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diff --git a/20477.txt b/20477.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..36f9c2a --- /dev/null +++ b/20477.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6332 @@ +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*** + + + + +This eBook transcribed by Les Bowler + + + + +THE BOOK OF BALLADS + + + EDITED BY + BON GAULTIER + + _WITH AN INTRODUCTION AND NOTES_ + + ILLUSTRATED BY + DOYLE, LEECH, AND CROWQUILL + + NEW EDITION + + WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS + EDINBURGH AND LONDON + MCMIV + + _All Rights reserved_ + + + + +PREFACE. + + +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 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. + +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 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 _nom de guerre_ 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, {vii} where he says of himself, +"A moy n'est que honneur et gloire d'estre diet et repute Bon Gaultier et +bon Compaignon; en ce nom, suis bien venue en toutes bonnes compaignees +de Pantagruelistes." + +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 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, + + "Nix my dolly, pals, fake away!" + +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 steeple of St Giles, the Edinburgh cathedral; {ix} 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-- + + "In a box of the stone jug I was born, + Of a hempen widow the kid forlorn; + My noble father, as I've heard say, + Was a famous marchant of capers gay;" + +ending with the inevitable and insufferable chorus, + + "Nix my dolly, pals, fake away!" + +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 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. + +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, 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. + +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 +_literae humaniores_ 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:-- + + "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 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. + + "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. . . . + + "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 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 '_dummy_-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!' + + "'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." + +In song and sonnet and ballad these views were illustrated and enforced. +They served 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 + + "Milton, thou shouldst be living at this hour," + +found its echo in + + "Turpin, thou shouldst be living at this hour, + England hath need of thee," &c. + +And his "Great men have been among us," &c., was perverted into + + "Great men have been among us,--Names that lend + A lustre to our calling; better none; + Maclaine, Duval, Dick Turpin, Barrington, + Blueskin and others, who called Sheppard friend. + . . . . + . . . Now, 'tis strange, + We never see such souls as we had then; + Perpetual larcenies and such small change! + No single cracksman paramount, no code, + No master spirit, that will take the road, + But equal dearth of pluck and highwaymen!" + +Nor did even Shelley's magnificent sonnet "Ozymandias" escape the profane +hand of the burglar poet. He wrote,-- + + "I met a cracksman coming down the Strand, + Who said, 'A huge Cathedral, piled of stone, + Stands in a churchyard, near St Martin's Le Grand, + Where keeps Saint Paul his sacerdotal throne. + A street runs by it to the northward. There + For cab and bus is writ 'No Thoroughfare,' + The Mayor and Councilmen do so command. + And in that street a shop, with many a box, + Upon whose sign these fateful words I scanned: + 'My name is Chubb, who makes the Patent Locks; + Look on my works, ye burglars, and despair!' + Here made he pause, like one that sees a blight + Mar all his hopes, and sighed with drooping air, + 'Our game is up, my covies, blow me tight!'" + +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,-- + + "She wore a rouge like roses the night that first we met; + Her lovely mug was smiling o'er mugs of heavy wet; + Her red lips had the fulness, her voice the husky tone, + That told her drink was of a kind where water was unknown." + +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,-- + + "I saw her but a moment, but methinks I see her now, + As she dropped the judge a curtsey, and he made her a bow." + +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." + +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. 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." + +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 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:-- + + "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." + +The reviewer then quotes the poem down to the general commination, ending +with + + "Cursed be the clerk and parson,--cursed be the whole concern!" + +He then resumes his commentary:-- + + "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." + +The remainder of the poem is then given, ending with, + + "Rest thee with thy yellow nabob, spider-hearted Cousin Amy!" + +and the critic resumes:-- + + "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 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 _in puris_ + 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." + +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 was a good thing that "spider-hearted" Amy threw +him over as she did. + +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 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 "nugae +literariae" 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. + +For Aytoun the extravagances of melodrama 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:-- + + "We delight to see, at never-failing Astley's, the revived glories of + British prowess--Wellington in the midst of his staff, smiling + benignantly on the facetious pleasantries of a Fitzroy + Somerset--Sergeant M'Craw of the Forty-Second delighting the _elite_ + 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 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." + +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! + +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 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. + +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 '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. + + "Multis ille bonis flebilis occidit, + Nulli flebilior quam mihi!" + +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. + + THEODORE MARTIN. + +31 ONSLOW SQUARE, + _October_ 1903. + + + + +LIST OF EDITIONS +OF THE +BON GAULTIER BALLADS. +Edition. +1 1845 16mo Illustrated by + ALFRED CROWQUILL. +2 1849 sm. 4to Illustrated by + ALFRED CROWQUILL and + RICHARD DOYLE. With + Portrait of "Bon + Gaultier," + Illuminated + Title-page, and + Ornamental Borders. +3 [1849] " Illustrated by + ALFRED CROWQUILL, + RICHARD DOYLE, and + JOHN LEECH. First + edition with Corner + Cartoons. +4 [1855] " Illustrated by the + SAME. Second + Edition with Corner + Cartoons. +5 1857 " The editions 5 to 17 + were illustrated by + DOYLE, LEECH, and + CROWQUILL. +6 1859 " +7 1861 " +8 1864 " +9 1866 " The 16th and 17th + Editions being the + Third and Fourth + with Corner + Cartoons. +10 1868 " +11 1870 " +12 1874 " +13 1877 " +14 1884 crown 8vo +15 1889 " +16 1903 sm. 4to +17 1904 " + + +CONTENTS. + Page +PREFACE, v +L'ENVOY, xxxiii + _Spanish Ballads_ +THE BROKEN PITCHER, 3 +DON FERNANDO GOMERSALEZ: FROM THE SPANISH OF ASTLEY'S, 7 +THE COURTSHIP OF OUR CID, 24 + _American Ballads_ +THE FIGHT WITH THE SNAPPING TURTLE; OR, THE AMERICAN ST +GEORGE:-- + FYTTE FIRST, 35 + FYTTE SECOND, 39 +THE LAY OF MR COLT: + STREAK THE FIRST, 45 + STREAK THE SECOND, 47 +THE DEATH OF JABEZ DOLLAR, 53 +THE ALABAMA DUEL, 59 +THE AMERICAN'S APOSTROPHE TO "BOZ", 66 + _Miscellaneous Ballads_ +THE STUDENT OF JENA, 75 +THE LAY OF THE LEVITE, 80 +BURSCH GROGGENBURG, 82 +NIGHT AND MORNING, 87 +THE BITER BIT, 89 +THE CONVICT AND THE AUSTRALIAN LADY, 92 +THE DOLEFUL LAY OF THE HONOURABLE I. O. UWINS, 96 +THE KNYGHTE AND THE TAYLZEOUR'S DAUGHTER, 103 +THE MIDNIGHT VISIT, 110 +THE LAY OF THE LOVELORN, 116 +MY WIFE'S COUSIN, 130 +THE QUEEN IN FRANCE: AN ANCIENT SCOTTISH BALLAD: + PART I., 135 + PART II., 143 +THE MASSACRE OF THE MACPHERSON: FROM THE GAELIC, 150 +THE LAUREATES' TOURNEY:-- + FYTTE THE FIRST, 156 + FYTTE THE SECOND, 161 +THE ROYAL BANQUET, 166 +THE BARD OF ERIN'S LAMENT, 171 +THE LAUREATE, 173 +A MIDNIGHT MEDITATION, 177 +MONTGOMERY: A POEM, 182 +LITTLE JOHN AND THE RED FRIAR: A LAY OF SHERWOOD:-- + FYTTE THE FIRST, 186 + FYTTE THE SECOND, 192 +THE RHYME OF SIR LAUNCELOT BOGLE : A LEGEND OF GLASGOW, 201 + _Illustrations of the Puff Poetical_ +THE DEATH OF ISHMAEL, 221 +PARR'S LIFE PILLS, 223 +TARQUIN AND THE AUGUR, 226 +LA MORT D'ARTHUR, 228 +JUPITER AND THE INDIAN ALE, 229 +THE LAY OF THE DOUDNEY BROTHERS, 232 +PARIS AND HELEN, 235 +A WARNING, 238 +TO PERSONS ABOUT TO MARRY, 239 +WANT PLACES, 241 + _Miscellaneous Poems_ +THE LAY OF THE LOVER'S FRIEND, 245 +FRANCESCA DA RIMINI, 249 +THE CADI'S DAUGHTER: A LEGEND OF THE BOSPHORUS, 253 +THE DIRGE OF THE DRINKER, 258 +THE DEATH OF DUVAL, 261 +EASTERN SERENADE, 267 +DAME FREDEGONDE, 271 +SONG OF THE ENNUYE, 276 +THE DEATH OF SPACE, 279 +CAROLINE, 281 +TO A FORGET-ME-NOT, 284 +THE MEETING, 286 +THE MISHAP, 288 +COMFORT IN AFFLICTION, 291 +THE INVOCATION, 293 +THE HUSBAND'S PETITION, 297 +SONNET TO BRITAIN, 301 + + + + +L'ENVOY. + + +Come, buy my lays, and read them if you list; +My pensive public, if you list not, buy. +Come, for you know me. I am he who sang +Of Mister Colt, and I am he who framed +Of Widdicomb the wild and wondrous song. +Come, listen to my lays, and you shall hear +How Wordsworth, battling for the Laureate's wreath, +Bore to the dust the terrible Fitzball; +How N. P. Willis for his country's good, +In complete steel, all bowie-knived at point, +Took lodgings in the Snapping Turtle's womb. +Come, listen to my lays, and you shall hear +The mingled music of all modern bards +Floating aloft in such peculiar strains, +As strike themselves with envy and amaze; +For you "bright-harped" Tennyson shall sing; +Macaulay chant a more than Roman lay; +And Bulwer Lytton, Lytton Bulwer erst, +Unseen amidst a metaphysic fog, +Howl melancholy homage to the moon; +For you once more Montgomery shall rave +In all his rapt rabidity of rhyme; +Nankeened Cockaigne shall pipe his puny note, +And our young England's penny trumpet blow. + + + + +SPANISH BALLADS + + + + +The Broken Pitcher. + + +It was a Moorish maiden was sitting by a well, +And what the maiden thought of, I cannot, cannot tell, +When by there rode a valiant knight from the town of Oviedo-- +Alphonzo Guzman was he hight, the Count of Tololedo. + +"Oh, maiden, Moorish maiden, why sit'st thou by the spring? +Say, dost thou seek a lover, or any other thing? +Why dost thou look upon me, with eyes so dark and wide, +And wherefore doth the pitcher lie broken by thy side?" + +"I do not seek a lover, thou Christian knight so gay, +Because an article like that hath never come my way; +And why I gaze upon you, I cannot, cannot tell, +Except that in your iron hose you look uncommon swell. + +"My pitcher it is broken, and this the reason is,-- +A shepherd came behind me, and tried to snatch a kiss; +I would not stand his nonsense, so ne'er a word I spoke, +But scored him on the costard, and so the jug was broke. + +"My uncle, the Alcayde, he waits for me at home, +And will not take his tumbler until Zorayda come: +I cannot bring him water--the pitcher is in pieces-- +And so I'm sure to catch it, 'cos he wallops all his nieces." + +"Oh, maiden, Moorish maiden! wilt thou be ruled by me? +Then wipe thine eyes and rosy lips, and give me kisses three; +And I'll give thee my helmet, thou kind and courteous lady, +To carry home the water to thy uncle, the Alcayde." + +He lighted down from off his steed--he tied him to a tree-- +He bent him to the maiden, and he took his kisses three; +"To wrong thee, sweet Zorayda, I swear would be a sin!" +And he knelt him at the fountain, and he dipped his helmet in. + +Up rose the Moorish maiden--behind the knight she steals, +And caught Alphonzo Guzman in a twinkling by the heels: +She tipped him in, and held him down beneath the bubbling water,-- +"Now, take thou that for venturing to kiss Al Hamet's daughter!" + +A Christian maid is weeping in the town of Oviedo; +She waits the coming of her love, the Count of Tololedo. +I pray you all in charity, that you will never tell, +How he met the Moorish maiden beside the lonely well. + + + +Don Fernando Gomersalez. +_From the Spanish of Astley's_. + + +Don Fernando Gomersalez! {7} basely have they borne thee down; +Paces ten behind thy charger is thy glorious body thrown; +Fetters have they bound upon thee--iron fetters, fast and sure; +Don Fernando Gomersalez, thou art captive to the Moor! + +Long within a dingy dungeon pined that brave and noble knight, +For the Saracenic warriors well they knew and feared his might; +Long he lay and long he languished on his dripping bed of stone, +Till the cankered iron fetters ate their way into his bone. + +On the twentieth day of August--'twas the feast of false Mahound-- +Came the Moorish population from the neighbouring cities round; +There to hold their foul carousal, there to dance and there to sing, +And to pay their yearly homage to Al-Widdicomb, {8} the King! + +First they wheeled their supple coursers, wheeled them at their utmost +speed, +Then they galloped by in squadrons, tossing far the light jereed; +Then around the circus racing, faster than the swallow flies, +Did they spurn the yellow sawdust in the rapt spectators' eyes. + +Proudly did the Moorish monarch every passing warrior greet, +As he sate enthroned above them, with the lamps beneath his feet; +"Tell me, thou black-bearded Cadi! are there any in the land, +That against my janissaries dare one hour in combat stand?" + +Then the bearded Cadi answered--"Be not wroth, my lord the King, +If thy faithful slave shall venture to observe one little thing; +Valiant, doubtless, are thy warriors, and their beards are long and +hairy, +And a thunderbolt in battle is each bristly janissary: + +"But I cannot, O my sovereign, quite forget that fearful day, +When I saw the Christian army in its terrible array; +When they charged across the footlights like a torrent down its bed, +With the red cross floating o'er them, and Fernando at their head! + +"Don Fernando Gomersalez! matchless chieftain he in war, +Mightier than Don Sticknejo, {11} braver than the Cid Bivar! +Not a cheek within Grenada, O my king, but wan and pale is, +When they hear the dreaded name of Don Fernando Gomersalez!" + +"Thou shalt see thy champion, Cadi! hither quick the captive bring!" +Thus in wrath and deadly anger spoke Al-Widdicomb, the King: +"Paler than a maiden's forehead is the Christian's hue, I ween, +Since a year within the dungeons of Grenada he hath been!" + +Then they brought the Gomersalez, and they led the warrior in; +Weak and wasted seemed his body, and his face was pale and thin; +But the ancient fire was burning, unsubdued, within his eye, +And his step was proud and stately, and his look was stern and high. + +Scarcely from tumultuous cheering could the galleried crowd refrain, +For they knew Don Gomersalez and his prowess in the plain; +But they feared the grizzly despot and his myrmidons in steel, +So their sympathy descended in the fruitage of Seville. {12} + +"Wherefore, monarch, hast thou brought me from the dungeon dark and +drear, +Where these limbs of mine have wasted in confinement for a year? +Dost thou lead me forth to torture?--Rack and pincers I defy! +Is it that thy base grotesquos may behold a hero die?" + +"Hold thy peace, thou Christian caitiff, and attend to what I say! +Thou art called the starkest rider of the Spanish cur's array +If thy courage be undaunted, as they say it was of yore, +Thou mayst yet achieve thy freedom,--yet regain thy native shore. + +"Courses three within this circus 'gainst my warriors shalt thou run, +Ere yon weltering pasteboard ocean shall receive yon muslin sun; +Victor--thou shalt have thy freedom; but if stretched upon the plain, +To thy dark and dreary dungeon they shall hale thee back again." + +"Give me but the armour, monarch, I have worn in many a field, +Give me but my trusty helmet, give me but my dinted shield; +And my old steed, Bavieca, swiftest courser in the ring, +And I rather should imagine that I'll do the business, King!" + +Then they carried down the armour from the garret where it lay, +Oh! but it was red and rusty, and the plumes were shorn away: +And they led out Bavieca from a foul and filthy van, +For the conqueror had sold him to a Moorish dog's-meat man. + +When the steed beheld his master, loud he whinnied loud and free, +And, in token of subjection, knelt upon each broken knee; +And a tear of walnut largeness to the warrior's eyelids rose, +As he fondly picked a bean-straw from his coughing courser's nose. + +"Many a time, O Bavieca, hast thou borne me through the fray! +Bear me but again as deftly through the listed ring this day; +Or if thou art worn and feeble, as may well have come to pass, +Time it is, my trusty charger, both of us were sent to grass!" + +Then he seized his lance, and, vaulting, in the saddle sate upright; +Marble seemed the noble courser, iron seemed the mailed knight; +And a cry of admiration burst from every Moorish lady. +"Five to four on Don Fernando!" cried the sable-bearded Cadi. + +Warriors three from Alcantara burst into the listed space, +Warriors three, all bred in battle, of the proud Alhambra race: +Trumpets sounded, coursers bounded, and the foremost straight went down, +Tumbling, like a sack of turnips, right before the jeering Clown. + +In the second chieftain galloped, and he bowed him to the King, +And his saddle-girths were tightened by the Master of the Ring; +Through three blazing hoops he bounded ere the desperate fight began-- +Don Fernando! bear thee bravely!--'tis the Moor Abdorrhaman! + +Like a double streak of lightning, clashing in the sulphurous sky, +Met the pair of hostile heroes, and they made the sawdust fly; +And the Moslem spear so stiffly smote on Don Fernando's mail, +That he reeled, as if in liquor, back to Bavieca's tail: + +But he caught the mace beside him, and he gripped it hard and fast, +And he swung it starkly upwards as the foeman bounded past; +And the deadly stroke descended through the skull and through the brain, +As ye may have seen a poker cleave a cocoa-nut in twain. + +Sore astonished was the monarch, and the Moorish warriors all, +Save the third bold chief, who tarried and beheld his brethren fall; +And the Clown, in haste arising from the footstool where he sat, +Notified the first appearance of the famous Acrobat; + +Never on a single charger rides that stout and stalwart Moor,-- +Five beneath his stride so stately bear him o'er the trembling floor; +Five Arabians, black as midnight--on their necks the rein he throws, +And the outer and the inner feel the pressure of his toes. {18} + +Never wore that chieftain armour; in a knot himself he ties, +With his grizzly head appearing in the centre of his thighs, +Till the petrified spectator asks, in paralysed alarm, +Where may be the warrior's body,--which is leg, and which is arm? + +"Sound the charge!" The coursers started; with a yell and furious vault, +High in air the Moorish champion cut a wondrous somersault; +O'er the head of Don Fernando like a tennis-ball he sprung, +Caught him tightly by the girdle, and behind the crupper hung. + +Then his dagger Don Fernando plucked from out its jewelled sheath, +And he struck the Moor so fiercely, as he grappled him beneath, +That the good Damascus weapon sank within the folds of fat, +And as dead as Julius Caesar dropped the Gordian Acrobat. + +Meanwhile fast the sun was sinking--it had sunk beneath the sea, +Ere Fernando Gomersalez smote the latter of the three; +And Al-Widdicomb, the monarch, pointed, with a bitter smile, +To the deeply-darkening canvas;--blacker grew it all the while. + +"Thou hast slain my warriors, Spaniard! but thou hast not kept thy time; +Only two had sunk before thee ere I heard the curfew chime; +Back thou goest to thy dungeon, and thou may'st be wondrous glad, +That thy head is on thy shoulders for thy work to-day, my lad! + +"Therefore all thy boasted valour, Christian dog, of no avail is!" +Dark as midnight grew the brow of Don Fernando Gomersalez:-- +Stiffly sate he in his saddle, grimly looked around the ring, +Laid his lance within the rest, and shook his gauntlet at the King. + +"Oh, thou foul and faithless traitor! wouldst thou play me false again? +Welcome death and welcome torture, rather than the captive's chain! +But I give thee warning, caitiff! Look thou sharply to thine eye-- +Unavenged, at least in harness, Gomersalez shall not die!" + +Thus he spoke, and Bavieca like an arrow forward flew, +Right and left the Moorish squadron wheeled to let the hero through; +Brightly gleamed the lance of vengeance--fiercely sped the fatal thrust-- +From his throne the Moorish monarch tumbled lifeless in the dust. + +Speed thee, speed thee, Bavieca! speed thee faster than the wind! +Life and freedom are before thee, deadly foes give chase behind! +Speed thee up the sloping spring-board; o'er the bridge that spans the +seas; +Yonder gauzy moon will light thee through the grove of canvas trees. + +Close before thee Pampeluna spreads her painted pasteboard gate! +Speed thee onward, gallant courser, speed thee with thy knightly freight! +Victory! The town receives them!--Gentle ladies, this the tale is, +Which I learned in Astley's Circus, of Fernando Gomersalez. + + +The Courtship of our Cid. + + +What a pang of sweet emotion + Thrilled the Master of the Ring, +When he first beheld the lady + Through the stable portal spring! +Midway in his wild grimacing + Stopped the piebald-visaged Clown; +And the thunders of the audience + Nearly brought the gallery down. + +Donna Inez Woolfordinez! + Saw ye ever such a maid, +With the feathers swaling o'er her, + And her spangled rich brocade? +In her fairy hand a horsewhip, + On her foot a buskin small, +So she stepped, the stately damsel, + Through the scarlet grooms and all. + +And she beckoned for her courser, + And they brought a milk-white mare; +Proud, I ween, was that Arabian + Such a gentle freight to bear: +And the master moved to greet her, + With a proud and stately walk; +And, in reverential homage, + Rubbed her soles with virgin chalk. + +Round she flew, as Flora flying + Spans the circle of the year; +And the youth of London, sighing, + Half forgot the ginger-beer-- +Quite forgot the maids beside them; + As they surely well might do, +When she raised two Roman candles, + Shooting fireballs red and blue! + +Swifter than the Tartar's arrow, + Lighter than the lark in flight, +On the left foot now she bounded, + Now she stood upon the right. +Like a beautiful Bacchante, + Here she soars, and there she kneels, +While amid her floating tresses + Flash two whirling Catherine wheels! + +Hark! the blare of yonder trumpet! + See, the gates are opened wide! +Room, there, room for Gomersalez,-- + Gomersalez in his pride! +Rose the shouts of exultation, + Rose the cat's triumphant call, +As he bounded, man and courser, + Over Master, Clown, and all! + +Donna Inez Woolfordinez! + Why those blushes on thy cheek? +Doth thy trembling bosom tell thee, + He hath come thy love to seek! +Fleet thy Arab, but behind thee + He is rushing like a gale; +One foot on his coal-black's shoulders, + And the other on his tail! + +Onward, onward, panting maiden! + He is faint, and fails, for now +By the feet he hangs suspended + From his glistening saddle-bow. +Down are gone both cap and feather, + Lance and gonfalon are down! +Trunks, and cloak, and vest of velvet, + He has flung them to the Clown. + +Faint and failing! Up he vaulteth, + Fresh as when he first began; +All in coat of bright vermilion, + 'Quipped as Shaw, the Lifeguardsman; +Right and left his whizzing broadsword, + Like a sturdy flail, he throws; +Cutting out a path unto thee + Through imaginary foes. + +Woolfordinez! speed thee onward! + He is hard upon thy track,-- +Paralysed is Widdicombez, + Nor his whip can longer crack; +He has flung away his broadsword, + 'Tis to clasp thee to his breast. +Onward!--see, he bares his bosom, + Tears away his scarlet vest; + +Leaps from out his nether garments, + And his leathern stock unties-- +As the flower of London's dustmen, + Now in swift pursuit he flies. +Nimbly now he cuts and shuffles, + O'er the buckle, heel and toe! +Flaps his hands in his side-pockets, + Winks to all the throng below! + +Onward, onward rush the coursers; + Woolfordinez, peerless girl, +O'er the garters lightly bounding + From her steed with airy whirl! +Gomersalez, wild with passion, + Danger--all but her--forgets; +Wheresoe'er she flies, pursues her, + Casting clouds of somersets! + +Onward, onward rush the coursers; + Bright is Gomersalez' eye; +Saints protect thee, Woolfordinez, + For his triumph sure is nigh! +Now his courser's flanks he lashes, + O'er his shoulder flings the rein, +And his feet aloft he tosses, + Holding stoutly by the mane! + +Then, his feet once more regaining, + Doffs his jacket, doffs his smalls, +And in graceful folds around him + A bespangled tunic falls. +Pinions from his heels are bursting, + His bright locks have pinions o'er them; +And the public see with rapture + Maia's nimble son before them. + +Speed thee, speed thee, Woolfordinez! + For a panting god pursues; +And the chalk is very nearly + Rubbed from thy white satin shoes; +Every bosom throbs with terror, + You might hear a pin to drop; +All is hushed, save where a starting + Cork gives out a casual pop. + +One smart lash across his courser, + One tremendous bound and stride, +And our noble Cid was standing + By his Woolfordinez' side! +With a god's embrace he clasps her, + Raised her in his manly arms; +And the stables' closing barriers + Hid his valour, and her charms! + + + + +AMERICAN BALLADS + + + +The Fight with the Snapping Turtle; +_or_, +_The American St George_. + + +FYTTE FIRST. + + +Have you heard of Philip Slingsby, + Slingsby of the manly chest; +How he slew the Snapping Turtle + In the regions of the West? + +Every day the huge Cawana + Lifted up its monstrous jaws; +And it swallowed Langton Bennett, + And digested Rufus Dawes. + +Riled, I ween, was Philip Slingsby, + Their untimely deaths to hear; +For one author owed him money, + And the other loved him dear. + +"Listen now, sagacious Tyler, + Whom the loafers all obey; +What reward will Congress give me, + If I take this pest away?" + +Then sagacious Tyler answered, + "You're the ring-tailed squealer! Less +Than a hundred heavy dollars + Won't be offered you, I guess! + +"And a lot of wooden nutmegs + In the bargain, too, we'll throw-- +Only you just fix the critter. + Won't you liquor ere you go?" + +Straightway leaped the valiant Slingsby + Into armour of Seville, +With a strong Arkansas toothpick + Screwed in every joint of steel. + +"Come thou with me, Cullen Bryant, + Come with me, as squire, I pray; +Be the Homer of the battle + Which I go to wage to-day." + +So they went along careering + With a loud and martial tramp, +Till they neared the Snapping Turtle + In the dreary Swindle Swamp. + +But when Slingsby saw the water, + Somewhat pale, I ween, was he. +"If I come not back, dear Bryant, + Tell the tale to Melanie! + +"Tell her that I died devoted, + Victim to a noble task! +Han't you got a drop of brandy + In the bottom of your flask?" + +As he spoke, an alligator + Swam across the sullen creek; +And the two Columbians started, + When they heard the monster shriek; + +For a snout of huge dimensions + Rose above the waters high, +And took down the alligator, + As a trout takes down a fly. + +"'Tarnal death! the Snapping Turtle!" + Thus the squire in terror cried; +But the noble Slingsby straightway + Drew the toothpick from his side. + +"Fare thee well!" he cried, and dashing + Through the waters, strongly swam: +Meanwhile, Cullen Bryant, watching, + Breathed a prayer and sucked a dram. + +Sudden from the slimy bottom + Was the snout again upreared, +With a snap as loud as thunder,-- + And the Slingsby disappeared. + +Like a mighty steam-ship foundering, + Down the monstrous vision sank; +And the ripple, slowly rolling, + Plashed and played upon the bank. + +Still and stiller grew the water, + Hushed the canes within the brake; +There was but a kind of coughing + At the bottom of the lake. + +Bryant wept as loud and deeply + As a father for a son-- +"He's a finished 'coon, is Slingsby, + And the brandy's nearly done!" + + +FYTTE SECOND. + + +In a trance of sickening anguish, + Cold and stiff, and sore and damp, +For two days did Bryant linger + By the dreary Swindle Swamp; + +Always peering at the water, + Always waiting for the hour +When those monstrous jaws should open + As he saw them ope before. + +Still in vain;--the alligators + Scrambled through the marshy brake, +And the vampire leeches gaily + Sucked the garfish in the lake. + +But the Snapping Turtle never + Rose for food or rose for rest, +Since he lodged the steel deposit + In the bottom of his chest. + +Only always from the bottom + Sounds of frequent coughing rolled, +Just as if the huge Cawana + Had a most confounded cold. + +On the banks lay Cullen Bryant, + As the second moon arose, +Gouging on the sloping greensward + Some imaginary foes; + +When the swamp began to tremble, + And the canes to rustle fast, +As though some stupendous body + Through their roots were crushing past. + +And the waters boiled and bubbled, + And, in groups of twos and threes, +Several alligators bounded, + Smart as squirrels, up the trees. + +Then a hideous head was lifted, + With such huge distended jaws, +That they might have held Goliath + Quite as well as Rufus Dawes. + +Paws of elephantine thickness + Dragged its body from the bay, +And it glared at Cullen Bryant + In a most unpleasant way. + +Then it writhed as if in torture, + And it staggered to and fro; +And its very shell was shaken + In the anguish of its throe: + +And its cough grew loud and louder, + And its sob more husky thick! +For, indeed, it was apparent + That the beast was very sick. + +Till, at last, a spasmy vomit + Shook its carcass through and through, +And as if from out a cannon, + All in armour Slingsby flew. + +Bent and bloody was the bowie + Which he held within his grasp; +And he seemed so much exhausted + That he scarce had strength to gasp-- + +"Gouge him, Bryant! darn ye, gouge him! + Gouge him while he's on the shore!" +Bryant's thumbs were straightway buried + Where no thumbs had pierced before. + +Right from out their bony sockets + Did he scoop the monstrous balls; +And, with one convulsive shudder, + Dead the Snapping Turtle falls! + + * * * * * + +"Post the tin, sagacious Tyler!" + But the old experienced file, +Leering first at Clay and Webster, + Answered, with a quiet smile-- + +"Since you dragged the 'tarnal crittur + From the bottom of the ponds, +Here's the hundred dollars due you, + _All in Pennsylvanian Bonds_!" {44} + + + +The Lay of Mr Colt. + + +[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 "_entitled to the sympathy_ of a +jury of his country," as "a young man just entering into life, _whose +prospects, probably, have been permanently blasted_." Colt was found +guilty; but a variety of exceptions were taken to the charge by the +judge, and after a long series of appeals, which _occupied more than a +year from the date of conviction_, the sentence of death was ratified by +Governor Seward. The rest of Colt's story is told in our ballad.] + + + +STREAK THE FIRST. + + + * * * * + +And now the sacred rite was done, and the marriage-knot was tied, +And Colt withdrew his blushing wife a little way aside; +"Let's go," he said, "into my cell; let's go alone, my dear; +I fain would shelter that sweet face from the sheriff's odious leer. +The jailer and the hangman, they are waiting both for me,-- +I cannot bear to see them wink so knowingly at thee! +Oh, how I loved thee, dearest! They say that I am wild, +That a mother dares not trust me with the weasand of her child; +They say my bowie-knife is keen to sliver into halves +The carcass of my enemy, as butchers slay their calves. +They say that I am stern of mood, because, like salted beef, +I packed my quartered foeman up, and marked him 'prime tariff;' +Because I thought to palm him on the simple-souled John Bull, +And clear a small percentage on the sale at Liverpool; +It may be so, I do not know--these things, perhaps, may be; +But surely I have always been a gentleman to thee! +Then come, my love, into my cell, short bridal space is ours,-- +Nay, sheriff, never con thy watch--I guess there's good two hours. +We'll shut the prison doors and keep the gaping world at bay, +For love is long as 'tarnity, though I must die to-day!" + + +STREAK THE SECOND. + + +The clock is ticking onward, + It nears the hour of doom, +And no one yet hath entered + Into that ghastly room. +The jailer and the sheriff, + They are walking to and fro: +And the hangman sits upon the steps, + And smokes his pipe below. +In grisly expectation + The prison all is bound, +And, save expectoration, + You cannot hear a sound. + +The turnkey stands and ponders;-- + His hand upon the bolt,-- +"In twenty minutes more, I guess, + 'Twill all be up with Colt!" +But see, the door is opened! + Forth comes the weeping bride; +The courteous sheriff lifts his hat, + And saunters to her side,-- +"I beg your pardon, Mrs C., + But is your husband ready?" +"I guess you'd better ask himself," + Replied the woeful lady. + +The clock is ticking onward, + The minutes almost run, +The hangman's pipe is nearly out, + 'Tis on the stroke of one. +At every grated window, + Unshaven faces glare; +There's Puke, the judge of Tennessee, + And Lynch, of Delaware; +And Batter, with the long black beard, + Whom Hartford's maids know well; + +And Winkinson, from Fish Kill Reach, + The pride of New Rochelle; +Elkanah Nutts, from Tarry Town, + The gallant gouging boy; +And 'coon-faced Bushwhack, from the hills + That frown o'er modern Troy; +Young Julep, whom our Willis loves, + Because, 'tis said, that he +One morning from a bookstall filched + The tale of "Melanie;" +And Skunk, who fought his country's fight + Beneath the stripes and stars,-- +All thronging at the windows stood, + And gazed between the bars. +The little boys that stood behind + (Young thievish imps were they!) +Displayed considerable _nous_ + On that eventful day; +For bits of broken looking-glass + They held aslant on high, +And there a mirrored gallows-tree + Met their delighted eye. {49} +The clock is ticking onward; + Hark! hark! it striketh one! +Each felon draws a whistling breath, + "Time's up with Colt! he's done!" + +The sheriff cons his watch again, + Then puts it in his fob, +And turning to the hangman, says-- + "Get ready for the job." +The jailer knocketh loudly, + The turnkey draws the bolt, +And pleasantly the sheriff says, + "We're waiting, Mister Colt!" + +No answer! no! no answer! + All's still as death within; +The sheriff eyes the jailer, + The jailer strokes his chin. +"I shouldn't wonder, Nahum, if + It were as you suppose." +The hangman looked unhappy, and + The turnkey blew his nose. + +They entered. On his pallet + The noble convict lay,-- +The bridegroom on his marriage-bed + But not in trim array. +His red right hand a razor held, + Fresh sharpened from the hone, +And his ivory neck was severed, + And gashed into the bone. + +* * * * + +And when the lamp is lighted + In the long November days, +And lads and lasses mingle + At the shucking of the maize; +When pies of smoking pumpkin + Upon the table stand, +And bowls of black molasses + Go round from hand to hand; +When slap-jacks, maple-sugared, + Are hissing in the pan, +And cider, with a dash of gin, + Foams in the social can; + +When the goodman wets his whistle, + And the goodwife scolds the child; +And the girls exclaim convulsively, + "Have done, or I'll be riled!" +When the loafer sitting next them + Attempts a sly caress, +And whispers, "Oh, you 'possum, + You've fixed my heart, I guess!" +With laughter and with weeping, + Then shall they tell the tale, +How Colt his foeman quartered, + And died within the jail. + + + +The Death of Jabez Dollar. + + +[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!] + +The Congress met, the day was wet, Van Buren took the chair; +On either side, the statesman pride of far Kentuck was there. +With moody frown, there sat Calhoun, and slowly in his cheek +His quid he thrust, and slaked the dust, as Webster rose to speak. + +Upon that day, near gifted Clay, a youthful member sat, +And like a free American upon the floor he spat; +Then turning round to Clay, he said, and wiped his manly chin, +"What kind of Locofoco's that, as wears the painter's skin?" + +"Young man," quoth Clay, "avoid the way of Slick of Tennessee; +Of gougers fierce, the eyes that pierce, the fiercest gouger he; +He chews and spits, as there he sits, and whittles at the chairs, +And in his hand, for deadly strife, a bowie-knife he bears. + +"Avoid that knife. In frequent strife its blade, so long and thin, +Has found itself a resting-place his rivals' ribs within." +But coward fear came never near young Jabez Dollar's heart,-- +"Were he an alligator, I would rile him pretty smart!" + +Then up he rose, and cleared his nose, and looked toward the chair; +He saw the stately stripes and stars,--our country's flag was there! +His heart beat high, with eldritch cry upon the floor he sprang, +Then raised his wrist, and shook his fist, and spoke his first harangue. + +"Who sold the nutmegs made of wood--the clocks that wouldn't figure? +Who grinned the bark off gum-trees dark--the everlasting nigger? +For twenty cents, ye Congress gents, through 'tarnity I'll kick +That man, I guess, though nothing less than 'coonfaced Colonel Slick!" + +The Colonel smiled--with frenzy wild,--his very beard waxed blue,-- +His shirt it could not hold him, so wrathy riled he grew; +He foams and frets, his knife he whets upon his seat below-- +He sharpens it on either side, and whittles at his toe. + +"Oh! waken snakes, and walk your chalks!" he cried, with ire elate; +"Darn my old mother, but I will in wild cats whip my weight! +Oh! 'tarnal death, I'll spoil your breath, young Dollar, and your +chaffing,-- +Look to your ribs, for here is that will tickle them without laughing!" + +His knife he raised--with fury crazed, he sprang across the hall; +He cut a caper in the air--he stood before them all: +He never stopped to look or think if he the deed should do, +But spinning sent the President, and on young Dollar flew. + +They met--they closed--they sank--they rose,--in vain young Dollar +strove-- +For, like a streak of lightning greased, the infuriate Colonel drove +His bowie-blade deep in his side, and to the ground they rolled, +And, drenched in gore, wheeled o'er and o'er, locked in each other's +hold. + +With fury dumb--with nail and thumb--they struggled and they thrust, +The blood ran red from Dollar's side, like rain, upon the dust; +He nerved his might for one last spring, and as he sank and died, +Reft of an eye, his enemy fell groaning by his side. + +Thus did he fall within the hall of Congress, that brave youth; +The bowie-knife has quenched his life of valour and of truth; +And still among the statesmen throng at Washington they tell +How nobly Dollar gouged his man--how gallantly he fell. + + + +The Alabama Duel. + + +"Young chaps, give ear, the case is clear. You, Silas Fixings, you +Pay Mister Nehemiah Dodge them dollars as you're due. +You are a bloody cheat,--you are. But spite of all your tricks, it +Is not in you Judge Lynch to do. No! nohow you can fix it!" + +Thus spake Judge Lynch, as there he sat in Alabama's forum, +Around he gazed, with legs upraised upon the bench before him; +And, as he gave this sentence stern to him who stood beneath, +Still with his gleaming bowie-knife he slowly picked his teeth. + +It was high noon, the month was June, and sultry was the air, +A cool gin-sling stood by his hand, his coat hung o'er his chair; +All naked were his manly arms, and shaded by his hat, +Like an old senator of Rome that simple Archon sat. + +"A bloody cheat?--Oh, legs and feet!" in wrath young Silas cried; +And springing high into the air, he jerked his quid aside. +"No man shall put my dander up, or with my feelings trifle, +As long as Silas Fixings wears a bowie-knife and rifle." + +"If your shoes pinch," replied Judge Lynch, "you'll very soon have ease; +I'll give you satisfaction, squire, in any way you please; +What are your weapons?--knife or gun?--at both I'm pretty spry!"; +"Oh! 'tarnal death, you're spry, you are?" quoth Silas; "so am I!" + +Hard by the town a forest stands, dark with the shades of time, +And they have sought that forest dark at morning's early prime; +Lynch, backed by Nehemiah Dodge, and Silas with a friend, +And half the town in glee came down to see that contest's end. + +They led their men two miles apart, they measured out the ground; +A belt of that vast wood it was, they notched the trees around; +Into the tangled brake they turned them off, and neither knew +Where he should seek his wagered foe, how get him into view. + +With stealthy tread, and stooping head, from tree to tree they passed, +They crept beneath the crackling furze, they held their rifles fast: +Hour passed on hour, the noonday sun smote fiercely down, but yet +No sound to the expectant crowd proclaimed that they had met. + +And now the sun was going down, when, hark! a rifle's crack! +Hush--hush! another strikes the air, and all their breath draw back,-- +Then crashing on through bush and briar, the crowd from either side +Rush in to see whose rifle sure with blood the moss has dyed. + +Weary with watching up and down, brave Lynch conceived a plan, +An artful dodge whereby to take at unawares his man; +He hung his hat upon a bush, and hid himself hard by; +Young Silas thought he had him fast, and at the hat let fly. + +It fell; up sprang young Silas,--he hurled his gun away; +Lynch fixed him with his rifle, from the ambush where he lay. +The bullet pierced his manly breast--yet, valiant to the last, +Young Fixings drew his bowie-knife, and up his foxtail {64} cast. + +With tottering step and glazing eye he cleared the space between, +And stabbed the air as stabs in grim Macbeth the younger Kean: +Brave Lynch received him with a bang that stretched him on the ground, +Then sat himself serenely down till all the crowd drew round. + +They hailed him with triumphant cheers--in him each loafer saw +The bearing bold that could uphold the majesty of law; +And, raising him aloft, they bore him homewards at his ease,-- +That noble judge, whose daring hand enforced his own decrees. + +They buried Silas Fixings in the hollow where he fell, +And gum-trees wave above his grave--that tree he loved so well; +And the 'coons sit chattering o'er him when the nights are long and damp; +But he sleeps well in that lonely dell, the Dreary 'Possum Swamp. + + + +The American's Apostrophe to Boz. + + +[So rapidly does oblivion do its work nowadays that the burst of amiable +indignation with which America received the issue of his _American Notes_ +and _Martin Chuzzlewit_ 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.] + +Sneak across the wide Atlantic, worthless London's puling child, +Better that its waves should bear thee, than the land thou hast reviled; +Better in the stifling cabin, on the sofa thou shouldst lie, +Sickening as the fetid nigger bears the greens and bacon by; +Better, when the midnight horrors haunt the strained and creaking ship, +Thou shouldst yell in vain for brandy with a fever-sodden lip; +When amid the deepening darkness and the lamp's expiring shade, +From the bagman's berth above thee comes the bountiful cascade, +Better than upon the Broadway thou shouldst be at noonday seen, +Smirking like a Tracy Tupman with a Mantalini mien, +With a rivulet of satin falling o'er thy puny chest, +Worse than even N. P. Willis for an evening party drest! + +We received thee warmly--kindly--though we knew thou wert a quiz, +Partly for thyself it may be, chiefly for the sake of Phiz! +Much we bore, and much we suffered, listening to remorseless spells +Of that Smike's unceasing drivellings, and these everlasting Nells. +When you talked of babes and sunshine, fields, and all that sort of +thing, +Each Columbian inly chuckled, as he slowly sucked his sling; +And though all our sleeves were bursting, from the many hundreds near +Not one single scornful titter rose on thy complacent ear. +Then to show thee to the ladies, with our usual want of sense +We engaged the place in Park Street at a ruinous expense; +Even our own three-volumed Cooper waived his old prescriptive right, +And deluded Dickens figured first on that eventful night. +Clusters of uncoated Yorkers, vainly striving to be cool, +Saw thee desperately plunging through the perils of la Poule: +And their muttered exclamation drowned the tenor of the tune,-- +"Don't he beat all natur hollow? Don't he foot it like a 'coon?" + +Did we spare our brandy-cocktails, stint thee of our whisky-grogs? +Half the juleps that we gave thee would have floored a Newman Noggs; +And thou took'st them in so kindly, little was there then to blame, +To thy parched and panting palate sweet as mother's milk they came. +Did the hams of old Virginny find no favour in thine eyes? +Came no soft compunction o'er thee at the thought of pumpkin pies? +Could not all our chicken fixings into silence fix thy scorn? +Did not all our cakes rebuke thee,--Johnny, waffle, dander, corn? +Could not all our care and coddling teach thee how to draw it mild? +Well, no matter, we deserve it. Serves us right! We spoilt the child! +You, forsooth, must come crusading, boring us with broadest hints +Of your own peculiar losses by American reprints. + +Such an impudent remonstrance never in our face was flung; +Lever stands it, so does Ainsworth; _you_, I guess, may hold your tongue. +Down our throats you'd cram your projects, thick and hard as pickled +salmon, +That, I s'pose, you call free trading,--I pronounce it utter gammon. +No, my lad, a 'cuter vision than your own might soon have seen, +That a true Columbian ogle carries little that is green; +That we never will surrender useful privateering rights, +Stoutly won at glorious Bunker's Hill, and other famous fights; +That we keep our native dollars for our native scribbling gents, +And on British manufacture only waste our straggling cents; +Quite enough we pay, I reckon, when we stump of these a few +For the voyages and travels of a freshman such as you. + +I have been at Niagara, I have stood beneath the Falls, +I have marked the water twisting over its rampagious walls; +But "a holy calm sensation," one, in fact, of perfect peace, +Was as much my first idea as the thought of Christmas geese. +As for "old familiar faces," looking through the misty air, +Surely you were strongly liquored when you saw your Chuckster there. +One familiar face, however, you will very likely see, +If you'll only treat the natives to a call in Tennessee, +Of a certain individual, true Columbian every inch, +In a high judicial station, called by 'mancipators Lynch. +Half an hour of conversation with his worship in a wood, +Would, I strongly notion, do you an infernal deal of good. +Then you'd understand more clearly than you ever did before, +Why an independent patriot freely spits upon the floor, +Why he gouges when he pleases, why he whittles at the chairs, +Why for swift and deadly combat still the bowie-knife he bears,-- +Why he sneers at the old country with republican disdain, +And, unheedful of the negro's cry, still tighter draws his chain. +All these things the judge shall teach thee of the land thou hast +reviled; +Get thee o'er the wide Atlantic, worthless London's puling child! + + + + +MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS + + + + +The Student of Jena. + + +Once--'twas when I lived at Jena-- + At a Wirthshaus' door I sat; +And in pensive contemplation + Ate the sausage thick and fat; +Ate the kraut that never sourer + Tasted to my lips than here; +Smoked my pipe of strong canaster, + Sipped my fifteenth jug of beer; +Gazed upon the glancing river, + Gazed upon the tranquil pool, +Whence the silver-voiced Undine, + When the nights were calm and cool, +As the Baron Fouque tells us, + Rose from out her shelly grot, +Casting glamour o'er the waters, + Witching that enchanted spot. +From the shadow which the coppice + Flings across the rippling stream, +Did I hear a sound of music-- + Was it thought or was it dream? +There, beside a pile of linen, + Stretched along the daisied sward, +Stood a young and blooming maiden-- + 'Twas her thrush-like song I heard. +Evermore within the eddy + Did she plunge the white chemise; +And her robes were loosely gathered + Rather far above her knees; +Then my breath at once forsook me, + For too surely did I deem +That I saw the fair Undine + Standing in the glancing stream-- +And I felt the charm of knighthood; + And from that remembered day, +Every evening to the Wirthshaus + Took I my enchanted way. + +Shortly to relate my story, + Many a week of summer long +Came I there, when beer-o'ertaken, + With my lute and with my song; +Sang in mellow-toned soprano + All my love and all my woe, +Till the river-maiden answered, + Lilting in the stream below:-- +"Fair Undine! sweet Undine! + Dost thou love as I love thee?" +"Love is free as running water," + Was the answer made to me. + +Thus, in interchange seraphic, + Did I woo my phantom fay, +Till the nights grew long and chilly, + Short and shorter grew the day; +Till at last--'twas dark and gloomy, + Dull and starless was the sky, +And my steps were all unsteady + For a little flushed was I,-- +To the well-accustomed signal + No response the maiden gave; +But I heard the waters washing + And the moaning of the wave. +Vanished was my own Undine, + All her linen, too, was gone; +And I walked about lamenting + On the river bank alone. +Idiot that I was, for never + Had I asked the maiden's name. +Was it Lieschen--was it Gretchen? + Had she tin, or whence she came? +So I took my trusty meerschaum, + And I took my lute likewise; +Wandered forth in minstrel fashion, + Underneath the louring skies: +Sang before each comely Wirthshaus, + Sang beside each purling stream, +That same ditty which I chanted + When Undine was my theme, +Singing, as I sang at Jena, + When the shifts were hung to dry, +"Fair Undine! young Undine! + Dost thou love as well as I?" + +But, alas! in field or village, + Or beside the pebbly shore, +Did I see those glancing ankles, + And the white robe never more; +And no answer came to greet me, + No sweet voice to mine replied; +But I heard the waters rippling, + And the moaning of the tide. + + + +The Lay of the Levite. + + +There is a sound that's dear to me, + It haunts me in my sleep; +I wake, and, if I hear it not, + I cannot choose but weep. +Above the roaring of the wind, + Above the river's flow, +Methinks I hear the mystic cry + Of "Clo!--Old Clo!" + +The exile's song, it thrills among + The dwellings of the free, +Its sound is strange to English ears, + But 'tis not strange to me; +For it hath shook the tented field + In ages long ago, +And hosts have quailed before the cry + Of "Clo!--Old Clo!" + +Oh, lose it not! forsake it not! + And let no time efface +The memory of that solemn sound, + The watchword of our race; +For not by dark and eagle eye + The Hebrew shall you know, +So well as by the plaintive cry + Of "Clo!--Old Clo!" + +Even now, perchance, by Jordan's banks, + Or Sidon's sunny walls, +Where, dial-like, to portion time, + The palm-tree's shadow falls, +The pilgrims, wending on their way, + Will linger as they go, +And listen to the distant cry + Of "Clo!--Old Clo!" + + + +Bursch Groggenburg. + + +[AFTER THE MANNER OF SCHILLER.] + +"Bursch! if foaming beer content ye, + Come and drink your fill; +In our cellars there is plenty; + Himmel! how you swill! +That the liquor hath allurance, + Well I understand: +But 'tis really past endurance, + When you squeeze my hand!" + +And he heard her as if dreaming, + Heard her half in awe; +And the meerschaum's smoke came streaming + From his open jaw: +And his pulse beat somewhat quicker + Than it did before, +And he finished off his liquor, + Staggered through the door; + +Bolted off direct to Munich, + And within the year +Underneath his German tunic + Stowed whole butts of beer. +And he drank like fifty fishes, + Drank till all was blue; +For he felt extremely vicious-- + Somewhat thirsty too. + +But at length this dire deboshing + Drew towards an end; +Few of all his silver groschen + Had he left to spend. +And he knew it was not prudent + Longer to remain; +So, with weary feet, the student + Wended home again. + +At the tavern's well-known portal + Knocks he as before, +And a waiter, rather mortal, + Hiccups through the door-- +"Master's sleeping in the kitchen; + You'll alarm the house; +Yesterday the Jungfrau Fritchen + Married baker Kraus!" + +Like a fiery comet bristling, + Rose the young man's hair, +And, poor soul! he fell a-whistling + Out of sheer despair. +Down the gloomy street in silence, + Savage-calm he goes; +But he did no deed of vi'lence-- + Only blew his nose. + +Then he hired an airy garret + Near her dwelling-place; +Grew a beard of fiercest carrot, + Never washed his face; +Sate all day beside the casement, + Sate a dreary man; +Found in smoking such an easement + As the wretched can; + +Stared for hours and hours together, + Stared yet more and more; +Till in fine and sunny weather, + At the baker's door, +Stood, in apron white and mealy, + That beloved dame, +Counting out the loaves so freely, + Selling of the same. + +Then like a volcano puffing, + Smoked he out his pipe; +Sighed and supped on ducks and stuffing, + Ham and kraut and tripe; +Went to bed, and, in the morning, + Waited as before, +Still his eyes in anguish turning + To the baker's door; + +Till, with apron white and mealy, + Came the lovely dame, +Counting out the loaves so freely, + Selling of the same. +So one day--the fact's amazing!-- + On his post he died! +And they found the body gazing + At the baker's bride. + + + +Night and Morning. + + +[NOT BY SIR E. BULWER LYTTON.] + +"Thy coffee, Tom, 's untasted, + And thy egg is very cold; +Thy cheeks are wan and wasted, + Not rosy as of old. +My boy, what has come o'er ye? + You surely are not well! +Try some of that ham before ye, + And then, Tom, ring the bell!" + +"I cannot eat, my mother, + My tongue is parched and bound, +And my head, somehow or other, + Is swimming round and round. +In my eyes there is a fulness, + And my pulse is beating quick; +On my brain is a weight of dulness: + Oh, mother, I am sick!" + +"These long, long nights of watching + Are killing you outright; +The evening dews are catching, + And you're out every night. +Why does that horrid grumbler, + Old Inkpen, work you so?" + + (TOM--_lene susurrans_) + +"My head! Oh, that tenth tumbler! + 'Twas that which wrought my woe!" + + + +The Biter Bit. + + +The sun is in the sky, mother, the flowers are springing fair, +And the melody of woodland birds is stirring in the air; +The river, smiling to the sky, glides onward to the sea, +And happiness is everywhere, oh mother, but with me! + +They are going to the church, mother,--I hear the marriage-bell; +It booms along the upland,--oh! it haunts me like a knell; +He leads her on his arm, mother, he cheers her faltering step, +And closely to his side she clings,--she does, the demirep! + +They are crossing by the stile, mother, where we so oft have stood, +The stile beside the shady thorn, at the corner of the wood; +And the boughs, that wont to murmur back the words that won my ear, +Wave their silver blossoms o'er him, as he leads his bridal fere. + +He will pass beside the stream, mother, where first my hand he pressed, +By the meadow where, with quivering lip, his passion he confessed; +And down the hedgerows where we've strayed again and yet again; +But he will not think of me, mother, his broken-hearted Jane! + +He said that I was proud, mother,--that I looked for rank and gold; +He said I did not love him,--he said my words were cold; +He said I kept him off and on, in hopes of higher game,-- +And it may be that I did, mother; but who hasn't done the same? + +I did not know my heart, mother,--I know it now too late; +I thought that I without a pang could wed some nobler mate; +But no nobler suitor sought me,--and he has taken wing, +And my heart is gone, and I am left a lone and blighted thing. + +You may lay me in my bed, mother,--my head is throbbing sore; +And, mother, prithee, let the sheets be duly aired before; +And, if you'd do a kindness to your poor desponding child, +Draw me a pot of beer, mother--and, mother, draw it mild! + + + +The Convict and the Australian Lady. + + +Thy skin is dark as jet, ladye, + Thy cheek is sharp and high, +And there's a cruel leer, love, + Within thy rolling eye: +These tangled ebon tresses + No comb hath e'er gone through; +And thy forehead, it is furrowed by + The elegant tattoo! + +I love thee,--oh, I love thee, + Thou strangely-feeding maid! +Nay, lift not thus thy boomerang, + I meant not to upbraid! +Come, let me taste those yellow lips + That ne'er were tasted yet, +Save when the shipwrecked mariner + Passed through them for a whet. + +Nay, squeeze me not so tightly! + For I am gaunt and thin; +There's little flesh to tempt thee + Beneath a convict's skin. +I came not to be eaten; + I sought thee, love, to woo; +Besides, bethink thee, dearest, + Thou'st dined on cockatoo. + +Thy father is a chieftain! + Why, that's the very thing! +Within my native country + I too have been a king. +Behold this branded letter, + Which nothing can efface! +It is the royal emblem, + The token of my race! + +But rebels rose against me, + And dared my power disown-- +You've heard, love, of the judges? + They drove me from my throne. +And I have wandered hither, + Across the stormy sea, +In search of glorious freedom,-- + In search, my sweet, of thee! + +The bush is now my empire, + The knife my sceptre keen; +Come with me to the desert wild, + And be my dusky queen. +I cannot give thee jewels, + I have nor sheep nor cow, +Yet there are kangaroos, love, + And colonists enow. + +We'll meet the unwary settler, + As whistling home he goes, +And I'll take tribute from him, + His money and his clothes. +Then on his bleeding carcass + Thou'lt lay thy pretty paw, +And lunch upon him roasted, + Or, if you like it, raw! + +Then come with me, my princess, + My own Australian dear, +Within this grove of gum-trees + We'll hold our bridal cheer! +Thy heart with love is beating, + I feel it through my side:-- +Hurrah, then, for the noble pair, + The Convict and his Bride! + + + +The Doleful Lay of the Honourable I. O. Uwins. + + +Come and listen, lords and ladies, + To a woeful lay of mine; +He whose tailor's bill unpaid is, + Let him now his ear incline! +Let him hearken to my story, + How the noblest of the land +Pined in piteous purgatory, + 'Neath a sponging Bailiff's hand. + +I. O. Uwins! I. O. Uwins! + Baron's son although thou be, +Thou must pay for thy misdoings + In the country of the free! +None of all thy sire's retainers + To thy rescue now may come; +And there lie some score detainers + With Abednego, the bum. + +Little recked he of his prison + Whilst the sun was in the sky: +Only when the moon was risen + Did you hear the captive's cry. +For till then, cigars and claret + Lulled him in oblivion sweet; +And he much preferred a garret, + For his drinking, to the street. + +But the moonlight, pale and broken, + Pained at soul the baron's son; +For he knew, by that soft token, + That the larking had begun;-- +That the stout and valiant Marquis {97} + Then was leading forth his swells, +Milling some policeman's carcass, + Or purloining private bells. + +So he sat in grief and sorrow, + Rather drunk than otherwise, +Till the golden gush of morrow + Dawned once more upon his eyes: +Till the sponging Bailiff's daughter, + Lightly tapping at the door, +Brought his draught of soda-water, + Brandy-bottomed as before. + +"Sweet Rebecca! has your father, + Think you, made a deal of brass?" +And she answered--"Sir, I rather + Should imagine that he has." +Uwins then, his whiskers scratching, + Leered upon the maiden's face, +And, her hand with ardour catching, + Folded her in close embrace. + +"La, Sir! let alone--you fright me!" + Said the daughter of the Jew: +"Dearest, how those eyes delight me! + Let me love thee, darling, do!" +"Vat is dish?" the Bailiff muttered, + Rushing in with fury wild; +"Ish your muffins so vell buttered, + Dat you darsh insult ma shild?" + +"Honourable my intentions, + Good Abednego, I swear! +And I have some small pretensions, + For I am a Baron's heir. +If you'll only clear my credit, + And advance a _thou_ {99} or so, +She's a peeress--I have said it: + Don't you twig, Abednego?" + +"Datsh a very different matter," + Said the Bailiff, with a leer; +"But you musht not cut it fatter + Than ta slish will shtand, ma tear! +If you seeksh ma approbation, + You musht quite give up your rigsh, +Alsho you musht join our nashun, + And renounsh ta flesh of pigsh." + +Fast as one of Fagin's pupils, + I. O. Uwins did agree! +Little plagued with holy scruples + From the starting-post was he. +But at times a baleful vision + Rose before his shuddering view, +For he knew that circumcision + Was expected from a Jew. + +At a meeting of the Rabbis, + Held about the Whitsuntide, +Was this thorough-paced Barabbas + Wedded to his Hebrew bride: +All his previous debts compounded, + From the sponging-house he came, +And his father's feelings wounded + With reflections on the same. + +But the sire his son accosted-- + "Split my wig! if any more +Such a double-dyed apostate + Shall presume to cross my door! +Not a penny-piece to save ye + From the kennel or the spout;-- +Dinner, John! the pig and gravy!-- + Kick this dirty scoundrel out!" + +Forth rushed I. O. Uwins, faster + Than all winking--much afraid +That the orders of the master + Would be punctually obeyed: +Sought his club, and then the sentence + Of expulsion first he saw; +No one dared to own acquaintance + With a Bailiff's son-in-law. + +Uselessly, down Bond Street strutting, + Did he greet his friends of yore: +Such a universal cutting + Never man received before: +Till at last his pride revolted-- + Pale, and lean, and stern he grew; +And his wife Rebecca bolted + With a missionary Jew. + +Ye who read this doleful ditty, + Ask ye where is Uwins now? +Wend your way through London city, + Climb to Holborn's lofty brow; +Near the sign-post of the "Nigger," + Near the baked-potato shed, +You may see a ghastly figure + With three hats upon his head. + +When the evening shades are dusky, + Then the phantom form draws near, +And, with accents low and husky, + Pours effluvium in your ear; +Craving an immediate barter + Of your trousers or surtout; +And you know the Hebrew martyr, + Once the peerless I. O. U. + + + +The Knyghte and the Taylzeour's Daughter. + + +Did you ever hear the story-- + Old the legend is, and true-- +How a knyghte of fame and glory + All aside his armour threw; +Spouted spear and pawned habergeon, + Pledged his sword and surcoat gay, +Sate down cross-legged on the shop-board, + Sate and stitched the livelong day? + +"Taylzeour! not one single shilling + Does my breeches-pocket hold: +I to pay am really willing, + If I only had the gold. +Farmers none can I encounter, + Graziers there are none to kill; +Therefore, prithee, gentle taylzeour, + Bother not about thy bill." + +"Good Sir Knyghte, just once too often + Have you tried that slippery trick; +Hearts like mine you cannot soften, + Vainly do you ask for tick. +Christmas and its bills are coming, + Soon will they be showering in; +Therefore, once for all, my rum un, + I expect you'll post the tin. + +"Mark, Sir Knyghte, that gloomy bayliffe + In the palmer's amice brown; +He shall lead you unto jail, if + Instantly you stump not down." +Deeply swore the young crusader, + But the taylzeour would not hear; +And the gloomy, bearded bayliffe + Evermore kept sneaking near. + +"Neither groat nor maravedi + Have I got my soul to bless; +And I'd feel extremely seedy, + Languishing in vile duresse. +Therefore listen, ruthless taylzeour, + Take my steed and armour free, +Pawn them at thy Hebrew uncle's, + And I'll work the rest for thee." + +Lightly leaped he on the shop-board, + Lightly crooked his manly limb, +Lightly drove the glancing needle + Through the growing doublet's rim +Gaberdines in countless number + Did the taylzeour knyghte repair, +And entirely on cucumber + And on cabbage lived he there. + +Once his weary task beguiling + With a low and plaintive song, +That good knyghte o'er miles of broadcloth + Drove the hissing goose along; +From her lofty latticed window + Looked the taylzeour's daughter down, +And she instantly discovered + That her heart was not her own. + +"Canst thou love me, gentle stranger?" + Picking at a pink she stood-- +And the knyghte at once admitted + That he rather thought he could. +"He who weds me shall have riches, + Gold, and lands, and houses free." +"For a single pair of--_small-clothes_, + I would roam the world with thee!" + +Then she flung him down the tickets + Well the knyghte their import knew-- +"Take this gold, and win thy armour + From the unbelieving Jew. +Though in garments mean and lowly + Thou wouldst roam the world with me, +Only as a belted warrior, + Stranger, will I wed with thee!" + +At the feast of good Saint Stitchem, + In the middle of the spring, +There was some superior jousting, + By the order of the King. +"Valiant knyghtes!" proclaimed the monarch, + "You will please to understand, +He who bears himself most bravely + Shall obtain my daughter's hand." + +Well and bravely did they bear them, + Bravely battled, one and all; +But the bravest in the tourney + Was a warrior stout and tall. +None could tell his name or lineage, + None could meet him in the field, +And a goose regardant proper + Hissed along his azure shield. + +"Warrior, thou hast won my daughter!" + But the champion bowed his knee, +"Royal blood may not be wasted + On a simple knyghte like me. +She I love is meek and lowly; + But her heart is kind and free; +Also, there is tin forthcoming, + Though she is of low degree." + +Slowly rose that nameless warrior, + Slowly turned his steps aside, +Passed the lattice where the princess + Sate in beauty, sate in pride. +Passed the row of noble ladies, + Hied him to an humbler seat, +And in silence laid the chaplet + At the taylzeour's daughter's feet. + + + +The Midnight Visit. + + +It was the Lord of Castlereagh, he sat within his room, +His arms were crossed upon his breast, his face was marked with gloom; +They said that St Helena's Isle had rendered up its charge, +That France was bristling high in arms--the Emperor at large. + +'Twas midnight! all the lamps were dim, and dull as death the street, +It might be that the watchman slept that night upon his beat, +When lo! a heavy foot was heard to creak upon the stair, +The door revolved upon its hinge--Great Heaven!--What enters there? + +A little man, of stately mien, with slow and solemn stride; +His hands are crossed upon his back, his coat is opened wide; +And on his vest of green he wears an eagle and a star,-- +Saint George! protect us! 'tis THE MAN,--the thunder-bolt of war! + +Is that the famous hat that waved along Marengo's ridge? +Are these the spurs of Austerlitz--the boots of Lodi's bridge? +Leads he the conscript swarm again from France's hornet hive? +What seeks the fell usurper here, in Britain, and alive? + +Pale grew the Lord of Castlereagh, his tongue was parched and dry, +As in his brain he felt the glare of that tremendous eye; +What wonder if he shrank in fear, for who could meet the glance +Of him who rear'd, 'mid Russian snows, the gonfalon of France? + +From the side-pocket of his vest a pinch the despot took, +Yet not a whit did he relax the sternness of his look: +"Thou thoughtst the lion was afar, but he hath burst the chain-- +The watchword for to-night is France--the answer St Helene. + +"And didst thou deem the barren isle, or ocean waves, could bind +The master of the universe--the monarch of mankind? +I tell thee, fool! the world itself is all too small for me; +I laugh to scorn thy bolts and bars--I burst them, and am free. + +"Thou thinkst that England hates me! Mark!--This very night my name +Was thundered in its capital with tumult and acclaim! +They saw me, knew me, owned my power--Proud lord! I say, beware! +There be men within the Surrey side, who know to do and dare! + +"To-morrow in thy very teeth my standard will I rear-- +Ay, well that ashen cheek of thine may blanch and shrink with fear! +To-morrow night another town shall sink in ghastly flames; +And as I crossed the Borodin, so shall I cross the Thames! + +"Thou'lt seize me, wilt thou, ere the dawn? Weak lordling, do thy worst! +These hands ere now have broke thy chains, thy fetters they have burst. +Yet, wouldst thou know my resting-place? Behold, 'tis written there! +And let thy coward myrmidons approach me if they dare!" + +Another pinch, another stride--he passes through the door-- +"Was it a phantom or a man was standing on the floor? +And could that be the Emperor that moved before my eyes? +Ah, yes! too sure it was himself, for here the paper lies!" + +With trembling hands Lord Castlereagh undid the mystic scroll, +With glassy eye essayed to read, for fear was on his soul-- +"What's here?--'At Astley's, every night, the play of MOSCOW'S FALL! +NAPOLEON, for the thousandth time, by Mr GOMERSAL!'" + + + +The Lay of The Lovelorn. + + +Comrades, you may pass the rosy. With permission of the chair, +I shall leave you for a little, for I'd like to take the air. + +Whether 'twas the sauce at dinner, or that glass of ginger-beer, +Or these strong cheroots, I know not, but I feel a little queer. + +Let me go. Nay, Chuckster, blow me, 'pon my soul, this is too bad! +When you want me, ask the waiter; he knows where I'm to be had. + +Whew! This is a great relief now! Let me but undo my stock; +Resting here beneath the porch, my nerves will steady like a rock. + +In my ears I hear the singing of a lot of favourite tunes-- +Bless my heart, how very odd! Why, surely there's a brace of moons! + +See! the stars! how bright they twinkle, winking with a frosty glare, +Like my faithless cousin Amy when she drove me to despair. + +Oh, my cousin, spider-hearted! Oh, my Amy! No, confound it! +I must wear the mournful willow,--all around my heart I've bound it. +{117} + +Falser than the bank of fancy, frailer than a shilling glove, +Puppet to a father's anger, minion to a nabob's love! + +Is it well to wish thee happy? Having known me, could you ever +Stoop to marry half a heart, and little more than half a liver? + +Happy! Damme! Thou shalt lower to his level day by day, +Changing from the best of china to the commonest of clay. + +As the husband is, the wife is,--he is stomach-plagued and old; +And his curry soups will make thy cheek the colour of his gold. + +When his feeble love is sated, he will hold thee surely then +Something lower than his hookah,--something less than his cayenne. + +What is this? His eyes are pinky. Was't the claret? Oh, no, no,-- +Bless your soul! it was the salmon,--salmon always makes him so. + +Take him to thy dainty chamber--soothe him with thy lightest fancies; +He will understand thee, won't he?--pay thee with a lover's glances? + +Louder than the loudest trumpet, harsh as harshest ophicleide, +Nasal respirations answer the endearments of his bride. + +Sweet response, delightful music! Gaze upon thy noble charge, +Till the spirit fill thy bosom that inspired the meek Laffarge. {119a} + +Better thou wert dead before me,--better, better that I stood, +Looking on thy murdered body, like the injured Daniel Good! {119b} + +Better thou and I were lying, cold and timber-stiff and dead, +With a pan of burning charcoal underneath our nuptial bed! + +Cursed be the Bank of England's notes, that tempt the soul to sin! +Cursed be the want of acres,--doubly cursed the want of tin! + +Cursed be the marriage-contract, that enslaved thy soul to greed! +Cursed be the sallow lawyer, that prepared and drew the deed! + +Cursed be his foul apprentice, who the loathsome fees did earn! +Cursed be the clerk and parson,--cursed be the whole concern! + +* * * * + +Oh, 'tis well that I should bluster,--much I'm like to make of that; +Better comfort have I found in singing "All Around my Hat." + +But that song, so wildly plaintive, palls upon my British ears. +'Twill not do to pine for ever,--I am getting up in years. + +Can't I turn the honest penny, scribbling for the weekly press, +And in writing Sunday libels drown my private wretchedness! {121} + +Oh, to feel the wild pulsation that in manhood's dawn I knew, +When my days were all before me, and my years were twenty-two! + +When I smoked my independent pipe along the Quadrant wide, {122a} +With the many larks of London flaring up on every side; + +When I went the pace so wildly, caring little what might come; +Coffee-milling care and sorrow, with a nose-adapted thumb; {122b} + +Felt the exquisite enjoyment, tossing nightly off, oh heavens! +Brandies at the Cider Cellars, kidneys smoking-hot at Evans'! {122c} + +Or in the Adelphi sitting, half in rapture, half in tears, +Saw the glorious melodrama conjure up the shades of years! + +Saw Jack Sheppard, noble stripling, act his wondrous feats again, +Snapping Newgate's bars of iron, like an infant's daisy chain. + +Might was right, and all the terrors, which had held the world in awe, +Were despised, and prigging prospered, spite of Laurie, {123} spite of +law. + +In such scenes as these I triumphed, ere my passion's edge was rusted, +And my cousin's cold refusal left me very much disgusted! + +Since, my heart is sere and withered, and I do not care a curse, +Whether worse shall be the better, or the better be the worse. + +Hark! my merry comrades call me, bawling for another jorum; +They would mock me in derision, should I thus appear before 'em. + +Womankind no more shall vex me, such at least as go arrayed +In the most expensive satins and the newest silk brocade. + +I'll to Afric, lion-haunted, where the giant forest yields +Rarer robes and finer tissue than are sold at Spital fields. + +Or to burst all chains of habit, flinging habit's self aside, +I shall walk the tangled jungle in mankind's primeval pride; + +Feeding on the luscious berries and the rich cassava root, +Lots of dates and lots of guavas, clusters of forbidden fruit. + +Never comes the trader thither, never o'er the purple main +Sounds the oath of British commerce, or the accent of Cockaigne. + +There, methinks, would be enjoyment, where no envious rule prevents; +Sink the steamboats! cuss the railways! rot, O rot the Three per Cents! + +There the passions, cramped no longer, shall have space to breathe, my +cousin! +I will wed some savage woman--nay, I'll wed at least a dozen. + +There I'll rear my young mulattoes, as no Bond Street brats are reared: +They shall dive for alligators, catch the wild goats by the beard-- + +Whistle to the cockatoos, and mock the hairy-faced baboon, +Worship mighty Mumbo Jumbo in the Mountains of the Moon. + +I myself, in far Timbuctoo, leopard's blood will daily quaff, +Ride a tiger-hunting, mounted on a thorough-bred giraffe. + +Fiercely shall I shout the war-whoop, as some sullen stream he crosses, +Startling from their noonday slumbers iron-bound rhinoceroses. + +Fool! again the dream, the fancy! But I know my words are mad, +For I hold the grey barbarian lower than the Christian cad. + +I the swell--the city dandy! I to seek such horrid places,-- +I to haunt with squalid negroes, blubber-lips, and monkey-faces! + +I to wed with Coromantees! I, who managed--very near-- +To secure the heart and fortune of the widow Shillibeer! + +Stuff and nonsense! let me never fling a single chance away; +Maids ere now, I know, have loved me, and another maiden may. + +'Morning Post' ('The Times' won't trust me) help me, as I know you can; +I will pen an advertisement,--that's a never-failing plan. + +"WANTED--By a bard, in wedlock, some young interesting woman: +Looks are not so much an object, if the shiners be forthcoming! + +"Hymen's chains the advertiser vows shall be but silken fetters; +Please address to A. T., Chelsea. N.B.--You must pay the letters." + +That's the sort of thing to do it. Now I'll go and taste the balmy,-- +Rest thee with thy yellow nabob, spider-hearted Cousin Amy! + + + +My Wife's Cousin. + + +Decked with shoes of blackest polish, + And with shirt as white as snow, +After early morning breakfast + To my daily desk I go; +First a fond salute bestowing + On my Mary's ruby lips, +Which, perchance, may be rewarded + With a pair of playful nips. + +All day long across the ledger + Still my patient pen I drive, +Thinking what a feast awaits me + In my happy home at five; +In my small one-storeyed Eden, + Where my wife awaits my coming, +And our solitary handmaid + Mutton-chops with care is crumbing. + +When the clock proclaims my freedom, + Then my hat I seize and vanish; +Every trouble from my bosom, + Every anxious care I banish. +Swiftly brushing o'er the pavement, + At a furious pace I go, +Till I reach my darling dwelling + In the wilds of Pimlico. + +"Mary, wife, where art thou, dearest?" + Thus I cry, while yet afar; +Ah! what scent invades my nostrils?-- + 'Tis the smoke of a cigar! +Instantly into the parlour + Like a maniac, I haste, +And I find a young Life-Guardsman, + With his arm round Mary's waist. + +And his other hand is playing + Most familiarly with hers; +And I think my Brussels carpet + Somewhat damaged by his spurs. +"Fire and furies! what the blazes?" + Thus in frenzied wrath I call; +When my spouse her arms upraises, + With a most astounding squall. + +"Was there ever such a monster, + Ever such a wretched wife? +Ah! how long must I endure it, + How protract this hateful life? +All day long, quite unprotected, + Does he leave his wife at home; +And she cannot see her cousins, + Even when they kindly come!" + +Then the young Life-Guardsman, rising, + Scarce vouchsafes a single word, +But, with look of deadly menace, + Claps his hand upon his sword; +And in fear I faintly falter-- + "This your cousin, then he's mine! +Very glad, indeed, to see you,-- + Won't you stop with us, and dine?" + +Won't a ferret suck a rabbit?-- + As a thing of course he stops; +And with most voracious swallow + Walks into my mutton-chops. +In the twinkling of a bed-post + Is each savoury platter clear, +And he shows uncommon science + In his estimate of beer. + +Half-and-half goes down before him, + Gurgling from the pewter pot; +And he moves a counter motion + For a glass of something hot. +Neither chops nor beer I grudge him, + Nor a moderate share of goes; +But I know not why he's always + Treading upon Mary's toes. + +Evermore, when, home returning, + From the counting-house I come, +Do I find the young Life-Guardsman + Smoking pipes and drinking rum. +Evermore he stays to dinner, + Evermore devours my meal; +For I have a wholesome horror + Both of powder and of steel. + +Yet I know he's Mary's cousin, + For my only son and heir +Much resembles that young Guardsman, + With the self-same curly hair; +But I wish he would not always + Spoil my carpet with his spurs; +And I'd rather see his fingers + In the fire, than touching hers. + + + +The Queen in France. + + +AN ANCIENT SCOTTISH BALLAD. + + +PART I. + + +It fell upon the August month, + When landsmen bide at hame, +That our gude Queen went out to sail + Upon the saut-sea faem. + +And she has ta'en the silk and gowd, + The like was never seen; +And she has ta'en the Prince Albert, + And the bauld Lord Aberdeen. + +"Ye'se bide at hame, Lord Wellington: + Ye daurna gang wi' me: +For ye hae been ance in the land o' France, + And that's eneuch for ye. + +"Ye'se bide at hame, Sir Robert Peel, + To gather the red and the white monie; +And see that my men dinna eat me up + At Windsor wi' their gluttonie." + +They hadna sailed a league, a league,-- + A league, but barely twa, +When the lift grew dark, and the waves grew wan, + And the wind began to blaw. + +"O weel weel may the waters rise, + In welcome o' their Queen; +What gars ye look sae white, Albert? + What makes yer ee sae green?" + +"My heart is sick, my heid is sair: + Gie me a glass o' the gude brandie: +To set my foot on the braid green sward, + I'd gie the half o' my yearly fee. + +"It's sweet to hunt the sprightly hare + On the bonny slopes o' Windsor lea, +But oh, it's ill to bear the thud + And pitching o' the saut saut sea!" + +And aye they sailed, and aye they sailed, + Till England sank behind, +And over to the coast of France + They drave before the wind. + +Then up and spak the King o' France, + Was birling at the wine; +"O wha may be the gay ladye, + That owns that ship sae fine? + +"And wha may be that bonny lad, + That looks sae pale and wan +I'll wad my lands o' Picardie, + That he's nae Englishman." + +Then up and spak an auld French lord, + Was sitting beneath his knee, +"It is the Queen o' braid England + That's come across the sea." + +"And oh an it be England's Queen, + She's welcome here the day; +I'd rather hae her for a friend + Than for a deadly fae. + +"Gae, kill the eerock in the yard, + The auld sow in the sty, +And bake for her the brockit calf, + But and the puddock-pie!" + +And he has gane until the ship, + As soon as it drew near, +And he has ta'en her by the hand-- + "Ye're kindly welcome here!" + +And syne he kissed her on ae cheek, + And syne upon the ither; +And he ca'd her his sister dear, + And she ca'd him her brither. + +"Light doun, light doun now, ladye mine, + Light doun upon the shore; +Nae English king has trodden here + This thousand years and more." + +"And gin I lighted on your land, + As light fu' weel I may, +O am I free to feast wi' you, + And free to come and gae?" + +And he has sworn by the Haly Rood, + And the black stane o' Dumblane, +That she is free to come and gae + Till twenty days are gane. + +"I've lippened to a Frenchman's aith," + Said gude Lord Aberdeen; +"But I'll never lippen to it again, + Sae lang's the grass is green. + +"Yet gae your ways, my sovereign liege, + Sin' better mayna be; +The wee bit bairns are safe at hame, + By the blessing o' Marie!" + +Then doun she lighted frae the ship, + She lighted safe and sound; +And glad was our good Prince Albert + To step upon the ground. + +"Is that your Queen, my Lord," she said, + "That auld and buirdly dame? +I see the crown upon her head; + But I dinna ken her name." + +And she has kissed the Frenchman's Queen, + And eke her daughters three, +And gien her hand to the young Princess, + That louted upon the knee. + +And she has gane to the proud castel, + That's biggit beside the sea: +But aye, when she thought o' the bairns at hame, + The tear was in her ee. + +She gied the King the Cheshire cheese, + But and the porter fine; +And he gied her the puddock-pies, + But and the blude-red wine. + +Then up and spak the dourest Prince, + An admiral was he; +"Let's keep the Queen o' England here, + Sin' better mayna be! + +"O mony is the dainty king + That we hae trappit here; +And mony is the English yerl + That's in our dungeons drear!" + +"You lee, you lee, ye graceless loon, + Sae loud's I hear ye lee! +There never yet was Englishman + That came to skaith by me. + +"Gae oot, gae oot, ye fause traitour! + Gae oot until the street; +It's shame that Kings and Queens should sit + Wi' sic a knave at meat!" + +Then up and raise the young French lord, + In wrath and hie disdain-- +"O ye may sit, and ye may eat + Your puddock-pies alane! + +"But were I in my ain gude ship, + And sailing wi' the wind, +And did I meet wi' auld Napier, + I'd tell him o' my mind." + +O then the Queen leuch loud and lang, + And her colour went and came; +"Gin ye meet wi' Charlie on the sea, + Ye'll wish yersel at hame!" + +And aye they birlit at the wine, + And drank richt merrilie, +Till the auld cock crawed in the castle-yard, + And the abbey bell struck three. + +The Queen she gaed until her bed, + And Prince Albert likewise; +And the last word that gay ladye said + Was--"O thae puddock-pies!" + + +PART II. + + +The sun was high within the lift + Afore the French King raise; +And syne he louped intil his sark, + And warslit on his claes. + +"Gae up, gae up, my little foot-page, + Gae up until the toun; +And gin ye meet wi' the auld harper, + Be sure ye bring him doun." + +And he has met wi' the auld harper; + O but his een were reid; +And the bizzing o' a swarm o' bees + Was singing in his heid. + +"Alack! alack!" the harper said, + "That this should e'er hae been! +I daurna gang before my liege, + For I was fou yestreen." + +"It's ye maun come, ye auld harper: + Ye daurna tarry lang; +The King is just dementit-like + For wanting o' a sang." + +And when he came to the King's chamber, + He loutit on his knee, +"O what may be your gracious will + Wi' an auld frail man like me?" + +"I want a sang, harper," he said, + "I want a sang richt speedilie; +And gin ye dinna make a sang, + I'll hang ye up on the gallows tree." + +"I canna do't, my liege," he said, + "Hae mercy on my auld grey hair! +But gin that I had got the words, + I think that I might mak the air." + +"And wha's to mak the words, fause loon, + When minstrels we have barely twa; +And Lamartine is in Paris toun, + And Victor Hugo far awa?" + +"The diel may gang for Lamartine, + And flee away wi' auld Hugo, +For a better minstrel than them baith + Within this very toun I know. + +"O kens my liege the gude Walter, + At hame they ca' him BON GAULTIER? +He'll rhyme ony day wi' True Thomas, + And he is in the castle here." + +The French King first he lauchit loud, + And syne did he begin to sing; +"My een are auld, and my heart is cauld, + Or I suld hae known the minstrels' King. + +"Gae take to him this ring o' gowd, + And this mantle o' the silk sae fine, +And bid him mak a maister sang + For his sovereign ladye's sake and mine." + +"I winna take the gowden ring, + Nor yet the mantle fine: +But I'll mak the sang for my ladye's sake, + And for a cup of wine." + +The Queen was sitting at the cards, + The King ahint her back; +And aye she dealed the red honours, + And aye she dealed the black; + +And syne unto the dourest Prince + She spak richt courteouslie;-- +"Now will ye play, Lord Admiral, + Now will ye play wi' me?" + +The dourest Prince he bit his lip, + And his brow was black as glaur; +"The only game that e'er I play + Is the bluidy game o' war!" + +"And gin ye play at that, young man, + It weel may cost ye sair; +Ye'd better stick to the game at cards, + For you'll win nae honours there!" + +The King he leuch, and the Queen she leuch, + Till the tears ran blithely doon; +But the Admiral he raved and swore, + Till they kicked him frae the room. + +The harper came, and the harper sang, + And oh but they were fain; +For when he had sung the gude sang twice, + They called for it again. + +It was the sang o' the Field o' Gowd, + In the days of auld langsyne; +When bauld King Henry crossed the seas, + Wi' his brither King to dine. + +And aye he harped, and aye he carped, + Till up the Queen she sprang-- +"I'll wad a County Palatine, + Gude Walter made that sang." + +Three days had come, three days had gane, + The fourth began to fa', +When our gude Queen to the Frenchman said, + "It's time I was awa! + +"O, bonny are the fields o' France, + And saftly draps the rain; +But my bairnies are in Windsor Tower, + And greeting a' their lane. + +"Now ye maun come to me, Sir King, + As I have come to ye; +And a benison upon your heid + For a' your courtesie! + +"Ye maun come, and bring your ladye fere; + Ye sall na say me no; +And ye'se mind, we have aye a bed to spare + For that gawsy chield Guizot." + +Now he has ta'en her lily-white hand, + And put it to his lip, +And he has ta'en her to the strand, + And left her in her ship. + +"Will ye come back, sweet bird?" he cried, + "Will ye come kindly here, +When the lift is blue, and the lavrocks sing, + In the spring-time o' the year?" + +"It's I would blithely come, my Lord, + To see ye in the spring; +It's I would blithely venture back + But for ae little thing. + +"It isna that the winds are rude, + Or that the waters rise, +But I loe the roasted beef at hame, + And no thae puddock-pies!" + + + +The Massacre of the Macpherson. + + +[FROM THE GAELIC.] + +I. + +Fhairshon swore a feud + Against the clan M'Tavish; +Marched into their land + To murder and to rafish; +For he did resolve + To extirpate the vipers, +With four-and-twenty men + And five-and-thirty pipers. + +II. + +But when he had gone + Half-way down Strath Canaan, +Of his fighting tail + Just three were remainin'. +They were all he had, + To back him in ta battle; +All the rest had gone + Off, to drive ta cattle. + +III. + +"Fery coot!" cried Fhairshon, + "So my clan disgraced is; +Lads, we'll need to fight, + Pefore we touch the peasties. +Here's Mhic-Mac-Methusaleh + Coming wi' his fassals, +Gillies seventy-three, + And sixty Dhuinewassails!" + +IV. + +"Coot tay to you, sir; + Are you not ta Fhairshon? +Was you coming here + To fisit any person? +You are a plackguard, sir! + It is now six hundred +Coot long years, and more, + Since my glen was plundered." + +V. + +"Fat is tat you say? + Dare you cock your peaver? +I will teach you, sir, + Fat is coot pehaviour! +You shall not exist + For another day more; +I will shoot you, sir, + Or stap you with my claymore!" + +VI. + +"I am fery glad, + To learn what you mention, +Since I can prevent + Any such intention." +So Mhic-Mac-Methusaleh + Gave some warlike howls, +Trew his skhian-dhu, + An' stuck it in his powels. + +VII. + +In this fery way + Tied ta faliant Fhairshon, +Who was always thought + A superior person. +Fhairshon had a son, + Who married Noah's daughter, +And nearly spoiled ta Flood, + By trinking up ta water: + +VIII. + +Which he would have done, + I at least pelieve it, +Had ta mixture peen + Only half Glenlivet. +This is all my tale: + Sirs, I hope 'tis new t'ye! +Here's your fery good healths, + And tamn ta whusky duty! + +[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. + + Bays! which in former days have graced the brow + Of some, who lived and loved, and sang and died; + Leaves that were gathered on the pleasant side + Of old Parnassus from Apollo's bough; + With palpitating hand I take thee now, + Since worthier minstrel there is none beside, + And with a thrill of song half deified, + I bind them proudly on my locks of snow. + There shall they bide, till he who follows next, + Of whom I cannot even guess the name, + Shall by Court favour, or some vain pretext + Of fancied merit, desecrate the same,-- + And think, perchance, he wears them quite as well + As the sole bard who sang of Peter Bell!] + +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. + + + +The Laureates' Tourney. + + +BY THE HON. T--- B--- M---. + + +FYTTE THE FIRST. + + +"What news, what news, thou pilgrim grey, what news from southern land? +How fare the bold Conservatives, how is it with Ferrand? +How does the little Prince of Wales--how looks our lady Queen? +And tell me, is the monthly nurse once more at Windsor seen?" + +"I bring no tidings from the Court, nor from St Stephen's hall; +I've heard the thundering tramp of horse, and the trumpet's battle-call; +And these old eyes have seen a fight, which England ne'er hath seen, +Since fell King Richard sobbed his soul through blood on Bosworth Green. + +'He's dead, he's dead, the Laureate's dead!' 'Twas thus the cry began, +And straightway every garret-roof gave up its minstrel man; +From Grub Street, and from Houndsditch, and from Farringdon Within, +The poets all towards Whitehall poured on with eldritch din. + +Loud yelled they for Sir James the Graham: {157} but sore afraid was he; +A hardy knight were he that might face such a minstrelsie. +'Now by St Giles of Netherby, my patron Saint, I swear, +I'd rather by a thousand crowns Lord Palmerston were here!-- + +'What is't ye seek, ye rebel knaves--what make you there beneath?' +'The bays, the bays! we want the bays! we seek the laureate wreath! +We seek the butt of generous wine that cheers the sons of song; +Choose thou among us all, Sir Knight--we may not tarry long!' + +Loud laughed the good Sir James in scorn--'Rare jest it were, I think, +But one poor butt of Xeres, and a thousand rogues to drink! +An' if it flowed with wine or beer, 'tis easy to be seen, +That dry within the hour would be the well of Hippocrene. + +'Tell me, if on Parnassus' heights there grow a thousand sheaves: +Or has Apollo's laurel bush yet borne ten hundred leaves? +Or if so many leaves were there, how long would they sustain +The ravage and the glutton bite of such a locust train? + +'No! get ye back into your dens, take counsel for the night, +And choose me out two champions to meet in deadly fight; +To-morrow's dawn shall see the lists marked out in Spitalfields, +And he who wins shall have the bays, and he shall die who yields!' + +Down went the window with a crash,--in silence and in fear +Each ragged bard looked anxiously upon his neighbour near; +Then up and spake young Tennyson--'Who's here that fears for death? +'Twere better one of us should die, than England lose the wreath! + +'Let's cast the lot among us now, which two shall fight to-morrow;-- +For armour bright we'll club our mite, and horses we can borrow; +'Twere shame that bards of France should sneer, and German _Dichters_ +too, +If none of British song might dare a deed of _derring-do_!' + +'The lists of Love are mine,' said Moore, 'and not the lists of Mars;' +Said Hunt, 'I seek the jars of wine, but shun the combat's jars!' +'I'm old,' quoth Samuel Rogers.--'Faith,' says Campbell, 'so am I!' +'And I'm in holy orders, sir!' quoth Tom of Ingoldsby. + +'Now out upon ye, craven loons!' cried Moxon, {160} good at need,-- +'Bide, if ye will, secure at home, and sleep while others bleed. +I second Alfred's motion, boys,--let's try the chance of lot; +And monks shall sing, and bells shall ring, for him that goes to pot.' + +Eight hundred minstrels slunk away--two hundred stayed to draw,-- +Now Heaven protect the daring wight that pulls the longest straw! +'Tis done! 'tis done! And who hath won? Keep silence one and all,-- +The first is William Wordsworth hight, the second Ned Fitzball! + + +FYTTE THE SECOND. + + +Oh, bright and gay hath dawned the day on lordly Spitalfields,-- +How flash the rays with ardent blaze from polished helms and shields! +On either side the chivalry of England throng the green, +And in the middle balcony appears our gracious Queen. + +With iron fists, to keep the lists, two valiant knights appear, +The Marquis Hal of Waterford, and stout Sir Aubrey Vere. +'What ho! there, herald, blow the trump! Let's see who comes to claim +The butt of golden Xeres, and the Laureate's honoured name!' + +That instant dashed into the lists, all armed from head to heel, +On courser brown, with vizor down, a warrior sheathed in steel; +Then said our Queen--'Was ever seen so stout a knight and tall? +His name--his race?'--'An't please your grace, it is the brave Fitzball. +{162} + +'Oft in the Melodrama line his prowess hath been shown, +And well throughout the Surrey side his thirst for blood is known. +But see, the other champion comes!'--Then rang the startled air +With shouts of 'Wordsworth, Wordsworth, ho! the bard of Rydal's there.' + +And lo! upon a little steed, unmeet for such a course, +Appeared the honoured veteran; but weak seemed man and horse. +Then shook their ears the sapient peers,--'That joust will soon be done: +My Lord of Brougham, I'll back Fitzball, and give you two to one!' + +'Done,' quoth the Brougham,--'And done with you!' 'Now, Minstrels, are +you ready?' +Exclaimed the Lord of Waterford,--'You'd better both sit steady. +Blow, trumpets, blow the note of charge! and forward to the fight!' +'Amen!' said good Sir Aubrey Vere; 'Saint Schism defend the right!' + +As sweeps the blast against the mast when blows the furious squall, +So started at the trumpet's sound the terrible Fitzball; +His lance he bore his breast before,--Saint George protect the just! +Or Wordsworth's hoary head must roll along the shameful dust! + +'Who threw that calthrop? Seize the knave!' Alas! the deed is done; +Down went the steed, and o'er his head flew bright Apollo's son. +'Undo his helmet! cut the lace! pour water on his head!' +'It ain't no use at all, my lord; 'cos vy? the covey's dead!' + +Above him stood the Rydal bard--his face was full of woe. +'Now there thou liest, stiff and stark, who never feared a foe: +A braver knight, or more renowned in tourney and in hall, +Ne'er brought the upper gallery down than terrible Fitzball!' + +They led our Wordsworth to the Queen--she crowned him with the bays, +And wished him many happy years, and many quarter-days; +And if you'd have the story told by abler lips than mine, +You've but to call at Rydal Mount, and taste the Laureate's wine!" + + + +The Royal Banquet. + + +BY THE HON. G--- B--- S---. + +The Queen she kept high festival in Windsor's lordly hall, +And round her sat the gartered knights, and ermined nobles all; +There drank the valiant Wellington, there fed the wary Peel, +And at the bottom of the board Prince Albert carved the veal. + +"What, pantler, ho! remove the cloth! Ho! cellarer, the wine, +And bid the royal nurse bring in the hope of Brunswick's line!" +Then rose with one tumultuous shout the band of British peers, +"God bless her sacred Majesty! Let's see the little dears!" + +Now by Saint George, our patron saint, 'twas a touching sight to see +That iron warrior gently place the Princess on his knee; +To hear him hush her infant fears, and teach her how to gape +With rosy mouth expectant for the raisin and the grape! + +They passed the wine, the sparkling wine--they filled the goblets up; +Even Brougham, the cynic anchorite, smiled blandly on the cup; +And Lyndhurst, with a noble thirst, that nothing could appease, +Proposed the immortal memory of King William on his knees. + +"What want we here, my gracious liege," cried gay Lord Aberdeen, +"Save gladsome song and minstrelsy to flow our cups between? +I ask not now for Goulburn's voice or Knatchbull's warbling lay, {168} +But where's the Poet Laureate to grace our board to-day?" + +Loud laughed the Knight of Netherby, and scornfully he cried, +"Or art thou mad with wine, Lord Earl, or art thyself beside? +Eight hundred Bedlam bards have claimed the Laureate's vacant crown, +And now like frantic Bacchanals run wild through London town!" + +"Now glory to our gracious Queen!" a voice was heard to cry, +And dark Macaulay stood before them all with frenzied eye; +"Now glory to our gracious Queen, and all her glorious race, +A boon, a boon, my sovran liege! Give me the Laureate's place! + +"'Twas I that sang the might of Rome, the glories of Navarre; +And who could swell the fame so well of Britain's Isles afar? +The hero of a hundred fights--" Then Wellington up sprung, +"Ho, silence in the ranks, I say! Sit down and hold your tongue! + +"By heaven, thou shalt not twist my name into a jingling lay, +Or mimic in thy puny song the thunders of Assaye! +'Tis hard that for thy lust of place in peace we cannot dine. +Nurse, take her Royal Highness, here! Sir Robert, pass the wine!" + +"No Laureate need we at our board!" then spoke the Lord of Vaux; +"Here's many a voice to charm the ear with minstrel song, I know. +Even I myself--" Then rose the cry--"A song, a song from Brougham!" +He sang,--and straightway found himself alone within the room. + + + +The Bard of Erin's Lament. + + +BY T--- M---RE, ESQ. + +Oh, weep for the hours, when the little blind boy + Wove round me the spells of his Paphian bower; +When I dipped my light wings in the nectar of joy, + And soared in the sunshine, the moth of the hour! +From beauty to beauty I passed, like the wind; + Now fondled the lily, now toyed with the Rose; +And the fair, that at morn had enchanted my mind, + Was forsook for another ere evening's close. + +I sighed not for honour, I cared not for fame, + While Pleasure sat by me, and Love was my guest; +They twined a fresh wreath for each day as it came, + And the bosom of Beauty still pillowed my rest: +And the harp of my country--neglected it slept-- + In hall or by greenwood unheard were its songs; +From Love's Sybarite dreams I aroused me, and swept + Its chords to the tale of her glories and wrongs. + +But weep for the hour!--Life's summer is past, + And the snow of its winter lies cold on my brow; +And my soul, as it shrinks from each stroke of the blast, + Cannot turn to a fire that glows inwardly now. +No, its ashes are dead--and, alas! Love or Song + No charm to Life's lengthening shadows can lend, +Like a cup of old wine, rich, mellow, and strong, + And a seat by the fire _tete-a-tete_ with a friend. + + + +The Laureate. + + +BY A--- T---. + + Who would not be + The Laureate bold, + With his butt of sherry + To keep him merry, +And nothing to do but to pocket his gold? +'Tis I would be the Laureate bold! +When the days are hot, and the sun is strong, +I'd lounge in the gateway all the day long, +With her Majesty's footmen in crimson and gold. +I'd care not a pin for the waiting-lord; +But I'd lie on my back on the smooth greensward +With a straw in my mouth, and an open vest, +And the cool wind blowing upon my breast, +And I'd vacantly stare at the clear blue sky, +And watch the clouds that are listless as I, + Lazily, lazily! +And I'd pick the moss and the daisies white, +And chew their stalks with a nibbling bite; +And I'd let my fancies roam abroad +In search of a hint for a birthday ode, + Crazily, crazily! + +Oh, that would be the life for me, +With plenty to get and nothing to do, +But to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of blue, +And whistle all day to the Queen's cockatoo, + Trance-somely, trance-somely! +Then the chambermaids, that clean the rooms, +Would come to the windows and rest on their brooms, +With their saucy caps and their crisped hair, +And they'd toss their heads in the fragrant air, +And say to each other--"Just look down there, +At the nice young man, so tidy and small, +Who is paid for writing on nothing at all, + Handsomely, handsomely!" + +They would pelt me with matches and sweet pastilles, +And crumpled-up balls of the royal bills, +Giggling and laughing, and screaming with fun, +As they'd see me start, with a leap and a run, +From the broad of my back to the points of my toes, +When a pellet of paper hit my nose, + Teasingly, sneezingly. +Then I'd fling them bunches of garden flowers, +And hyacinths plucked from the Castle bowers; +And I'd challenge them all to come down to me, +And I'd kiss them all till they kissed me, + Laughingly, laughingly. + +Oh, would not that be a merry life, +Apart from care and apart from strife, +With the Laureate's wine, and the Laureate's pay, +And no deductions at quarter-day? +Oh, that would be the post for me! +With plenty to get and nothing to do, +But to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of blue, +And whistle a tune to the Queen's cockatoo, +And scribble of verses remarkably few, +And empty at evening a bottle or two, + Quaffingly, quaffingly! + + 'Tis I would be + The Laureate bold, + With my butt of sherry + To keep me merry, +And nothing to do but to pocket my gold! + + + +A Midnight Meditation. + + +BY SIR E--- B--- L---. + +Fill me once more the foaming pewter up! + Another board of oysters, ladye mine! +To-night Lucullus with himself shall sup. + These mute inglorious Miltons {177} are divine + And as I here in slippered ease recline, +Quaffing of Perkin's Entire my fill, +I sigh not for the lymph of Aganippe's rill. + +A nobler inspiration fires my brain, + Caught from Old England's fine time-hallowed drink; +I snatch the pot again and yet again, + And as the foaming fluids shrink and shrink, + Fill me once more, I say, up to the brink! +This makes strong hearts--strong heads attest its charm-- +This nerves the might that sleeps in Britain's brawny arm! + +But these remarks are neither here nor there. + Where was I? Oh, I see--old Southey's dead! +They'll want some bard to fill the vacant chair, + And drain the annual butt--and oh, what head + More fit with laurel to be garlanded +Than this, which, curled in many a fragrant coil, +Breathes of Castalia's streams, and best Macassar oil? + +I know a grace is seated on my brow, + Like young Apollo's with his golden beams-- +There should Apollo's bays be budding now:-- + And in my flashing eyes the radiance beams, + That marks the poet in his waking dreams, +When, as his fancies cluster thick and thicker, +He feels the trance divine of poesy and liquor. + +They throng around me now, those things of air + That from my fancy took their being's stamp: +There Pelham sits and twirls his glossy hair, + There Clifford leads his pals upon the tramp; + There pale Zanoni, bending o'er his lamp, +Roams through the starry wilderness of thought, +Where all is everything, and everything is nought. + +Yes, I am he who sang how Aram won + The gentle ear of pensive Madeline! +How love and murder hand in hand may run, + Cemented by philosophy serene, + And kisses bless the spot where gore has been! +Who breathed the melting sentiment of crime, +And for the assassin waked a sympathy sublime! + +Yes, I am he, who on the novel shed + Obscure philosophy's enchanting light! +Until the public, 'wildered as they read, + Believed they saw that which was not in sight-- + Of course 'twas not for me to set them right; +For in my nether heart convinced I am, +Philosophy's as good as any other flam. + +Novels three-volumed I shall write no more-- + Somehow or other now they will not sell; +And to invent new passions is a bore-- + I find the Magazines pay quite as well. + Translating's simple, too, as I can tell, +Who've hawked at Schiller on his lyric throne, +And given the astonished bard a meaning all my own. + +Moore, Campbell, Wordsworth, their best days are grassed: + Battered and broken are their early lyres, +Rogers, a pleasant memory of the past, + Warmed his young hands at Smithfield's martyr fires, + And, worth a plum, nor bays nor butt desires. +But these are things would suit me to the letter, +For though this Stout is good, old Sherry's greatly better. + +A fico for your small poetic ravers, + Your Hunts, your Tennysons, your Milnes, and these! +Shall they compete with him who wrote 'Maltravers,' + Prologue to 'Alice or the Mysteries'? + No! Even now my glance prophetic sees +My own high brow girt with the bays about. +What ho! within there, ho! another pint of STOUT! + + + +Montgomery. + + +A POEM. + +Like one who, waking from a troublous dream, +Pursues with force his meditative theme; +Calm as the ocean in its halcyon still, +Calm as the sunlight sleeping on the hill; +Calm as at Ephesus great Paul was seen +To rend his robes in agonies serene; +Calm as the love that radiant Luther bore +To all that lived behind him and before; +Calm as meek Calvin, when, with holy smile, +He sang the mass around Servetus' pile,-- +So once again I snatch this harp of mine, +To breathe rich incense from a mystic shrine. +Not now to whisper to the ambient air +The sounds of Satan's Universal Prayer; +Not now to sing, in sweet domestic strife +That woman reigns the Angel of our life; +But to proclaim the wish, with pious art, +Which thrills through Britain's universal heart,-- +That on this brow, with native honours graced, +The Laureate's chaplet should at length be placed! + + Fear not, ye maids, who love to hear me speak; +Let no desponding tears bedim your cheek! +No gust of envy, no malicious scorn, +Hath this poor heart of mine with frenzy torn. +There are who move so far above the great, +Their very look disarms the glance of hate; +Their thoughts, more rich than emerald or gold, +Enwrap them like the prophet's mantle's fold. +Fear not for me, nor think that this our age, +Blind though it be, hath yet no Archimage. +I, who have bathed, in bright Castalia's tide +By classic Isis and more classic Clyde; +I, who have handled, in my lofty strain, +All things divine, and many things profane; +I, who have trod where seraphs fear to tread; +I, who on mount--no, "honey-dew" have fed; +I, who undaunted broke the mystic seal, +And left no page for prophets to reveal; +I, who in shade portentous Dante threw; +I, who have done what Milton dared not do,-- +I fear no rival for the vacant throne; +No mortal thunder shall eclipse my own! + + Let dark Macaulay chant his Roman lays, +Let Monckton Milnes go maunder for the bays, +Let Simmons call on great Napoleon's shade, +Let Lytton Bulwer seek his Aram's aid, +Let Wordsworth ask for help from Peter Bell, +Let Campbell carol Copenhagen's knell, +Let Delta warble through his Delphic groves, +Let Elliott shout for pork and penny loaves,-- +I care not, I! resolved to stand or fall; +One down, another on, I'll smash them all! + + Back, ye profane! this hand alone hath power +To pluck the laurel from its sacred bower; +This brow alone is privileged to wear +The ancient wreath o'er hyacinthine hair; +These lips alone may quaff the sparkling wine, +And make its mortal juice once more divine. +Back, ye profane! And thou, fair Queen, rejoice: +A nation's praise shall consecrate thy choice. +Thus, then, I kneel where Spenser knelt before, +On the same spot, perchance, of Windsor's floor; +And take, while awe-struck millions round me stand, +The hallowed wreath from great Victoria's hand. + + + +Little John and the Red Friar. + + +A LAY OF SHERWOOD. + + +FYTTE THE FIRST. + + +The deer may leap within the glade; + The fawns may follow free-- +For Robin is dead, and his bones are laid + Beneath the greenwood tree. + +And broken are his merry, merry men, + That goodly companie: +There's some have ta'en the northern road + With Jem of Netherbee. + +The best and bravest of the band + With Derby Ned are gone; +But Earlie Grey and Charlie Wood, + They stayed with Little John. + +Now Little John was an outlaw proud, + A prouder ye never saw; +Through Nottingham and Leicester shires + He thought his word was law, +And he strutted through the greenwood wide, + Like a pestilent jackdaw. + +He swore that none, but with leave of him, + Should set foot on the turf so free: +And he thought to spread his cutter's rule, + All over the south countrie. +"There's never a knave in the land," he said, + "But shall pay his toll to me!" + +And Charlie Wood was a taxman good + As ever stepped the ground, +He levied mail, like a sturdy thief, + From all the yeomen round. +"Nay, stand!" quoth he, "thou shalt pay to me + Seven pence from every pound!" + +Now word has come to Little John, + As he lay upon the grass, +That a Friar red was in merry Sherwood + Without his leave to pass. + +"Come hither, come hither, my little foot-page! + Ben Hawes, come tell to me, +What manner of man is this burly frere + Who walks the wood so free?" + +"My master good!" the little page said, + "His name I wot not well, +But he wears on his head a hat so red, + With a monstrous scallop-shell. + +"He says he is Prior of Copmanshurst, + And Bishop of London town, +And he comes with a rope from our father the Pope, + To put the outlaws down. + +"I saw him ride but yester-tide, + With his jolly chaplains three; +And he swears that he has an open pass + From Jem of Netherbee!" + +Little John has ta'en an arrow so broad, + And broken it o'er his knee; +"Now may I never strike doe again, + But this wrong avenged shall be! + +"And has he dared, this greasy frere, + To trespass in my bound, +Nor asked for leave from Little John + To range with hawk and hound? + +"And has he dared to take a pass + From Jem of Netherbee, +Forgetting that the Sherwood shaws + Pertain of right to me? + +"O were he but a simple man, + And not a slip-shod frere! +I'd hang him up by his own waist-rope + Above yon tangled brere. + +"O did he come alone from Jem, + And not from our father the Pope, +I'd bring him into Copmanshurst, + With the noose of a hempen rope! + +"But since he has come from our father the Pope, + And sailed across the sea, +And since he has power to bind and lose, + His life is safe for me; +But a heavy penance he shall do + Beneath the greenwood tree!" + +"O tarry yet!" quoth Charlie Wood, + "O tarry, master mine! +It's ill to shear a yearling hog, + Or twist the wool of swine! + +"It's ill to make a bonny silk purse + From the ear of a bristly boar; +It's ill to provoke a shaveling's curse, + When the way lies him before. + +"I've walked the forest for twenty years, + In wet weather and dry, +And never stopped a good fellowe, + Who had no coin to buy. + +"What boots it to search a beggarman's bags, + When no silver groat he has? +So, master mine, I rede you well, + E'en let the friar pass!" + +"Now cease thy prate," quoth Little John, + "Thou japest but in vain; +An he have not a groat within his pouch, + We may find a silver chain. + +"But were he as bare as a new-flayed buck, + As truly he may be, +He shall not tread the Sherwood shaws + Without the leave of me!" + +Little John has taken his arrows and bow, + His sword and buckler strong, +And lifted up his quarter-staff, + Was full three cloth yards long. + +And he has left his merry men + At the trysting-tree behind, +And gone into the gay greenwood, + This burly frere to find. + +O'er holt and hill, through brake and brere, + He took his way alone-- +Now, Lordlings, list and you shall hear + This geste of Little John. + + +FYTTE THE SECOND. + + +'Tis merry, 'tis merry in gay greenwood, + When the little birds are singing, +When the buck is belling in the fern, + And the hare from the thicket springing! + +'Tis merry to hear the waters clear, + As they splash in the pebbly fall; +And the ouzel whistling to his mate, + As he lights on the stones so small. + +But small pleasaunce took Little John + In all he heard and saw; +Till he reached the cave of a hermit old + Who wonned within the shaw. + +"_Ora pro nobis_!" quoth Little John-- + His Latin was somewhat rude-- +"Now, holy father, hast thou seen + A frere within the wood? + +"By his scarlet hose, and his ruddy nose, + I guess you may know him well; +And he wears on his head a hat so red, + And a monstrous scallop-shell." + +"I have served Saint Pancras," the hermit said, + "In this cell for thirty year, +Yet never saw I, in the forest bounds, + The face of such a frere! + +"An' if ye find him, master mine, + E'en take an old man's advice, +An' raddle him well, till he roar again, + Lest ye fail to meet him twice!" + +"Trust me for that!" quoth Little John-- + "Trust me for that!" quoth he, with a laugh; +"There never was man of woman born, + That asked twice for the taste of my quarter-staff!" + +Then Little John, he strutted on, + Till he came to an open bound, +And he was aware of a Red Friar, + Was sitting upon the ground. + +His shoulders they were broad and strong, + And large was he of limb; +Few yeomen in the north countrie + Would care to mell with him. + +He heard the rustling of the boughs, + As Little John drew near; +But never a single word he spoke, + Of welcome or of cheer: +Less stir he made than a pedlar would + For a small gnat in his ear! + +I like not his looks! thought Little John, + Nor his staff of the oaken tree. +Now may our Lady be my help, + Else beaten I well may be! + +"What dost thou here, thou strong Friar, + In Sherwood's merry round, +Without the leave of Little John, + To range with hawk and hound?" + +"Small thought have I," quoth the Red Friar, + "Of any leave, I trow; +That Little John is an outlawed thief, + And so, I ween, art thou! + +"Know, I am Prior of Copmanshurst, + And Bishop of London town, +And I bring a rope from our father the Pope, + To put the outlaws down." + +Then out spoke Little John in wrath, + "I tell thee, burly frere, +The Pope may do as he likes at home, + But he sends no Bishops here! + +"Up, and away, Red Friar!" he said, + "Up, and away, right speedilie; +An it were not for that cowl of thine, + Avenged on thy body I would be!" + +"Nay, heed not that," said the Red Friar, + "And let my cowl no hindrance be; +I warrant that I can give as good + As ever I think to take from thee!" + +Little John he raised his quarter-staff, + And so did the burly priest, +And they fought beneath the greenwood tree + A stricken hour at least. + +But Little John was weak of fence, + And his strength began to fail; +Whilst the Friar's blows came thundering down, + Like the strokes of a threshing-flail. + +"Now hold thy hand, thou stalwart Friar, + Now rest beneath the thorn, +Until I gather breath enow, + For a blast at my bugle-horn!" + +"I'll hold my hand," the Friar said, + "Since that is your propine, +But, an you sound your bugle-horn, + I'll even blow on mine!" + +Little John he wound a blast so shrill, + That it rang o'er rock and linn, +And Charlie Wood, and his merry men all, + Came lightly bounding in. + +The Friar he wound a blast so strong + That it shook both bush and tree, +And to his side came witless Will, + And Jem of Netherbee; +With all the worst of Robin's band, + And many a Rapparee! + +Little John he wist not what to do, + When he saw the others come; +So he twisted his quarter-staff between + His fingers and his thumb. + +"There's some mistake, good Friar!" he said, + "There's some mistake 'twixt thee and me; +I know thou art Prior of Copmanshurst, + But not beneath the greenwood tree. + +"And if you will take some other name, + You shall have ample leave to bide; +With pasture also for your Bulls, + And power to range the forest wide." + +"There's no mistake!" the Friar said; + "I'll call myself just what I please. +My doctrine is that chalk is chalk, + And cheese is nothing else than cheese." + +"So be it, then!" quoth Little John; + "But surely you will not object, +If I and all my merry men + Should treat you with reserved respect? + +"We can't call you Prior of Copmanshurst, + Nor Bishop of London town, +Nor on the grass, as you chance to pass, + Can we very well kneel down. + +"But you'll send the Pope my compliments, + And say, as a further hint, +That, within the Sherwood bounds, you saw +Little John, who is the son-in-law + Of his friend, old Mat-o'-the-Mint!" + +So ends this geste of Little John-- + God save our noble Queen! +But, Lordlings, say--Is Sherwood now + What Sherwood once hath been? {200} + + + +The Rhyme of Sir Launcelot Bogle. + + +A LEGEND OF GLASGOW. + +BY MRS E--- B--- B---. + +There's a pleasant place of rest, near a City of the West, + Where its bravest and its best find their grave. +Below the willows weep, and their hoary branches steep + In the waters still and deep, + Not a wave! + +And the old Cathedral Wall, so scathed and grey and tall, + Like a priest surveying all, stands beyond; +And the ringing of its bell, when the ringers ring it well, + Makes a kind of tidal swell + On the pond! + +And there it was I lay, on a beauteous summer's day, + With the odour of the hay floating by; +And I heard the blackbirds sing, and the bells demurely ring, + Chime by chime, ting by ting, + Droppingly. + +Then my thoughts went wandering back, on a very beaten track, + To the confine deep and black of the tomb; +And I wondered who he was, that is laid beneath the grass, + Where the dandelion has + Such a bloom. + +Then I straightway did espy, with my slantly-sloping eye, + A carved stone hard by, somewhat worn; +And I read in letters cold--Here.lyes.Launcelot.ye.bolde, + Off.ye.race.off.Bogile.old, + Glasgow.borne. + +He.wals.ane.valyaunt.knychte.maist.terrible.in.fychte. + Here the letters failed outright, but I knew +That a stout crusading lord, who had crossed the Jordan's ford, + Lay there beneath the sward, + Wet with dew. + +Time and tide they passed away, on that pleasant summer's day, + And around me, as I lay, all grew old: +Sank the chimneys from the town, and the clouds of vapour brown + No longer, like a crown, + O'er it rolled. + +Sank the great Saint Rollox stalk, like a pile of dingy chalk; + Disappeared the cypress walk, and the flowers; +And a donjon-keep arose, that might baffle any foes, + With its men-at-arms in rows, + On the towers. + +And the flag that flaunted there showed the grim and grizzly bear, + Which the Bogles always wear for their crest. +And I heard the warder call, as he stood upon the wall, + "Wake ye up! my comrades all, + From your rest! + +"For, by the blessed rood, there's a glimpse of armour good + In the deep Cowcaddens wood, o'er the stream; +And I hear the stifled hum of a multitude that come, + Though they have not beat the drum, + It would seem! + +"Go tell it to my Lord, lest he wish to man the ford + With partisan and sword, just beneath; +Ho, Gilkison and Nares! Ho, Provan of Cowlairs! + We'll back the bonny bears + To the death!" + +To the tower above the moat, like one who heedeth not, + Came the bold Sir Launcelot, half undressed; +On the outer rim he stood, and peered into the wood, + With his arms across him glued + On his breast. + +And he muttered, "Foe accurst! hast thou dared to seek me first? + George of Gorbals, do thy worst--for I swear, +O'er thy gory corpse to ride, ere thy sister and my bride, + From my undissevered side + Thou shalt tear! + +"Ho, herald mine, Brownlee! ride forth, I pray, and see, + Who, what, and whence is he, foe or friend! +Sir Roderick Dalgleish, and my foster-brother Neish, + With his bloodhounds in the leash, + Shall attend." + +Forth went the herald stout, o'er the drawbridge and without, + Then a wild and savage shout rose amain, +Six arrows sped their force, and, a pale and bleeding corse, + He sank from off his horse + On the plain! + +Back drew the bold Dalgleish, back started stalwart Neish, + With his bloodhounds in the leash, from Brownlee. +"Now shame be to the sword that made thee knight and lord, + Thou caitiff thrice abhorred, + Shame on thee! + +"Ho, bowmen, bend your bows! Discharge upon the foes + Forthwith no end of those heavy bolts. +Three angels to the brave who finds the foe a grave, + And a gallows for the slave + Who revolts!" + +Ten days the combat lasted; but the bold defenders fasted, + While the foemen, better pastied, fed their host; +You might hear the savage cheers of the hungry Gorbaliers, + As at night they dressed the steers + For the roast. + +And Sir Launcelot grew thin, and Provan's double chin + Showed sundry folds of skin down beneath; +In silence and in grief found Gilkison relief, + Nor did Neish the spell-word, beef, + Dare to breathe. + +To the ramparts Edith came, that fair and youthful dame, + With the rosy evening flame on her face. +She sighed, and looked around on the soldiers on the ground, + Who but little penance found, + Saying grace! + +And she said unto her lord, as he leaned upon his sword, + "One short and little word may I speak? +I cannot bear to view those eyes so ghastly blue, + Or mark the sallow hue + Of thy cheek! + +"I know the rage and wrath that my furious brother hath + Is less against us both than at me. +Then, dearest, let me go, to find among the foe + An arrow from the bow, + Like Brownlee!" + +"I would soil my father's name, I would lose my treasured fame, + Ladye mine, should such a shame on me light: +While I wear a belted brand, together still we stand, + Heart to heart, hand in hand!" + Said the knight. + +"All our chances are not lost, as your brother and his host + Shall discover to their cost rather hard! +Ho, Provan! take this key--hoist up the Malvoisie, + And heap it, d'ye see, + In the yard. + +"Of usquebaugh and rum, you will find, I reckon, some, + Besides the beer and mum, extra stout; +Go straightway to your tasks, and roll me all the casks, + As also range the flasks, + Just without. + +"If I know the Gorbaliers, they are sure to dip their ears + In the very inmost tiers of the drink. +Let them win the outer court, and hold it for their sport, + Since their time is rather short, + I should think!" + +With a loud triumphant yell, as the heavy drawbridge fell, + Rushed the Gorbaliers pell-mell, wild as Druids; +Mad with thirst for human gore, how they threatened and they swore, + Till they stumbled on the floor, + O'er the fluids. + +Down their weapons then they threw, and each savage soldier drew + From his belt an iron screw, in his fist; +George of Gorbals found it vain their excitement to restrain, + And indeed was rather fain + To assist. + +With a beaker in his hand, in the midst he took his stand, + And silence did command, all below-- +"Ho! Launcelot the bold, ere thy lips are icy cold, + In the centre of thy hold, + Pledge me now! + +"Art surly, brother mine? In this cup of rosy wine, + I drink to the decline of thy race! +Thy proud career is done, thy sand is nearly run, + Never more shall setting sun + Gild thy face! + +"The pilgrim, in amaze, shall see a goodly blaze, + Ere the pallid morning rays flicker up; +And perchance he may espy certain corpses swinging high! + What, brother! art thou dry? + Fill my cup!" + +Dumb as death stood Launcelot, as though he heard him not, + But his bosom Provan smote, and he swore; +And Sir Roderick Dalgleish remarked aside to Neish, + "Never sure did thirsty fish + Swallow more! + +"Thirty casks are nearly done, yet the revel's scarce begun; + It were knightly sport and fun to strike in!" +"Nay, tarry till they come," quoth Neish, "unto the rum-- + They are working at the mum, + And the gin!" + +Then straight there did appear to each gallant Gorbalier + Twenty castles dancing near, all around; +The solid earth did shake, and the stones beneath them quake, + And sinuous as a snake + Moved the ground. + +Why and wherefore they had come, seemed intricate to some, + But all agreed the rum was divine. +And they looked with bitter scorn on their leader highly born, + Who preferred to fill his horn + Up with wine! + +Then said Launcelot the tall, "Bring the chargers from their stall; + Lead them straight unto the hall, down below: +Draw your weapons from your side, fling the gates asunder wide, + And together we shall ride + On the foe!" + +Then Provan knew full well, as he leaped into his selle, + That few would 'scape to tell how they fared; +And Gilkison and Nares, both mounted on their mares, + Looked terrible as bears, + All prepared. + +With his bloodhounds in the leash, stood the iron-sinewed Neish, + And the falchion of Dalgleish glittered bright-- +"Now, wake the trumpet's blast; and, comrades, follow fast; + Smite them down unto the last!" + Cried the knight. + +In the cumbered yard without, there was shriek, and yell, and shout, + As the warriors wheeled about, all in mail. +On the miserable kerne fell the death-strokes stiff and stern, + As the deer treads down the fern, + In the vale! + +Saint Mungo be my guide! It was goodly in that tide + To see the Bogle ride in his haste; +He accompanied each blow with a cry of "Ha!" or "Ho!" + And always cleft the foe + To the waist. + +"George of Gorbals--craven lord! thou didst threat me with the cord; + Come forth and brave my sword, if you dare!" +But he met with no reply, and never could descry + The glitter of his eye + Anywhere. + +Ere the dawn of morning shone, all the Gorbaliers were down, + Like a field of barley mown in the ear: +It had done a soldier good to see how Provan stood, + With Neish all bathed in blood, + Panting near. + +"Now bend ye to your tasks--go trundle down those casks, + And place the empty flasks on the floor; +George of Gorbals scarce will come, with trumpet and with drum, + To taste our beer and rum + Any more!" + +So they bent them to their tasks, and they trundled down the casks, + And replaced the empty flasks on the floor; +But pallid for a week was the cellar-master's cheek, + For he swore he heard a shriek + Through the door. + +When the merry Christmas came, and the Yule-log lent its flame + To the face of squire and dame in the hall, +The cellarer went down to tap October brown, + Which was rather of renown + 'Mongst them all. + +He placed the spigot low, and gave the cask a blow, + But his liquor would not flow through the pin. +"Sure, 'tis sweet as honeysuckles!" so he rapped it with his knuckles, + But a sound, as if of buckles, + Clashed within. + +"Bring a hatchet, varlets, here!" and they cleft the cask of beer: + What a spectacle of fear met their sight! +There George of Gorbals lay, skull and bones all blanched and grey, + In the arms he bore the day + Of the fight! + +I have sung this ancient tale, not, I trust, without avail, + Though the moral ye may fail to perceive; +Sir Launcelot is dust, and his gallant sword is rust, + And now, I think, I must + Take my leave! + + + + +ILLUSTRATIONS +OF +THE PUFF POETICAL + + +[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:-- + +"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.' + +"'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.' + +"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.] + + + +The Death of Ishmael. + + +Died the Jew? "The Hebrew died. + On the pavement cold he lay, +Around him closed the living tide; + The butcher's cad set down his tray; +The pot-boy from the Dragon Green + No longer for his pewter calls; +The Nereid rushes in between, + Nor more her 'Fine live mackerel!' bawls." + +Died the Jew? "The Hebrew died. + They raised him gently from the stone, +They flung his coat and neckcloth wide-- + But linen had that Hebrew none. +They raised the pile of hats that pressed + His noble head, his locks of snow; +But, ah, that head, upon his breast, + Sank down with an expiring 'Clo!'" + +Died the Jew? "The Hebrew died, + Struck with overwhelming qualms +From the flavour spreading wide + Of some fine Virginia hams. +Would you know the fatal spot, + Fatal to that child of sin? +These fine-flavoured hams are bought + AT 50 BISHOPSGATE WITHIN!" + + + +Parr's Life Pills. + + +'Twas in the town of Lubeck, + A hundred years ago, +An old man walked into the church, + With beard as white as snow; +Yet were his cheeks not wrinkled, + Nor dim his eagle eye: +There's many a knight that steps the street, +Might wonder, should he chance to meet + That man erect and high! + +When silenced was the organ, + And hushed the vespers loud, +The Sacristan approached the sire, + And drew him from the crowd-- +"There's something in thy visage, + On which I dare not look; +And when I rang the passing bell, +A tremor that I may not tell, + My very vitals shook. + +"Who art thou, awful stranger? + Our ancient annals say, +That twice two hundred years ago + Another passed this way, +Like thee in face and feature; + And, if the tale be true, +'Tis writ, that in this very year +Again the stranger shall appear. + Art thou the Wandering Jew?" + +"The Wandering Jew, thou dotard!" + The wondrous phantom cried-- +"'Tis several centuries ago + Since that poor stripling died. +He would not use my nostrums-- + See, shaveling, here they are! +_These_ put to flight all human ills, +These conquer death--unfailing pills, + And I'm the inventor, PARR!" + + + +Tarquin and the Augur. + + +Gingerly is good King Tarquin shaving. + Gently glides the razor o'er his chin, +Near him stands a grim Haruspex raving, + And with nasal whine he pitches in + Church extension hints, + Till the monarch squints, +Snicks his chin, and swears--a deadly sin! + +"Jove confound thee, thou bare-legged impostor! + From my dressing-table get thee gone! +Dost thou think my flesh is double Glo'ster? + There again! That cut was to the bone! + Get ye from my sight; + I'll believe you're right, +When my razor cuts the sharpening hone!" + +Thus spoke Tarquin with a deal of dryness; + But the Augur, eager for his fees, +Answered--"Try it, your Imperial Highness; + Press a little harder, if you please. + There! the deed is done!" + Through the solid stone +Went the steel as glibly as through cheese. + +So the Augur touched the tin of Tarquin, + Who suspected some celestial aid; +But he wronged the blameless gods; for hearken! + Ere the monarch's bet was rashly laid, + With his searching eye + Did the priest espy +ROGERS' name engraved upon the blade. + + + +La Mort d'Arthur, + + +NOT BY ALFRED TENNYSON. + +Slowly, as one who bears a mortal hurt, +Through which the fountain of his life runs dry, +Crept good King Arthur down unto the lake. +A roughening wind was bringing in the waves +With cold dull plash and plunging to the shore, +And a great bank of clouds came sailing up +Athwart the aspect of the gibbous moon, +Leaving no glimpse save starlight, as he sank, +With a short stagger, senseless on the stones. + + No man yet knows how long he lay in swound; +But long enough it was to let the rust +Lick half the surface of his polished shield; +For it was made by far inferior hands, +Than forged his helm, his breastplate, and his greaves, +Whereon no canker lighted, for they bore +The magic stamp of MECHI'S SILVER STEEL. + + + +Jupiter and the Indian Ale. + + +"Take away this clammy nectar!" + Said the king of gods and men; +"Never at Olympus' table + Let that trash be served again. +Ho, Lyaeus, thou the beery! + Quick--invent some other drink; +Or, in a brace of shakes, thou standest + On Cocytus' sulphury brink!" + +Terror shook the limbs of Bacchus, + Paly grew his pimpled nose, +And already in his rearward + Felt he Jove's tremendous toes; +When a bright idea struck him-- + "Dash my thyrsus! I'll be bail-- +For you never were in India-- + That you know not HODGSON'S ALE!" + +"Bring it!" quoth the Cloud-compeller; + And the wine-god brought the beer-- +"Port and claret are like water + To the noble stuff that's here!" +And Saturnius drank and nodded, + Winking with his lightning eyes, +And amidst the constellations + Did the star of HODGSON rise! + + + +The Lay of the Doudney Brothers. + + +Coats at five-and-forty shillings! trousers ten-and-six a pair! +Summer waistcoats, three a sov'reign, light and comfortable wear! +Taglionis, black or coloured, Chesterfield and velveteen! +The old English shooting-jacket--doeskins such as ne'er were seen! +Army cloaks and riding-habits, Alberts at a trifling cost! +Do you want an annual contract? Write to DOUDNEYS' by the post. +DOUDNEY BROTHERS! DOUDNEY BROTHERS! Not the men that drive the van, +Plastered o'er with advertisements, heralding some paltry plan, +How, by base mechanic stinting, and by pinching of their backs, +Lean attorneys' clerks may manage to retrieve their Income-tax: +But the old established business--where the best of clothes are given +At the very lowest prices--Fleet Street, Number Ninety-seven. +Wouldst thou know the works of DOUDNEY? Hie thee to the thronged Arcade, +To the Park upon a Sunday, to the terrible Parade. +There, amid the bayonets bristling, and the flashing of the steel, +When the household troops in squadrons round the bold field-marshals +wheel, +Shouldst thou see an aged warrior in a plain blue morning frock, +Peering at the proud battalions o'er the margin of his stock,-- +Should thy throbbing heart then tell thee, that the veteran worn and grey +Curbed the course of Bonaparte, rolled the thunders of Assaye-- +Let it tell thee, stranger, likewise, that the goodly garb he wears +Started into shape and being from the DOUDNEY BROTHERS' shears! +Seek thou next the rooms of Willis--mark, where D'Orsay's Count is +bending, +See the trouser's undulation from his graceful hip descending; +Hath the earth another trouser so compact and love-compelling? +Thou canst find it, stranger, only, if thou seek'st the DOUDNEYS' +dwelling! +Hark, from Windsor's royal palace, what sweet voice enchants the ear? +"Goodness, what a lovely waistcoat! Oh, who made it, Albert dear? +'Tis the very prettiest pattern! You must get a dozen others!" +And the Prince, in rapture, answers--"'Tis the work of DOUDNEY BROTHERS!" + + + +Paris and Helen. + + +As the youthful Paris presses + Helen to his ivory breast. +Sporting with her golden tresses, + Close and ever closer pressed, + +"Let me," said he, "quaff the nectar, + Which thy lips of ruby yield; +Glory I can leave to Hector, + Gathered in the tented field. + +"Let me ever gaze upon thee, + Look into thine eyes so deep; +With a daring hand I won thee, + With a faithful heart I'll keep. + +"Oh, my Helen, thou bright wonder, + Who was ever like to thee? +Jove would lay aside his thunder, + So he might be blest like me. + +"How mine eyes so fondly linger + On thy smooth and pearly skin; +Scan each round and rosy finger, + Drinking draughts of beauty in! + +"Tell me, whence thy beauty, fairest? + Whence thy cheek's enchanting bloom? +Whence the rosy hue thou wearest; + Breathing round thee rich perfume?" + +Thus he spoke, with heart that panted, + Clasped her fondly to his side, +Gazed on her with look enchanted, + While his Helen thus replied: + +"Be no discord, love, between us, + If I not the secret tell! +'Twas a gift I had of Venus,-- + Venus, who hath loved me well; + +"And she told me as she gave it, + 'Let not e'er the charm be known; +O'er thy person freely lave it, + Only when thou art alone.' + +"'Tis enclosed in yonder casket-- + Here behold its golden key; +But its name--love, do not ask it, + Tell't I may not, even to thee!" + +Long with vow and kiss he plied her; + Still the secret did she keep, +Till at length he sank beside her, + Seemed as he had dropped to sleep. + +Soon was Helen laid in slumber, + When her Paris, rising slow, +Did his fair neck disencumber + From her rounded arms of snow. + +Then, her heedless fingers oping, + Takes the key and steals away, +To the ebon table groping, + Where the wondrous casket lay; + +Eagerly the lid uncloses, + Sees within it, laid aslope, +PEARS' LIQUID BLOOM OF ROSES, + Cakes of his TRANSPARENT SOAP! + + + +A Warning. + + +Lose thou no time! A grave and solemn warning, + Yet seldom ta'en, to man's eternal cost. +Night wanes, day lessens, evening, noon, and morning + Flit by unseen, and yet much time is lost. + +And why? Are moments useless as the vapour + That rises from the lamp's extinguish'd flame! +Why do we, like the moth around the taper, + Sport with the fire that must consume our frame? + +Be wise in time! Arouse thee, oh thou sleeper, + Account thy moments dearer than thy gold; +While time thou hast, appoint a good time-keeper + To treasure up thine hours till thou art old. + +Lose but this chance, and thou art lost for ever,-- + Seek him who keeps a watch for sinking souls-- +Ask for COX SAVORY'S HORIZONTAL LEVER, + With double case, and jewell'd in four holes! + + + +To Persons About to Marry. + + +Gentle pair, ere Hymen binds you + In his fetters, soft but sure, +Pray, bethink you, have you ever + Had substantial furniture? + +Love's a fickle god, they tell us, + Giddy-pated, lightly led, +Therefore it were well you found him + In a comfortable bed. + +Olive branches soon will blossom + Round your table, two or three; +And that table should be made of + Good and strong mahogany. + +If the cares of life should gather, + And we all must look for cares,-- +Sorrow falls extremely lightly + In the midst of rosewood chairs. + +Few that walk can 'scape a stumble, + Thus hath said The Prophet-King; +But your fall will be a light one + On Axminster carpeting. + +We can keep your little children + From collision with the grate-- +We have wardrobes, we have presses + At a reasonable rate; + +Mirrors for the queen of beauty + Basins of the purest stone, +Ottomans which Cleopatra + Might have envied on her throne. + +Seek us ere you taste with rapture + Love's sweet draught of filter'd honey, +And you'll find the safest plan is, + NO DISCOUNT, AND READY MONEY! + + + +Want Places. + + +Wants a place a lad, who's seen + Pious life at brother Teazle's, +Used to cleaning boots, and been + Touch'd with grace, and had the measles. + +* * * * * + +Wants a place as housemaid, or +Companion to a bachelor, +Up in years, and who'd prefer +A person with no character, +A female, who in this respect, +Would leave him nothing to object. + + + + +MISCELLANEOUS POEMS + + + + +The Lay of the Lover's Friend. + + +[AIR--"_The days we went a-gypsying_."] + +I would all womankind were dead, + Or banished o'er the sea; +For they have been a bitter plague + These last six weeks to me: +It is not that I'm touched myself, + For that I do not fear; +No female face has shown me grace + For many a bygone year. + But 'tis the most infernal bore, + Of all the bores I know, + To have a friend who's lost his heart + A short time ago. + +Whene'er we steam it to Blackwall, + Or down to Greenwich run, +To quaff the pleasant cider-cup, + And feed on fish and fun; +Or climb the slopes of Richmond Hill, + To catch a breath of air: +Then, for my sins, he straight begins + To rave about his fair. + Oh, 'tis the most tremendous bore, + Of all the bores I know, + To have a friend who's lost his heart + A short time ago. + +In vain you pour into his ear + Your own confiding grief; +In vain you claim his sympathy, + In vain you ask relief; +In vain you try to rouse him by + Joke, repartee, or quiz; +His sole reply's a burning sigh, + And "What a mind it is!" + O Lord! it is the greatest bore, + Of all the bores I know, + To have a friend who's lost his heart + A short time ago. + +I've heard her thoroughly described + A hundred times, I'm sure; +And all the while I've tried to smile, + And patiently endure; +He waxes strong upon his pangs, + And potters o'er his grog; +And still I say, in a playful way-- + "Why, you're a lucky dog!" + But oh! it is the heaviest bore, + Of all the bores I know, + To have a friend who's lost his heart + A short time ago. + +I really wish he'd do like me, + When I was young and strong; +I formed a passion every week, + But never kept it long. +But he has not the sportive mood + That always rescued me, +And so I would all women could + Be banished o'er the sea. + For 'tis the most egregious bore, + Of all the bores I know, + To have a friend who's lost his heart + A short time ago. + + + +Francesca Da Rimini. + + +TO BON GAULTIER. + +[ARGUMENT.--An impassioned pupil of Leigh Hunt, having met Bon Gaultier +at a Fancy Ball, declares the destructive consequences thus.] + +Didst thou not praise me, Gaultier, at the ball, +Ripe lips, trim boddice, and a waist so small, +With clipsome lightness, dwindling ever less, +Beneath the robe of pea-y greeniness? +Dost thou remember, when, with stately prance, +Our heads went crosswise in the country-dance; +How soft, warm fingers, tipped like buds of balm, +Trembled within the squeezing of thy palm; +And how a cheek grew flushed and peachy-wise +At the frank lifting of thy cordial eyes? +Ah, me! that night there was one gentle thing, +Who, like a dove, with its scarce feathered wing, +Fluttered at the approach of thy quaint swaggering! + +There's wont to be, at conscious times like these, +An affectation of a bright-eyed ease,-- +A crispy cheekiness, if so I dare +Describe the swaling of a jaunty air; +And thus, when swirling from the waltz's wheel, +You craved my hand to grace the next quadrille, +That smiling voice, although it made me start, +Boiled in the meek o'erlifting of my heart; +And, picking at my flowers, I said, with free +And usual tone, "O yes, sir, certainly!" + +Like one that swoons, 'twixt sweet amaze and fear, +I heard the music burning in my ear, +And felt I cared not, so thou wert with me, +If Gurth or Wamba were our vis-a-vis. +So, when a tall Knight Templar ringing came, +And took his place amongst us with his dame, +I neither turned away, nor bashful shrunk +From the stern survey of the soldier-monk, +Though rather more than three full quarters drunk; +But, threading through the figure, first in rule, +I paused to see thee plunge into La Poule. + +Ah, what a sight was that! Not prurient Mars, +Pointing his toe through ten celestial bars-- +Not young Apollo, beamily arrayed +In tripsome guise for Juno's masquerade-- +Not smartest Hermes, with his pinion girth, +Jerking with freaks and snatches down to earth, +Looked half so bold, so beautiful, and strong, +As thou, when pranking through the glittering throng! +How the calmed ladies looked with eyes of love +On thy trim velvet doublet laced above; +The hem of gold, that, like a wavy river, +Flowed down into thy back with glancing shiver! +So bare was thy fine throat, and curls of black, +So lightsomely dropped in thy lordly back, +So crisply swaled the feather in thy bonnet, +So glanced thy thigh, and spanning palm upon it, +That my weak soul took instant flight to thee, +Lost in the fondest gush of that sweet witchery! + +But when the dance was o'er, and arm in arm +(The full heart beating 'gainst the elbow warm) +We passed into the great refreshment-hall, +Where the heaped cheese-cakes and the comfits small +Lay, like a hive of sunbeams, brought to burn +Around the margin of the negus urn; +When my poor quivering hand you fingered twice, +And, with inquiring accents, whispered "Ice, +Water, or cream?" I could no more dissemble, +But dropped upon the couch all in a tremble. +A swimming faintness misted o'er my brain, +The corks seemed starting from the brisk champagne, +The custards fell untouched upon the floor, +Thine eyes met mine. That night we danced no more! + + + +The Cadi's Daughter. + + +A LEGEND OF THE BOSPHORUS. + +[FROM ANY OF THE ANNUALS.] + +How beauteous is the star of night + Within the eastern skies, +Like the twinkling glance of the Toorkman's lance, + Or the antelope's azure eyes! +A lamp of love in the heaven above, + That star is fondly streaming; +And the gay kiosk and the shadowy mosque + In the Golden Horn are gleaming. + +Young Leila sits in her jasmine bower, + And she hears the bulbul sing, +As it thrills its throat to the first full note, + That anthems the flowery spring. +She gazes still, as a maiden will, + On that beauteous eastern star: +You might see the throb of her bosom's sob + Beneath the white cymar! + +She thinks of him who is far away,-- + Her own brave Galiongee,-- +Where the billows foam and the breezes roam, + On the wild Carpathian sea. +She thinks of the oath that bound them both + Beside the stormy water; +And the words of love, that in Athens' grove + He spake to the Cadi's daughter. + +"My Selim!" thus the maiden said, + "Though severed thus we be +By the raging deep and the mountain steep, + My soul still yearns to thee. +Thy form so dear is mirrored here + In my heart's pellucid well, +As the rose looks up to Phingari's orb, + Or the moth to the gay gazelle. + +"I think of the time when the Kaftan's crime + Our love's young joys o'ertook, +And thy name still floats in the plaintive notes + Of my silver-toned chibouque. +Thy hand is red with the blood it has shed, + Thy soul it is heavy laden; +Yet come, my Giaour, to thy Leila's bower; + Oh, come to thy Turkish maiden!" + +A light step trod on the dewy sod, + And a voice was in her ear, +And an arm embraced young Leila's waist-- + "Beloved! I am here!" +Like the phantom form that rules the storm, + Appeared the pirate lover, +And his fiery eye was like Zatanai, + As he fondly bent above her. + +"Speak, Leila, speak; for my light caique + Rides proudly in yonder bay; +I have come from my rest to her I love best, + To carry thee, love, away. +The breast of thy lover shall shield thee, and cover + My own jemscheed from harm; +Think'st thou I fear the dark vizier, + Or the mufti's vengeful arm? + +"Then droop not, love, nor turn away + From this rude hand of mine!" +And Leila looked in her lover's eyes, + And murmured--"I am thine!" +But a gloomy man with a yataghan. + Stole through the acacia-blossoms, +And the thrust he made with his gleaming blade + Hath pierced through both their bosoms. + +"There! there! thou cursed caitiff Giaour! + There, there, thou false one, lie!" +Remorseless Hassan stands above, + And he smiles to see them die. +They sleep beneath the fresh green turf, + The lover and the lady-- +And the maidens wail to hear the tale + Of the daughter of the Cadi! + + + +The Dirge of the Drinker. + + +Brothers, spare awhile your liquor, lay your final tumbler down; +He has dropped--that star of honour--on the field of his renown! +Raise the wail, but raise it softly, lowly bending on your knees, +If you find it more convenient, you may hiccup if you please. +Sons of Pantagruel, gently let your hip-hurrahing sink, +Be your manly accents clouded, half with sorrow, half with drink! +Lightly to the sofa pillow lift his head from off the floor; +See, how calm he sleeps, unconscious as the deadest nail in door! +Widely o'er the earth I've wandered; where the drink most freely flowed, +I have ever reeled the foremost, foremost to the beaker strode. +Deep in shady Cider Cellars I have dreamed o'er heavy wet, +By the fountains of Damascus I have quaffed the rich sherbet, +Regal Montepulciano drained beneath its native rock, +On Johannis' sunny mountain frequent hiccuped o'er my hock; +I have bathed in butts of Xeres deeper than did e'er Monsoon, +Sangaree'd with bearded Tartars in the Mountains of the Moon; +In beer-swilling Copenhagen I have drunk your Danesman blind, +I have kept my feet in Jena, when each bursch to earth declined; +Glass for glass, in fierce Jamaica, I have shared the planter's rum. +Drunk with Highland dhuine-wassails, till each gibbering Gael grew dumb; +But a stouter, bolder drinker--one that loved his liquor more-- +Never yet did I encounter than our friend upon the floor! +Yet the best of us are mortal, we to weakness all are heir, +He has fallen who rarely staggered--let the rest of us beware! +We shall leave him as we found him,--lying where his manhood fell, +'Mong the trophies of the revel, for he took his tipple well. +Better 'twere we loosed his neckcloth, laid his throat and bosom bare, +Pulled his Hobies off, and turned his toes to taste the breezy air. +Throw the sofa cover o'er him, dim the flaring of the gas, +Calmly, calmly let him slumber, and, as by the bar we pass, +We shall bid that thoughtful waiter place beside him, near and handy, +Large supplies of soda-water, tumblers bottomed well with brandy, +So, when waking, he shall drain them, with that deathless thirst of +his,-- +Clinging to the hand that smote him, like a good 'un as he is! + + + +The Death of Duval. + + +BY W--- H--- A---TH, ESQ. + +["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!"--BEGGARS +OPERA.] + +A living sea of eager human faces, + A thousand bosoms throbbing all as one, +Walls, windows, balconies, all sorts of places, + Holding their crowds of gazers to the sun: + Through the hushed groups low-buzzing murmurs run; +And on the air, with slow reluctant swell, +Comes the dull funeral-boom of old Sepulchre's bell. + +Oh, joy in London now! in festal measure + Be spent the evening of this festive day! +For thee is opening now a high-strung pleasure; + Now, even now, in yonder press-yard they + Strike from his limbs the fetters loose away! +A little while, and he, the brave Duval, +Will issue forth, serene, to glad and greet you all. + +"Why comes he not? Say, wherefore doth he tarry?" + Starts the inquiry loud from every tongue. +"Surely," they cry, "that tedious Ordinary + His tedious psalms must long ere this have sung,-- + Tedious to him that's waiting to be hung!" +But hark! old Newgate's doors fly wide apart. +"He comes, he comes!" A thrill shoots through each gazer's heart. + +Joined in the stunning cry ten thousand voices, + All Smithfield answered to the loud acclaim. +"He comes, he comes!" and every breast rejoices, + As down Snow Hill the shout tumultuous came, + Bearing to Holborn's crowd the welcome fame. +"He comes, he comes!" and each holds back his breath-- +Some ribs are broke, and some few scores are crushed to death. + +With step majestic to the cart advances + The dauntless Claude, and springs into his seat. +He feels that on him now are fixed the glances + Of many a Briton bold and maiden sweet, + Whose hearts responsive to his glories beat. +In him the honour of "The Road" is centred, +And all the hero's fire into his bosom entered. + +His was the transport--his the exultation + Of Rome's great generals, when from afar, +Up to the Capitol, in the ovation, + They bore with them, in the triumphal car, + Rich gold and gems, the spoils of foreign war. +_Io Triumphe_! They forgot their clay. +E'en so Duval, who rode in glory on his way. + +His laced cravat, his kids of purest yellow, + The many-tinted nosegay in his hand, +His large black eyes, so fiery, yet so mellow, + Like the old vintages of Spanish land, + Locks clustering o'er a brow of high command, +Subdue all hearts; and, as up Holborn's steep +Toils the slow car of death, e'en cruel butchers weep. + +He saw it, but he heeded not. His story, + He knew, was graven on the page of Time. +Tyburn to him was as a field of glory, + Where he must stoop to death his head sublime, + Hymned in full many an elegiac rhyme. +He left his deeds behind him, and his name-- +For he, like Caesar, had lived long enough for fame. + +He quailed not, save when, as he raised the chalice,-- + St Giles's bowl,--filled with the mildest ale, +To pledge the crowd, on her--his beauteous Alice-- + His eye alighted, and his cheek grew pale. + She, whose sweet breath was like the spicy gale, +She, whom he fondly deemed his own dear girl, +Stood with a tall dragoon, drinking long draughts of purl. + +He bit his lip--it quivered but a moment-- + Then passed his hand across his flushing brows: +He could have spared so forcible a comment + Upon the constancy of woman's vows. + One short sharp pang his hero-soul allows; +But in the bowl he drowned the stinging pain, +And on his pilgrim course went calmly forth again. + +A princely group of England's noble daughters + Stood in a balcony suffused with grief, +Diffusing fragrance round them, of strong waters, + And waving many a snowy handkerchief; + Then glowed the prince of highwayman and thief! +His soul was touched with a seraphic gleam-- +That woman could be false was but a mocking dream. + +And now, his bright career of triumph ended, + His chariot stood beneath the triple tree. +The law's grim finisher to its boughs ascended, + And fixed the hempen bandages, while he + Bowed to the throng, then bade the cart go free. +The car rolled on, and left him dangling there, +Like famed Mohammed's tomb, uphung midway in air. + +As droops the cup of the surcharged lily + Beneath the buffets of the surly storm, +Or the soft petals of the daffodilly, + When Sirius is uncomfortably warm, + So drooped his head upon his manly form, +While floated in the breeze his tresses brown. +He hung the stated time, and then they cut him down. + +With soft and tender care the trainbands bore him, + Just as they found him, nightcap, robe, and all, +And placed this neat though plain inscription o'er him, + Among the atomies in Surgeons' Hall: + "THESE ARE THE BONES OF THE RENOWNED DUVAL!" +There still they tell us, from their glassy case, +He was the last, the best of all that noble race! + + + +Eastern Serenade. + + +BY THE HONOURABLE SINJIN MUFF. + +The minarets wave on the plain of Stamboul, +And the breeze of the evening blows freshly and cool; +The voice of the musnud is heard from the west, +And kaftan and kalpac have gone to their rest. +The notes of the kislar re-echo no more, +And the waves of Al Sirat fall light on the shore. + +Where art thou, my beauty; where art thou, my bride? +Oh, come and repose by thy dragoman's side! +I wait for thee still by the flowery tophaik-- +I have broken my Eblis for Zuleima's sake. +But the heart that adores thee is faithful and true, +Though it beats 'neath the folds of a Greek Allah-hu! + +Oh, wake thee, my dearest! the muftis are still, +And the tschocadars sleep on the Franguestan hill; +No sullen aleikoum--no derveesh is here, +And the mosques are all watching by lonely Kashmere! +Oh, come in the gush of thy beauty so full, +I have waited for thee, my adored attar-gul! + +I see thee--I hear thee--thy antelope foot +Treads lightly and soft on the velvet cheroot; +The jewelled amaun of thy zemzem is bare, +And the folds of thy palampore wave in the air. +Come, rest on the bosom that loves thee so well, +My dove! my phingari! my gentle gazelle! + +Nay, tremble not, dearest! I feel thy heart throb, +'Neath the sheltering shroud of thy snowy kiebaub; +Lo, there shines Muezzin, the beautiful star! +Thy lover is with thee, and danger afar: +Say, is it the glance of the haughty vizier, +Or the bark of the distant effendi, you fear? + +Oh, swift fly the hours in the garden of bliss! +And sweeter than balm of Gehenna thy kiss! +Wherever I wander--wherever I roam, +My spirit flies back to its beautiful home; +It dwells by the lake of the limpid Stamboul, +With thee, my adored one! my own attar-gul! {269} + + + +Dame Fredegonde. + + +When folks, with headstrong passion blind, +To play the fool make up their mind, +They're sure to come with phrases nice +And modest air, for your advice. +But as a truth unfailing make it, +They ask, but never mean to take it. +'Tis not advice they want, in fact, +But confirmation in their act. +Now mark what did, in such a case, +A worthy priest who knew the race. + + A dame more buxom, blithe, and free, +Than Fredegonde you scarce would see. +So smart her dress, so trim her shape, +Ne'er hostess offered juice of grape, +Could for her trade wish better sign; +Her looks gave flavour to her wine, +And each guest feels it, as he sips, +Smack of the ruby of her lips. +A smile for all, a welcome glad,-- +A jovial coaxing way she had; +And,--what was more her fate than blame,-- +A nine months' widow was our dame. +But toil was hard, for trade was good, +And gallants sometimes will be rude. +"And what can a lone woman do? +The nights are long and eerie too. +Now, Guillot there's a likely man, +None better draws or taps a can; +He's just the man, I think, to suit, +If I could bring my courage to't." +With thoughts like these her mind is crossed: +The dame, they say, who doubts, is lost. +"But then the risk? I'll beg a slice +Of Father Haulin's good advice." + + Prankt in her best, with looks demure, +She seeks the priest; and, to be sure, +Asks if he thinks she ought to wed: +"With such a business on my head, +I'm worried off my legs with care, +And need some help to keep things square. +I've thought of Guillot, truth to tell! +He's steady, knows his business well. +What do you think?" When thus he met her: +"Oh, take him, dear, you can't do better!" +"But then the danger, my good pastor, +If of the man I make the master. +There is no trusting to these men." +"Well, well, my dear, don't have him, then!" +"But help I must have; there's the curse. +I may go farther and fare worse." +"Why, take him, then!" "But if he should +Turn out a thankless ne'er-do-good-- +In drink and riot waste my all, +And rout me out of house and hall?" +"Don't have him, then! But I've a plan +To clear your doubts, if any can. +The bells a peal are ringing,--hark! +Go straight, and what they tell you mark. +If they say 'Yes!' wed, and be blest-- +If 'No,' why--do as you think best." + + The bells rang out a triple bob: +Oh, how our widow's heart did throb, +As thus she heard their burden go, +"Marry, mar-marry, mar-Guillot!" +Bells were not then left to hang idle: +A week,--and they rang for her bridal. +But, woe the while, they might as well +Have rung the poor dame's parting knell. +The rosy dimples left her cheek, +She lost her beauties plump and sleek; +For Guillot oftener kicked than kissed, +And backed his orders with his fist, +Proving by deeds as well as words +That servants make the worst of lords. + + She seeks the priest, her ire to wreak, +And speaks as angry women speak, +With tiger looks and bosom swelling, +Cursing the hour she took his telling. +To all, his calm reply was this,-- +"I fear you've read the bells amiss: +If they have lead you wrong in aught, +Your wish, not they, inspired the thought. +Just go, and mark well what they say." +Off trudged the dame upon her way, +And sure enough their chime went so,-- +"Don't have that knave, that knave Guillot!" + + "Too true," she cried, "there's not a doubt: +What could my ears have been about?" +She had forgot, that, as fools think, +The bell is ever sure to clink. + + + +Song of the Ennuye. + + +I'm weary, and sick, and disgusted + With Britain's mechanical din; +Where I'm much too well known to be trusted, + And plaguily pestered for tin; +Where love has two eyes for your banker, + And one chilly glance for yourself; +Where souls can afford to be franker, + But when they're well garnished with pelf. + +I'm sick of the whole race of poets, + Emasculate, misty, and fine; +They brew their small-beer, and don't know its + Distinction from full-bodied wine. +I'm sick of the prosers, that house up + At drowsy St Stephen's,--ain't you? +I want some strong spirits to rouse up + A good revolution or two! + +I'm sick of a land, where each morrow + Repeats the dull tale of to-day, +Where you can't even find a new sorrow + To chase your stale pleasures away. +I'm sick of blue-stockings horrific, + Steam, railroads, gas, scrip, and consols; +So I'll off where the golden Pacific + Round Islands of Paradise rolls. + +There the passions shall revel unfettered, + And the heart never speak but in truth, +And the intellect, wholly unlettered, + Be bright with the freedom of youth! +There the earth can rejoice in her blossoms, + Unsullied by vapour or soot, +And there chimpanzees and opossums + Shall playfully pelt me with fruit. + +There I'll sit with my dark Orianas, + In groves by the murmuring sea, +And they'll give, as I suck the bananas, + Their kisses, nor ask them from me. +They'll never torment me for sonnets, + Nor bore me to death with their own; +They'll ask not for shawls nor for bonnets, + For milliners there are unknown. + +There my couch shall be earth's freshest flowers, + My curtains the night and the stars, +And my spirit shall gather new powers, + Uncramped by conventional bars. +Love for love, truth for truth ever giving, + My days shall be manfully sped; +I shall know that I'm loved while I'm living, + And be wept by fond eyes when I'm dead! + + + +The Death of Space. + + +[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.] + +Eternity shall raise her funeral-pile + In the vast dungeon of the extinguished sky, +And, clothed in dim barbaric splendour, smile, + And murmur shouts of elegiac joy. + +While those that dwell beyond the realms of space, + And those that people all that dreary void, +When old Time's endless heir hath run his race, + Shall live for aye, enjoying and enjoyed. + +And 'mid the agony of unsullied bliss, + Her Demogorgon's doom shall Sin bewail, +The undying serpent at the spheres shall hiss, + And lash the empyrean with his tail. + +And Hell, inflated with supernal wrath, + Shall open wide her thunder-bolted jaws, +And shout into the dull cold ear of Death, + That he must pay his debt to Nature's laws. + +And when the King of Terrors breathes his last, + Infinity shall creep into her shell, +Cause and effect shall from their thrones be cast, + And end their strife with suicidal yell: + +While from their ashes, burnt with pomp of kings, + 'Mid incense floating to the evanished skies, +Nonenity, on circumambient wings, + An everlasting Phoenix shall arise. + + + +Caroline. + + +Lightsome, brightsome, cousin mine, + Easy, breezy Caroline! +With thy locks all raven-shaded, +From thy merry brow up-braided, +And thine eyes of laughter full, + Brightsome cousin mine! +Thou in chains of love hast bound me-- +Wherefore dost thou flit around me, + Laughter-loving Caroline? + +When I fain would go to sleep + In my easy-chair, +Wherefore on my slumbers creep-- +Wherefore start me from repose, +Tickling of my hooked nose, + Pulling of my hair? +Wherefore, then, if thou dost love me, +So to words of anger move me, + Corking of this face of mine, + Tricksy cousin Caroline? + +When a sudden sound I hear, +Much my nervous system suffers, + Shaking through and through. +Cousin Caroline, I fear, + 'Twas no other, now, but you, +Put gunpowder in the snuffers, + Springing such a mine! +Yes, it was your tricksy self, +Wicked-tricked little elf, + Naughty Caroline! + +Pins she sticks into my shoulder, + Places needles in my chair, +And, when I begin to scold her, + Tosses back her combed hair, + With so saucy-vexed an air, +That the pitying beholder +Cannot brook that I should scold her: +Then again she comes, and bolder, + Blacks anew this face of mine, + Artful cousin Caroline! + +Would she only say she'd love me, + Winsome, tinsome Caroline, +Unto such excess 'twould move me, + Teazing, pleasing, cousin mine! +That she might the live-long day +Undermine the snuffer-tray, +Tickle still my hooked nose, +Startle me from calm repose + With her pretty persecution; +Throw the tongs against my shins, +Run me through and through with pins, + Like a pierced cushion; +Would she only say she'd love me, +Darning-needles should not move me; +But, reclining back, I'd say, +"Dearest! there's the snuffer-tray; +Pinch, O pinch those legs of mine! +Cork me, cousin Caroline!" + + + +To a Forget-Me-Not, + + +FOUND IN MY EMPORIUM OF LOVE-TOKENS. + +Sweet flower, that with thy soft blue eye + Didst once look up in shady spot, +To whisper to the passer-by + Those tender words--Forget-me-not! + +Though withered now, thou art to me + The minister of gentle thought,-- +And I could weep to gaze on thee, + Love's faded pledge--Forget-me-not! + +Thou speak'st of hours when I was young, + And happiness arose unsought; +When she, the whispering woods among, + Gave me thy bloom--Forget-me-not! + +That rapturous hour with that dear maid + From memory's page no time shall blot, +When, yielding to my kiss, she said, + "Oh, Theodore--Forget me not!" + +Alas for love! alas for truth! + Alas for man's uncertain lot! +Alas for all the hopes of youth + That fade like thee--Forget-me-not! + +Alas for that one image fair, + With all my brightest dreams inwrought! +That walks beside me everywhere, + Still whispering--Forget-me-not! + +Oh, Memory! thou art but a sigh + For friendships dead and loves forgot, +And many a cold and altered eye + That once did say--Forget-me-not! + +And I must bow me to thy laws, + For--odd although it may be thought-- +I can't tell who the deuce it was + That gave me this Forget-me-not! + + + +The Meeting. + + +Once I lay beside a fountain, + Lulled me with its gentle song, +And my thoughts o'er dale and mountain + With the clouds were borne along. + +There I saw old castles flinging + Shadowy gleams on moveless seas, +Saw gigantic forests swinging + To and fro without a breeze; + +And in dusky alleys straying, + Many a giant shape of power, +Troops of nymphs in sunshine playing, + Singing, dancing, hour on hour. + +I, too, trod these plains Elysian, + Heard their ringing tones of mirth, +But a brighter, fairer vision + Called me back again to earth. + +From the forest shade advancing, + See, where comes a lovely May; +The dew, like gems, before her glancing, + As she brushes it away! + +Straight I rose, and ran to meet her, + Seized her hand--the heavenly blue +Of her eyes smiled brighter, sweeter, + As she asked me--"Who are you?" + +To that question came another-- + What its aim I still must doubt-- +And she asked me, "How's your mother? + Does she know that you are out?" + +"No! my mother does not know it, + Beauteous, heaven-descended muse!" +"Then be off, my handsome poet, + And say I sent you with the news!" + + + +The Mishap. + + +"Why art thou weeping, sister? + Why is thy cheek so pale? +Look up, dear Jane, and tell me + What is it thou dost ail? + +"I know thy will is froward, + Thy feelings warm and keen, +And that _that_ Augustus Howard + For weeks has not been seen. + +"I know how much you loved him; + But I know thou dost not weep +For him;--for though his passion be, + His purse is noways deep. + +"Then tell me why those tear-drops? + What means this woeful mood +Say, has the tax-collector + Been calling, and been rude? + +"Or has that hateful grocer, + The slave! been here to-day? +Of course he had, by morrow's noon, + A heavy bill to pay! + +"Come, on thy brother's bosom + Unburden all thy woes; +Look up, look up, sweet sister; + Nay, sob not through thy nose." + +"Oh, John, 'tis not the grocer + Or his account, although +How ever he is to be paid + I really do not know. + +"'Tis not the tax-collector; + Though by his fell command +They've seized our old paternal clock, + And new umbrella-stand! + +"Nor that Augustus Howard, + Whom I despise almost,-- +But the soot's come down the chimney, John, + And fairly spoilt the roast!" + + + +Comfort in Affliction. + + +"Wherefore starts my bosom's lord? + Why this anguish in thine eye? +Oh, it seems as thy heart's chord + Had broken with that sigh! + +"Rest thee, my dear lord, I pray, + Rest thee on my bosom now! +And let me wipe the dews away, + Are gathering on thy brow. + +"There, again! that fevered start! + What, love! husband! is thy pain? +There is a sorrow on thy heart, + A weight upon thy brain! + +"Nay, nay, that sickly smile can ne'er + Deceive affection's searching eye; +'Tis a wife's duty, love, to share + Her husband's agony. + +"Since the dawn began to peep, + Have I lain with stifled breath; +Heard thee moaning in thy sleep, + As thou wert at grips with death. + +"Oh, what joy it was to see + My gentle lord once more awake! +Tell me, what is amiss with thee? + Speak, or my heart will break!" + +"Mary, thou angel of my life, + Thou ever good and kind; +'Tis not, believe me, my dear wife, + The anguish of the mind! + +"It is not in my bosom, dear, + No, nor my brain, in sooth; +But Mary, oh, I feel it here, + Here in my wisdom tooth! + +"Then give,--oh, first best antidote,-- + Sweet partner of my bed! +Give me thy flannel petticoat + To wrap around my head!" + + + +The Invocation. + + +"Brother, thou art very weary, + And thine eye is sunk and dim, +And thy neckcloth's tie is crumpled, + And thy collar out of trim; +There is dust upon thy visage,-- + Think not, Charles, I would hurt ye, +When I say, that altogether + You appear extremely dirty. + +"Frown not, brother, now, but hie thee + To thy chamber's distant room; +Drown the odours of the ledger + With the lavender's perfume. +Brush the mud from off thy trousers, + O'er the china basin kneel, +Lave thy brows in water softened + With the soap of Old Castile. + +"Smooth the locks that o'er thy forehead + Now in loose disorder stray; +Pare thy nails, and from thy whiskers + Cut those ragged points away; +Let no more thy calculations + Thy bewildered brain beset; +Life has other hopes than Cocker's, + Other joys than tare and tret. + +"Haste thee, for I ordered dinner, + Waiting to the very last, +Twenty minutes after seven, + And 'tis now the quarter past. +'Tis a dinner which Lucullus + Would have wept with joy to see, +One, might wake the soul of Curtis + From death's drowsy atrophy. + +"There is soup of real turtle, + Turbot, and the dainty sole; +And the mottled roe of lobsters + Blushes through the butter-bowl. +There the lordly haunch of mutton, + Tender as the mountain grass, +Waits to mix its ruddy juices + With the girdling caper-sauce. + +"There a stag, whose branching forehead + Spoke him monarch of the herds, +He whose flight was o'er the heather + Swift as through the air the bird's, +Yields for thee a dish of cutlets; + And the haunch that wont to dash +O'er the roaring mountain-torrent, + Smokes in most delicious hash. + +"There, besides, are amber jellies + Floating like a golden dream; +Ginger from the far Bermudas, + Dishes of Italian cream; +And a princely apple-dumpling, + Which my own fair fingers wrought, +Shall unfold its nectared treasures + To thy lips all smoking hot. + +"Ha! I see thy brow is clearing, + Lustre flashes from thine eyes; +To thy lips I see the moisture + Of anticipation rise. +Hark! the dinner-bell is sounding!" + "Only wait one moment, Jane: +I'll be dressed, and down, before you + Can get up the iced champagne!" + + + +The Husband's Petition. + + +Come hither, my heart's darling, + Come, sit upon my knee, +And listen, while I whisper + A boon I ask of thee. +You need not pull my whiskers + So amorously, my dove; +'Tis something quite apart from + The gentle cares of love. + +I feel a bitter craving-- + A dark and deep desire, +That glows beneath my bosom + Like coals of kindled fire. +The passion of the nightingale, + When singing to the rose, +Is feebler than the agony + That murders my repose! + +Nay, dearest! do not doubt me, + Though madly thus I speak-- +I feel thy arms about me, + Thy tresses on my cheek: +I know the sweet devotion + That links thy heart with mine,-- +I know my soul's emotion + Is doubly felt by thine: + +And deem not that a shadow + Hath fallen across my love: +No, sweet, my love is shadowless, + As yonder heaven above: +These little taper fingers-- + Ah, Jane! how white they be!-- +Can well supply the cruel want + That almost maddens me. + +Thou wilt not sure deny me + My first and fond request; +I pray thee, by the memory + Of all we cherish best-- +By all the dear remembrance + Of those delicious days, +When, hand in hand, we wandered + Along the summer braes; + +By all we felt, unspoken, + When 'neath the early moon, +We sat beside the rivulet, + In the leafy month of June; +And by the broken whisper + That fell upon my ear, +More sweet than angel music, + When first I wooed thee, dear! + +By thy great vow which bound thee + For ever to my side, +And by the ring that made thee + My darling and my bride! +Thou wilt not fail nor falter, + But bend thee to the task-- +A BOILED SHEEP'S-HEAD ON SUNDAY + Is all the boon I ask! + + + +Sonnet to Britain. + + +BY THE D--- OF W--- + +Halt! Shoulder arms! Recover! As you were! +Right wheel! Eyes left! Attention! Stand at ease! +O Britain! O my country! Words like these + Have made thy name a terror and a fear +To all the nations. Witness Ebro's banks, + Assaye, Toulouse, Nivelle, and Waterloo, + Where the grim despot muttered--_Sauve qui peut_! +And Ney fled darkling.--Silence in the ranks! +Inspired by these, amidst the iron crash + Of armies, in the centre of his troop +The soldier stands--unmoveable, not rash-- + Until the forces of the foeman droop; +Then knocks the Frenchmen to eternal smash, + Pounding them into mummy. Shoulder, hoop! + + THE END. + + PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS. + + + + +NOTES. + + +{vii} Prologue de premiere livre. + +{ix} 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. + +{7} W. Gomersal, for many years a leading actor and rider at Astley's +Amphitheatre. + +{8} John Esdaile Widdicomb, from 1819 to 1852 riding-master and +conductor of the ring at Astley's Amphitheatre. + +{11} Stickney, a very dashing and graceful rider at Astley's. + +{12} 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. + +{18} 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." + +{44} The value of these Bonds at the time this poem was written was +precisely nil. + +{49} A fact. + +{64} The Yankee substitute for the _chapeau de soie_. + +{97} The Marquis of Waterford, + +{99} The fashionable abbreviation for a thousand pounds. + +{117} The reference here and in a subsequent verse is to a song very +popular at the time:-- + + "All round my hat I vears a green villow, + All round my hat for a twelvemonth and a day, + And if any van should arsk you the reason vy I vears it, + Say, all for my true love that's far, far away. + 'Twas agoin of my rounds on the streets I first did meet her, + 'Twas agoin of my rounds that first she met my heye, + And I never heard a voice more louder nor more sweeter, + As she cried, 'Who'll buy my cabbages, my cabbages who'll buy?'" + +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-- + + "Omne circa petusum sertum gero viridem + Per annum circa petasum et unum diem plus. + Si quis te rogaret, cur tale sertum gererem, + Dic, 'Omne propter corculum qui est inpartibus.'" + +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. + +{119a} {119b} 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. + +{121} The two papers here glanced at were 'The Age' and 'The Satirist,' +long since dead. + +{122a} 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. + +{122b} 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. + +{122c} Well known to readers of Thackeray's 'Newcomes' as "The Cave of +Harmony." + +{123} Sir Peter Laurie, Lord Mayor; afterwards Alderman, and notable for +his sagacity and severity as a magistrate in dealing with evil-doers. + +{157} Sir James Graham was then, and had been for some years, Secretary +Of State under Sir Robert Peel. + +{160} Moxon was Tennyson's publisher. + +{162} 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." + +{168} Two less poetically-disposed men than Goulburn and Knatchbull +could not well be imagined. + +{177} The most highly reputed oysters of the day. + +{200} 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. + +{269} 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:-- + + "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." + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BON GAULTIER BALLADS*** + + +******* This file should be named 20477.txt or 20477.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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