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diff --git a/44798-0.txt b/44798-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0dd74a4 --- /dev/null +++ b/44798-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6943 @@ +*** 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 *** |