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diff --git a/20477-h/20477-h.htm b/20477-h/20477-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4a91ea9 --- /dev/null +++ b/20477-h/20477-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,7076 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>The Bon Gaultier Ballads</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + H1, H2 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + } + H3, H4 { + text-align: left; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + td { vertical-align: top; border: 1px solid black; padding: 3px;} + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .pagenum {position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; + color: gray;} + + .citation {vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: none;} + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<h2> +<a href="#startoftext">The Bon Gaultier Ballads</a> +</h2> +<pre> +The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Bon Gaultier Ballads, by William +Edmonstoune Aytoun, et al, Illustrated by Richard Doyle, et al + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: The Bon Gaultier Ballads + + +Author: William Edmonstoune Aytoun + Theodore Martin + + + +Release Date: January 28, 2007 [eBook #20477] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BON GAULTIER BALLADS*** +</pre> +<p><a name="startoftext"></a></p> +<p>This eBook transcribed by Les Bowler</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/cover.jpg"> +<img alt="Cover" src="images/cover.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h2><!-- page ii--><a name="pageii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +ii</span>THE BOOK OF BALLADS</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">edited by</span><br /> +BON GAULTIER</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>WITH AN INTRODUCTION AND NOTES</i></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">illustrated by<br /> +</span>DOYLE, LEECH, AND CROWQUILL</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">new edition</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center">WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS<br /> +EDINBURGH AND LONDON<br /> +MCMIV</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>All Rights reserved</i></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><!-- page iii--><a name="pageiii"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. iii</span> +<a href="images/front.jpg"> +<img alt="Frontispiece" src="images/front.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><!-- page iv--><a name="pageiv"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. iv</span> +<a href="images/title.jpg"> +<img alt="Title Page" src="images/title.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h2><!-- page v--><a name="pagev"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +v</span>PREFACE.</h2> +<p>A further edition of this book—the sixteenth—having been +called for, I have been asked by the publishers to furnish a preface to +it. For prefaces I have no love. Books should speak for +themselves. Prefaces can scarcely be otherwise than egotistic, and +one would not willingly add to the too numerous illustrations of this +tendency with which the literature of the day abounds. I would much +rather leave the volume with the simple “Envoy” which I wrote +for it when the Bon Gaultier Ballads were first gathered into a +volume. There the products of the dual authorship of Aytoun and +myself were ascribed to the Bon Gaultier under whose editorial auspices +they had for the most part seen the light. But my publishers tell me +<!-- page vi--><a name="pagevi"></a><span class="pagenum">p. vi</span>that +people want to know why, and how, and by which of us these poems were +written,—curiosity, complimentary, no doubt, but which it is by no +means easy for the surviving bard to satisfy. It is sixty years since +most of these verses were written with the light heart and fluent pen of +youth, and with no thought of their surviving beyond the natural life of +ephemeral magazine pieces of humour. After a long and very crowded +life, of which literature has occupied the smallest part, it is difficult +for me to live back into the circumstances and conditions under which they +were written, or to mark, except to a very limited extent, how far to +Aytoun, and how far to myself, separately, the contents of the volume are +to be assigned. I found this difficult when I wrote Aytoun’s +Life in 1867, and it is necessarily a matter of greater difficulty now in +1903.</p> +<p>I can but endeavour to show how Aytoun and I came together, and how for +two or three years we worked together in literature. Aytoun (born +21st June 1813) was three years older than myself, and he was known already +as a writer in ‘Blackwood’s Magazine’ when I made his +acquaintance in 1841. For <!-- page vii--><a name="pagevii"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. vii</span>some years I had been writing in Tait’s +and Fraser’s Magazines, and elsewhere, articles and verses, chiefly +humorous, both in prose and verse, under the <i>nom de guerre</i> of Bon +Gaultier. This name, which seemed a good one for the author of +playful and occasionally satirical papers, had caught my fancy in Rabelais, +<a name="citationvii"></a><a href="#footnotevii" class="citation">[vii]</a> +where he says of himself, “A moy n’est que honneur et gloire +d’estre diet et reputé Bon Gaultier et bon Compaignon; en ce +nom, suis bien venue en toutes bonnes compaignees de +Pantagruelistes.”</p> +<p>It was to one of these papers that I owed my introduction to +Aytoun. What its nature was may be inferred from its +title—“Flowers of Hemp; or, The Newgate Garland. By One +of the Family.” Like most of the papers on which we +subsequently worked together, the object was not merely to amuse, but also +to strike at some prevailing literary craze or vitiation of taste. I +have lived to see many such crazes since. Every decade seems to +produce one. But the particular craze against which this paper was +directed was the popularity of novels and songs, of which the ruffians <!-- +page viii--><a name="pageviii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. viii</span>of +the Newgate Calendar were the accepted heroes. If my memory does not +deceive me, it began with Harrison Ainsworth’s +‘Rookwood,’ in which the gallantries of Dick Turpin, and the +brilliant description of his famous Ride to York, caught the public +fancy. Encouraged by the success of this book, Ainsworth next wooed +the sympathies of the public for Jack Sheppard and his associates in his +novel of that name. The novel was turned into a melodrama, in which +Mrs Keeley’s clever embodiment of that “marvellous boy” +made for months and months the fortunes of the Adelphi Theatre; while the +sonorous musical voice of Paul Bedford as Blueskin in the same play brought +into vogue a song with the refrain,</p> +<blockquote> +<p>“Nix my dolly, pals, fake away!”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>which travelled everywhere, and made the patter of thieves and burglars +“familiar in our mouths as household words.” It deafened +us in the streets, where it was as popular with the organ-grinders and +German bands as Sullivan’s brightest melodies ever were in a later +day. It clanged at midday from the <!-- page ix--><a +name="pageix"></a><span class="pagenum">p. ix</span>steeple of St Giles, +the Edinburgh cathedral; <a name="citationix"></a><a href="#footnoteix" +class="citation">[ix]</a> it was whistled by every dirty +“gutter-snipe,” and chanted in drawing-rooms by fair lips, +that, little knowing the meaning of the words they sang, proclaimed to +their admiring friends—</p> +<blockquote> +<p>“In a box of the stone jug I was born,<br /> +Of a hempen widow the kid forlorn;<br /> +My noble father, as I’ve heard say,<br /> +Was a famous marchant of capers gay;”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>ending with the inevitable and insufferable chorus,</p> +<blockquote> +<p>“Nix my dolly, pals, fake away!”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Soon after the Newgate Calendar was appealed to for a hero by the author +of ‘Pelham,’ who had already won no small distinction, and who +in his ‘Paul Clifford’ did his best to throw a halo of romance +around the highwayman’s career. Not satisfied with this, Bulwer +next claimed the sympathies of his readers for Eugene Aram, and exalted a +very common type of murderer into a nobly minded and highly sentimental +scholar. Crime and criminals became the favourite theme of a <!-- +page x--><a name="pagex"></a><span class="pagenum">p. x</span>multitude of +novelists of a lower class. They even formed the central interest of +the ‘Oliver Twist’ of Charles Dickens, whose Fagin and his +pupil “the Artful Dodger,” Bill Sykes and Nancy, were +simultaneously presented to us in their habits as they lived by the genius +of George Cruikshank, with a power that gave a double interest to +Dickens’s masterly delineation of these worthies.</p> +<p>The time seemed—in 1841—to have come to open people’s +eyes to the dangerous and degrading taste of the hour, and it struck me +that this might be done by pushing to still further extravagance the +praises which had been lavishly bestowed upon the gentlemen whose career +generally terminated in Newgate or on the Tyburn Tree, and by giving +“the accomplishment of verse” to the sentiments and the +language which formed the staple of the popular thieves’ literature +of the circulating libraries. The medium chosen was the review of a +manuscript, supposed to be sent to the writer by a man who had lived so +fully up to his own convictions as to the noble vocation of those who set +law at defiance, and lived by picking pockets, burglary, and highway +robbery, <!-- page xi--><a name="pagexi"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xi</span>diversified by an occasional murder, that, with the finisher of +the law’s assistance, he had ended his exploits in what the slang of +his class called “a breakfast of hartichoke with caper +sauce.” How hateful the phrase! But it was one of many +such popularly current in those days.</p> +<p>The author of my “Thieves’ Anthology” was described in +my paper as a well-born man of good education, who, having ruined himself +by his bad habits, had fallen into the criminal ranks, but had not +forgotten the <i>literæ humaniores</i> which he had learned at the +Heidelberg University. Of the purpose with which he had written he +spoke thus in what I described as the fragments of a preface to his +Miscellany:—</p> +<blockquote> +<p>“To rescue from oblivion the martyrs of independence, to throw +around the mighty names that flash upon us from the squalor of the +Chronicles of Newgate the radiance of a storied imagination, to clothe the +gibbet and the hulks ‘in golden exhalations of the dawn,’ and +secure for the boozing-ken and the gin-palace that hold upon the general +sympathies which has too long been monopolised by the cottage and the +drawing-room, has been the aim and the achievement of many recent authors +of <!-- page xii--><a name="pagexii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xii</span>distinction. How they have succeeded, let the populous +state of the public jails attest. The office of ‘dubsman’ +[hangman] has ceased to be a sinecure, and the public and Mr Joseph Hume +have the satisfaction of knowing that these useful functionaries have now +got something to do for their salaries. The number of their pupils +has increased, is increasing, and is not likely to be diminished. But +much remains to be done. Many an untenanted cell still echoes only to +the sighs of its own loneliness. New jails are rising around us, +which require to be filled. The Penitentiary presently erecting at +Perth is of the most commodious description.</p> +<p>“In this state of things I have bethought myself of throwing, in +the words of Goethe, ‘my corn into the great seed-field of +time,’ in the hope that it may blossom to purposes of great public +utility. The aid of poetry has hitherto been but partially employed +in the spread of a taste for Conveyancing, especially in its higher +branches. Or where the Muse has shown herself, it has been but in the +evanescent glimpses of a song. She has plumed her wings for no +sustained flight. . . .</p> +<p>“The power of poetry over the heart and impulses of man has been +recognised by all writers from Aristotle down to Serjeant Talfourd. +In dexterous hands it has been known to subvert a severe chastity by the +insinuations of a holy flame, to clothe impurity in vestments ‘bright +with something <!-- page xiii--><a name="pagexiii"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. xiii</span>of an angel light,’ to exalt spleen +into elevation of soul, and selfishness into a noble scorn of the world, +and, with the ringing cadences of an enthusiastic style, to ennoble the +vulgar and to sanctify the low. How much may be done, with an engine +of such power, in increasing the numbers of ‘The Family’ may be +conceived. The Muse of Faking, fair daughter of the herald Mercury, +claims her place among ‘The Mystic Nine.’ Her language, +erewhile slumbering in the pages of the Flash Dictionary, now lives upon +the lips of all, even in the most fashionable circles. Ladies accost +crossing-sweepers as ‘dubsmen’; whist-players are generally +spoken of in gambling families as ‘<i>dummy</i>-hunters’; +children in their nursery sports are accustomed to ‘nix their +dolls’; and the all but universal summons to exertion of every +description is ‘Fake away!’</p> +<p>“‘Words are things,’ says Apollonius of Tyana. +We cannot be long familiar with a symbol without becoming intimate with +that which it expresses. Let the public mind, then, be in the habit +of associating these and similar expressions with passages of poetical +power, let the ideas they import be imbedded in their hearts and glorified +in their imaginations, and the fairest results may with confidence be +anticipated.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>In song and sonnet and ballad these views were illustrated and +enforced. They served <!-- page xiv--><a name="pagexiv"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. xiv</span>the purpose of the ridicule which it was hoped +might operate to cure people of the prevailing toleration for the romance +of the slums and the thieves’ kitchen. Naturally parody was +freely used. Wordsworth did not escape. His</p> +<blockquote> +<p>“Milton, thou shouldst be living at this hour,”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>found its echo in</p> +<blockquote> +<p>“Turpin, thou shouldst be living at this hour,<br /> +England hath need of thee,” &c.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>And his “Great men have been among us,” &c., was +perverted into</p> +<blockquote> +<p>“Great men have been among us,—Names that lend<br /> + A lustre to our calling; better none;<br /> + Maclaine, Duval, Dick Turpin, Barrington,<br /> +Blueskin and others, who called Sheppard friend.<br /> +. . . + .<br /> +. . . Now, ’tis strange,<br /> +We never see such souls as we had then;<br /> + Perpetual larcenies and such small change!<br /> +No single cracksman paramount, no code,<br /> +No master spirit, that will take the road,<br /> +But equal dearth of pluck and highwaymen!”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Nor did even Shelley’s magnificent sonnet “Ozymandias” +escape the profane hand of the burglar poet. He wrote,—</p> +<blockquote> +<p><!-- page xv--><a name="pagexv"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xv</span>“I met a cracksman coming down the Strand,<br /> + Who said, ‘A huge Cathedral, piled of stone,<br /> +Stands in a churchyard, near St Martin’s Le Grand,<br /> + Where keeps Saint Paul his sacerdotal throne.<br /> +A street runs by it to the northward. There<br /> +For cab and bus is writ ‘No Thoroughfare,’<br /> + The Mayor and Councilmen do so command.<br /> +And in that street a shop, with many a box,<br /> + Upon whose sign these fateful words I scanned:<br /> +‘My name is Chubb, who makes the Patent Locks;<br /> + Look on my works, ye burglars, and despair!’<br /> +Here made he pause, like one that sees a blight<br /> + Mar all his hopes, and sighed with drooping air,<br /> +‘Our game is up, my covies, blow me tight!’”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>The versatile genius of the poet was equally at home in the simpler +lyric region of the Haynes Bayley school. Taking for his model the +favourite drawing-room ballad of the period, “She wore a wreath of +roses the night that first we met,” he made a parody of its +rhythmical cadence the medium for presenting some leading incidents in the +career of a Circe of “the boozing ken,” as thus,—</p> +<blockquote> +<p>“She wore a rouge like roses the night that first we met;<br /> +Her lovely mug was smiling o’er mugs of heavy wet;<br /> +Her red lips had the fulness, her voice the husky tone,<br /> +That told her drink was of a kind where water was unknown.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p><!-- page xvi--><a name="pagexvi"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xvi</span>Then after a few more glimpses of this charming creature in her +downward progress, the bard wound up with this characteristic close to her +public life,—</p> +<blockquote> +<p>“I saw her but a moment, but methinks I see her now,<br /> +As she dropped the judge a curtsey, and he made her a bow.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>But it would be out of place to dwell longer upon those reckless +imitations. The only poem which ultimately found a place in the Bon +Gaultier volume was “The Death of Duval.”</p> +<p>The paper was a success. Aytoun was taken by it, and sought an +introduction to me by our common friend Edward Forbes the eminent +Naturalist, then a leading spirit among the students of the Edinburgh +University, beloved and honoured by all who knew him. Aytoun’s +name was familiar to me from his contributions to ‘Blackwood’s +Magazine,’ and I was well pleased to make his acquaintance, which +rapidly grew into intimate friendship, as it could not fail to do with a +man of a nature so manly and genial, and so full of spontaneous humour, as +well as of marked literary ability. <!-- page xvii--><a +name="pagexvii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. xvii</span>His fancy had been +caught by some of the things I had written in this and other papers under +the name of Bon Gaultier, and when I proposed to go on with articles in a +similar vein, he fell readily into the plan and agreed to assist in +it. Thus a kind of Beaumont and Fletcher partnership was formed, +which commenced in a series of humorous papers that were published in +Tait’s and Fraser’s Magazines during the years 1842, 1843, and +1844. In these papers appeared, with a few exceptions, the verses +which form the present volume. They were only a portion, but no doubt +the best portion, of a great number of poems and parodies which made the +chief attraction of papers under such headings as “Puffs and +Poetry,” “My Wife’s Album,” “The Poets of the +Day,” and “Cracknels for Christmas.”</p> +<p>In the last of these the parody appeared under the name of “The +Jilted Gent, by Theodore Smifzer,” which, as “The Lay of the +Lovelorn,” has become perhaps the most popular of the series. I +remember well Aytoun bringing to me some ten or a dozen lines of admirable +parody of “Locksley Hall.” That poem had been published +about two years before, and was <!-- page xviii--><a +name="pagexviii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. xviii</span>at the time by no +means widely known, but was enthusiastically admired by both Aytoun and +myself. What these lines were I cannot now be sure, but certainly +they were some of the best in the poem. They were too good to appear +as a fragment in the paper I was engaged upon, and I set to work to mould +them into the form of a complete poem, in which it is now known. It +was introduced in the paper thus:—</p> +<blockquote> +<p>“There is a peculiar atrocity in the circumstances which gave rise +to the following poem, that stirs even the Dead Sea of our +sensibilities. The lady appears to have carried on a furious +flirtation with the bard—a cousin of her own—which she, +naturally perhaps, but certainly cruelly, terminated by marrying an old +East Indian nabob, with a complexion like curry powder, innumerable lacs of +rupees, and a woful lack of liver. A refusal by one’s cousin is +a domestic treason of the most ruthless kind; and, assuming the +author’s statement to be substantially correct, we must say that the +lady’s conduct was disgraceful. What her sensations must be on +reading the following passionate appeal we cannot of course divine; but if +one spark of feeling lingers in her bosom, she must, for four-and-twenty +hours at least, have little appetite for mulligatawny.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p><!-- page xix--><a name="pagexix"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xix</span>The reviewer then quotes the poem down to the general +commination, ending with</p> +<blockquote> +<p>“Cursed be the clerk and parson,—cursed be the whole +concern!”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>He then resumes his commentary:—</p> +<blockquote> +<p>“This sweeping system of anathema may be consonant to what the +philosophers call a high and imaginative mood of passion, but it is surely +as unjust as any fulminations that ever emanated from the Papal +Chair. No doubt Cousin Amy behaved shockingly; but why, on that +account, should the Bank of England, incorporated by Royal Charter, or the +most respectable practitioner who prepared the settlements, along with his +innocent clerk, be handed over to the uncovenanted mercies of the foul +fiend? No, no, Smifzer, this will never do! In a more manly +strain is what follows.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>The remainder of the poem is then given, ending with,</p> +<blockquote> +<p>“Rest thee with thy yellow nabob, spider-hearted Cousin +Amy!”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>and the critic resumes:—</p> +<blockquote> +<p>“Bravo, Smifzer! This is the right sort of thing—no +wishy-washy snivelling about a wounded heart and all that kind of stuff, +but savage sarcasm, the lava of a volcanic spirit. In a fine +prophetic strain is <!-- page xx--><a name="pagexx"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. xx</span>that vision of Amy’s feelings as the +inebriated nawab stumbles hazily into the drawing-room, steaming fulsomely +of chilma! And that picture of the African jungle, with Smifzer <i>in +puris</i> mounted on a high-trotting giraffe, with his twelve dusky brides +around him,—Cruikshank alone could do it justice. But the +triumph of the poem is in the high-toned sentiment of civilisation and +moral duty, which, esteeming ‘the grey barbarian’ lower than +the ‘Christian cad,’—and that is low enough in all +conscience,—tears the captivating delusions of freedom and polygamy +from the poet’s eyes, even when his pulse is throbbing at the +wildest, and sends him from the shades of the palm and the orange tree to +the advertising columns of the ‘Morning Post.’ This is +indeed a great poem, and we need only add that the reader will find +something like it in Mr Alfred Tennyson’s ‘Locksley +Hall.’ There has been pilfering somewhere; but Messieurs +Smifzer and Tennyson must settle it between them.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>How little did I dream, when writing this, that I should hear the parody +quoted through the years up till now almost as often as the original +poem! Smifzer was wiser than Tennyson, for he never spoiled the +effect of his poem by admitting, like Tennyson in his “Locksley Hall, +Sixty Years After,” that it <!-- page xxi--><a +name="pagexxi"></a><span class="pagenum">p. xxi</span>was a good thing that +“spider-hearted” Amy threw him over as she did.</p> +<p>Luckily for us, not a few poets were then living whose style and manner +of thought were sufficiently marked to make imitation easy, and +sufficiently popular for a parody of their characteristics to be readily +recognised. Lockhart’s “Spanish Ballads” were as +familiar in the drawing-room as in the study. Macaulay’s +“Lays of Ancient Rome,” and his two other fine ballads, were +still in the freshness of their fame. Tennyson and Mrs Browning were +opening up new veins. These, with Moore, Leigh Hunt, Uhland, and +others of minor note, lay ready to our hands, as Scott, Byron, Crabbe, +Coleridge, Moore, Wordsworth, and Southey had done to James and Horace +Smith in 1812, when writing the “Rejected Addresses.” +Never, probably, were verses thrown off with a keener sense of enjoyment, +and assuredly the poets parodied had no warmer admirers than +ourselves. Very pleasant were the hours when we met, and now Aytoun +and now myself would suggest the subjects for each successive article, and +the verses with which they were to be illustrated. Most commonly this +<!-- page xxii--><a name="pagexxii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xxii</span>was done in our rambles to favourite spots in the suburbs of +“our own romantic town,” on Arthur Seat, or by the shores of +the Forth, and at other times as we sat together of an evening, when the +duties of the day were over, and joined in putting line after line together +until the poem was completed. In writing thus for our own amusement +we never dreamed that these “nugæ literariæ” would +live beyond the hour. It was, therefore, a pleasant surprise when we +found to what an extent they became popular, not only in England, but also +in America, which had come in for no small share of severe though +well-meant ridicule. In those days who could say what fate might have +awaited us had we visited the States, and Aytoun been known to be the +author of “The Lay of Mr Colt” and “The Fight with the +Snapping Turtle,” or myself as the chronicler of “The Death of +Jabez Dollar” and “The Alabama Duel”? As it was, +our transatlantic friends took a liberal revenge by instantly pirating the +volume, and selling it by thousands with a contemptuous disregard of +author’s copyright.</p> +<p>For Aytoun the extravagances of melodrama <!-- page xxiii--><a +name="pagexxiii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. xxiii</span>and the feats and +eccentricities of the arena at Astley’s amphitheatre had always a +peculiar charm. “The terrible Fitzball,” the English +Dumas, in quantity, not quality, of melodrama, Gomersal, one of the chief +equestrians, and Widdicomb, the master of the ring at Astley’s, were +three of his favourite heroes. Ducrow, manager of Astley’s, the +most daring and graceful of equestrians, and the fair Miss Woolford, the +star of his troupe, had charms irresistible for all lovers of the +circus. In Aytoun’s enthusiasm I fully shared. Mine found +expression in “The Courtship of our Cid,” Aytoun’s in +“Don Fernando Gomersalez,” in which I recognise many of my own +lines, but of which the conception and the best part of the verses were +his. Years afterwards his delight in the glories of the ring broke +out in the following passage in a too-good-to-be-forgotten article in +‘Blackwood,’ which, to those who may never hope to see in any +circus anything so inspiring, so full of an imaginative glamour, may give +some idea of the nightly scenes in the halcyon days of +Astley’s:—</p> +<blockquote> +<p>“We delight to see, at never-failing Astley’s, the revived +glories of British prowess—Wellington in <!-- page xxiv--><a +name="pagexxiv"></a><span class="pagenum">p. xxiv</span>the midst of his +staff, smiling benignantly on the facetious pleasantries of a Fitzroy +Somerset—Sergeant M’Craw of the Forty-Second delighting the +<i>élite</i> of Brussels by the performance of the reel of +Tullochgorum at the Duchess of Richmond’s ball—the charge of +the Scots Greys—the single-handed combat of Marshal Ney and the +infuriated Life-Guardsman Shaw—and the final retreat of Napoleon +amidst a volley of Roman candles and the flames of an arsenicated +Hougomont. Nor is our gratification less to discern, after the +subsiding of the showers of sawdust so gracefully scattered by that groom +in the doeskin integuments, the stately form of Widdicomb, cased in martial +apparel, advancing towards the centre of the ring, and +commanding—with imperious gesture, and some slight flagellation in +return for dubious compliment—the double-jointed clown to assist the +Signora Cavalcanti to her seat upon the celebrated Arabian. How +lovely looks the lady, as she vaults to her feet upon the breadth of the +yielding saddle! With what inimitable grace does she whirl these tiny +banners around her head, as winningly as a Titania performing the sword +exercise! How coyly does she dispose her garments and floating +drapery to hide the too-maddening symmetry of her limbs! Gods! +She is transformed all at once into an Amazon—the fawn-like timidity +of her first demeanour is gone. Bold and beautiful flushes her cheek +with animated crimson—her full voluptuous lip is more compressed and +firm—the deep passion <!-- page xxv--><a name="pagexxv"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. xxv</span>of the huntress flashing in her lustrous +eyes! Widdicomb becomes excited—he moves with quicker step +around the periphery of his central circle—incessant is the smacking +of his whip—not this time directed against Mr Merriman, who at his +ease is enjoying a swim upon the sawdust—and lo! the grooms rush in, +six bars are elevated in a trice, and over them all bounds the volatile +Signora like a panther, nor pauses until with airy somersets she has passed +twice through the purgatory of the blazing hoop, and then, drooping and +exhausted, sinks like a Sabine into the arms of the Herculean master, +who—a second Romulus—bears away his lovely burden to the +stables, amid such a whirlwind of applause as Kemble might have been proud +to earn.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Astley’s has long been levelled with the dust; it is many years +since Widdicomb, Gomersal, Ducrow, and the Woolford passed into the Silent +Land. May their memory be preserved for yet a few years to come in +the mirthful strains of two of their most ardent and grateful admirers!</p> +<p>Of the longer poems in this volume the following were exclusively +Aytoun’s: “The Broken Pitcher,” “The Massacre of +the Macpherson,” “The Rhyme of Sir Launcelot Bogle,” +“Little John and the Red Friar,” “A Midnight +Meditation,” and that admirable imitation <!-- page xxvi--><a +name="pagexxvi"></a><span class="pagenum">p. xxvi</span>of the Scottish +ballad, “The Queen in France.” Some of the shorter poems +were also his—“The Lay of the Levite,” “Tarquin and +the Augur,” “La Mort d’Arthur,” “The +Husband’s Petition,” and the “Sonnet to +Britain.” The rest were either wholly mine or produced by us +jointly.</p> +<p>After 1844 the Bon Gaultier co-operation ceased. My profession and +removal from Edinburgh to London left no leisure or opportunity for work of +that kind, and Aytoun became busy with the Professorship of Belles Lettres +in the University and with his work at the Bar and on +‘Blackwood’s Magazine.’ We had also during the Bon +Gaultier period worked together in a series of translations of +Goethe’s Poems and Ballads for ‘Blackwood’s +Magazine,’ which, like the Bon Gaultier Ballads, were collected, +added to, and published in a volume a year or two afterwards. In 1845 +I left Edinburgh for London, and only met Aytoun at intervals there or at +Homburg in the future years; but our friendship was kept alive by active +correspondence. Literature was naturally his vocation, and he wrote +much and well, with exemplary industry, enlivening his papers in <!-- page +xxvii--><a name="pagexxvii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xxvii</span>‘Blackwood,’ till his death in August 1865, with +the same manly sense, the same playfulness of fancy and flow of spontaneous +humour, which made his society and his letters always delightful to his +friends.</p> +<blockquote> +<p>“Multis ille bonis flebilis occidit,<br /> +Nulli flebilior quam mihi!”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>The first edition of this book, now very rare, appeared in 1845. +It was illustrated by Alfred Henry Forrester (Alfred Crowquill). In +the subsequent editions drawings by Richard Doyle and John Leech, in a +kindred spirit of fanciful extravagance, were added, and helped materially +towards the attractions of the volume. Its popularity surpassed the +utmost expectations of the authors. To them not the least pleasant +feature of its success was that it was widely read both in the Navy and the +Army, and was nowhere more in demand than in the trenches before Sebastopol +in 1854.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">THEODORE MARTIN.</p> +<p>31 <span class="smcap">Onslow Square</span>,<br /> + <i>October</i> 1903.</p> +<h2><!-- page xxviii--><a name="pagexxviii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xxviii</span>LIST OF EDITIONS<br /> +<span class="smcap">of the</span><br /> +BON GAULTIER BALLADS.</h2> +<table cellspacing="0"> +<tr> +<td> +<p>Edition.</p> +</td> +<td> +<p></p> +</td> +<td> +<p></p> +</td> +<td> +<p></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>1</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>1845</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>16mo</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>Illustrated by <span class="smcap">Alfred Crowquill</span>.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>2</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>1849</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>sm. 4to</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>Illustrated by <span class="smcap">Alfred Crowquill</span> and <span +class="smcap">Richard Doyle</span>. With Portrait of “Bon +Gaultier,” Illuminated Title-page, and Ornamental Borders.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>3</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>[1849]</p> +</td> +<td> +<p> "</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>Illustrated by <span class="smcap">Alfred Crowquill</span>, <span +class="smcap">Richard Doyle</span>, and <span class="smcap">John +Leech</span>. First edition with Corner Cartoons.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>4</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>[1855]</p> +</td> +<td> +<p> "</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>Illustrated by the <span class="smcap">Same</span>. Second Edition +with Corner Cartoons.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>5</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>1857</p> +</td> +<td> +<p> "</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>The editions 5 to 17 were illustrated by <span +class="smcap">Doyle</span>, <span class="smcap">Leech</span>, and <span +class="smcap">Crowquill</span>.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>6</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>1859</p> +</td> +<td> +<p> "</p> +</td> +<td> +<p></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>7</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>1861</p> +</td> +<td> +<p> "</p> +</td> +<td> +<p></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>8</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>1864</p> +</td> +<td> +<p> "</p> +</td> +<td> +<p></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>9</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>1866</p> +</td> +<td> +<p> "</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>The 16th and 17th Editions being the Third and Fourth with Corner +Cartoons.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>10</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>1868</p> +</td> +<td> +<p> "</p> +</td> +<td> +<p></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>11</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>1870</p> +</td> +<td> +<p> "</p> +</td> +<td> +<p></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>12</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>1874</p> +</td> +<td> +<p> "</p> +</td> +<td> +<p></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>13</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>1877</p> +</td> +<td> +<p> "</p> +</td> +<td> +<p></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>14</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>1884</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>crown 8vo</p> +</td> +<td> +<p></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>15</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>1889</p> +</td> +<td> +<p> "</p> +</td> +<td> +<p></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>16</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>1903</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>sm. 4to</p> +</td> +<td> +<p></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>17</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>1904</p> +</td> +<td> +<p> "</p> +</td> +<td> +<p></p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h2><!-- page xxix--><a name="pagexxix"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xxix</span>CONTENTS.</h2> +<table cellspacing="0"> +<tr> +<td> +<p></p> +</td> +<td> +<p>Page</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>PREFACE,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>v</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>L’ENVOY,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>xxxiii</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p> +<i>Spanish Ballads</i></p> +</td> +<td> +<p></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>THE BROKEN PITCHER,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>3</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>DON FERNANDO GOMERSALEZ: <span class="smcap">from the spanish of +astley’s</span>,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>7</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>THE COURTSHIP OF OUR CID,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>24</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p> +<i>American Ballads</i></p> +</td> +<td> +<p></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>THE FIGHT WITH THE SNAPPING TURTLE; OR, THE AMERICAN ST +GEORGE:—</p> +</td> +<td> +<p></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p> <span class="smcap">fytte +first</span>,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>35</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p> <span class="smcap">fytte +second</span>,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>39</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>THE LAY OF MR COLT:</p> +</td> +<td> +<p></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p> <span class="smcap">streak the +first</span>,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>45</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p> <span class="smcap">streak the +second</span>,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>47</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>THE DEATH OF JABEZ DOLLAR,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>53</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>THE ALABAMA DUEL,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>59</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>THE AMERICAN’S APOSTROPHE TO “BOZ”,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>66</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p> <!-- +page xxx--><a name="pagexxx"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xxx</span><i>Miscellaneous Ballads</i></p> +</td> +<td> +<p></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>THE STUDENT OF JENA,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>75</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>THE LAY OF THE LEVITE,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>80</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>BURSCH GROGGENBURG,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>82</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>NIGHT AND MORNING,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>87</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>THE BITER BIT,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>89</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>THE CONVICT AND THE AUSTRALIAN LADY,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>92</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>THE DOLEFUL LAY OF THE HONOURABLE I. O. UWINS,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>96</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>THE KNYGHTE AND THE TAYLZEOUR’S DAUGHTER,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>103</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>THE MIDNIGHT VISIT,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>110</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>THE LAY OF THE LOVELORN,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>116</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>MY WIFE’S COUSIN,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>130</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>THE QUEEN IN FRANCE: AN ANCIENT SCOTTISH BALLAD:</p> +</td> +<td> +<p></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p> <span class="smcap">Part +I.</span>,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>135</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p> <span class="smcap">Part +II.</span>,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>143</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>THE MASSACRE OF THE MACPHERSON: <span class="smcap">from the +gaelic</span>,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>150</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>THE LAUREATES’ TOURNEY:—</p> +</td> +<td> +<p></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p> <span class="smcap">fytte the +first</span>,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>156</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p> <span class="smcap">fytte the +second</span>,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>161</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>THE ROYAL BANQUET,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>166</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>THE BARD OF ERIN’S LAMENT,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>171</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>THE LAUREATE,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>173</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>A MIDNIGHT MEDITATION,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>177</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>MONTGOMERY: <span class="smcap">A Poem</span>,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>182</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>LITTLE JOHN AND THE RED FRIAR: <span class="smcap">A Lay of +Sherwood</span>:—</p> +</td> +<td> +<p></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p> <span class="smcap">fytte the +first</span>,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>186</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p> <span class="smcap">fytte the +second</span>,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>192</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>THE RHYME OF SIR LAUNCELOT BOGLE : <span class="smcap">A Legend of +Glasgow</span>,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>201</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p> <!-- page xxxi--><a +name="pagexxxi"></a><span class="pagenum">p. xxxi</span><i>Illustrations of +the Puff Poetical</i></p> +</td> +<td> +<p></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>THE DEATH OF ISHMAEL,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>221</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>PARR’S LIFE PILLS,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>223</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>TARQUIN AND THE AUGUR,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>226</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>LA MORT D’ARTHUR,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>228</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>JUPITER AND THE INDIAN ALE,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>229</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>THE LAY OF THE DOUDNEY BROTHERS,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>232</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>PARIS AND HELEN,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>235</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>A WARNING,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>238</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>TO PERSONS ABOUT TO MARRY,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>239</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>WANT PLACES,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>241</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p> +<i>Miscellaneous Poems</i></p> +</td> +<td> +<p></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>THE LAY OF THE LOVER’S FRIEND,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>245</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>FRANCESCA DA RIMINI,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>249</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>THE CADI’S DAUGHTER: <span class="smcap">A Legend of the +Bosphorus</span>,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>253</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>THE DIRGE OF THE DRINKER,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>258</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>THE DEATH OF DUVAL,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>261</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>EASTERN SERENADE,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>267</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>DAME FREDEGONDE,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>271</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>SONG OF THE ENNUYÉ,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>276</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>THE DEATH OF SPACE,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>279</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>CAROLINE,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>281</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>TO A FORGET-ME-NOT,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>284</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>THE MEETING,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>286</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>THE MISHAP,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>288</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>COMFORT IN AFFLICTION,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>291</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>THE INVOCATION,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>293</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>THE HUSBAND’S PETITION,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>297</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> +<p>SONNET TO BRITAIN,</p> +</td> +<td> +<p>301</p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<p style="text-align: center"><!-- page xxxii--><a +name="pagexxxii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. xxxii</span> +<a href="images/xxxiii.jpg"> +<img alt="Illustration" src="images/xxxiii.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h2>L’ENVOY.</h2> +<p>Come, buy my lays, and read them if you list;<br /> +My pensive public, if you list not, buy.<br /> +Come, for you know me. I am he who sang<br /> +Of Mister Colt, and I am he who framed<br /> +Of Widdicomb the wild and wondrous song.<br /> +Come, listen to my lays, and you shall hear<br /> +How Wordsworth, battling for the Laureate’s wreath,<br /> +Bore to the dust the terrible Fitzball;<br /> +How N. P. Willis for his country’s good,<br /> +In complete steel, all bowie-knived at point,<br /> +Took lodgings in the Snapping Turtle’s womb.<br /> +<!-- page xxxiv--><a name="pagexxxiv"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xxxiv</span>Come, listen to my lays, and you shall hear<br /> +The mingled music of all modern bards<br /> +Floating aloft in such peculiar strains,<br /> +As strike themselves with envy and amaze;<br /> +For you “bright-harpéd” Tennyson shall sing;<br /> +Macaulay chant a more than Roman lay;<br /> +And Bulwer Lytton, Lytton Bulwer erst,<br /> +Unseen amidst a metaphysic fog,<br /> +Howl melancholy homage to the moon;<br /> +For you once more Montgomery shall rave<br /> +In all his rapt rabidity of rhyme;<br /> +Nankeened Cockaigne shall pipe his puny note,<br /> +And our young England’s penny trumpet blow.</p> +<h2><!-- page 3--><a name="page3"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +3</span>SPANISH BALLADS</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p3.jpg"> +<img alt="Illustration" src="images/p3.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h3>The Broken Pitcher.</h3> +<p>It was a Moorish maiden was sitting by a well,<br /> +And what the maiden thought of, I cannot, cannot tell,<br /> +When by there rode a valiant knight from the town of Oviedo—<br /> +Alphonzo Guzman was he hight, the Count of Tololedo.</p> +<p><!-- page 4--><a name="page4"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +4</span>“Oh, maiden, Moorish maiden, why sit’st thou by the +spring?<br /> +Say, dost thou seek a lover, or any other thing?<br /> +Why dost thou look upon me, with eyes so dark and wide,<br /> +And wherefore doth the pitcher lie broken by thy side?”</p> +<p>“I do not seek a lover, thou Christian knight so gay,<br /> +Because an article like that hath never come my way;<br /> +And why I gaze upon you, I cannot, cannot tell,<br /> +Except that in your iron hose you look uncommon swell.</p> +<p>“My pitcher it is broken, and this the reason is,—<br /> +A shepherd came behind me, and tried to snatch a kiss;<br /> +I would not stand his nonsense, so ne’er a word I spoke,<br /> +But scored him on the costard, and so the jug was broke.</p> +<p><!-- page 5--><a name="page5"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +5</span>“My uncle, the Alcaydè, he waits for me at home,<br /> +And will not take his tumbler until Zorayda come:<br /> +I cannot bring him water—the pitcher is in pieces—<br /> +And so I’m sure to catch it, ’cos he wallops all his +nieces.”</p> +<p>“Oh, maiden, Moorish maiden! wilt thou be ruled by me?<br /> +Then wipe thine eyes and rosy lips, and give me kisses three;<br /> +And I’ll give thee my helmet, thou kind and courteous lady,<br /> +To carry home the water to thy uncle, the Alcaydè.”</p> +<p>He lighted down from off his steed—he tied him to a tree—<br +/> +He bent him to the maiden, and he took his kisses three;<br /> +“To wrong thee, sweet Zorayda, I swear would be a sin!”<br /> +And he knelt him at the fountain, and he dipped his helmet in.</p> +<p><!-- page 6--><a name="page6"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 6</span>Up +rose the Moorish maiden—behind the knight she steals,<br /> +And caught Alphonzo Guzman in a twinkling by the heels:<br /> +She tipped him in, and held him down beneath the bubbling water,—<br +/> +“Now, take thou that for venturing to kiss Al Hamet’s +daughter!”</p> +<p>A Christian maid is weeping in the town of Oviedo;<br /> +She waits the coming of her love, the Count of Tololedo.<br /> +I pray you all in charity, that you will never tell,<br /> +How he met the Moorish maiden beside the lonely well.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p6.jpg"> +<img alt="Illustration" src="images/p6.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h3><!-- page 7--><a name="page7"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 7</span>Don +Fernando Gomersalez.<br /> +<i>From the Spanish of Astley’s</i>.</h3> +<p>Don Fernando Gomersalez! <a name="citation7"></a><a href="#footnote7" +class="citation">[7]</a> basely have they borne thee down;<br /> +Paces ten behind thy charger is thy glorious body thrown;<br /> +Fetters have they bound upon thee—iron fetters, fast and sure;<br /> +Don Fernando Gomersalez, thou art captive to the Moor!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p7.jpg"> +<img alt="Illustration" src="images/p7.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p><!-- page 8--><a name="page8"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 8</span>Long +within a dingy dungeon pined that brave and noble knight,<br /> +For the Saracenic warriors well they knew and feared his might;<br /> +Long he lay and long he languished on his dripping bed of stone,<br /> +Till the cankered iron fetters ate their way into his bone.</p> +<p>On the twentieth day of August—’twas the feast of false +Mahound—<br /> +Came the Moorish population from the neighbouring cities round;<br /> +There to hold their foul carousal, there to dance and there to sing,<br /> +And to pay their yearly homage to Al-Widdicomb, <a name="citation8"></a><a +href="#footnote8" class="citation">[8]</a> the King!</p> +<p>First they wheeled their supple coursers, wheeled them at their utmost +speed,<br /> +Then they galloped by in squadrons, tossing far the light jereed;<br /> +<!-- page 9--><a name="page9"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 9</span>Then +around the circus racing, faster than the swallow flies,<br /> +Did they spurn the yellow sawdust in the rapt spectators’ eyes.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p9.jpg"> +<img alt="Illustration" src="images/p9.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p>Proudly did the Moorish monarch every passing warrior greet,<br /> +As he sate enthroned above them, with the lamps beneath his feet;<br /> +<!-- page 10--><a name="page10"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +10</span>“Tell me, thou black-bearded Cadi! are there any in the +land,<br /> +That against my janissaries dare one hour in combat stand?”</p> +<p>Then the bearded Cadi answered—“Be not wroth, my lord the +King,<br /> +If thy faithful slave shall venture to observe one little thing;<br /> +Valiant, doubtless, are thy warriors, and their beards are long and +hairy,<br /> +And a thunderbolt in battle is each bristly janissary:</p> +<p>“But I cannot, O my sovereign, quite forget that fearful day,<br +/> +When I saw the Christian army in its terrible array;<br /> +When they charged across the footlights like a torrent down its bed,<br /> +With the red cross floating o’er them, and Fernando at their +head!</p> +<p><!-- page 11--><a name="page11"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +11</span>“Don Fernando Gomersalez! matchless chieftain he in war,<br +/> +Mightier than Don Sticknejo, <a name="citation11"></a><a href="#footnote11" +class="citation">[11]</a> braver than the Cid Bivar!<br /> +Not a cheek within Grenada, O my king, but wan and pale is,<br /> +When they hear the dreaded name of Don Fernando Gomersalez!”</p> +<p>“Thou shalt see thy champion, Cadi! hither quick the captive +bring!”<br /> +Thus in wrath and deadly anger spoke Al-Widdicomb, the King:<br /> +“Paler than a maiden’s forehead is the Christian’s hue, I +ween,<br /> +Since a year within the dungeons of Grenada he hath been!”</p> +<p>Then they brought the Gomersalez, and they led the warrior in;<br /> +Weak and wasted seemed his body, and his face was pale and thin;<br /> +<!-- page 12--><a name="page12"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 12</span>But +the ancient fire was burning, unsubdued, within his eye,<br /> +And his step was proud and stately, and his look was stern and high.</p> +<p>Scarcely from tumultuous cheering could the galleried crowd refrain,<br +/> +For they knew Don Gomersalez and his prowess in the plain;<br /> +But they feared the grizzly despot and his myrmidons in steel,<br /> +So their sympathy descended in the fruitage of Seville. <a +name="citation12"></a><a href="#footnote12" class="citation">[12]</a></p> +<p>“Wherefore, monarch, hast thou brought me from the dungeon dark +and drear,<br /> +Where these limbs of mine have wasted in confinement for a year?<br /> +Dost thou lead me forth to torture?—Rack and pincers I defy!<br /> +Is it that thy base grotesquos may behold a hero die?”</p> +<p><!-- page 13--><a name="page13"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +13</span>“Hold thy peace, thou Christian caitiff, and attend to what +I say!<br /> +Thou art called the starkest rider of the Spanish cur’s array<br /> +If thy courage be undaunted, as they say it was of yore,<br /> +Thou mayst yet achieve thy freedom,—yet regain thy native shore.</p> +<p>“Courses three within this circus ’gainst my warriors shalt +thou run,<br /> +Ere yon weltering pasteboard ocean shall receive yon muslin sun;<br /> +Victor—thou shalt have thy freedom; but if stretched upon the +plain,<br /> +To thy dark and dreary dungeon they shall hale thee back again.”</p> +<p>“Give me but the armour, monarch, I have worn in many a field,<br +/> +Give me but my trusty helmet, give me but my dinted shield;<br /> +<!-- page 14--><a name="page14"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 14</span>And +my old steed, Bavieca, swiftest courser in the ring,<br /> +And I rather should imagine that I’ll do the business, +King!”</p> +<p>Then they carried down the armour from the garret where it lay,<br /> +Oh! but it was red and rusty, and the plumes were shorn away:<br /> +And they led out Bavieca from a foul and filthy van,<br /> +For the conqueror had sold him to a Moorish dog’s-meat man.</p> +<p>When the steed beheld his master, loud he whinnied loud and free,<br /> +And, in token of subjection, knelt upon each broken knee;<br /> +And a tear of walnut largeness to the warrior’s eyelids rose,<br /> +As he fondly picked a bean-straw from his coughing courser’s +nose.</p> +<p><!-- page 15--><a name="page15"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +15</span>“Many a time, O Bavieca, hast thou borne me through the +fray!<br /> +Bear me but again as deftly through the listed ring this day;<br /> +Or if thou art worn and feeble, as may well have come to pass,<br /> +Time it is, my trusty charger, both of us were sent to grass!”</p> +<p>Then he seized his lance, and, vaulting, in the saddle sate upright;<br +/> +Marble seemed the noble courser, iron seemed the mailèd knight;<br +/> +And a cry of admiration burst from every Moorish lady.<br /> +“Five to four on Don Fernando!” cried the sable-bearded +Cadi.</p> +<p>Warriors three from Alcantara burst into the listed space,<br /> +Warriors three, all bred in battle, of the proud Alhambra race:<br /> +<!-- page 16--><a name="page16"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +16</span>Trumpets sounded, coursers bounded, and the foremost straight went +down,<br /> +Tumbling, like a sack of turnips, right before the jeering Clown.</p> +<p>In the second chieftain galloped, and he bowed him to the King,<br /> +And his saddle-girths were tightened by the Master of the Ring;<br /> +Through three blazing hoops he bounded ere the desperate fight +began—<br /> +Don Fernando! bear thee bravely!—’tis the Moor Abdorrhaman!</p> +<p>Like a double streak of lightning, clashing in the sulphurous sky,<br /> +Met the pair of hostile heroes, and they made the sawdust fly;<br /> +And the Moslem spear so stiffly smote on Don Fernando’s mail,<br /> +That he reeled, as if in liquor, back to Bavieca’s tail:</p> +<p><!-- page 17--><a name="page17"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +17</span>But he caught the mace beside him, and he gripped it hard and +fast,<br /> +And he swung it starkly upwards as the foeman bounded past;<br /> +And the deadly stroke descended through the skull and through the brain,<br +/> +As ye may have seen a poker cleave a cocoa-nut in twain.</p> +<p>Sore astonished was the monarch, and the Moorish warriors all,<br /> +Save the third bold chief, who tarried and beheld his brethren fall;<br /> +And the Clown, in haste arising from the footstool where he sat,<br /> +Notified the first appearance of the famous Acrobat;</p> +<p>Never on a single charger rides that stout and stalwart Moor,—<br +/> +Five beneath his stride so stately bear him o’er the trembling +floor;<br /> +<!-- page 18--><a name="page18"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 18</span>Five +Arabians, black as midnight—on their necks the rein he throws,<br /> +And the outer and the inner feel the pressure of his toes. <a +name="citation18"></a><a href="#footnote18" class="citation">[18]</a></p> +<p>Never wore that chieftain armour; in a knot himself he ties,<br /> +With his grizzly head appearing in the centre of his thighs,<br /> +Till the petrified spectator asks, in paralysed alarm,<br /> +Where may be the warrior’s body,—which is leg, and which is +arm?</p> +<p>“Sound the charge!” The coursers started; with a yell +and furious vault,<br /> +High in air the Moorish champion cut a wondrous somersault;<br /> +O’er the head of Don Fernando like a tennis-ball he sprung,<br /> +Caught him tightly by the girdle, and behind the crupper hung.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><!-- page 19--><a name="page19"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 19</span> +<a href="images/p19.jpg"> +<img alt="Illustration" src="images/p19.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p>Then his dagger Don Fernando plucked from out its jewelled sheath,<br /> +And he struck the Moor so fiercely, as he grappled him beneath,<br /> +That the good Damascus weapon sank within the folds of fat,<br /> +And as dead as Julius Cæsar dropped the Gordian Acrobat.</p> +<p><!-- page 20--><a name="page20"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +20</span>Meanwhile fast the sun was sinking—it had sunk beneath the +sea,<br /> +Ere Fernando Gomersalez smote the latter of the three;<br /> +And Al-Widdicomb, the monarch, pointed, with a bitter smile,<br /> +To the deeply-darkening canvas;—blacker grew it all the while.</p> +<p>“Thou hast slain my warriors, Spaniard! but thou hast not kept thy +time;<br /> +Only two had sunk before thee ere I heard the curfew chime;<br /> +Back thou goest to thy dungeon, and thou may’st be wondrous glad,<br +/> +That thy head is on thy shoulders for thy work to-day, my lad!</p> +<p>“Therefore all thy boasted valour, Christian dog, of no avail +is!”<br /> +Dark as midnight grew the brow of Don Fernando Gomersalez:—<br /> +<!-- page 21--><a name="page21"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +21</span>Stiffly sate he in his saddle, grimly looked around the ring,<br +/> +Laid his lance within the rest, and shook his gauntlet at the King.</p> +<p>“Oh, thou foul and faithless traitor! wouldst thou play me false +again?<br /> +Welcome death and welcome torture, rather than the captive’s +chain!<br /> +But I give thee warning, caitiff! Look thou sharply to thine +eye—<br /> +Unavenged, at least in harness, Gomersalez shall not die!”</p> +<p>Thus he spoke, and Bavieca like an arrow forward flew,<br /> +Right and left the Moorish squadron wheeled to let the hero through;<br /> +Brightly gleamed the lance of vengeance—fiercely sped the fatal +thrust—<br /> +From his throne the Moorish monarch tumbled lifeless in the dust.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><!-- page 22--><a name="page22"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 22</span> +<a href="images/p22.jpg"> +<img alt="Illustration" src="images/p22.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p>Speed thee, speed thee, Bavieca! speed thee faster than the wind!<br /> +Life and freedom are before thee, deadly foes give chase behind!<br /> +Speed thee up the sloping spring-board; o’er the bridge that spans +the seas;<br /> +Yonder gauzy moon will light thee through the grove of canvas trees.</p> +<p><!-- page 23--><a name="page23"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +23</span>Close before thee Pampeluna spreads her painted pasteboard +gate!<br /> +Speed thee onward, gallant courser, speed thee with thy knightly +freight!<br /> +Victory! The town receives them!—Gentle ladies, this the tale +is,<br /> +Which I learned in Astley’s Circus, of Fernando Gomersalez.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p23.jpg"> +<img alt="Illustration" src="images/p23.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><!-- page 24--><a name="page24"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 24</span> +<a href="images/p24.jpg"> +<img alt="Illustration" src="images/p24.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h3>The Courtship of our Cid.</h3> +<p>What a pang of sweet emotion<br /> + Thrilled the Master of the Ring,<br /> +When he first beheld the lady<br /> + Through the stable portal spring!<br /> +<!-- page 25--><a name="page25"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +25</span>Midway in his wild grimacing<br /> + Stopped the piebald-visaged Clown;<br /> +And the thunders of the audience<br /> + Nearly brought the gallery down.</p> +<p>Donna Inez Woolfordinez!<br /> + Saw ye ever such a maid,<br /> +With the feathers swaling o’er her,<br /> + And her spangled rich brocade?<br /> +In her fairy hand a horsewhip,<br /> + On her foot a buskin small,<br /> +So she stepped, the stately damsel,<br /> + Through the scarlet grooms and all.</p> +<p>And she beckoned for her courser,<br /> + And they brought a milk-white mare;<br /> +Proud, I ween, was that Arabian<br /> + Such a gentle freight to bear:<br /> +And the master moved to greet her,<br /> + With a proud and stately walk;<br /> +And, in reverential homage,<br /> + Rubbed her soles with virgin chalk.</p> +<p><!-- page 26--><a name="page26"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +26</span>Round she flew, as Flora flying<br /> + Spans the circle of the year;<br /> +And the youth of London, sighing,<br /> + Half forgot the ginger-beer—<br /> +Quite forgot the maids beside them;<br /> + As they surely well might do,<br /> +When she raised two Roman candles,<br /> + Shooting fireballs red and blue!</p> +<p>Swifter than the Tartar’s arrow,<br /> + Lighter than the lark in flight,<br /> +On the left foot now she bounded,<br /> + Now she stood upon the right.<br /> +Like a beautiful Bacchante,<br /> + Here she soars, and there she kneels,<br /> +While amid her floating tresses<br /> + Flash two whirling Catherine wheels!</p> +<p>Hark! the blare of yonder trumpet!<br /> + See, the gates are opened wide!<br /> +Room, there, room for Gomersalez,—<br /> + Gomersalez in his pride!<br /> +<!-- page 27--><a name="page27"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 27</span>Rose +the shouts of exultation,<br /> + Rose the cat’s triumphant call,<br /> +As he bounded, man and courser,<br /> + Over Master, Clown, and all!</p> +<p>Donna Inez Woolfordinez!<br /> + Why those blushes on thy cheek?<br /> +Doth thy trembling bosom tell thee,<br /> + He hath come thy love to seek!<br /> +Fleet thy Arab, but behind thee<br /> + He is rushing like a gale;<br /> +One foot on his coal-black’s shoulders,<br /> + And the other on his tail!</p> +<p>Onward, onward, panting maiden!<br /> + He is faint, and fails, for now<br /> +By the feet he hangs suspended<br /> + From his glistening saddle-bow.<br /> +Down are gone both cap and feather,<br /> + Lance and gonfalon are down!<br /> +Trunks, and cloak, and vest of velvet,<br /> + He has flung them to the Clown.</p> +<p><!-- page 28--><a name="page28"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +28</span>Faint and failing! Up he vaulteth,<br /> + Fresh as when he first began;<br /> +All in coat of bright vermilion,<br /> + ’Quipped as Shaw, the Lifeguardsman;<br /> +Right and left his whizzing broadsword,<br /> + Like a sturdy flail, he throws;<br /> +Cutting out a path unto thee<br /> + Through imaginary foes.</p> +<p>Woolfordinez! speed thee onward!<br /> + He is hard upon thy track,—<br /> +Paralysed is Widdicombez,<br /> + Nor his whip can longer crack;<br /> +He has flung away his broadsword,<br /> + ’Tis to clasp thee to his breast.<br /> +Onward!—see, he bares his bosom,<br /> + Tears away his scarlet vest;</p> +<p>Leaps from out his nether garments,<br /> + And his leathern stock unties—<br /> +As the flower of London’s dustmen,<br /> + Now in swift pursuit he flies.<br /> +<!-- page 29--><a name="page29"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +29</span>Nimbly now he cuts and shuffles,<br /> + O’er the buckle, heel and toe!<br /> +Flaps his hands in his side-pockets,<br /> + Winks to all the throng below!</p> +<p>Onward, onward rush the coursers;<br /> + Woolfordinez, peerless girl,<br /> +O’er the garters lightly bounding<br /> + From her steed with airy whirl!<br /> +Gomersalez, wild with passion,<br /> + Danger—all but her—forgets;<br /> +Wheresoe’er she flies, pursues her,<br /> + Casting clouds of somersets!</p> +<p>Onward, onward rush the coursers;<br /> + Bright is Gomersalez’ eye;<br /> +Saints protect thee, Woolfordinez,<br /> + For his triumph sure is nigh!<br /> +Now his courser’s flanks he lashes,<br /> + O’er his shoulder flings the rein,<br /> +And his feet aloft he tosses,<br /> + Holding stoutly by the mane!</p> +<p><!-- page 30--><a name="page30"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +30</span>Then, his feet once more regaining,<br /> + Doffs his jacket, doffs his smalls,<br /> +And in graceful folds around him<br /> + A bespangled tunic falls.<br /> +Pinions from his heels are bursting,<br /> + His bright locks have pinions o’er them;<br /> +And the public see with rapture<br /> + Maia’s nimble son before them.</p> +<p>Speed thee, speed thee, Woolfordinez!<br /> + For a panting god pursues;<br /> +And the chalk is very nearly<br /> + Rubbed from thy white satin shoes;<br /> +Every bosom throbs with terror,<br /> + You might hear a pin to drop;<br /> +All is hushed, save where a starting<br /> + Cork gives out a casual pop.</p> +<p>One smart lash across his courser,<br /> + One tremendous bound and stride,<br /> +And our noble Cid was standing<br /> + By his Woolfordinez’ side!<br /> +<!-- page 31--><a name="page31"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 31</span>With +a god’s embrace he clasps her,<br /> + Raised her in his manly arms;<br /> +And the stables’ closing barriers<br /> + Hid his valour, and her charms!</p> +<h2><!-- page 35--><a name="page35"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +35</span>AMERICAN BALLADS</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p35.jpg"> +<img alt="Illustration" src="images/p35.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h3>The Fight with the Snapping Turtle;<br /> +<i>or</i>,<br /> +<i>The American St George</i>.</h3> +<h4>FYTTE FIRST.</h4> +<p>Have you heard of Philip Slingsby,<br /> + Slingsby of the manly chest;<br /> +How he slew the Snapping Turtle<br /> + In the regions of the West?</p> +<p>Every day the huge Cawana<br /> + Lifted up its monstrous jaws;<br /> +And it swallowed Langton Bennett,<br /> + And digested Rufus Dawes.</p> +<p><!-- page 36--><a name="page36"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +36</span>Riled, I ween, was Philip Slingsby,<br /> + Their untimely deaths to hear;<br /> +For one author owed him money,<br /> + And the other loved him dear.</p> +<p>“Listen now, sagacious Tyler,<br /> + Whom the loafers all obey;<br /> +What reward will Congress give me,<br /> + If I take this pest away?”</p> +<p>Then sagacious Tyler answered,<br /> + “You’re the ring-tailed squealer! Less<br /> +Than a hundred heavy dollars<br /> + Won’t be offered you, I guess!</p> +<p>“And a lot of wooden nutmegs<br /> + In the bargain, too, we’ll throw—<br /> +Only you just fix the critter.<br /> + Won’t you liquor ere you go?”</p> +<p>Straightway leaped the valiant Slingsby<br /> + Into armour of Seville,<br /> +With a strong Arkansas toothpick<br /> + Screwed in every joint of steel.</p> +<p><!-- page 37--><a name="page37"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +37</span>“Come thou with me, Cullen Bryant,<br /> + Come with me, as squire, I pray;<br /> +Be the Homer of the battle<br /> + Which I go to wage to-day.”</p> +<p>So they went along careering<br /> + With a loud and martial tramp,<br /> +Till they neared the Snapping Turtle<br /> + In the dreary Swindle Swamp.</p> +<p>But when Slingsby saw the water,<br /> + Somewhat pale, I ween, was he.<br /> +“If I come not back, dear Bryant,<br /> + Tell the tale to Melanie!</p> +<p>“Tell her that I died devoted,<br /> + Victim to a noble task!<br /> +Han’t you got a drop of brandy<br /> + In the bottom of your flask?”</p> +<p>As he spoke, an alligator<br /> + Swam across the sullen creek;<br /> +And the two Columbians started,<br /> + When they heard the monster shriek;</p> +<p><!-- page 38--><a name="page38"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +38</span>For a snout of huge dimensions<br /> + Rose above the waters high,<br /> +And took down the alligator,<br /> + As a trout takes down a fly.</p> +<p>“’Tarnal death! the Snapping Turtle!”<br /> + Thus the squire in terror cried;<br /> +But the noble Slingsby straightway<br /> + Drew the toothpick from his side.</p> +<p>“Fare thee well!” he cried, and dashing<br /> + Through the waters, strongly swam:<br /> +Meanwhile, Cullen Bryant, watching,<br /> + Breathed a prayer and sucked a dram.</p> +<p>Sudden from the slimy bottom<br /> + Was the snout again upreared,<br /> +With a snap as loud as thunder,—<br /> + And the Slingsby disappeared.</p> +<p>Like a mighty steam-ship foundering,<br /> + Down the monstrous vision sank;<br /> +And the ripple, slowly rolling,<br /> + Plashed and played upon the bank.</p> +<p><!-- page 39--><a name="page39"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +39</span>Still and stiller grew the water,<br /> + Hushed the canes within the brake;<br /> +There was but a kind of coughing<br /> + At the bottom of the lake.</p> +<p>Bryant wept as loud and deeply<br /> + As a father for a son—<br /> +“He’s a finished ’coon, is Slingsby,<br /> + And the brandy’s nearly done!”</p> +<h4>FYTTE SECOND.</h4> +<p>In a trance of sickening anguish,<br /> + Cold and stiff, and sore and damp,<br /> +For two days did Bryant linger<br /> + By the dreary Swindle Swamp;</p> +<p>Always peering at the water,<br /> + Always waiting for the hour<br /> +When those monstrous jaws should open<br /> + As he saw them ope before.</p> +<p><!-- page 40--><a name="page40"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +40</span>Still in vain;—the alligators<br /> + Scrambled through the marshy brake,<br /> +And the vampire leeches gaily<br /> + Sucked the garfish in the lake.</p> +<p>But the Snapping Turtle never<br /> + Rose for food or rose for rest,<br /> +Since he lodged the steel deposit<br /> + In the bottom of his chest.</p> +<p>Only always from the bottom<br /> + Sounds of frequent coughing rolled,<br /> +Just as if the huge Cawana<br /> + Had a most confounded cold.</p> +<p>On the banks lay Cullen Bryant,<br /> + As the second moon arose,<br /> +Gouging on the sloping greensward<br /> + Some imaginary foes;</p> +<p>When the swamp began to tremble,<br /> + And the canes to rustle fast,<br /> +As though some stupendous body<br /> + Through their roots were crushing past.</p> +<p><!-- page 41--><a name="page41"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +41</span>And the waters boiled and bubbled,<br /> + And, in groups of twos and threes,<br /> +Several alligators bounded,<br /> + Smart as squirrels, up the trees.</p> +<p>Then a hideous head was lifted,<br /> + With such huge distended jaws,<br /> +That they might have held Goliath<br /> + Quite as well as Rufus Dawes.</p> +<p>Paws of elephantine thickness<br /> + Dragged its body from the bay,<br /> +And it glared at Cullen Bryant<br /> + In a most unpleasant way.</p> +<p>Then it writhed as if in torture,<br /> + And it staggered to and fro;<br /> +And its very shell was shaken<br /> + In the anguish of its throe:</p> +<p>And its cough grew loud and louder,<br /> + And its sob more husky thick!<br /> +For, indeed, it was apparent<br /> + That the beast was very sick.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><!-- page 42--><a name="page42"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 42</span> +<a href="images/p42.jpg"> +<img alt="Illustration" src="images/p42.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p>Till, at last, a spasmy vomit<br /> + Shook its carcass through and through,<br /> +And as if from out a cannon,<br /> + All in armour Slingsby flew.</p> +<p><!-- page 43--><a name="page43"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +43</span>Bent and bloody was the bowie<br /> + Which he held within his grasp;<br /> +And he seemed so much exhausted<br /> + That he scarce had strength to gasp—</p> +<p>“Gouge him, Bryant! darn ye, gouge him!<br /> + Gouge him while he’s on the shore!”<br /> +Bryant’s thumbs were straightway buried<br /> + Where no thumbs had pierced before.</p> +<p>Right from out their bony sockets<br /> + Did he scoop the monstrous balls;<br /> +And, with one convulsive shudder,<br /> + Dead the Snapping Turtle falls!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p>“Post the tin, sagacious Tyler!”<br /> + But the old experienced file,<br /> +Leering first at Clay and Webster,<br /> + Answered, with a quiet smile—</p> +<p><!-- page 44--><a name="page44"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +44</span>“Since you dragged the ’tarnal crittur<br /> + From the bottom of the ponds,<br /> +Here’s the hundred dollars due you,<br /> + <i>All in Pennsylvanian Bonds</i>!” <a +name="citation44"></a><a href="#footnote44" class="citation">[44]</a></p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p44.jpg"> +<img alt="“The only Good American Securities.”" +src="images/p44.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h3><!-- page 45--><a name="page45"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +45</span>The Lay of Mr Colt.</h3> +<p>[The 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, and sprinkling it with salt, +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 detail 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 “<i>entitled +to the sympathy</i> of a jury of his country,” as “a young man +just entering into life, <i>whose prospects, probably, have been +permanently blasted</i>.” 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 <i>occupied more than a year from the date of +conviction</i>, the sentence of death was ratified by Governor +Seward. The rest of Colt’s story is told in our ballad.]</p> +<h3>STREAK THE FIRST.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">* * + * *</p> +<p>And now the sacred rite was done, and the marriage-knot was tied,<br /> +And Colt withdrew his blushing wife a little way aside;<br /> +<!-- page 46--><a name="page46"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +46</span>“Let’s go,” he said, “into my cell; +let’s go alone, my dear;<br /> +I fain would shelter that sweet face from the sheriff’s odious +leer.<br /> +The jailer and the hangman, they are waiting both for me,—<br /> +I cannot bear to see them wink so knowingly at thee!<br /> +Oh, how I loved thee, dearest! They say that I am wild,<br /> +That a mother dares not trust me with the weasand of her child;<br /> +They say my bowie-knife is keen to sliver into halves<br /> +The carcass of my enemy, as butchers slay their calves.<br /> +They say that I am stern of mood, because, like salted beef,<br /> +I packed my quartered foeman up, and marked him ‘prime +tariff;’<br /> +Because I thought to palm him on the simple-souled John Bull,<br /> +And clear a small percentage on the sale at Liverpool;<br /> +It may be so, I do not know—these things, perhaps, may be;<br /> +But surely I have always been a gentleman to thee!<br /> +<!-- page 47--><a name="page47"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 47</span>Then +come, my love, into my cell, short bridal space is ours,—<br /> +Nay, sheriff, never con thy watch—I guess there’s good two +hours.<br /> +We’ll shut the prison doors and keep the gaping world at bay,<br /> +For love is long as ’tarnity, though I must die to-day!”</p> +<h4>STREAK THE SECOND.</h4> +<p>The clock is ticking onward,<br /> + It nears the hour of doom,<br /> +And no one yet hath entered<br /> + Into that ghastly room.<br /> +The jailer and the sheriff,<br /> + They are walking to and fro:<br /> +And the hangman sits upon the steps,<br /> + And smokes his pipe below.<br /> +In grisly expectation<br /> + The prison all is bound,<br /> +And, save expectoration,<br /> + You cannot hear a sound.</p> +<p><!-- page 48--><a name="page48"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +48</span>The turnkey stands and ponders;—<br /> + His hand upon the bolt,—<br /> +“In twenty minutes more, I guess,<br /> + ’Twill all be up with Colt!”<br /> +But see, the door is opened!<br /> + Forth comes the weeping bride;<br /> +The courteous sheriff lifts his hat,<br /> + And saunters to her side,—<br /> +“I beg your pardon, Mrs C.,<br /> + But is your husband ready?”<br /> +“I guess you’d better ask himself,”<br /> + Replied the woeful lady.</p> +<p>The clock is ticking onward,<br /> + The minutes almost run,<br /> +The hangman’s pipe is nearly out,<br /> + ’Tis on the stroke of one.<br /> +At every grated window,<br /> + Unshaven faces glare;<br /> +There’s Puke, the judge of Tennessee,<br /> + And Lynch, of Delaware;<br /> +And Batter, with the long black beard,<br /> + Whom Hartford’s maids know well;</p> +<p><!-- page 49--><a name="page49"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +49</span>And Winkinson, from Fish Kill Reach,<br /> + The pride of New Rochelle;<br /> +Elkanah Nutts, from Tarry Town,<br /> + The gallant gouging boy;<br /> +And ’coon-faced Bushwhack, from the hills<br /> + That frown o’er modern Troy;<br /> +Young Julep, whom our Willis loves,<br /> + Because, ’tis said, that he<br /> +One morning from a bookstall filched<br /> + The tale of “Melanie;”<br /> +And Skunk, who fought his country’s fight<br /> + Beneath the stripes and stars,—<br /> +All thronging at the windows stood,<br /> + And gazed between the bars.<br /> +The little boys that stood behind<br /> + (Young thievish imps were they!)<br /> +Displayed considerable <i>nous</i><br /> + On that eventful day;<br /> +For bits of broken looking-glass<br /> + They held aslant on high,<br /> +And there a mirrored gallows-tree<br /> + Met their delighted eye. <a name="citation49"></a><a +href="#footnote49" class="citation">[49]</a><br /> +<!-- page 50--><a name="page50"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 50</span>The +clock is ticking onward;<br /> + Hark! hark! it striketh one!<br /> +Each felon draws a whistling breath,<br /> + “Time’s up with Colt! he’s done!”</p> +<p>The sheriff cons his watch again,<br /> + Then puts it in his fob,<br /> +And turning to the hangman, says—<br /> + “Get ready for the job.”<br /> +The jailer knocketh loudly,<br /> + The turnkey draws the bolt,<br /> +And pleasantly the sheriff says,<br /> + “We’re waiting, Mister Colt!”</p> +<p>No answer! no! no answer!<br /> + All’s still as death within;<br /> +The sheriff eyes the jailer,<br /> + The jailer strokes his chin.<br /> +“I shouldn’t wonder, Nahum, if<br /> + It were as you suppose.”<br /> +The hangman looked unhappy, and<br /> + The turnkey blew his nose.</p> +<p><!-- page 51--><a name="page51"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +51</span>They entered. On his pallet<br /> + The noble convict lay,—<br /> +The bridegroom on his marriage-bed<br /> + But not in trim array.<br /> +His red right hand a razor held,<br /> + Fresh sharpened from the hone,<br /> +And his ivory neck was severed,<br /> + And gashed into the bone.</p> +<p>* * +* *</p> +<p>And when the lamp is lighted<br /> + In the long November days,<br /> +And lads and lasses mingle<br /> + At the shucking of the maize;<br /> +When pies of smoking pumpkin<br /> + Upon the table stand,<br /> +And bowls of black molasses<br /> + Go round from hand to hand;<br /> +When slap-jacks, maple-sugared,<br /> + Are hissing in the pan,<br /> +And cider, with a dash of gin,<br /> + Foams in the social can;</p> +<p><!-- page 52--><a name="page52"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +52</span>When the goodman wets his whistle,<br /> + And the goodwife scolds the child;<br /> +And the girls exclaim convulsively,<br /> + “Have done, or I’ll be riled!”<br /> +When the loafer sitting next them<br /> + Attempts a sly caress,<br /> +And whispers, “Oh, you ’possum,<br /> + You’ve fixed my heart, I guess!”<br /> +With laughter and with weeping,<br /> + Then shall they tell the tale,<br /> +How Colt his foeman quartered,<br /> + And died within the jail.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p52.jpg"> +<img alt="“The Unwilling Colt.”" src="images/p52.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h3><!-- page 53--><a name="page53"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +53</span>The Death of Jabez Dollar.</h3> +<p>[Before 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 then state of +public planners 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!]</p> +<p>The Congress met, the day was wet, Van Buren took the chair;<br /> +On either side, the statesman pride of far Kentuck was there.<br /> +With moody frown, there sat Calhoun, and slowly in his cheek<br /> +His quid he thrust, and slaked the dust, as Webster rose to speak.</p> +<p>Upon that day, near gifted Clay, a youthful member sat,<br /> +And like a free American upon the floor he spat;<br /> +<!-- page 54--><a name="page54"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 54</span>Then +turning round to Clay, he said, and wiped his manly chin,<br /> +“What kind of Locofoco’s that, as wears the painter’s +skin?”</p> +<p>“Young man,” quoth Clay, “avoid the way of Slick of +Tennessee;<br /> +Of gougers fierce, the eyes that pierce, the fiercest gouger he;<br /> +He chews and spits, as there he sits, and whittles at the chairs,<br /> +And in his hand, for deadly strife, a bowie-knife he bears.</p> +<p>“Avoid that knife. In frequent strife its blade, so long and +thin,<br /> +Has found itself a resting-place his rivals’ ribs within.”<br +/> +But coward fear came never near young Jabez Dollar’s heart,—<br +/> +“Were he an alligator, I would rile him pretty smart!”</p> +<p><!-- page 55--><a name="page55"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +55</span>Then up he rose, and cleared his nose, and looked toward the +chair;<br /> +He saw the stately stripes and stars,—our country’s flag was +there!<br /> +His heart beat high, with eldritch cry upon the floor he sprang,<br /> +Then raised his wrist, and shook his fist, and spoke his first +harangue.</p> +<p>“Who sold the nutmegs made of wood—the clocks that +wouldn’t figure?<br /> +Who grinned the bark off gum-trees dark—the everlasting nigger?<br /> +For twenty cents, ye Congress gents, through ’tarnity I’ll +kick<br /> +That man, I guess, though nothing less than ’coonfaced Colonel +Slick!”</p> +<p>The Colonel smiled—with frenzy wild,—his very beard waxed +blue,—<br /> +His shirt it could not hold him, so wrathy riled he grew;<br /> +<!-- page 56--><a name="page56"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 56</span>He +foams and frets, his knife he whets upon his seat below—<br /> +He sharpens it on either side, and whittles at his toe.</p> +<p>“Oh! waken snakes, and walk your chalks!” he cried, with ire +elate;<br /> +“Darn my old mother, but I will in wild cats whip my weight!<br /> +Oh! ’tarnal death, I’ll spoil your breath, young Dollar, and +your chaffing,—<br /> +Look to your ribs, for here is that will tickle them without +laughing!”</p> +<p>His knife he raised—with fury crazed, he sprang across the +hall;<br /> +He cut a caper in the air—he stood before them all:<br /> +He never stopped to look or think if he the deed should do,<br /> +But spinning sent the President, and on young Dollar flew.</p> +<p><!-- page 57--><a name="page57"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +57</span>They met—they closed—they sank—they +rose,—in vain young Dollar strove—<br /> +For, like a streak of lightning greased, the infuriate Colonel drove<br /> +His bowie-blade deep in his side, and to the ground they rolled,<br /> +And, drenched in gore, wheeled o’er and o’er, locked in each +other’s hold.</p> +<p>With fury dumb—with nail and thumb—they struggled and they +thrust,<br /> +The blood ran red from Dollar’s side, like rain, upon the dust;<br /> +He nerved his might for one last spring, and as he sank and died,<br /> +Reft of an eye, his enemy fell groaning by his side.</p> +<p>Thus did he fall within the hall of Congress, that brave youth;<br /> +The bowie-knife has quenched his life of valour and of truth;<br /> +<!-- page 58--><a name="page58"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 58</span>And +still among the statesmen throng at Washington they tell<br /> +How nobly Dollar gouged his man—how gallantly he fell.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p58.jpg"> +<img alt="Illustration" src="images/p58.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><!-- page 59--><a name="page59"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 59</span> +<a href="images/p59.jpg"> +<img alt="Illustration" src="images/p59.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h3>The Alabama Duel.</h3> +<p>“Young chaps, give ear, the case is clear. You, Silas +Fixings, you<br /> +Pay Mister Nehemiah Dodge them dollars as you’re due.<br /> +<!-- page 60--><a name="page60"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 60</span>You +are a bloody cheat,—you are. But spite of all your tricks, +it<br /> +Is not in you Judge Lynch to do. No! nohow you can fix it!”</p> +<p>Thus spake Judge Lynch, as there he sat in Alabama’s forum,<br /> +Around he gazed, with legs upraised upon the bench before him;<br /> +And, as he gave this sentence stern to him who stood beneath,<br /> +Still with his gleaming bowie-knife he slowly picked his teeth.</p> +<p>It was high noon, the month was June, and sultry was the air,<br /> +A cool gin-sling stood by his hand, his coat hung o’er his chair;<br +/> +All naked were his manly arms, and shaded by his hat,<br /> +Like an old senator of Rome that simple Archon sat.</p> +<p><!-- page 61--><a name="page61"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +61</span>“A bloody cheat?—Oh, legs and feet!” in wrath +young Silas cried;<br /> +And springing high into the air, he jerked his quid aside.<br /> +“No man shall put my dander up, or with my feelings trifle,<br /> +As long as Silas Fixings wears a bowie-knife and rifle.”</p> +<p>“If your shoes pinch,” replied Judge Lynch, +“you’ll very soon have ease;<br /> +I’ll give you satisfaction, squire, in any way you please;<br /> +What are your weapons?—knife or gun?—at both I’m pretty +spry!”;<br /> +“Oh! ’tarnal death, you’re spry, you are?” quoth +Silas; “so am I!”</p> +<p>Hard by the town a forest stands, dark with the shades of time,<br /> +And they have sought that forest dark at morning’s early prime;<br /> +<!-- page 62--><a name="page62"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +62</span>Lynch, backed by Nehemiah Dodge, and Silas with a friend,<br /> +And half the town in glee came down to see that contest’s end.</p> +<p>They led their men two miles apart, they measured out the ground;<br /> +A belt of that vast wood it was, they notched the trees around;<br /> +Into the tangled brake they turned them off, and neither knew<br /> +Where he should seek his wagered foe, how get him into view.</p> +<p>With stealthy tread, and stooping head, from tree to tree they +passed,<br /> +They crept beneath the crackling furze, they held their rifles fast:<br /> +Hour passed on hour, the noonday sun smote fiercely down, but yet<br /> +No sound to the expectant crowd proclaimed that they had met.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><!-- page 63--><a name="page63"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 63</span> +<a href="images/p63.jpg"> +<img alt="Illustration" src="images/p63.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p>And now the sun was going down, when, hark! a rifle’s crack!<br /> +Hush—hush! another strikes the air, and all their breath draw +back,—<br /> +Then crashing on through bush and briar, the crowd from either side<br /> +Rush in to see whose rifle sure with blood the moss has dyed.</p> +<p>Weary with watching up and down, brave Lynch conceived a plan,<br /> +An artful dodge whereby to take at unawares his man;<br /> +<!-- page 64--><a name="page64"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 64</span>He +hung his hat upon a bush, and hid himself hard by;<br /> +Young Silas thought he had him fast, and at the hat let fly.</p> +<p>It fell; up sprang young Silas,—he hurled his gun away;<br /> +Lynch fixed him with his rifle, from the ambush where he lay.<br /> +The bullet pierced his manly breast—yet, valiant to the last,<br /> +Young Fixings drew his bowie-knife, and up his foxtail <a +name="citation64"></a><a href="#footnote64" class="citation">[64]</a> +cast.</p> +<p>With tottering step and glazing eye he cleared the space between,<br /> +And stabbed the air as stabs in grim Macbeth the younger Kean:<br /> +Brave Lynch received him with a bang that stretched him on the ground,<br +/> +Then sat himself serenely down till all the crowd drew round.</p> +<p><!-- page 65--><a name="page65"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +65</span>They hailed him with triumphant cheers—in him each loafer +saw<br /> +The bearing bold that could uphold the majesty of law;<br /> +And, raising him aloft, they bore him homewards at his ease,—<br /> +That noble judge, whose daring hand enforced his own decrees.</p> +<p>They buried Silas Fixings in the hollow where he fell,<br /> +And gum-trees wave above his grave—that tree he loved so well;<br /> +And the ’coons sit chattering o’er him when the nights are long +and damp;<br /> +But he sleeps well in that lonely dell, the Dreary ’Possum Swamp.</p> +<h3><!-- page 66--><a name="page66"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +66</span>The American’s Apostrophe to Boz.</h3> +<p>[So rapidly does oblivion do its work nowadays that the burst of amiable +indignation with which America received the issue of his <i>American +Notes</i> and <i>Martin Chuzzlewit</i> is now almost wholly +forgotten. Not content with waging a universal rivalry in the piracy +of the Notes, 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 then +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. The +object aimed at was to do justice to the bitterness and “immortal +hate” of these thin-skinned sons of freedom. Happily the storm +passed over: Dickens paid, in 1867-68, a second visit to the States, was +well received, made a not inconsiderable fortune by his Readings there, and +confessed that he had judged his American hosts harshly on his former +visit.]</p> +<p>Sneak across the wide Atlantic, worthless London’s puling +child,<br /> +Better that its waves should bear thee, than the land thou hast reviled;<br +/> +Better in the stifling cabin, on the sofa thou shouldst lie,<br /> +Sickening as the fetid nigger bears the greens and bacon by;<br /> +<!-- page 67--><a name="page67"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +67</span>Better, when the midnight horrors haunt the strained and creaking +ship,<br /> +Thou shouldst yell in vain for brandy with a fever-sodden lip;<br /> +When amid the deepening darkness and the lamp’s expiring shade,<br /> +From the bagman’s berth above thee comes the bountiful cascade,<br /> +Better than upon the Broadway thou shouldst be at noonday seen,<br /> +Smirking like a Tracy Tupman with a Mantalini mien,<br /> +With a rivulet of satin falling o’er thy puny chest,<br /> +Worse than even N. P. Willis for an evening party drest!</p> +<p>We received thee warmly—kindly—though we knew thou wert a +quiz,<br /> +Partly for thyself it may be, chiefly for the sake of Phiz!<br /> +Much we bore, and much we suffered, listening to remorseless spells<br /> +Of that Smike’s unceasing drivellings, and these everlasting +Nells.<br /> +<!-- page 68--><a name="page68"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 68</span>When +you talked of babes and sunshine, fields, and all that sort of thing,<br /> +Each Columbian inly chuckled, as he slowly sucked his sling;<br /> +And though all our sleeves were bursting, from the many hundreds near<br /> +Not one single scornful titter rose on thy complacent ear.<br /> +Then to show thee to the ladies, with our usual want of sense<br /> +We engaged the place in Park Street at a ruinous expense;<br /> +Even our own three-volumed Cooper waived his old prescriptive right,<br /> +And deluded Dickens figured first on that eventful night.<br /> +Clusters of uncoated Yorkers, vainly striving to be cool,<br /> +Saw thee desperately plunging through the perils of la Poule:<br /> +And their muttered exclamation drowned the tenor of the tune,—<br /> +”Don’t he beat all natur hollow? Don’t he foot it +like a ’coon?”</p> +<p><!-- page 69--><a name="page69"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +69</span>Did we spare our brandy-cocktails, stint thee of our +whisky-grogs?<br /> +Half the juleps that we gave thee would have floored a Newman Noggs;<br /> +And thou took’st them in so kindly, little was there then to +blame,<br /> +To thy parched and panting palate sweet as mother’s milk they +came.<br /> +Did the hams of old Virginny find no favour in thine eyes?<br /> +Came no soft compunction o’er thee at the thought of pumpkin pies?<br +/> +Could not all our chicken fixings into silence fix thy scorn?<br /> +Did not all our cakes rebuke thee,—Johnny, waffle, dander, corn?<br +/> +Could not all our care and coddling teach thee how to draw it mild?<br /> +Well, no matter, we deserve it. Serves us right! We spoilt the +child!<br /> +You, forsooth, must come crusading, boring us with broadest hints<br /> +Of your own peculiar losses by American reprints.</p> +<p><!-- page 70--><a name="page70"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +70</span>Such an impudent remonstrance never in our face was flung;<br /> +Lever stands it, so does Ainsworth; <i>you</i>, I guess, may hold your +tongue.<br /> +Down our throats you’d cram your projects, thick and hard as pickled +salmon,<br /> +That, I s’pose, you call free trading,—I pronounce it utter +gammon.<br /> +No, my lad, a ’cuter vision than your own might soon have seen,<br /> +That a true Columbian ogle carries little that is green;<br /> +That we never will surrender useful privateering rights,<br /> +Stoutly won at glorious Bunker’s Hill, and other famous fights;<br /> +That we keep our native dollars for our native scribbling gents,<br /> +And on British manufacture only waste our straggling cents;<br /> +Quite enough we pay, I reckon, when we stump of these a few<br /> +For the voyages and travels of a freshman such as you.</p> +<p><!-- page 71--><a name="page71"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 71</span>I +have been at Niagara, I have stood beneath the Falls,<br /> +I have marked the water twisting over its rampagious walls;<br /> +But “a holy calm sensation,” one, in fact, of perfect peace,<br +/> +Was as much my first idea as the thought of Christmas geese.<br /> +As for “old familiar faces,” looking through the misty air,<br +/> +Surely you were strongly liquored when you saw your Chuckster there.<br /> +One familiar face, however, you will very likely see,<br /> +If you’ll only treat the natives to a call in Tennessee,<br /> +Of a certain individual, true Columbian every inch,<br /> +In a high judicial station, called by ’mancipators Lynch.<br /> +Half an hour of conversation with his worship in a wood,<br /> +Would, I strongly notion, do you an infernal deal of good.<br /> +Then you’d understand more clearly than you ever did before,<br /> +<!-- page 72--><a name="page72"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 72</span>Why +an independent patriot freely spits upon the floor,<br /> +Why he gouges when he pleases, why he whittles at the chairs,<br /> +Why for swift and deadly combat still the bowie-knife he bears,—<br +/> +Why he sneers at the old country with republican disdain,<br /> +And, unheedful of the negro’s cry, still tighter draws his chain.<br +/> +All these things the judge shall teach thee of the land thou hast +reviled;<br /> +Get thee o’er the wide Atlantic, worthless London’s puling +child!</p> +<h2><!-- page 75--><a name="page75"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +75</span>MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p75.jpg"> +<img alt="Illustration" src="images/p75.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h3>The Student of Jena.</h3> +<p>Once—’twas when I lived at Jena—<br /> + At a Wirthshaus’ door I sat;<br /> +And in pensive contemplation<br /> + Ate the sausage thick and fat;<br /> +Ate the kraut that never sourer<br /> + Tasted to my lips than here;<br /> +Smoked my pipe of strong canaster,<br /> + Sipped my fifteenth jug of beer;<br /> +Gazed upon the glancing river,<br /> + Gazed upon the tranquil pool,<br /> +<!-- page 76--><a name="page76"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +76</span>Whence the silver-voiced Undine,<br /> + When the nights were calm and cool,<br /> +As the Baron Fouqué tells us,<br /> + Rose from out her shelly grot,<br /> +Casting glamour o’er the waters,<br /> + Witching that enchanted spot.<br /> +From the shadow which the coppice<br /> + Flings across the rippling stream,<br /> +Did I hear a sound of music—<br /> + Was it thought or was it dream?<br /> +There, beside a pile of linen,<br /> + Stretched along the daisied sward,<br /> +Stood a young and blooming maiden—<br /> + ’Twas her thrush-like song I heard.<br /> +Evermore within the eddy<br /> + Did she plunge the white chemise;<br /> +And her robes were loosely gathered<br /> + Rather far above her knees;<br /> +Then my breath at once forsook me,<br /> + For too surely did I deem<br /> +That I saw the fair Undine<br /> + Standing in the glancing stream—<br /> +And I felt the charm of knighthood;<br /> + <!-- page 77--><a name="page77"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +77</span>And from that remembered day,<br /> +Every evening to the Wirthshaus<br /> + Took I my enchanted way.</p> +<p>Shortly to relate my story,<br /> + Many a week of summer long<br /> +Came I there, when beer-o’ertaken,<br /> + With my lute and with my song;<br /> +Sang in mellow-toned soprano<br /> + All my love and all my woe,<br /> +Till the river-maiden answered,<br /> + Lilting in the stream below:—<br /> +“Fair Undine! sweet Undine!<br /> + Dost thou love as I love thee?”<br /> +“Love is free as running water,”<br /> + Was the answer made to me.</p> +<p>Thus, in interchange seraphic,<br /> + Did I woo my phantom fay,<br /> +Till the nights grew long and chilly,<br /> + Short and shorter grew the day;<br /> +Till at last—’twas dark and gloomy,<br /> + Dull and starless was the sky,<br /> +<!-- page 78--><a name="page78"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 78</span>And +my steps were all unsteady<br /> + For a little flushed was I,—<br /> +To the well-accustomed signal<br /> + No response the maiden gave;<br /> +But I heard the waters washing<br /> + And the moaning of the wave.<br /> +Vanished was my own Undine,<br /> + All her linen, too, was gone;<br /> +And I walked about lamenting<br /> + On the river bank alone.<br /> +Idiot that I was, for never<br /> + Had I asked the maiden’s name.<br /> +Was it Lieschen—was it Gretchen?<br /> + Had she tin, or whence she came?<br /> +So I took my trusty meerschaum,<br /> + And I took my lute likewise;<br /> +Wandered forth in minstrel fashion,<br /> + Underneath the louring skies:<br /> +Sang before each comely Wirthshaus,<br /> + Sang beside each purling stream,<br /> +That same ditty which I chanted<br /> + When Undine was my theme,<br /> +Singing, as I sang at Jena,<br /> + <!-- page 79--><a name="page79"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +79</span>When the shifts were hung to dry,<br /> +“Fair Undine! young Undine!<br /> + Dost thou love as well as I?”</p> +<p>But, alas! in field or village,<br /> + Or beside the pebbly shore,<br /> +Did I see those glancing ankles,<br /> + And the white robe never more;<br /> +And no answer came to greet me,<br /> + No sweet voice to mine replied;<br /> +But I heard the waters rippling,<br /> + And the moaning of the tide.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p79.jpg"> +<img alt="“The moaning of the TIED.”" src="images/p79.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><!-- page 80--><a name="page80"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 80</span> +<a href="images/p80.jpg"> +<img alt="Illustration" src="images/p80.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h3>The Lay of the Levite.</h3> +<p>There is a sound that’s dear to me,<br /> + It haunts me in my sleep;<br /> +I wake, and, if I hear it not,<br /> + I cannot choose but weep.<br /> +Above the roaring of the wind,<br /> + Above the river’s flow,<br /> +Methinks I hear the mystic cry<br /> + Of “Clo!—Old Clo!”</p> +<p>The exile’s song, it thrills among<br /> + The dwellings of the free,<br /> +<!-- page 81--><a name="page81"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 81</span>Its +sound is strange to English ears,<br /> + But ’tis not strange to me;<br /> +For it hath shook the tented field<br /> + In ages long ago,<br /> +And hosts have quailed before the cry<br /> + Of “Clo!—Old Clo!”</p> +<p>Oh, lose it not! forsake it not!<br /> + And let no time efface<br /> +The memory of that solemn sound,<br /> + The watchword of our race;<br /> +For not by dark and eagle eye<br /> + The Hebrew shall you know,<br /> +So well as by the plaintive cry<br /> + Of “Clo!—Old Clo!”</p> +<p>Even now, perchance, by Jordan’s banks,<br /> + Or Sidon’s sunny walls,<br /> +Where, dial-like, to portion time,<br /> + The palm-tree’s shadow falls,<br /> +The pilgrims, wending on their way,<br /> + Will linger as they go,<br /> +And listen to the distant cry<br /> + Of “Clo!—Old Clo!”</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><!-- page 82--><a name="page82"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 82</span> +<a href="images/p82.jpg"> +<img alt="Illustration" src="images/p82.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h3>Bursch Groggenburg.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">after the manner of schiller</span>.]</p> +<p>“Bursch! if foaming beer content ye,<br /> + Come and drink your fill;<br /> +In our cellars there is plenty;<br /> + Himmel! how you swill!<br /> +That the liquor hath allurance,<br /> + Well I understand:<br /> +But ’tis really past endurance,<br /> + When you squeeze my hand!”</p> +<p><!-- page 83--><a name="page83"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +83</span>And he heard her as if dreaming,<br /> + Heard her half in awe;<br /> +And the meerschaum’s smoke came streaming<br /> + From his open jaw:<br /> +And his pulse beat somewhat quicker<br /> + Than it did before,<br /> +And he finished off his liquor,<br /> + Staggered through the door;</p> +<p>Bolted off direct to Munich,<br /> + And within the year<br /> +Underneath his German tunic<br /> + Stowed whole butts of beer.<br /> +And he drank like fifty fishes,<br /> + Drank till all was blue;<br /> +For he felt extremely vicious—<br /> + Somewhat thirsty too.</p> +<p>But at length this dire deboshing<br /> + Drew towards an end;<br /> +Few of all his silver groschen<br /> + Had he left to spend.<br /> +<!-- page 84--><a name="page84"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 84</span>And +he knew it was not prudent<br /> + Longer to remain;<br /> +So, with weary feet, the student<br /> + Wended home again.</p> +<p>At the tavern’s well-known portal<br /> + Knocks he as before,<br /> +And a waiter, rather mortal,<br /> + Hiccups through the door—<br /> +“Master’s sleeping in the kitchen;<br /> + You’ll alarm the house;<br /> +Yesterday the Jungfrau Fritchen<br /> + Married baker Kraus!”</p> +<p>Like a fiery comet bristling,<br /> + Rose the young man’s hair,<br /> +And, poor soul! he fell a-whistling<br /> + Out of sheer despair.<br /> +Down the gloomy street in silence,<br /> + Savage-calm he goes;<br /> +But he did no deed of vi’lence—<br /> + Only blew his nose.</p> +<p><!-- page 85--><a name="page85"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +85</span>Then he hired an airy garret<br /> + Near her dwelling-place;<br /> +Grew a beard of fiercest carrot,<br /> + Never washed his face;<br /> +Sate all day beside the casement,<br /> + Sate a dreary man;<br /> +Found in smoking such an easement<br /> + As the wretched can;</p> +<p>Stared for hours and hours together,<br /> + Stared yet more and more;<br /> +Till in fine and sunny weather,<br /> + At the baker’s door,<br /> +Stood, in apron white and mealy,<br /> + That belovèd dame,<br /> +Counting out the loaves so freely,<br /> + Selling of the same.</p> +<p>Then like a volcano puffing,<br /> + Smoked he out his pipe;<br /> +Sighed and supped on ducks and stuffing,<br /> + Ham and kraut and tripe;<br /> +<!-- page 86--><a name="page86"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 86</span>Went +to bed, and, in the morning,<br /> + Waited as before,<br /> +Still his eyes in anguish turning<br /> + To the baker’s door;</p> +<p>Till, with apron white and mealy,<br /> + Came the lovely dame,<br /> +Counting out the loaves so freely,<br /> + Selling of the same.<br /> +So one day—the fact’s amazing!—<br /> + On his post he died!<br /> +And they found the body gazing<br /> + At the baker’s bride.</p> +<h3><!-- page 87--><a name="page87"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +87</span>Night and Morning.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">not by sir e. bulwer lytton</span>.]</p> +<p>“Thy coffee, Tom, ’s untasted,<br /> + And thy egg is very cold;<br /> +Thy cheeks are wan and wasted,<br /> + Not rosy as of old.<br /> +My boy, what has come o’er ye?<br /> + You surely are not well!<br /> +Try some of that ham before ye,<br /> + And then, Tom, ring the bell!”</p> +<p>“I cannot eat, my mother,<br /> + My tongue is parched and bound,<br /> +And my head, somehow or other,<br /> + Is swimming round and round.<br /> +<!-- page 88--><a name="page88"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 88</span>In my +eyes there is a fulness,<br /> + And my pulse is beating quick;<br /> +On my brain is a weight of dulness:<br /> + Oh, mother, I am sick!”</p> +<p>“These long, long nights of watching<br /> + Are killing you outright;<br /> +The evening dews are catching,<br /> + And you’re out every night.<br /> +Why does that horrid grumbler,<br /> + Old Inkpen, work you so?”</p> +<p style="text-align: right">(TOM—<i>lene susurrans</i>)</p> +<p>“My head! Oh, that tenth tumbler!<br /> + ’Twas that which wrought my woe!”</p> +<h3><!-- page 89--><a name="page89"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +89</span>The Biter Bit.</h3> +<p>The sun is in the sky, mother, the flowers are springing fair,<br /> +And the melody of woodland birds is stirring in the air;<br /> +The river, smiling to the sky, glides onward to the sea,<br /> +And happiness is everywhere, oh mother, but with me!</p> +<p>They are going to the church, mother,—I hear the marriage-bell;<br +/> +It booms along the upland,—oh! it haunts me like a knell;<br /> +He leads her on his arm, mother, he cheers her faltering step,<br /> +And closely to his side she clings,—she does, the demirep!</p> +<p>They are crossing by the stile, mother, where we so oft have stood,<br +/> +The stile beside the shady thorn, at the corner of the wood;<br /> +<!-- page 90--><a name="page90"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 90</span>And +the boughs, that wont to murmur back the words that won my ear,<br /> +Wave their silver blossoms o’er him, as he leads his bridal fere.</p> +<p>He will pass beside the stream, mother, where first my hand he +pressed,<br /> +By the meadow where, with quivering lip, his passion he confessed;<br /> +And down the hedgerows where we’ve strayed again and yet again;<br /> +But he will not think of me, mother, his broken-hearted Jane!</p> +<p>He said that I was proud, mother,—that I looked for rank and +gold;<br /> +He said I did not love him,—he said my words were cold;<br /> +He said I kept him off and on, in hopes of higher game,—<br /> +And it may be that I did, mother; but who hasn’t done the same?</p> +<p>I did not know my heart, mother,—I know it now too late;<br /> +<!-- page 91--><a name="page91"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 91</span>I +thought that I without a pang could wed some nobler mate;<br /> +But no nobler suitor sought me,—and he has taken wing,<br /> +And my heart is gone, and I am left a lone and blighted thing.</p> +<p>You may lay me in my bed, mother,—my head is throbbing sore;<br /> +And, mother, prithee, let the sheets be duly aired before;<br /> +And, if you’d do a kindness to your poor desponding child,<br /> +Draw me a pot of beer, mother—and, mother, draw it mild!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p91.jpg"> +<img alt="“Love gone to pot.”" src="images/p91.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><!-- page 92--><a name="page92"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 92</span> +<a href="images/p92.jpg"> +<img alt="Illustration" src="images/p92.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h3>The Convict and the Australian Lady.</h3> +<p>Thy skin is dark as jet, ladye,<br /> + Thy cheek is sharp and high,<br /> +And there’s a cruel leer, love,<br /> + Within thy rolling eye:<br /> +<!-- page 93--><a name="page93"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 93</span>These +tangled ebon tresses<br /> + No comb hath e’er gone through;<br /> +And thy forehead, it is furrowed by<br /> + The elegant tattoo!</p> +<p>I love thee,—oh, I love thee,<br /> + Thou strangely-feeding maid!<br /> +Nay, lift not thus thy boomerang,<br /> + I meant not to upbraid!<br /> +Come, let me taste those yellow lips<br /> + That ne’er were tasted yet,<br /> +Save when the shipwrecked mariner<br /> + Passed through them for a whet.</p> +<p>Nay, squeeze me not so tightly!<br /> + For I am gaunt and thin;<br /> +There’s little flesh to tempt thee<br /> + Beneath a convict’s skin.<br /> +I came not to be eaten;<br /> + I sought thee, love, to woo;<br /> +Besides, bethink thee, dearest,<br /> + Thou’st dined on cockatoo.</p> +<p><!-- page 94--><a name="page94"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +94</span>Thy father is a chieftain!<br /> + Why, that’s the very thing!<br /> +Within my native country<br /> + I too have been a king.<br /> +Behold this branded letter,<br /> + Which nothing can efface!<br /> +It is the royal emblem,<br /> + The token of my race!</p> +<p>But rebels rose against me,<br /> + And dared my power disown—<br /> +You’ve heard, love, of the judges?<br /> + They drove me from my throne.<br /> +And I have wandered hither,<br /> + Across the stormy sea,<br /> +In search of glorious freedom,—<br /> + In search, my sweet, of thee!</p> +<p>The bush is now my empire,<br /> + The knife my sceptre keen;<br /> +Come with me to the desert wild,<br /> + And be my dusky queen.<br /> +<!-- page 95--><a name="page95"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 95</span>I +cannot give thee jewels,<br /> + I have nor sheep nor cow,<br /> +Yet there are kangaroos, love,<br /> + And colonists enow.</p> +<p>We’ll meet the unwary settler,<br /> + As whistling home he goes,<br /> +And I’ll take tribute from him,<br /> + His money and his clothes.<br /> +Then on his bleeding carcass<br /> + Thou’lt lay thy pretty paw,<br /> +And lunch upon him roasted,<br /> + Or, if you like it, raw!</p> +<p>Then come with me, my princess,<br /> + My own Australian dear,<br /> +Within this grove of gum-trees<br /> + We’ll hold our bridal cheer!<br /> +Thy heart with love is beating,<br /> + I feel it through my side:—<br /> +Hurrah, then, for the noble pair,<br /> + The Convict and his Bride!</p> +<h3><!-- page 96--><a name="page96"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +96</span>The Doleful Lay of the Honourable I. O. Uwins.</h3> +<p>Come and listen, lords and ladies,<br /> + To a woeful lay of mine;<br /> +He whose tailor’s bill unpaid is,<br /> + Let him now his ear incline!<br /> +Let him hearken to my story,<br /> + How the noblest of the land<br /> +Pined in piteous purgatory,<br /> + ’Neath a sponging Bailiff’s hand.</p> +<p>I. O. Uwins! I. O. Uwins!<br /> + Baron’s son although thou be,<br /> +Thou must pay for thy misdoings<br /> + In the country of the free!<br /> +None of all thy sire’s retainers<br /> + To thy rescue now may come;<br /> +And there lie some score detainers<br /> + With Abednego, the bum.</p> +<p><!-- page 97--><a name="page97"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +97</span>Little recked he of his prison<br /> + Whilst the sun was in the sky:<br /> +Only when the moon was risen<br /> + Did you hear the captive’s cry.<br /> +For till then, cigars and claret<br /> + Lulled him in oblivion sweet;<br /> +And he much preferred a garret,<br /> + For his drinking, to the street.</p> +<p>But the moonlight, pale and broken,<br /> + Pained at soul the baron’s son;<br /> +For he knew, by that soft token,<br /> + That the larking had begun;—<br /> +That the stout and valiant Marquis <a name="citation97"></a><a +href="#footnote97" class="citation">[97]</a><br /> + Then was leading forth his swells,<br /> +Milling some policeman’s carcass,<br /> + Or purloining private bells.</p> +<p>So he sat in grief and sorrow,<br /> + Rather drunk than otherwise,<br /> +Till the golden gush of morrow<br /> + Dawned once more upon his eyes:<br /> +<!-- page 98--><a name="page98"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 98</span>Till +the sponging Bailiff’s daughter,<br /> + Lightly tapping at the door,<br /> +Brought his draught of soda-water,<br /> + Brandy-bottomed as before.</p> +<p>“Sweet Rebecca! has your father,<br /> + Think you, made a deal of brass?”<br /> +And she answered—“Sir, I rather<br /> + Should imagine that he has.”<br /> +Uwins then, his whiskers scratching,<br /> + Leered upon the maiden’s face,<br /> +And, her hand with ardour catching,<br /> + Folded her in close embrace.</p> +<p>“La, Sir! let alone—you fright me!”<br /> + Said the daughter of the Jew:<br /> +“Dearest, how those eyes delight me!<br /> + Let me love thee, darling, do!”<br /> +“Vat is dish?” the Bailiff muttered,<br /> + Rushing in with fury wild;<br /> +“Ish your muffins so vell buttered,<br /> + Dat you darsh insult ma shild?”</p> +<p><!-- page 99--><a name="page99"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +99</span>“Honourable my intentions,<br /> + Good Abednego, I swear!<br /> +And I have some small pretensions,<br /> + For I am a Baron’s heir.<br /> +If you’ll only clear my credit,<br /> + And advance a <i>thou</i> <a name="citation99"></a><a +href="#footnote99" class="citation">[99]</a> or so,<br /> +She’s a peeress—I have said it:<br /> + Don’t you twig, Abednego?”</p> +<p>“Datsh a very different matter,”<br /> + Said the Bailiff, with a leer;<br /> +“But you musht not cut it fatter<br /> + Than ta slish will shtand, ma tear!<br /> +If you seeksh ma approbation,<br /> + You musht quite give up your rigsh,<br /> +Alsho you musht join our nashun,<br /> + And renounsh ta flesh of pigsh.”</p> +<p>Fast as one of Fagin’s pupils,<br /> + I. O. Uwins did agree!<br /> +Little plagued with holy scruples<br /> + From the starting-post was he.<br /> +<!-- page 100--><a name="page100"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +100</span>But at times a baleful vision<br /> + Rose before his shuddering view,<br /> +For he knew that circumcision<br /> + Was expected from a Jew.</p> +<p>At a meeting of the Rabbis,<br /> + Held about the Whitsuntide,<br /> +Was this thorough-paced Barabbas<br /> + Wedded to his Hebrew bride:<br /> +All his previous debts compounded,<br /> + From the sponging-house he came,<br /> +And his father’s feelings wounded<br /> + With reflections on the same.</p> +<p>But the sire his son accosted—<br /> + “Split my wig! if any more<br /> +Such a double-dyed apostate<br /> + Shall presume to cross my door!<br /> +Not a penny-piece to save ye<br /> + From the kennel or the spout;—<br /> +Dinner, John! the pig and gravy!—<br /> + Kick this dirty scoundrel out!”</p> +<p>Forth rushed I. O. Uwins, faster<br /> + Than all winking—much afraid<br /> +<!-- page 101--><a name="page101"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +101</span>That the orders of the master<br /> + Would be punctually obeyed:<br /> +Sought his club, and then the sentence<br /> + Of expulsion first he saw;<br /> +No one dared to own acquaintance<br /> + With a Bailiff’s son-in-law.</p> +<p>Uselessly, down Bond Street strutting,<br /> + Did he greet his friends of yore:<br /> +Such a universal cutting<br /> + Never man received before:<br /> +Till at last his pride revolted—<br /> + Pale, and lean, and stern he grew;<br /> +And his wife Rebecca bolted<br /> + With a missionary Jew.</p> +<p>Ye who read this doleful ditty,<br /> + Ask ye where is Uwins now?<br /> +Wend your way through London city,<br /> + Climb to Holborn’s lofty brow;<br /> +Near the sign-post of the “Nigger,”<br /> + Near the baked-potato shed,<br /> +You may see a ghastly figure<br /> + With three hats upon his head.</p> +<p><!-- page 102--><a name="page102"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +102</span>When the evening shades are dusky,<br /> + Then the phantom form draws near,<br /> +And, with accents low and husky,<br /> + Pours effluvium in your ear;<br /> +Craving an immediate barter<br /> + Of your trousers or surtout;<br /> +And you know the Hebrew martyr,<br /> + Once the peerless I. O. U.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p102.jpg"> +<img alt="Illustration" src="images/p102.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><!-- page 103--><a name="page103"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 103</span> +<a href="images/p103.jpg"> +<img alt="Illustration" src="images/p103.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h3>The Knyghte and the Taylzeour’s Daughter.</h3> +<p>Did you ever hear the story—<br /> + Old the legend is, and true—<br /> +How a knyghte of fame and glory<br /> + All aside his armour threw;<br /> +<!-- page 104--><a name="page104"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +104</span>Spouted spear and pawned habergeon,<br /> + Pledged his sword and surcoat gay,<br /> +Sate down cross-legged on the shop-board,<br /> + Sate and stitched the livelong day?</p> +<p>“Taylzeour! not one single shilling<br /> + Does my breeches-pocket hold:<br /> +I to pay am really willing,<br /> + If I only had the gold.<br /> +Farmers none can I encounter,<br /> + Graziers there are none to kill;<br /> +Therefore, prithee, gentle taylzeour,<br /> + Bother not about thy bill.”</p> +<p>“Good Sir Knyghte, just once too often<br /> + Have you tried that slippery trick;<br /> +Hearts like mine you cannot soften,<br /> + Vainly do you ask for tick.<br /> +Christmas and its bills are coming,<br /> + Soon will they be showering in;<br /> +Therefore, once for all, my rum un,<br /> + I expect you’ll post the tin.</p> +<p><!-- page 105--><a name="page105"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +105</span>“Mark, Sir Knyghte, that gloomy bayliffe<br /> + In the palmer’s amice brown;<br /> +He shall lead you unto jail, if<br /> + Instantly you stump not down.”<br /> +Deeply swore the young crusader,<br /> + But the taylzeour would not hear;<br /> +And the gloomy, bearded bayliffe<br /> + Evermore kept sneaking near.</p> +<p>“Neither groat nor maravedi<br /> + Have I got my soul to bless;<br /> +And I’d feel extremely seedy,<br /> + Languishing in vile duresse.<br /> +Therefore listen, ruthless taylzeour,<br /> + Take my steed and armour free,<br /> +Pawn them at thy Hebrew uncle’s,<br /> + And I’ll work the rest for thee.”</p> +<p>Lightly leaped he on the shop-board,<br /> + Lightly crooked his manly limb,<br /> +Lightly drove the glancing needle<br /> + Through the growing doublet’s rim<br /> +<!-- page 106--><a name="page106"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +106</span>Gaberdines in countless number<br /> + Did the taylzeour knyghte repair,<br /> +And entirely on cucumber<br /> + And on cabbage lived he there.</p> +<p>Once his weary task beguiling<br /> + With a low and plaintive song,<br /> +That good knyghte o’er miles of broadcloth<br /> + Drove the hissing goose along;<br /> +From her lofty latticed window<br /> + Looked the taylzeour’s daughter down,<br /> +And she instantly discovered<br /> + That her heart was not her own.</p> +<p>“Canst thou love me, gentle stranger?”<br /> + Picking at a pink she stood—<br /> +And the knyghte at once admitted<br /> + That he rather thought he could.<br /> +“He who weds me shall have riches,<br /> + Gold, and lands, and houses free.”<br /> +“For a single pair of—<i>small-clothes</i>,<br /> + I would roam the world with thee!”</p> +<p><!-- page 107--><a name="page107"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +107</span> +<a href="images/p107.jpg"> +<img alt="Illustration" src="images/p107.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p>Then she flung him down the tickets<br /> + Well the knyghte their import knew—<br /> +“Take this gold, and win thy armour<br /> + From the unbelieving Jew.<br /> +Though in garments mean and lowly<br /> + Thou wouldst roam the world with me,<br /> +Only as a belted warrior,<br /> + Stranger, will I wed with thee!”</p> +<p><!-- page 108--><a name="page108"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +108</span>At the feast of good Saint Stitchem,<br /> + In the middle of the spring,<br /> +There was some superior jousting,<br /> + By the order of the King.<br /> +“Valiant knyghtes!” proclaimed the monarch,<br /> + “You will please to understand,<br /> +He who bears himself most bravely<br /> + Shall obtain my daughter’s hand.”</p> +<p>Well and bravely did they bear them,<br /> + Bravely battled, one and all;<br /> +But the bravest in the tourney<br /> + Was a warrior stout and tall.<br /> +None could tell his name or lineage,<br /> + None could meet him in the field,<br /> +And a goose regardant proper<br /> + Hissed along his azure shield.</p> +<p>“Warrior, thou hast won my daughter!”<br /> + But the champion bowed his knee,<br /> +“Royal blood may not be wasted<br /> + On a simple knyghte like me.<br /> +<!-- page 109--><a name="page109"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +109</span>She I love is meek and lowly;<br /> + But her heart is kind and free;<br /> +Also, there is tin forthcoming,<br /> + Though she is of low degree.”</p> +<p>Slowly rose that nameless warrior,<br /> + Slowly turned his steps aside,<br /> +Passed the lattice where the princess<br /> + Sate in beauty, sate in pride.<br /> +Passed the row of noble ladies,<br /> + Hied him to an humbler seat,<br /> +And in silence laid the chaplet<br /> + At the taylzeour’s daughter’s feet.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p109.jpg"> +<img alt="Illustration" src="images/p109.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><!-- page 110--><a name="page110"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 110</span> +<a href="images/p110.jpg"> +<img alt="Illustration" src="images/p110.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h3>The Midnight Visit.</h3> +<p>It was the Lord of Castlereagh, he sat within his room,<br /> +His arms were crossed upon his breast, his face was marked with gloom;<br +/> +They said that St Helena’s Isle had rendered up its charge,<br /> +That France was bristling high in arms—the Emperor at large.</p> +<p><!-- page 111--><a name="page111"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +111</span>’Twas midnight! all the lamps were dim, and dull as death +the street,<br /> +It might be that the watchman slept that night upon his beat,<br /> +When lo! a heavy foot was heard to creak upon the stair,<br /> +The door revolved upon its hinge—Great Heaven!—What enters +there?</p> +<p>A little man, of stately mien, with slow and solemn stride;<br /> +His hands are crossed upon his back, his coat is opened wide;<br /> +And on his vest of green he wears an eagle and a star,—<br /> +Saint George! protect us! ’tis <span class="smcap">The +Man</span>,—the thunder-bolt of war!</p> +<p>Is that the famous hat that waved along Marengo’s ridge?<br /> +Are these the spurs of Austerlitz—the boots of Lodi’s +bridge?<br /> +<!-- page 112--><a name="page112"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +112</span>Leads he the conscript swarm again from France’s hornet +hive?<br /> +What seeks the fell usurper here, in Britain, and alive?</p> +<p>Pale grew the Lord of Castlereagh, his tongue was parched and dry,<br /> +As in his brain he felt the glare of that tremendous eye;<br /> +What wonder if he shrank in fear, for who could meet the glance<br /> +Of him who rear’d, ’mid Russian snows, the gonfalon of +France?</p> +<p>From the side-pocket of his vest a pinch the despot took,<br /> +Yet not a whit did he relax the sternness of his look:<br /> +“Thou thoughtst the lion was afar, but he hath burst the +chain—<br /> +The watchword for to-night is France—the answer St Heléne.</p> +<p><!-- page 113--><a name="page113"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +113</span>“And didst thou deem the barren isle, or ocean waves, could +bind<br /> +The master of the universe—the monarch of mankind?<br /> +I tell thee, fool! the world itself is all too small for me;<br /> +I laugh to scorn thy bolts and bars—I burst them, and am free.</p> +<p>“Thou thinkst that England hates me! Mark!—This very +night my name<br /> +Was thundered in its capital with tumult and acclaim!<br /> +They saw me, knew me, owned my power—Proud lord! I say, beware!<br /> +There be men within the Surrey side, who know to do and dare!</p> +<p>“To-morrow in thy very teeth my standard will I rear—<br /> +Ay, well that ashen cheek of thine may blanch and shrink with fear!<br /> +<!-- page 114--><a name="page114"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +114</span>To-morrow night another town shall sink in ghastly flames;<br /> +And as I crossed the Borodin, so shall I cross the Thames!</p> +<p>“Thou’lt seize me, wilt thou, ere the dawn? Weak +lordling, do thy worst!<br /> +These hands ere now have broke thy chains, thy fetters they have burst.<br +/> +Yet, wouldst thou know my resting-place? Behold, ’tis written +there!<br /> +And let thy coward myrmidons approach me if they dare!”</p> +<p>Another pinch, another stride—he passes through the door—<br +/> +“Was it a phantom or a man was standing on the floor?<br /> +And could that be the Emperor that moved before my eyes?<br /> +Ah, yes! too sure it was himself, for here the paper lies!”</p> +<p><!-- page 115--><a name="page115"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +115</span>With trembling hands Lord Castlereagh undid the mystic scroll,<br +/> +With glassy eye essayed to read, for fear was on his soul—<br /> +“What’s here?—‘At Astley’s, every night, the +play of <span class="smcap">Moscow’s Fall</span>!<br /> +<span class="smcap">Napoleon</span>, for the thousandth time, by Mr <span +class="smcap">Gomersal</span>!’”</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p115.jpg"> +<img alt="Illustration" src="images/p115.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><!-- page 116--><a name="page116"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 116</span> +<a href="images/p116.jpg"> +<img alt="Illustration" src="images/p116.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h3>The Lay of The Lovelorn.</h3> +<p>Comrades, you may pass the rosy. With permission of the chair,<br +/> +I shall leave you for a little, for I’d like to take the air.</p> +<p>Whether ’twas the sauce at dinner, or that glass of +ginger-beer,<br /> +Or these strong cheroots, I know not, but I feel a little queer.</p> +<p><!-- page 117--><a name="page117"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +117</span>Let me go. Nay, Chuckster, blow me, ’pon my soul, +this is too bad!<br /> +When you want me, ask the waiter; he knows where I’m to be had.</p> +<p>Whew! This is a great relief now! Let me but undo my +stock;<br /> +Resting here beneath the porch, my nerves will steady like a rock.</p> +<p>In my ears I hear the singing of a lot of favourite tunes—<br /> +Bless my heart, how very odd! Why, surely there’s a brace of +moons!</p> +<p>See! the stars! how bright they twinkle, winking with a frosty glare,<br +/> +Like my faithless cousin Amy when she drove me to despair.</p> +<p>Oh, my cousin, spider-hearted! Oh, my Amy! No, confound +it!<br /> +I must wear the mournful willow,—all around my heart I’ve bound +it. <a name="citation117"></a><a href="#footnote117" +class="citation">[117]</a></p> +<p><!-- page 118--><a name="page118"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +118</span>Falser than the bank of fancy, frailer than a shilling glove,<br +/> +Puppet to a father’s anger, minion to a nabob’s love!</p> +<p>Is it well to wish thee happy? Having known me, could you ever<br +/> +Stoop to marry half a heart, and little more than half a liver?</p> +<p>Happy! Damme! Thou shalt lower to his level day by day,<br +/> +Changing from the best of china to the commonest of clay.</p> +<p>As the husband is, the wife is,—he is stomach-plagued and old;<br +/> +And his curry soups will make thy cheek the colour of his gold.</p> +<p>When his feeble love is sated, he will hold thee surely then<br /> +Something lower than his hookah,—something less than his cayenne.</p> +<p><!-- page 119--><a name="page119"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +119</span>What is this? His eyes are pinky. Was’t the +claret? Oh, no, no,—<br /> +Bless your soul! it was the salmon,—salmon always makes him so.</p> +<p>Take him to thy dainty chamber—soothe him with thy lightest +fancies;<br /> +He will understand thee, won’t he?—pay thee with a +lover’s glances?</p> +<p>Louder than the loudest trumpet, harsh as harshest ophicleide,<br /> +Nasal respirations answer the endearments of his bride.</p> +<p>Sweet response, delightful music! Gaze upon thy noble charge,<br +/> +Till the spirit fill thy bosom that inspired the meek Laffarge. <a +name="citation119a"></a><a href="#footnote119a" +class="citation">[119a]</a></p> +<p>Better thou wert dead before me,—better, better that I stood,<br +/> +Looking on thy murdered body, like the injured Daniel Good! <a +name="citation119b"></a><a href="#footnote119b" +class="citation">[119b]</a></p> +<p><!-- page 120--><a name="page120"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +120</span>Better thou and I were lying, cold and timber-stiff and dead,<br +/> +With a pan of burning charcoal underneath our nuptial bed!</p> +<p>Cursed be the Bank of England’s notes, that tempt the soul to +sin!<br /> +Cursed be the want of acres,—doubly cursed the want of tin!</p> +<p>Cursed be the marriage-contract, that enslaved thy soul to greed!<br /> +Cursed be the sallow lawyer, that prepared and drew the deed!</p> +<p>Cursed be his foul apprentice, who the loathsome fees did earn!<br /> +Cursed be the clerk and parson,—cursed be the whole concern!</p> +<p>* * +* *</p> +<p><!-- page 121--><a name="page121"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +121</span>Oh, ’tis well that I should bluster,—much I’m +like to make of that;<br /> +Better comfort have I found in singing “All Around my Hat.”</p> +<p>But that song, so wildly plaintive, palls upon my British ears.<br /> +’Twill not do to pine for ever,—I am getting up in years.</p> +<p>Can’t I turn the honest penny, scribbling for the weekly press,<br +/> +And in writing Sunday libels drown my private wretchedness! <a +name="citation121"></a><a href="#footnote121" +class="citation">[121]</a></p> +<p>Oh, to feel the wild pulsation that in manhood’s dawn I knew,<br +/> +When my days were all before me, and my years were twenty-two!</p> +<p><!-- page 122--><a name="page122"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +122</span>When I smoked my independent pipe along the Quadrant wide, <a +name="citation122a"></a><a href="#footnote122a" +class="citation">[122a]</a><br /> +With the many larks of London flaring up on every side;</p> +<p>When I went the pace so wildly, caring little what might come;<br /> +Coffee-milling care and sorrow, with a nose-adapted thumb; <a +name="citation122b"></a><a href="#footnote122b" +class="citation">[122b]</a></p> +<p>Felt the exquisite enjoyment, tossing nightly off, oh heavens!<br /> +Brandies at the Cider Cellars, kidneys smoking-hot at Evans’! <a +name="citation122c"></a><a href="#footnote122c" +class="citation">[122c]</a></p> +<p>Or in the Adelphi sitting, half in rapture, half in tears,<br /> +Saw the glorious melodrama conjure up the shades of years!</p> +<p>Saw Jack Sheppard, noble stripling, act his wondrous feats again,<br /> +Snapping Newgate’s bars of iron, like an infant’s daisy +chain.</p> +<p><!-- page 123--><a name="page123"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +123</span>Might was right, and all the terrors, which had held the world in +awe,<br /> +Were despised, and prigging prospered, spite of Laurie, <a +name="citation123"></a><a href="#footnote123" class="citation">[123]</a> +spite of law.</p> +<p>In such scenes as these I triumphed, ere my passion’s edge was +rusted,<br /> +And my cousin’s cold refusal left me very much disgusted!</p> +<p>Since, my heart is sere and withered, and I do not care a curse,<br /> +Whether worse shall be the better, or the better be the worse.</p> +<p>Hark! my merry comrades call me, bawling for another jorum;<br /> +They would mock me in derision, should I thus appear before ’em.</p> +<p>Womankind no more shall vex me, such at least as go arrayed<br /> +In the most expensive satins and the newest silk brocade.</p> +<p><!-- page 124--><a name="page124"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +124</span>I’ll to Afric, lion-haunted, where the giant forest +yields<br /> +Rarer robes and finer tissue than are sold at Spital fields.</p> +<p>Or to burst all chains of habit, flinging habit’s self aside,<br +/> +I shall walk the tangled jungle in mankind’s primeval pride;</p> +<p>Feeding on the luscious berries and the rich cassava root,<br /> +Lots of dates and lots of guavas, clusters of forbidden fruit.</p> +<p>Never comes the trader thither, never o’er the purple main<br /> +Sounds the oath of British commerce, or the accent of Cockaigne.</p> +<p>There, methinks, would be enjoyment, where no envious rule prevents;<br +/> +Sink the steamboats! cuss the railways! rot, O rot the Three per Cents!</p> +<p><!-- page 125--><a name="page125"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +125</span>There the passions, cramped no longer, shall have space to +breathe, my cousin!<br /> +I will wed some savage woman—nay, I’ll wed at least a +dozen.</p> +<p>There I’ll rear my young mulattoes, as no Bond Street brats are +reared:<br /> +They shall dive for alligators, catch the wild goats by the +beard—</p> +<p>Whistle to the cockatoos, and mock the hairy-faced baboon,<br /> +Worship mighty Mumbo Jumbo in the Mountains of the Moon.</p> +<p>I myself, in far Timbuctoo, leopard’s blood will daily quaff,<br +/> +Ride a tiger-hunting, mounted on a thorough-bred giraffe.</p> +<p>Fiercely shall I shout the war-whoop, as some sullen stream he +crosses,<br /> +Startling from their noonday slumbers iron-bound rhinoceroses.</p> +<p><!-- page 126--><a name="page126"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +126</span>Fool! again the dream, the fancy! But I know my words are +mad,<br /> +For I hold the grey barbarian lower than the Christian cad.</p> +<p>I the swell—the city dandy! I to seek such horrid +places,—<br /> +I to haunt with squalid negroes, blubber-lips, and monkey-faces!</p> +<p>I to wed with Coromantees! I, who managed—very +near—<br /> +To secure the heart and fortune of the widow Shillibeer!</p> +<p>Stuff and nonsense! let me never fling a single chance away;<br /> +Maids ere now, I know, have loved me, and another maiden may.</p> +<p>‘Morning Post’ (‘The Times’ won’t trust +me) help me, as I know you can;<br /> +I will pen an advertisement,—that’s a never-failing plan.</p> +<p><!-- page 127--><a name="page127"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +127</span>“<span class="smcap">Wanted</span>—By a bard, in +wedlock, some young interesting woman:<br /> +Looks are not so much an object, if the shiners be forthcoming!</p> +<p>“Hymen’s chains the advertiser vows shall be but silken +fetters;<br /> +Please address to A. T., Chelsea. N.B.—You must pay the +letters.”</p> +<p>That’s the sort of thing to do it. Now I’ll go and +taste the balmy,—<br /> +Rest thee with thy yellow nabob, spider-hearted Cousin Amy!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p127.jpg"> +<img alt="Illustration" src="images/p127.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><!-- page 130--><a name="page130"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 130</span> +<a href="images/p130.jpg"> +<img alt="Illustration" src="images/p130.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h3>My Wife’s Cousin.</h3> +<p>Decked with shoes of blackest polish,<br /> + And with shirt as white as snow,<br /> +After early morning breakfast<br /> + To my daily desk I go;<br /> +First a fond salute bestowing<br /> + On my Mary’s ruby lips,<br /> +Which, perchance, may be rewarded<br /> + With a pair of playful nips.</p> +<p>All day long across the ledger<br /> + Still my patient pen I drive,<br /> +Thinking what a feast awaits me<br /> + In my happy home at five;<br /> +<!-- page 131--><a name="page131"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 131</span>In +my small one-storeyed Eden,<br /> + Where my wife awaits my coming,<br /> +And our solitary handmaid<br /> + Mutton-chops with care is crumbing.</p> +<p>When the clock proclaims my freedom,<br /> + Then my hat I seize and vanish;<br /> +Every trouble from my bosom,<br /> + Every anxious care I banish.<br /> +Swiftly brushing o’er the pavement,<br /> + At a furious pace I go,<br /> +Till I reach my darling dwelling<br /> + In the wilds of Pimlico.</p> +<p>“Mary, wife, where art thou, dearest?”<br /> + Thus I cry, while yet afar;<br /> +Ah! what scent invades my nostrils?—<br /> + ’Tis the smoke of a cigar!<br /> +Instantly into the parlour<br /> + Like a maniac, I haste,<br /> +And I find a young Life-Guardsman,<br /> + With his arm round Mary’s waist.</p> +<p><!-- page 132--><a name="page132"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +132</span>And his other hand is playing<br /> + Most familiarly with hers;<br /> +And I think my Brussels carpet<br /> + Somewhat damaged by his spurs.<br /> +“Fire and furies! what the blazes?”<br /> + Thus in frenzied wrath I call;<br /> +When my spouse her arms upraises,<br /> + With a most astounding squall.</p> +<p>“Was there ever such a monster,<br /> + Ever such a wretched wife?<br /> +Ah! how long must I endure it,<br /> + How protract this hateful life?<br /> +All day long, quite unprotected,<br /> + Does he leave his wife at home;<br /> +And she cannot see her cousins,<br /> + Even when they kindly come!”</p> +<p>Then the young Life-Guardsman, rising,<br /> + Scarce vouchsafes a single word,<br /> +But, with look of deadly menace,<br /> + Claps his hand upon his sword;<br /> +<!-- page 133--><a name="page133"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +133</span>And in fear I faintly falter—<br /> + “This your cousin, then he’s mine!<br /> +Very glad, indeed, to see you,—<br /> + Won’t you stop with us, and dine?”</p> +<p>Won’t a ferret suck a rabbit?—<br /> + As a thing of course he stops;<br /> +And with most voracious swallow<br /> + Walks into my mutton-chops.<br /> +In the twinkling of a bed-post<br /> + Is each savoury platter clear,<br /> +And he shows uncommon science<br /> + In his estimate of beer.</p> +<p>Half-and-half goes down before him,<br /> + Gurgling from the pewter pot;<br /> +And he moves a counter motion<br /> + For a glass of something hot.<br /> +Neither chops nor beer I grudge him,<br /> + Nor a moderate share of goes;<br /> +But I know not why he’s always<br /> + Treading upon Mary’s toes.</p> +<p><!-- page 134--><a name="page134"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +134</span>Evermore, when, home returning,<br /> + From the counting-house I come,<br /> +Do I find the young Life-Guardsman<br /> + Smoking pipes and drinking rum.<br /> +Evermore he stays to dinner,<br /> + Evermore devours my meal;<br /> +For I have a wholesome horror<br /> + Both of powder and of steel.</p> +<p>Yet I know he’s Mary’s cousin,<br /> + For my only son and heir<br /> +Much resembles that young Guardsman,<br /> + With the self-same curly hair;<br /> +But I wish he would not always<br /> + Spoil my carpet with his spurs;<br /> +And I’d rather see his fingers<br /> + In the fire, than touching hers.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><!-- page 135--><a name="page135"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 135</span> +<a href="images/p135.jpg"> +<img alt="Illustration" src="images/p135.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h3>The Queen in France.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">an ancient scottish ballad</span>.</p> +<h4>PART I.</h4> +<p>It fell upon the August month,<br /> + When landsmen bide at hame,<br /> +That our gude Queen went out to sail<br /> + Upon the saut-sea faem.</p> +<p><!-- page 136--><a name="page136"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +136</span>And she has ta’en the silk and gowd,<br /> + The like was never seen;<br /> +And she has ta’en the Prince Albert,<br /> + And the bauld Lord Aberdeen.</p> +<p>“Ye’se bide at hame, Lord Wellington:<br /> + Ye daurna gang wi’ me:<br /> +For ye hae been ance in the land o’ France,<br /> + And that’s eneuch for ye.</p> +<p>“Ye’se bide at hame, Sir Robert Peel,<br /> + To gather the red and the white monie;<br /> +And see that my men dinna eat me up<br /> + At Windsor wi’ their gluttonie.”</p> +<p>They hadna sailed a league, a league,—<br /> + A league, but barely twa,<br /> +When the lift grew dark, and the waves grew wan,<br /> + And the wind began to blaw.</p> +<p>“O weel weel may the waters rise,<br /> + In welcome o’ their Queen;<br /> +What gars ye look sae white, Albert?<br /> + What makes yer ee sae green?”</p> +<p><!-- page 137--><a name="page137"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +137</span>“My heart is sick, my heid is sair:<br /> + Gie me a glass o’ the gude brandie:<br /> +To set my foot on the braid green sward,<br /> + I’d gie the half o’ my yearly fee.</p> +<p>“It’s sweet to hunt the sprightly hare<br /> + On the bonny slopes o’ Windsor lea,<br /> +But oh, it’s ill to bear the thud<br /> + And pitching o’ the saut saut sea!”</p> +<p>And aye they sailed, and aye they sailed,<br /> + Till England sank behind,<br /> +And over to the coast of France<br /> + They drave before the wind.</p> +<p>Then up and spak the King o’ France,<br /> + Was birling at the wine;<br /> +“O wha may be the gay ladye,<br /> + That owns that ship sae fine?</p> +<p>“And wha may be that bonny lad,<br /> + That looks sae pale and wan<br /> +I’ll wad my lands o’ Picardie,<br /> + That he’s nae Englishman.”</p> +<p><!-- page 138--><a name="page138"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +138</span>Then up and spak an auld French lord,<br /> + Was sitting beneath his knee,<br /> +“It is the Queen o’ braid England<br /> + That’s come across the sea.”</p> +<p>“And oh an it be England’s Queen,<br /> + She’s welcome here the day;<br /> +I’d rather hae her for a friend<br /> + Than for a deadly fae.</p> +<p>“Gae, kill the eerock in the yard,<br /> + The auld sow in the sty,<br /> +And bake for her the brockit calf,<br /> + But and the puddock-pie!”</p> +<p>And he has gane until the ship,<br /> + As soon as it drew near,<br /> +And he has ta’en her by the hand—<br /> + “Ye’re kindly welcome here!”</p> +<p>And syne he kissed her on ae cheek,<br /> + And syne upon the ither;<br /> +And he ca’d her his sister dear,<br /> + And she ca’d him her brither.</p> +<p><!-- page 139--><a name="page139"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +139</span>“Light doun, light doun now, ladye mine,<br /> + Light doun upon the shore;<br /> +Nae English king has trodden here<br /> + This thousand years and more.”</p> +<p>“And gin I lighted on your land,<br /> + As light fu’ weel I may,<br /> +O am I free to feast wi’ you,<br /> + And free to come and gae?”</p> +<p>And he has sworn by the Haly Rood,<br /> + And the black stane o’ Dumblane,<br /> +That she is free to come and gae<br /> + Till twenty days are gane.</p> +<p>“I’ve lippened to a Frenchman’s aith,”<br /> + Said gude Lord Aberdeen;<br /> +“But I’ll never lippen to it again,<br /> + Sae lang’s the grass is green.</p> +<p>“Yet gae your ways, my sovereign liege,<br /> + Sin’ better mayna be;<br /> +The wee bit bairns are safe at hame,<br /> + By the blessing o’ Marie!”</p> +<p><!-- page 140--><a name="page140"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +140</span>Then doun she lighted frae the ship,<br /> + She lighted safe and sound;<br /> +And glad was our good Prince Albert<br /> + To step upon the ground.</p> +<p>“Is that your Queen, my Lord,” she said,<br /> + “That auld and buirdly dame?<br /> +I see the crown upon her head;<br /> + But I dinna ken her name.”</p> +<p>And she has kissed the Frenchman’s Queen,<br /> + And eke her daughters three,<br /> +And gien her hand to the young Princess,<br /> + That louted upon the knee.</p> +<p>And she has gane to the proud castel,<br /> + That’s biggit beside the sea:<br /> +But aye, when she thought o’ the bairns at hame,<br /> + The tear was in her ee.</p> +<p>She gied the King the Cheshire cheese,<br /> + But and the porter fine;<br /> +And he gied her the puddock-pies,<br /> + But and the blude-red wine.</p> +<p><!-- page 141--><a name="page141"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +141</span>Then up and spak the dourest Prince,<br /> + An admiral was he;<br /> +“Let’s keep the Queen o’ England here,<br /> + Sin’ better mayna be!</p> +<p>“O mony is the dainty king<br /> + That we hae trappit here;<br /> +And mony is the English yerl<br /> + That’s in our dungeons drear!”</p> +<p>“You lee, you lee, ye graceless loon,<br /> + Sae loud’s I hear ye lee!<br /> +There never yet was Englishman<br /> + That came to skaith by me.</p> +<p>“Gae oot, gae oot, ye fause traitour!<br /> + Gae oot until the street;<br /> +It’s shame that Kings and Queens should sit<br /> + Wi’ sic a knave at meat!”</p> +<p>Then up and raise the young French lord,<br /> + In wrath and hie disdain—<br /> +“O ye may sit, and ye may eat<br /> + Your puddock-pies alane!</p> +<p><!-- page 142--><a name="page142"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +142</span>“But were I in my ain gude ship,<br /> + And sailing wi’ the wind,<br /> +And did I meet wi’ auld Napier,<br /> + I’d tell him o’ my mind.”</p> +<p>O then the Queen leuch loud and lang,<br /> + And her colour went and came;<br /> +“Gin ye meet wi’ Charlie on the sea,<br /> + Ye’ll wish yersel at hame!”</p> +<p>And aye they birlit at the wine,<br /> + And drank richt merrilie,<br /> +Till the auld cock crawed in the castle-yard,<br /> + And the abbey bell struck three.</p> +<p>The Queen she gaed until her bed,<br /> + And Prince Albert likewise;<br /> +And the last word that gay ladye said<br /> + Was—“O thae puddock-pies!”</p> +<h4><!-- page 143--><a name="page143"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +143</span>PART II.</h4> +<p>The sun was high within the lift<br /> + Afore the French King raise;<br /> +And syne he louped intil his sark,<br /> + And warslit on his claes.</p> +<p>“Gae up, gae up, my little foot-page,<br /> + Gae up until the toun;<br /> +And gin ye meet wi’ the auld harper,<br /> + Be sure ye bring him doun.”</p> +<p>And he has met wi’ the auld harper;<br /> + O but his een were reid;<br /> +And the bizzing o’ a swarm o’ bees<br /> + Was singing in his heid.</p> +<p>“Alack! alack!” the harper said,<br /> + “That this should e’er hae been!<br /> +I daurna gang before my liege,<br /> + For I was fou yestreen.”</p> +<p><!-- page 144--><a name="page144"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +144</span>“It’s ye maun come, ye auld harper:<br /> + Ye daurna tarry lang;<br /> +The King is just dementit-like<br /> + For wanting o’ a sang.”</p> +<p>And when he came to the King’s chamber,<br /> + He loutit on his knee,<br /> +“O what may be your gracious will<br /> + Wi’ an auld frail man like me?”</p> +<p>“I want a sang, harper,” he said,<br /> + “I want a sang richt speedilie;<br /> +And gin ye dinna make a sang,<br /> + I’ll hang ye up on the gallows tree.”</p> +<p>“I canna do’t, my liege,” he said,<br /> + “Hae mercy on my auld grey hair!<br /> +But gin that I had got the words,<br /> + I think that I might mak the air.”</p> +<p>“And wha’s to mak the words, fause loon,<br /> + When minstrels we have barely twa;<br /> +And Lamartine is in Paris toun,<br /> + And Victor Hugo far awa?”</p> +<p><!-- page 145--><a name="page145"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +145</span>“The diel may gang for Lamartine,<br /> + And flee away wi’ auld Hugo,<br /> +For a better minstrel than them baith<br /> + Within this very toun I know.</p> +<p>“O kens my liege the gude Walter,<br /> + At hame they ca’ him <span class="smcap">Bon +Gaultier</span>?<br /> +He’ll rhyme ony day wi’ True Thomas,<br /> + And he is in the castle here.”</p> +<p>The French King first he lauchit loud,<br /> + And syne did he begin to sing;<br /> +“My een are auld, and my heart is cauld,<br /> + Or I suld hae known the minstrels’ King.</p> +<p>“Gae take to him this ring o’ gowd,<br /> + And this mantle o’ the silk sae fine,<br /> +And bid him mak a maister sang<br /> + For his sovereign ladye’s sake and mine.”</p> +<p>“I winna take the gowden ring,<br /> + Nor yet the mantle fine:<br /> +But I’ll mak the sang for my ladye’s sake,<br /> + And for a cup of wine.”</p> +<p><!-- page 146--><a name="page146"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +146</span>The Queen was sitting at the cards,<br /> + The King ahint her back;<br /> +And aye she dealed the red honours,<br /> + And aye she dealed the black;</p> +<p>And syne unto the dourest Prince<br /> + She spak richt courteouslie;—<br /> +“Now will ye play, Lord Admiral,<br /> + Now will ye play wi’ me?”</p> +<p>The dourest Prince he bit his lip,<br /> + And his brow was black as glaur;<br /> +“The only game that e’er I play<br /> + Is the bluidy game o’ war!”</p> +<p>“And gin ye play at that, young man,<br /> + It weel may cost ye sair;<br /> +Ye’d better stick to the game at cards,<br /> + For you’ll win nae honours there!”</p> +<p>The King he leuch, and the Queen she leuch,<br /> + Till the tears ran blithely doon;<br /> +But the Admiral he raved and swore,<br /> + Till they kicked him frae the room.</p> +<p><!-- page 147--><a name="page147"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +147</span>The harper came, and the harper sang,<br /> + And oh but they were fain;<br /> +For when he had sung the gude sang twice,<br /> + They called for it again.</p> +<p>It was the sang o’ the Field o’ Gowd,<br /> + In the days of auld langsyne;<br /> +When bauld King Henry crossed the seas,<br /> + Wi’ his brither King to dine.</p> +<p>And aye he harped, and aye he carped,<br /> + Till up the Queen she sprang—<br /> +“I’ll wad a County Palatine,<br /> + Gude Walter made that sang.”</p> +<p>Three days had come, three days had gane,<br /> + The fourth began to fa’,<br /> +When our gude Queen to the Frenchman said,<br /> + “It’s time I was awa!</p> +<p>“O, bonny are the fields o’ France,<br /> + And saftly draps the rain;<br /> +But my bairnies are in Windsor Tower,<br /> + And greeting a’ their lane.</p> +<p><!-- page 148--><a name="page148"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +148</span>“Now ye maun come to me, Sir King,<br /> + As I have come to ye;<br /> +And a benison upon your heid<br /> + For a’ your courtesie!</p> +<p>“Ye maun come, and bring your ladye fere;<br /> + Ye sall na say me no;<br /> +And ye’se mind, we have aye a bed to spare<br /> + For that gawsy chield Guizot.”</p> +<p>Now he has ta’en her lily-white hand,<br /> + And put it to his lip,<br /> +And he has ta’en her to the strand,<br /> + And left her in her ship.</p> +<p>“Will ye come back, sweet bird?” he cried,<br /> + “Will ye come kindly here,<br /> +When the lift is blue, and the lavrocks sing,<br /> + In the spring-time o’ the year?”</p> +<p>“It’s I would blithely come, my Lord,<br /> + To see ye in the spring;<br /> +It’s I would blithely venture back<br /> + But for ae little thing.</p> +<p><!-- page 149--><a name="page149"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +149</span>“It isna that the winds are rude,<br /> + Or that the waters rise,<br /> +But I loe the roasted beef at hame,<br /> + And no thae puddock-pies!”</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><!-- page 150--><a name="page150"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 150</span> +<a href="images/p150.jpg"> +<img alt="Illustration" src="images/p150.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h3>The Massacre of the Macpherson.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">from the gaelic</span>.]</p> +<p>I.</p> +<p>Fhairshon swore a feud<br /> + Against the clan M’Tavish;<br /> +Marched into their land<br /> + To murder and to rafish;<br /> +<!-- page 151--><a name="page151"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +151</span>For he did resolve<br /> + To extirpate the vipers,<br /> +With four-and-twenty men<br /> + And five-and-thirty pipers.</p> +<p>II.</p> +<p>But when he had gone<br /> + Half-way down Strath Canaan,<br /> +Of his fighting tail<br /> + Just three were remainin’.<br /> +They were all he had,<br /> + To back him in ta battle;<br /> +All the rest had gone<br /> + Off, to drive ta cattle.</p> +<p>III.</p> +<p>“Fery coot!” cried Fhairshon,<br /> + “So my clan disgraced is;<br /> +Lads, we’ll need to fight,<br /> + Pefore we touch the peasties.<br /> +<!-- page 152--><a name="page152"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +152</span>Here’s Mhic-Mac-Methusaleh<br /> + Coming wi’ his fassals,<br /> +Gillies seventy-three,<br /> + And sixty Dhuinéwassails!”</p> +<p>IV.</p> +<p>“Coot tay to you, sir;<br /> + Are you not ta Fhairshon?<br /> +Was you coming here<br /> + To fisit any person?<br /> +You are a plackguard, sir!<br /> + It is now six hundred<br /> +Coot long years, and more,<br /> + Since my glen was plundered.”</p> +<p>V.</p> +<p>“Fat is tat you say?<br /> + Dare you cock your peaver?<br /> +I will teach you, sir,<br /> + Fat is coot pehaviour!<br /> +<!-- page 153--><a name="page153"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +153</span>You shall not exist<br /> + For another day more;<br /> +I will shoot you, sir,<br /> + Or stap you with my claymore!”</p> +<p>VI.</p> +<p>“I am fery glad,<br /> + To learn what you mention,<br /> +Since I can prevent<br /> + Any such intention.”<br /> +So Mhic-Mac-Methusaleh<br /> + Gave some warlike howls,<br /> +Trew his skhian-dhu,<br /> + An’ stuck it in his powels.</p> +<p>VII.</p> +<p>In this fery way<br /> + Tied ta faliant Fhairshon,<br /> +Who was always thought<br /> + A superior person.<br /> +<!-- page 154--><a name="page154"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +154</span>Fhairshon had a son,<br /> + Who married Noah’s daughter,<br /> +And nearly spoiled ta Flood,<br /> + By trinking up ta water:</p> +<p>VIII.</p> +<p>Which he would have done,<br /> + I at least pelieve it,<br /> +Had ta mixture peen<br /> + Only half Glenlivet.<br /> +This is all my tale:<br /> + Sirs, I hope ’tis new t’ye!<br /> +Here’s your fery good healths,<br /> + And tamn ta whusky duty!</p> +<p><!-- page 155--><a name="page155"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +155</span>[The six 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.</p> +<blockquote> +<p>Bays! which in former days have graced the brow<br /> + Of some, who lived and loved, and sang and died;<br /> + Leaves that were gathered on the pleasant side<br /> +Of old Parnassus from Apollo’s bough;<br /> +With palpitating hand I take thee now,<br /> + Since worthier minstrel there is none beside,<br /> + And with a thrill of song half deified,<br /> +I bind them proudly on my locks of snow.<br /> +There shall they bide, till he who follows next,<br /> + Of whom I cannot even guess the name,<br /> +Shall by Court favour, or some vain pretext<br /> + Of fancied merit, desecrate the same,—<br /> +And think, perchance, he wears them quite as well<br /> +As the sole bard who sang of Peter Bell!]</p> +</blockquote> +<p>The above note, which appeared in the first and subsequent editions of +this volume, is characteristic of the audacious spirit of fun in which Bon +Gaultier revelled. The sonnet here ascribed to Wordsworth must have +been believed by some matter-of-fact people to be really by him. On +his death in 1857, in an article on the subject of the vacant +Laureate-ship, it was quoted in a leading journal as proof of +Wordsworth’s complacent estimate of his own supremacy over all +contemporary poets. In writing the sonnet I was well aware that there +was some foundation for his not unjust high appreciation of his own +prowess, as the phrase “sole bard” pretty clearly indicates, +but I never dreamt that any one would fail to see the joke.</p> +<h3><!-- page 156--><a name="page156"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +156</span>The Laureates’ Tourney.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">by the hon. t--- b--- m---</span>.</p> +<h4>FYTTE THE FIRST.</h4> +<p>“What news, what news, thou pilgrim grey, what news from southern +land?<br /> +How fare the bold Conservatives, how is it with Ferrand?<br /> +How does the little Prince of Wales—how looks our lady Queen?<br /> +And tell me, is the monthly nurse once more at Windsor seen?”</p> +<p>“I bring no tidings from the Court, nor from St Stephen’s +hall;<br /> +I’ve heard the thundering tramp of horse, and the trumpet’s +battle-call;<br /> +<!-- page 157--><a name="page157"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +157</span>And these old eyes have seen a fight, which England ne’er +hath seen,<br /> +Since fell King Richard sobbed his soul through blood on Bosworth +Green.</p> +<p>‘He’s dead, he’s dead, the Laureate’s +dead!’ ’Twas thus the cry began,<br /> +And straightway every garret-roof gave up its minstrel man;<br /> +From Grub Street, and from Houndsditch, and from Farringdon Within,<br /> +The poets all towards Whitehall poured on with eldritch din.</p> +<p>Loud yelled they for Sir James the Graham: <a name="citation157"></a><a +href="#footnote157" class="citation">[157]</a> but sore afraid was he;<br +/> +A hardy knight were he that might face such a minstrelsie.<br /> +‘Now by St Giles of Netherby, my patron Saint, I swear,<br /> +I’d rather by a thousand crowns Lord Palmerston were here!—</p> +<p><!-- page 158--><a name="page158"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +158</span>‘What is’t ye seek, ye rebel knaves—what make +you there beneath?’<br /> +‘The bays, the bays! we want the bays! we seek the laureate +wreath!<br /> +We seek the butt of generous wine that cheers the sons of song;<br /> +Choose thou among us all, Sir Knight—we may not tarry +long!’</p> +<p>Loud laughed the good Sir James in scorn—‘Rare jest it were, +I think,<br /> +But one poor butt of Xeres, and a thousand rogues to drink!<br /> +An’ if it flowed with wine or beer, ’tis easy to be seen,<br /> +That dry within the hour would be the well of Hippocrene.</p> +<p>‘Tell me, if on Parnassus’ heights there grow a thousand +sheaves:<br /> +Or has Apollo’s laurel bush yet borne ten hundred leaves?<br /> +<!-- page 159--><a name="page159"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 159</span>Or +if so many leaves were there, how long would they sustain<br /> +The ravage and the glutton bite of such a locust train?</p> +<p>‘No! get ye back into your dens, take counsel for the night,<br /> +And choose me out two champions to meet in deadly fight;<br /> +To-morrow’s dawn shall see the lists marked out in Spitalfields,<br +/> +And he who wins shall have the bays, and he shall die who +yields!’</p> +<p>Down went the window with a crash,—in silence and in fear<br /> +Each raggèd bard looked anxiously upon his neighbour near;<br /> +Then up and spake young Tennyson—‘Who’s here that fears +for death?<br /> +’Twere better one of us should die, than England lose the wreath!</p> +<p><!-- page 160--><a name="page160"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +160</span>‘Let’s cast the lot among us now, which two shall +fight to-morrow;—<br /> +For armour bright we’ll club our mite, and horses we can borrow;<br +/> +’Twere shame that bards of France should sneer, and German +<i>Dichters</i> too,<br /> +If none of British song might dare a deed of <i>derring-do</i>!’</p> +<p>‘The lists of Love are mine,’ said Moore, ‘and not the +lists of Mars;’<br /> +Said Hunt, ‘I seek the jars of wine, but shun the combat’s +jars!’<br /> +‘I’m old,’ quoth Samuel +Rogers.—‘Faith,’ says Campbell, ‘so am I!’<br +/> +‘And I’m in holy orders, sir!’ quoth Tom of +Ingoldsby.</p> +<p>‘Now out upon ye, craven loons!’ cried Moxon, <a +name="citation160"></a><a href="#footnote160" class="citation">[160]</a> +good at need,—<br /> +‘Bide, if ye will, secure at home, and sleep while others bleed.<br +/> +<!-- page 161--><a name="page161"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 161</span>I +second Alfred’s motion, boys,—let’s try the chance of +lot;<br /> +And monks shall sing, and bells shall ring, for him that goes to +pot.’</p> +<p>Eight hundred minstrels slunk away—two hundred stayed to +draw,—<br /> +Now Heaven protect the daring wight that pulls the longest straw!<br /> +’Tis done! ’tis done! And who hath won? Keep +silence one and all,—<br /> +The first is William Wordsworth hight, the second Ned Fitzball!</p> +<h4>FYTTE THE SECOND.</h4> +<p>Oh, bright and gay hath dawned the day on lordly Spitalfields,—<br +/> +How flash the rays with ardent blaze from polished helms and shields!<br /> +On either side the chivalry of England throng the green,<br /> +And in the middle balcony appears our gracious Queen.</p> +<p><!-- page 162--><a name="page162"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +162</span>With iron fists, to keep the lists, two valiant knights +appear,<br /> +The Marquis Hal of Waterford, and stout Sir Aubrey Vere.<br /> +‘What ho! there, herald, blow the trump! Let’s see who +comes to claim<br /> +The butt of golden Xeres, and the Laureate’s honoured +name!’</p> +<p>That instant dashed into the lists, all armed from head to heel,<br /> +On courser brown, with vizor down, a warrior sheathed in steel;<br /> +Then said our Queen—‘Was ever seen so stout a knight and +tall?<br /> +His name—his race?’—‘An’t please your grace, +it is the brave Fitzball. <a name="citation162"></a><a href="#footnote162" +class="citation">[162]</a></p> +<p>‘Oft in the Melodrama line his prowess hath been shown,<br /> +And well throughout the Surrey side his thirst for blood is known.<br /> +<!-- page 163--><a name="page163"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +163</span>But see, the other champion comes!’—Then rang the +startled air<br /> +With shouts of ‘Wordsworth, Wordsworth, ho! the bard of Rydal’s +there.’</p> +<p>And lo! upon a little steed, unmeet for such a course,<br /> +Appeared the honoured veteran; but weak seemed man and horse.<br /> +Then shook their ears the sapient peers,—‘That joust will soon +be done:<br /> +My Lord of Brougham, I’ll back Fitzball, and give you two to +one!’</p> +<p>‘Done,’ quoth the Brougham,—‘And done with +you!’ ‘Now, Minstrels, are you ready?’<br /> +Exclaimed the Lord of Waterford,—‘You’d better both sit +steady.<br /> +Blow, trumpets, blow the note of charge! and forward to the +fight!’<br /> +‘Amen!’ said good Sir Aubrey Vere; ‘Saint Schism defend +the right!’</p> +<p><!-- page 164--><a name="page164"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +164</span>As sweeps the blast against the mast when blows the furious +squall,<br /> +So started at the trumpet’s sound the terrible Fitzball;<br /> +His lance he bore his breast before,—Saint George protect the +just!<br /> +Or Wordsworth’s hoary head must roll along the shameful dust!</p> +<p>‘Who threw that calthrop? Seize the knave!’ +Alas! the deed is done;<br /> +Down went the steed, and o’er his head flew bright Apollo’s +son.<br /> +‘Undo his helmet! cut the lace! pour water on his head!’<br /> +‘It ain’t no use at all, my lord; ’cos vy? the +covey’s dead!’</p> +<p>Above him stood the Rydal bard—his face was full of woe.<br /> +‘Now there thou liest, stiff and stark, who never feared a foe:<br /> +<!-- page 165--><a name="page165"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 165</span>A +braver knight, or more renowned in tourney and in hall,<br /> +Ne’er brought the upper gallery down than terrible +Fitzball!’</p> +<p>They led our Wordsworth to the Queen—she crowned him with the +bays,<br /> +And wished him many happy years, and many quarter-days;<br /> +And if you’d have the story told by abler lips than mine,<br /> +You’ve but to call at Rydal Mount, and taste the Laureate’s +wine!”</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><!-- page 166--><a name="page166"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 166</span> +<a href="images/p166.jpg"> +<img alt="Illustration" src="images/p166.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h3>The Royal Banquet.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">by the hon. g--- b--- s---</span>.</p> +<p>The Queen she kept high festival in Windsor’s lordly hall,<br /> +And round her sat the gartered knights, and ermined nobles all;<br /> +There drank the valiant Wellington, there fed the wary Peel,<br /> +And at the bottom of the board Prince Albert carved the veal.</p> +<p><!-- page 167--><a name="page167"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +167</span>“What, pantler, ho! remove the cloth! Ho! cellarer, +the wine,<br /> +And bid the royal nurse bring in the hope of Brunswick’s +line!”<br /> +Then rose with one tumultuous shout the band of British peers,<br /> +“God bless her sacred Majesty! Let’s see the little +dears!”</p> +<p>Now by Saint George, our patron saint, ’twas a touching sight to +see<br /> +That iron warrior gently place the Princess on his knee;<br /> +To hear him hush her infant fears, and teach her how to gape<br /> +With rosy mouth expectant for the raisin and the grape!</p> +<p>They passed the wine, the sparkling wine—they filled the goblets +up;<br /> +Even Brougham, the cynic anchorite, smiled blandly on the cup;<br /> +<!-- page 168--><a name="page168"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +168</span>And Lyndhurst, with a noble thirst, that nothing could +appease,<br /> +Proposed the immortal memory of King William on his knees.</p> +<p>“What want we here, my gracious liege,” cried gay Lord +Aberdeen,<br /> +“Save gladsome song and minstrelsy to flow our cups between?<br /> +I ask not now for Goulburn’s voice or Knatchbull’s warbling +lay, <a name="citation168"></a><a href="#footnote168" +class="citation">[168]</a><br /> +But where’s the Poet Laureate to grace our board to-day?”</p> +<p>Loud laughed the Knight of Netherby, and scornfully he cried,<br /> +“Or art thou mad with wine, Lord Earl, or art thyself beside?<br /> +Eight hundred Bedlam bards have claimed the Laureate’s vacant +crown,<br /> +And now like frantic Bacchanals run wild through London town!”</p> +<p><!-- page 169--><a name="page169"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +169</span>“Now glory to our gracious Queen!” a voice was heard +to cry,<br /> +And dark Macaulay stood before them all with frenzied eye;<br /> +“Now glory to our gracious Queen, and all her glorious race,<br /> +A boon, a boon, my sovran liege! Give me the Laureate’s +place!</p> +<p>“’Twas I that sang the might of Rome, the glories of +Navarre;<br /> +And who could swell the fame so well of Britain’s Isles afar?<br /> +The hero of a hundred fights—” Then Wellington up +sprung,<br /> +“Ho, silence in the ranks, I say! Sit down and hold your +tongue!</p> +<p>“By heaven, thou shalt not twist my name into a jingling lay,<br +/> +Or mimic in thy puny song the thunders of Assaye!<br /> +’Tis hard that for thy lust of place in peace we cannot dine.<br /> +Nurse, take her Royal Highness, here! Sir Robert, pass the +wine!”</p> +<p><!-- page 170--><a name="page170"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +170</span>“No Laureate need we at our board!” then spoke the +Lord of Vaux;<br /> +“Here’s many a voice to charm the ear with minstrel song, I +know.<br /> +Even I myself—” Then rose the cry—“A song, a +song from Brougham!”<br /> +He sang,—and straightway found himself alone within the room.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p170.jpg"> +<img alt="Illustration" src="images/p170.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h3><!-- page 171--><a name="page171"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +171</span>The Bard of Erin’s Lament.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">by t--- m---re</span>, <span +class="smcap">esq.</span></p> +<p>Oh, weep for the hours, when the little blind boy<br /> + Wove round me the spells of his Paphian bower;<br /> +When I dipped my light wings in the nectar of joy,<br /> + And soared in the sunshine, the moth of the hour!<br /> +From beauty to beauty I passed, like the wind;<br /> + Now fondled the lily, now toyed with the Rose;<br /> +And the fair, that at morn had enchanted my mind,<br /> + Was forsook for another ere evening’s close.</p> +<p>I sighed not for honour, I cared not for fame,<br /> + While Pleasure sat by me, and Love was my guest;<br /> +They twined a fresh wreath for each day as it came,<br /> + And the bosom of Beauty still pillowed my rest:<br /> +<!-- page 172--><a name="page172"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +172</span>And the harp of my country—neglected it slept—<br /> + In hall or by greenwood unheard were its songs;<br /> +From Love’s Sybarite dreams I aroused me, and swept<br /> + Its chords to the tale of her glories and wrongs.</p> +<p>But weep for the hour!—Life’s summer is past,<br /> + And the snow of its winter lies cold on my brow;<br /> +And my soul, as it shrinks from each stroke of the blast,<br /> + Cannot turn to a fire that glows inwardly now.<br /> +No, its ashes are dead—and, alas! Love or Song<br /> + No charm to Life’s lengthening shadows can lend,<br /> +Like a cup of old wine, rich, mellow, and strong,<br /> + And a seat by the fire <i>tête-à-tête</i> with a +friend.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><!-- page 173--><a name="page173"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 173</span> +<a href="images/p173.jpg"> +<img alt="Illustration" src="images/p173.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h3>The Laureate.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">by a--- t---</span>.</p> +<p> Who would not be<br /> + The Laureate bold,<br /> + With his butt of sherry<br /> + To keep him merry,<br /> +And nothing to do but to pocket his gold?<br /> +<!-- page 174--><a name="page174"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +174</span>’Tis I would be the Laureate bold!<br /> +When the days are hot, and the sun is strong,<br /> +I’d lounge in the gateway all the day long,<br /> +With her Majesty’s footmen in crimson and gold.<br /> +I’d care not a pin for the waiting-lord;<br /> +But I’d lie on my back on the smooth greensward<br /> +With a straw in my mouth, and an open vest,<br /> +And the cool wind blowing upon my breast,<br /> +And I’d vacantly stare at the clear blue sky,<br /> +And watch the clouds that are listless as I,<br /> + Lazily, lazily!<br /> +And I’d pick the moss and the daisies white,<br /> +And chew their stalks with a nibbling bite;<br /> +And I’d let my fancies roam abroad<br /> +In search of a hint for a birthday ode,<br /> + Crazily, crazily!</p> +<p>Oh, that would be the life for me,<br /> +With plenty to get and nothing to do,<br /> +But to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of blue,<br /> +And whistle all day to the Queen’s cockatoo,<br /> + Trance-somely, trance-somely!<br /> +<!-- page 175--><a name="page175"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +175</span>Then the chambermaids, that clean the rooms,<br /> +Would come to the windows and rest on their brooms,<br /> +With their saucy caps and their crispèd hair,<br /> +And they’d toss their heads in the fragrant air,<br /> +And say to each other—“Just look down there,<br /> +At the nice young man, so tidy and small,<br /> +Who is paid for writing on nothing at all,<br /> + Handsomely, handsomely!”</p> +<p>They would pelt me with matches and sweet pastilles,<br /> +And crumpled-up balls of the royal bills,<br /> +Giggling and laughing, and screaming with fun,<br /> +As they’d see me start, with a leap and a run,<br /> +From the broad of my back to the points of my toes,<br /> +When a pellet of paper hit my nose,<br /> + Teasingly, sneezingly.<br /> +Then I’d fling them bunches of garden flowers,<br /> +And hyacinths plucked from the Castle bowers;<br /> +And I’d challenge them all to come down to me,<br /> +And I’d kiss them all till they kissèd me,<br /> + Laughingly, laughingly.</p> +<p><!-- page 176--><a name="page176"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +176</span>Oh, would not that be a merry life,<br /> +Apart from care and apart from strife,<br /> +With the Laureate’s wine, and the Laureate’s pay,<br /> +And no deductions at quarter-day?<br /> +Oh, that would be the post for me!<br /> +With plenty to get and nothing to do,<br /> +But to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of blue,<br /> +And whistle a tune to the Queen’s cockatoo,<br /> +And scribble of verses remarkably few,<br /> +And empty at evening a bottle or two,<br /> + Quaffingly, quaffingly!</p> +<p> ’Tis I would be<br /> + The Laureate bold,<br /> + With my butt of sherry<br /> + To keep me merry,<br /> +And nothing to do but to pocket my gold!</p> +<h3><!-- page 177--><a name="page177"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +177</span>A Midnight Meditation.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">by sir e--- b--- l---</span>.</p> +<p>Fill me once more the foaming pewter up!<br /> + Another board of oysters, ladye mine!<br /> +To-night Lucullus with himself shall sup.<br /> + These mute inglorious Miltons <a name="citation177"></a><a +href="#footnote177" class="citation">[177]</a> are divine<br /> + And as I here in slippered ease recline,<br /> +Quaffing of Perkin’s Entire my fill,<br /> +I sigh not for the lymph of Aganippe’s rill.</p> +<p>A nobler inspiration fires my brain,<br /> + Caught from Old England’s fine time-hallowed drink;<br /> +I snatch the pot again and yet again,<br /> + And as the foaming fluids shrink and shrink,<br /> + Fill me once more, I say, up to the brink!<br /> +<!-- page 178--><a name="page178"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +178</span>This makes strong hearts—strong heads attest its +charm—<br /> +This nerves the might that sleeps in Britain’s brawny arm!</p> +<p>But these remarks are neither here nor there.<br /> + Where was I? Oh, I see—old Southey’s dead!<br /> +They’ll want some bard to fill the vacant chair,<br /> + And drain the annual butt—and oh, what head<br /> + More fit with laurel to be garlanded<br /> +Than this, which, curled in many a fragrant coil,<br /> +Breathes of Castalia’s streams, and best Macassar oil?</p> +<p>I know a grace is seated on my brow,<br /> + Like young Apollo’s with his golden beams—<br /> +There should Apollo’s bays be budding now:—<br /> + And in my flashing eyes the radiance beams,<br /> + That marks the poet in his waking dreams,<br /> +When, as his fancies cluster thick and thicker,<br /> +He feels the trance divine of poesy and liquor.</p> +<p>They throng around me now, those things of air<br /> + That from my fancy took their being’s stamp:<br /> +<!-- page 179--><a name="page179"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +179</span>There Pelham sits and twirls his glossy hair,<br /> + There Clifford leads his pals upon the tramp;<br /> + There pale Zanoni, bending o’er his lamp,<br /> +Roams through the starry wilderness of thought,<br /> +Where all is everything, and everything is nought.</p> +<p>Yes, I am he who sang how Aram won<br /> + The gentle ear of pensive Madeline!<br /> +How love and murder hand in hand may run,<br /> + Cemented by philosophy serene,<br /> + And kisses bless the spot where gore has been!<br /> +Who breathed the melting sentiment of crime,<br /> +And for the assassin waked a sympathy sublime!</p> +<p>Yes, I am he, who on the novel shed<br /> + Obscure philosophy’s enchanting light!<br /> +Until the public, ‘wildered as they read,<br /> + Believed they saw that which was not in sight—<br /> + Of course ’twas not for me to set them right;<br /> +For in my nether heart convinced I am,<br /> +Philosophy’s as good as any other flam.</p> +<p><!-- page 180--><a name="page180"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +180</span>Novels three-volumed I shall write no more—<br /> + Somehow or other now they will not sell;<br /> +And to invent new passions is a bore—<br /> + I find the Magazines pay quite as well.<br /> + Translating’s simple, too, as I can tell,<br /> +Who’ve hawked at Schiller on his lyric throne,<br /> +And given the astonished bard a meaning all my own.</p> +<p>Moore, Campbell, Wordsworth, their best days are grassed:<br /> + Battered and broken are their early lyres,<br /> +Rogers, a pleasant memory of the past,<br /> + Warmed his young hands at Smithfield’s martyr fires,<br /> + And, worth a plum, nor bays nor butt desires.<br /> +But these are things would suit me to the letter,<br /> +For though this Stout is good, old Sherry’s greatly better.</p> +<p>A fico for your small poetic ravers,<br /> + Your Hunts, your Tennysons, your Milnes, and these!<br /> +Shall they compete with him who wrote ‘Maltravers,’<br /> + <!-- page 181--><a name="page181"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +181</span>Prologue to ‘Alice or the Mysteries’?<br /> + No! Even now my glance prophetic sees<br /> +My own high brow girt with the bays about.<br /> +What ho! within there, ho! another pint of <span +class="smcap">Stout</span>!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p181.jpg"> +<img alt="Stout! More Stout!!" src="images/p181.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h3><!-- page 182--><a name="page182"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +182</span>Montgomery.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">a poem</span>.</p> +<p>Like one who, waking from a troublous dream,<br /> +Pursues with force his meditative theme;<br /> +Calm as the ocean in its halcyon still,<br /> +Calm as the sunlight sleeping on the hill;<br /> +Calm as at Ephesus great Paul was seen<br /> +To rend his robes in agonies serene;<br /> +Calm as the love that radiant Luther bore<br /> +To all that lived behind him and before;<br /> +Calm as meek Calvin, when, with holy smile,<br /> +He sang the mass around Servetus’ pile,—<br /> +So once again I snatch this harp of mine,<br /> +To breathe rich incense from a mystic shrine.<br /> +Not now to whisper to the ambient air<br /> +The sounds of Satan’s Universal Prayer;<br /> +<!-- page 183--><a name="page183"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +183</span>Not now to sing, in sweet domestic strife<br /> +That woman reigns the Angel of our life;<br /> +But to proclaim the wish, with pious art,<br /> +Which thrills through Britain’s universal heart,—<br /> +That on this brow, with native honours graced,<br /> +The Laureate’s chaplet should at length be placed!</p> +<p> Fear not, ye maids, who love to hear me speak;<br /> +Let no desponding tears bedim your cheek!<br /> +No gust of envy, no malicious scorn,<br /> +Hath this poor heart of mine with frenzy torn.<br /> +There are who move so far above the great,<br /> +Their very look disarms the glance of hate;<br /> +Their thoughts, more rich than emerald or gold,<br /> +Enwrap them like the prophet’s mantle’s fold.<br /> +Fear not for me, nor think that this our age,<br /> +Blind though it be, hath yet no Archimage.<br /> +I, who have bathed, in bright Castalia’s tide<br /> +By classic Isis and more classic Clyde;<br /> +I, who have handled, in my lofty strain,<br /> +All things divine, and many things profane;<br /> +I, who have trod where seraphs fear to tread;<br /> +I, who on mount—no, “honey-dew” have fed;<br /> +<!-- page 184--><a name="page184"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 184</span>I, +who undaunted broke the mystic seal,<br /> +And left no page for prophets to reveal;<br /> +I, who in shade portentous Dante threw;<br /> +I, who have done what Milton dared not do,—<br /> +I fear no rival for the vacant throne;<br /> +No mortal thunder shall eclipse my own!</p> +<p> Let dark Macaulay chant his Roman lays,<br /> +Let Monckton Milnes go maunder for the bays,<br /> +Let Simmons call on great Napoleon’s shade,<br /> +Let Lytton Bulwer seek his Aram’s aid,<br /> +Let Wordsworth ask for help from Peter Bell,<br /> +Let Campbell carol Copenhagen’s knell,<br /> +Let Delta warble through his Delphic groves,<br /> +Let Elliott shout for pork and penny loaves,—<br /> +I care not, I! resolved to stand or fall;<br /> +One down, another on, I’ll smash them all!</p> +<p> Back, ye profane! this hand alone hath power<br /> +To pluck the laurel from its sacred bower;<br /> +This brow alone is privileged to wear<br /> +The ancient wreath o’er hyacinthine hair;<br /> +These lips alone may quaff the sparkling wine,<br /> +<!-- page 185--><a name="page185"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +185</span>And make its mortal juice once more divine.<br /> +Back, ye profane! And thou, fair Queen, rejoice:<br /> +A nation’s praise shall consecrate thy choice.<br /> +Thus, then, I kneel where Spenser knelt before,<br /> +On the same spot, perchance, of Windsor’s floor;<br /> +And take, while awe-struck millions round me stand,<br /> +The hallowed wreath from great Victoria’s hand.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><!-- page 186--><a name="page186"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 186</span> +<a href="images/p186.jpg"> +<img alt="Illustration" src="images/p186.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h3>Little John and the Red Friar.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">a lay of sherwood</span>.</p> +<h4>FYTTE THE FIRST.</h4> +<p>The deer may leap within the glade;<br /> + The fawns may follow free—<br /> +For Robin is dead, and his bones are laid<br /> + Beneath the greenwood tree.</p> +<p><!-- page 187--><a name="page187"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +187</span>And broken are his merry, merry men,<br /> + That goodly companie:<br /> +There’s some have ta’en the northern road<br /> + With Jem of Netherbee.</p> +<p>The best and bravest of the band<br /> + With Derby Ned are gone;<br /> +But Earlie Grey and Charlie Wood,<br /> + They stayed with Little John.</p> +<p>Now Little John was an outlaw proud,<br /> + A prouder ye never saw;<br /> +Through Nottingham and Leicester shires<br /> + He thought his word was law,<br /> +And he strutted through the greenwood wide,<br /> + Like a pestilent jackdaw.</p> +<p>He swore that none, but with leave of him,<br /> + Should set foot on the turf so free:<br /> +And he thought to spread his cutter’s rule,<br /> + All over the south countrie.<br /> +“There’s never a knave in the land,” he said,<br /> + “But shall pay his toll to me!”</p> +<p><!-- page 188--><a name="page188"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +188</span>And Charlie Wood was a taxman good<br /> + As ever stepped the ground,<br /> +He levied mail, like a sturdy thief,<br /> + From all the yeomen round.<br /> +“Nay, stand!” quoth he, “thou shalt pay to me<br /> + Seven pence from every pound!”</p> +<p>Now word has come to Little John,<br /> + As he lay upon the grass,<br /> +That a Friar red was in merry Sherwood<br /> + Without his leave to pass.</p> +<p>“Come hither, come hither, my little foot-page!<br /> + Ben Hawes, come tell to me,<br /> +What manner of man is this burly frere<br /> + Who walks the wood so free?”</p> +<p>“My master good!” the little page said,<br /> + “His name I wot not well,<br /> +But he wears on his head a hat so red,<br /> + With a monstrous scallop-shell.</p> +<p><!-- page 189--><a name="page189"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +189</span>“He says he is Prior of Copmanshurst,<br /> + And Bishop of London town,<br /> +And he comes with a rope from our father the Pope,<br /> + To put the outlaws down.</p> +<p>“I saw him ride but yester-tide,<br /> + With his jolly chaplains three;<br /> +And he swears that he has an open pass<br /> + From Jem of Netherbee!”</p> +<p>Little John has ta’en an arrow so broad,<br /> + And broken it o’er his knee;<br /> +“Now may I never strike doe again,<br /> + But this wrong avenged shall be!</p> +<p>“And has he dared, this greasy frere,<br /> + To trespass in my bound,<br /> +Nor asked for leave from Little John<br /> + To range with hawk and hound?</p> +<p>“And has he dared to take a pass<br /> + From Jem of Netherbee,<br /> +Forgetting that the Sherwood shaws<br /> + Pertain of right to me?</p> +<p><!-- page 190--><a name="page190"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +190</span>“O were he but a simple man,<br /> + And not a slip-shod frere!<br /> +I’d hang him up by his own waist-rope<br /> + Above yon tangled brere.</p> +<p>“O did he come alone from Jem,<br /> + And not from our father the Pope,<br /> +I’d bring him into Copmanshurst,<br /> + With the noose of a hempen rope!</p> +<p>“But since he has come from our father the Pope,<br /> + And sailed across the sea,<br /> +And since he has power to bind and lose,<br /> + His life is safe for me;<br /> +But a heavy penance he shall do<br /> + Beneath the greenwood tree!”</p> +<p>“O tarry yet!” quoth Charlie Wood,<br /> + “O tarry, master mine!<br /> +It’s ill to shear a yearling hog,<br /> + Or twist the wool of swine!</p> +<p><!-- page 191--><a name="page191"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +191</span>“It’s ill to make a bonny silk purse<br /> + From the ear of a bristly boar;<br /> +It’s ill to provoke a shaveling’s curse,<br /> + When the way lies him before.</p> +<p>“I’ve walked the forest for twenty years,<br /> + In wet weather and dry,<br /> +And never stopped a good fellowe,<br /> + Who had no coin to buy.</p> +<p>“What boots it to search a beggarman’s bags,<br /> + When no silver groat he has?<br /> +So, master mine, I rede you well,<br /> + E’en let the friar pass!”</p> +<p>“Now cease thy prate,” quoth Little John,<br /> + “Thou japest but in vain;<br /> +An he have not a groat within his pouch,<br /> + We may find a silver chain.</p> +<p>“But were he as bare as a new-flayed buck,<br /> + As truly he may be,<br /> +He shall not tread the Sherwood shaws<br /> + Without the leave of me!”</p> +<p><!-- page 192--><a name="page192"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +192</span>Little John has taken his arrows and bow,<br /> + His sword and buckler strong,<br /> +And lifted up his quarter-staff,<br /> + Was full three cloth yards long.</p> +<p>And he has left his merry men<br /> + At the trysting-tree behind,<br /> +And gone into the gay greenwood,<br /> + This burly frere to find.</p> +<p>O’er holt and hill, through brake and brere,<br /> + He took his way alone—<br /> +Now, Lordlings, list and you shall hear<br /> + This geste of Little John.</p> +<h4>FYTTE THE SECOND.</h4> +<p>’Tis merry, ’tis merry in gay greenwood,<br /> + When the little birds are singing,<br /> +When the buck is belling in the fern,<br /> + And the hare from the thicket springing!</p> +<p><!-- page 193--><a name="page193"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +193</span>’Tis merry to hear the waters clear,<br /> + As they splash in the pebbly fall;<br /> +And the ouzel whistling to his mate,<br /> + As he lights on the stones so small.</p> +<p>But small pleasaunce took Little John<br /> + In all he heard and saw;<br /> +Till he reached the cave of a hermit old<br /> + Who wonned within the shaw.</p> +<p>“<i>Ora pro nobis</i>!” quoth Little John—<br /> + His Latin was somewhat rude—<br /> +“Now, holy father, hast thou seen<br /> + A frere within the wood?</p> +<p>“By his scarlet hose, and his ruddy nose,<br /> + I guess you may know him well;<br /> +And he wears on his head a hat so red,<br /> + And a monstrous scallop-shell.”</p> +<p>“I have served Saint Pancras,” the hermit said,<br /> + “In this cell for thirty year,<br /> +Yet never saw I, in the forest bounds,<br /> + The face of such a frere!</p> +<p><!-- page 194--><a name="page194"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +194</span>“An’ if ye find him, master mine,<br /> + E’en take an old man’s advice,<br /> +An’ raddle him well, till he roar again,<br /> + Lest ye fail to meet him twice!”</p> +<p>“Trust me for that!” quoth Little John—<br /> + “Trust me for that!” quoth he, with a laugh;<br /> +“There never was man of woman born,<br /> + That asked twice for the taste of my quarter-staff!”</p> +<p>Then Little John, he strutted on,<br /> + Till he came to an open bound,<br /> +And he was aware of a Red Friar,<br /> + Was sitting upon the ground.</p> +<p>His shoulders they were broad and strong,<br /> + And large was he of limb;<br /> +Few yeomen in the north countrie<br /> + Would care to mell with him.</p> +<p>He heard the rustling of the boughs,<br /> + As Little John drew near;<br /> +But never a single word he spoke,<br /> + Of welcome or of cheer:<br /> +<!-- page 195--><a name="page195"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +195</span>Less stir he made than a pedlar would<br /> + For a small gnat in his ear!</p> +<p>I like not his looks! thought Little John,<br /> + Nor his staff of the oaken tree.<br /> +Now may our Lady be my help,<br /> + Else beaten I well may be!</p> +<p>“What dost thou here, thou strong Friar,<br /> + In Sherwood’s merry round,<br /> +Without the leave of Little John,<br /> + To range with hawk and hound?”</p> +<p>“Small thought have I,” quoth the Red Friar,<br /> + “Of any leave, I trow;<br /> +That Little John is an outlawed thief,<br /> + And so, I ween, art thou!</p> +<p>“Know, I am Prior of Copmanshurst,<br /> + And Bishop of London town,<br /> +And I bring a rope from our father the Pope,<br /> + To put the outlaws down.”</p> +<p><!-- page 196--><a name="page196"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +196</span>Then out spoke Little John in wrath,<br /> + “I tell thee, burly frere,<br /> +The Pope may do as he likes at home,<br /> + But he sends no Bishops here!</p> +<p>“Up, and away, Red Friar!” he said,<br /> + “Up, and away, right speedilie;<br /> +An it were not for that cowl of thine,<br /> + Avenged on thy body I would be!”</p> +<p>“Nay, heed not that,” said the Red Friar,<br /> + “And let my cowl no hindrance be;<br /> +I warrant that I can give as good<br /> + As ever I think to take from thee!”</p> +<p>Little John he raised his quarter-staff,<br /> + And so did the burly priest,<br /> +And they fought beneath the greenwood tree<br /> + A stricken hour at least.</p> +<p>But Little John was weak of fence,<br /> + And his strength began to fail;<br /> +Whilst the Friar’s blows came thundering down,<br /> + Like the strokes of a threshing-flail.</p> +<p><!-- page 197--><a name="page197"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +197</span>“Now hold thy hand, thou stalwart Friar,<br /> + Now rest beneath the thorn,<br /> +Until I gather breath enow,<br /> + For a blast at my bugle-horn!”</p> +<p>“I’ll hold my hand,” the Friar said,<br /> + “Since that is your propine,<br /> +But, an you sound your bugle-horn,<br /> + I’ll even blow on mine!”</p> +<p>Little John he wound a blast so shrill,<br /> + That it rang o’er rock and linn,<br /> +And Charlie Wood, and his merry men all,<br /> + Came lightly bounding in.</p> +<p>The Friar he wound a blast so strong<br /> + That it shook both bush and tree,<br /> +And to his side came witless Will,<br /> + And Jem of Netherbee;<br /> +With all the worst of Robin’s band,<br /> + And many a Rapparee!</p> +<p><!-- page 198--><a name="page198"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +198</span>Little John he wist not what to do,<br /> + When he saw the others come;<br /> +So he twisted his quarter-staff between<br /> + His fingers and his thumb.</p> +<p>“There’s some mistake, good Friar!” he said,<br /> + “There’s some mistake ’twixt thee and me;<br /> +I know thou art Prior of Copmanshurst,<br /> + But not beneath the greenwood tree.</p> +<p>“And if you will take some other name,<br /> + You shall have ample leave to bide;<br /> +With pasture also for your Bulls,<br /> + And power to range the forest wide.”</p> +<p>“There’s no mistake!” the Friar said;<br /> + “I’ll call myself just what I please.<br /> +My doctrine is that chalk is chalk,<br /> + And cheese is nothing else than cheese.”</p> +<p>“So be it, then!” quoth Little John;<br /> + “But surely you will not object,<br /> +If I and all my merry men<br /> + Should treat you with reserved respect?</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><!-- page 199--><a name="page199"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 199</span> +<a href="images/p199.jpg"> +<img alt="Illustration" src="images/p199.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p>“We can’t call you Prior of Copmanshurst,<br /> + Nor Bishop of London town,<br /> +Nor on the grass, as you chance to pass,<br /> + Can we very well kneel down.</p> +<p><!-- page 200--><a name="page200"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +200</span>“But you’ll send the Pope my compliments,<br /> + And say, as a further hint,<br /> +That, within the Sherwood bounds, you saw<br /> +Little John, who is the son-in-law<br /> + Of his friend, old Mat-o’-the-Mint!”</p> +<p>So ends this geste of Little John—<br /> + God save our noble Queen!<br /> +But, Lordlings, say—Is Sherwood now<br /> + What Sherwood once hath been? <a name="citation200"></a><a +href="#footnote200" class="citation">[200]</a></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><!-- page 201--><a name="page201"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 201</span> +<a href="images/p201.jpg"> +<img alt="Illustration" src="images/p201.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h3>The Rhyme of Sir Launcelot Bogle.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">a legend of glasgow</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">by mrs e--- b--- b---</span>.</p> +<p>There’s a pleasant place of rest, near a City of the West,<br /> + Where its bravest and its best find their grave.<br /> +<!-- page 202--><a name="page202"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +202</span>Below the willows weep, and their hoary branches steep<br /> + In the waters still and deep,<br /> + + Not a wave!</p> +<p>And the old Cathedral Wall, so scathed and grey and tall,<br /> + Like a priest surveying all, stands beyond;<br /> +And the ringing of its bell, when the ringers ring it well,<br /> + Makes a kind of tidal swell<br /> + + On the pond!</p> +<p>And there it was I lay, on a beauteous summer’s day,<br /> + With the odour of the hay floating by;<br /> +And I heard the blackbirds sing, and the bells demurely ring,<br /> + Chime by chime, ting by ting,<br /> + + Droppingly.</p> +<p>Then my thoughts went wandering back, on a very beaten track,<br /> + To the confine deep and black of the tomb;<br /> +<!-- page 203--><a name="page203"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +203</span>And I wondered who he was, that is laid beneath the grass,<br /> + Where the dandelion has<br /> + + Such a bloom.</p> +<p>Then I straightway did espy, with my slantly-sloping eye,<br /> + A carvèd stone hard by, somewhat worn;<br /> +And I read in letters cold—Here.lyes.Launcelot.ye.bolde,<br /> + Off.ye.race.off.Bogile.old,<br /> + + Glasgow.borne.</p> +<p>He.wals.ane.valyaunt.knychte.maist.terrible.in.fychte.<br /> + Here the letters failed outright, but I knew<br /> +That a stout crusading lord, who had crossed the Jordan’s ford,<br /> + Lay there beneath the sward,<br /> + + Wet with dew.</p> +<p>Time and tide they passed away, on that pleasant summer’s day,<br +/> + And around me, as I lay, all grew old:<br /> +<!-- page 204--><a name="page204"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +204</span>Sank the chimneys from the town, and the clouds of vapour +brown<br /> + No longer, like a crown,<br /> + + O’er it rolled.</p> +<p>Sank the great Saint Rollox stalk, like a pile of dingy chalk;<br /> + Disappeared the cypress walk, and the flowers;<br /> +And a donjon-keep arose, that might baffle any foes,<br /> + With its men-at-arms in rows,<br /> + + On the towers.</p> +<p>And the flag that flaunted there showed the grim and grizzly bear,<br /> + Which the Bogles always wear for their crest.<br /> +And I heard the warder call, as he stood upon the wall,<br /> + “Wake ye up! my comrades all,<br /> + + From your rest!</p> +<p>“For, by the blessed rood, there’s a glimpse of armour +good<br /> + In the deep Cowcaddens wood, o’er the stream;<br /> +<!-- page 205--><a name="page205"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +205</span>And I hear the stifled hum of a multitude that come,<br /> + Though they have not beat the drum,<br /> + + It would seem!</p> +<p>“Go tell it to my Lord, lest he wish to man the ford<br /> + With partisan and sword, just beneath;<br /> +Ho, Gilkison and Nares! Ho, Provan of Cowlairs!<br /> + We’ll back the bonny bears<br /> + + To the death!”</p> +<p>To the tower above the moat, like one who heedeth not,<br /> + Came the bold Sir Launcelot, half undressed;<br /> +On the outer rim he stood, and peered into the wood,<br /> + With his arms across him glued<br /> + + On his breast.</p> +<p>And he muttered, “Foe accurst! hast thou dared to seek me +first?<br /> + George of Gorbals, do thy worst—for I swear,<br /> +O’er thy gory corpse to ride, ere thy sister and my bride,<br /> + From my undissevered side<br /> + + Thou shalt tear!</p> +<p><!-- page 206--><a name="page206"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +206</span>“Ho, herald mine, Brownlee! ride forth, I pray, and see,<br +/> + Who, what, and whence is he, foe or friend!<br /> +Sir Roderick Dalgleish, and my foster-brother Neish,<br /> + With his bloodhounds in the leash,<br /> + + Shall attend.”</p> +<p>Forth went the herald stout, o’er the drawbridge and without,<br +/> + Then a wild and savage shout rose amain,<br /> +Six arrows sped their force, and, a pale and bleeding corse,<br /> + He sank from off his horse<br /> + + On the plain!</p> +<p>Back drew the bold Dalgleish, back started stalwart Neish,<br /> + With his bloodhounds in the leash, from Brownlee.<br /> +“Now shame be to the sword that made thee knight and lord,<br /> + Thou caitiff thrice abhorred,<br /> + + Shame on thee!</p> +<p><!-- page 207--><a name="page207"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +207</span>“Ho, bowmen, bend your bows! Discharge upon the +foes<br /> + Forthwith no end of those heavy bolts.<br /> +Three angels to the brave who finds the foe a grave,<br /> + And a gallows for the slave<br /> + + Who revolts!”</p> +<p>Ten days the combat lasted; but the bold defenders fasted,<br /> + While the foemen, better pastied, fed their host;<br /> +You might hear the savage cheers of the hungry Gorbaliers,<br /> + As at night they dressed the steers<br /> + + For the roast.</p> +<p>And Sir Launcelot grew thin, and Provan’s double chin<br /> + Showed sundry folds of skin down beneath;<br /> +In silence and in grief found Gilkison relief,<br /> + Nor did Neish the spell-word, beef,<br /> + + Dare to breathe.</p> +<p><!-- page 208--><a name="page208"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +208</span>To the ramparts Edith came, that fair and youthful dame,<br /> + With the rosy evening flame on her face.<br /> +She sighed, and looked around on the soldiers on the ground,<br /> + Who but little penance found,<br /> + + Saying grace!</p> +<p>And she said unto her lord, as he leaned upon his sword,<br /> + “One short and little word may I speak?<br /> +I cannot bear to view those eyes so ghastly blue,<br /> + Or mark the sallow hue<br /> + + Of thy cheek!</p> +<p>“I know the rage and wrath that my furious brother hath<br /> + Is less against us both than at me.<br /> +Then, dearest, let me go, to find among the foe<br /> + An arrow from the bow,<br /> + + Like Brownlee!”</p> +<p><!-- page 209--><a name="page209"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +209</span>“I would soil my father’s name, I would lose my +treasured fame,<br /> + Ladye mine, should such a shame on me light:<br /> +While I wear a belted brand, together still we stand,<br /> + Heart to heart, hand in hand!”<br /> + + Said the knight.</p> +<p>“All our chances are not lost, as your brother and his host<br /> + Shall discover to their cost rather hard!<br /> +Ho, Provan! take this key—hoist up the Malvoisie,<br /> + And heap it, d’ye see,<br /> + + In the yard.</p> +<p>“Of usquebaugh and rum, you will find, I reckon, some,<br /> + Besides the beer and mum, extra stout;<br /> +Go straightway to your tasks, and roll me all the casks,<br /> + As also range the flasks,<br /> + + Just without.</p> +<p><!-- page 210--><a name="page210"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +210</span>“If I know the Gorbaliers, they are sure to dip their +ears<br /> + In the very inmost tiers of the drink.<br /> +Let them win the outer court, and hold it for their sport,<br /> + Since their time is rather short,<br /> + + I should think!”</p> +<p>With a loud triumphant yell, as the heavy drawbridge fell,<br /> + Rushed the Gorbaliers pell-mell, wild as Druids;<br /> +Mad with thirst for human gore, how they threatened and they swore,<br /> + Till they stumbled on the floor,<br /> + + O’er the fluids.</p> +<p>Down their weapons then they threw, and each savage soldier drew<br /> + From his belt an iron screw, in his fist;<br /> +George of Gorbals found it vain their excitement to restrain,<br /> + And indeed was rather fain<br /> + + To assist.</p> +<p><!-- page 211--><a name="page211"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +211</span>With a beaker in his hand, in the midst he took his stand,<br /> + And silence did command, all below—<br /> +“Ho! Launcelot the bold, ere thy lips are icy cold,<br /> + In the centre of thy hold,<br /> + + Pledge me now!</p> +<p>“Art surly, brother mine? In this cup of rosy wine,<br /> + I drink to the decline of thy race!<br /> +Thy proud career is done, thy sand is nearly run,<br /> + Never more shall setting sun<br /> + + Gild thy face!</p> +<p>“The pilgrim, in amaze, shall see a goodly blaze,<br /> + Ere the pallid morning rays flicker up;<br /> +And perchance he may espy certain corpses swinging high!<br /> + What, brother! art thou dry?<br /> + + Fill my cup!”</p> +<p>Dumb as death stood Launcelot, as though he heard him not,<br /> + But his bosom Provan smote, and he swore;<br /> +<!-- page 212--><a name="page212"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +212</span>And Sir Roderick Dalgleish remarked aside to Neish,<br /> + “Never sure did thirsty fish<br /> + + Swallow more!</p> +<p>“Thirty casks are nearly done, yet the revel’s scarce +begun;<br /> + It were knightly sport and fun to strike in!”<br /> +“Nay, tarry till they come,” quoth Neish, “unto the +rum—<br /> + They are working at the mum,<br /> + + And the gin!”</p> +<p>Then straight there did appear to each gallant Gorbalier<br /> + Twenty castles dancing near, all around;<br /> +The solid earth did shake, and the stones beneath them quake,<br /> + And sinuous as a snake<br /> + + Moved the ground.</p> +<p>Why and wherefore they had come, seemed intricate to some,<br /> + But all agreed the rum was divine.<br /> +<!-- page 213--><a name="page213"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +213</span>And they looked with bitter scorn on their leader highly born,<br +/> + Who preferred to fill his horn<br /> + + Up with wine!</p> +<p>Then said Launcelot the tall, “Bring the chargers from their +stall;<br /> + Lead them straight unto the hall, down below:<br /> +Draw your weapons from your side, fling the gates asunder wide,<br /> + And together we shall ride<br /> + + On the foe!”</p> +<p>Then Provan knew full well, as he leaped into his selle,<br /> + That few would ’scape to tell how they fared;<br /> +And Gilkison and Nares, both mounted on their mares,<br /> + Looked terrible as bears,<br /> + + All prepared.</p> +<p>With his bloodhounds in the leash, stood the iron-sinewed Neish,<br /> + And the falchion of Dalgleish glittered bright—<br /> +<!-- page 214--><a name="page214"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +214</span>“Now, wake the trumpet’s blast; and, comrades, follow +fast;<br /> + Smite them down unto the last!”<br /> + + Cried the knight.</p> +<p>In the cumbered yard without, there was shriek, and yell, and shout,<br +/> + As the warriors wheeled about, all in mail.<br /> +On the miserable kerne fell the death-strokes stiff and stern,<br /> + As the deer treads down the fern,<br /> + + In the vale!</p> +<p>Saint Mungo be my guide! It was goodly in that tide<br /> + To see the Bogle ride in his haste;<br /> +He accompanied each blow with a cry of “Ha!” or +“Ho!”<br /> + And always cleft the foe<br /> + + To the waist.</p> +<p>“George of Gorbals—craven lord! thou didst threat me with +the cord;<br /> + Come forth and brave my sword, if you dare!”<br /> +<!-- page 215--><a name="page215"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +215</span>But he met with no reply, and never could descry<br /> + The glitter of his eye<br /> + + Anywhere.</p> +<p>Ere the dawn of morning shone, all the Gorbaliers were down,<br /> + Like a field of barley mown in the ear:<br /> +It had done a soldier good to see how Provan stood,<br /> + With Neish all bathed in blood,<br /> + + Panting near.</p> +<p>“Now bend ye to your tasks—go trundle down those casks,<br +/> + And place the empty flasks on the floor;<br /> +George of Gorbals scarce will come, with trumpet and with drum,<br /> + To taste our beer and rum<br /> + + Any more!”</p> +<p>So they bent them to their tasks, and they trundled down the casks,<br +/> + And replaced the empty flasks on the floor;<br /> +<!-- page 216--><a name="page216"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +216</span>But pallid for a week was the cellar-master’s cheek,<br /> + For he swore he heard a shriek<br /> + + Through the door.</p> +<p>When the merry Christmas came, and the Yule-log lent its flame<br /> + To the face of squire and dame in the hall,<br /> +The cellarer went down to tap October brown,<br /> + Which was rather of renown<br /> + + ’Mongst them all.</p> +<p>He placed the spigot low, and gave the cask a blow,<br /> + But his liquor would not flow through the pin.<br /> +“Sure, ’tis sweet as honeysuckles!” so he rapped it with +his knuckles,<br /> + But a sound, as if of buckles,<br /> + + Clashed within.</p> +<p>“Bring a hatchet, varlets, here!” and they cleft the cask of +beer:<br /> + What a spectacle of fear met their sight!<br /> +<!-- page 217--><a name="page217"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +217</span>There George of Gorbals lay, skull and bones all blanched and +grey,<br /> + In the arms he bore the day<br /> + + Of the fight!</p> +<p>I have sung this ancient tale, not, I trust, without avail,<br /> + Though the moral ye may fail to perceive;<br /> +Sir Launcelot is dust, and his gallant sword is rust,<br /> + And now, I think, I must<br /> + + Take my leave!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p217.jpg"> +<img alt="Illustration" src="images/p217.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h2><!-- page 219--><a name="page219"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +219</span>ILLUSTRATIONS<br /> +OF<br /> +THE PUFF POETICAL</h2> +<p><!-- page 220--><a name="page220"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +220</span>[The following eleven pieces of verse appeared originally with +many others in an article called “Puffs and Poetry,” from which +the following passage is taken:—</p> +<p>“Some people are fond of excursions into the realms of old +romance, with their Lancelots and Gueneveres, their enchanted castles, +their bearded wizards, ‘and such odd branches of +learning.’ There needs a winged griffin, at the very least, to +carry them out of the everyday six-and-eightpenny world, or the whizz of an +Excalibur to startle their drowsy imaginations into life. The +beauties and the wonders of the universe died for them some centuries ago; +they went out with Friar Bacon and the invention of gunpowder. +Praised be Apollo! this is not our case. There is a snatch of poetry, +to our apprehension, in almost everything. We have detected it +pushing its petals forth from the curls of a barrister’s wig, and +scented its fragrance even in the columns of the ‘London +Gazette.’</p> +<p>“‘The deep poetic voice that hourly speaks within us’ +is never silent. Like Signor Benedick, it ‘will still be +talking.’ We can scarcely let our eyes dwell upon an +object—nay, not even upon a gridiron or a toothpick—but it +seems to be transmuted as by the touch of Midas into gold. Our facts +accordingly adopt upon occasions a very singular shape. We are not +nice to a shade. A trifle here or there never stands in our +way. We regard a free play of fancy as the privilege of every genuine +Briton, and exclaim with Pistol, ‘A fico for all yea and nay +rogues.’</p> +<p>“We have often thought of entering the lists against Robins +[famous for his imaginative advertisements of properties for sale]. +It may be vanity, but we think we could trump him. Robins amplifies +well, but we think we could trump him. There is an obvious effort in +his best works. The result is a want of unity of effect. Hesiod +and Tennyson, the Caverns of Ellora, and the magic caves of the +Regent’s Park Colosseum, are jumbled confusedly one upon +another. He never achieves the triumph of art—repose. +Besides, he wants variety. A country box, consisting of twenty feet +square of tottering brickwork, a plateau of dirt, with a few diseased +shrubs and an open drain, is as elaborately be-metaphored as an island of +the Hebrides, with a wilderness of red-deer, Celts, ptarmigan, and other +wild animals upon it. Now, this is out of all rule. An +elephant’s trunk can raise a pin as well as uproot an oak, but it +would be ridiculous to employ the same effort for one as for the +other. Robins—with reverence to so great a name, be it +spoken—does not attend to this. He has yet to acquire the light +and graceful touch of the finished artist.” Thereupon Bon +Gaultier proceeds to illustrate his views by the following, and many other +rhyming advertisements.]</p> +<h3><!-- page 221--><a name="page221"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +221</span>The Death of Ishmael.</h3> +<p>Died the Jew? “The Hebrew died.<br /> + On the pavement cold he lay,<br /> +Around him closed the living tide;<br /> + The butcher’s cad set down his tray;<br /> +The pot-boy from the Dragon Green<br /> + No longer for his pewter calls;<br /> +The Nereid rushes in between,<br /> + Nor more her ‘Fine live mackerel!’ bawls.”</p> +<p>Died the Jew? “The Hebrew died.<br /> + They raised him gently from the stone,<br /> +They flung his coat and neckcloth wide—<br /> + But linen had that Hebrew none.<br /> +They raised the pile of hats that pressed<br /> + His noble head, his locks of snow;<br /> +But, ah, that head, upon his breast,<br /> + Sank down with an expiring ‘Clo!’”</p> +<p><!-- page 222--><a name="page222"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +222</span>Died the Jew? “The Hebrew died,<br /> + Struck with overwhelming qualms<br /> +From the flavour spreading wide<br /> + Of some fine Virginia hams.<br /> +Would you know the fatal spot,<br /> + Fatal to that child of sin?<br /> +These fine-flavoured hams are bought<br /> + <span class="smcap">At</span> 50 <span class="smcap">Bishopsgate +Within</span>!”</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p222.jpg"> +<img alt="Illustration" src="images/p222.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h3><!-- page 223--><a name="page223"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +223</span>Parr’s Life Pills.</h3> +<p>’Twas in the town of Lubeck,<br /> + A hundred years ago,<br /> +An old man walked into the church,<br /> + With beard as white as snow;<br /> +Yet were his cheeks not wrinkled,<br /> + Nor dim his eagle eye:<br /> +There’s many a knight that steps the street,<br /> +Might wonder, should he chance to meet<br /> + That man erect and high!</p> +<p>When silenced was the organ,<br /> + And hushed the vespers loud,<br /> +The Sacristan approached the sire,<br /> + And drew him from the crowd—<br /> +“There’s something in thy visage,<br /> + <!-- page 224--><a name="page224"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +224</span>On which I dare not look;<br /> +And when I rang the passing bell,<br /> +A tremor that I may not tell,<br /> + My very vitals shook.</p> +<p>“Who art thou, awful stranger?<br /> + Our ancient annals say,<br /> +That twice two hundred years ago<br /> + Another passed this way,<br /> +Like thee in face and feature;<br /> + And, if the tale be true,<br /> +’Tis writ, that in this very year<br /> +Again the stranger shall appear.<br /> + Art thou the Wandering Jew?”</p> +<p>“The Wandering Jew, thou dotard!”<br /> + The wondrous phantom cried—<br /> +“’Tis several centuries ago<br /> + Since that poor stripling died.<br /> +He would not use my nostrums—<br /> + <!-- page 225--><a name="page225"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +225</span>See, shaveling, here they are!<br /> +<i>These</i> put to flight all human ills,<br /> +These conquer death—unfailing pills,<br /> + And I’m the inventor, <span +class="smcap">Parr</span>!”</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p225.jpg"> +<img alt="Illustration" src="images/p225.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h3><!-- page 226--><a name="page226"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +226</span>Tarquin and the Augur.</h3> +<p>Gingerly is good King Tarquin shaving.<br /> + Gently glides the razor o’er his chin,<br /> +Near him stands a grim Haruspex raving,<br /> + And with nasal whine he pitches in<br /> + Church extension hints,<br /> + Till the monarch squints,<br /> +Snicks his chin, and swears—a deadly sin!</p> +<p>“Jove confound thee, thou bare-legged impostor!<br /> + From my dressing-table get thee gone!<br /> +Dost thou think my flesh is double Glo’ster?<br /> + There again! That cut was to the bone!<br /> + Get ye from my sight;<br /> + I’ll believe you’re +right,<br /> +When my razor cuts the sharpening hone!”</p> +<p><!-- page 227--><a name="page227"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +227</span>Thus spoke Tarquin with a deal of dryness;<br /> + But the Augur, eager for his fees,<br /> +Answered—“Try it, your Imperial Highness;<br /> + Press a little harder, if you please.<br /> + There! the deed is done!”<br /> + Through the solid stone<br /> +Went the steel as glibly as through cheese.</p> +<p>So the Augur touched the tin of Tarquin,<br /> + Who suspected some celestial aid;<br /> +But he wronged the blameless gods; for hearken!<br /> + Ere the monarch’s bet was rashly laid,<br /> + With his searching eye<br /> + Did the priest espy<br /> +<span class="smcap">Rogers’</span> name engraved upon the blade.</p> +<h3><!-- page 228--><a name="page228"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +228</span>La Mort d’Arthur,</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">not by alfred tennyson</span>.</p> +<p>Slowly, as one who bears a mortal hurt,<br /> +Through which the fountain of his life runs dry,<br /> +Crept good King Arthur down unto the lake.<br /> +A roughening wind was bringing in the waves<br /> +With cold dull plash and plunging to the shore,<br /> +And a great bank of clouds came sailing up<br /> +Athwart the aspect of the gibbous moon,<br /> +Leaving no glimpse save starlight, as he sank,<br /> +With a short stagger, senseless on the stones.</p> +<p> No man yet knows how long he lay in swound;<br /> +But long enough it was to let the rust<br /> +Lick half the surface of his polished shield;<br /> +For it was made by far inferior hands,<br /> +Than forged his helm, his breastplate, and his greaves,<br /> +Whereon no canker lighted, for they bore<br /> +The magic stamp of <span class="smcap">Mechi’s Silver +Steel</span>.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><!-- page 229--><a name="page229"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 229</span> +<a href="images/p229.jpg"> +<img alt="Illustration" src="images/p229.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h3>Jupiter and the Indian Ale.</h3> +<p>“Take away this clammy nectar!”<br /> + Said the king of gods and men;<br /> +“Never at Olympus’ table<br /> + Let that trash be served again.<br /> +<!-- page 230--><a name="page230"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +230</span>Ho, Lyæus, thou the beery!<br /> + Quick—invent some other drink;<br /> +Or, in a brace of shakes, thou standest<br /> + On Cocytus’ sulphury brink!”</p> +<p>Terror shook the limbs of Bacchus,<br /> + Paly grew his pimpled nose,<br /> +And already in his rearward<br /> + Felt he Jove’s tremendous toes;<br /> +When a bright idea struck him—<br /> + “Dash my thyrsus! I’ll be bail—<br /> +For you never were in India—<br /> + That you know not <span class="smcap">Hodgson’s +Ale</span>!”</p> +<p>“Bring it!” quoth the Cloud-compeller;<br /> + And the wine-god brought the beer—<br /> +“Port and claret are like water<br /> + To the noble stuff that’s here!”<br /> +<!-- page 231--><a name="page231"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +231</span>And Saturnius drank and nodded,<br /> + Winking with his lightning eyes,<br /> +And amidst the constellations<br /> + Did the star of <span class="smcap">Hodgson</span> rise!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p231.jpg"> +<img alt="Illustration" src="images/p231.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h3><!-- page 232--><a name="page232"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +232</span>The Lay of the Doudney Brothers.</h3> +<p>Coats at five-and-forty shillings! trousers ten-and-six a pair!<br /> +Summer waistcoats, three a sov’reign, light and comfortable wear!<br +/> +Taglionis, black or coloured, Chesterfield and velveteen!<br /> +The old English shooting-jacket—doeskins such as ne’er were +seen!<br /> +Army cloaks and riding-habits, Alberts at a trifling cost!<br /> +Do you want an annual contract? Write to <span +class="smcap">Doudneys’</span> by the post.<br /> +<span class="smcap">Doudney Brothers</span>! <span +class="smcap">Doudney Brothers</span>! Not the men that drive the +van,<br /> +Plastered o’er with advertisements, heralding some paltry plan,<br /> +<!-- page 233--><a name="page233"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +233</span>How, by base mechanic stinting, and by pinching of their +backs,<br /> +Lean attorneys’ clerks may manage to retrieve their Income-tax:<br /> +But the old established business—where the best of clothes are +given<br /> +At the very lowest prices—Fleet Street, Number Ninety-seven.<br /> +Wouldst thou know the works of <span class="smcap">Doudney</span>? +Hie thee to the thronged Arcade,<br /> +To the Park upon a Sunday, to the terrible Parade.<br /> +There, amid the bayonets bristling, and the flashing of the steel,<br /> +When the household troops in squadrons round the bold field-marshals +wheel,<br /> +Shouldst thou see an aged warrior in a plain blue morning frock,<br /> +Peering at the proud battalions o’er the margin of his +stock,—<br /> +Should thy throbbing heart then tell thee, that the veteran worn and +grey<br /> +Curbed the course of Bonaparte, rolled the thunders of Assaye—<br /> +<!-- page 234--><a name="page234"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +234</span>Let it tell thee, stranger, likewise, that the goodly garb he +wears<br /> +Started into shape and being from the <span class="smcap">Doudney +Brothers’</span> shears!<br /> +Seek thou next the rooms of Willis—mark, where D’Orsay’s +Count is bending,<br /> +See the trouser’s undulation from his graceful hip descending;<br /> +Hath the earth another trouser so compact and love-compelling?<br /> +Thou canst find it, stranger, only, if thou seek’st the <span +class="smcap">Doudneys’</span> dwelling!<br /> +Hark, from Windsor’s royal palace, what sweet voice enchants the +ear?<br /> +“Goodness, what a lovely waistcoat! Oh, who made it, Albert +dear?<br /> +’Tis the very prettiest pattern! You must get a dozen +others!”<br /> +And the Prince, in rapture, answers—“’Tis the work of +<span class="smcap">Doudney Brothers</span>!”</p> +<h3><!-- page 235--><a name="page235"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +235</span>Paris and Helen.</h3> +<p>As the youthful Paris presses<br /> + Helen to his ivory breast.<br /> +Sporting with her golden tresses,<br /> + Close and ever closer pressed,</p> +<p>“Let me,” said he, “quaff the nectar,<br /> + Which thy lips of ruby yield;<br /> +Glory I can leave to Hector,<br /> + Gathered in the tented field.</p> +<p>“Let me ever gaze upon thee,<br /> + Look into thine eyes so deep;<br /> +With a daring hand I won thee,<br /> + With a faithful heart I’ll keep.</p> +<p>“Oh, my Helen, thou bright wonder,<br /> + Who was ever like to thee?<br /> +Jove would lay aside his thunder,<br /> + So he might be blest like me.</p> +<p><!-- page 236--><a name="page236"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +236</span>“How mine eyes so fondly linger<br /> + On thy smooth and pearly skin;<br /> +Scan each round and rosy finger,<br /> + Drinking draughts of beauty in!</p> +<p>“Tell me, whence thy beauty, fairest?<br /> + Whence thy cheek’s enchanting bloom?<br /> +Whence the rosy hue thou wearest;<br /> + Breathing round thee rich perfume?”</p> +<p>Thus he spoke, with heart that panted,<br /> + Clasped her fondly to his side,<br /> +Gazed on her with look enchanted,<br /> + While his Helen thus replied:</p> +<p>“Be no discord, love, between us,<br /> + If I not the secret tell!<br /> +’Twas a gift I had of Venus,—<br /> + Venus, who hath loved me well;</p> +<p>“And she told me as she gave it,<br /> + ‘Let not e’er the charm be known;<br /> +O’er thy person freely lave it,<br /> + Only when thou art alone.’</p> +<p><!-- page 237--><a name="page237"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +237</span>“’Tis enclosed in yonder casket—<br /> + Here behold its golden key;<br /> +But its name—love, do not ask it,<br /> + Tell’t I may not, even to thee!”</p> +<p>Long with vow and kiss he plied her;<br /> + Still the secret did she keep,<br /> +Till at length he sank beside her,<br /> + Seemed as he had dropped to sleep.</p> +<p>Soon was Helen laid in slumber,<br /> + When her Paris, rising slow,<br /> +Did his fair neck disencumber<br /> + From her rounded arms of snow.</p> +<p>Then, her heedless fingers oping,<br /> + Takes the key and steals away,<br /> +To the ebon table groping,<br /> + Where the wondrous casket lay;</p> +<p>Eagerly the lid uncloses,<br /> + Sees within it, laid aslope,<br /> +<span class="smcap">Pears’ Liquid Bloom of Roses</span>,<br /> + Cakes of his <span class="smcap">Transparent Soap</span>!</p> +<h3><!-- page 238--><a name="page238"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +238</span>A Warning.</h3> +<p>Lose thou no time! A grave and solemn warning,<br /> + Yet seldom ta’en, to man’s eternal cost.<br /> +Night wanes, day lessens, evening, noon, and morning<br /> + Flit by unseen, and yet much time is lost.</p> +<p>And why? Are moments useless as the vapour<br /> + That rises from the lamp’s extinguish’d flame!<br /> +Why do we, like the moth around the taper,<br /> + Sport with the fire that must consume our frame?</p> +<p>Be wise in time! Arouse thee, oh thou sleeper,<br /> + Account thy moments dearer than thy gold;<br /> +While time thou hast, appoint a good time-keeper<br /> + To treasure up thine hours till thou art old.</p> +<p>Lose but this chance, and thou art lost for ever,—<br /> + Seek him who keeps a watch for sinking souls—<br /> +Ask for <span class="smcap">Cox Savory’s Horizontal Lever</span>,<br +/> + With double case, and jewell’d in four holes!</p> +<h3><!-- page 239--><a name="page239"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +239</span>To Persons About to Marry.</h3> +<p>Gentle pair, ere Hymen binds you<br /> + In his fetters, soft but sure,<br /> +Pray, bethink you, have you ever<br /> + Had substantial furniture?</p> +<p>Love’s a fickle god, they tell us,<br /> + Giddy-pated, lightly led,<br /> +Therefore it were well you found him<br /> + In a comfortable bed.</p> +<p>Olive branches soon will blossom<br /> + Round your table, two or three;<br /> +And that table should be made of<br /> + Good and strong mahogany.</p> +<p>If the cares of life should gather,<br /> + And we all must look for cares,—<br /> +Sorrow falls extremely lightly<br /> + In the midst of rosewood chairs.</p> +<p><!-- page 240--><a name="page240"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +240</span>Few that walk can ’scape a stumble,<br /> + Thus hath said The Prophet-King;<br /> +But your fall will be a light one<br /> + On Axminster carpeting.</p> +<p>We can keep your little children<br /> + From collision with the grate—<br /> +We have wardrobes, we have presses<br /> + At a reasonable rate;</p> +<p>Mirrors for the queen of beauty<br /> + Basins of the purest stone,<br /> +Ottomans which Cleopatra<br /> + Might have envied on her throne.</p> +<p>Seek us ere you taste with rapture<br /> + Love’s sweet draught of filter’d honey,<br /> +And you’ll find the safest plan is,<br /> + <span class="smcap">No Discount</span>, <span class="smcap">and +Ready Money</span>!</p> +<h3><!-- page 241--><a name="page241"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +241</span>Want Places.</h3> +<p>Wants a place a lad, who’s seen<br /> + Pious life at brother Teazle’s,<br /> +Used to cleaning boots, and been<br /> + Touch’d with grace, and had the measles.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>Wants a place as housemaid, or<br /> +Companion to a bachelor,<br /> +Up in years, and who’d prefer<br /> +A person with no character,<br /> +A female, who in this respect,<br /> +Would leave him nothing to object.</p> +<h2><!-- page 243--><a name="page243"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +243</span>MISCELLANEOUS POEMS</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><!-- page 245--><a name="page245"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 245</span> +<a href="images/p245.jpg"> +<img alt="Illustration" src="images/p245.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h3>The Lay of the Lover’s Friend.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Air</span>—“<i>The days we went +a-gypsying</i>.”]</p> +<p>I would all womankind were dead,<br /> + Or banished o’er the sea;<br /> +For they have been a bitter plague<br /> + These last six weeks to me:<br /> +It is not that I’m touched myself,<br /> + For that I do not fear;<br /> +<!-- page 246--><a name="page246"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 246</span>No +female face has shown me grace<br /> + For many a bygone year.<br /> + But ’tis the most infernal bore,<br /> + Of all the bores I know,<br /> + To have a friend who’s lost his heart<br /> + A short time ago.</p> +<p>Whene’er we steam it to Blackwall,<br /> + Or down to Greenwich run,<br /> +To quaff the pleasant cider-cup,<br /> + And feed on fish and fun;<br /> +Or climb the slopes of Richmond Hill,<br /> + To catch a breath of air:<br /> +Then, for my sins, he straight begins<br /> + To rave about his fair.<br /> + Oh, ’tis the most tremendous bore,<br /> + Of all the bores I know,<br /> + To have a friend who’s lost his heart<br /> + A short time ago.</p> +<p>In vain you pour into his ear<br /> + Your own confiding grief;<br /> +<!-- page 247--><a name="page247"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 247</span>In +vain you claim his sympathy,<br /> + In vain you ask relief;<br /> +In vain you try to rouse him by<br /> + Joke, repartee, or quiz;<br /> +His sole reply’s a burning sigh,<br /> + And “What a mind it is!”<br /> + O Lord! it is the greatest bore,<br /> + Of all the bores I know,<br /> + To have a friend who’s lost his heart<br /> + A short time ago.</p> +<p>I’ve heard her thoroughly described<br /> + A hundred times, I’m sure;<br /> +And all the while I’ve tried to smile,<br /> + And patiently endure;<br /> +He waxes strong upon his pangs,<br /> + And potters o’er his grog;<br /> +And still I say, in a playful way—<br /> + “Why, you’re a lucky dog!”<br /> + But oh! it is the heaviest bore,<br /> + Of all the bores I know,<br /> + To have a friend who’s lost his heart<br /> + A short time ago.</p> +<p><!-- page 248--><a name="page248"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +248</span>I really wish he’d do like me,<br /> + When I was young and strong;<br /> +I formed a passion every week,<br /> + But never kept it long.<br /> +But he has not the sportive mood<br /> + That always rescued me,<br /> +And so I would all women could<br /> + Be banished o’er the sea.<br /> + For ’tis the most egregious bore,<br /> + Of all the bores I know,<br /> + To have a friend who’s lost his heart<br /> + A short time ago.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><!-- page 249--><a name="page249"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 249</span> +<a href="images/p249.jpg"> +<img alt="Illustration" src="images/p249.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h3>Francesca Da Rimini.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">to bon gaultier</span>.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Argument</span>.—An impassioned pupil of +Leigh Hunt, having met Bon Gaultier at a Fancy Ball, declares the +destructive consequences thus.]</p> +<p>Didst thou not praise me, Gaultier, at the ball,<br /> +Ripe lips, trim boddice, and a waist so small,<br /> +With clipsome lightness, dwindling ever less,<br /> +Beneath the robe of pea-y greeniness?<br /> +Dost thou remember, when, with stately prance,<br /> +Our heads went crosswise in the country-dance;<br /> +How soft, warm fingers, tipped like buds of balm,<br /> +Trembled within the squeezing of thy palm;<br /> +<!-- page 250--><a name="page250"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +250</span>And how a cheek grew flushed and peachy-wise<br /> +At the frank lifting of thy cordial eyes?<br /> +Ah, me! that night there was one gentle thing,<br /> +Who, like a dove, with its scarce feathered wing,<br /> +Fluttered at the approach of thy quaint swaggering!</p> +<p>There’s wont to be, at conscious times like these,<br /> +An affectation of a bright-eyed ease,—<br /> +A crispy cheekiness, if so I dare<br /> +Describe the swaling of a jaunty air;<br /> +And thus, when swirling from the waltz’s wheel,<br /> +You craved my hand to grace the next quadrille,<br /> +That smiling voice, although it made me start,<br /> +Boiled in the meek o’erlifting of my heart;<br /> +And, picking at my flowers, I said, with free<br /> +And usual tone, “O yes, sir, certainly!”</p> +<p>Like one that swoons, ’twixt sweet amaze and fear,<br /> +I heard the music burning in my ear,<br /> +And felt I cared not, so thou wert with me,<br /> +If Gurth or Wamba were our vis-à-vis.<br /> +So, when a tall Knight Templar ringing came,<br /> +And took his place amongst us with his dame,<br /> +I neither turned away, nor bashful shrunk<br /> +From the stern survey of the soldier-monk,<br /> +<!-- page 251--><a name="page251"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +251</span>Though rather more than three full quarters drunk;<br /> +But, threading through the figure, first in rule,<br /> +I paused to see thee plunge into La Poule.</p> +<p>Ah, what a sight was that! Not prurient Mars,<br /> +Pointing his toe through ten celestial bars—<br /> +Not young Apollo, beamily arrayed<br /> +In tripsome guise for Juno’s masquerade—<br /> +Not smartest Hermes, with his pinion girth,<br /> +Jerking with freaks and snatches down to earth,<br /> +Looked half so bold, so beautiful, and strong,<br /> +As thou, when pranking through the glittering throng!<br /> +How the calmed ladies looked with eyes of love<br /> +On thy trim velvet doublet laced above;<br /> +The hem of gold, that, like a wavy river,<br /> +Flowed down into thy back with glancing shiver!<br /> +So bare was thy fine throat, and curls of black,<br /> +So lightsomely dropped in thy lordly back,<br /> +So crisply swaled the feather in thy bonnet,<br /> +So glanced thy thigh, and spanning palm upon it,<br /> +That my weak soul took instant flight to thee,<br /> +Lost in the fondest gush of that sweet witchery!</p> +<p>But when the dance was o’er, and arm in arm<br /> +(The full heart beating ’gainst the elbow warm)<br /> +<!-- page 252--><a name="page252"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 252</span>We +passed into the great refreshment-hall,<br /> +Where the heaped cheese-cakes and the comfits small<br /> +Lay, like a hive of sunbeams, brought to burn<br /> +Around the margin of the negus urn;<br /> +When my poor quivering hand you fingered twice,<br /> +And, with inquiring accents, whispered “Ice,<br /> +Water, or cream?” I could no more dissemble,<br /> +But dropped upon the couch all in a tremble.<br /> +A swimming faintness misted o’er my brain,<br /> +The corks seemed starting from the brisk champagne,<br /> +The custards fell untouched upon the floor,<br /> +Thine eyes met mine. That night we danced no more!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p252.jpg"> +<img alt="Illustration" src="images/p252.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><!-- page 253--><a name="page253"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 253</span> +<a href="images/p253.jpg"> +<img alt="Illustration" src="images/p253.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h3>The Cadi’s Daughter.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">a legend of the bosphorus</span>.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">from any of the annuals</span>.]</p> +<p>How beauteous is the star of night<br /> + Within the eastern skies,<br /> +Like the twinkling glance of the Toorkman’s lance,<br /> + Or the antelope’s azure eyes!<br /> +<!-- page 254--><a name="page254"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 254</span>A +lamp of love in the heaven above,<br /> + That star is fondly streaming;<br /> +And the gay kiosk and the shadowy mosque<br /> + In the Golden Horn are gleaming.</p> +<p>Young Leila sits in her jasmine bower,<br /> + And she hears the bulbul sing,<br /> +As it thrills its throat to the first full note,<br /> + That anthems the flowery spring.<br /> +She gazes still, as a maiden will,<br /> + On that beauteous eastern star:<br /> +You might see the throb of her bosom’s sob<br /> + Beneath the white cymar!</p> +<p>She thinks of him who is far away,—<br /> + Her own brave Galiongee,—<br /> +Where the billows foam and the breezes roam,<br /> + On the wild Carpathian sea.<br /> +She thinks of the oath that bound them both<br /> + Beside the stormy water;<br /> +And the words of love, that in Athens’ grove<br /> + He spake to the Cadi’s daughter.</p> +<p><!-- page 255--><a name="page255"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +255</span>“My Selim!” thus the maiden said,<br /> + “Though severed thus we be<br /> +By the raging deep and the mountain steep,<br /> + My soul still yearns to thee.<br /> +Thy form so dear is mirrored here<br /> + In my heart’s pellucid well,<br /> +As the rose looks up to Phingari’s orb,<br /> + Or the moth to the gay gazelle.</p> +<p>“I think of the time when the Kaftan’s crime<br /> + Our love’s young joys o’ertook,<br /> +And thy name still floats in the plaintive notes<br /> + Of my silver-toned chibouque.<br /> +Thy hand is red with the blood it has shed,<br /> + Thy soul it is heavy laden;<br /> +Yet come, my Giaour, to thy Leila’s bower;<br /> + Oh, come to thy Turkish maiden!”</p> +<p>A light step trod on the dewy sod,<br /> + And a voice was in her ear,<br /> +And an arm embraced young Leila’s waist—<br /> + “Belovèd! I am here!”<br /> +<!-- page 256--><a name="page256"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +256</span>Like the phantom form that rules the storm,<br /> + Appeared the pirate lover,<br /> +And his fiery eye was like Zatanai,<br /> + As he fondly bent above her.</p> +<p>“Speak, Leila, speak; for my light caïque<br /> + Rides proudly in yonder bay;<br /> +I have come from my rest to her I love best,<br /> + To carry thee, love, away.<br /> +The breast of thy lover shall shield thee, and cover<br /> + My own jemscheed from harm;<br /> +Think’st thou I fear the dark vizier,<br /> + Or the mufti’s vengeful arm?</p> +<p>“Then droop not, love, nor turn away<br /> + From this rude hand of mine!”<br /> +And Leila looked in her lover’s eyes,<br /> + And murmured—“I am thine!”<br /> +But a gloomy man with a yataghan.<br /> + Stole through the acacia-blossoms,<br /> +And the thrust he made with his gleaming blade<br /> + Hath pierced through both their bosoms.</p> +<p><!-- page 257--><a name="page257"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +257</span>“There! there! thou cursèd caitiff Giaour!<br /> + There, there, thou false one, lie!”<br /> +Remorseless Hassan stands above,<br /> + And he smiles to see them die.<br /> +They sleep beneath the fresh green turf,<br /> + The lover and the lady—<br /> +And the maidens wail to hear the tale<br /> + Of the daughter of the Cadi!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p257.jpg"> +<img alt="Illustration" src="images/p257.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h3><!-- page 258--><a name="page258"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +258</span>The Dirge of the Drinker.</h3> +<p>Brothers, spare awhile your liquor, lay your final tumbler down;<br /> +He has dropped—that star of honour—on the field of his +renown!<br /> +Raise the wail, but raise it softly, lowly bending on your knees,<br /> +If you find it more convenient, you may hiccup if you please.<br /> +Sons of Pantagruel, gently let your hip-hurrahing sink,<br /> +Be your manly accents clouded, half with sorrow, half with drink!<br /> +Lightly to the sofa pillow lift his head from off the floor;<br /> +See, how calm he sleeps, unconscious as the deadest nail in door!<br /> +Widely o’er the earth I’ve wandered; where the drink most +freely flowed,<br /> +I have ever reeled the foremost, foremost to the beaker strode.<br /> +<!-- page 259--><a name="page259"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +259</span>Deep in shady Cider Cellars I have dreamed o’er heavy +wet,<br /> +By the fountains of Damascus I have quaffed the rich sherbet,<br /> +Regal Montepulciano drained beneath its native rock,<br /> +On Johannis’ sunny mountain frequent hiccuped o’er my hock;<br +/> +I have bathed in butts of Xeres deeper than did e’er Monsoon,<br /> +Sangaree’d with bearded Tartars in the Mountains of the Moon;<br /> +In beer-swilling Copenhagen I have drunk your Danesman blind,<br /> +I have kept my feet in Jena, when each bursch to earth declined;<br /> +Glass for glass, in fierce Jamaica, I have shared the planter’s +rum.<br /> +Drunk with Highland dhuiné-wassails, till each gibbering Gael grew +dumb;<br /> +But a stouter, bolder drinker—one that loved his liquor +more—<br /> +Never yet did I encounter than our friend upon the floor!<br /> +<!-- page 260--><a name="page260"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +260</span>Yet the best of us are mortal, we to weakness all are heir,<br /> +He has fallen who rarely staggered—let the rest of us beware!<br /> +We shall leave him as we found him,—lying where his manhood fell,<br +/> +’Mong the trophies of the revel, for he took his tipple well.<br /> +Better ’twere we loosed his neckcloth, laid his throat and bosom +bare,<br /> +Pulled his Hobies off, and turned his toes to taste the breezy air.<br /> +Throw the sofa cover o’er him, dim the flaring of the gas,<br /> +Calmly, calmly let him slumber, and, as by the bar we pass,<br /> +We shall bid that thoughtful waiter place beside him, near and handy,<br /> +Large supplies of soda-water, tumblers bottomed well with brandy,<br /> +So, when waking, he shall drain them, with that deathless thirst of +his,—<br /> +Clinging to the hand that smote him, like a good ’un as he is!</p> +<h3><!-- page 261--><a name="page261"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +261</span>The Death of Duval.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">by w--- h--- a---th</span>, <span +class="smcap">esq.</span></p> +<p>[“Methinks 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 Holborn, 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!”—<span class="smcap">Beggars Opera</span>.]</p> +<p>A living sea of eager human faces,<br /> + A thousand bosoms throbbing all as one,<br /> +Walls, windows, balconies, all sorts of places,<br /> + Holding their crowds of gazers to the sun:<br /> + Through the hushed groups low-buzzing murmurs run;<br /> +And on the air, with slow reluctant swell,<br /> +Comes the dull funeral-boom of old Sepulchre’s bell.</p> +<p>Oh, joy in London now! in festal measure<br /> + Be spent the evening of this festive day!<br /> +<!-- page 262--><a name="page262"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +262</span>For thee is opening now a high-strung pleasure;<br /> + Now, even now, in yonder press-yard they<br /> + Strike from his limbs the fetters loose away!<br /> +A little while, and he, the brave Duval,<br /> +Will issue forth, serene, to glad and greet you all.</p> +<p>“Why comes he not? Say, wherefore doth he tarry?”<br +/> + Starts the inquiry loud from every tongue.<br /> +“Surely,” they cry, “that tedious Ordinary<br /> + His tedious psalms must long ere this have sung,—<br /> + Tedious to him that’s waiting to be hung!”<br /> +But hark! old Newgate’s doors fly wide apart.<br /> +“He comes, he comes!” A thrill shoots through each +gazer’s heart.</p> +<p>Joined in the stunning cry ten thousand voices,<br /> + All Smithfield answered to the loud acclaim.<br /> +“He comes, he comes!” and every breast rejoices,<br /> + As down Snow Hill the shout tumultuous came,<br /> + Bearing to Holborn’s crowd the welcome fame.<br /> +“He comes, he comes!” and each holds back his breath—<br +/> +Some ribs are broke, and some few scores are crushed to death.</p> +<p><!-- page 263--><a name="page263"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +263</span>With step majestic to the cart advances<br /> + The dauntless Claude, and springs into his seat.<br /> +He feels that on him now are fixed the glances<br /> + Of many a Briton bold and maiden sweet,<br /> + Whose hearts responsive to his glories beat.<br /> +In him the honour of “The Road” is centred,<br /> +And all the hero’s fire into his bosom entered.</p> +<p>His was the transport—his the exultation<br /> + Of Rome’s great generals, when from afar,<br /> +Up to the Capitol, in the ovation,<br /> + They bore with them, in the triumphal car,<br /> + Rich gold and gems, the spoils of foreign war.<br /> +<i>Io Triumphe</i>! They forgot their clay.<br /> +E’en so Duval, who rode in glory on his way.</p> +<p>His laced cravat, his kids of purest yellow,<br /> + The many-tinted nosegay in his hand,<br /> +His large black eyes, so fiery, yet so mellow,<br /> + Like the old vintages of Spanish land,<br /> + Locks clustering o’er a brow of high command,<br /> +Subdue all hearts; and, as up Holborn’s steep<br /> +Toils the slow car of death, e’en cruel butchers weep.</p> +<p><!-- page 264--><a name="page264"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +264</span>He saw it, but he heeded not. His story,<br /> + He knew, was graven on the page of Time.<br /> +Tyburn to him was as a field of glory,<br /> + Where he must stoop to death his head sublime,<br /> + Hymned in full many an elegiac rhyme.<br /> +He left his deeds behind him, and his name—<br /> +For he, like Cæsar, had lived long enough for fame.</p> +<p>He quailed not, save when, as he raised the chalice,—<br /> + St Giles’s bowl,—filled with the mildest ale,<br /> +To pledge the crowd, on her—his beauteous Alice—<br /> + His eye alighted, and his cheek grew pale.<br /> + She, whose sweet breath was like the spicy gale,<br /> +She, whom he fondly deemed his own dear girl,<br /> +Stood with a tall dragoon, drinking long draughts of purl.</p> +<p>He bit his lip—it quivered but a moment—<br /> + Then passed his hand across his flushing brows:<br /> +He could have spared so forcible a comment<br /> + Upon the constancy of woman’s vows.<br /> + One short sharp pang his hero-soul allows;<br /> +But in the bowl he drowned the stinging pain,<br /> +And on his pilgrim course went calmly forth again.</p> +<p><!-- page 265--><a name="page265"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +265</span>A princely group of England’s noble daughters<br /> + Stood in a balcony suffused with grief,<br /> +Diffusing fragrance round them, of strong waters,<br /> + And waving many a snowy handkerchief;<br /> + Then glowed the prince of highwayman and thief!<br /> +His soul was touched with a seraphic gleam—<br /> +That woman could be false was but a mocking dream.</p> +<p>And now, his bright career of triumph ended,<br /> + His chariot stood beneath the triple tree.<br /> +The law’s grim finisher to its boughs ascended,<br /> + And fixed the hempen bandages, while he<br /> + Bowed to the throng, then bade the cart go free.<br /> +The car rolled on, and left him dangling there,<br /> +Like famed Mohammed’s tomb, uphung midway in air.</p> +<p>As droops the cup of the surchargèd lily<br /> + Beneath the buffets of the surly storm,<br /> +Or the soft petals of the daffodilly,<br /> + When Sirius is uncomfortably warm,<br /> + So drooped his head upon his manly form,<br /> +While floated in the breeze his tresses brown.<br /> +He hung the stated time, and then they cut him down.</p> +<p><!-- page 266--><a name="page266"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +266</span>With soft and tender care the trainbands bore him,<br /> + Just as they found him, nightcap, robe, and all,<br /> +And placed this neat though plain inscription o’er him,<br /> + Among the atomies in Surgeons’ Hall:<br /> + “<span class="smcap">These are the Bones of the Renowned +Duval</span>!”<br /> +There still they tell us, from their glassy case,<br /> +He was the last, the best of all that noble race!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><!-- page 267--><a name="page267"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 267</span> +<a href="images/p267.jpg"> +<img alt="Illustration" src="images/p267.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h3>Eastern Serenade.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">by the honourable sinjin muff</span>.</p> +<p>The minarets wave on the plain of Stamboul,<br /> +And the breeze of the evening blows freshly and cool;<br /> +The voice of the musnud is heard from the west,<br /> +And kaftan and kalpac have gone to their rest.<br /> +The notes of the kislar re-echo no more,<br /> +And the waves of Al Sirat fall light on the shore.</p> +<p><!-- page 268--><a name="page268"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +268</span>Where art thou, my beauty; where art thou, my bride?<br /> +Oh, come and repose by thy dragoman’s side!<br /> +I wait for thee still by the flowery tophaik—<br /> +I have broken my Eblis for Zuleima’s sake.<br /> +But the heart that adores thee is faithful and true,<br /> +Though it beats ’neath the folds of a Greek Allah-hu!</p> +<p>Oh, wake thee, my dearest! the muftis are still,<br /> +And the tschocadars sleep on the Franguestan hill;<br /> +No sullen aleikoum—no derveesh is here,<br /> +And the mosques are all watching by lonely Kashmere!<br /> +Oh, come in the gush of thy beauty so full,<br /> +I have waited for thee, my adored attar-gul!</p> +<p>I see thee—I hear thee—thy antelope foot<br /> +Treads lightly and soft on the velvet cheroot;<br /> +The jewelled amaun of thy zemzem is bare,<br /> +And the folds of thy palampore wave in the air.<br /> +Come, rest on the bosom that loves thee so well,<br /> +My dove! my phingari! my gentle gazelle!</p> +<p>Nay, tremble not, dearest! I feel thy heart throb,<br /> +’Neath the sheltering shroud of thy snowy kiebaub;<br /> +<!-- page 269--><a name="page269"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +269</span>Lo, there shines Muezzin, the beautiful star!<br /> +Thy lover is with thee, and danger afar:<br /> +Say, is it the glance of the haughty vizier,<br /> +Or the bark of the distant effendi, you fear?</p> +<p>Oh, swift fly the hours in the garden of bliss!<br /> +And sweeter than balm of Gehenna thy kiss!<br /> +Wherever I wander—wherever I roam,<br /> +My spirit flies back to its beautiful home;<br /> +It dwells by the lake of the limpid Stamboul,<br /> +With thee, my adored one! my own attar-gul! <a name="citation269"></a><a +href="#footnote269" class="citation">[269]</a></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><!-- page 270--><a name="page270"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 270</span> +<a href="images/p270.jpg"> +<img alt="Illustration" src="images/p270.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h3><!-- page 271--><a name="page271"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +271</span>Dame Fredegonde.</h3> +<p>When folks, with headstrong passion blind,<br /> +To play the fool make up their mind,<br /> +They’re sure to come with phrases nice<br /> +And modest air, for your advice.<br /> +But as a truth unfailing make it,<br /> +They ask, but never mean to take it.<br /> +’Tis not advice they want, in fact,<br /> +But confirmation in their act.<br /> +Now mark what did, in such a case,<br /> +A worthy priest who knew the race.</p> +<p> A dame more buxom, blithe, and free,<br /> +Than Fredegonde you scarce would see.<br /> +So smart her dress, so trim her shape,<br /> +Ne’er hostess offered juice of grape,<br /> +Could for her trade wish better sign;<br /> +Her looks gave flavour to her wine,<br /> +<!-- page 272--><a name="page272"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +272</span>And each guest feels it, as he sips,<br /> +Smack of the ruby of her lips.<br /> +A smile for all, a welcome glad,—<br /> +A jovial coaxing way she had;<br /> +And,—what was more her fate than blame,—<br /> +A nine months’ widow was our dame.<br /> +But toil was hard, for trade was good,<br /> +And gallants sometimes will be rude.<br /> +“And what can a lone woman do?<br /> +The nights are long and eerie too.<br /> +Now, Guillot there’s a likely man,<br /> +None better draws or taps a can;<br /> +He’s just the man, I think, to suit,<br /> +If I could bring my courage to’t.”<br /> +With thoughts like these her mind is crossed:<br /> +The dame, they say, who doubts, is lost.<br /> +“But then the risk? I’ll beg a slice<br /> +Of Father Haulin’s good advice.”</p> +<p> Prankt in her best, with looks demure,<br /> +She seeks the priest; and, to be sure,<br /> +Asks if he thinks she ought to wed:<br /> +<!-- page 273--><a name="page273"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +273</span>“With such a business on my head,<br /> +I’m worried off my legs with care,<br /> +And need some help to keep things square.<br /> +I’ve thought of Guillot, truth to tell!<br /> +He’s steady, knows his business well.<br /> +What do you think?” When thus he met her:<br /> +“Oh, take him, dear, you can’t do better!”<br /> +“But then the danger, my good pastor,<br /> +If of the man I make the master.<br /> +There is no trusting to these men.”<br /> +“Well, well, my dear, don’t have him, then!”<br /> +“But help I must have; there’s the curse.<br /> +I may go farther and fare worse.”<br /> +“Why, take him, then!” “But if he should<br /> +Turn out a thankless ne’er-do-good—<br /> +In drink and riot waste my all,<br /> +And rout me out of house and hall?”<br /> +“Don’t have him, then! But I’ve a plan<br /> +To clear your doubts, if any can.<br /> +The bells a peal are ringing,—hark!<br /> +Go straight, and what they tell you mark.<br /> +If they say ‘Yes!’ wed, and be blest—<br /> +If ‘No,’ why—do as you think best.”</p> +<p> <!-- page 274--><a name="page274"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +274</span>The bells rang out a triple bob:<br /> +Oh, how our widow’s heart did throb,<br /> +As thus she heard their burden go,<br /> +“Marry, mar-marry, mar-Guillot!”<br /> +Bells were not then left to hang idle:<br /> +A week,—and they rang for her bridal.<br /> +But, woe the while, they might as well<br /> +Have rung the poor dame’s parting knell.<br /> +The rosy dimples left her cheek,<br /> +She lost her beauties plump and sleek;<br /> +For Guillot oftener kicked than kissed,<br /> +And backed his orders with his fist,<br /> +Proving by deeds as well as words<br /> +That servants make the worst of lords.</p> +<p> She seeks the priest, her ire to wreak,<br /> +And speaks as angry women speak,<br /> +With tiger looks and bosom swelling,<br /> +Cursing the hour she took his telling.<br /> +To all, his calm reply was this,—<br /> +“I fear you’ve read the bells amiss:<br /> +If they have lead you wrong in aught,<br /> +Your wish, not they, inspired the thought.<br /> +<!-- page 275--><a name="page275"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +275</span>Just go, and mark well what they say.”<br /> +Off trudged the dame upon her way,<br /> +And sure enough their chime went so,—<br /> +“Don’t have that knave, that knave Guillot!”</p> +<p> “Too true,” she cried, “there’s not a +doubt:<br /> +What could my ears have been about?”<br /> +She had forgot, that, as fools think,<br /> +The bell is ever sure to clink.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p275.jpg"> +<img alt="Illustration" src="images/p275.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h3><!-- page 276--><a name="page276"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +276</span>Song of the Ennuyé.</h3> +<p>I’m weary, and sick, and disgusted<br /> + With Britain’s mechanical din;<br /> +Where I’m much too well known to be trusted,<br /> + And plaguily pestered for tin;<br /> +Where love has two eyes for your banker,<br /> + And one chilly glance for yourself;<br /> +Where souls can afford to be franker,<br /> + But when they’re well garnished with pelf.</p> +<p>I’m sick of the whole race of poets,<br /> + Emasculate, misty, and fine;<br /> +They brew their small-beer, and don’t know its<br /> + Distinction from full-bodied wine.<br /> +I’m sick of the prosers, that house up<br /> + At drowsy St Stephen’s,—ain’t you?<br /> +I want some strong spirits to rouse up<br /> + A good revolution or two!</p> +<p><!-- page 277--><a name="page277"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +277</span>I’m sick of a land, where each morrow<br /> + Repeats the dull tale of to-day,<br /> +Where you can’t even find a new sorrow<br /> + To chase your stale pleasures away.<br /> +I’m sick of blue-stockings horrific,<br /> + Steam, railroads, gas, scrip, and consols;<br /> +So I’ll off where the golden Pacific<br /> + Round Islands of Paradise rolls.</p> +<p>There the passions shall revel unfettered,<br /> + And the heart never speak but in truth,<br /> +And the intellect, wholly unlettered,<br /> + Be bright with the freedom of youth!<br /> +There the earth can rejoice in her blossoms,<br /> + Unsullied by vapour or soot,<br /> +And there chimpanzees and opossums<br /> + Shall playfully pelt me with fruit.</p> +<p>There I’ll sit with my dark Orianas,<br /> + In groves by the murmuring sea,<br /> +And they’ll give, as I suck the bananas,<br /> + Their kisses, nor ask them from me.<br /> +<!-- page 278--><a name="page278"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +278</span>They’ll never torment me for sonnets,<br /> + Nor bore me to death with their own;<br /> +They’ll ask not for shawls nor for bonnets,<br /> + For milliners there are unknown.</p> +<p>There my couch shall be earth’s freshest flowers,<br /> + My curtains the night and the stars,<br /> +And my spirit shall gather new powers,<br /> + Uncramped by conventional bars.<br /> +Love for love, truth for truth ever giving,<br /> + My days shall be manfully sped;<br /> +I shall know that I’m loved while I’m living,<br /> + And be wept by fond eyes when I’m dead!</p> +<h3><!-- page 279--><a name="page279"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +279</span>The Death of Space.</h3> +<p>[Why 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 unwonted 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.]</p> +<p>Eternity shall raise her funeral-pile<br /> + In the vast dungeon of the extinguished sky,<br /> +And, clothed in dim barbaric splendour, smile,<br /> + And murmur shouts of elegiac joy.</p> +<p>While those that dwell beyond the realms of space,<br /> + And those that people all that dreary void,<br /> +When old Time’s endless heir hath run his race,<br /> + Shall live for aye, enjoying and enjoyed.</p> +<p>And ’mid the agony of unsullied bliss,<br /> + Her Demogorgon’s doom shall Sin bewail,<br /> +The undying serpent at the spheres shall hiss,<br /> + And lash the empyrean with his tail.</p> +<p><!-- page 280--><a name="page280"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +280</span>And Hell, inflated with supernal wrath,<br /> + Shall open wide her thunder-bolted jaws,<br /> +And shout into the dull cold ear of Death,<br /> + That he must pay his debt to Nature’s laws.</p> +<p>And when the King of Terrors breathes his last,<br /> + Infinity shall creep into her shell,<br /> +Cause and effect shall from their thrones be cast,<br /> + And end their strife with suicidal yell:</p> +<p>While from their ashes, burnt with pomp of kings,<br /> + ’Mid incense floating to the evanished skies,<br /> +Nonenity, on circumambient wings,<br /> + An everlasting Phœnix shall arise.</p> +<h3><!-- page 281--><a name="page281"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +281</span>Caroline.</h3> +<p>Lightsome, brightsome, cousin mine,<br /> + Easy, breezy Caroline!<br /> +With thy locks all raven-shaded,<br /> +From thy merry brow up-braided,<br /> +And thine eyes of laughter full,<br /> + Brightsome cousin mine!<br /> +Thou in chains of love hast bound me—<br /> +Wherefore dost thou flit around me,<br /> + Laughter-loving Caroline?</p> +<p>When I fain would go to sleep<br /> + In my easy-chair,<br /> +Wherefore on my slumbers creep—<br /> +Wherefore start me from repose,<br /> +Tickling of my hookèd nose,<br /> + Pulling of my hair?<br /> +<!-- page 282--><a name="page282"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +282</span>Wherefore, then, if thou dost love me,<br /> +So to words of anger move me,<br /> + Corking of this face of mine,<br /> + Tricksy cousin Caroline?</p> +<p>When a sudden sound I hear,<br /> +Much my nervous system suffers,<br /> + Shaking through and through.<br /> +Cousin Caroline, I fear,<br /> + ’Twas no other, now, but you,<br /> +Put gunpowder in the snuffers,<br /> + Springing such a mine!<br /> +Yes, it was your tricksy self,<br /> +Wicked-trickèd little elf,<br /> + Naughty Caroline!</p> +<p>Pins she sticks into my shoulder,<br /> + Places needles in my chair,<br /> +And, when I begin to scold her,<br /> + Tosses back her combèd hair,<br /> + With so saucy-vexed an air,<br /> +That the pitying beholder<br /> +Cannot brook that I should scold her:<br /> +<!-- page 283--><a name="page283"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +283</span>Then again she comes, and bolder,<br /> + Blacks anew this face of mine,<br /> + Artful cousin Caroline!</p> +<p>Would she only say she’d love me,<br /> + Winsome, tinsome Caroline,<br /> +Unto such excess ’twould move me,<br /> + Teazing, pleasing, cousin mine!<br /> +That she might the live-long day<br /> +Undermine the snuffer-tray,<br /> +Tickle still my hookèd nose,<br /> +Startle me from calm repose<br /> + With her pretty persecution;<br /> +Throw the tongs against my shins,<br /> +Run me through and through with pins,<br /> + Like a piercèd cushion;<br /> +Would she only say she’d love me,<br /> +Darning-needles should not move me;<br /> +But, reclining back, I’d say,<br /> +“Dearest! there’s the snuffer-tray;<br /> +Pinch, O pinch those legs of mine!<br /> +Cork me, cousin Caroline!”</p> +<h3><!-- page 284--><a name="page284"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +284</span>To a Forget-Me-Not,</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">found in my emporium of love-tokens</span>.</p> +<p>Sweet flower, that with thy soft blue eye<br /> + Didst once look up in shady spot,<br /> +To whisper to the passer-by<br /> + Those tender words—Forget-me-not!</p> +<p>Though withered now, thou art to me<br /> + The minister of gentle thought,—<br /> +And I could weep to gaze on thee,<br /> + Love’s faded pledge—Forget-me-not!</p> +<p>Thou speak’st of hours when I was young,<br /> + And happiness arose unsought;<br /> +When she, the whispering woods among,<br /> + Gave me thy bloom—Forget-me-not!</p> +<p><!-- page 285--><a name="page285"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +285</span>That rapturous hour with that dear maid<br /> + From memory’s page no time shall blot,<br /> +When, yielding to my kiss, she said,<br /> + “Oh, Theodore—Forget me not!”</p> +<p>Alas for love! alas for truth!<br /> + Alas for man’s uncertain lot!<br /> +Alas for all the hopes of youth<br /> + That fade like thee—Forget-me-not!</p> +<p>Alas for that one image fair,<br /> + With all my brightest dreams inwrought!<br /> +That walks beside me everywhere,<br /> + Still whispering—Forget-me-not!</p> +<p>Oh, Memory! thou art but a sigh<br /> + For friendships dead and loves forgot,<br /> +And many a cold and altered eye<br /> + That once did say—Forget-me-not!</p> +<p>And I must bow me to thy laws,<br /> + For—odd although it may be thought—<br /> +I can’t tell who the deuce it was<br /> + That gave me this Forget-me-not!</p> +<h3><!-- page 286--><a name="page286"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +286</span>The Meeting.</h3> +<p>Once I lay beside a fountain,<br /> + Lulled me with its gentle song,<br /> +And my thoughts o’er dale and mountain<br /> + With the clouds were borne along.</p> +<p>There I saw old castles flinging<br /> + Shadowy gleams on moveless seas,<br /> +Saw gigantic forests swinging<br /> + To and fro without a breeze;</p> +<p>And in dusky alleys straying,<br /> + Many a giant shape of power,<br /> +Troops of nymphs in sunshine playing,<br /> + Singing, dancing, hour on hour.</p> +<p>I, too, trod these plains Elysian,<br /> + Heard their ringing tones of mirth,<br /> +But a brighter, fairer vision<br /> + Called me back again to earth.</p> +<p><!-- page 287--><a name="page287"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +287</span>From the forest shade advancing,<br /> + See, where comes a lovely May;<br /> +The dew, like gems, before her glancing,<br /> + As she brushes it away!</p> +<p>Straight I rose, and ran to meet her,<br /> + Seized her hand—the heavenly blue<br /> +Of her eyes smiled brighter, sweeter,<br /> + As she asked me—“Who are you?”</p> +<p>To that question came another—<br /> + What its aim I still must doubt—<br /> +And she asked me, “How’s your mother?<br /> + Does she know that you are out?”</p> +<p>“No! my mother does not know it,<br /> + Beauteous, heaven-descended muse!”<br /> +“Then be off, my handsome poet,<br /> + And say I sent you with the news!”</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><!-- page 288--><a name="page288"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 288</span> +<a href="images/p288.jpg"> +<img alt="Illustration" src="images/p288.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h3>The Mishap.</h3> +<p>“Why art thou weeping, sister?<br /> + Why is thy cheek so pale?<br /> +Look up, dear Jane, and tell me<br /> + What is it thou dost ail?</p> +<p>“I know thy will is froward,<br /> + Thy feelings warm and keen,<br /> +And that <i>that</i> Augustus Howard<br /> + For weeks has not been seen.</p> +<p><!-- page 289--><a name="page289"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +289</span>“I know how much you loved him;<br /> + But I know thou dost not weep<br /> +For him;—for though his passion be,<br /> + His purse is noways deep.</p> +<p>“Then tell me why those tear-drops?<br /> + What means this woeful mood<br /> +Say, has the tax-collector<br /> + Been calling, and been rude?</p> +<p>“Or has that hateful grocer,<br /> + The slave! been here to-day?<br /> +Of course he had, by morrow’s noon,<br /> + A heavy bill to pay!</p> +<p>“Come, on thy brother’s bosom<br /> + Unburden all thy woes;<br /> +Look up, look up, sweet sister;<br /> + Nay, sob not through thy nose.”</p> +<p>“Oh, John, ’tis not the grocer<br /> + Or his account, although<br /> +How ever he is to be paid<br /> + I really do not know.</p> +<p><!-- page 290--><a name="page290"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +290</span>“’Tis not the tax-collector;<br /> + Though by his fell command<br /> +They’ve seized our old paternal clock,<br /> + And new umbrella-stand!</p> +<p>“Nor that Augustus Howard,<br /> + Whom I despise almost,—<br /> +But the soot’s come down the chimney, John,<br /> + And fairly spoilt the roast!”</p> +<h3><!-- page 291--><a name="page291"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +291</span>Comfort in Affliction.</h3> +<p>“Wherefore starts my bosom’s lord?<br /> + Why this anguish in thine eye?<br /> +Oh, it seems as thy heart’s chord<br /> + Had broken with that sigh!</p> +<p>“Rest thee, my dear lord, I pray,<br /> + Rest thee on my bosom now!<br /> +And let me wipe the dews away,<br /> + Are gathering on thy brow.</p> +<p>“There, again! that fevered start!<br /> + What, love! husband! is thy pain?<br /> +There is a sorrow on thy heart,<br /> + A weight upon thy brain!</p> +<p>“Nay, nay, that sickly smile can ne’er<br /> + Deceive affection’s searching eye;<br /> +’Tis a wife’s duty, love, to share<br /> + Her husband’s agony.</p> +<p><!-- page 292--><a name="page292"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +292</span>“Since the dawn began to peep,<br /> + Have I lain with stifled breath;<br /> +Heard thee moaning in thy sleep,<br /> + As thou wert at grips with death.</p> +<p>“Oh, what joy it was to see<br /> + My gentle lord once more awake!<br /> +Tell me, what is amiss with thee?<br /> + Speak, or my heart will break!”</p> +<p>“Mary, thou angel of my life,<br /> + Thou ever good and kind;<br /> +’Tis not, believe me, my dear wife,<br /> + The anguish of the mind!</p> +<p>“It is not in my bosom, dear,<br /> + No, nor my brain, in sooth;<br /> +But Mary, oh, I feel it here,<br /> + Here in my wisdom tooth!</p> +<p>“Then give,—oh, first best antidote,—<br /> + Sweet partner of my bed!<br /> +Give me thy flannel petticoat<br /> + To wrap around my head!”</p> +<h3><!-- page 293--><a name="page293"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +293</span>The Invocation.</h3> +<p>“Brother, thou art very weary,<br /> + And thine eye is sunk and dim,<br /> +And thy neckcloth’s tie is crumpled,<br /> + And thy collar out of trim;<br /> +There is dust upon thy visage,—<br /> + Think not, Charles, I would hurt ye,<br /> +When I say, that altogether<br /> + You appear extremely dirty.</p> +<p>“Frown not, brother, now, but hie thee<br /> + To thy chamber’s distant room;<br /> +Drown the odours of the ledger<br /> + With the lavender’s perfume.<br /> +Brush the mud from off thy trousers,<br /> + O’er the china basin kneel,<br /> +Lave thy brows in water softened<br /> + With the soap of Old Castile.</p> +<p><!-- page 294--><a name="page294"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +294</span>“Smooth the locks that o’er thy forehead<br /> + Now in loose disorder stray;<br /> +Pare thy nails, and from thy whiskers<br /> + Cut those ragged points away;<br /> +Let no more thy calculations<br /> + Thy bewildered brain beset;<br /> +Life has other hopes than Cocker’s,<br /> + Other joys than tare and tret.</p> +<p>“Haste thee, for I ordered dinner,<br /> + Waiting to the very last,<br /> +Twenty minutes after seven,<br /> + And ’tis now the quarter past.<br /> +’Tis a dinner which Lucullus<br /> + Would have wept with joy to see,<br /> +One, might wake the soul of Curtis<br /> + From death’s drowsy atrophy.</p> +<p>“There is soup of real turtle,<br /> + Turbot, and the dainty sole;<br /> +And the mottled roe of lobsters<br /> + Blushes through the butter-bowl.<br /> +<!-- page 295--><a name="page295"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +295</span>There the lordly haunch of mutton,<br /> + Tender as the mountain grass,<br /> +Waits to mix its ruddy juices<br /> + With the girdling caper-sauce.</p> +<p>“There a stag, whose branching forehead<br /> + Spoke him monarch of the herds,<br /> +He whose flight was o’er the heather<br /> + Swift as through the air the bird’s,<br /> +Yields for thee a dish of cutlets;<br /> + And the haunch that wont to dash<br /> +O’er the roaring mountain-torrent,<br /> + Smokes in most delicious hash.</p> +<p>“There, besides, are amber jellies<br /> + Floating like a golden dream;<br /> +Ginger from the far Bermudas,<br /> + Dishes of Italian cream;<br /> +And a princely apple-dumpling,<br /> + Which my own fair fingers wrought,<br /> +Shall unfold its nectared treasures<br /> + To thy lips all smoking hot.</p> +<p><!-- page 296--><a name="page296"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +296</span>“Ha! I see thy brow is clearing,<br /> + Lustre flashes from thine eyes;<br /> +To thy lips I see the moisture<br /> + Of anticipation rise.<br /> +Hark! the dinner-bell is sounding!”<br /> + “Only wait one moment, Jane:<br /> +I’ll be dressed, and down, before you<br /> + Can get up the iced champagne!”</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><!-- page 297--><a name="page297"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 297</span> +<a href="images/p297.jpg"> +<img alt="Illustration" src="images/p297.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h3>The Husband’s Petition.</h3> +<p>Come hither, my heart’s darling,<br /> + Come, sit upon my knee,<br /> +And listen, while I whisper<br /> + A boon I ask of thee.<br /> +You need not pull my whiskers<br /> + So amorously, my dove;<br /> +’Tis something quite apart from<br /> + The gentle cares of love.</p> +<p><!-- page 298--><a name="page298"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +298</span>I feel a bitter craving—<br /> + A dark and deep desire,<br /> +That glows beneath my bosom<br /> + Like coals of kindled fire.<br /> +The passion of the nightingale,<br /> + When singing to the rose,<br /> +Is feebler than the agony<br /> + That murders my repose!</p> +<p>Nay, dearest! do not doubt me,<br /> + Though madly thus I speak—<br /> +I feel thy arms about me,<br /> + Thy tresses on my cheek:<br /> +I know the sweet devotion<br /> + That links thy heart with mine,—<br /> +I know my soul’s emotion<br /> + Is doubly felt by thine:</p> +<p>And deem not that a shadow<br /> + Hath fallen across my love:<br /> +No, sweet, my love is shadowless,<br /> + As yonder heaven above:<br /> +<!-- page 299--><a name="page299"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +299</span>These little taper fingers—<br /> + Ah, Jane! how white they be!—<br /> +Can well supply the cruel want<br /> + That almost maddens me.</p> +<p>Thou wilt not sure deny me<br /> + My first and fond request;<br /> +I pray thee, by the memory<br /> + Of all we cherish best—<br /> +By all the dear remembrance<br /> + Of those delicious days,<br /> +When, hand in hand, we wandered<br /> + Along the summer braes;</p> +<p>By all we felt, unspoken,<br /> + When ’neath the early moon,<br /> +We sat beside the rivulet,<br /> + In the leafy month of June;<br /> +And by the broken whisper<br /> + That fell upon my ear,<br /> +More sweet than angel music,<br /> + When first I wooed thee, dear!</p> +<p><!-- page 300--><a name="page300"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +300</span>By thy great vow which bound thee<br /> + For ever to my side,<br /> +And by the ring that made thee<br /> + My darling and my bride!<br /> +Thou wilt not fail nor falter,<br /> + But bend thee to the task—<br /> +<span class="smcap">A Boiled sheep’s-head on Sunday</span><br /> + Is all the boon I ask!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p300.jpg"> +<img alt="Illustration" src="images/p300.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><!-- page 301--><a name="page301"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 301</span> +<a href="images/p301.jpg"> +<img alt="Illustration" src="images/p301.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h3>Sonnet to Britain.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">by the d--- of w---</span></p> +<p>Halt! Shoulder arms! Recover! As you were!<br /> +Right wheel! Eyes left! Attention! Stand at ease!<br /> +O Britain! O my country! Words like these<br /> + Have made thy name a terror and a fear<br /> +To all the nations. Witness Ebro’s banks,<br /> + <!-- page 302--><a name="page302"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +302</span>Assaye, Toulouse, Nivelle, and Waterloo,<br /> + Where the grim despot muttered—<i>Sauve qui peut</i>!<br /> +And Ney fled darkling.—Silence in the ranks!<br /> +Inspired by these, amidst the iron crash<br /> + Of armies, in the centre of his troop<br /> +The soldier stands—unmoveable, not rash—<br /> + Until the forces of the foeman droop;<br /> +Then knocks the Frenchmen to eternal smash,<br /> + Pounding them into mummy. Shoulder, hoop!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">the end</span>.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">printed by william +blackwood and sons</span>.</p> +<h2>NOTES.</h2> +<p><a name="footnotevii"></a><a href="#citationvii" +class="footnote">[vii]</a> Prologue de premiere livre.</p> +<p><a name="footnoteix"></a><a href="#citationix" +class="footnote">[ix]</a> A fact. That such a subject for +cathedral chimes, and in Scotland, too, could ever have been chosen, will +scarcely be believed. But my astonished ears often heard it.</p> +<p><a name="footnote7"></a><a href="#citation7" +class="footnote">[7]</a> W. Gomersal, for many years a leading actor +and rider at Astley’s Amphitheatre.</p> +<p><a name="footnote8"></a><a href="#citation8" +class="footnote">[8]</a> John Esdaile Widdicomb, from 1819 to 1852 +riding-master and conductor of the ring at Astley’s Amphitheatre.</p> +<p><a name="footnote11"></a><a href="#citation11" +class="footnote">[11]</a> Stickney, a very dashing and graceful rider +at Astley’s.</p> +<p><a name="footnote12"></a><a href="#citation12" +class="footnote">[12]</a> A not uncommon tribute from the gallery at +Astley’s to the dash and daring of the heroes of the ring was +half-eaten oranges or fragments of orange-peel. Either oranges are +less in vogue, or manners are better in the galleries of theatres and +circuses in the present day.</p> +<p><a name="footnote18"></a><a href="#citation18" +class="footnote">[18]</a> The allusion here is to one of +Ducrow’s remarkable feats. Entering the ring with the reins in +his hands of five horses abreast, and standing on the back of the centre +horse, he worked them round the ring at high speed, changing now and then +with marvellous dexterity their relative positions, and with his feet +always on more than one of them, ending with a foot on each of the extreme +two, so that, as described, “the outer and the inner felt the +pressure of his toes.”</p> +<p><a name="footnote44"></a><a href="#citation44" +class="footnote">[44]</a> The value of these Bonds at the time this +poem was written was precisely nil.</p> +<p><a name="footnote49"></a><a href="#citation49" +class="footnote">[49]</a> A fact.</p> +<p><a name="footnote64"></a><a href="#citation64" +class="footnote">[64]</a> The Yankee substitute for the <i>chapeau de +soie</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote97"></a><a href="#citation97" +class="footnote">[97]</a> The Marquis of Waterford,</p> +<p><a name="footnote99"></a><a href="#citation99" +class="footnote">[99]</a> The fashionable abbreviation for a thousand +pounds.</p> +<p><a name="footnote117"></a><a href="#citation117" +class="footnote">[117]</a> The reference here and in a subsequent +verse is to a song very popular at the time:—</p> +<blockquote> +<p>“All round my hat I vears a green villow,<br /> +All round my hat for a twelvemonth and a day,<br /> +And if any van should arsk you the reason vy I vears it,<br /> +Say, all for my true love that’s far, far away.<br /> +’Twas agoin of my rounds on the streets I first did meet her,<br /> +’Twas agoin of my rounds that first she met my heye,<br /> +And I never heard a voice more louder nor more sweeter,<br /> +As she cried, ‘Who’ll buy my cabbages, my cabbages who’ll +buy?’”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>There were several more verses, and being set to a very taking air, it +was a reigning favourite with the “Social Chucksters” of the +day. Even scholars thought it worth turning into Latin verse. I +remember reading in some short-lived journal a very clever version of it, +the first verse of which ran thus—</p> +<blockquote> +<p>“Omne circa petusum sertum gero viridem<br /> +Per annum circa petasum et unum diem plus.<br /> +Si quis te rogaret, cur tale sertum gererem,<br /> +Dic, ‘Omne propter corculum qui est inpartibus.’”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Allusions to the willow, as an emblem of grief, are of a very old +date. “Sing all, a green willow must be my garland,” is +the refrain of the song which haunted Desdemona on the eve of her death +(Othello, act iv. sc. 3). That exquisite scene, and the beautiful air +to which some contemporary of Shakespeare wedded it, will make “The +Willow Song” immortal.</p> +<p><a name="footnote119a"></a><a href="#citation119a" +class="footnote">[119a]</a> <a name="footnote119b"></a><a +href="#citation119b" class="citation">[119b]</a> Madame Laffarge and +Daniel Good were the two most talked about criminals of the time when these +lines were written. Madame Laffarge was convicted of poisoning her +husband under extenuating circumstances, and was imprisoned for life, but +many believed in her protestations of innocence—this, of course, she +being a woman and unhappily married. Daniel Good died on the scaffold +on the 23rd of May 1842, protesting his innocence to the last, and +asserting that his victim, Jane Sparks, had killed herself, an assertion +which a judge and jury naturally could not reconcile with the fact that her +head, arms, and legs had been cut off and hidden with her body in a +stable. He, too, found people to maintain that his sentence was +unjust.</p> +<p><a name="footnote121"></a><a href="#citation121" +class="footnote">[121]</a> The two papers here glanced at were +‘The Age’ and ‘The Satirist,’ long since dead.</p> +<p><a name="footnote122a"></a><a href="#citation122a" +class="footnote">[122a]</a> The colonnaded portion of Regent Street, +immediately above the Regent Circus, was then called the Quadrant. +Being sheltered from the weather, it was a favourite promenade, but became +so favourite a resort of the “larking” population—male +and female—that the Colonnade was removed in the interests of social +order and decorum.</p> +<p><a name="footnote122b"></a><a href="#citation122b" +class="footnote">[122b]</a> The expression of contemptuous defiance, +signified by the application of the thumb of one hand to the nose, +spreading out the fingers, and attaching to the little finger the +stretched-out fingers of the other hand, and working them in a +circle. Among the graffiti in Pompeii are examples of the same subtle +symbolism.</p> +<p><a name="footnote122c"></a><a href="#citation122c" +class="footnote">[122c]</a> Well known to readers of +Thackeray’s ‘Newcomes’ as “The Cave of +Harmony.”</p> +<p><a name="footnote123"></a><a href="#citation123" +class="footnote">[123]</a> Sir Peter Laurie, Lord Mayor; afterwards +Alderman, and notable for his sagacity and severity as a magistrate in +dealing with evil-doers.</p> +<p><a name="footnote157"></a><a href="#citation157" +class="footnote">[157]</a> Sir James Graham was then, and had been +for some years, Secretary Of State under Sir Robert Peel.</p> +<p><a name="footnote160"></a><a href="#citation160" +class="footnote">[160]</a> Moxon was Tennyson’s publisher.</p> +<p><a name="footnote162"></a><a href="#citation162" +class="footnote">[162]</a> Edward Fitzball, besides being the +prolific author of the most sulphurous and sanguinary melodramas, flirted +also with the Muses. His triumph in this line was the ballad, +“My Jane, my Jane, my pretty Jane,” who was for many long years +implored in the delightful tenor notes of Sims Reeves “never to look +so shy, and to meet him, meet him in the evening when the bloom was on the +rye.” Fitzball, I have heard, was the meekest and least +bellicose of men, and this was probably the reason why he was dubbed by Bon +Gaultier “the terrible Fitzball.”</p> +<p><a name="footnote168"></a><a href="#citation168" +class="footnote">[168]</a> Two less poetically-disposed men than +Goulburn and Knatchbull could not well be imagined.</p> +<p><a name="footnote177"></a><a href="#citation177" +class="footnote">[177]</a> The most highly reputed oysters of the +day.</p> +<p><a name="footnote200"></a><a href="#citation200" +class="footnote">[200]</a> Lord John Russell’s vehement letter +on Papal Aggression in November 1850 to the Bishop of Durham, provoked by +the Papal Bull creating Catholic bishops in England, and the angry +controversy to which it led, were followed by the passing of the +Ecclesiastic Titles Bill in 1857. Aytoun was not alone in thinking +that Cardinal Wiseman, the first to act upon the mandate from Rome, was +more than a match for Lord John, and that the Bill would become a dead +letter, as it did. The controversy was at its hottest when Aytoun +expressed his view of the probable result of the conflict in the preceding +ballad.</p> +<p><a name="footnote269"></a><a href="#citation269" +class="footnote">[269]</a> This poem appeared in a review by Bon +Gaultier of an imaginary volume, ‘The Poets of the Day,’ and +was in ridicule of the numerous verses of the time, to which the use of +Turkish words was supposed to impart a poetical flavour. His +reviewer’s comment upon it was as follows:—</p> +<blockquote> +<p>“Had Byron been alive, or Moore not ceased to write, we should +have bidden them look to their laurels. ‘Nonsense,’ says +Dryden, ‘shall be eloquent in love,’ and here we find the axiom +aptly illustrated, for in this Eastern Serenade are comprised nonsense and +eloquence in perfection. But, apart from its erotic and poetical +merits, it is a great curiosity, as exhibiting in a very marked manner the +singular changes which the stride of civilisation and the bow-string of the +Sultan Mahmoud have made in the Turkish language and customs within a very +few years. Thus we learn from the writer that a ‘musnud,’ +which in Byron’s day was a sofa, now signifies a nightingale. A +‘tophaik,’ which once fired away in Moore’s octosyllabics +as a musket, is metamorphosed into a bank of flowers. +‘Zemzem,’ the sacred well, now makes shift as a chemise; while +the rallying-cry of ‘Allah-hu’ closes in a stanza as a military +cloak. Even ‘Gehenna,’ the place of torment, is mitigated +into a valley, rich in unctuous spices. But the most singular of all +these transmutations of the Turkish vocabulary is that of the word +‘Effendi,’ which used to be a respectful epithet applied to a +Christian gentleman, but is now the denomination of a dog. Most of +these changes are certainly highly poetical, and, while we admire their +ingenuity, we do not impugn their correctness. But with all respect +for the author, the Honourable Sinjin Muff, we think that, in one or two +instances, he has sacrificed propriety at the shrine of imagination. +We do not allude to such little incongruities as the waving of a minaret, +or the watching of a mosque. These may be accounted for; but +who—who, we ask with some earnestness, ever heard of cheroots growing +ready-made among the grass, or of a young lady keeping an appointment in a +scarf trimmed with mutton cutlets? We say nothing to the bold idea of +a dragoman, who snaps Eblis in twain, as a gardener might snap a frosted +carrot; but we will not give up our own interpretation of +‘kiebaubs,’ seeing that we dined upon them not two months ago +at the best chop-house in Constantinople.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BON GAULTIER BALLADS***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 20477-h.htm or 20477-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/0/4/7/20477 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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