+  "Dearest, how those eyes delight me!
+  Let me love thee, darling, do!"
+
+
+  "Vat is dish?" the Bailiff muttered,
+  Rushing in with fury wild;
+  "Ish your muffins so veil buttered,
+  Dat you darsh insult ma shild?"
+
+
+  "Honourable my intentions,
+  Good Abednego, I swear!
+  And I have some small pretensions,
+  For I am a Baron's heir.
+
+
+  If you'll only clear my credit,
+  And advance a _thou_ * or so,
+  She's a peeress--I have said it:
+  Don't you twig, Abednego?"
+
+
+     * The fashionable abbreviation for a thousand pounds.
+
+
+  "Datsh a very different matter,"
+  Said the Bailiff, with a leer;
+  "But you musht not cut it fatter
+  Than ta slish will shtand, ma tear!
+
+
+  If you seeksh ma approbation,
+  You musht quite give up your rigsh,
+  Alsho {088}you musht join our nashun,
+  And renounsli ta flesh of pigsh.
+
+
+  Fast as one of Fagin's pupils,
+  I. O. Uwins did agree!
+  little plagued with holy scruples
+  From the starting-post was he.
+
+
+  But at times a baleful vision
+  Rose before his shuddering view,
+  For he knew that circumcision
+  Was expected from a Jew.
+
+
+  At a meeting of the Rabbis,
+  Held about the Whitsuntide,
+  Was this thorough-paced Barabbas
+  Wedded to his Hebrew bride:
+
+
+  All his previous debts compounded,
+  From the sponging-house he came,
+  And his father's feelings wounded
+  With reflections on the same.
+
+
+  But the sire his son accosted--
+  "Split my wig! if any more
+  Such a double-dyed apostate
+  Shall presume to cross my door!
+
+
+  Not a penny-piece to save ye
+  From the kennel or the spout;--
+  Dinner, {089}John! the pig and gravy!--
+  Kick this dirty scoundrel out!"
+
+
+  Forth rushed I. O. Uwins, faster
+  Than all winking--much afraid
+  That the orders of the master
+  Would be punctually obeyed:
+
+
+  Sought his club, and then the sentence
+  Of expulsion first he saw;
+  No one dared to own acquaintance
+  With a Bailiff's son-in-law.
+
+
+  Uselessly, down Bond Street strutting,
+  Did he greet his friends of yore:
+  Such a universal cutting
+  Never man received before:
+
+
+  Till at last his pride revolted--
+  Pale, and lean, and stern he grew;
+  And his wife Rebecca bolted
+  With a missionary Jew.
+
+
+  Ye who read this doleful ditty,
+  Ask ye where is Uwins now?
+  Wend your way through London city,
+  Climb to Holborn's lofty brow;
+
+
+  Near the sign-post of the "Nigger,"
+  Near the baked-potato shed,
+  You {090}may see a ghastly figure
+  With three hats upon his head.
+
+
+  When the evening shades are dusky,
+  Then the phantom form draws near,
+  And, with accents low and husky,
+  Pours effluvium in your ear;
+
+
+  Craving an immediate barter
+  Of your trousers or surtout;
+  And you know the Hebrew martyr,
+  Once the peerless I. O. U
+
+
+[Illustration: 102]
+
+
+[Illustration: 103]
+
+
+
+
+
+
+THE KNYGHTE AND THE TAYLZEOUR'S DAUGHTER
+
+
+  Did {091}you ever hear the story--
+  Old the legend is, and true--
+  How a knyghte of fame and glory
+  All aside his armour threw;
+  Spouted spear and pawned habergeon,
+  Pledged his sword and surcoat gay,
+  Sate down cross-legged on the shop-board,
+  Sate and stitched the livelong day?
+
+
+  "Taylzeour! {092}not one single shilling
+  Does my breeches-pocket hold:
+  I to pay am really willing,
+  If I only had the gold.
+  Farmers none can I encounter,
+  Graziers there are none to kill;
+  Therefore, prithee, gentle taylzeour,
+  Bother not about thy bill."
+
+
+  "Good Sir Knyghte, just once too often
+  Have you tried that slippery trick;
+  Hearts like mine you cannot soften,
+  Vainly do you ask for tick.
+  Christmas and its bills are coming,
+  Soon will they be showering in;
+  Therefore, once for all, my rum un,
+  I expect you'll post the tin.
+
+
+  "Mark, Sir Knyghte, that gloomy bayliffe
+  In the palmer's amice brown;
+  He shall lead you unto jail, if
+  Instantly you stump not down."
+  Deeply swore the young crusader,
+  But the taylzeour would not hear;
+  And the gloomy, bearded bayliffe
+  Evermore kept sneaking near.
+
+
+  "Neither groat nor maravedi
+  Have I got my soul to bless;
+  And {093}I'd feel extremely seedy,
+  Languishing in vile duresse.
+  Therefore listen, ruthless taylzeour,
+  Take my steed and armour free,
+  Pawn them at thy Hebrew uncle's,
+  And I'll work the rest for thee."
+
+
+  Lightly leaped he on the shop-board,
+  Lightly crooked his manly limb,
+  Lightly drove the glancing needle
+  Through the growing doublet's rim.
+  Gaberdines in countless number
+  Did the taylzeour knyghte repair,
+  And entirely on cucumber
+  And on cabbage lived he there.
+
+
+  Once his weary task beguiling
+  With a low and plaintive song,
+  That good knyghte o'er miles of broadcloth
+  Drove the hissing goose along;
+  From her lofty latticed window
+  Looked the taylzeour's daughter down,
+  And she instantly discovered
+  That her heart was not her own.
+
+
+  "Canst thou love me, gentle stranger?"
+  Picking at a pink she stood--
+  And the knyghte at once admitted
+  That he rather thought he could.
+  "He {094}who weds me shall have riches,
+  Gold, and lands, and houses free."
+  "For a single pair of--_small-clothes_,
+  I would roam the world with thee!"
+
+
+  Then she flung him down the tickets--
+  Well the knyghte their import knew--
+  "Take this gold, and win thy armour
+  From the unbelieving Jew.
+  Though in garments mean and lowly,
+  Thou wouldst roam the world with me,
+  Only {095}as a belted warrior,
+  Stranger, will I wed with, thee!"
+
+
+[Illustration: 106]
+
+
+  At the feast of good Saint Stitchem,
+  In the middle of the Spring,
+  There was some superior jousting,
+  By the order of the King.
+  "Valiant knyghtes!" proclaimed the monarch,
+  "You will please to understand,
+  He who bears himself most bravely
+  Shall obtain my daughter's hand."
+
+
+  Well and bravely did they bear them,
+  Bravely battled, one and all;
+  But the bravest in the tourney
+  Was a warrior stout and tall.
+  None could tell his name or lineage,
+  None could meet him in the field,
+  And a goose regardant proper
+  Hissed along his azure shield.
+
+
+  "Warrior, thou hast won my daughter!"
+  But the champion bowed his knee,
+  "Royal blood may not be wasted
+  On a simple knight like me.
+  She I love is meek and lowly;
+  But her heart is kind and free;
+  Also, there is tin forthcoming,
+  Though she is of low degree."
+
+
+  Slowly {096}rose that nameless warrior,
+  Slowly turned his steps aside,
+  Passed the lattice where the princess
+  Sate in beauty, sate in pride.
+  Passed the row of noble ladies,
+  Hied him to an humbler seat,
+  And in silence laid the chaplet
+  At the taylzeour's daughter's feet.
+
+
+[Illustration: 108]
+
+
+[Illustration: 109]
+
+
+
+
+
+
+THE MIDNIGHT VISIT
+
+
+  It was the Lord of Castlereagh, he sat within his room,
+  His arms were crossed upon his breast, his face was
+        marked with gloom;
+  They said that St Helena's Isle had rendered up its
+        charge,
+  That France was bristling high in arms--the Emperor at
+        large.
+
+
+  'Twas {098}midnight! all the lamps were dim, and dull as
+         death the street,
+  It might be that the watchman slept that night upon his
+         beat,
+  When lo! a heavy foot was heard to creak upon the
+        stair,
+  The door revolved upon its hinge--Great Heaven!--What
+         enters there?
+
+
+  A little man, of stately mien, with slow and solemn
+        stride;
+  His hands are crossed upon his back, his coat is opened
+         wide;
+  And on his vest of green he wears an eagle and a
+        star,--
+  Saint George! protect us! 'tis The Man--the thunder-
+         bolt of war!
+
+
+  Is that the famous hat that waved along Marengo's
+        ridge?
+  Are these the spurs of Austerlitz--the boots of Lodi's
+         bridge?
+  Leads he the conscript swarm again from France's hornet
+         hive?
+
+
+  What seeks the fell usurper here, in Britain, and alive?
+  Pale {099}grew the Lord of Castlereagh, his tongue was parched
+          and dry,
+  As in his brain he felt the glare of that tremendous eye;
+  What wonder if he shrunk in fear, for who could meet the
+         glance
+  Of him who reared, 'mid Russian snows, the gonfalon of
+         France?
+
+
+  From the side-pocket of his vest a pinch the despot
+        took,
+  Yet not a whit did he relax the sternness of his look:
+  "Thou thoughtst the lion was afar, but he hath burst the
+         chain--
+  The watchword for to-night is France--the answer St
+        Heléne.
+
+
+  "And didst thou deem the barren isle, or ocean waves,
+         could bind
+  The master of the universe--the monarch of mankind?
+  I tell thee, fool! the world itself is all too small for me;
+  I laugh to scorn thy bolts and bars--I burst them, and
+         am free.
+
+
+  "Thou thinkst that England hates me! Mark!--This
+         very night my name
+  Was thundered in its capital with tumult and acclaim!
+  They {100}saw me, knew me, owned my power--Proud lord!
+         I say, beware!
+  There be men within the Surrey side, who know to do
+        and dare!
+
+
+  "To-morrow in thy very teeth my standard will I rear--
+  Ay, well that ashen cheek of thine may blanch and shrink
+         with fear!
+  To-morrow night another town shall sink in ghastly
+        flames;
+  And as I crossed the Borodin, so shall I cross the
+        Thames!
+
+
+  "Thou'lt seize me, wilt thou, ere the dawn? Weak
+        lordling, do thy worst!
+  These hands ere now have broke thy chains, thy fetters
+        they have burst.
+  Yet, wouldst thou know my resting-place? Behold, 'tis
+        written there!
+  And let thy coward myrmidons approach me if they dare!"
+
+
+  Another pinch, another stride--he passes through the
+        door--
+  "Was it a phantom or a man was standing on the floor?
+  And could that be the Emperor that moved before my eyes?
+  Ah, yes! too sure it was himself, for here the paper lies!"
+
+
+  With, {101}trembling hands Lord Castlereagh undid the mystic
+         scroll,
+  With glassy eye essayed to read, for fear was on his soul--
+  "What's here?--'At Astley's, every night, the play of
+         Moscow's Fall!
+  Napoleon, for the thousandth time, by Mr Gomersal!'"
+
+
+[Illustration: 113]
+
+
+[Illustration: 114]
+
+
+
+
+
+
+THE LAY OF THE LOVELORN.
+
+
+  Comrades, {102}you may pass the rosy. With permission of
+         the chair,
+  I shall leave you for a little, for I'd like to take the air.
+  Whether 'twas the sauce at dinner, or that glass of ginger-
+         beer,
+  Or these strong cheroots, I know not, but I feel a little queer.
+
+
+  Let me go. Nay, Chuckster, blow me, 'pon my soul, this
+        is too bad!
+  When you want me, ask the waiter; he knows where I'm
+        to be had.
+  Whew! {103}This is a great relief now! Let me but undo my
+         stock;
+  Resting here beneath the porch, my nerves will steady
+         like a rock.
+
+
+  In my ears I hear the singing of a lot of favourite tunes--
+  Bless my heart, how very odd! Why, surely there's a
+        brace of moons!
+  See! the stars! how bright they twinkle, winking with a
+         frosty glare,
+  Like my faithless cousin Amy when she drove me to
+        despair.
+
+
+  Oh, my cousin, spider-hearted! Oh, my Amy! No, con-
+         found it!
+  I must wear the mournful willow,--all around my hat
+        I've bound it.
+  Falser than the bank of fancy, frailer than a shilling glove,
+  Puppet to a father's anger, minion to a nabob's love!
+
+
+  Is it well to wish thee happy? Having known me, could
+         you ever
+  Stoop to marry half a heart, and little more than half a
+         liver?
+  Happy! Damme! Thou shalt lower to his level day by
+        day,
+  Changing from the best of china to the commonest of
+        clay.
+
+
+  As the husband is, the wife is,--he is stomach-plagued
+         and old;
+  And his curry soups will make thy cheek the colour of
+         his gold.
+  When his feeble love is sated, he will hold thee surely
+         then
+  Something lower than his hookah,--something less than
+  his cayenne.
+
+
+  What is this? His eyes are pinky. Was't the claret?
+           Oh, no, no,--
+  Bless your soul! it was the salmon,--salmon always makes
+         him so.
+  Take him to thy dainty chamber--sooth him with thy
+        lightest fancies;
+  He will understand thee, won't he?--pay thee with a
+        lover's glances?
+
+
+  Louder {105}than the loudest trumpet, harsh as harshest
+         ophicleide,
+  Nasal respirations answer the endearments of his bride.
+  Sweet response, delightful music! Gaze upon thy noble
+         charge,
+  Till the spirit fill thy bosom that inspired the meek
+     Laffarge.
+
+
+  Better thou wert dead before me,--better, better that I
+         stood,
+  Looking on thy murdered body, like the injured Daniel
+         Good!
+  Better thou and I were lying, cold and timber-stiff and
+         dead,
+  With a pan of burning charcoal underneath our nuptial
+         bed!
+
+
+  Cursed be the Bank of England's notes, that tempt the
+         soul to sin!
+  Cursed be the want of acres,--doubly cursed the want of tin!
+  Cursed be the marriage-contract, that enslaved thy soul
+         to greed!
+  Cursed be the sallow lawyer, that prepared and drew the
+         deed!
+
+
+  Cursed {106}be his foul apprentice, who the loathsome fees did
+         earn!
+  Cursed be the clerk and parson,--cursed be the whole
+         concern!
+  Oh, 'tis well that I should bluster,--much I'm like to
+         make of that;
+  Better comfort have I found in singing "All Around my
+         Hat."
+
+
+  But that song, so wildly plaintive, palls upon my British
+         ears.
+  'Twill not do to pine for ever,--I am getting up in
+         years.
+  Can't I turn the honest penny, scribbling for the weekly
+         press,
+  And in writing Sunday libels drown my private wretched-
+         ness?
+  Oh, to feel the wild pulsation that in manhood's dawn I
+         knew,
+  When my days were all before me, and my years were
+         twenty-two!
+
+
+  When I {107}smoked my independent pipe along the Quadrant
+         wide,
+  With the many larks of London flaring up on every side;
+
+
+  When I went the pace so wildly, caring little what might
+         come;
+  Coffee-milling care and sorrow, with a nose-adapted thumb;
+  Felt the exquisite enjoyment, tossing nightly off, oh
+         heavens!
+  Brandy at the Cider Cellars, kidneys smoking-hot at
+         Evans'!
+
+
+  Or in the Adelphi sitting, half in rapture, half in tears,
+  Saw the glorious melodrama conjure up the shades of
+         years!
+  Saw Jack Sheppard, noble stripling, act his wondrous feats
+         again,
+  Snapping Newgate's bars of iron, like an infant's daisy
+         chain.
+
+
+  Might was right, and all the terrors, which had held the
+         world in awe,
+  Were despised, and prigging prospered, spite of Laurie,
+         spite of law.
+  In such {108}scenes as these I triumphed, ere my passion's
+         edge was rusted,
+  And my cousin's cold refusal left me very much dis-
+        gusted!
+
+
+  Since, my heart is sere and withered, and I do not care a
+         curse,
+  Whether worse shall be the better, or the better be the
+         worse.
+  Hark! my merry comrades call me, bawling for another
+        jorum;
+  They would mock me in derision, should I thus appear
+        before 'em.
+
+
+  Womankind no more shall vex me, such at least as go
+        arrayed.
+  In the most expensive satins and the newest silk brocade.
+  I'll to Afric, lion-haunted, where the giant forest yields
+  Rarer robes and finer tissue than are sold at Spital-
+        fields.
+
+
+  Or to burst all chains of habit, flinging habit's self
+        aside,
+  I shall walk the tangled jungle in mankind's primeval
+        pride;
+  Feeding on the luscious berries and the rich cassava root,
+  Lots of dates and lots of guavas, clusters of forbidden
+         fruit.
+
+
+  Never comes the trader thither, never o'er the purple
+         main
+  Sounds the oath of British commerce, or the accents of
+        Cockaigne.
+  There, methinks, would be enjoyment, where no envious
+        rule prevents;
+  Sink the steamboats! cuss the railways! rot, O rot the
+         Three per Cents!
+
+
+  There the passions, cramped no longer, shall have space
+         to breathe, my cousin!
+  I will wed some savage woman--nay, I'll wed at least a
+        dozen.
+  There I'll rear my young mulattoes, as no Bond Street
+        brats are reared:
+  They shall dive for alligators, catch the mid goats by the
+         beard--
+
+
+  Whistle to the cockatoos, and mock the hairy-faced
+        baboon,
+  Worship mighty Mumbo Jumbo in the Mountains of the
+        Moon.
+  I myself, in {110}far Timbuctoo, leopard's blood will daily
+         quaff,
+  Ride a tiger-hunting, mounted on a thorough-bred giraffe.
+
+
+  Fiercely shall I shout the war-whoop, as some sullen
+        stream he crosses,
+  Startling from their noonday slumbers iron-bound rhino-
+         ceroses.
+  Fool! again the dream, the fancy! But I know my words
+         are mad,
+  For I hold the grey barbarian lower than the Christian
+        cad.
+
+
+  I the swell--the city dandy! I to seek such horrid
+        places,--
+  I to haunt with squalid negroes, blubber-lips, and monkey-
+         faces!
+  I to wed with Coromantees! I, who managed--very
+        near--
+  To secure theheart and fortune of the widow Shilli-
+        beer!
+
+
+  Stuff and nonsense! let me never fling a single chance
+         away;
+  Maids ere now, I know, have loved me, and another
+        maiden may.
+  'Morning {111}post' ('The Times' won't trust me)
+          help me, as I know you can;
+  I will pen an advertisement,--that's a never-
+         failing plan.
+
+
+[Illustration: 123]
+
+
+  "Wanted--By a bard, in wedlock, some young
+        interesting woman:
+  Looks are not so much an object, if the shiners
+         be forthcoming!
+  "Hymen's chains the advertiser vows shall be
+         but silken fetters;
+  Please address to A. T., Chelsea. N.B.--You
+         must pay the letters."
+  That's the sort of thing to do it. Now I'll go
+         and taste the balmy,--
+  Rest thee with thy yellow nabob, spider-hearted
+         Cousin Amy!
+
+
+[Illustration: 124]
+
+
+
+
+
+
+MY WIFE'S COUSIN
+
+
+  Decked {112}with shoes of blackest polish,
+  And with shirt as white as snow,
+  After matutinal breakfast
+  To my daily desk I go;
+
+
+  First a fond salute bestowing
+  On my Mary's ruby lips,
+  Which, perchance, may be rewarded
+  With a pair of playful nips.
+
+
+  All day long across the ledger
+  Still my patient pen I drive,
+  Thinking what a feast awaits me
+  In my happy home at five;
+
+
+  In my small one-storeyed Eden,
+  Where my wife awaits my coming,
+  And our solitary handmaid
+  Mutton-chops with care is crumbing.
+
+
+  When {113}the clock proclaims my freedom,
+  Then my hat I seize and vanish;
+  Every trouble from my bosom,
+  Every anxious care I banish.
+
+
+  Swiftly brushing o'er the pavement,
+  At a furious pace I go,
+  Till I reach my darling dwelling
+  In the wilds of Pimlico.
+
+
+  "Mary, wife, where art thou, dearest?"
+  Thus I cry, while yet afar;
+  Ah! what scent invades my nostrils?--
+  'Tis the smoke of a cigar!
+
+
+  Instantly into the parlour
+  Like a maniac I haste,
+  And I find a young Life-Guardsman,
+  With his arm round Mary's waist.
+
+
+  And his other hand is playing
+  Most familiarly with hers;
+  And I think my Brussels carpet
+  Somewhat damaged by his spurs.
+
+
+  "Fire and furies! what the blazes?"
+  Thus in frenzied wrath I call;
+  When my spouse her arms upraises,
+  With a most astounding squall.
+
+
+  "Was there ever such a monster,
+  Ever such a wretched wife?
+  Ah! how {114}long must I endure it,
+  How protract this hateful life?
+
+
+  All day long, quite unprotected,
+  Does he leave his wife at home;
+  And she cannot see her cousins,
+  Even when they kindly come!"
+
+
+  Then the young Life-Guardsman, rising,
+  Scarce vouchsafes a single word,
+  But, with look of deadly menace,
+  Claps his hand upon his sword;
+
+
+  And in fear I faintly falter--
+  "This your cousin, then he's mine!
+  Very glad, indeed, to see you,-
+  Won't you stop with us, and dine?"
+
+
+  Won't a ferret suck a rabbit?--
+  As a thing of course he stops;
+  And with most voracious swallow
+  Walks into my mutton-chops.
+
+
+  In the twinkling of a bed-post
+  Is each savoury platter clear,
+  And he shows uncommon science
+  In his estimate of beer.
+
+
+  Half-and-half goes down before him,
+  Gurgling from the pewter pot;
+  And he {115}moves a counter motion
+  For a glass of something hot.
+
+
+  Neither chops nor beer I grudge him,
+  Nor a moderate share of goes;
+  But I know not why he's always
+  Treading upon Mary's toes.
+
+
+  Evermore, when, home returning,
+  From the counting-house I come,
+  Do I find the young Life-Guardsman
+  Smoking pipes and drinking rum.
+
+
+  Evermore he stays to dinner,
+  Evermore devours my meal;
+  For I have a wholesome horror
+  Both of powder and of steel.
+
+
+  Yet I know he's Mary's cousin,
+  For my only son and heir
+  Much resembles that young Guardsman,
+  "With the self-same curly hair;
+
+
+  But I wish he would not always
+  Spoil my carpet with his spurs;
+  And I'd rather see his fingers
+  In the fire, than touching hers.
+
+
+[Illustration: 128]
+
+
+
+
+
+
+THE QUEEN IN FRANCE
+
+
+         An Ancient Scottish Ballad.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+PART I.
+
+
+  It {116}fell upon the August month,
+  When landsmen bide at hame,
+  That our gude Queen went out to sail
+  Upon the saut-sea faem.
+
+
+  And she has ta'en the silk and gowd,
+  The like was never seen;
+  And she {117}has ta'en the Prince Albert,
+  And the bauld Lord Abërdeen.
+
+
+  "Ye'se bide at hame, Lord Wellington:
+  Ye daurna gang wi' me:
+  For ye hae been ance in the land o' France,
+  And that's enench for ye.
+
+
+  "Ye'se bide at hame, Sir Robert Peel,
+  To gather the red and the white monie;
+  And see that my men dinna eat me up
+  At Windsor wi' their gluttonie."
+
+
+  They hadna sailed a league, a league,--
+  A league, but barely twa,
+  When the lift grew dark, and the waves grew wan,
+  And the wind began to blaw.
+
+
+  "O weel weel may the waters rise,
+  In welcome o' their Queen;
+  What gars ye look sae white, Albert?
+  What makes your ee sae green?"
+
+
+  "My heart is sick, my heid is sair:
+  "Gie me a glass o' the gude brandie:
+  To set my foot on the braid green sward,
+  I'd gie the half o' my yearly fee.
+
+
+  "It's {118}sweet to hunt the sprightly hare
+  On the bonny slopes o' Windsor lea,
+  But O, it's ill to bear the thud
+  And pitching o' the saut saut sea!"
+
+
+  And aye they sailed, and aye they sailed,
+  Till England sank behind,
+  And over to the coast of France
+  They drave before the wind.
+
+
+  Then up and spak the King o' France,
+  Was birling at the wine;
+  "O wha may be the gay ladye,
+  That owns that ship sae fine?
+
+
+  "And wha may be that bonny lad,
+  That looks sae pale and wan?
+  I'll wad my lands o' Picardie,
+  That he's nae Englishman."
+
+
+  Then up and spak an auld French lord,
+  Was sitting beneath his knee,
+  "It is the Queen o' braid England
+  That's come across the sea."
+
+
+  "And O an it be England's Queen,
+  She's welcome here the day;
+  I'd rather hae her for a friend
+  Than for a deadly fae.
+
+
+  "Gae, {119}kill the eerock in the yard,
+  The auld sow in the sty,
+  And bake for her the brockit calf,
+  But and the puddock-pie!"
+
+
+  And he has gane until the ship,
+  As soon as it drew near,
+  And he has ta'en her by the hand--
+  "Ye're kindly welcome here!"
+
+
+  And syne he kissed her on ae cheek,
+  And syne upon the ither;
+  And he ca'd her his sister dear,
+  And she ca'd him her brither.
+
+
+  "Light doun, light doun now, ladye mine,
+  Light doun upon the shore;
+  Nae English king has trodden here
+  This thousand years and more."
+
+
+  "And gin I lighted on your land,
+  As light fu' weel I may,
+  O am I free to feast wi' you,
+  And free to come and gae?"
+
+
+  And he has sworn by the Haly Rood,
+  And the black stane o' Dumblane,
+  That she is free to come and gae
+  Till twenty days are gane.
+
+
+  "I've {120}lippened to a Frenchman's aith,"
+  Said gude Lord Aberdeen;
+  "But I'll never lippen to it again
+  Sae lang's the grass is green.
+
+
+  "Yet gae your ways, my sovereign liege,
+  Sin' better mayna be;
+  The wee bit bairns are safe at hame,
+  By the blessing o' Marie!"
+
+
+  Then doun she lighted frae the ship,
+  She lighted safe and sound;
+  And glad was our good Prince Albert
+  To step upon the ground.
+
+
+  "Is that your Queen, my Lord," she said,
+  "That auld and buirdly dame?
+  I see the crown upon her head;
+  But I dinna ken her name."
+
+
+  And she has kissed the Frenchman's Queen,
+  And eke her daughters three,
+  And gien her hand to the young Princess,
+  That louted upon the knee.
+
+
+  And she has gane to the proud castle,
+  That's biggit beside the sea:
+  But aye, when she thought o' the bairns at hame,
+  The tear was in her ee.
+
+
+  She {121}gied the King the Cheshire cheese,
+  But and the porter fine;
+  And he gied her the puddock-pies,
+  But and the blude-red wine.
+
+
+  Then up and spak the dourest Prince,
+  An admiral was he;
+  "Let's keep the Queen o' England here,
+  Sin' better mayna be!
+
+
+  "O mony is the dainty king
+  That we hae trappit here;
+  And mony is the English yerl
+  That's in our dungeons drear!"
+
+
+  "You lee, you lee, ye graceless loon,
+  Sae loud's I hear ye lee!
+  There never yet was Englishman
+  That came to skaith by me.
+
+
+  "Gae oot, gae oot, ye fause traitour!
+  Gae oot until the street;
+  It's shame that Kings and Queens should sit
+  Wi' sic a knave at meat!"
+
+
+  Then up and raise the young French lord,
+  In wrath and hie disdain--
+  "O ye may sit, and ye may eat
+  Your puddock-pies alane!
+
+
+  "But {122}were I in my ain gude ship,
+  And sailing wi' the wind,
+  And did I meet wi' auld Napier,
+  I'd tell him o' my mind."
+
+
+  O then the Queen leuch loud and lang,
+  And her colour went and came;
+  "Gin ye meet wi' Charlie on the sea,
+  Ye'd wish yersel at hame!"
+
+
+  And aye they birlit at the wine,
+  And drank richt merrilie,
+  Till the auld cock crawed in the castle-yard,
+  And the abbey bell struck three.
+
+
+  The Queen she gaed until her bed,
+  And Prince Albert likewise;
+  And the last word that gay ladye said
+  Was--"O thae puddock-pies!"
+
+
+
+
+
+
+PART II.
+
+
+  The sun was high within the lift
+  Afore the French King raise;
+  And syne he louped intil his sark,
+  And warslit on his claes.
+
+
+  "Gae {123}up, gae up, my little foot-page,
+  Gae up until the toun;
+  And gin ye meet wi' the auld harper,
+  Be sure ye bring him doun."
+
+
+  And he has met wi' the auld harper;
+  O but his een were reid;
+  And the bizzing o' a swarm o' bees
+  Was singing in his heid.
+
+
+  "Alack! alack!" the harper said,
+  "That this should e'er hae been!
+  I daurna gang before my liege,
+  For I was fou yestreen."
+
+
+  "It's ye maun come, ye auld harper:
+  Ye dauma tarry lang;
+  The King is just dementit-like
+  For wanting o' a sang."
+
+
+  And when he came to the King's chamber,
+  He loutit on his knee,
+  "O what may be your gracious will
+  Wi' an auld frail man like me?"
+
+
+  "I want a sang, harper," he said,
+  "I want a sang richt speedilie;
+  And gin ye dinna make a sang,
+  I'll hang ye up on the gallows tree."
+
+
+  "I canna {124}do't, my liege," he said,
+  "Hae mercy on my auld grey hair!
+  But gin that I had got the words,
+  I think that I might mak the air."
+
+
+  "And wha's to mak the words, fause loon,
+  When minstrels we have barely twa;
+  And Lamartine is in Paris toun,
+  And Victor Hugo far awa?"
+
+
+  "The diel may gang for Lamartine,
+  And flee away wi' auld Hugo,
+  For a better minstrel than them baith
+  Within this very toun I know.
+
+
+  "O kens my liege the gude Walter,
+  At hame they ca' him Bon Gaultier?
+  He'll rhyme ony day wi' True Thomas,
+  And he is in the castle here."
+
+
+  The French King first he lauchit loud,
+  And syne did he begin to sing;
+  "My een are auld, and my heart is cauld,
+  Or I suld hae known the minstrels' King.
+
+
+  "Gae take to him this ring o' gowd,
+  And this mantle o' the silk sae fine,
+  And bid him mak a maister sang
+  For his sovereign ladye's sake and mine."
+
+
+  "I winna {125}take the gowden ring,
+  Nor yet the mantle fine:
+  But I'll mak the sang for my ladye's sake,
+  And for a cup of wine."
+
+
+  The Queen was sitting at the cards,
+  The King ahint her back;
+  And aye she dealed the red honours,
+  And aye she dealed the black;
+
+
+  And syne unto the dourest Prince
+  She spak richt courteouslie;--
+  "Now will ye play, Lord Admiral,
+  Now will ye play wi' me?"
+
+
+  The dourest Prince he bit his lip,
+  And his brow was black as glaur;
+  "The only game that e'er I play
+  Is the bluidy game o' war!"
+
+
+  "And gin ye play at that, young man,
+  It weel may cost ye sair;
+  Ye'd better stick to the game at cards,
+  For you'll win nae honours there!"
+
+
+  The King he leuch, and the Queen she leuch,
+  Till the tears ran blithely doon;
+  But the Admiral he raved and swore,
+  Till they kicked him frae the room.
+
+
+  The {126}harper came, and the harper sang,
+  And O but they were fain;
+  For when he had sung the gude sang twice,
+  They called for it again.
+
+
+  It was the sang o' the Field o' Gowd,
+  In the days of anld langsyne;
+  When bauld King Henry crossed the seas,
+  Wi' his brither King to dine.
+
+
+  And aye he harped, and aye he carped,
+  Till up the Queen she sprang--
+  "I'll wad a County Palatine,
+  Gude Walter made that sang."
+
+
+  Three days had come, three days had gane,
+  The fourth began to fa',
+  When our gude Queen to the Frenchman said,
+  "It's time I was awa!
+
+
+  "O, bonny are the fields o' France,
+  And saftly draps the rain;
+  But my barnies are in Windsor Tower,
+  And greeting a' their lane.
+
+
+  "Now ye maun come to me, Sir King,
+  As I have come to ye;
+  And a benison upon your heid
+  For a' your courtesie!
+
+
+  "Ye maun {127}come, and bring your ladye fere;
+  Ye sail na say me no;
+  And ye'se mind, we have aye a bed to spare
+  For that gawsy chield Guizot."
+
+
+  Now he has ta'en her lily-white hand,
+  And put it to his lip,
+  And he has ta'en her to the strand,
+  And left her in her ship.
+
+
+  "Will ye come back, sweet bird," he cried,
+  "Will ye come kindly here,
+  When the lift is blue, and the lavrocks sing,
+  In the spring-time o' the year?"
+
+
+  "It's I would blithely come, my Lord,
+  To see ye in the spring;
+  It's I would blithely venture back,
+  But for ae little thing.
+
+
+  "It isna that the winds are rude,
+  Or that the waters rise,
+  But I loe the roasted beef at hame,
+  And no thae puddock-pies!"
+
+
+[Illustration: 140]
+
+
+
+
+
+
+THE MASSACRE OF MACPHERSON
+
+
+          [From the Gaelic.]
+
+
+  I.
+
+
+  Fhairshon {128}swore a feud
+  Against the elan M'Tavish;
+  Marched into their land
+  To murder and to rafish;
+  For he did resolve
+  To extirpate the vipers,
+  With four-and-twenty men
+  And five-and-thirty pipers.
+
+
+  II.
+
+
+  But {129}when he had gone
+  Half-way down Strath Canaan,
+  Of his fighting tail
+  Just three were remainin'.
+  They were all he had,
+  To back him in ta battle;
+  All the rest had gone
+  Olf, to drive ta cattle.
+
+
+  III.
+
+
+  "Fery coot!" cried Fhairshon,
+  "So my clan disgraced is;
+  Lads, we'll need to fight,
+  Pefore we touch the peasties.
+  Here's Mhic-Mac-Methusaleh
+  Coming wi' his fassals,
+  Gillies seventy-three,
+  And sixty Dhuiné wassails!"
+
+
+  IV.
+
+
+  "Coot tay to you, sir;
+  Are you not ta Fhairshon?
+  Was you coming here
+  To fisit any person?
+  You {130}are a plackguard, sir!
+  It is now six hundred
+  Coot long years, and more,
+  Since my glen was plundered."
+
+
+  V.
+
+
+  "Fat is tat you say?
+  Dare you cock your peaver?
+  I will teach you, sir,
+  Fat is coot pehaviour!
+  You shall not exist
+  For another day more;
+  I will shoot you, sir,
+  Or stap you with my claymore!"
+
+
+  VI.
+
+
+  "I am fery glad
+  To learn what you mention,
+  Since I can prevent
+  Any such intention."
+  So Mhic-Mac-Methusaleh
+  Gave some warlike howls,
+  Trew his skhian-dhu,
+  An' stuck it in his powels.
+
+
+  VII.
+
+
+  In {131}this fery way
+  Tied ta faliant Fhairshon,
+  Who was always thought
+  A superior person.
+  Fhairshon had a son,
+  Who married Noah's daughter,
+  And nearly spoiled ta Flood,
+  By trinking up ta water:
+
+
+  VIII.
+
+
+  Which he would have done,
+  I at least believe it,
+  Had ta mixture peen
+  Only half Glenlivet.
+  This is all my tale:
+  Sirs, I hope 'tis new t'ye!
+  Here's your fery good healths,
+  And tamn ta whusky duty!
+
+
+[Illustration: 144]
+
+
+
+
+
+
+THE YOUNG STOCKBROKER'S BRIDE
+
+
+  "O swiftly {132}speed the gallant bark!--
+  I say, you mind my luggage, porter!
+  I do not heed yon storm-cloud dark,
+  I go to wed old Jenkin's daughter.
+  I go to claim my own Mariar,
+  The fairest flower that blooms in Harwich;
+  My panting bosom is on fire,
+  And all is ready for the marriage."
+
+
+  Thus {133}spoke young Mivins, as he stepped
+  On hoard the "Firefly," Harwich packet;
+  The bell rang out, the paddles swept
+  Plish-plashing round with noisy racket.
+  The louring clouds young Mivins saw,
+  But fear, he felt, was only folly;
+  And so he smoked a fresh cigar,
+  Then fell to whistling "Nix my dolly!"
+
+
+  The wind it roared; the packet's hulk
+  Rocked with a most unpleasant motion;
+  Young Mivins leant him o'er a bulk,
+  And poured his sorrows to the ocean.
+  Tints--blue and yellow--signs of woe--
+  Flushed, rainbow like, his noble face in,
+  As suddenly he rushed below,
+  Crying, "Steward, steward, bring a basin!"
+
+
+  On sped the bark: the howling storm
+  The funnel's tapering smoke did blow far;
+  Unmoved, young Mivins' lifeless form
+  Was stretched upon a haircloth sofar.
+  All night he moaned, the steamer groaned,
+  And he was hourly getting fainter;
+  When it came bump against the pier,
+  And there was fastened by the painter.
+  Young Mivins {134}rose, arranged his clothes,
+  Caught wildly at his small portmanteau;
+  He was unfit to lie or sit,
+  And found it difficult to stand, too.
+
+
+  He sought the deck, he sought the shore,
+  He sought the lady's house like winking,
+  And asked, low tapping at the door,
+  "Is this the house of Mr Jenkin?"
+  A short man came--he told his name--
+  Mivins was short--he cut him shorter,
+  For in a fury he exclaimed,
+  "Are you the man as vants my darter?
+  Yot kim'd on you, last night, young sqvire?"
+  "It was the steamer, rot and scuttle her!"
+  "Mayhap it vos, but our Mariar
+  Yalked off last night with Bill the butler."
+
+
+  "And so you've kim'd a post too late."
+  "It was the packet, sir, miscarried!"
+  "Vy, does you think a gal can vait
+  As sets 'er 'art on being married?
+  Last night she vowed she'd be a bride,
+  And 'ave a spouse for vuss or better:
+  So Bill struck in; the knot vos tied,
+  And now I vishes you may get her!"
+
+
+  Young {135}Mivins turned him from the spot,
+  Bewildered with the dreadful stroke, her
+  Perfidy came like a shot--
+  He was a thunder-struck stockbroker.
+  "A curse on steam and steamers too!
+  By their delays I have been undone!"
+  He cried, as, looking very blue,
+  He rode a bachelor to London.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+THE LAUREATES' TOURNEY
+
+
+By the Hon. T- B----M'A-.
+
+
+[This {136}and the five following Poems were among those forwarded to
+the Home Secretary, by "the unsuccessful competitors for the
+Laureateship, on its becoming vacant by the death of Southey. How they
+came into our possession is a matter between Sir James Graham and
+ourselves. The result of the contest could never have been doubtful,
+least of all to the great poet who then succeeded to the bays. His own
+sonnet on the subject is full of the serene consciousness of
+superiority, which does not even admit the idea of rivalry, far less of
+defeat.
+
+
+     Bays! which in former days have graced the brow
+     Of some, who lived and loved, and sang and died;
+     Leaves that were gathered on the pleasant side
+     Of old Parnassus from Apollo's bough;
+     With palpitating hand I take ye now,
+     Since worthier minstrel there is none beside,
+     And with a thrill of song half deified,
+     I bind them proudly on my locks of snow.
+     There shall they bide, till he who follows next,
+     Of whom I cannot even guess the name,
+     Shall by Court favour, or some vain pretext
+     Of fancied merit, desecrate the same,--
+     And think, perchance, he wears them quite as well
+     As the sole bard who sang of Peter Bell!]
+
+
+
+
+
+
+FYTTE THE FIRST.
+
+
+  "What news, what news, thou pilgrim grey, what news
+         from southern land?
+  How fare the bold Conservatives, how is it with Ferrand?
+  How does the little Prince of Wales--how looks our lady
+         Queen?
+
+
+  And tell me, is the monthly nurse once more at Windsor
+         seen?"
+  "I bring {137}no tidings from the Court, nor from St Stephen's
+         hall;
+  I've heard the thundering tramp of horse, and the trum-
+         pet's battle-call;
+  And these old eyes have seen a fight, which England ne'er
+         hath seen,
+  Since fell King Richard sobbed his soul through blood on
+         Bosworth Green.
+
+
+  'He's dead, he's dead, the Laureate's dead!' 'Twas thus
+         the cry began,
+  And straightway every garret-roof gave up its minstrel
+         man;
+  From Grub Street, and from Houndsditch, and from Far-
+         ringdon Within,
+  The poets all towards Whitehall poured on with eldritch
+         din.
+
+
+  Loud yelled they for Sir James the Graham: but sore
+        afraid was he;
+  A hardy knight were he that might face such a minstrelsie.
+  'Now by St Giles of Netherby, my patron Saint, I
+        swear,
+  I'd rather by a thousand crowns Lord Palmerston were
+        here!--
+
+
+  'What is't {138}ye seek, ye rebel knaves--what make you
+         there beneath?'
+  'The bays, the bays! we want the bays! we seek the
+        laureate wreath!
+  We seek the butt of generous wine that cheers the sons
+         of song;
+  Choose thou among us all, Sir Knight--we may not tarry
+         long!'
+
+
+  Loud laughed the good Sir James in scorn--'Rare jest it
+         were, I think,
+  But one poor butt of Xeres, and a thousand rogues to
+        drink!
+  An' if it flowed with wine or beer, 'tis easy to be
+        seen,
+  That dry within the hour would be the well of Hippo-
+        crene.
+
+
+  'Tell me, if on Parnassus' heights there grow a thousand
+         sheaves:
+  Or has Apollo's laurel bush yet borne ten hundred
+        leaves?
+  Or if so many leaves were there, how long would they
+        sustain
+  The ravage and the glutton bite of such a locust train?
+
+
+  'No! get {139}ye "back into your dens, take counsel for the
+          night,
+  And choose me out two champions to meet in deadly
+        fight;
+  To-morrow's dawn shall see the lists marked out in Spital-
+         fields,
+  And he who wins shall have the hays, and he shall die
+        who yields!'
+
+
+  Down went the window with a crash,--in silence and in
+        fear
+  Each raggèd bard looked anxiously upon his neighbour
+        near;
+  Then up and spake young Tennyson--'Who's here that
+        fears for death?
+  'Twere better one of us should die, than England lose the
+         wreath!
+
+
+  'Let's cast the lots among us now, which two shall fight
+         to-morrow;--
+  For armour bright we'll club our mite, and horses we can
+         borrow;
+  'Twere shame that bards of France should sneer, and
+        German _Dichters_ too,
+  If none of British song might dare a deed of _derring-do!_'
+
+
+  'The lists {140}of Love are mine,' said Moore, 'and not the
+         lists of Mars
+  Said Hunt, 'I seek the jars of wine, but shun the com-
+        bat's jars!'
+  'I'm old,' quoth Samuel Rogers.--'Faith, says Camp-
+        bell, 'so am I!'
+  'And I'm in holy orders, sir!' quoth Tom of Ingoldsby.
+
+
+  'Now out upon ye, craven loons!' cried Moxon, good at
+        need,--
+  'Bide, if ye will, secure at home, and sleep while others
+         bleed.
+  I second Alfred's motion, boys,--let's try the chance of
+         lot;
+  And monks shall sing, and bells shall ring, for him that
+         goes to pot.'
+
+
+  Eight hundred minstrels slunk away--two hundred
+        stayed to draw,--
+  Now Heaven protect the daring wight that pulls the
+        longest straw!
+  'Tis done! 'tis done! And who hath won? Keep silence
+         one and all,--
+  The first is William Wordsworth hight, the second Ned
+        Fitzball!
+
+
+
+
+
+
+FYTTE THE SECOND.
+
+
+  'Oh, {141}bright and gay hath dawned the day on lordly
+         Spitalfields,--
+  How flash the rays with ardent blaze from polished helms
+         and shields!
+  On either side the chivalry of England throng the green,
+  And in the middle balcony appears our gracious Queen.
+
+
+  With iron fists, to keep the lists, two valiant knights ap-
+         pear,
+  The Marquis Hal of Waterford, and stout Sir Aubrey Vere.
+  'What ho! there, herald, blow the trump! Let's see who
+         comes to claim
+  The butt of golden Xeres, and the Laureate's honoured
+        name!'
+
+
+  That instant dashed into the lists, all armed from head to
+         heel,
+  On courser brown, with vizor down, a warrior sheathed in
+         steel;
+  Then said our Queen--'Was ever seen so stout a knight
+        and tall?
+  His name--his race?'--'An't please your grace, it is the
+         brave Fitzball.
+
+
+  'Oft in {142}the Melodrama line his prowess hath been
+     shown,
+  And well throughout the Surrey side his thirst for blood
+         is known.
+  But see, the other champion comes!'--Then rang the
+        startled air
+  With shouts of 'Wordsworth, Wordsworth, ho! the bard
+        of Kydal's there.'
+
+
+  And lo! upon a little steed, unmeet for such a course,
+  Appeared the honoured veteran; but weak seemed man
+        and horse.
+  Then shook their ears the sapient peers,--'That joust
+        will soon be done:
+  My Lord of Brougham, I'll back Fitzball, and give you
+        two to one!'
+
+
+  'Done,' quoth the Brougham,--'And done with you!'
+         'Now, Minstrels, are you ready?'
+  Exclaimed the Lord of Waterford,--'You'd better both
+        sit steady.
+  Blow, trumpets, blow the note of charge! and forward to'
+         the fight!'
+  'Amen!' said good Sir Aubrey Vere; 'Saint Schism
+        defend the right!'
+
+
+  As {143}sweeps the blast against the mast when blows the
+         furious squall,
+  So started at the trumpet's sound the terrible Fitzball;
+  His lance he bore his breast before,--Saint George protect
+         the just!
+  Or Wordsworth's hoary head must roll along the shame-
+        ful dust!
+
+
+  'Who threw that calthrop? Seize the knave!' Alas!
+        the deed is done;
+  Down went the steed, and o'er his head flew bright
+        Apollo's son.
+  'Undo his helmet! cut the lace! pour water on his
+        head!'
+  'It ain't no use at all, my lord; 'cos vy? the covey's
+         dead!'
+
+
+  Above him stood the Rydal bard--his face was full of
+        woe,
+  'Now there thou liest, stiff and stark, who never feared a
+         foe:
+  A braver knight, or more renowned in tourney and in
+        hall,
+  Ne'er brought the upper gallery down than terrible Fitz-
+         ball!'
+
+
+  They led {144}our Wordsworth to the Queen--she crowned
+        him with the bays,
+  And wished him many happy years, and many quarter-
+        days;
+  And if you'd have the story told by abler lips than
+        mine,
+  You've but to call at Rydal Mount, and taste the
+        Laureate's wine!"
+
+
+[Illustration: 157]
+
+
+
+
+
+
+THE ROYAL BANQUET
+
+
+           By the Hon. G- S- S--
+
+
+  The {145}Queen she kept high festival in Winclsor's lordly
+         hall,
+  And round her sat the gartered knights, and ermined
+        nobles all;
+  There drank the valiant Wellington, there fed the wary
+        Peel,
+  And at the bottom of the board Prince Albert carved the
+         veal.
+
+
+  "What, {146}pantler, ho! remove the cloth! Ho! cellarer,
+         the wine,
+  And bid the royal nurse bring in the hope of Brunswick's
+         line!"
+  Then rose with one tumultuous shout the band of British
+         peers,
+  "God bless her sacred Majesty! Let's see the little
+        dears!"
+
+
+  Now by Saint George, our patron saint, 'twas a touching
+         sight to see
+  That iron warrior gently place the Princess on his
+        knee;
+  To hear him hush her infant fears, and teach her how to
+         gape
+  With rosy mouth expectant for the raisin and the
+        grape!
+
+
+  They passed the wine, the sparkling wine--they filled the
+         goblets up;
+  Even Brougham, the cynic anchorite, smiled blandly on
+         the cup;
+  And Lyndhurst, with a noble thirst, that nothing could
+        appease,
+  Proposed the immortal memory of King William on his
+        knees.
+
+
+  "What {147}want we here, my gracious liege," cried gay Lord
+          Aberdeen,
+  "Save gladsome song and minstrelsy to flow our cups
+         between?
+  I ask not now for Goulburn's voice or Knatchbull's
+         warbling lay,
+  But where's the Poet Laureate to grace our board to-
+         day?"
+
+
+  Loud laughed the Knight of Netherby, and scornfully he
+         cried,
+  "Or art thou mad with wine, Lord Earl, or art thyself
+         beside?
+  Eight hundred Bedlam bards have claimed the Laureate's
+         vacant crown,
+  And now like frantic Bacchanals run wild through London
+         town!"
+
+
+  "Now glory to our gracious Queen!" a voice was heard
+         to cry,
+  And dark Macaulay stood before them all with frenzied
+         eye;
+  "Now glory to our gracious Queen, and all her glorious
+         race,
+  A boon, a boon, my sovran liege! Give me the Laureate's
+         place!
+
+
+  "'Twas I {148}that sang the might of Rome, the glories of
+         Navarre;
+  And who could swell the fame so well of Britain's Isles
+         afar?
+  The hero of a hundred fights------" Then Wellington up
+         sprung,
+  "Ho, silence in the ranks, I say! Sit down and hold
+        your tongue!
+
+
+  "By heaven, thou shalt not twist my name into a jingling
+          lay,
+  Or mimic in thy puny song the thunders of Assaye!
+  'Tis hard that for thy lust of place in peace we cannot
+         dine.
+  Nurse, take her Royal Highness, here! Sir Robert, pass
+         the wine!"
+
+
+  "No Laureate need we at our board!" then spoke the
+        Lord of Vaux;
+  "Here's many a voice to charm the ear with minstrel
+         song, I know.
+  Even I {149}myself------" Then rose the cry--"A song, a
+         song from Brougham!"
+  He sang,--and straightway found himself alone within
+        the room.
+
+
+[Illustration: 161]
+
+
+
+
+
+
+THE BARD OF ERIN'S LAMENT
+
+
+                By T- M-EE, Esq.
+
+
+  Oh, {150}weep for the hours, when the little blind boy
+      Wove round me the spells of his Paphian bower;
+  When I dipped my light wings in the nectar of joy,
+     And soared in the sunshine, the moth of the hour!
+  From beauty to beauty I passed, like the wind;
+     Now fondled the lily, now toyed with the rose;
+  And the fair, that at morn had enchanted my mind,
+     Was forsook for another ere evening's close.
+
+
+  I sighed not for honour, I cared not for fame,
+     While Pleasure sat by me, and Love was my guest;
+  They twined a fresh wreath for each day as it came,
+     And the bosom of Beauty still pillowed my rest:
+  And the harp of my country--neglected it slept--
+     In hall or by greenwood unheard were its songs;
+  From Love's Sybarite dreams I aroused me, and swept
+     Its chords to the tale of her glories and wrongs,
+     but weep{151} for the hour!--Life's summer is past,
+  And the snow of its winter lies cold on my brow;
+     And my soul, as it shrinks from each stroke of the blast,
+  Cannot turn to a fire that glows inwardly now.
+
+
+  No, its ashes are dead--and, alas! Love or Song
+     No charm to Life's lengthening shadows can lend,
+  Like a cup of old wine, rich, mellow, and strong,
+     And a seat by the fire _tête-à-tête_ with a friend.
+
+
+[Illustration: 164]
+
+
+
+
+
+
+THE LAUREATE
+
+
+    By A- T-.
+
+
+  Who {152}would not be
+  The Laureate bold,
+           With his butt of sherry
+           To keep him merry,
+  And nothing to do but to pocket his gold?
+  'Tis I {153}would be the Laureate bold!
+
+
+  When the days are hot, and the sun is strong,
+  I'd lounge in the gateway all the day long,
+  With her Majesty's footmen in crimson and gold.
+  I'd care not a pin for the waiting-lord;
+  But I'd lie on my back on the smooth greensward
+  With a straw in my mouth, and an open vest,
+  And the cool wind blowing upon my breast,
+  And I'd vacantly stare at the clear blue sky,
+  And watch the clouds as listless as I,
+             Lazily, lazily!
+
+
+  And I'd pick the moss and daisies white,
+  And chew their stalks with a nibbling bite;
+  And I'd let my fancies roam abroad
+  In search of a hint for a birthday ode,
+             Crazily, crazily!
+
+
+  Oh, that would be the life for me,
+  With plenty to get and nothing to do,
+  But to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of blue,
+  And whistle all day to the Queen's cockatoo,
+           Trance-somely, trance-somely!
+
+
+  Then the chambermaids, that clean the rooms,
+  Would come to the windows and rest on their brooms,
+  With their saucy caps and their crisped hair,
+  And they'd toss their heads in the fragrant air,
+  And say {154}to each other--"Just look down there,
+  At the nice young man, so tidy and small,
+  Who is paid for writing on nothing at all,
+          Handsomely, handsomely!"
+
+
+  They would pelt me with matches and sweet pastilles,
+  And crumpled-up halls of the royal hills,
+  Giggling and laughing, and screaming with fun,
+  As they'd see me start, with a leap and a run,
+  From the broad of my back to the points of my toes,
+  When a pellet of paper hit my nose,
+          Teasingly, sneezingly.
+
+
+  Then I'd fling them bunches of garden flowers,
+  And hyacinths plucked from the Castle bowers;
+  And I'd challenge them all to come down to me,
+  And I'd kiss them all till they kissèd me,
+         Laughingly, laughingly.
+
+
+  Oh, would not that be a merry life,
+  Apart from care and apart from strife,
+  With the Laureate's wine, and the Laureate's pay,
+  And no deductions at quarter-day?
+  Oh, that would be the post for me!
+  With {155}plenty to get and nothing to do,
+  But to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of blue,
+  And whistle a tune to the Queen's cockatoo,
+  And scribble of verses remarkably few,
+  And at evening empty a bottle or two,
+          Quaffingly, quaffingly!
+
+
+               'Tis I would be
+  The Laureate bold,
+             With my butt of sherry
+             To keep me merry,
+  And nothing to do but to pocket my gold!
+
+
+A MIDNIGHT MEDITAION
+
+
+                 By Sir E- B- L-.
+
+
+  Fill me {156}once more the foaming pewter up!
+      Another hoard of oysters, ladye mine!
+  To-night Lucullus with himself shall sup.
+
+
+  These Mute inglorious Miltons are divine!
+      And as I here in slippered ease recline,
+  Quaffing of Perkins's Entire my fill,
+      I sigh not for the lymph of Aganippe's rill.
+
+
+  A nobler inspiration fires my brain,
+      Caught from Old England's fine time-hallowed drink;
+  I snatch the pot again and yet again,
+      And as the foaming fluids shrink and shrink,
+      Fill me once more, I say, up to the brink!
+
+
+  This makes strong hearts--strong heads attest its charm--
+  This nerves the might that sleeps in Britain's brawny arm!
+
+
+  But these remarks are neither here nor there.
+      Where was I? Oh, I see--old Southey's dead!
+  They'll want some bard to fill the vacant chair,
+      And drain the annual butt--and oh, what head
+      More fit with laurel to be garlanded
+  Than {157}this, which, curled in many a fragrant coil,
+  Breathes of Castalia's streams, and best Macassar oil?
+
+
+  I know a grace is seated on my brow,
+  Like young Apollo's with his golden beams--
+  There should Apollo's bays be budding now:--
+  And in my flashing eyes the radiance beams
+  That marks the poet in his waking dreams,
+  When, as his fancies cluster thick and thicker,
+  He feels the trance divine of poesy and liquor.
+
+
+  They throng around me now, those things of air,
+  That from my fancy took their being's stamp:
+  There Pelham sits and twirls his glossy hair,
+  There Clifford leads his pals upon the tramp;
+  There pale Zanoni, bending o'er his lamp,
+  Roams through the starry wilderness of thought,
+  Where all is everything, and everything is nought.
+
+
+  Yes, I am he who sang how Aram won
+  The gentle ear of pensive Madeline!
+  How love and murder hand in hand may run,
+  Cemented by philosophy serene,
+  And kisses bless the spot where gore has been!
+  Who {158}breathed the melting sentiment of crime,
+  And for the assassin waked a sympathy sublime!
+
+
+  Yes, I am he, who on the novel shed
+      Obscure philosophy's enchanting light!
+  Until the public, 'wildered as they read,
+      Believed they saw that which was not in sight--
+      Of course 'twas not for me to set them right;
+  For in my nether heart convinced I am,
+  Philosophy's as good as any other bam.
+
+
+  Novels three-volumed I shall write no more--
+      Somehow or other now they will not sell;
+  And to invent new passions is a bore--
+      I find the Magazines pay quite as well.
+      Translating's simple, too, as I can tell,
+  Who've hawked at Schiller on his lyric throne,
+  And given the astonished bard a meaning all my own.
+
+
+  Moore, Campbell, Wordsworth, their best days are grassed:
+      Battered and broken are their early lyres,
+  Rogers, a pleasant memory of the past,
+      Warmed his young hands at Smithfield's martyr fires,
+      And, worth a plum, nor bays nor butt desires.
+  But these are tilings would suit me to the letter,
+  For though the Stout is good, old Sherry's greatly better.
+  A fico {159}for your small poetic ravers,
+      Your Hunts, your Tennysons, your Milnes, and these!
+  Shall they compete with him who wrote 'Maltravers,'
+  Prologue to 'Alice or the Mysteries'?
+  No! Even now my glance prophetic sees
+  My own high brow girt with the bays about.
+
+
+  What ho! within there, ho! another pint of Stout!
+
+
+[Illustration: 171]
+
+
+
+
+
+
+MONTGOMERY, A POEM.
+
+
+  Like {162}one who, waking from a troublous dream,
+  Pursues with force his meditative theme;
+  Calm as the ocean in its halcyon still,
+  Calm as the sunlight sleeping on the hill;
+
+
+  Calm as at Ephesus great Paul was seen
+  To rend his robes in agonies serene;
+  Calm as the love that radiant Luther bore
+  To all that lived behind him and before;
+
+
+  Calm as meek Calvin, when, with holy smile,
+  He sang the mass around Servetus' pile,--
+  So once again I snatch this harp of mine,
+  To breathe rich incense from a mystic shrine.
+
+
+  Not now to whisper to the ambient air
+  The sounds of Satan's Universal Prayer;
+  Not now to sing, in sweet domestic strife
+  That woman reigns the Angel of our life;
+
+
+  But to proclaim the wish, with pious art,
+  Which thrills through Britain's universal heart,--
+  That on this brow, with native honours graced,
+  The Laureate's chaplet should at length be placed.
+
+
+  Fear {161}not, ye maids, who love to hear me speak;
+  Let no desponding tears bedim your cheek!
+  No gust of envy, no malicious scorn,
+  Hath this poor heart of mine with frenzy torn.
+
+
+  There are who move so far above the great,
+  Their very look disarms the glance of hate;
+  Their thoughts, more rich than emerald or gold,
+  Enwrap them like the prophet's mantle's fold.
+
+
+  Fear not for me, nor think that this our age,
+  Blind though it be, hath yet no Archimage.
+  I, who have bathed in bright Castalia's tide,
+  By classic Isis and more classic Clyde;
+
+
+  I, who have handled, in my lofty strain,
+  All things divine, and many things profane;
+  I, who have trod where seraphs fear to tread;
+  I, who on mount-no, "honey-dew" have fed;
+
+
+  I, who undaunted broke the mystic seal,
+  And left no page for prophets to reveal;
+  I, who in shade portentous Dante threw;
+  I, who have done what Milton dared not do,--
+
+
+  I fear no rival for the vacant throne;
+  No mortal thunder shall eclipse my own!
+  Let dark Macaulay chant his Roman lays,
+  Let Monckton Milnes go maunder for the bays,
+
+
+  Let Simmons call on great Napoleon's shade,
+  Let Lytton Bulwer seek his Aram's aid,
+  Let {162}Wordsworth, ask for help from Peter Bell,
+  Let Campbell carol Copenhagen's knell,
+
+
+  Let Delta warble through his Delphic groves,
+  Let Elliott shout for pork and penny loaves,--
+  I care not, I! resolved to stand or fall;
+  One down, another on, I'll smash them all!
+
+
+  Back, ye profane! this hand alone hath power
+  To pluck the laurel from its sacred bower;
+  This brow alone is privileged to wear
+  The ancient wreath o'er hyacinthine hair;
+
+
+  These lips alone may quaff the sparkling wine,
+  And make its mortal juice once more divine.
+  Back, ye profane! And thou, fair Queen, rejoice:
+  A nation's praise shall consecrate thy choice.
+
+
+  Thus, then, I kneel where Spenser knelt before,
+  On the same spot, perchance, of Windsor's floor;
+  And take, while awe-struck millions round me stand,
+  The hallowed wreath from great Victoria's hand.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+THE DEATH OF SPACE
+
+
+[Why {163}has Satan's own Laureate never given to the world his
+marvellous threnody on the "Death of Space"? Who knows where the bays
+might have fallen, had he forwarded that mystic manuscript to the Home
+Office? If un-wonted modesty withholds it from the public eye, the
+public will pardon the boldness that tears from blushing obscurity the
+following fragments of this unique poem.]
+
+
+  Eternity shall raise her funeral-pile
+  In the vast dungeon of the extinguished sky,
+  And, clothed in dim barbaric splendour, smile,
+  And murmur shouts of elegiac joy.
+
+
+  While those that dwell beyond the realms of space,
+  And those that people all that dreary void,
+  When old Time's endless heir hath run his race,
+  Shall live for aye, enjoying and enjoyed.
+
+
+  And 'mid the agony of unsullied bliss,
+  Her Demogorgon's doom shall Sin bewail,
+  The undying serpent at the spheres shall hiss,
+  And lash the empyrean with his tail.
+
+
+  And {164}Hell, inflated with supernal wrath,
+  Shall open wide her thunder-bolted jaws,
+  And shout into the dull cold ear of Death,
+  That he must pay his debt to Nature's laws.
+
+
+  And when the King of Terrors breathes his last,
+  Infinity shall creep into her shell,
+  Cause and effect shall from their thrones be cast,
+  And end their strife with suicidal yell:
+
+
+  While from their ashes, burnt with pomp of kings,
+  'Mid incense floating to the evanished skies,
+  Nonentity, on circumambient wings,
+  An everlasting Phoenix shall arise.
+
+
+[Illustration: 177]
+
+
+
+
+
+
+LITTLE JOHN AND THE RED FRIAR, A LAY OF SHERWOOD.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+FYTTE THE FIRST.
+
+
+  The {165}deer may leap within the glade;
+  The fawns may follow free--
+  For Robin is dead, and his bones are laid
+  Beneath the greenwood tree.
+
+
+  And {166}broken are his merry, merry men,
+  That goodly companie:
+  There's some have ta'en the northern road
+  With Jem of Netherbee.
+
+
+  The best and bravest of the band
+  With Derby Ned are gone;
+  But Earlie Gray and Charlie Wood,
+  They stayed with Little John.
+
+
+  Now Little John was an outlaw proud,
+  A prouder ye never saw;
+  Through Nottingham and Leicester shires
+  He thought his word, was law,
+
+
+  And he strutted through the greenwood wide,
+  Like a pestilent jackdaw.
+  He swore that none, but with leave of him,
+  Should set foot on the turf so free:
+
+
+  And he thought to spread his cutter's rule,
+  All over the south countrie.
+  "There's never a knave in the land," he said,
+  "But shall pay his toll to me!"
+
+
+  And Charlie Wood was a taxman good
+  As ever stepped the ground,
+  He levied mail, like a sturdy thief,
+  From all the yeomen round.
+
+
+  "Nay, stand!" quoth he, "thou shalt pay to me
+  Seven pence from every pound!"
+
+
+  Now word has come to Little John,
+  As he lay upon the grass,
+  That a Friar red was in merry Sherwood
+  Without his leave to pass.
+
+
+  "Come hither, come hither, my little foot-page!
+  Ben Hawes, come tell to me,
+  What manner of man is this burly frere
+  Who walks the woods so free?"
+
+
+  "My master good!" the little page said,
+  "His name I wot not well,
+  But he wears on his head a hat so red,
+  With a monstrous scallop-shell.
+
+
+  "He says he is Prior of Copmanshurst,
+  And Bishop of London town,
+  And he comes with a rope from our father the Pope,
+  To put the outlaws down.
+
+
+  "I saw {168}him ride but yester-tide,
+  With his jolly chaplains three;
+  And he swears that he has an open pass
+  From Jem of Netherbee!"
+
+
+  Little John has ta'en an arrow so broad,
+  And broken it o'er his knee;
+  "Now may I never strike doe again,
+  But this wrong avenged shall be!
+
+
+  "And has he dared, this greasy frere,
+  To trespass in my bound,
+  Nor asked for leave from Little John
+  To range with hawk and hound?
+
+
+  "And has he dared to take a pass
+  From Jem of Netherbee,
+  Forgetting that the Sherwood shaws
+  Pertain of right to me?
+
+
+  "O were he but a simple man,
+  And not a slip-shod frere!
+  I'd hang him up by his own waist-rope
+  Above yon tangled brere.
+
+
+  "O did {169}he come alone from Jem,
+  And not from our father the Pope,
+  I'd bring him in to Copmanshurst,
+  With the noose of a hempen rope!
+
+
+  "But since he has come from our father the Pope,
+  And sailed across the sea,
+  And since he has power to bind and loose,
+  His life is safe for me;
+  But a heavy penance he shall do
+  Beneath the greenwood tree!"
+
+
+  "O tarry yet!" quoth Charlie Wood.
+  "O tarry, master mine!
+  It's ill to shear a yearling hog,
+  Or twist the wool of swine!
+
+
+  "It's ill to make a bonny silk purse
+  From the ear of a bristly boar;
+  It's ill to provoke a shaveling's curse,
+  When the way lies him before.
+
+
+  "I've walked the forest for twenty years,
+  In wet weather and dry,
+  And {170}never stopped a good fellowe,
+  "Who had no coin to buy.
+
+
+  "What boots it to search a beggarman's bags,
+  When no silver groat he has?
+  So, master mine, I rede you well,
+  E'en let the Friar pass!"
+
+
+  "Now cease thy prate," quoth Little John,
+  "Thou japest but in vain;
+  An he have not a groat within his pouch,
+  We may find a silver chain.
+
+
+  "But were he as bare as a new-flayed buck,
+  As truly he may be,
+  He shall not tread the Sherwood shaws
+  Without the leave of me!"
+
+
+  Little John has taken his arrows and bow,
+  His sword and buckler strong,
+  And lifted up his quarter-staff,
+  Was full three cloth yards long.
+
+
+  And he has left his merry men
+  At the trysting-tree behind,
+  And {171}gone into the gay greenwood,
+  This burly frere to find.
+
+
+  O'er holt and hill, through brake and brere,
+  He took his way alone--
+  Now, Lordlings, list and you shall hear
+  This geste of Little John.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+FYTTE THE SECOND-
+
+
+  'Tis merry, 'tis merry in gay greenwood,
+      When the little birds are singing,
+  When the buck is belling in the fern,
+      And the hare from the thicket springing!
+
+
+  'Tis merry to hear the waters clear,
+      As they splash in the pebbly fall;
+  And the ouzel whistling to his mate,
+      As he lights on the stones so small.
+
+
+  But small pleasaunce took Little John
+     In all he heard and saw;
+  Till he reached the cave of a hermit old
+      Who wonned within the shaw.
+
+
+  "_Ora pro nobis!_" quoth {172}Little John--
+      His Latin was somewhat rude--
+  "Now, holy father, hast thou seen
+      A frere within the wood?
+
+
+  "By his scarlet hose, and his ruddy nose,
+      I guess you may know him well;
+  And he wears on his head a hat so red,
+      And a monstrous scallop-shell."
+
+
+  "I have served Saint Pancras," the hermit said,
+      "In this cell for thirty year,
+  Yet never saw I, in the forest bounds,
+      The face of such a frere!
+
+
+  "An' if ye find him, master mine,
+      E'en take an old man's advice,
+  An' raddle him well, till he roar again,
+      Lest ye fail to meet him twice!"
+
+
+  "Trust me for that!" quoth Little John--
+      "Trust me for that!" quoth he, with a laugh;
+  "There never was man of woman born,
+      That asked twice for the taste of my quarter-
+           staff!"
+
+
+  Then {173}Little John, he strutted on,
+      Till he came to an open bound,
+  And he was aware of a Red Friar,
+      Was sitting upon the ground.
+
+
+  His shoulders they were broad and strong,
+      And large was he of limb;
+  Few yeomen in the north countrie
+      Would care to mell with him.
+
+
+  He heard the rustling of the boughs,
+      As Little John drew near;
+  But never a single word he spoke,
+      Of welcome or of cheer:
+  Less stir he made than a pedlar would
+      For a small gnat in his ear!
+
+
+  I like not his looks! thought Little John,
+      Nor his staff of the oaken tree.
+  Now may our Lady be my help,
+      Else beaten I well may be!
+
+
+  "What dost thou here, thou strong Friar,
+      In Sherwood's merry round,
+  Without the leave of Little John,
+      To range with hawk and hound?"
+
+
+  "Small {174}thought have I," quoth the Red Friar,
+      "Of any leave, I trow;
+  That Little John is an outlawed thief,
+      And so, I ween, art thou!
+
+
+  "Know, I am Prior of Copmanshurst,
+      And Bishop of London town,
+  And I bring a rope from our father the Pope,
+      To put the outlaws down."
+
+
+  Then out spoke Little John in wrath,
+      "I tell thee, burly frere,
+  The Pope may do as he likes at home,
+      But he sends no Bishops here!
+
+
+  "Up, and away, Red Friar!" he said,
+      "Up, and away, right speedilie;
+  An it were not for that cowl of thine,
+      Avenged on thy body I would be!"
+
+
+  "Nay, heed not that," said the Red Friar,
+      "And let my cowl no hindrance be;
+  I warrant that I can give as good
+      As ever I think to take from thee!"
+
+
+  Little {175}John he raised his quarter-staff,
+      And so did the burly priest,
+  And they fought beneath the greenwood tree
+      A stricken hour at least.
+
+
+  But Little John was weak of fence,
+      And his strength began to fail;
+  Whilst the Friar's blows came thundering down,
+      Like the strokes of a threshing-flail.
+
+
+  "Now hold thy hand, thou stalwart Friar,
+      Now rest beneath the thorn,
+  Until I gather breath enow,
+      For a blast at my bugle-horn!"
+
+
+  "I'll hold my hand," the Friar said,
+      "Since that is your propine,
+  But, an you sound your bugle-horn,
+      I'll even blow on mine!"
+
+
+  Little John he wound a blast so shrill
+      'That it rang o'er rock and linn,
+  And Charlie Wood, and his merry men all,
+       Came lightly bounding in.
+
+
+  The Friar {176}he wound a blast so strong
+      That it shook both bush and tree,
+  And to his side came witless Will,
+      And Jem of Netherbee;
+  With all the worst of Robin's band,
+      And many a Rapparee!
+
+
+  Little John he wist not what to do,
+      When he saw the others come;
+  So he twisted his quarter-staff between
+      His fingers and his thumb.
+
+
+  "There's some mistake, good Friar!" he said,
+      "There's some mistake 'twixt thee and me
+  I know thou art Prior of Copmanshurst,
+      But not beneath the greenwood tree.
+
+
+  "And if you will take some other name,
+      You shall have ample leave to bide;
+  With pasture also for your Bulls,
+      And power to range the forest wide."
+
+
+  "There's no mistake!" the Friar said;
+      "I'll call myself just what I please.
+  My doctrine is that chalk is chalk,
+      And cheese is nothing else than cheese."
+
+
+  "So be it, {177}then!" quoth Little John;
+     "But surely you will not object,
+  If I and all my merry men
+     Should treat you with reserved respect?
+
+
+[Illustration: 189]
+
+
+  "We {178}can't call you Prior of Copmanshurst,
+      Nor Bishop of London town,
+  Nor on the grass, as you chance to pass,
+      Can we very well kneel down.
+
+
+  "But you'll send the Pope my compliments,
+     And say, as a further hint,
+  That, within the Sherwood bounds, you saw
+     Little John, who is the son-in-law
+     Of his friend, old Mat-o'-the-Mint!"
+
+
+  So ends this geste of Little John--
+     God save our noble Queen!
+  But, Lordlings, say--Is Sherwood now
+     What Sherwood once hath been?
+
+
+[Illustration: 191]
+
+
+
+
+
+
+THE RHYME OF SIR LAUNCELOT BOGLE.
+
+
+A LEGEND OF GLASGOW.
+
+
+  There's {179}a pleasant place of rest, near a City of the West,
+      Where its bravest and its best find their grave.
+  Below {180}the willows weep, and their hoary branches steep
+      In the waters still and deep,
+                              Not a wave!
+
+
+  And the old Cathedral Wall, so scathed and grey and tall.
+      Like a priest surveying all, stands beyond;
+  And the ringing of its bell, when the ringers ring it well,
+      Makes a kind of tidal swell
+                              On the pond!
+
+
+  And there it was I lay, on a beauteous summer's day,
+     With the odour of the hay floating by;
+  And I heard the blackbirds sing, and the bells demurely ring,
+     Chime by chime, ting by ting,
+                             Droppingly.
+
+
+  Then my thoughts went wandering back, on a very beaten
+           track,
+     To the confine deep and black of the tomb;
+  And I wondered who he was, that is laid beneath the
+          grass,
+     Where the dandelion has
+                              Such a bloom.
+
+
+  Then I {181}straightway did espy, with my slantly-sloping eye,
+      A carvèd stone hard by, somewhat worn;
+  And I read in letters cold
+
+
+==> See Page Scan
+
+
+     Here the letters failed outright, but I knew
+  That a stout crusading lord, who had crossed the Jordan's
+  ford,
+     Lay there beneath the sward,
+                            Wet with dew.
+
+
+  Time and tide they passed away, on that pleasant summer's
+           day,
+     And around me, as I lay, all grew old:
+  Sank the chimneys from the town, and the clouds of vapour
+  brown
+  No longer, like a crown,
+                                   O'er it rolled.
+
+
+  Sank the great Saint Rollox stalk, like a pile of dingy chalk;
+     Disappeared the cypress walk, and the flowers;
+  And a donjon-keep arose, that might baffle any foes,
+     With its men-at-arms in rows,
+                              On the towers.
+
+
+  And the {182}flag that flaunted there showed the grim and
+            grizzly bear,
+  Which the Bogles always wear for their crest.
+  And I heard the warder call, as he stood upon the wall,
+      "Wake ye up! my comrades all,
+                               From your rest!
+
+
+  "For, by the blessed rood, there's a glimpse of armour
+           good
+  In the deep Cowcaddens wood, o'er the stream;
+  And I hear the stifled hum of a multitude that come,
+      Though they have not beat the drum,
+                               It would seem!
+
+
+  "Go tell it to my Lord, lest he wish to man the ford
+      With partisan and sword, just beneath;
+  Ho, Gilkison and Nares! Ho, Provan of Cowlairs!
+     We'll back the bonny bears
+                              To the death!"
+
+
+  To the tower above the moat, like one who heedeth not,
+  Came the bold Sir Launcelot, half undressed;
+  On the outer rim he stood, and peered into the wood,
+      With his arms across him glued
+                                On his breast.
+
+
+  And {183}he muttered, "Foe accurst! hast thou dared to seek
+            me first?
+  George of Gorbals, do thy worst--for I swear,
+  O'er thy gory corpse to ride, ere thy sister and my bride,
+     From my undissevered side
+                                Thou shalt tear!
+
+
+  "Ho, herald mine, Brownlee! ride forth, I pray, and see,
+  Who, what, and whence is he, foe or friend!
+  Sir Roderick Dalgleish, and my foster-brother Neish,
+      With his bloodhounds in the leash,
+                                Shall attend."
+
+
+  Forth went the herald stout, o'er the drawbridge and
+          without,
+      Then a wild and savage shout rose amain,
+  Six arrows sped their force, and, a pale and bleeding corse,
+      He sank from off his horse
+                                On the plain!
+
+
+  Back drew the bold Dalgleish, back started stalwart Neish,
+      With his bloodhounds in the leash, from Brownlee.
+  "Now shame be to the sword that made thee knight and
+           lord,
+      Thou caitiff thrice abhorred,
+                              Shame on thee!
+
+
+  "Ho, {184}bowmen, bend your bows! Discharge upon the
+           foes
+     Forthwith no end of those heavy bolts.
+  Three angels to the brave who finds the foe a grave,
+     And a gallows for the slave
+                              Who revolts!"
+
+
+  Ten days the combat lasted; but the bold defenders
+          fasted,
+      While the foemen, better pastied, fed their host;
+  You might hear the savage cheers of the hungry Gorbaliers,
+      As at night they dressed the steers
+                                 For the roast.
+
+
+  And Sir Launcelot grew thin, and Provan's double chin
+     Showed sundry folds of skin down beneath;
+  In silence and in grief found Gilkison relief,
+     Nor did Neish the spell-word, beef,
+                                Dare to breathe.
+
+
+  To the ramparts Edith came, that fair and youthful dame,
+      With the rosy evening flame on her face.
+  She sighed, and looked around on the soldiers on the ground,
+      Who but little penance found,
+                                 Saying grace!
+
+
+  And {185}she said unto her lord, as he leaned upon his sword,
+      "One short and little word may I speak?
+  I cannot bear to view those eyes so ghastly blue,
+      Or mark the sallow hue
+                               Of thy cheek!
+
+
+  "I know the rage and wrath that my furious brother hath
+     Is less against us both than at me.
+  Then, dearest, let me go, to find among the foe
+     An arrow from the bow,
+                                Like Brownlee!"
+
+
+  "I would soil my father's name, I would lose my treasured
+            fame,
+     Ladye mine, should such a shame on me light:
+  While I wear a belted brand, together still we stand,
+     Heart to heart, hand in hand!"
+                               Said the knight.
+
+
+  "All our chances are not lost, as your brother and his
+           host
+      Shall discover to their cost rather hard!
+  Ho, Provan! take this key--hoist up the Malvoisie,
+      And heap it, d'ye see,
+                               In the yard.
+
+
+  "Of {186}usquebaugh and rum, you will find, I reckon, some,
+      Besides the beer and mum, extra stout;
+  Go straightway to your tasks, and roll me all the casks,
+     As also range the flasks,
+                               Just without.
+
+
+  "If I know the Gorbaliers, they are sure to dip their ears
+      In the very inmost tiers of the drink.
+  Let them win the outer court, and hold it for their sport,
+     Since their time is rather short,
+                                 I should think!"
+
+
+  With a loud triumphant yell, as the heavy drawbridge fell,
+     Rushed the Gorbaliers pell-mell, wild as Druids;
+  Mad with thirst for human gore, how they threatened and
+           they swore,
+     Till they stumbled on the floor,
+                                  O'er the fluids.
+
+
+  Down their weapons then they threw, and each savage
+           soldier drew
+  From his belt an iron screw, in his fist;
+  George of Gorbals found it vain their excitement to re-
+           strain,
+     And indeed was rather fain
+                                  To assist.
+
+
+  With a beaker in his hand, in the midst he took his stand,
+     And silence did command, all below--
+  "Ho! Launcelot the bold, ere thy lips are icy cold,
+     In the centre of thy hold,
+                             Pledge me now!
+
+
+  "Art surly, brother mine? In this cup of rosy wine,
+      I drink to the decline of thy race!
+  Thy proud career is done, thy sand is nearly run,
+     Never more shall setting sun
+                                 Gild thy face!
+
+
+  "The pilgrim, in amaze, shall see a goodly blaze,
+     Ere the pallid morning rays flicker up;
+  And perchance he may espy certain corpses swinging
+          high!
+     What, brother! art thou dry?
+                                      Fill my cup!"
+
+
+  Dumb as death stood Launcelot, as though he heard him
+           not,
+     But his bosom Provan smote, and he swore:
+  And Sir Roderick Dalgleish remarked aside to Neish,
+     "Never sure did thirsty fish
+                          Swallow more!
+
+
+  "Thirty {188}casks are nearly done, yet the revel's scarce
+            begun;
+     It were knightly sport and fun to strike in!"
+  "Nay, tarry till they come," quoth Neish, "unto the
+          rum--
+     They are working at the mum,
+                               And the gin!"
+
+
+  Then straight there did appear to each gallant Gorbalier
+     Twenty castles dancing near, all around;
+  The solid earth did shake, and the stones beneath them
+           quake,
+     And sinuous as a snake
+                             Moved the ground.
+
+
+  Why and wherefore they had come, seemed intricate to
+           some,
+     But all agreed the rum was divine.
+  And they looked with bitter scorn on their leader highly
+           born,
+     Who preferred to fill his horn
+                              Up with wine!
+
+
+  Then said Launcelot the tall, "Bring the chargers from
+           their stall;
+     Lead them straight unto the hall, down below:
+  Draw {189}your weapons from your side, fling the gates asunder
+            wide,
+     And together we shall ride
+                                On the foe!"
+
+
+  Then Provan knew full well, as he leaped into his selle,
+     That few would 'scape to tell how they fared;
+  And Gilkison and Nares, both mounted on their mares,
+     Looked terrible as bears,
+                               All prepared.
+
+
+  With his bloodhounds in the leash, stood the iron-sinewed
+           Neish,
+      And the falchion of Dalgleish glittered bright--
+  "Now, wake the trumpet's blast; and, comrades, follow
+           fast;
+     Smite them down unto the last!"
+                               Cried the knight.
+
+
+  In the cumbered yard without, there was shriek, and yell,
+           and shout,
+     As the warriors wheeled about, all in mail.
+  On the miserable kerne fell the death-strokes stiff and stern,
+      As the deer treads down the fern,
+                                 In the vale!
+
+
+  Saint {190}Mungo be my guide! It was goodly in that tide
+     To see the Bogle ride in his haste;
+  He accompanied each blow with a cry of "Ha!" or
+          "Ho!"
+     And always cleft the foe
+                                To the waist.
+
+
+  "George of Gorbals--craven lord! thou didst threat me
+           with the cord;
+     Come forth and brave my sword, if you dare!"
+  But he met with no reply, and never could descry
+     The glitter of his eye
+                           Anywhere.
+
+
+  Ere the dawn of morning shone, all the Gorbaliers were
+           down,
+     Like a field of barley mown in the ear:
+  It had done a soldier good to see how Provan stood,
+     With Neish all bathed in blood,
+                               Panting near.
+
+
+  "Now ply ye to your tasks--go carry down those casks,
+     And place the empty flasks on the floor;
+  George of Gorbals scarce will come, with trumpet and
+           with drum,
+     To taste our beer and rum
+                               Any more!"
+
+
+  So {191}they plied them to their tasks, and they carried down
+            the casks,
+      And replaced the empty flasks on the floor;
+  But pallid for a week was the cellar-master's cheek,.
+     For he swore he heard a shriek
+                              Through the door.
+
+
+  When the merry Christmas came, and the Yule-log lent
+           its flame
+      To the face of squire and dame in the hall,
+  The cellarer went down to tap October brown,
+     Which was rather of renown
+                               'Mongst them all.
+
+
+  He placed the spigot low, and gave the cask a blow,
+      But his liquor would not flow through the pin.
+  "Sure, 'tis sweet as honeysuckles!" so he rapped it with
+            his knuckles,
+      But a sound, as if of buckles,
+                               Clashed within.
+
+
+  "Bring a hatchet, varlets, here!" and they cleft the cask
+            of beer:
+      What a spectacle of fear met their sight!
+  There George of Gorbals lay, skull and bones all blanched
+            and grey,
+     In the arms he bore the day
+                                   Of the fight!
+
+
+  I have {192}sung this ancient tale, not, I trust, without avail,
+      Though the moral ye may fail to perceive;
+  Sir Launcelot is dust, and his gallant sword is rust,
+     And now, I think, I must
+                              Take my leave!
+
+
+[Illustration: 204]
+
+
+[Illustration: 205]
+
+
+
+
+
+
+THE LAY OF THE LOVER'S FRIEND
+
+
+   [Air--"The days we went a-gypsying."]
+
+
+   I {193}would all womankind were dead,
+   Or banished o'er the sea;
+   For they have been a bitter plague
+   These last six weeks to me:
+   It is not that I'm touched myself,
+   For that I do not fear;
+   No {194}female face has shown me grace
+                 For many a bygone year.
+   But 'tis the most infernal bore,
+   Of all the bores I know,
+        To have a friend who's lost his heart
+                       A short time ago.
+
+
+  Whene'er we steam it to Black wall,
+        Or down to Greenwich run,
+  To quaff the pleasant cider-cup,
+        And feed on fish and fun;
+  Or climb the slopes of Richmond Hill,
+              To catch a breath of air:
+  Then, for my sins, he straight begins
+         To rave about his fair.
+  Oh, 'tis the most tremendous bore,
+  Of all the bores I know,
+       To have a friend who's lost his heart
+                       A short time ago.
+
+
+  In vain you pour into his ear
+              Your own confiding grief;
+  In vain you claim his sympathy,
+         In vain you ask relief;
+  In vain you try to rouse him by
+         Joke, repartee, or quiz;
+  His {195}sole reply's a burning sigh,
+  And "What a mind it is!"
+  O Lord! it is the greatest bore,
+  Of all the bores I know,
+         To have a friend who's lost his heart
+             A short time ago.
+
+
+  I've heard her thoroughly described
+  A hundred times, I'm sure;
+  And all the while I've tried to smile,
+  And patiently endure;
+  He waxes strong upon his pangs,
+  And potters o'er his grog;
+  And still I say, in a playful way--
+         "Why, you're a lucky dog!"
+         But oh! it is the heaviest bore,
+  Of all the bores I know,
+         To have a friend who's lost his heart
+             A short time ago.
+
+
+  I really wish he'd do like me,
+     When I was young and strong;
+  I formed a passion every week,
+  But never kept it long.
+  But he has not the sportive mood
+  That always rescued me,
+  And {196}so I would all women could
+  Be banished o'er the sea.
+         For 'tis the most egregious bore,
+  Of all the bores I know,
+         To have a friend who's lost his heart
+             A short time ago.
+
+
+[Illustration: 209]
+
+
+
+
+
+
+FRANCESCA DA RIMINI
+
+
+
+
+
+
+TO BON GAULTIER.
+
+
+[Argument.--An {197}impassioned pupil of Leigh Hunt, having met Bon
+Gaultier at a Fancy Ball, declares the destructive consequences thus.]
+
+
+  Didst thou not praise me, Gaultier, at the hall,
+  Ripe lips, trim boddice, and a waist so small,
+      With clipsome lightness, dwindling ever less,
+      Beneath the robe of pea-y greeniness?
+
+
+  Dost thou remember, when, with stately prance,
+  Our heads went crosswise in the country-dance;
+  How {198}soft, warm fingers, tipped like "buds of balm,
+  Trembled within the squeezing of thy palm;
+  And how a cheek grew flushed and peachy-wise
+  At the frank lifting of thy cordial eyes?
+
+
+  Ah, me! that night there was one gentle thing,
+  Who, like a dove, with its scarce feathered wing,
+  Fluttered at the approach of thy quaint swaggering!
+
+
+  There's wont to be, at conscious times like these,
+  An affectation of a bright-eyed ease,--
+  A crispy cheekiness, if so I dare
+  Describe the swaling of a jaunty air;
+
+
+  And thus, when swirling from the waltz's wheel,
+  You craved my hand to grace the next quadrille,
+  That smiling voice, although it made me start,
+  Boiled in the meek o'erlifting of my heart;.
+  And, picking at my flowers, I said, with free
+  And usual tone, "O yes, sir, certainly!"
+
+
+  Like one that swoons, 'twixt sweet amaze and fear,
+  I heard the music burning in my ear,
+  And felt I cared not, so thou wert with me,
+  If Gurth or Wamba were our vis-à-vis.
+
+
+  So, when a tall Knight Templar ringing came,
+  And took his place amongst us with his dame,
+  I neither turned away, nor bashful shrunk
+  From the stern survey of the soldier-monk,
+  Though, {199}rather more than three full quarters drunk;
+  But, threading through the figure, first in rule,
+  I paused to see thee plunge into La Poule.
+
+
+  Ah, what a sight was that! Not prurient Mars,
+  Pointing his toe through ten celestial bars--
+  Not young Apollo, beamily arrayed
+  In tripsome guise for Juno's masquerade--
+
+
+  Not smartest Hermes, with his pinion girth,
+  Jerking with freaks and snatches down to earth,
+  Looked half so bold, so beautiful, and strong,
+  As thou, when pranking through the glittering throng!
+  How the calmed ladies looked with eyes of love
+  On thy trim velvet doublet laced above;
+  The hem of gold, that, like a wavy river,
+  Flowed down into thy back with glancing shiver!
+  So bare was thy fine throat, and curls of black,
+  So lightsomely dropped in thy lordly back,
+  So crisply swaled the feather in thy bonnet,
+  So glanced thy thigh, and spanning palm upon it,
+  That my weak soul took instant flight to thee,
+  Lost in the fondest gush of that sweet witchery!
+
+
+  But when the dance was o'er, and arm in arm
+  (The full heart beating 'gainst the elbow warm)
+  We passed into the great refreshment-hall,
+  Where the heaped cheese-cakes and the comfits small
+  Lay, {200}like a hive of sunbeams, brought to burn
+  Around the margin of the negus urn;
+  When my poor quivering hand you fingered twice,
+  And, with inquiring accents, whispered "Ice,
+  Water, or cream?" I could no more dissemble,
+  But dropped upon the couch all in a tremble.
+  A swimming faintness misted o'er my brain,
+  The corks seemed starting from the brisk champagne,
+  The custards fell untouched upon the floor,
+  Thine eyes met mine. That night we danced no more!
+
+
+[Illustration: 212]
+
+
+[Illustration: 213]
+
+
+
+
+
+
+THE CADI'S DAUGHTER, A LEGEND OF THE BOSPHORUS.
+
+
+  How {201}beauteous is the star of night
+     Within the eastern skies,
+  Like the twinkling glance of the Toorkman's lance,
+     Or the antelope's azure eyes!
+
+
+  A lamp of love in the heaven above,
+     That star is fondly streaming;
+  And the gay kiosk and the shadowy mosque
+     In the Golden Horn are gleaming.
+
+
+  Young {202}Leila sits in her jasmine bower,
+     And she hears the bulbul sing,'
+  As it thrills its throat to the first full note,
+     That anthems the flowery spring.
+
+
+  She gazes still, as a maiden will,
+     On that beauteous eastern star:
+  You might see the throb of her bosom's sob
+     Beneath the white cymar!
+
+
+  She thinks of him who is far away,--
+     Her own brave Galiongee,--
+  Where the billows foam and the breezes roam,
+     On the wild Carpathian sea.
+
+
+  She thinks of the oath that bound them both
+     Beside the stormy water;
+  And the words of love, that in Athens' grove
+     He spake to the Cadi's daughter.
+
+
+  "My Selim!" thus the maiden said,
+     "Though severed thus we be,
+  By the raging deep and the mountain steep,
+     My soul still yearns to thee.
+
+
+  Thy form so dear is mirrored here
+     In my heart's pellucid well,
+  As the rose looks up to Phingari's orb,
+     Or the moth to the gay gazelle.
+
+
+  "I think {203}of the time when the Kaftan's crime
+     Our love's young joys o'ertook,
+  And thy name still floats in the plaintive notes
+     Of my silver-toned chibouque.
+
+
+  Thy hand is red with the blood it has shed,
+     Thy soul it is heavy laden;
+  Yet come, my Giaour, to thy Leila's bower;
+     Oh, come to thy Turkish maiden!"
+
+
+  A light step trod on the dewy sod,
+     And a voice was in her ear,
+  And an arm embraced young Leila's waist--
+     "Beloved! I am here!"
+
+
+  Like the phantom form that rules the storm,
+     Appeared the pirate lover,
+  And his fiery eye was like Zatanai,
+     As he fondly bent above her.
+
+
+  "Speak, Leila, speak; for my light caïque
+     Rides proudly in yonder bay;
+  I have come from my rest to her I love best,
+     To carry thee, love, away.
+
+
+  The breast of thy lover shall shield thee, and cover
+     My own jemscheed from harm;
+  Think'st thou I fear the dark vizier,
+     Or the mufti's vengeful arm?
+
+
+  "Then droop not, love, nor turn away
+     From this rude hand of mine!
+  And Leila looked in her lover's eyes,
+     And murmured--"I am thine!"
+
+
+  But a gloomy man with a yataghan
+     Stole through the acacia-blossoms,
+  And the thrust he made with his gleaming blade
+     Hath pierced through both their bosoms.
+
+
+  "There! there! thou cursed caitiff Giaour!
+     There, there, thou false one, lie!"
+  Remorseless Hassan stands above,
+     And he smiles to see them die.
+
+
+  They sleep beneath the fresh green turf.
+     The lover and the lady--
+  And the maidens wail to hear the tale
+     Of the daughter of the Cadi!
+
+
+[Illustration:  216]
+
+
+
+
+
+
+THE DIRGE OF THE DRINKER
+
+
+  Brothers, {205}spare awhile your liquor, lay your final tumbler
+          down;
+  He has dropped--that star of honour--on the field of his
+         renown!
+  Raise the wail, but raise it softly, lowly bending on your
+         knees,
+  If you find it more convenient, you may hiccup if you
+         please.
+
+
+  Sons of Pantagruel, gently let your hip-hurrahing sink,
+  Be your manly accents clouded, half with sorrow, half
+         with drink!
+  Lightly to the sofa pillow lift his head from off the floor;
+  See, how calm he sleeps, unconscious as the deadest nail
+         in door!
+
+
+  Widely o'er the earth I've wandered; where the drink
+         most freely flowed,
+  I have ever reeled the foremost, foremost to the beaker
+         strode.
+  Deep in shady Cider Cellars I have dreamed o'er heavy wet,
+  By the fountains of Damascus I have quaffed the rich
+        sherbet,
+
+
+  Regal {206}Montepulciano drained beneath its native rock,
+  On Johannis' sunny mountain frequent hiccuped o'er my
+        hock;
+  I have bathed in butts of Xeres deeper than did e'er
+        Monsoon,
+  Sangaree'd with bearded Tartars in the Mountains of the
+         Moon;
+
+
+  In beer-swilling Copenhagen I have drunk your Danesman
+         blind,
+  I have kept my feet in Jena, when each bursch to earth
+         declined;
+  Glass for glass, in fierce Jamaica, I have shared the plant-
+         er's rum,
+  Drunk with Highland dhuiné-wassails, till each gibbering
+         Gael grew dumb;
+
+
+  But a stouter, bolder drinker--one that loved his liquor
+         more--
+  Never yet did I encounter than our friend upon the floor!
+  Yet the best of us are mortal, we to weakness all are
+        heir,
+  He has fallen who rarely staggered--let the rest of us
+         beware!
+
+
+  We shall leave him as we found him,--lying where his
+        manhood fell,
+  'Mong the trophies of the revel, for he took his tipple well.
+  Better 'twere we loosed his neckcloth, laid his throat and
+         bosom bare,
+  Pulled his {207}Hobies off, and turned his toes to taste the
+          breezy air.
+
+
+  Throw the sofa-cover o'er him, dim the flaring of the gas,
+  Calmly, calmly let him slumber, and, as by the bar we
+         pass,
+  We shall bid that thoughtful waiter place beside him, near
+         and handy,
+  Large supplies of soda-water, tumblers bottomed well with
+         brandy,
+
+
+  So, when waking, he shall drain them, with that deathless
+         thirst of his,--
+  Clinging to the hand that smote him, like a good 'un as
+         he is!
+
+
+
+
+
+
+THE DEATH OF DUBAL
+
+
+By W- H-- A-TH, Esq.
+
+
+["Methinks {208}I see him already in the cart, sweeter and more lovely
+than the nosegay in his hand! I hear the crowd extolling his resolution
+and intrepidity! What volleys of sighs are sent from the windows of
+Holbom, that so comely a youth should be brought to disgrace! I see him
+at the tree! the whole circle are in tears! even butchers weep!"--
+Beggars' Opera.]
+
+
+  A living sea of eager human faces,
+  A thousand bosoms throbbing all as one,
+  Walls, windows, balconies, all sorts of places,
+  Holding their crowds of gazers to the sun:
+     Through the hushed groups low-buzzing murmurs run;
+  And on the air, with slow reluctant swell,
+  Comes the dull funeral-boom of old Sepulchre's bell.
+
+
+  Oh, joy in London now! in festal measure
+  Be spent the evening of this festive day!
+  For thee is opening now a high-strung pleasure;
+     Now, even now, in yonder press-yard they
+     Strike from his limbs the fetters loose away!
+  A little while, and he, the brave Duval,
+  Will issue forth, serene, to glad and greet you all.
+  "Why comes he not? say, wherefore doth he tarry?"
+  Starts the inquiry loud from every tongue.
+
+
+  "Surely," they cry, "that tedious Ordinary
+     His tedious psalms must long ere this have sung,--
+     Tedious to him that's waiting to be hung!"
+  But hark! old Newgate's doors fly wide apart.
+  "He comes, he comes!" A thrill shoots through each
+        gazer's heart.
+
+
+  Joined in the stunning cry ten thousand voices,
+  All Smithfield answered to the loud acclaim.
+  "He comes, he comes!" and every breast rejoices,
+     As down Snow Hill the shout tumultuous came,
+     Bearing to Holborn's crowd the welcome fame.
+  "He comes, he comes!" and each holds back his breath--
+  Some ribs are broke, and some few scores are crushed to
+         death.
+
+
+  With step majestic to the cart advances
+     The dauntless Claude, and springs into his seat.
+  He feels that on him now are fixed the glances
+  Of many a Briton bold and maiden sweet,
+  Whose hearts responsive to his glories beat.
+
+
+  In him the honour of "The Road" is centred,
+  And all the hero's fire into his bosom entered.
+  His {210}was the transport--his the exultation
+      Of Rome's great generals, when from afar,
+  Up to the Capitol in the ovation,
+     They bore with them, in the triumphal car,
+     Rich gold and gems, the spoils of foreign war.
+  _Io Triumphe!_ They forgot their clay.
+
+
+  E'en so Duval, who rode in glory on his way,
+  His laced cravat, his kids of purest yellow,
+     The many-tinted nosegay in his hand,
+  His large black eyes, so fiery, yet so mellow,
+     Like the old vintages of Spanish land,
+     Locks clustering o'er a brow of high command,
+  Subdue all hearts; and, as up Holborn's steep
+  Toils the slow car of death, e'en cruel butchers weep.
+
+
+  He saw it, but he heeded not. His story,
+     He knew, was graven on the page of Time.
+  Tyburn to him was as a field of glory,
+     Where he must stoop to death his head sublime,
+     Hymned in full many an elegiac rhyme.
+  He left his deeds behind him, and his name--
+  For he, like Cæsar, had lived long enough for fame.
+
+
+  He quailed not, save when, as he raised the chalice,--
+      St Giles's bowl,--filled with the mildest ale,
+  To pledge {211}the crowd, on her--his beauteous Alice--
+  His eye alighted, and his cheek grew pale.
+      She, whose sweet breath was like the spicy gale,
+  She, whom he fondly deemed his own dear girl,
+  Stood with a tall dragoon, drinking long draughts of
+         purl.
+
+
+  He bit his lip--it quivered but a moment--
+      Then passed his hand across his flushing brows:
+  He could have spared so forcible a comment
+  Upon the constancy of woman's vows.
+
+
+  One short sharp pang his hero-soul allows;
+  But in the bowl he drowned the stinging pain,
+  And on his pilgrim course went calmly forth again.
+
+
+  A princely group of England's noble daughters
+  Stood in a balcony suffused with grief,
+  Diffusing fragrance round them, of strong waters,
+  And waving many a snowy handkerchief;
+    Then glowed the prince of highwayman and thief!
+  His soul was touched with a seraphic gleam--
+  That woman could be false was but a mocking dream.
+
+
+  And now, his bright career of triumph ended,
+  His chariot stood beneath the triple tree.
+  The law's {212}grim finisher to its boughs ascended,
+     And fixed the hempen bandages, while he
+     Bowed to the throng, then bade the car go free.
+  The car rolled on, and left him dangling there,
+  Like famed Mohammed's tomb, uphung midway in air.
+
+
+  As droops the cup of the surchargèd lily
+  Beneath the buffets of the surly storm,
+  Or the soft petals of the daffodilly,
+     When Sirius is uncomfortably warm,
+     So drooped his head upon his manly form,
+  While floated in the breeze his tresses brown.
+  He hung the stated time, and then they cut him down.
+
+
+  With soft and tender care the trainbands bore him,
+     Just as they found him, nightcap, robe, and all,
+  And placed this neat though plain inscription o'er him,
+     Among the atomies in Surgeons' Hall:
+     "_These are the Bones of the Renowned Duval!_"
+  There still they tell us, from their glassy case,
+  He was the last, the best of all that noble race!
+
+
+[Illustration: 225]
+
+
+
+
+
+
+EASTERN SERENADE
+
+
+  The minarets {213}wave on the plain of Stamboul,
+  And the breeze of the evening blows freshly and cool;
+  The voice of the musnud is heard from the west,
+  And kaftan and kalpac have gone to their rest.
+
+
+  The notes of the kislar re-echo no more,
+  And the waves of Al Sirat fall light on the shore.
+  'Where art thou, my beauty; where art thou, my bride?
+  Oh, come and repose by thy dragoman's side!
+
+
+  I wait {214}for thee still by the flowery tophaik--
+  I have broken my Eblis for Zuleima's sake.
+  But the heart that adores thee is faithful and true,
+  Though it beats 'neath the folds of a Greek Allah-hu!
+
+
+  Oh, wake thee, my dearest! the muftis are still,
+  And the tschocadars sleep on the Franguestan hill;
+  No sullen aleikoum--no derveesh is here,
+  And the mosques are all watching by lonely Kashmere!
+
+
+  Oh, come in the gush of thy beauty so full,
+  I have waited for thee, my adored attar-gul!
+  I see thee--I hear thee--thy antelope foot
+  Treads lightly and soft on the velvet cheroot;
+
+
+  The jewelled amaun of thy zemzem is bare,
+  And the folds of thy palampore wave in the air.
+  Come, rest on the bosom that loves thee so well,
+  My dove! my phingari! my gentle gazelle!
+
+
+  Nay, tremble not, dearest! I feel thy heart throb,
+  'Neath the sheltering shroud of thy snowy kiebaub;
+  Lo, there shines Muezzin, the beautiful star!
+  Thy lover is with thee, and danger afar:
+
+
+  Say, is it the glance of the haughty vizier,
+  Or the bark of the distant effendi, you fear?
+  Oh, swift {215}fly the hours in the garden of bliss!
+  And sweeter than balm of Gehenna thy kiss!
+
+
+  Wherever I wander--wherever I roam,
+  My spirit flies back to its beautiful home;
+  It dwells by the lake of the limpid Stamboul,
+  With thee, my adored one! my own attar-gul!
+
+
+[Illustration: 227]
+
+
+
+
+
+
+DAME FREDEGONDE
+
+
+  When {216}folks, with headstrong passion blind,
+  To play the fool make up their mind,
+  They're sure to come with phrases nice,
+  And modest air, for your advice.
+
+
+  But as a truth unfailing make it,
+  They ask, but never mean to take it.
+  'Tis not advice they want, in fact,
+  But confirmation in their act.
+
+
+  Now mark what did, in such a case,
+  A worthy priest who knew the race.
+
+
+  A dame more buxom, blithe, and free,
+  Than Fredegonde you scarce would see.
+  So smart her dress, so trim her shape,
+  N e'er hostess offered juice of grape,
+
+
+  Could {217}for her trade wish better sign;
+  Her looks gave flavour to her wine,
+  And each guest feels it, as he sips,
+  Smack of the ruby of her lips.
+
+
+  A smile for all, a welcome glad,--
+  A jovial coaxing way she had;
+  And,--what was more her fate than blame,--
+  A nine months' widow was our dame.
+
+
+  But toil was hard, for trade was good,
+  And gallants sometimes will be rude.
+  "And what can a lone woman do?
+  The nights are long and eerie too.
+
+
+  Now, Guillot there's a likely man,
+  None better draws or taps a can;
+  He's just the man, I think, to suit,
+  If I could bring my courage to't."
+
+
+  With thoughts like these her mind is crossed:
+  The dame, they say, who doubts, is lost.
+  "But then the risk? I'll beg a slice
+  Of Father Raulin's good advice."
+
+
+  Prankt in her best, with looks demure,
+  She seeks the priest; and, to be sure,
+  Asks if he thinks she ought to wed:
+  "With such a business on my head,
+  I'm {218}worried off my legs with care,
+  And need some help to keep things square.
+
+
+  I've thought of Guillot, truth to tell!
+  He's steady, knows his business well.
+  What do you think?" When thus he met her:
+  "Oh, take him, dear, you can't do better!"
+
+
+  "But then the danger, my good pastor,
+  If of the man I make the master.
+  There is no trusting to these men."
+
+
+  "Well, well, my dear, don't have him, then!"
+  "But help I must have; there's the curse.
+  I may go farther and fare worse."
+
+
+  "Why, take him, then!"
+
+
+"But if he should
+  Turn out a thankless ne'er-do-good--
+  In drink and riot waste my all,
+  And rout me out of house and hall?"
+
+
+  "Don't have him, then! But I've a plan
+  To clear your doubts, if any can.
+
+
+  The bells a peal are ringing,--hark!
+  Go straight, and what they tell you mark.
+  If they say 'Yes!' wed, and be blest--
+  If 'No,' why--do as you think best."
+
+
+  The bells rang out a triple bob:
+  Oh, how our widow's heart did throb,
+  As {219}thus she heard their burden go,
+  "Marry, mar-marry, mar-Guillot!"
+
+
+  Bells were not then left to hang idle:
+  A week,--and they rang for her bridal.
+
+
+  But, woe the while, they might as well
+  Have rung the poor dame's parting knell.
+  The rosy dimples left her cheek,
+  She lost her beauties plump and sleek;
+  For Guillot oftener kicked than kissed,
+  And backed his orders with his fist,
+  Proving by deeds as well as words
+  That servants make the worst of lords.
+
+
+  She seeks the priest, her ire to wreak,
+  And speaks as angry women speak,
+  With tiger looks and bosom swelling,
+  Cursing the hour she took his telling.
+
+
+  To all, his calm reply was this,--
+  "I fear you've read the bells amiss:
+  If they have led you wrong in aught,
+  Your wish, not they, inspired the thought.
+
+
+  Just go, and mark well what they say."
+  Off trudged the dame upon her way,
+  And sure enough their chime went so,--
+  "Don't have that knave, that knave Guillot!"
+
+
+  "Too true," she cried, "there's not a doubt
+  What could my ears have been about?"
+  She had forgot, that, as fools think,
+  The bell is ever sure to clink.
+
+
+[Illustration: 232]
+
+
+
+
+
+
+THE DEATH OF ISHMAEL.
+
+
+[This and {221}the six following poems are examples of that new
+achievement of modern song--which, blending the _utile_ with the
+_dulce_, symbolises at once the practical and spiritual characteristics
+of the age,--and is called familiarly "the puff poetical."]
+
+
+  Died the Jew? "The Hebrew died.
+           On the pavement cold he lay,
+  Around him closed the living tide;
+            The butcher's cad set down his tray;
+       The pot-boy from the Dragon Green
+       No longer for his pewter calls;
+        The Nereid rushes in between,
+   Nor more her 'Fine live mackerel!' bawls."
+
+
+  Died the Jew? "The Hebrew died.
+            They raised him gently from the stone,
+   They flung his coat and neckcloth wide--
+  But linen had that Hebrew none.
+   They raised the pile of hats that pressed
+   His noble head, his locks of snow;
+  But, ah, that head, upon his breast,
+            Sank down with an expiring 'Clo!'"
+
+
+     Died {222}the Jew? "The Hebrew died,
+     Struck with overwhelming qualms
+     From the flavour spreading wide
+     Of some fine Virginia hams.
+     Would you know the fatal spot,
+     Fatal to that child of sin?
+     These fine-flavoured hams are bought
+     _At 50 Bishopsgate Within!_"
+
+
+[Illustration: 234]
+
+
+
+
+
+
+PARR'S LIFE PILLS
+
+
+       Twas {223}in the town of Lubeck,
+          A hundred years ago,
+       An old man walked into the church,
+          With beard as white as snow;
+       Yet were his cheeks not wrinkled,
+       Nor dim his eagle eye:
+       There's many a knight that steps the street,
+       Might wonder, should he chance to meet
+       That man erect and high!
+
+
+       When silenced was the organ,
+       And hushed the vespers loud,
+       The Sacristan approached the sire,
+          And drew him from the crowd--
+       "There's something in thy visage,
+       On which I dare not look;
+       And when I rang the passing bell,
+       A tremor that I may not tell,
+           My very vitals shook.
+
+
+       "Who art thou, awful stranger?
+       Our ancient annals say,
+   That twice two hundred years ago
+          Another passed this way
+  Like {224}thee in face and feature;
+     And, if the tale be true,
+  'Tis writ, that in this very year
+  Again the stranger shall appear.
+     Art thou the Wandering Jew?"
+
+
+  "The Wandering Jew, thou dotard!"
+  The wondrous phantom cried--
+  "'Tis several centuries ago
+     Since that poor stripling died.
+  He would not use my nostrums--
+  See, shaveling, here they are!
+  _These_ put to flight all human ills,
+  These conquer death--unfailing pills,
+  And I'm the inventor, PARR!"
+
+
+[Illustration: 236]
+
+
+
+
+
+
+TARQUIN AND THE AUGUR
+
+
+  Gingerly {225}is good King Tarquin shaving,
+  Gently glides the razor o'er his chin,
+  Near him stands a grim Haruspex raving,
+  And with nasal whine he pitches in
+  Church extension hints,
+      Till the monarch squints,
+  Snicks his chin, and swears--a deadly sin!
+
+
+  "Jove confound thee, thou bare-legged impostor
+     From my dressing-table get thee gone!
+  Dost thou think my flesh is double Glo'ster?
+  There again! That cut was to the bone!
+  Get ye from my sight;
+     I'll believe you're right
+  When my razor cuts the sharpening hone!"
+
+
+  Thus spoke Tarquin with a deal of dryness;
+  But the Augur, eager for his fees,
+  Answered--"Try it, your Imperial Highness;
+     Press a little harder, if you please.
+  There! the {126}deed is done!"
+
+
+  Through the solid stone
+  Went the steel as glibly as through cheese.
+  So the Augur touched the tin of Tarquin,
+  Who suspected some celestial aid:
+  But he wronged the blameless gods; for hearken!
+     Ere the monarch's bet was rashly laid,
+         With his searching eye
+  Did the priest espy
+  RODGERS' name engraved upon the blade.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+LA MORT d'ARTHUR
+
+
+
+
+
+
+NOT BY ALFRED TENNYSON.
+
+
+  Slowly, {227}as one who bears a mortal hurt,
+  Through which the fountain of his life runs dry,
+  Crept good King Arthur down unto the lake.
+
+
+  A roughening wind was bringing in the waves
+  With cold dull plash and plunging to the shore,
+  And a great bank of clouds came sailing up
+  Athwart the aspect of the gibbous moon,
+  Leaving no glimpse save starlight, as he sank,
+  With a short stagger, senseless on the stones.
+
+
+  No man yet knows how long he lay in swound
+  But long enough it was to let the rust
+  Lick half the surface of his polished shield;
+  For it was made by far inferior hands,
+  Than forged his helm, his breastplate, and his greaves,
+  Whereon no canker lighted, for they bore
+  The magic stamp of MECHI'S SILVER STEEL.
+
+
+[Illustration: 240]
+
+
+
+
+
+
+JUPITER AND THE INDIAN ALE
+
+
+  "Take {228}away this clammy nectar!"
+  Said the king of gods and men;
+  "Never at Olympus' table
+  Let that trash be served again.
+
+
+  Ho, Lyæus, thou, the beery!
+  Quick--invent some other drink;
+  Or, in a brace of shakes, thou standest
+  On Cocytus' sulphury brink!"
+
+
+  Terror shook the limbs of Bacchus,
+  Paly grew his pimpled nose,
+  And {229}already in his rearward
+  Felt he Jove's tremendous toes;
+  When a bright idea struck him--
+  "Dash my thyrsus! I'll be bail--
+  For you never were in India--
+  That you know not HODGSON'S ALE!"
+
+
+  "Bring it!" quoth the Cloud-compeller;
+  And the wine-god brought the beer--
+  "Port and claret are like water
+  To the noble stuff that's here!"
+
+
+  And Saturnius drank and nodded,
+  Winking with his lightning eyes,
+  And amidst the constellations
+  Did the star of HODGSON rise!
+
+
+[Illustration: 241]
+
+
+
+
+
+
+THE LAY OF THE DONDNEY BROTHERS
+
+
+  Coats at {230}five-and-forty shillings! trousers ten-and-six a
+          pair!
+  Summer waistcoats, three a sov'reign, light and comfort-
+         able wear!
+  Taglionis, black or coloured, Chesterfield and velveteen!
+  The old English shooting-jacket--doeskins, such as ne'er
+         were seen!
+  Army cloaks and riding-habits, Alberts at a trifling cost!
+  Do you want an annual contract? Write to DOUDNEYS'
+        by the post.
+
+
+  DOUDNEY BROTHERS! DOUDNEY BROTHERS!  Not the men
+        that drive the van,
+  Plastered o'er with advertisements, heralding some paltry
+         plan,
+  How, by base mechanic stinting, and by pinching of their
+         backs,
+  Slim attorneys' clerks may manage to retrieve their
+        Income-tax:
+  But the old established business--where the best of clothes
+         are given
+  At the very lowest prices--Fleet Street, Number Ninety-
+         seven.
+
+
+  Wouldst {231}thou know the works of DOUDNEY? Hie thee
+         to the thronged Arcade,
+  To the Park upon a Sunday, to the terrible Parade.
+
+
+  There, amid the bayonets bristling, and the flashing of the
+          steel,
+  When the household troops in squadrons round the bold
+         field-marshals wheel,
+  Shouldst thou see an aged warrior in a plain blue morning
+         frock,
+  Peering at the proud battalions o'er the margin of his
+         stock,--
+  Should thy throbbing heart then tell thee, that the veteran
+          worn and grey
+  Curbed the course of Bonaparte, rolled the thunders of
+         Assaye--
+  Let it tell thee, stranger, likewise, that the goodly garb
+         he wears
+  Started into shape and being from the DOUDNEY BROTHERS'
+         shears!
+
+
+  Seek thou next the rooms of Willis--mark, where
+        D'Orsay's Count is bending,
+  See the trouser's undulation from his graceful hip
+         descending;
+  Hath the earth another trouser so compact and love-
+         compelling?
+  Thou canst find it, stranger, only, if thou seek'st the
+         DOUDNEYS' dwelling!
+  Hark, {232}from Windsor's royal palace, what sweet voice
+         enchants the ear?
+  "Goodness, what a lovely waistcoat! Oh, who made it,
+         Albert dear?
+  'Tis the very prettiest pattern! You must get a dozen
+         others!"
+  And the Prince, in rapture, answers--"'Tis the work of
+         DOUDNEY BROTHERS!"
+
+
+
+
+
+
+PARIS AND HELEN
+
+
+   As {233}the youthful Paris presses
+       Helen to his ivory breast,
+   Sporting with her golden tresses,
+       Close and ever closer pressed,
+
+
+   "Let me," said he, "quaff the nectar,
+       "Which thy lips of ruby yield;
+    Glory I can leave to Hector,
+       Gathered in the tented field.
+
+
+  "Let me ever gaze upon thee,
+       Look into thine eyes so deep;
+   With a daring hand I won thee,
+       With a faithful heart I'll keep.
+
+
+   "Oh, my Helen, thou bright wonder,
+       Who was ever like to thee?
+   Jove would lay aside his thunder,
+     So he might be blest like me.
+
+
+  "How {234}mine eyes so fondly linger
+      On thy soft and pearly skin;
+  Scan each round and rosy finger,
+      Drinking draughts of beauty in!
+
+
+  "Tell me, whence thy beauty, fairest?
+     Whence thy cheek's enchanting bloom?
+  Whence the rosy hue thou wearest,
+      Breathing round thee rich perfume?"
+
+
+  Thus he spoke, with heart that panted,
+      Clasped her fondly to his side,
+  Gazed on her with look enchanted,
+      While his Helen thus replied:
+
+
+  "Be no discord, love, between us,
+      If I not the secret tell!
+  'Twas a gift I had of Venus,--
+      Venus, who hath loved me well.
+
+
+  "And she told me as she gave it,
+      'Let not e'er the charm be known;
+  O'er thy person freely lave it,
+      Only when thou art alone.'
+
+
+  "'Tis enclosed in yonder casket--
+      Here behold its golden key;
+  But its name--love, do not ask it,
+      Tell't I may not, even to thee!"
+
+
+  Long {235}with vow and kiss he plied her;
+      Still the secret did she keep,
+  Till at length he sank beside her,
+      Seemed as he had dropped to sleep.
+
+
+  Soon was Helen laid in slumber,
+      When her Paris, rising slow,
+  Did his fair neck disencumber
+      From her rounded arms of snow.
+
+
+  Then, her heedless fingers oping,
+      Takes the key and steals away,
+  To the ebon table groping,
+      Where the wondrous casket lay;
+
+
+  Eagerly the lid uncloses,
+      Sees within it, laid aslope,
+  PEAR'S LIQUID BLOOM OF ROSES,
+      Cakes of his TRANSPARENT SOAP!
+
+
+
+
+
+
+SONG OF THE ENNUYE
+
+
+  I'm {236}weary, and sick, and disgusted
+     With Britain's mechanical din;
+  Where I'm much too well known to be trusted,
+     And plaguily pestered for tin;
+  Where love has two eyes for your hanker,
+     And one chilly glance for yourself;
+  Where souls can afford to be franker,
+     But when they're well garnished with pelf.
+
+
+  I'm sick of the whole race of poets,
+     Emasculate, misty, and fine;
+  They brew their small-heer, and don't know its
+     Distinction from full-bodied wine.
+
+
+  I'm sick of the prosers, that house up
+     At drowsy St Stephen's,--ain't you?
+  I want some strong spirits to rouse up
+     A good revolution or two!
+
+
+  I'm {237}sick of a land, where each morrow
+     Repeats the dull tale of to-day,
+  Where you can't even find a new sorrow
+     To chase your stale pleasures away.
+
+
+  I'm sick of blue stockings horrific,
+      Steam, railroads, gas, scrip, and consols:
+  So I'll off where the golden Pacific
+      Round islands of Paradise rolls.
+
+
+  There the passions shall revel unfettered,
+  And the heart never speak but in truth,
+  And the intellect, wholly unlettered,
+      Be bright with the freedom of youth!
+  There the earth can rejoice in her blossoms,
+  Unsullied by vapour or soot,
+  And there chimpanzees and opossums
+  Shall playfully pelt me with fruit.
+
+
+  There I'll sit with my dark Orianas,
+  In groves by the murmuring sea,
+  And they'll give, as I suck the bananas,
+  Their kisses, nor ask them from me.
+  They'll never torment me for sonnets,
+     Nor bore me to death with their own;
+  They'll ask not for shawls nor for bonnets,
+     For milliners there are unknown.
+
+
+  There {238}my couch shall be earth's freshest flowers,
+     My curtains the night and the stars,
+  And my spirit shall gather new powers,
+  Uncramped by conventional bars.
+
+
+  Love for love, truth for truth ever giving,
+  My days shall be manfully sped;
+  I shall know that I'm loved while I'm living,
+  And be wept by fond eyes when I'm dead!
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CAROLINE
+
+
+  Lightsome, {239}brightsome, cousin mine,
+      Easy, breezy Caroline!
+
+
+  With, thy locks all raven-shaded,
+  From thy merry brow up-braided,
+  And thine eyes of laughter full,
+     Brightsome cousin mine!
+
+
+  Thou in chains of love hast bound me--
+  Wherefore dost thou flit around me,
+  Laughter-loving Caroline!
+
+
+  When I fain would go to sleep
+     In my easy-chair,
+  Wherefore on my slumbers creep--
+  Wherefore start me from repose,
+  Tickling of my hookèd nose,
+     Pulling of my hair?
+  Wherefore, then, if thou dost love me,
+  So to words of anger move me,
+     Corking of this face of mine,
+     Tricksy cousin Caroline?
+
+
+  When a {240}sudden sound I hear,
+  Much my nervous system suffers,
+  Shaking through and through.
+  Cousin Caroline, I fear,
+    'Twas no other, now, but you,
+  Put gunpowder in the snuffers,
+  Springing such a mine!
+
+
+  Yes, it was your tricksy self,
+  Wicked-trickèd little elf,
+  Naughty cousin Caroline!
+
+
+  Pins she sticks into my shoulder,
+  Places needles in my chair,
+  And, when I begin to scold her,
+    Tosses back her combed hair,
+  With so saucy-vexed an air,
+  That the pitying beholder
+  Cannot brook that I should scold her:
+  Then again she comes, and bolder,
+  Blacks anew this face of mine,
+  Artful cousin Caroline!
+
+
+  Would she only say she'd love me,
+  Winsome, tinsome Caroline,
+  Unto such excess 'twould move me,
+  Teazing, pleasing, cousin mine!
+
+
+  That {241}she might the live-long day
+  Undermine the snuffer-tray,
+  Tickle still my hooked nose,
+  Startle me from calm repose
+     With her pretty persecution;
+
+
+  Throw the tongs against my shins,
+  Run me through and through with pins,
+     Like a pierced cushion;
+
+
+  Would she only say she'd love me,
+  Darning-needles should not move me;
+  But, reclining back, I'd say,
+  "Dearest! there's the snuffer-tray;
+  Pinch, o pinch those legs of mine!
+
+
+  Cork me, cousin Caroline!"
+
+
+  TO A FORGET-ME-NOT
+
+
+
+
+
+
+FOUND IN MY EMPORIUM OF LOVE-TOKENS.
+
+
+   Sweet {242}flower, that with thy soft blue eye
+      Didst once look up in shady spot,
+   To whisper to the passer-by
+      Those tender words--Forget-me-not!
+
+
+   Though withered now, thou art to me
+      The minister of gentle thought,--
+   And I could weep to gaze on thee,.
+      Love's faded pledge--Forget-me-not!
+
+
+   Thou speak'st of hours when I was young,
+      And happiness arose unsought;
+   When she, the whispering woods among,
+      Gave me thy bloom--Forget-me-not!
+
+
+   That rapturous hour with that dear maid
+      From memory's page no time shall blot,
+   When, yielding to my kiss, she said,
+      "Oh, Theodore--Forget me not!"
+
+
+  Alas {243}for love! alas for truth!
+      Alas for man's uncertain lot!
+  Alas for all the hopes of youth
+      That fade like thee--Forget-me-not!
+
+
+  Alas for that one image fair,
+      With all my brightest dreams inwrought!
+  That walks beside me everywhere,
+      Still whispering--Forget me not!
+
+
+  Oh, Memory! thou art but a sigh
+      For friendships dead and loves forgot,
+  And many a cold and altered eye
+      That once did say--Forget me not!
+
+
+  And I must bow me to thy laws,
+      For--odd although it may be thought--
+  I can't tell who the deuce it was
+      That gave me this Forget-me-not!
+
+
+
+
+
+
+THE MISHAP
+
+
+  "Why {244}art thou weeping, sister?
+  Why is thy cheek so pale?
+  Look up, dear Jane, and tell me
+  What is it thou dost ail?
+
+
+  "I know thy will is froward,
+  Thy feelings warm and keen,
+  And that _that_ Augustus Howard
+  For weeks has not been seen.
+
+
+  "I know {245}how much you loved him;
+  But I know thou dost not weep
+  For him;--for though his passion be,
+  His purse is noways deep.
+
+
+  "Then tell me why those tear-drops?
+  What means this woeful mood?
+  Say, has the tax-collector
+  Been calling, and been rude?
+
+
+  "Or has that hateful grocer,
+  The slave! been here to-day?
+  Of course he had, by morrow's noon,
+  A heavy bill to pay!
+
+
+  "Come, on thy brother's bosom
+  Unburden all thy woes;
+  Look up, look up, sweet sister;
+  Nay, sob not through thy nose."
+
+
+  "Oh, John, 'tis not the grocer
+  For his account, although
+  How ever he is to be paid,
+  I really do not know.
+
+
+  "'Tis {246}not the tax-collector;
+  Though by his fell command
+  They've seized our old paternal clock,
+  And new umbrella-stand!
+
+
+  "Nor that Augustus Howard,
+  Whom I despise almost,--
+  But the soot's come down the chimney, John,
+  And fairly spoiled the roast!"
+
+
+
+
+
+
+COMFORT IN AFFLICTION
+
+
+  "Wherefore {247}starts my bosom's lord?
+  Why this anguish in thine eye?
+  Oh, it seems as thy heart's chord
+  Had broken with that sigh!
+
+
+  "Rest thee, my dear lord, I pray,
+  Rest thee on my bosom now!
+  And let me wipe the dews away,
+  Are gathering on thy brow.
+
+
+  "There, again! that fevered start!
+  What, love! husband! is thy pain?
+  There is a sorrow on thy heart,
+  A weight upon thy brain!
+
+
+  "Nay, nay, that sickly smile can ne'er
+  Deceive affection's searching eye;
+  'Tis a wife's duty, love, to share
+   Her husband's agony.
+
+
+  "Since {248}the dawn began to peep,
+  Have I lain with stifled breath;
+  Heard thee moaning in thy sleep,
+  As thou wert at grips with death.
+
+
+  "Oh, what joy it was to see
+  My gentle lord once more awake!
+  Tell me, what is amiss with thee?
+  Speak, or my heart will break!"
+
+
+  "Mary, thou angel of my life,
+  Thou ever good and kind;
+  'Tis not, believe me, my dear wife,
+  The anguish of the mind!
+
+
+  "It is not in my bosom, dear,
+  No, nor my brain, in sooth;
+  But Mary, oh, I feel it here,
+  Here in my wisdom tooth!
+
+
+ "Then give,--oh, first best antidote,--
+  Sweet partner of my bed!
+  Give me thy flannel petticoat
+  To wrap around my head!"
+
+
+
+
+
+
+THE INVOCATION
+
+
+  "Brother, {249}thou art very weary,
+  And thine eye is sunk and dim,
+  And thy neckcloth's tie is crumpled,
+  And thy collar out of trim;
+  There is dust upon thy visage,--
+  Think not, Charles, I would hurt ye,
+  When I say, that altogether
+  You appear extremely dirty.
+
+
+  "Frown not, brother, now, but hie thee
+     To thy chamber's distant room;
+  Drown the odours of the ledger
+     With the lavender's perfume.
+  Brush the mud from off thy trousers,
+     O'er the china basin kneel,
+  Lave thy brows in water softened
+     With the soap of Old Castile.
+
+
+  "Smooth the locks that o'er thy forehead
+     'Now in loose disorder stray;
+  Pare thy nails, and from thy whiskers
+  Cut those ragged points away;
+  Let no more thy calculations
+     Thy bewildered brain beset;
+  Life has other hopes than Cocker's,
+      Other joys than tare and tret.
+
+
+  "Haste thee, for I ordered dinner,
+     Waiting to the very last,
+  Twenty minutes after seven,
+     And 'tis now the quarter past.
+  'Tis a dinner which Lucullus
+     Would have wept with joy to see,
+  One, might wake the soul of Curtis
+     From death's drowsy atrophy.
+
+
+  "There is soup of real turtle,
+     Turbot, and the dainty sole;
+  And the mottled row of lobsters
+     Blushes through the butter-bowl.
+  There the lordly haunch of mutton,
+     Tender as the mountain grass,
+  Waits to mix its ruddy juices
+     With the girdling caper-sauce.
+
+
+  "There a stag, whose branching forehead
+     Spoke him monarch of the herds,
+  He whose flight was o'er the heather
+     Swift as through the air the bird's,
+  Yields for thee a dish of cutlets;
+     And the haunch that wont to dash
+  O'er the roaring mountain-torrent,
+  Smokes in most delicious hash.
+
+
+  "There, besides, are amber jellies.
+     Floating like a golden dream;
+  Ginger from the far Bermudas,
+     Dishes of Italian pream;
+  And a princely apple-dumpling,
+     Which my own fair fingers wrought,
+  Shall unfold its nectared treasures
+  To thy lips all smoking hot.
+
+
+  "Ha! I see thy brow is clearing,
+  Lustre flashes from thine eyes;
+  To thy lips I see the moisture
+     Of anticipation rise.
+  Hark! the dinner-bell is sounding!"
+     "Only wait one moment, Jane:
+  I'll be dressed, and down, before you
+     Can get up the iced champagne!"
+
+
+
+
+
+
+THE HUSBAND'S PETITION
+
+
+   Come {252}hither, my heart's darling,
+   Come, sit upon my knee,
+   And listen, while I whisper
+   A boon I ask of thee.
+
+
+  You need not pull my whiskers
+  So amorously, my dove;
+   'Tis something quite apart from
+   The gentle cares of love.
+
+
+   I feel a bitter craving--
+   A dark and deep desire,
+   That glows beneath my bosom
+   Like coals of kindled fire.
+
+
+   The passion of the nightingale,
+   When singing to the rose,
+  Is {253}feebler than the agony
+      That murders my repose!
+
+
+  Nay, dearest! do not doubt me,
+      Though madly thus I speak--
+  I feel thy arms about me,
+     Thy tresses on my cheek:
+
+
+  I know the sweet devotion
+      That links thy heart with mine,--
+  I know my soul's emotion
+      Is doubly felt by thine:
+
+
+  And deem not that a shadow
+     Hath fallen across my love:
+  No, sweet, my love is shadowless,
+     As yonder heaven above.
+
+
+  These little taper fingers--
+      Ah, Jane! how white they be!--
+  Can well supply the cruel want
+     That almost maddens me.
+
+
+  Thou wilt not sure deny me
+     My first and fond request;
+  I pray thee, by the memory
+     Of all we cherish best--
+
+
+  By all the dear remembrance
+     Of those delicious days,
+  When, hand in hand, we wandered
+     Along the summer braes;
+
+
+  By {254}all we felt, unspoken,
+     When 'neath the early moon,
+  We sat beside the rivulet,
+     In the leafy month of June;
+
+
+  And by the broken whisper
+     That fell upon my ear,
+  More sweet than angel music,
+     When first I wooed thee, dear!
+
+
+  By thy great vow which bound thee
+     For ever to my side,
+  And by the ring that made thee
+     My darling and my bride!
+
+
+  Thou wilt not fail nor falter,
+      But bend thee to the task--
+  _A BOILED SHEEP'S-HEAD ON SUNDAY_
+     Is all the boon I ask!
+
+
+[Illustration: 266]
+
+
+[Illustration: 267]
+
+
+
+
+
+
+SONNET TO BRITAIN.
+
+
+   Halt! {255}Shoulder arms! Recover
+        As you were!
+   Right wheel! Eyes left! Attention!
+        Stand at ease!
+
+
+   O Britain! O my country! Words like these
+   Have made thy name a terror and a fear
+   To all the nations. Witness Ebro's banks,
+   Assaÿe, Toulouse, Nivelle, and Waterloo,
+   Where the grim despot muttered--_Sauve qui peut!_
+   And Ney fled darkling.--Silence in the ranks!
+
+
+   Inspired {256}by these, amidst the iron crash
+   Of armies, in the centre of his troop
+   The soldier stands--unmovable, not rash--
+   Until the forces of the foeman droop;
+   Then knocks the Frenchman to eternal smash,
+   Pounding them into mummy. Shoulder, hoop!
+
+
+
+THE END.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Book Of Ballads, by Various
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 44798 ***