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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: Ballads + +Author: William Makepeace Thackeray + +Release Date: December 6, 2008 [EBook #2732] +Last Updated: December 17, 2012 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BALLADS *** + + + + +Produced by Donald Lainson, and David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + BALLADS + </h1> + <h2> + By William Makepeace Thackeray<br /> <br /> + </h2> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <b>BALLADS.</b> </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#linkdrum"> THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> ABD-EL-KADER AT TOULON. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> THE KING OF BRENTFORD'S TESTAMENT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> THE WHITE SQUALL. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> PEG OF LIMAVADDY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> MAY-DAY ODE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> THE MAHOGANY TREE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> THE YANKEE VOLUNTEERS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> THE PEN AND THE ALBUM. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> MRS. KATHERINE'S LANTERN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> LUCY'S BIRTHDAY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> THE CANE-BOTTOM'D CHAIR. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> PISCATOR AND PISCATRIX. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> THE ROSE UPON MY BALCONY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> RONSARD TO HIS MISTRESS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> AT THE CHURCH GATE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> THE AGE OF WISDOM. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> SORROWS OF WERTHER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> A DOE IN THE CITY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> THE LAST OF MAY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> "AH, BLEAK AND BARREN WAS THE MOOR." </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> SONG OF THE VIOLET. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> FAIRY DAYS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> POCAHONTAS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> FROM POCAHONTAS. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> <b>LOVE-SONGS MADE EASY.</b> </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> WHAT MAKES MY HEART TO THRILL AND GLOW? </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0029"> THE GHAZUL, OR ORIENTAL LOVE-SONG. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0030"> THE MERRY BARD. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0031"> THE CAÏQUE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0032"> MY NORA. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0033"> TO MARY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0034"> SERENADE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0035"> THE MINARET BELLS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0036"> COME TO THE GREENWOOD TREE. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0037"> <b>FIVE GERMAN DITTIES.</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0038"> A TRAGIC STORY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0039"> THE CHAPLET. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0040"> THE KING ON THE TOWER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0041"> ON A VERY OLD WOMAN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0042"> A CREDO. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0043"> <b>FOUR IMITATIONS OF BÉRANGER.</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0044"> THE KING OF YVETOT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0045"> THE KING OF BRENTFORD. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0046"> THE GARRET. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0047"> ROGER-BONTEMPS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0048"> JOLLY JACK. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0049"> <b>IMITATION OF HORACE.</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0050"> AD MINISTRAM. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0051"> <b>OLD FRIENDS WITH NEW FACES.</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0052"> THE KNIGHTLY GUERDON.* </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0053"> THE ALMACK'S ADIEU. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0054"> WHEN THE GLOOM IS ON THE GLEN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0055"> THE RED FLAG. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0056"> DEAR JACK. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0057"> COMMANDERS OF THE FAITHFUL. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0058"> WHEN MOONLIKE ORE THE HAZURE SEAS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0059"> KING CANUTE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0060"> FRIAR'S SONG. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0061"> ATRA CURA. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0062"> REQUIESCAT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0063"> LINES UPON MY SISTER'S PORTRAIT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0064"> THE LEGEND OF ST. SOPHIA OF KIOFF. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0065"> TITMARSH'S CARMEN LILLIENSE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0066"> THE WILLOW-TREE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0067"> THE WILLOW-TREE. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0068"> <b>LYRA HIBERNICA</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0069"> THE PIMLICO PAVILION. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0070"> THE CRYSTAL PALACE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0071"> MOLONY'S LAMENT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0072"> MR. MOLONY'S ACCOUNT OF THE BALL. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0073"> THE BATTLE OF LIMERICK. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0074"> LARRY O'TOOLE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0075"> THE ROSE OF FLORA. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0076"> THE LAST IRISH GRIEVANCE. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0077"> <b>THE BALLADS OF POLICEMAN X.</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0078"> THE WOLFE NEW BALLAD OF JANE RONEY AND MARY + BROWN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0079"> THE THREE CHRISTMAS WAITS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0080"> LINES ON A LATE HOSPICIOUS EWENT.* </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0081"> THE BALLAD OF ELIZA DAVIS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0082"> DAMAGES, TWO HUNDRED POUNDS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0083"> THE KNIGHT AND THE LADY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0084"> JACOB HOMNIUM'S HOSS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0085"> THE SPECULATORS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0086"> A WOEFUL NEW BALLAD </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0087"> THE LAMENTABLE BALLAD OF THE FOUNDLING OF + SHOREDITCH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0088"> THE ORGAN-BOY'S APPEAL. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0089"> LITTLE BILLEE.* </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0090"> THE END OF THE PLAY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0091"> VANITAS VANITATUM. </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h1> + BALLADS. + </h1> + <p> + <a name="linkdrum" id="linkdrum"></a> + </p> + <h2> + THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + PART I. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + At Paris, hard by the Maine barriers, + Whoever will choose to repair, + Midst a dozen of wooden-legged warriors + May haply fall in with old Pierre. + On the sunshiny bench of a tavern + He sits and he prates of old wars, + And moistens his pipe of tobacco + With a drink that is named after Mars. + + The beer makes his tongue run the quicker, + And as long as his tap never fails, + Thus over his favorite liquor + Old Peter will tell his old tales. + Says he, "In my life's ninety summers + Strange changes and chances I've seen,— + So here's to all gentlemen drummers + That ever have thump'd on a skin. + + "Brought up in the art military + For four generations we are; + My ancestors drumm'd for King Harry, + The Huguenot lad of Navarre. + And as each man in life has his station + According as Fortune may fix, + While Condé was waving the baton, + My grandsire was trolling the sticks. + + "Ah! those were the days for commanders! + What glories my grandfather won, + Ere bigots, and lackeys, and panders + The fortunes of France had undone! + In Germany, Flanders, and Holland,— + What foeman resisted us then? + No; my grandsire was ever victorious, + My grandsire and Monsieur Turenne. + + "He died: and our noble battalions + The jade fickle Fortune forsook; + And at Blenheim, in spite of our valiance, + The victory lay with Malbrook. + The news it was brought to King Louis; + Corbleu! how his Majesty swore + When he heard they had taken my grandsire: + And twelve thousand gentlemen more. + + "At Namur, Ramillies, and Malplaquet + Were we posted, on plain or in trench: + Malbrook only need to attack it + And away from him scamper'd we French. + Cheer up! 'tis no use to be glum, boys,— + 'Tis written, since fighting begun, + That sometimes we fight and we conquer, + And sometimes we fight and we run. + + "To fight and to run was our fate: + Our fortune and fame had departed. + And so perish'd Louis the Great,— + Old, lonely, and half broken-hearted. + His coffin they pelted with mud, + His body they tried to lay hands on; + And so having buried King Louis + They loyally served his great-grandson. + + "God save the beloved King Louis! + (For so he was nicknamed by some,) + And now came my father to do his + King's orders and beat on the drum. + My grandsire was dead, but his bones + Must have shaken I'm certain for joy, + To hear daddy drumming the English + From the meadows of famed Fontenoy. + + "So well did he drum in that battle + That the enemy show'd us their backs; + Corbleu! it was pleasant to rattle + The sticks and to follow old Saxe! + We next had Soubise as a leader, + And as luck hath its changes and fits, + At Rossbach, in spite of dad's drumming, + 'Tis said we were beaten by Fritz. + + "And now daddy cross'd the Atlantic, + To drum for Montcalm and his men; + Morbleu! but it makes a man frantic + To think we were beaten again! + My daddy he cross'd the wide ocean, + My mother brought me on her neck, + And we came in the year fifty-seven + To guard the good town of Quebec. + + "In the year fifty-nine came the Britons,— + Full well I remember the day,— + They knocked at our gates for admittance, + Their vessels were moor'd in our bay. + Says our general, 'Drive me yon redcoats + Away to the sea whence they come!' + So we marched against Wolfe and his bull-dogs, + We marched at the sound of the drum. + + "I think I can see my poor mammy + With me in her hand as she waits, + And our regiment, slowly retreating, + Pours back through the citadel gates. + Dear mammy she looks in their faces, + And asks if her husband is come? + —He is lying all cold on the glacis, + And will never more beat on the drum. + + "Come, drink, 'tis no use to be glum, boys, + He died like a soldier in glory; + Here's a glass to the health of all drum-boys, + And now I'll commence my own story. + Once more did we cross the salt ocean, + We came in the year eighty-one; + And the wrongs of my father the drummer + Were avenged by the drummer his son. + + "In Chesapeake Bay we were landed. + In vain strove the British to pass: + Rochambeau our armies commanded, + Our ships they were led by De Grasse. + Morbleu! How I rattled the drumsticks + The day we march'd into Yorktown; + Ten thousand of beef-eating British + Their weapons we caused to lay down. + + "Then homewards returning victorious, + In peace to our country we came, + And were thanked for our glorious actions + By Louis Sixteenth of the name. + What drummer on earth could be prouder + Than I, while I drumm'd at Versailles + To the lovely court ladies in powder, + And lappets, and long satin-tails? + + "The Princes that day pass'd before us, + Our countrymen's glory and hope; + Monsieur, who was learned in Horace, + D'Artois, who could dance the tightrope. + One night we kept guard for the Queen + At her Majesty's opera-box, + While the King, that majestical monarch, + Sat filing at home at his locks. + + "Yes, I drumm'd for the fair Antoinette, + And so smiling she look'd and so tender, + That our officers, privates, and drummers, + All vow'd they would die to defend her. + But she cared not for us honest fellows, + Who fought and who bled in her wars, + She sneer'd at our gallant Rochambeau, + And turned Lafayette out of doors. + + "Ventrebleu! then I swore a great oath, + No more to such tyrants to kneel. + And so just to keep up my drumming, + One day I drumm'd down the Bastille. + Ho, landlord! a stoup of fresh wine. + Come, comrades, a bumper we'll try, + And drink to the year eighty-nine + And the glorious fourth of July! + + "Then bravely our cannon it thunder'd + As onwards our patriots bore. + Our enemies were but a hundred, + And we twenty thousand or more. + They carried the news to King Louis. + He heard it as calm as you please, + And, like a majestical monarch, + Kept filing his locks and his keys. + + "We show'd our republican courage, + We storm'd and we broke the great gate in, + And we murder'd the insolent governor + For daring to keep us a-waiting. + Lambesc and his squadrons stood by: + They never stirr'd finger or thumb. + The saucy aristocrats trembled + As they heard the republican drum. + + "Hurrah! what a storm was a-brewing: + The day of our vengeance was come! + Through scenes of what carnage and ruin + Did I beat on the patriot drum! + Let's drink to the famed tenth of August: + At midnight I beat the tattoo, + And woke up the Pikemen of Paris + To follow the bold Barbaroux. + + "With pikes, and with shouts, and with torches + March'd onwards our dusty battalions, + And we girt the tall castle of Louis, + A million of tatterdemalions! + We storm'd the fair gardens where tower'd + The walls of his heritage splendid. + Ah, shame on him, craven and coward, + That had not the heart to defend it! + + "With the crown of his sires on his head, + His nobles and knights by his side, + At the foot of his ancestors' palace + 'Twere easy, methinks, to have died. + But no: when we burst through his barriers, + Mid heaps of the dying and dead, + In vain through the chambers we sought him— + He had turn'd like a craven and fled. + + . . . . . + + "You all know the Place de la Concorde? + 'Tis hard by the Tuilerie wall. + Mid terraces, fountains, and statues, + There rises an obelisk tall. + There rises an obelisk tall, + All garnish'd and gilded the base is: + 'Tis surely the gayest of all + Our beautiful city's gay places. + + "Around it are gardens and flowers, + And the Cities of France on their thrones, + Each crown'd with his circlet of flowers + Sits watching this biggest of stones! + I love to go sit in the sun there, + The flowers and fountains to see, + And to think of the deeds that were done there + In the glorious year ninety-three. + + "'Twas here stood the Altar of Freedom; + And though neither marble nor gilding + Was used in those days to adorn + Our simple republican building, + Corbleu! but the MERE GUILLOTINE + Cared little for splendor or show, + So you gave her an axe and a beam, + And a plank and a basket or so. + + "Awful, and proud, and erect, + Here sat our republican goddess. + Each morning her table we deck'd + With dainty aristocrats' bodies. + The people each day flocked around + As she sat at her meat and her wine: + 'Twas always the use of our nation + To witness the sovereign dine. + + "Young virgins with fair golden tresses, + Old silver-hair'd prelates and priests, + Dukes, marquises, barons, princesses, + Were splendidly served at her feasts. + Ventrebleu! but we pamper'd our ogress + With the best that our nation could bring, + And dainty she grew in her progress, + And called for the head of a King! + + "She called for the blood of our King, + And straight from his prison we drew him; + And to her with shouting we led him, + And took him, and bound him, and slew him. + 'The monarchs of Europe against me + Have plotted a godless alliance + I'll fling them the head of King Louis,' + She said, 'as my gage of defiance.' + + "I see him as now, for a moment, + Away from his jailers he broke; + And stood at the foot of the scaffold, + And linger'd, and fain would have spoke. + 'Ho,drummer! quick! silence yon Capet,' + Says Santerre, 'with a beat of your drum.' + Lustily then did I tap it, + And the son of Saint Louis was dumb." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + PART II. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "The glorious days of September + Saw many aristocrats fall; + 'Twas then that our pikes drunk the blood + In the beautiful breast of Lamballe. + Pardi, 'twas a beautiful lady! + I seldom have looked on her like; + And I drumm'd for a gallant procession, + That marched with her head on a pike. + + "Let's show the pale head to the Queen, + We said—she'll remember it well. + She looked from the bars of her prison, + And shriek'd as she saw it, and fell. + We set up a shout at her screaming, + We laugh'd at the fright she had shown + At the sight of the head of her minion; + How she'd tremble to part with her own. + + "We had taken the head of King Capet, + We called for the blood of his wife; + Undaunted she came to the scaffold, + And bared her fair neck to the knife. + As she felt the foul fingers that touch'd her, + She shrunk, but she deigned not to speak: + She look'd with a royal disdain, + And died with a blush on her cheek! + + "'Twas thus that our country was saved; + So told us the safety committee! + But psha! I've the heart of a soldier, + All gentleness, mercy, and pity. + I loathed to assist at such deeds, + And my drum beat its loudest of tunes + As we offered to justice offended + The blood of the bloody tribunes. + + "Away with such foul recollections! + No more of the axe and the block; + I saw the last fight of the sections, + As they fell 'neath our guns at Saint Rock. + Young BONAPARTE led us that day; + When he sought the Italian frontier, + I follow'd my gallant young captain, + I follow'd him many a long year. + + "We came to an army in rags, + Our general was but a boy + When we first saw the Austrian flags + Flaunt proud in the fields of Savoy. + In the glorious year ninety-six, + We march'd to the banks of the Po; + I carried my drum and my sticks, + And we laid the proud Austrian low. + + "In triumph we enter'd Milan, + We seized on the Mantuan keys; + The troops of the Emperor ran, + And the Pope he tell down on his knees.— + Pierre's comrades here call'd a fresh bottle, + And clubbing together their wealth, + They drank to the Army of Italy, + And General Bonaparte's health." + + The drummer now bared his old breast, + And show'd us a plenty of scars, + Rude presents that Fortune had made him, + In fifty victorious wars. + "This came when I follow'd bold Kleber— + 'Twas shot by a Mameluke gun; + And this from an Austrian sabre, + When the field of Marengo was won. + + "My forehead has many deep furrows, + But this is the deepest of all: + A Brunswicker made it at Jena, + Beside the fair river of Saal. + This cross, 'twas the Emperor gave it; + (God bless him!) it covers a blow; + I had it at Austerlitz fight, + As I beat on my drum in the snow. + + "'Twas thus that we conquer'd and fought; + But wherefore continue the story? + There's never a baby in France + But has heard of our chief and our glory,— + But has heard of our chief and our fame, + His sorrows and triumphs can tell, + How bravely Napoleon conquer'd, + How bravely and sadly he fell. + + "It makes my old heart to beat higher, + To think of the deeds that I saw; + I follow'd bold Ney through the fire, + And charged at the side of Murat." + And so did old Peter continue + His story of twenty brave years; + His audience follow'd with comments— + Rude comments of curses and tears. + + He told how the Prussians in vain + Had died in defence of their land; + His audience laugh'd at the story, + And vow'd that their captain was grand! + He had fought the red English, he said, + In many a battle of Spain; + They cursed the red English, and prayed + To meet them and fight them again. + + He told them how Russia was lost, + Had winter not driven them back; + And his company cursed the quick frost, + And doubly they cursed the Cossack. + He told how the stranger arrived; + They wept at the tale of disgrace: + And they long'd but for one battle more, + The stain of their shame to efface! + + "Our country their hordes overrun, + We fled to the fields of Champagne, + And fought them, though twenty to one, + And beat them again and again! + Our warrior was conquer'd at last; + They bade him his crown to resign; + To fate and his country he yielded + The rights of himself and his line. + + "He came, and among us he stood, + Around him we press'd in a throng: + We could not regard him for weeping, + Who had led us and loved us so long. + 'I have led you for twenty long years,' + Napoleon said, ere he went + 'Wherever was honor I found you, + And with you, my sons, am content! + + "'Though Europe against me was arm'd, + Your chiefs and my people are true; + I still might have struggled with fortune, + And baffled all Europe with you. + + "'But France would have suffer'd the while, + 'Tis best that I suffer alone; + I go to my place of exile, + To write of the deeds we have done. + + "'Be true to the king that they give you, + We may not embrace ere we part; + But, General, reach me your hand, + And press me, I pray, to your heart.' + + "He called for our battle standard; + One kiss to the eagle he gave. + 'Dear eagle!' he said, 'may this kiss + Long sound in the hearts of the brave!' + 'Twas thus that Napoleon left us; + Our people were weeping and mute, + As he pass'd through the lines of his guard, + And our drums beat the notes of salute. + + . . . . . + + "I look'd when the drumming was o'er, + I look'd, but our hero was gone; + We were destined to see him once more, + When we fought on the Mount of St. John. + The Emperor rode through our files; + 'Twas June, and a fair Sunday morn; + The lines of our warriors for miles + Stretch'd wide through the Waterloo corn. + + "In thousands we stood on the plain, + The red-coats were crowning the height; + 'Go scatter yon English,' he said; + 'We'll sup, lads, at Brussels tonight.' + We answered his voice with a shout; + Our eagles were bright in the sun; + Our drums and our cannon spoke out, + And the thundering battle begun. + + "One charge to another succeeds, + Like waves that a hurricane bears; + All day do our galloping steeds + Dash fierce on the enemy's squares. + At noon we began the fell onset: + We charged up the Englishman's hill; + And madly we charged it at sunset— + His banners were floating there still. + + "—Go to! I will tell you no more; + You know how the battle was lost. + Ho! fetch me a beaker of wine, + And, comrades, I'll give you a toast. + I'll give you a curse on all traitors, + Who plotted our Emperor's ruin; + And a curse on those red-coated English, + Whose bayonets help'd our undoing. + + "A curse on those British assassins, + Who order'd the slaughter of Ney; + A curse on Sir Hudson, who tortured + The life of our hero away. + A curse on all Russians—I hate them— + On all Prussian and Austrian fry; + And oh! but I pray we may meet them, + And fight them again ere I die." + + 'Twas thus old Peter did conclude + His chronicle with curses fit. + He spoke the tale in accents rude, + In ruder verse I copied it. + + Perhaps the tale a moral bears, + (All tales in time to this must come,) + The story of two hundred years + Writ on the parchment of a drum. + + What Peter told with drum and stick, + Is endless theme for poet's pen: + Is found in endless quartos thick, + Enormous books by learned men. + + And ever since historian writ, + And ever since a bard could sing, + Doth each exalt with all his wit + The noble art of murdering. + + We love to read the glorious page, + How bold Achilles kill'd his foe: + And Turnus, fell'd by Trojans' rage, + Went howling to the shades below. + + How Godfrey led his red-cross knights, + How mad Orlando slash'd and slew; + There's not a single bard that writes + But doth the glorious theme renew. + + And while, in fashion picturesque, + The poet rhymes of blood and blows, + The grave historian at his desk + Describes the same in classic prose. + + Go read the works of Reverend Cox, + You'll duly see recorded there + The history of the self-same knocks + Here roughly sung by Drummer Pierre. + + Of battles fierce and warriors big, + He writes in phrases dull and slow, + And waves his cauliflower wig, + And shouts "Saint George for Marlborow!" + + Take Doctor Southey from the shelf, + An LL. D.—a peaceful man; + Good Lord, how doth he plume himself + Because we beat the Corsican! + + From first to last his page is filled + With stirring tales how blows were struck. + He shows how we the Frenchmen kill'd, + And praises God for our good luck. + + Some hints, 'tis true, of politics + The doctors give and statesman's art: + Pierre only bangs his drum and sticks, + And understands the bloody part. + + He cares not what the cause may be, + He is not nice for wrong and right; + But show him where's the enemy, + He only asks to drum and fight. + + They bid him fight,—perhaps he wins. + And when he tells the story o'er, + The honest savage brags and grins, + And only longs to fight once more. + + But luck may change, and valor fail, + Our drummer, Peter, meet reverse, + And with a moral points his tale— + The end of all such tales—a curse. + + Last year, my love, it was my hap + Behind a grenadier to be, + And, but he wore a hairy cap, + No taller man, methinks, than me. + + Prince Albert and the Queen, God wot, + (Be blessings on the glorious pair!) + Before us passed, I saw them not, + I only saw a cap of hair. + + Your orthodox historian puts + In foremost rank the soldier thus, + The red-coat bully in his boots, + That hides the march of men from us. + + He puts him there in foremost rank, + You wonder at his cap of hair: + You hear his sabre's cursed clank, + His spurs are jingling everywhere. + + Go to! I hate him and his trade: + Who bade us so to cringe and bend, + And all God's peaceful people made + To such as him subservient? + + Tell me what find we to admire + In epaulets and scarlet coats. + In men, because they load and fire, + And know the art of cutting throats? + + . . . . . + + Ah, gentle, tender lady mine! + The winter wind blows cold and shrill, + Come, fill me one more glass of wine, + And give the silly fools their will. + + And what care we for war and wrack, + How kings and heroes rise and fall; + Look yonder,* in his coffin black, + There lies the greatest of them all! + + To pluck him down, and keep him up, + Died many million human souls; + 'Tis twelve o'clock, and time to sup, + Bid Mary heap the fire with coals. + + He captured many thousand guns; + He wrote "The Great" before his name; + And dying, only left his sons + The recollection of his shame. + + Though more than half the world was his, + He died without a rood his own; + And borrowed from his enemies + Six foot of ground to lie upon. + + He fought a thousand glorious wars, + And more than half the world was his, + And somewhere now, in yonder stars, + Can tell, mayhap, what greatness is. + + 1841. + + * This ballad was written at Paris at the time of the Second + Funeral of Napoleon. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ABD-EL-KADER AT TOULON. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + OR, THE CAGED HAWK. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + No more, thou lithe and long-winged hawk, of desert-life for thee; + No more across the sultry sands shalt thou go swooping free: + Blunt idle talons, idle beak, with spurning of thy chain, + Shatter against thy cage the wing thou ne'er may'st spread again. + + Long, sitting by their watchfires, shall the Kabyles tell the tale + Of thy dash from Ben Halifa on the fat Metidja vale; + How thou swept'st the desert over, bearing down the wild El Riff, + From eastern Beni Salah to western Ouad Shelif; + + How thy white burnous welit streaming, like the storm-rack o'er the sea, + When thou rodest in the vanward of the Moorish chivalry; + How thy razzia was a whirlwind, thy onset a simoom, + How thy sword-sweep was the lightning, dealing death from out the gloom! + + Nor less quick to slay in battle than in peace to spare and save, + Of brave men wisest councillor, of wise councillors most brave; + How the eye that flashed destruction could beam gentleness and love, + How lion in thee mated lamb, how eagle mated dove! + + Availéd not or steel or shot 'gainst that charmed life secure, + Till cunning France, in last resource, tossed up the golden lure; + And the carrion buzzards round him stooped, faithless, to the cast, + And the wild hawk of the desert is caught and caged at last. + + Weep, maidens of Zerifah, above the laden loom! + Scar, chieftains of Al Elmah, your cheeks in grief and gloom! + Sons of the Beni Snazam, throw down the useless lance, + And stoop your necks and bare your backs to yoke and scourge of France! + + Twas not in fight they bore him down; he never cried amàn; + He never sank his sword before the PRINCE OF FRANGHISTAN; + But with traitors all around him, his star upon the wane, + He heard the voice of ALLAH, and he would not strive in vain. + + They gave him what he asked them; from king to king he spake, + As one that plighted word and seal not knoweth how to break; + "Let me pass from out my deserts, be't mine own choice where to go, + I brook no fettered life to live, a captive and a show." + + And they promised, and he trusted them, and proud and calm he came, + Upon his black mare riding, girt with his sword of fame. + Good steed, good sword, he rendered both unto the Frankish throng; + He knew them false and fickle—but a Prince's word is strong. + + How have they kept their promise? Turned they the vessel's prow + Unto Acre, Alexandria, as they have sworn e'en now? + Not so: from Oran northwards the white sails gleam and glance, + And the wild hawk of the desert is borne away to France! + + Where Toulon's white-walled lazaret looks southward o'er the wave, + Sits he that trusted in the word a son of Louis gave. + O noble faith of noble heart! And was the warning vain, + The text writ by the BOURBON in the blurred black book of Spain? + + They have need of thee to gaze on, they have need of thee to grace + The triumph of the Prince, to gild the pinchbeck of their race. + Words are but wind, conditions must be construed by GUIZOT; + Dash out thy heart, thou desert hawk, ere thou art made a show! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE KING OF BRENTFORD'S TESTAMENT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The noble King of Brentford + Was old and very sick, + He summon'd his physicians + To wait upon him quick; + They stepp'd into their coaches + And brought their best physick. + + They cramm'd their gracious master + With potion and with pill; + They drench'd him and they bled him; + They could not cure his ill. + "Go fetch," says he, "my lawyer, + I'd better make my will." + + The monarch's royal mandate + The lawyer did obey; + The thought of six-and-eightpence + Did make his heart full gay. + "What is't," says he, "your Majesty + Would wish of me to-day?" + + "The doctors have belabor'd me + With potion and with pill: + My hours of life are counted, + O man of tape and quill! + Sit down and mend a pen or two, + I want to make my will. + + "O'er all the land of Brentford + I'm lord, and eke of Kew: + I've three-per-cents and five-per-cents; + My debts are but a few; + And to inherit after me + I have but children two. + + "Prince Thomas is my eldest son, + A sober Prince is he, + And from the day we breech'd him + Till now, he's twenty-three, + He never caused disquiet + To his poor Mamma or me. + + "At school they never flogg'd him, + At college, though not fast, + Yet his little-go and great-go + He creditably pass'd, + And made his year's allowance + For eighteen months to last. + + "He never owed a shilling. + Went never drunk to bed, + He has not two ideas + Within his honest head— + In all respects he differs + From my second son, Prince Ned. + + "When Tom has half his income + Laid by at the year's end, + Poor Ned has ne'er a stiver + That rightly he may spend, + But sponges on a tradesman, + Or borrows from a friend. + + "While Tom his legal studies + Most soberly pursues, + Poor Ned most pass his mornings + A-dawdling with the Muse: + While Tom frequents his banker, + Young Ned frequents the Jews. + + "Ned drives about in buggies, + Tom sometimes takes a 'bus; + Ah, cruel fate, why made you + My children differ thus? + Why make of Tom a DULLARD, + And Ned a GENIUS?" + + "You'll cut him with a shilling," + Exclaimed the man of wits: + "I'll leave my wealth," said Brentford, + "Sir Lawyer, as befits; + And portion both their fortunes + Unto their several wits." + + "Your Grace knows best," the lawyer said + "On your commands I wait." + "Be silent, Sir," says Brentford, + "A plague upon your prate! + Come take your pen and paper, + And write as I dictate." + + The will as Brentford spoke it + Was writ and signed and closed; + He bade the lawyer leave him, + And turn'd him round and dozed; + And next week in the churchyard + The good old King reposed. + + Tom, dressed in crape and hatband, + Of mourners was the chief; + In bitter self-upbraidings + Poor Edward showed his grief: + Tom hid his fat white countenance + In his pocket-handkerchief. + + Ned's eyes were full of weeping, + He falter'd in his walk; + Tom never shed a tear, + But onwards he did stalk, + As pompous, black, and solemn, + As any catafalque. + + And when the bones of Brentford— + That gentle king and just— + With bell and book and candle + Were duly laid in dust, + "Now, gentleman," says Thomas, + "Let business be discussed. + + "When late our sire beloved + Was taken deadly ill, + Sir Lawyer, you attended him + (I mean to tax your bill); + And, as you signed and wrote it, + I prithee read the will." + + The lawyer wiped his spectacles, + And drew the parchment out; + And all the Brentford family + Sat eager round about: + Poor Ned was somewhat anxious, + But Tom had ne'er a doubt. + + "My son, as I make ready + To seek my last long home, + Some cares I had for Neddy, + But none for thee, my Tom: + Sobriety and order + You ne'er departed from. + + "Ned hath a brilliant genius, + And thou a plodding brain; + On thee I think with pleasure, + On him with doubt and pain." + "You see, good Ned," says Thomas, + "What he thought about us twain." + + "Though small was your allowance, + You saved a little store; + And those who save a little + Shall get a plenty more." + As the lawyer read this compliment, + Tom's eyes were running o'er. + + "The tortoise and the hare, Tom, + Set out, at each his pace; + The hare it was the fleeter, + The tortoise won the race; + And since the world's beginning + This ever was the case. + + "Ned's genius, blithe and singing, + Steps gayly o'er the ground; + As steadily you trudge it + He clears it with a bound; + But dulness has stout legs, Tom, + And wind that's wondrous sound. + + "O'er fruits and flowers alike, Tom, + You pass with plodding feet; + You heed not one nor t'other + But onwards go your beat, + While genius stops to loiter + With all that he may meet; + + "And ever as he wanders, + Will have a pretext fine + For sleeping in the morning, + Or loitering to dine, + Or dozing in the shade, + Or basking in the shine. + + "Your little steady eyes, Tom, + Though not so bright as those + That restless round about him + His flashing genius throws, + Are excellently suited + To look before your nose. + + "Thank heaven, then, for the blinkers + It placed before your eyes; + The stupidest are weakest, + The witty are not wise; + Oh, bless your good stupidity, + It is your dearest prize! + + "And though my lands are wide, + And plenty is my gold, + Still better gifts from Nature, + My Thomas, do you hold— + A brain that's thick and heavy, + A heart that's dull and cold. + + "Too dull to feel depression, + Too hard to heed distress, + Too cold to yield to passion + Or silly tenderness. + March on—your road is open + To wealth, Tom, and success. + + "Ned sinneth in extravagance, + And you in greedy lust." + ("I' faith," says Ned, "our father + Is less polite than just.") + "In you, son Tom, I've confidence, + But Ned I cannot trust. + + "Wherefore my lease and copyholds, + My lands and tenements, + My parks, my farms, and orchards, + My houses and my rents, + My Dutch stock and my Spanish stock, + My five and three per cents, + + "I leave to you, my Thomas—" + ("What, all?" poor Edward said. + "Well, well, I should have spent them, + And Tom's a prudent head.")— + "I leave to you, my Thomas,— + To you in TRUST for Ned." + + The wrath and consternation + What poet e'er could trace + That at this fatal passage + Came o'er Prince Tom his face; + The wonder of the company, + And honest Ned's amaze! + + "'Tis surely some mistake," + Good-naturedly cries Ned; + The lawyer answered gravely, + "'Tis even as I said; + 'Twas thus his gracious Majesty + Ordain'd on his death-bed. + + "See, here the will is witness'd, + And here's his autograph." + "In truth, our father's writing," + Says Edward, with a laugh; + "But thou shalt not be a loser, Tom, + We'll share it half and half." + + "Alas! my kind young gentleman, + This sharing cannot be; + 'Tis written in the testament + That Brentford spoke to me, + 'I do forbid Prince Ned to give + Prince Tom a halfpenny. + + "'He hath a store of money, + But ne'er was known to lend it; + He never help'd his brother; + The poor he ne'er befriended; + He hath no need of property + Who knows not how to spend it. + + "'Poor Edward knows but how to spend, + And thrifty Tom to hoard; + Let Thomas be the steward then, + And Edward be the lord; + And as the honest laborer + Is worthy his reward, + + "'I pray Prince Ned, my second son, + And my successor dear, + To pay to his intendant + Five hundred pounds a year; + And to think of his old father, + And live and make good cheer.'" + + Such was old Brentford's honest testament, + He did devise his moneys for the best, + And lies in Brentford church in peaceful rest. + Prince Edward lived, and money made and spent; + But his good sire was wrong, it is confess'd + To say his son, young Thomas, never lent. + He did. Young Thomas lent at interest, + And nobly took his twenty-five per cent. + + Long time the famous reign of Ned endured + O'er Chiswick, Fulham, Brentford, Putney, Kew, + But of extravagance he ne'er was cured. + And when both died, as mortal men will do, + 'Twas commonly reported that the steward + Was very much the richer of the two. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE WHITE SQUALL. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + On deck, beneath the awning, + I dozing lay and yawning; + It was the gray of dawning, + Ere yet the sun arose; + And above the funnel's roaring, + And the fitful wind's deploring, + I heard the cabin snoring + With universal nose. + I could hear the passengers snorting— + I envied their disporting— + Vainly I was courting + The pleasure of a doze! + + So I lay, and wondered why light + Came not, and watched the twilight, + And the glimmer of the skylight, + That shot across the deck; + And the binnacle pale and steady, + And the dull glimpse of the dead-eye, + And the sparks in fiery eddy + That whirled from the chimney neck. + In our jovial floating prison + There was sleep from fore to mizzen, + And never a star had risen + The hazy sky to speck. + + Strange company we harbored, + We'd a hundred Jews to larboard, + Unwashed, uncombed, unbarbered— + Jews black, and brown, and gray; + With terror it would seize ye, + And make your souls uneasy, + To see those Rabbis greasy, + Who did naught but scratch and pray: + Their dirty children puking— + Their dirty saucepans cooking— + Their dirty fingers hooking + Their swarming fleas away. + + To starboard, Turks and Greeks were— + Whiskered and brown their cheeks were— + Enormous wide their breeks were, + Their pipes did puff alway; + Each on his mat allotted + In silence smoked and squatted, + Whilst round their children trotted + In pretty, pleasant play. + He can't but smile who traces + The smiles on those brown faces, + And the pretty, prattling graces + Of those small heathens gay. + + And so the hours kept tolling, + And through the ocean rolling + Went the brave "Iberia" bowling + Before the break of day— + + When A SQUALL, upon a sudden, + Came o'er the waters scudding; + And the clouds began to gather, + And the sea was lashed to lather, + And the lowering thunder grumbled, + And the lightning jumped and tumbled, + And the ship, and all the ocean, + Woke up in wild commotion. + Then the wind set up a howling, + And the poodle dog a yowling, + And the cocks began a crowing, + And the old cow raised a lowing, + As she heard the tempest blowing; + And fowls and geese did cackle, + And the cordage and the tackle + Began to shriek and crackle; + And the spray dashed o'er the funnels, + And down the deck in runnels; + And the rushing water soaks all, + From the seamen in the fo'ksal + To the stokers whose black faces + Peer out of their bed-places; + And the captain he was bawling, + And the sailors pulling, hauling, + And the quarter-deck tarpauling + Was shivered in the squalling; + And the passengers awaken, + Most pitifully shaken; + And the steward jumps up, and hastens + For the necessary basins. + + Then the Greeks they groaned and quivered, + And they knelt, and moaned, and shivered, + As the plunging waters met them, + And splashed and overset them; + And they call in their emergence + Upon countless saints and virgins; + And their marrowbones are bended, + And they think the world is ended. + + And the Turkish women for'ard + Were frightened and behorror'd; + And shrieking and bewildering, + The mothers clutched their children; + The men sung "Allah! Illah! + Mashallah Bismillah!" + As the warring waters doused them + And splashed them and soused them, + And they called upon the Prophet, + And thought but little of it. + + Then all the fleas in Jewry + Jumped up and bit like fury; + And the progeny of Jacob + Did on the main-deck wake up + (I wot those greasy Rabbins + Would never pay for cabins); + And each man moaned and jabbered in + His filthy Jewish gaberdine, + In woe and lamentation, + And howling consternation. + And the splashing water drenches + Their dirty brats and wenches; + And they crawl from bales and benches + In a hundred thousand stenches. + + This was the White Squall famous, + Which latterly o'ercame us, + And which all will well remember + On the 28th September; + When a Prussian captain of Lancers + (Those tight-laced, whiskered prancers) + Came on the deck astonished, + By that wild squall admonished, + And wondering cried, "Potztausend, + Wie ist der Stürm jetzt brausend?" + And looked at Captain Lewis, + Who calmly stood and blew his + Cigar in all the hustle, + And scorned the tempest's tussle, + And oft we've thought thereafter + How he beat the storm to laughter; + For well he knew his vessel + With that vain wind could wrestle; + And when a wreck we thought her, + And doomed ourselves to slaughter, + How gayly he fought her, + And through the hubbub brought her, + And as the tempest caught her, + Cried, "GEORGE! SOME BRANDY-AND-WATER!" + + And when, its force expended, + The harmless storm was ended, + And as the sunrise splendid + Came blushing o'er the sea; + I thought, as day was breaking, + My little girls were waking, + And smiling, and making + A prayer at home for me. + + 1844. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PEG OF LIMAVADDY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Riding from Coleraine + (Famed for lovely Kitty), + Came a Cockney bound + Unto Derry city; + Weary was his soul, + Shivering and sad, he + Bumped along the road + Leads to Limavaddy. + + Mountains stretch'd around, + Gloomy was their tinting, + And the horse's hoofs + Made a dismal clinting; + Wind upon the heath + Howling was and piping, + On the heath and bog, + Black with many a snipe in. + Mid the bogs of black, + Silver pools were flashing, + Crows upon their sides + Picking were and splashing. + Cockney on the car + Closer folds his plaidy, + Grumbling at the road + Leads to Limavaddy. + + Through the crashing woods + Autumn brawld and bluster'd, + Tossing round about + Leaves the hue of mustard + Yonder lay Lough Foyle, + Which a storm was whipping, + Covering with mist + Lake, and shores and shipping. + Up and down the hill + (Nothing could be bolder), + Horse went with a raw + Bleeding on his shoulder. + "Where are horses changed?" + Said I to the laddy + Driving on the box: + "Sir, at Limavaddy." + + Limavaddy inn's + But a humble bait-house, + Where you may procure + Whiskey and potatoes; + Landlord at the door + Gives a smiling welcome— + To the shivering wights + Who to his hotel come. + + Landlady within + Sits and knits a stocking, + With a wary foot + Baby's cradle rocking. + To the chimney nook + Having, found admittance, + There I watch a pup + Playing with two kittens; + (Playing round the fire), + Which of blazing turf is, + Roaring to the pot + Which bubbles with the murphies. + And the cradled babe + Fond the mother nursed it, + Singing it a song + As she twists the worsted! + + Up and down the stair + Two more young ones patter + (Twins were never seen + Dirtier nor fatter). + Both have mottled legs, + Both have snubby noses, + Both have— Here the host + Kindly interposes: + "Sure you must be froze + With the sleet and hail, sir: + So will you have some punch, + Or will you have some ale, sir?" + + Presently a maid + Enters with the liquor + (Half a pint of ale + Frothing in a beaker). + Gads! didn't know + What my beating heart meant: + Hebe's self I thought + Entered the apartment. + As she came she smiled, + And the smile bewitching, + On my word and honor, + Lighted all the kitchen! + + With a curtsy neat + Greeting the new comer, + Lovely, smiling Peg + Offers me the rummer; + But my trembling hand + Up the beaker tilted, + And the glass of ale + Every drop I spilt it: + Spilt it every drop + (Dames, who read my volumes, + Pardon such a word) + On my what-d'ye-call-'ems! + + Witnessing the sight + Of that dire disaster, + Out began to laugh + Missis, maid, and master; + Such a merry peal + 'Specially Miss Peg's was, + (As the glass of ale + Trickling down my legs was,) + That the joyful sound + Of that mingling laughter + Echoed in my ears + Many a long day after. + + Such a silver peal! + In the meadows listening, + You who've heard the bells + Ringing to a christening; + You who ever heard + Caradori pretty, + Smiling like an angel, + Singing "Giovinetti;" + Fancy Peggy's laugh, + Sweet, and clear, and cheerful, + At my pantaloons + With half a pint of beer full! + + When the laugh was done, + Peg, the pretty hussy, + Moved about the room + Wonderfully busy; + Now she looks to see + If the kettle keep hot; + Now she rubs the spoons, + Now she cleans the teapot; + Now she sets the cups + Trimly and secure: + Now she scours a pot, + And so it was I drew her. + + Thus it was I drew her + Scouring of a kettle, + (Faith! her blushing cheeks + Redden'd on the metal!) + Ah! but 'tis in vain + That I try to sketch it; + The pot perhaps is like, + But Peggy's face is wretched. + No the best of lead + And of indian-rubber + Never could depict + That sweet kettle-scrubber! + + See her as she moves + Scarce the ground she touches, + Airy as a fay, + Graceful as a duchess; + Bare her rounded arm, + Bare her little leg is, + Vestris never show'd + Ankles like to Peggy's. + Braided is her hair, + Soft her look and modest, + Slim her little waist + Comfortably bodiced. + + This I do declare, + Happy is the laddy + Who the heart can share + Of Peg of Limavaddy. + Married if she were + Blest would be the daddy + Of the children fair + Of Peg of Limavaddy. + Beauty is not rare + In the land of Paddy, + Fair beyond compare + Is Peg of Limavaddy. + + Citizen or Squire, + Tory, Whig, or Radi- + cal would all desire + Peg of Limavaddy. + Had I Homer's fire, + Or that of Serjeant Taddy, + Meetly I'd admire + Peg of Limavaddy. + And till I expire, + Or till I grow mad I + Will sing unto my lyre + Peg of Limavaddy! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MAY-DAY ODE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + But yesterday a naked sod + The dandies sneered from Rotten Row, + And cantered o'er it to and fro: + And see 'tis done! + As though 'twere by a wizard's rod + A blazing arch of lucid glass + Leaps like a fountain from the grass + To meet the sun! + + A quiet green but few days since, + With cattle browsing in the shade: + And here are lines of bright arcade + In order raised! + A palace as for fairy Prince, + A rare pavilion, such as man + Saw never since mankind began, + And built and glazed! + + A peaceful place it was but now, + And lo! within its shining streets + A multitude of nations meets; + A countless throng + I see beneath the crystal bow, + And Gaul and German, Russ and Turk, + Each with his native handiwork + And busy tongue. + + I felt a thrill of love and awe + To mark the different garb of each, + The changing tongue, the various speech + Together blent: + A thrill, methinks, like His who saw + "All people dwelling upon earth + Praising our God with solemn mirth + And one consent." + + High Sovereign, in your Royal state, + Captains, and chiefs, and councillors, + Before the lofty palace doors + Are open set,— + Hush ere you pass the shining gate: + Hush! ere the heaving curtain draws, + And let the Royal pageant pause + A moment yet. + + People and prince a silence keep! + Bow coronet and kingly crown. + Helmet and plume, bow lowly down, + The while the priest, + Before the splendid portal step, + (While still the wondrous banquet stays,) + From Heaven supreme a blessing prays + Upon the feast. + + Then onwards let the triumph march; + Then let the loud artillery roll, + And trumpets ring, and joy-bells toll, + And pass the gate. + Pass underneath the shining arch, + 'Neath which the leafy elms are green; + Ascend unto your throne, O Queen! + And take your state. + + Behold her in her Royal place; + A gentle lady; and the hand + That sways the sceptre of this land, + How frail and weak! + Soft is the voice, and fair the face: + She breathes amen to prayer and hymn; + No wonder that her eyes are dim, + And pale her cheek. + + This moment round her empire's shores + The winds of Austral winter sweep, + And thousands lie in midnight sleep + At rest to-day. + Oh! awful is that crown of yours, + Queen of innumerable realms + Sitting beneath the budding elms + Of English May! + + A wondrous scepter 'tis to bear: + Strange mystery of God which set + Upon her brow yon coronet,— + The foremost crown + Of all the world, on one so fair! + That chose her to it from her birth, + And bade the sons of all the earth + To her bow down. + + The representatives of man + Here from the far Antipodes, + And from the subject Indian seas, + In Congress meet; + From Afric and from Hindustan, + From Western continent and isle, + The envoys of her empire pile + Gifts at her feet; + + Our brethren cross the Atlantic tides, + Loading the gallant decks which once + Roared a defiance to our guns, + With peaceful store; + Symbol of peace, their vessel rides!* + O'er English waves float Star and Stripe, + And firm their friendly anchors gripe + The father shore! + + From Rhine and Danube, Rhone and Seine, + As rivers from their sources gush, + The swelling floods of nations rush, + And seaward pour: + From coast to coast in friendly chain, + With countless ships we bridge the straits, + And angry ocean separates + Europe no more. + + From Mississippi and from Nile— + From Baltic, Ganges, Bosphorous, + In England's ark assembled thus + Are friend and guest. + Look down the mighty sunlit aisle, + And see the sumptuous banquet set, + The brotherhood of nations met. + Around the feast! + + Along the dazzling colonnade, + Far as the straining eye can gaze, + Gleam cross and fountain, bell and vase, + In vistas bright; + And statues fair of nymph and maid, + And steeds and pards and Amazons, + Writhing and grappling in the bronze, + In endless fight. + + To deck the glorious roof and dome, + To make the Queen a canopy, + The peaceful hosts of industry + Their standards bear. + Yon are the works of Brahmin loom; + On such a web of Persian thread + The desert Arab bows his head + And cries his prayer. + + Look yonder where the engines toil: + These England's arms of conquest are, + The trophies of her bloodless war: + Brave weapons these. + Victorians over wave and soil, + With these she sails, she weaves, she tills, + Pierces the everlasting hills + And spans the seas. + + The engine roars upon its race, + The shuttle whirs the woof, + The people hum from floor to roof, + With Babel tongue. + The fountain in the basin plays, + The chanting organ echoes clear, + An awful chorus 'tis to hear, + A wondrous song! + + Swell, organ, swell your trumpet blast, + March, Queen and Royal pageant, march + By splendid aisle and springing arch + Of this fair Hall: + And see! above the fabric vast, + God's boundless Heaven is bending blue, + God's peaceful sunlight's beaming through, + And shines o'er all. + + May, 1851. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + * The U. S. frigate "St. Lawrence." +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A street there is in Paris famous, + For which no rhyme our language yields, + Rue Neuve des Petits Champs its name is— + The New Street of the Little Fields. + And here's an inn, not rich and splendid, + But still in comfortable case; + The which in youth I oft attended, + To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse. + + This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is— + A sort of soup or broth, or brew, + Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes, + That Greenwich never could outdo; + Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffron, + Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace: + All these you eat at TERRÉ'S tavern, + In that one dish of Bouillabaisse. + + Indeed, a rich and savory stew 'tis; + And true philosophers, methinks, + Who love all sorts of natural beauties, + Should love good victuals and good drinks. + And Cordelier or Benedictine + Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace, + Nor find a fast-day too afflicting, + Which served him up a Bouillabaisse. + + I wonder if the house still there is? + Yes, here the lamp is, as before; + The smiling red-checked écaillère is + Still opening oysters at the door. + Is TERRÉ still alive and able? + I recollect his droll grimace: + He'd come and smile before your table, + And hope you liked your Bouillabaisse. + + We enter—nothing's changed or older. + "How's Monsieur TERRÉ, waiter, pray?" + The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder— + "Monsieur is dead this many a day." + "It is the lot of saint and sinner, + So honest TERRÉ'S run his race." + "What will Monsieur require for dinner?" + "Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse?" + + "Oh, oui, Monsieur," 's the waiter's answer; + "Quel vin Monsieur desire-t-il?" + "Tell me a good one."—"That I can, Sir: + The Chambertin with yellow seal." + "So TERRÉ'S gone," I say, and sink in + My old accustom'd corner-place, + "He's done with feasting and with drinking, + With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse." + + My old accustom'd corner here is, + The table still is in the nook; + Ah! vanish'd many a busy year is + This well-known chair since last I took. + When first I saw ye, cari luoghi, + I'd scarce a beard upon my face, + And now a grizzled, grim old fogy, + I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse. + + Where are you, old companions trusty + Of early days here met to dine? + Come, waiter! quick, a flagon crusty— + I'll pledge them in the good old wine. + The kind old voices and old faces + My memory can quick retrace; + Around the board they take their places, + And share the wine and Bouillabaisse. + + There's JACK has made a wondrous marriage; + There's laughing TOM is laughing yet; + There's brave AUGUSTUS drives his carriage; + There's poor old FRED in the Gazette; + On JAMES'S head the grass is growing; + Good Lord! the world has wagged apace + Since here we set the Claret flowing, + And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse. + + Ah me! how quick the days are flitting! + I mind me of a time that's gone, + When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting, + In this same place—but not alone. + A fair young form was nestled near me, + A dear, dear face looked fondly up, + And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me + —There's no one now to share my cup. + + . . . . . + + I drink it as the Fates ordain it. + Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes: + Fill up the lonely glass, and drain it + In memory of dear old times. + Welcome the wine, whate'er the seal is; + And sit you down and say your grace + With thankful heart, whate'er the meal is. + —Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE MAHOGANY TREE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Christmas is here: + Winds whistle shrill, + Icy and chill, + Little care we: + Little we fear + Weather without, + Sheltered about + The Mahogany Tree. + + Once on the boughs + Birds of rare plume + Sang, in its bloom; + Night-birds are we: + Here we carouse, + Singing like them, + Perched round the stem + Of the jolly old tree. + + Here let us sport, + Boys, as we sit; + Laughter and wit + Flashing so free. + Life is but short— + When we are gone, + Let them sing on, + Round the old tree. + + Evenings we knew, + Happy as this; + Faces we miss, + Pleasant to see. + Kind hearts and true, + Gentle and just, + Peace to your dust! + We sing round the tree. + + Care, like a dun, + Lurks at the gate: + Let the dog wait; + Happy we'll be! + Drink, every one; + Pile up the coals, + Fill the red bowls, + Round the old tree! + + Drain we the cup.— + Friend, art afraid? + Spirits are laid + In the Red Sea. + Mantle it up; + Empty it yet; + Let us forget, + Round the old tree. + + Sorrows, begone! + Life and its ills, + Duns and their bills, + Bid we to flee. + Come with the dawn, + Blue-devil sprite, + Leave us to-night, + Round the old tree. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE YANKEE VOLUNTEERS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "A surgeon of the United States' army says that on inquiring of + the Captain of his company, he found that NINE-TENTHS of the men + had enlisted on account of some female difficulty."—Morning Paper. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ye Yankee Volunteers! + It makes my bosom bleed + When I your story read, + Though oft 'tis told one. + So—in both hemispheres + The women are untrue, + And cruel in the New, + As in the Old one! + + What—in this company + Of sixty sons of Mars, + Who march 'neath Stripes and Stars, + With fife and horn, + Nine-tenths of all we see + Along the warlike line + Had but one cause to join + This Hope Forlorn? + + Deserters from the realm + Where tyrant Venus reigns, + You slipp'd her wicked chains, + Fled and out-ran her. + And now, with sword and helm, + Together banded are + Beneath the Stripe and Star + Embroider'd banner! + + And is it so with all + The warriors ranged in line, + With lace bedizen'd fine + And swords gold-hilted— + Yon lusty corporal, + Yon color-man who gripes + The flag of Stars and Stripes— + Has each been jilted? + + Come, each man of this line, + The privates strong and tall, + "The pioneers and all," + The fifer nimble— + Lieutenant and Ensign, + Captain with epaulets, + And Blacky there, who beats + The clanging cymbal— + + O cymbal-beating black, + Tell us, as thou canst feel, + Was it some Lucy Neal + Who caused thy ruin? + O nimble fifing Jack, + And drummer making din + So deftly on the skin, + With thy rat-tattooing— + + Confess, ye volunteers, + Lieutenant and Ensign, + And Captain of the line, + As bold as Roman— + Confess, ye grenadiers, + However strong and tall, + The Conqueror of you all + Is Woman, Woman! + + No corselet is so proof + But through it from her bow + The shafts that she can throw + Will pierce and rankle. + No champion e'er so tough, + But's in the struggle thrown, + And tripp'd and trodden down + By her slim ankle. + + Thus always it was ruled: + And when a woman smiled, + The strong man was a child, + The sage a noodle. + Alcides was befool'd, + And silly Samson shorn, + Long, long ere you were horn, + Poor Yankee Doodle! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE PEN AND THE ALBUM. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "I am Miss Catherine's book," the album speaks; + "I've lain among your tomes these many weeks; + I'm tired of their old coats and yellow cheeks. + + "Quick, Pen! and write a line with a good grace: + Come! draw me off a funny little face; + And, prithee, send me back to Chesham Place." + + PEN. + + "I am my master's faithful old Gold Pen; + I've served him three long years, and drawn since then + Thousands of funny women and droll men. + + "O Album! could I tell you all his ways + And thoughts, since I am his, these thousand days, + Lord, how your pretty pages I'd amaze!" + + ALBUM. + + "His ways? his thoughts? Just whisper me a few; + Tell me a curious anecdote or two, + And write 'em quickly off, good Mordan, do!" + + PEN. + + "Since he my faithful service did engage + To follow him through his queer pilgrimage, + I've drawn and written many a line and page. + + "Caricatures I scribbled have, and rhymes, + And dinner-cards, and picture pantomimes; + And merry little children's books at times. + + "I've writ the foolish fancy of his brain; + The aimless jest that, striking, hath caused pain; + The idle word that he'd wish back again. + + . . . . . . + + "I've help'd him to pen many a line for bread; + To joke with sorrow aching in his head; + And make your laughter when his own heart bled. + + "I've spoke with men of all degree and sort— + Peers of the land, and ladies of the Court; + Oh, but I've chronicled a deal of sport! + + "Feasts that were ate a thousand days ago, + Biddings to wine that long hath ceased to flow, + Gay meetings with good fellows long laid low; + + "Summons to bridal, banquet, burial, ball, + Tradesman's polite reminders of his small + Account due Christmas last—I've answered all. + + "Poor Diddler's tenth petition for a half- + Guinea; Miss Bunyan's for an autograph; + So I refuse, accept, lament, or laugh, + + "Condole, congratulate, invite, praise, scoff. + Day after day still dipping in my trough, + And scribbling pages after pages off. + + "Day after day the labor's to be done, + And sure as comes the postman and the sun, + The indefatigable ink must run. + + . . . . . + + "Go back, my pretty little gilded tome, + To a fair mistress and a pleasant home, + Where soft hearts greet us whensoe'er we come! + + "Dear, friendly eyes, with constant kindness lit, + However rude my verse, or poor my wit, + Or sad or gay my mood, you welcome it. + + "Kind lady! till my last of lines is penn'd, + My master's love, grief, laughter, at an end, + Whene'er I write your name, may I write friend! + + "Not all are so that were so in past years; + Voices, familiar once, no more he hears; + Names, often writ, are blotted out in tears. + + "So be it:—joys will end and tears will dry— + Album! my master bids me wish good-by, + He'll send you to your mistress presently. + + "And thus with thankful heart he closes you; + Blessing the happy hour when a friend he knew + So gentle, and so generous, and so true. + + "Nor pass the words as idle phrases by; + Stranger! I never writ a flattery, + Nor sign'd the page that register'd a lie." +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MRS. KATHERINE'S LANTERN. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + WRITTEN IN A LADY'S ALBUM. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Coming from a gloomy court, + Place of Israelite resort, + This old lamp I've brought with me. + Madam, on its panes you'll see + The initials K and E." + + "An old lantern brought to me? + Ugly, dingy, battered, black!" + (Here a lady I suppose + Turning up a pretty nose)— + "Pray, sir, take the old thing back. + I've no taste for bricabrac." + + "Please to mark the letters twain—" + (I'm supposed to speak again)— + "Graven on the lantern pane. + Can you tell me who was she, + Mistress of the flowery wreath, + And the anagram beneath— + The mysterious K E? + + "Full a hundred years are gone + Since the little beacon shone + From a Venice balcony: + There, on summer nights, it hung, + And her Lovers came and sung + To their beautiful K E. + + "Hush! in the canal below + Don't you hear the plash of oars + Underneath the lantern's glow, + And a thrilling voice begins + To the sound of mandolins? + Begins singing of amore + And delire and dolore— + O the ravishing tenore! + + "Lady, do you know the tune? + Ah, we all of us have hummed it! + I've an old guitar has thrummed it, + Under many a changing moon. + Shall I try it? Do Re MI . . + What is this? Ma foi, the fact is, + That my hand is out of practice, + And my poor old fiddle cracked is, + And a man—I let the truth out,— + Who's had almost every tooth out, + Cannot sing as once he sung, + When he was young as you are young, + When he was young and lutes were strung, + And love-lamps in the casement hung." +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LUCY'S BIRTHDAY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Seventeen rosebuds in a ring, + Thick with sister flowers beset, + In a fragrant coronet, + Lucy's servants this day bring. + Be it the birthday wreath she wears + Fresh and fair, and symbolling + The young number of her years, + The sweet blushes of her spring. + + Types of youth and love and hope! + Friendly hearts your mistress greet, + Be you ever fair and sweet, + And grow lovelier as you ope! + Gentle nursling, fenced about + With fond care, and guarded so, + Scarce you've heard of storms without, + Frosts that bite or winds that blow! + + Kindly has your life begun, + And we pray that heaven may send + To our floweret a warm sun, + A calm summer, a sweet end. + And where'er shall be her home, + May she decorate the place; + Still expanding into bloom, + And developing in grace. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE CANE-BOTTOM'D CHAIR. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In tattered old slippers that toast at the bars, + And a ragged old jacket perfumed with cigars, + Away from the world and its toils and its cares, + I've a snug little kingdom up four pair of stairs. + + To mount to this realm is a toil, to be sure, + But the fire there is bright and the air rather pure; + And the view I behold on a sunshiny day + Is grand through the chimney-pots over the way. + + This snug little chamber is cramm'd in all nooks + With worthless old knick-knacks and silly old books, + And foolish old odds and foolish old ends, + Crack'd bargains from brokers, cheap keepsakes from friends. + + Old armor, prints, pictures, pipes, china, (all crack'd,) + Old rickety tables, and chairs broken-backed; + A twopenny treasury, wondrous to see; + What matter? 'tis pleasant to you, friend, and me. + + No better divan need the Sultan require, + Than the creaking old sofa that basks by the fire; + And 'tis wonderful, surely, what music you get + From the rickety, ramshackle, wheezy spinet. + + That praying-rug came from a Turcoman's camp; + By Tiber once twinkled that brazen old lamp; + A mameluke fierce yonder dagger has drawn: + 'Tis a murderous knife to toast muffins upon. + + Long, long through the hours, and the night, and the chimes, + Here we talk of old books, and old friends, and old times; + As we sit in a fog made of rich Latakie + This chamber is pleasant to you, friend, and me. + + But of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest, + There's one that I love and I cherish the best: + For the finest of couches that's padded with hair + I never would change thee, my cane-bottom'd chair. + + 'Tis a bandy-legg'd, high-shoulder'd, worm-eaten seat, + With a creaking old back, and twisted old feet; + But since the fair morning when Fanny sat there, + I bless thee and love thee, old cane-bottom'd chair. + + If chairs have but feeling, in holding such charms, + A thrill must have pass'd through your wither'd old arms! + I look'd, and I long'd, and I wish'd in despair; + I wish'd myself turn'd to a cane-bottom'd chair. + + It was but a moment she sat in this place, + She'd a scarf on her neck, and a smile on her face! + A smile on her face, and a rose in her hair, + And she sat there, and bloom'd in my cane-bottom'd chair. + + And so I have valued my chair ever since, + Like the shrine of a saint, or the throne of a prince; + Saint Fanny, my patroness sweet I declare, + The queen of my heart and my cane-bottom'd chair. + + When the candles burn low, and the company's gone, + In the silence of night as I sit here alone— + I sit here alone, but we yet are a pair— + My Fanny I see in my cane-bottom'd chair. + + She comes from the past and revisits my room; + She looks as she then did, all beauty and bloom; + So smiling and tender, so fresh and so fair, + And yonder she sits in my cane-bottom'd chair. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PISCATOR AND PISCATRIX. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + LINES WRITTEN TO AN ALBUM PRINT. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + As on this pictured page I look, + This pretty tale of line and hook + As though it were a novel-book + Amuses and engages: + I know them both, the boy and girl; + She is the daughter of the Earl, + The lad (that has his hair in curl) + My lord the County's page has. + + A pleasant place for such a pair! + The fields lie basking in the glare; + No breath of wind the heavy air + Of lazy summer quickens. + Hard by you see the castle tall; + The village nestles round the wall, + As round about the hen its small + Young progeny of chickens. + + It is too hot to pace the keep; + To climb the turret is too steep; + My lord the earl is dozing deep, + His noonday dinner over: + The postern-warder is asleep + (Perhaps they've bribed him not to peep): + And so from out the gate they creep, + And cross the fields of clover. + + Their lines into the brook they launch; + He lays his cloak upon a branch, + To guarantee his Lady Blanche + 's delicate complexion: + He takes his rapier, from his haunch, + That beardless doughty champion staunch; + He'd drill it through the rival's paunch + That question'd his affection! + + O heedless pair of sportsmen slack! + You never mark, though trout or jack, + Or little foolish stickleback, + Your baited snares may capture. + What care has SHE for line and hook? + She turns her back upon the brook, + Upon her lover's eyes to look + In sentimental rapture. + + O loving pair! as thus I gaze + Upon the girl who smiles always, + The little hand that ever plays + Upon the lover's shoulder; + In looking at your pretty shapes, + A sort of envious wish escapes + (Such as the Fox had for the Grapes) + The Poet your beholder. + + To be brave, handsome, twenty-two; + With nothing else on earth to do, + But all day long to bill and coo: + It were a pleasant calling. + And had I such a partner sweet; + A tender heart for mine to beat, + A gentle hand my clasp to meet;— + I'd let the world flow at my feet, + And never heed its brawling. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE ROSE UPON MY BALCONY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The rose upon my balcony the morning air perfuming, + Was leafless all the winter time and pining for the spring; + You ask me why her breath is sweet, and why her cheek is blooming, + It is because the sun is out and birds begin to sing. + + The nightingale, whose melody is through the greenwood ringing, + Was silent when the boughs were bare and winds were blowing keen: + And if, Mamma, you ask of me the reason of his singing, + It is because the sun is out and all the leaves are green. + + Thus each performs his part, Mamma; the birds have found their voices, + The blowing rose a flush, Mamma, her bonny cheek to dye; + And there's sunshine in my heart, Mamma, which wakens and rejoices, + And so I sing and blush, Mamma, and that's the reason why. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + RONSARD TO HIS MISTRESS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Quand vous serez bien vielle, le soir à la chandelle + Assise auprès du feu devisant et filant, + Direz, chantant mes vers en vous esmerveillant, + Ronsard m'a célébré du temps que j'étois belle." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Some winter night, shut snugly in + Beside the fagot in the hall, + I think I see you sit and spin, + Surrounded by your maidens all. + Old tales are told, old songs are sung, + Old days come back to memory; + You say, "When I was fair and young, + A poet sang of me!" + + There's not a maiden in your hall, + Though tired and sleepy ever so, + But wakes, as you my name recall, + And longs the history to know. + And, as the piteous tale is said, + Of lady cold and lover true, + Each, musing, carries it to bed, + And sighs and envies you! + + "Our lady's old and feeble now," + They'll say; "she once was fresh and fair, + And yet she spurn'd her lover's vow, + And heartless left him to despair: + The lover lies in silent earth, + No kindly mate the lady cheers; + She sits beside a lonely hearth, + With threescore and ten years!" + + Ah! dreary thoughts and dreams are those, + But wherefore yield me to despair, + While yet the poet's bosom glows, + While yet the dame is peerless fair! + Sweet lady mine! while yet 'tis time + Requite my passion and my truth, + And gather in their blushing prime + The roses of your youth! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AT THE CHURCH GATE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Although I enter not, + Yet round about the spot + Ofttimes I hover: + And near the sacred gate, + With longing eyes I wait, + Expectant of her. + + The Minster bell tolls out + Above the city's rout, + And noise and humming: + They've hush'd the Minster bell: + The organ 'gins to swell: + She's coming, she's coming! + + My lady comes at last, + Timid, and stepping fast, + And hastening hither, + With modest eyes downcast: + She comes—she's here—she's past— + May heaven go with her! + + Kneel, undisturb'd, fair Saint! + Pour out your praise or plaint + Meekly and duly; + I will not enter there, + To sully your pure prayer + With thoughts unruly. + + But suffer me to pace + Round the forbidden place, + Lingering a minute + Like outcast spirits who wait + And see through heaven's gate + Angels within it. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE AGE OF WISDOM. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ho, pretty page, with the dimpled chin, + That never has known the Barber's shear, + All your wish is woman to win, + This is the way that boys begin,— + Wait till you come to Forty Year. + + Curly gold locks cover foolish brains, + Billing and cooing is all your cheer; + Sighing and singing of midnight strains, + Under Bonnybell's window panes,— + Wait till you come to Forty Year. + + Forty times over let Michaelmas pass, + Grizzling hair the brain doth clear— + Then you know a boy is an ass, + Then you know the worth of a lass, + Once you have come to Forty Year. + + Pledge me round, I bid ye declare, + All good fellows whose beards are gray, + Did not the fairest of the fair + Common grow and wearisome ere + Ever a month was passed away? + + The reddest lips that ever have kissed, + The brightest eyes that ever have shone, + May pray and whisper, and we not list, + Or look away, and never be missed, + Ere yet ever a month is gone. + + Gillian's dead, God rest her bier, + How I loved her twenty years syne! + Marian's married, but I sit here + Alone and merry at Forty Year, + Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SORROWS OF WERTHER. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + WERTHER had a love for Charlotte + Such as words could never utter; + Would you know how first he met her? + She was cutting bread and butter. + + Charlotte was a married lady, + And a moral man was Werther, + And, for all the wealth of Indies, + Would do nothing for to hurt her. + + So he sighed and pined and ogled, + And his passion boiled and bubbled, + Till he blew his silly brains out, + And no more was by it troubled. + + Charlotte, having seen his body + Borne before her on a shutter, + Like a well-conducted person, + Went on cutting bread and butter. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A DOE IN THE CITY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Little KITTY LORIMER, + Fair, and young, and witty, + What has brought your ladyship + Rambling to the City? + + All the Stags in Capel Court + Saw her lightly trip it; + All the lads of Stock Exchange + Twigg'd her muff and tippet. + + With a sweet perplexity, + And a mystery pretty, + Threading through Threadneedle Street, + Trots the little KITTY. + + What was my astonishment— + What was my compunction, + When she reached the Offices + Of the Didland Junction! + + Up the Didland stairs she went, + To the Didland door, Sir; + Porters lost in wonderment, + Let her pass before, Sir. + + "Madam," says the old chief Clerk, + "Sure we can't admit ye." + "Where's the Didland Junction deed?" + Dauntlessly says KITTY. + + "If you doubt my honesty, + Look at my receipt, Sir." + Up then jumps the old chief Clerk, + Smiling as he meets her. + + KITTY at the table sits + (Whither the old Clerk leads her), + "I deliver this," she says, + "As my act and deed, Sir." + + When I heard these funny words + Come from lips so pretty; + This, I thought, should surely be + Subject for a ditty. + + What! are ladies stagging it? + Sure, the more's the pity; + But I've lost my heart to her,— + Naughty little KITTY. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LAST OF MAY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (IN REPLY TO AN INVITATION DATED ON THE 1ST.) +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + By fate's benevolent award, + Should I survive the day, + I'll drink a bumper with my lord + Upon the last of May. + + That I may reach that happy time + The kindly gods I pray, + For are not ducks and pease in prime + Upon the last of May? + + At thirty boards, 'twixt now and then, + My knife and fork shall play; + But better wine and better men + I shall not meet in May. + + And though, good friend, with whom I dine, + Your honest head is gray, + And, like this grizzled head of mine, + Has seen its last of May; + + Yet, with a heart that's ever kind, + A gentle spirit gay, + You've spring perennial in your mind, + And round you make a May! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + "AH, BLEAK AND BARREN WAS THE MOOR." + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ah! bleak and barren was the moor, + Ah! loud and piercing was the storm, + The cottage roof was shelter'd sure, + The cottage hearth was bright and warm— + An orphan-boy the lattice pass'd, + And, as he mark'd its cheerful glow, + Felt doubly keen the midnight blast, + And doubly cold the fallen snow. + + They marked him as he onward press'd, + With fainting heart and weary limb; + Kind voices bade him turn and rest, + And gentle faces welcomed him. + The dawn is up—the guest is gone, + The cottage hearth is blazing still: + Heaven pity all poor wanderers lone! + Hark to the wind upon the hill! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SONG OF THE VIOLET. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A humble flower long time I pined + Upon the solitary plain, + And trembled at the angry wind, + And shrunk before the bitter rain. + And oh! 'twas in a blessed hour + A passing wanderer chanced to see, + And, pitying the lonely flower, + To stoop and gather me. + + I fear no more the tempest rude, + On dreary heath no more I pine, + But left my cheerless solitude, + To deck the breast of Caroline. + Alas our days are brief at best, + Nor long I fear will mine endure, + Though shelter'd here upon a breast + So gentle and so pure. + + It draws the fragrance from my leaves, + It robs me of my sweetest breath, + And every time it falls and heaves, + It warns me of my coming death. + But one I know would glad forego + All joys of life to be as I; + An hour to rest on that sweet breast, + And then, contented, die! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FAIRY DAYS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Beside the old hall-fire—upon my nurse's knee, + Of happy fairy days—what tales were told to me! + I thought the world was once—all peopled with princesses, + And my heart would beat to hear—their loves and their distresses: + And many a quiet night,—in slumber sweet and deep, + The pretty fairy people—would visit me in sleep. + + I saw them in my dreams—come flying east and west, + With wondrous fairy gifts—the newborn babe they bless'd; + One has brought a jewel—and one a crown of gold, + And one has brought a curse—but she is wrinkled and old. + The gentle queen turns pale—to hear those words of sin, + But the king he only laughs—and bids the dance begin. + + The babe has grown to be—the fairest of the land, + And rides the forest green—a hawk upon her hand, + An ambling palfrey white—a golden robe and crown: + I've seen her in my dreams—riding up and down: + And heard the ogre laugh—as she fell into his snare, + At the little tender creature—who wept and tore her hair! + + But ever when it seemed—her need was at the sorest, + A prince in shining mail—comes prancing through the forest, + A waving ostrich-plume—a buckler burnished bright; + I've seen him in my dreams—good sooth! a gallant knight. + His lips are coral red—beneath a dark moustache; + See how he waves his hand—and how his blue eyes flash! + + "Come forth, thou Paynim knight!"—he shouts in accents clear. + The giant and the maid—both tremble his voice to hear. + Saint Mary guard him well!—he draws his falchion keen, + The giant and the knight—are fighting on the green. + I see them in my dreams—his blade gives stroke on stroke, + The giant pants and reels—and tumbles like an oak! + + With what a blushing grace—he falls upon his knee + And takes the lady's hand—and whispers, "You are free!" + Ah! happy childish tales—of knight and faërie! + I waken from my dreams—but there's ne'er a knight for me; + I waken from my dreams—and wish that I could be + A child by the old hall-fire—upon my nurse's knee! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + POCAHONTAS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Wearied arm and broken sword + Wage in vain the desperate fight: + Round him press a countless horde, + He is but a single knight. + Hark! a cry of triumph shrill + Through the wilderness resounds, + As, with twenty bleeding wounds, + Sinks the warrior, fighting still. + + Now they heap the fatal pyre, + And the torch of death they light: + Ah! 'tis hard to die of fire! + Who will shield the captive knight? + Round the stake with fiendish cry + Wheel and dance the savage crowd, + Cold the victim's mien, and proud. + And his breast is bared to die. + + Who will shield the fearless heart? + Who avert the murderous blade? + From the throng, with sudden start, + See there springs an Indian maid. + Quick she stands before the knight, + "Loose the chain, unbind the ring, + I am daughter of the king, + And I claim the Indian right!" + + Dauntlessly aside she flings + Lifted axe and thirsty knife; + Fondly to his heart she clings, + And her bosom guards his life! + In the woods of Powhattan, + Still 'tis told by Indian fires, + How a daughter of their sires + Saved the captive Englishman. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FROM POCAHONTAS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Returning from the cruel fight + How pale and faint appears my knight! + He sees me anxious at his side; + "Why seek, my love, your wounds to hide? + Or deem your English girl afraid + To emulate the Indian maid?" + + Be mine my husband's grief to cheer + In peril to be ever near; + Whate'er of ill or woe betide, + To bear it clinging at his side; + The poisoned stroke of fate to ward, + His bosom with my own to guard: + Ah! could it spare a pang to his, + It could not know a purer bliss! + 'Twould gladden as it felt the smart, + And thank the hand that flung the dart! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LOVE-SONGS MADE EASY. + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + WHAT MAKES MY HEART TO THRILL AND GLOW? + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + THE MAYFAIR LOVE-SONG. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Winter and summer, night and morn, + I languish at this table dark; + My office window has a corn- + er looks into St. James's Park. + I hear the foot-guards' bugle-horn, + Their tramp upon parade I mark; + I am a gentleman forlorn, + I am a Foreign-Office Clerk. + + My toils, my pleasures, every one, + I find are stale, and dull, and slow; + And yesterday, when work was done, + I felt myself so sad and low, + I could have seized a sentry's gun + My wearied brains out out to blow. + What is it makes my blood to run? + What makes my heart to beat and glow? + + My notes of hand are burnt, perhaps? + Some one has paid my tailor's bill? + No: every morn the tailor raps; + My I O U's are extant still. + I still am prey of debt and dun; + My elder brother's stout and well. + What is it makes my blood to run? + What makes my heart to glow and swell? + + I know my chief's distrust and hate; + He says I'm lazy, and I shirk. + Ah! had I genius like the late + Right Honorable Edmund Burke! + My chance of all promotion's gone, + I know it is,—he hates me so. + What is it makes my blood to run, + And all my heart to swell and glow? + + Why, why is all so bright and gay? + There is no change, there is no cause; + My office-time I found to-day + Disgusting as it ever was. + At three, I went and tried the Clubs, + And yawned and saunter'd to and fro; + And now my heart jumps up and throbs, + And all my soul is in a glow. + + At half-past four I had the cab; + I drove as hard as I could go. + The London sky was dirty drab, + And dirty brown the London snow. + And as I rattled in a cant- + er down by dear old Bolton Row, + A something made my heart to pant, + And caused my cheek to flush and glow. + + What could it be that made me find + Old Jawkins pleasant at the Club? + Why was it that I laughed and grinned + At whist, although I lost the rub? + What was it made me drink like mad + Thirteen small glasses of Curaço? + That made my inmost heart so glad, + And every fibre thrill and glow? + + She's home again! she's home, she's home! + Away all cares and griefs and pain; + I knew she would—she's back from Rome; + She's home again! she's home again! + "The family's gone abroad," they said, + September last they told me so; + Since then my lonely heart is dead, + My blood I think's forgot to flow. + + She's home again! away all care! + O fairest form the world can show! + O beaming eyes! O golden hair! + O tender voice, that breathes so low! + O gentlest, softest, purest heart! + O joy, O hope!—"My tiger, ho!" + Fitz-Clarence said; we saw him start— + He galloped down to Bolton Row. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0029" id="link2H_4_0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE GHAZUL, OR ORIENTAL LOVE-SONG. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + THE ROCKS. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I was a timid little antelope; + My home was in the rocks, the lonely rocks. + + I saw the hunters scouring on the plain; + I lived among the rocks, the lonely rocks. + + I was a-thirsty in the summer-heat; + I ventured to the tents beneath the rocks. + + Zuleikah brought me water from the well; + Since then I have been faithless to the rocks. + + I saw her face reflected in the well; + Her camels since have marched into the rocks. + + I look to see her image in the well; + I only see my eyes, my own sad eyes. + My mother is alone among the rocks. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0030" id="link2H_4_0030"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE MERRY BARD. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ZULEIKAH! The young Agas in the bazaar are slim-wasted and wear + yellow slippers. I am old and hideous. One of my eyes is out, and + the hairs of my beard are mostly gray. Praise be to Allah! I am a + merry bard. + + There is a bird upon the terrace of the Emir's chief wife. Praise + be to Allah! He has emeralds on his neck, and a ruby tail. I am a + merry bard. He deafens me with his diabolical screaming. + + There is a little brown bird in the basket-maker's cage. Praise be + to Allah! He ravishes my soul in the moonlight. I am a merry bard. + + The peacock is an Aga, but the little bird is a Bulbul. + + I am a little brown Bulbul. Come and listen in the moonlight. + Praise be to Allah! I am a merry bard. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0031" id="link2H_4_0031"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE CAÏQUE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Yonder to the kiosk, beside the creek, + Paddle the swift caïque. + Thou brawny oarsman with the sunburnt cheek, + Quick! for it soothes my heart to hear the Bulbul speak. + + Ferry me quickly to the Asian shores, + Swift bending to your oars. + Beneath the melancholy sycamores, + Hark! what a ravishing note the lovelorn Bulbul pours. + + Behold, the boughs seem quivering with delight, + The stars themselves more bright, + As mid the waving branches out of sight + The Lover of the Rose sits singing through the night. + + Under the boughs I sat and listened still, + I could not have my fill. + "How comes," I said, "such music to his bill? + Tell me for whom he sings so beautiful a trill." + + "Once I was dumb," then did the Bird disclose, + "But looked upon the Rose; + And in the garden where the loved one grows, + I straightway did begin sweet music to compose." + + "O bird of song, there's one in this caïque + The Rose would also seek, + So he might learn like you to love and speak." + Then answered me the bird of dusky beak, + "The Rose, the Rose of Love blushes on Leilah's cheek." +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0032" id="link2H_4_0032"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MY NORA. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Beneath the gold acacia buds + My gentle Nora sits and broods, + Far, far away in Boston woods + My gentle Nora! + + I see the tear-drop in her e'e, + Her bosom's heaving tenderly; + I know—I know she thinks of me, + My Darling Nora! + + And where am I? My love, whilst thou + Sitt'st sad beneath the acacia bough, + Where pearl's on neck, and wreath on brow, + I stand, my Nora! + + Mid carcanet and coronet, + Where joy-lamps shine and flowers are set— + Where England's chivalry are met, + Behold me, Nora! + + In this strange scene of revelry, + Amidst this gorgeous chivalry, + A form I saw was like to thee, + My love—my Nora! + + She paused amidst her converse glad; + The lady saw that I was sad, + She pitied the poor lonely lad,— + Dost love her, Nora? + + In sooth, she is a lovely dame, + A lip of red, and eye of flame, + And clustering golden locks, the same + As thine, dear Nora? + + Her glance is softer than the dawn's, + Her foot is lighter than the fawn's, + Her breast is whiter than the swan's, + Or thine, my Nora! + + Oh, gentle breast to pity me! + Oh, lovely Ladye Emily! + Till death—till death I'll think of thee— + Of thee and Nora! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0033" id="link2H_4_0033"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO MARY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I seem, in the midst of the crowd, + The lightest of all; + My laughter rings cheery and loud, + In banquet and ball. + My lip hath its smiles and its sneers, + For all men to see; + But my soul, and my truth, and my tears, + Are for thee, are for thee! + + Around me they flatter and fawn— + The young and the old. + The fairest are ready to pawn + Their hearts for my gold. + They sue me—I laugh as I spurn + The slaves at my knee; + But in faith and in fondness I turn + Unto thee, unto thee! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0034" id="link2H_4_0034"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SERENADE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Now the toils of day are over, + And the sun hath sunk to rest, + Seeking, like a fiery lover, + The bosom of the blushing west— + + The faithful night keeps watch and ward, + Raising the moon her silver shield, + And summoning the stars to guard + The slumbers of my fair Mathilde! + + The faithful night! Now all things lie + Hid by her mantle dark and dim, + In pious hope I hither hie, + And humbly chant mine ev'ning hymn. + + Thou art my prayer, my saint, my shrine! + (For never holy pilgrim kneel'd, + Or wept at feet more pure than thine), + My virgin love, my sweet Mathilde! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0035" id="link2H_4_0035"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE MINARET BELLS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Tink-a-tink, tink-a-tink, + By the light of the star, + On the blue river's brink, + I heard a guitar. + + I heard a guitar, + On the blue waters clear, + And knew by its music, + That Selim was near! + + Tink-a-tink, tink-a-tink, + How the soft music swells, + And I hear the soft clink + Of the minaret bells! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0036" id="link2H_4_0036"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + COME TO THE GREENWOOD TREE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Come to the greenwood tree, + Come where the dark woods be, + Dearest, O come with me! + Let us rove—O my love—O my love! + + Come—'tis the moonlight hour, + Dew is on leaf and flower, + Come to the linden bower,— + Let us rove—O my love—O my love! + + Dark is the wood, and wide + Dangers, they say, betide; + But, at my Albert's side, + Nought I fear, O my love—O my love! + + Welcome the greenwood tree, + Welcome the forest free, + Dearest, with thee, with thee, + Nought I fear, O my love—O my love! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0037" id="link2H_4_0037"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FIVE GERMAN DITTIES. + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0038" id="link2H_4_0038"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A TRAGIC STORY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + BY ADELBERT VON CHAMISSO. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "—'s war Einer, dem's zu Herzen gieng." + + There lived a sage in days of yore + And he a handsome pigtail wore; + But wondered much and sorrowed more + Because it hung behind him. + + He mused upon this curious case, + And swore he'd change the pigtail's place, + And have it hanging at his face, + Not dangling there behind him. + + Says he, "The mystery I've found,— + I'll turn me round,"—he turned him round; + But still it hung behind him. + + Then round, and round, and out and in, + All day the puzzled sage did spin; + In vain—it mattered not a pin,— + The pigtail hung behind him. + + And right, and left, and round about, + And up, and down, and in, and out, + He turned; but still the pigtail stout + Hung steadily behind him. + + And though his efforts never slack, + And though he twist, and twirl, and tack, + Alas! still faithful to his back + The pigtail hangs behind him. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0039" id="link2H_4_0039"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE CHAPLET. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + FROM UHLAND. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Es pflückte Blümlein mannigfalt." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A little girl through field and wood + Went plucking flowerets here and there, + When suddenly beside her stood + A lady wondrous fair! + + The lovely lady smiled, and laid + A wreath upon the maiden's brow; + "Wear it, 'twill blossom soon," she said, + "Although 'tis leafless now." + + The little maiden older grew + And wandered forth of moonlight eves, + And sighed and loved as maids will do; + When, lo! her wreath bore leaves. + + Then was our maid a wife, and hung + Upon a joyful bridegroom's bosom; + When from the garland's leaves there sprung + Fair store of blossom. + + And presently a baby fair + Upon her gentle breast she reared; + When midst the wreath that bound her hair + Rich golden fruit appeared. + + But when her love lay cold in death, + Sunk in the black and silent tomb, + All sere and withered was the wreath + That wont so bright to bloom. + + Yet still the withered wreath she wore; + She wore it at her dying hour; + When, to the wondrous garland bore + Both leaf, and fruit, and flower! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0040" id="link2H_4_0040"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE KING ON THE TOWER. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + FROM UHLAND. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Da liegen sie alle, die grauen Höhen." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The cold gray hills they bind me around, + The darksome valleys lie sleeping below, + But the winds as they pass o'er all this ground, + Bring me never a sound of woe! + + Oh! for all I have suffered and striven, + Care has embittered my cup and my feast; + But here is the night and the dark blue heaven, + And my soul shall be at rest. + + O golden legends writ in the skies! + I turn towards you with longing soul, + And list to the awful harmonies + Of the Spheres as on they roll. + + My hair is gray and my sight nigh gone; + My sword it rusteth upon the wall; + Right have I spoken, and right have I done: + When shall I rest me once for all? + + O blessed rest! O royal night! + Wherefore seemeth the time so long + Till I see you stars in their fullest light, + And list to their loudest song? +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0041" id="link2H_4_0041"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON A VERY OLD WOMAN. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + LA MOTTE FOUQUÉ. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Und Du gingst einst, die Myrt' im Haare." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + And thou wert once a maiden fair, + A blushing virgin warm and young: + With myrtles wreathed in golden hair, + And glossy brow that knew no care— + Upon a bridegroom's arm you hung. + + The golden locks are silvered now, + The blushing cheek is pale and wan; + The spring may bloom, the autumn glow, + All's one—in chimney corner thou + Sitt'st shivering on.— + + A moment—and thou sink'st to rest! + To wake perhaps an angel blest, + In the bright presence of thy Lord. + Oh, weary is life's path to all! + Hard is the strife, and light the fall, + But wondrous the reward! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0042" id="link2H_4_0042"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A CREDO. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I. + + For the sole edification + Of this decent congregation, + Goodly people, by your grant + I will sing a holy chant— + I will sing a holy chant. + If the ditty sound but oddly, + 'Twas a father, wise and godly, + Sang it so long ago— + Then sing as Martin Luther sang, + As Doctor Martin Luther sang: + "Who loves not wine, woman and song, + He is a fool his whole life long!" + + II. + + He, by custom patriarchal, + Loved to see the beaker sparkle; + And he thought the wine improved, + Tasted by the lips he loved— + By the kindly lips he loved. + Friends, I wish this custom pious + Duly were observed by us, + To combine love, song, wine, + And sing as Martin Luther sang, + As Doctor Martin Luther sang: + "Who loves not wine, woman and song, + He is a fool his whole life long!" + + III. + + Who refuses this our Credo, + And who will not sing as we do, + Were he holy as John Knox, + I'd pronounce him heterodox! + I'd pronounce him heterodox, + And from out this congregation, + With a solemn commination, + Banish quick the heretic, + Who will not sing as Luther sang, + As Doctor Martin Luther sang: + "Who loves not wine, woman and song, + He is a fool his whole life long!" +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0043" id="link2H_4_0043"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FOUR IMITATIONS OF BÉRANGER. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + LE ROI D'YVETOT. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Il était un roi d'Yvetot, + Peu connu dans l'histoire; + Se levant tard, se couchant tôt, + Dormant fort bien sans gloire, + Et couronné par Jeanneton + D'un simple bonnet de coton, + Dit-on. + Oh! oh! oh! oh! ah! ah! ah! ah! + Quel bon petit roi c'était la! + La, la. + + Il fesait ses quatre repas + Dans son palais de chaume, + Et sur un âne, pas à pas, + Parcourait son royaume. + Joyeux, simple et croyant le bien, + Pour toute garde il n'avait rien + Qu'un chien. + Oh! oh! oh ! oh! ah! ah! ah! ah! &c. + + Il n'avait de goût onéreux + Qu'une soif un peu vive; + Mais, en rendant son peuple heureux, + Il faut bien qu'un roi vive. + Lui-même à table, et sans suppôt, + Sur chaque muid levait un pot + D'impôt. + Oh! oh! oh! oh! ah! ah! ah! ah! &c. + + Aux filles de bonnes maisons + Comme il avait su plaire, + Ses sujets avaient cent raisons + De le nommer leur père: + D'ailleurs il ne levait de ban + Que pour tirer quatre fois l'an + Au blanc. + Oh! oh! oh! oh! ah! ah! ah! ah! &c. + + Il n'agrandit point ses états, + Fut un voisin commode, + Et, modèle des potentats, + Prit le plaisir pour code. + Ce n'est que loraqu'il expira, + Que le peuple qui l'enterra + Pleura. + Oh! oh! oh! oh! ah! ah! ah! ah! &c. + + On conserve encor le portrait + De ce digne et bon prince; + C'est l'enseigne d'un cabaret + Fameux dans la province. + Les jours de fête, bien souvent, + La foule s'écrie en buvant + Devant: + Oh! oh! oh! oh! ah! ah! ah! ah! &c. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0044" id="link2H_4_0044"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE KING OF YVETOT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There was a king of Yvetot, + Of whom renown hath little said, + Who let all thoughts of glory go, + And dawdled half his days a-bed; + And every night, as night came round, + By Jenny, with a nightcap crowned, + Slept very sound: + Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he! + That's the kind of king for me. + + And every day it came to pass, + That four lusty meals made he; + And, step by step, upon an ass, + Rode abroad, his realms to see; + And wherever he did stir, + What think you was his escort, sir? + Why, an old cur. + Sing ho, ho, ho ! &c. + + If e'er he went into excess, + 'Twas from a somewhat lively thirst; + But he who would his subjects bless, + Odd's fish!—must wet his whistle first; + And so from every cask they got, + Our king did to himself allot, + At least a pot. + Sing ho, ho! &c. + + To all the ladies of the land, + A courteous king, and kind, was he; + The reason why you'll understand, + They named him Pater Patriae. + Each year he called his fighting men, + And marched a league from home, and then + Marched back again. + Sing ho, ho! &c. + + Neither by force nor false pretence, + He sought to make his kingdom great, + And made (O princes, learn from hence),— + "Live and let live," his rule of state. + 'Twas only when he came to die, + That his people who stood by, + Were known to cry. + Sing ho, ho! &c. + + The portrait of this best of kings + Is extant still, upon a sign + That on a village tavern swings, + Famed in the country for good wine. + The people in their Sunday trim, + Filling their glasses to the brim, + Look up to him, + Singing ha, ha, ha! and he, he, he! + That's the sort of king for me. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0045" id="link2H_4_0045"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE KING OF BRENTFORD. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ANOTHER VERSION. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There was a king in Brentford,—of whom no legends tell, + But who, without his glory,—could eat and sleep right well. + His Polly's cotton nightcap,—it was his crown of state, + He slept of evenings early,—and rose of mornings late. + + All in a fine mud palace,—each day he took four meals, + And for a guard of honor,—a dog ran at his heels, + Sometimes, to view his kingdoms,—rode forth this monarch good, + And then a prancing jackass—he royally bestrode. + + There were no costly habits—with which this king was curst, + Except (and where's the harm on't?)—a somewhat lively thirst; + But people must pay taxes,—and kings must have their sport, + So out of every gallon—His Grace he took a quart. + + He pleased the ladies round him,—with manners soft and bland; + With reason good, they named him,—the father of his land. + Each year his mighty armies—marched forth in gallant show; + Their enemies were targets—their bullets they were tow. + + He vexed no quiet neighbor,—no useless conquest made, + But by the laws of pleasure,—his peaceful realm he swayed. + And in the years he reigned,—through all this country wide, + There was no cause for weeping,—save when the good man died. + + The faithful men of Brentford,—do still their king deplore, + His portrait yet is swinging,—beside an alehouse door. + And topers, tender-hearted,—regard his honest phiz, + And envy times departed—that knew a reign like his. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + LE GRENIER. + + Je viens revoir l'asile où ma jeunesse + De la misère a subi les leçons. + J'avais vingt ans, une folle maîtresse, + De francs amis et l'amour des chansons. + Bravant le monde et les sots et les sages, + Sans avenir, riche de mon printemps, + Leste et joyeux je montais six étages, + Dans un grenier qu'on est bien a vingt ans. + + C'est un grenier, point ne veux qu'on l'ignore. + Là fut mon lit, bien chétif et bien dur; + Là fut ma table; et je retrouve encore + Trois pieds d'un vers charbonnés sur le mur. + Apparaissez, plaisirs de mon bel âge, + Que d'un coup d'aile a fustigés le temps, + Vingt fois pour vous j'ai ma montre en gage. + Dans un grenier qu'on est bien à vingt ans! + + Lisette ici doit surtout apparaître, + Vive, jolie, avec un frais chapeau; + Déjà sa main à l'étroite fenêtre + Suspend son schal, en guise de rideau. + Sa robe aussi va parer ma couchette; + Respecte, Amour, ses plis longs et flottans. + Jai su depuis qui payait sa toilette + Dans un grenier qu'on est bien à vingt ans! + + A table un jour, jour de grande richesse, + De mes amis les voix brillaient en choeur, + Quand jusqu'ici monte on cri d'allégresse; + A Marengo Bonaparte est vainqueur. + Le canon gronde; un autre chant commence; + Nous célébrons tant de faits éclatans. + Les rois jamais n'envahiront la France. + Dans un grenier qu'on est bien à vingt ans! + + Quittons ce toit où ma raison s'enivre. + Oh! qu'ils sont loin ces jours si regrettés! + J'echangerais ce qu'il me reste à vivre + Contre un des mois qu'ici Dieu ma comptés. + Pour rêver gloire, amour, plaisir, folie, + Pour dépenser sa vie en peu d'instans, + D'un long espoir pour la voir embellie, + Dans un grenier qu'on est bien à vingt ans! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0046" id="link2H_4_0046"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE GARRET. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + With pensive eyes the little room I view, + Where, in my youth, I weathered it so long; + With a wild mistress, a stanch friend or two, + And a light heart still breaking into song: + Making a mock of life, and all its cares, + Rich in the glory of my rising sun, + Lightly I vaulted up four pair of stairs, + In the brave days when I was twenty-one. + + Yes; 'tis a garret—let him know't who will— + There was my bed—full hard it was and small; + My table there—and I decipher still + Half a lame couplet charcoaled on the wall. + Ye joys, that Time hath swept with him away, + Come to mine eyes, ye dreams of love and fun; + For you I pawned my watch how many a day, + In the brave days when I was twenty-one. + + And see my little Jessy, first of all; + She comes with pouting lips and sparkling eyes: + Behold, how roguishly she pins her shawl + Across the narrow casement, curtain-wise; + Now by the bed her petticoat glides down, + And when did woman look the worse in none? + I have heard since who paid for many a gown, + In the brave days when I was twenty-one. + + One jolly evening, when my friends and I + Made happy music with our songs and cheers, + A shout of triumph mounted up thus high, + And distant cannon opened on our ears: + We rise,—we join in the triumphant strain,— + Napoleon conquers—Austerlitz is won— + Tyrants shall never tread us down again, + In the brave days when I was twenty-one. + + Let us begone—the place is sad and strange— + How far, far off, these happy times appear; + All that I have to live I'd gladly change + For one such month as I have wasted here— + To draw long dreams of beauty, love, and power, + From founts of hope that never will outrun, + And drink all life's quintessence in an hour, + Give me the days when I was twenty-one! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0047" id="link2H_4_0047"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ROGER-BONTEMPS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Aux gens atrabilaires + Pour exemple donné, + En un temps de misères + Roger-Bontemps est né. + Vivre obscur à sa guise, + Narguer les mécontens; + Eh gai! c'est la devise + Du gros Roger-Bontemps. + + Du chapeau de son père + Coîffé dans les grands jours, + De roses ou de lierre + Le rajeunir toujours; + Mettre un manteau de bure, + Vieil ami de vingt ans; + Eh gai! c'est la parure + Du gros Roger-Bontemps. + + Posséder dans en hutte + Une table, un vieux lit, + Des cartes, une flûte, + Un broc que Dieu remplit; + Un portrait de maîtresse, + Un coffre et rien dedans; + Eh gai! c'est la richesse + Du gros Roger-Bontemps. + + Aux enfans de la ville + Montrer de petite jeux; + Etre fesseur habile + De contes graveleux; + Ne parler que de danse + Et d'almanachs chantans: + Eh gai! c'est la science + Du gros Roger-bontemps. + + Faute de vins d'élite, + Sabler ceux du canton: + Préférer Marguerite + Aux dames du grand ton: + De joie et de tendresse + Remplir tous ses instans: + Eh gai! c'est la sagesse + Du gros Roger-Bontemps. + + Dire au ciel: Je me fie, + Mon père, à ta bonté; + De ma philosophie + Pardonne le gaîté; + Que ma saison dernière + Soit encore un printemps; + Eh gai! c'est la prière + Du gros Roger-Bontemps. + + Vous pauvres pleins d'envie, + Vous riches désireux, + Vous, dont le char dévie + Après un cours heureux; + Vous qui perdrez peut-être + Des titres éclatans, + Eh gai! prenez pour maître + Le gros Roger-Bontemps. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0048" id="link2H_4_0048"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + JOLLY JACK. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When fierce political debate + Throughout the isle was storming, + And Rads attacked the throne and state, + And Tories the reforming, + To calm the furious rage of each, + And right the land demented, + Heaven sent us Jolly Jack, to teach + The way to be contented. + + Jack's bed was straw, 'twas warm and soft, + His chair, a three-legged stool; + His broken jug was emptied oft, + Yet, somehow, always full. + His mistress' portrait decked the wall, + His mirror had a crack; + Yet, gay and glad, though this was all + His wealth, lived Jolly Jack. + + To give advice to avarice, + Teach pride its mean condition, + And preach good sense to dull pretence, + Was honest Jack's high mission. + Our simple statesman found his rule + Of moral in the flagon, + And held his philosophic school + Beneath the "George and Dragon." + + When village Solons cursed the Lords, + And called the malt-tax sinful, + Jack heeded not their angry words, + But smiled and drank his skinful. + And when men wasted health and life, + In search of rank and riches, + Jack marked aloof the paltry strife, + And wore his threadbare breeches. + + "I enter not the church," he said, + "But I'll not seek to rob it;" + So worthy Jack Joe Miller read, + While others studied Cobbett. + His talk it was of feast and fun; + His guide the Almanack; + From youth to age thus gayly run + The life of Jolly Jack. + + And when Jack prayed, as oft he would, + He humbly thanked his Maker; + "I am," said he, "O Father good! + Nor Catholic nor Quaker: + Give each his creed, let each proclaim + His catalogue of curses; + I trust in Thee, and not in them, + In Thee, and in Thy mercies! + + "Forgive me if, midst all Thy works, + No hint I see of damning; + And think there's faith among the Turks, + And hope for e'en the Brahmin. + Harmless my mind is, and my mirth, + And kindly is my laughter: + I cannot see the smiling earth, + And think there's hell hereafter." + + Jack died; he left no legacy, + Save that his story teaches:— + Content to peevish poverty; + Humility to riches. + Ye scornful great, ye envious small, + Come follow in his track; + We all were happier, if we all + Would copy JOLLY JACK. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0049" id="link2H_4_0049"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IMITATION OF HORACE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + TO HIS SERVING BOY. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Persicos odi + Puer, apparatus; + Displicent nexae + Philyrâ coronae: + Mitte sectari, + Rosa qua locorum + Sera moretur. + + Simplici myrto + Nihil allabores + Sedulus, curo: + Neque te ministrum + Dedecet myrtus, + Neque me sub arctâ + Vite bibentem. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0050" id="link2H_4_0050"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AD MINISTRAM. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Dear LUCY, you know what my wish is,— + I hate all your Frenchified fuss: + Your silly entrées and made dishes + Were never intended for us. + No footman in lace and in ruffles + Need dangle behind my arm-chair; + And never mind seeking for truffles, + Although they be ever so rare. + + But a plain leg of mutton, my Lucy, + I prithee get ready at three: + Have it smoking, and tender and juicy, + And what better meat can there be? + And when it has feasted the master, + 'Twill amply suffice for the maid; + Meanwhile I will smoke my canaster, + And tipple my ale in the shade. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0051" id="link2H_4_0051"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + OLD FRIENDS WITH NEW FACES. + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0052" id="link2H_4_0052"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE KNIGHTLY GUERDON.* + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Untrue to my Ulric I never could be, + I vow by the saints and the blessed Marie, + Since the desolate hour when we stood by the shore, + And your dark galley waited to carry you o'er: + My faith then I plighted, my love I confess'd, + As I gave you the BATTLE-AXE marked with your crest! + + When the bold barons met in my father's old hall, + Was not Edith the flower of the banquet and ball? + In the festival hour, on the lips of your bride, + Was there ever a smile save with THEE at my side? + Alone in my turret I loved to sit best, + To blazon your BANNER and broider your crest. + + The knights were assembled, the tourney was gay! + Sir Ulric rode first in the warrior-mêlée. + In the dire battle-hour, when the tourney was done, + And you gave to another the wreath you had won! + Though I never reproached thee, cold, cold was my breast, + As I thought of that BATTLE-AXE, ah! and that crest! + + But away with remembrance, no more will I pine + That others usurped for a time what was mine! + There's a FESTIVAL HOUR for my Ulric and me: + Once more, as of old, shall he bend at my knee; + Once more by the side of the knight I love best + Shall I blazon his BANNER and broider his crest. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + * "WAPPING OLD STAIRS. + + "Your Molly has never been false," she declares, + "Since the last time we parted at Wapping Old Stairs; + When I said that I would continue the same, + And I gave you the 'bacco-box marked with my name. + When I passed a whole fortnight between decks with you, + Did I e'er give a kiss, Tom, to one of your crew? + To be useful and kind to my Thomas I stay'd, + For his trousers I washed, and his grog too I made. + + "Though you promised last Sunday to walk in the Mall + With Susan from Deptford and likewise with Sall, + In silence I stood your unkindness to hear + And only upbraided my Tom with a tear. + Why should Sall, or should Susan, than me be more prized? + For the heart that is true, Tom, should ne'er be despised; + Then be constant and kind, nor your Molly forsake, + Still your trousers I'll wash and your grog too I'll make." +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0053" id="link2H_4_0053"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE ALMACK'S ADIEU. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Your Fanny was never false-hearted, + And this she protests and she vows, + From the triste moment when we parted + On the staircase of Devonshire House! + I blushed when you asked me to marry, + I vowed I would never forget; + And at parting I gave my dear Harry + A beautiful vinegarette! + + We spent en province all December, + And I ne'er condescended to look + At Sir Charles, or the rich county member, + Or even at that darling old Duke. + You were busy with dogs and with horses, + Alone in my chamber I sat, + And made you the nicest of purses, + And the smartest black satin cravat! + + At night with that vile Lady Frances + (Je faisois moi tapisserie) + You danced every one of the dances, + And never once thought of poor me! + Mon pauvre petit coeur! what a shiver + I felt as she danced the last set; + And you gave, O mon Dieu! to revive her + My beautiful vinegarette! + + Return, love! away with coquetting; + This flirting disgraces a man! + And ah! all the while you're forgetting + The heart of your poor little Fan! + Reviens! break away from those Circes, + Reviens, for a nice little chat; + And I've made you the sweetest of purses, + And a lovely black satin cravat! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0054" id="link2H_4_0054"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + WHEN THE GLOOM IS ON THE GLEN. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When the moonlight's on the mountain + And the gloom is on the glen, + At the cross beside the fountain + There is one will meet thee then. + At the cross beside the fountain; + Yes, the cross beside the fountain, + There is one will meet thee then! + + I have braved, since first we met, love, + Many a danger in my course; + But I never can forget, love, + That dear fountain, that old cross, + Where, her mantle shrouded o'er her— + For the winds were chilly then— + First I met my Leonora, + When the gloom was on the glen. + + Many a clime I've ranged since then, love, + Many a land I've wandered o'er; + But a valley like that glen, love, + Half so dear I never sor! + Ne'er saw maiden fairer, coyer, + Than wert thou, my true love, when + In the gloaming first I saw yer, + In the gloaming of the glen! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0055" id="link2H_4_0055"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE RED FLAG. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Where the quivering lightning flings + His arrows from out the clouds, + And the howling tempest sings + And whistles among the shrouds, + 'Tis pleasant, 'tis pleasant to ride + Along the foaming brine— + Wilt be the Rover's bride? + Wilt follow him, lady mine? + Hurrah! + For the bonny, bonny brine. + + Amidst the storm and rack, + You shall see our galley pass, + As a serpent, lithe and black, + Glides through the waving grass. + As the vulture swift and dark, + Down on the ring-dove flies, + You shall see the Rovers bark + Swoop down upon his prize. + Hurrah! + For the bonny, bonny prize. + + Over her sides we dash, + We gallop across her deck— + Ha! there's a ghastly gash + On the merchant-captain's neck— + Well shot, well shot, old Ned! + Well struck, well struck, black James! + Our arms are red, and our foes are dead, + And we leave a ship in flames! + Hurrah! + For the bonny, bonny flames! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0056" id="link2H_4_0056"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DEAR JACK. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Dear Jack, this white mug that with Guinness I fill, + And drink to the health of sweet Nan of the Hill, + Was once Tommy Tosspot's, as jovial a sot + As e'er drew a spigot, or drain'd a full pot— + In drinking all round 'twas his joy to surpass, + And with all merry tipplers he swigg'd off his glass. + + One morning in summer, while seated so snug, + In the porch of his garden, discussing his jug, + Stern Death, on a sudden, to Tom did appear, + And said, "Honest Thomas, come take your last bier." + We kneaded his clay in the shape of this can, + From which let us drink to the health of my Nan. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0057" id="link2H_4_0057"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + COMMANDERS OF THE FAITHFUL. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The Pope he is a happy man, + His Palace is the Vatican, + And there he sits and drains his can: + The Pope he is a happy man. + I often say when I'm at home, + I'd like to be the Pope of Rome. + + And then there's Sultan Saladin, + That Turkish Soldan full of sin; + He has a hundred wives at least, + By which his pleasure is increased: + I've often wished, I hope no sin, + That I were Sultan Saladin. + + But no, the Pope no wife may choose, + And so I would not wear his shoes; + No wine may drink the proud Paynim, + And so I'd rather not be him: + My wife, my wine, I love, I hope, + And would be neither Turk nor Pope. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0058" id="link2H_4_0058"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + WHEN MOONLIKE ORE THE HAZURE SEAS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When moonlike ore the hazure seas + In soft effulgence swells, + When silver jews and balmy breaze + Bend down the Lily's bells; + When calm and deap, the rosy sleep + Has lapt your soal in dreems, + R Hangeline! R lady mine! + Dost thou remember Jeames? + + I mark thee in the Marble All, + Where England's loveliest shine— + I say the fairest of them hall + Is Lady Hangeline. + My soul, in desolate eclipse, + With recollection teems— + And then I hask, with weeping lips, + Dost thou remember Jeames? + + Away! I may not tell thee hall + This soughring heart endures— + There is a lonely sperrit-call + That Sorrow never cures; + There is a little, little Star, + That still above me beams; + It is the Star of Hope—but ar! + Dost thou remember Jeames? +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0059" id="link2H_4_0059"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + KING CANUTE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + KING CANUTE was weary hearted; he had reigned for years a score, + Battling, struggling, pushing, fighting, killing much and robbing more; + And he thought upon his actions, walking by the wild sea-shore. + + 'Twixt the Chancellor and Bishop walked the King with steps sedate, + Chamberlains and grooms came after, silversticks and goldsticks great, + Chaplains, aides-de-camp, and pages,—all the officers of state. + + Sliding after like his shadow, pausing when he chose to pause, + If a frown his face contracted, straight the courtiers dropped their + jaws; + If to laugh the king was minded, out they burst in loud hee-haws. + + But that day a something vexed him, that was clear to old and young: + Thrice his Grace had yawned at table, when his favorite gleemen sung, + Once the Queen would have consoled him, but he bade her hold her tongue. + + "Something ails my gracious master," cried the Keeper of the Seal. + "Sure, my lord, it is the lampreys served to dinner, or the veal?" + "Psha!" exclaimed the angry monarch, "Keeper, 'tis not that I feel. + + "'Tis the HEART, and not the dinner, fool, that doth my rest impair: + Can a king be great as I am, prithee, and yet know no care? + Oh, I'm sick, and tired, and weary."—Some one cried, "The King's arm- + chair!" + + Then towards the lackeys turning, quick my Lord the Keeper nodded, + Straight the King's great chair was brought him, by two footmen able- + bodied; + Languidly he sank into it: it was comfortably wadded. + + "Leading on my fierce companions," cried he, "over storm and brine, + I have fought and I have conquered! Where was glory like to mine?" + Loudly all the courtiers echoed: "Where is glory like to thine?" + + "What avail me all my kingdoms? Weary am I now and old; + Those fair sons I have begotten, long to see me dead and cold; + Would I were, and quiet buried, underneath the silent mould! + + "Oh, remorse, the writhing serpent! at my bosom tears and bites; + Horrid, horrid things I look on, though I put out all the lights; + Ghosts of ghastly recollections troop about my bed at nights. + + "Cities burning, convents blazing, red with sacrilegious fires; + Mothers weeping, virgins screaming vainly for their slaughtered + sires.—" + "Such a tender conscience," cries the Bishop, "every one admires." + + "But for such unpleasant bygones, cease, my gracious lord, to search, + They're forgotten and forgiven by our Holy Mother Church; + Never, never does she leave her benefactors in the lurch. + + "Look! the land is crowned with minsters, which your Grace's bounty + raised; + Abbeys filled with holy men, where you and Heaven are daily praised: + YOU, my lord, to think of dying? on my conscience I'm amazed!" + + "Nay, I feel," replied King Canute, "that my end is drawing near." + "Don't say so," exclaimed the courtiers (striving each to squeeze a + tear). + "Sure your Grace is strong and lusty, and may live this fifty year." + + "Live these fifty years!" the Bishop roared, with actions made to suit. + "Are you mad, my good Lord Keeper, thus to speak of King Canute! + Men have lived a thousand years, and sure his Majesty will do't. + + "Adam, Enoch, Lamech, Cainan, Mahaleel, Methusela, + Lived nine hundred years apiece, and mayn't the King as well as they?" + "Fervently," exclaimed the Keeper, "fervently I trust he may." + + "HE to die?" resumed the Bishop. He a mortal like to US? + Death was not for him intended, though communis omnibus: + Keeper, you are irreligious, for to talk and cavil thus. + + "With his wondrous skill in healing ne'er a doctor can compete, + Loathsome lepers, if he touch them, start up clean upon their feet; + Surely he could raise the dead up, did his Highness think it meet. + + "Did not once the Jewish captain stay the sun upon the hill, + And, the while he slew the foemen, bid the silver moon stand still? + So, no doubt, could gracious Canute, if it were his sacred will." + + "Might I stay the sun above us, good sir Bishop?" Canute cried; + "Could I bid the silver moon to pause upon her heavenly ride? + If the moon obeys my orders, sure I can command the tide. + + "Will the advancing waves obey me, Bishop, if I make the sign?" + Said the Bishop, bowing lowly, "Land and sea, my lord, are thine." + Canute turned towards the ocean—"Back!" he said, "thou foaming brine. + + "From the sacred shore I stand on, I command thee to retreat; + Venture not, thou stormy rebel, to approach thy master's seat: + Ocean, be thou still! I bid thee come not nearer to my feet!" + + But the sullen ocean answered with a louder, deeper roar, + And the rapid waves drew nearer, falling sounding on the shore; + Back the Keeper and the Bishop, back the king and courtiers bore. + + And he sternly bade them never more to kneel to human clay, + But alone to praise and worship That which earth and seas obey: + And his golden crown of empire never wore he from that day. + King Canute is dead and gone: Parasites exist alway. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0060" id="link2H_4_0060"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FRIAR'S SONG. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Some love the matin-chimes, which tell + The hour of prayer to sinner: + But better far's the mid-day bell, + Which speaks the hour of dinner; + For when I see a smoking fish, + Or capon drown'd in gravy, + Or noble haunch on silver dish, + Full glad I sing my ave. + + My pulpit is an alehouse bench, + Whereon I sit so jolly; + A smiling rosy country wench + My saint and patron holy. + I kiss her cheek so red and sleek, + I press her ringlets wavy, + And in her willing ear I speak + A most religious ave. + + And if I'm blind, yet heaven is kind, + And holy saints forgiving; + For sure he leads a right good life + Who thus admires good living. + Above, they say, our flesh is air, + Our blood celestial ichor: + Oh, grant! mid all the changes there, + They may not change our liquor! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0061" id="link2H_4_0061"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ATRA CURA. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Before I lost my five poor wits, + I mind me of a Romish clerk, + Who sang how Care, the phantom dark, + Beside the belted horseman sits. + Methought I saw the grisly sprite + Jump up but now behind my Knight. + + And though he gallop as he may, + I mark that cursed monster black + Still sits behind his honor's back, + Tight squeezing of his heart alway. + Like two black Templars sit they there, + Beside one crupper, Knight and Care. + + No knight am I with pennoned spear, + To prance upon a bold destrere: + I will not have black Care prevail + Upon my long-eared charger's tail, + For lo, I am a witless fool, + And laugh at Grief and ride a mule. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0062" id="link2H_4_0062"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + REQUIESCAT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Under the stone you behold, + Buried, and coffined, and cold, + Lieth Sir Wilfrid the Bold. + + Always he marched in advance, + Warring in Flanders and France, + Doughty with sword and with lance. + + Famous in Saracen fight, + Rode in his youth the good knight, + Scattering Paynims in flight. + + Brian the Templar untrue, + Fairly in tourney he slew, + Saw Hierusalem too. + + Now he is buried and gone, + Lying beneath the gray stone: + Where shall you find such a one? + + Long time his widow deplored, + Weeping the fate of her lord, + Sadly cut off by the sword. + + When she was eased of her pain, + Came the good Lord Athelstane, + When her ladyship married again. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0063" id="link2H_4_0063"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LINES UPON MY SISTER'S PORTRAIT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + BY THE LORD SOUTHDOWN. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The castle towers of Bareacres are fair upon the lea, + Where the cliffs of bonny Diddlesex rise up from out the sea: + I stood upon the donjon keep and view'd the country o'er, + I saw the lands of Bareacres for fifty miles or more. + I stood upon the donjon keep—it is a sacred place,— + Where floated for eight hundred years the banner of my race; + Argent, a dexter sinople, and gules an azure field: + There ne'er was nobler cognizance on knightly warrior's shield. + + The first time England saw the shield 'twas round a Norman neck, + On board a ship from Valery, King William was on deck. + A Norman lance the colors wore, in Hastings' fatal fray— + St. Willibald for Bareacres! 'twas double gules that day! + O Heaven and sweet St. Willibald! in many a battle since + A loyal-hearted Bareacres has ridden by his Prince! + At Acre with Plantagenet, with Edward at Poictiers, + The pennon of the Bareacres was foremost on the spears! + + 'Twas pleasant in the battle-shock to hear our war-cry ringing: + Oh grant me, sweet St. Willibald, to listen to such singing! + Three hundred steel-clad gentlemen, we drove the foe before us, + And thirty score of British bows kept twanging to the chorus! + O knights, my noble ancestors! and shall I never hear + St. Willibald for Bareacres through battle ringing clear? + I'd cut me off this strong right hand a single hour to ride, + And strike a blow for Bareacres, my fathers, at your side! + + Dash down, dash down, yon Mandolin, beloved sister mine! + Those blushing lips may never sing the glories of our line: + Our ancient castles echo to the clumsy feet of churls, + The spinning-jenny houses in the mansion of our Earls. + Sing not, sing not, my Angeline! in days so base and vile, + 'Twere sinful to be happy, 'twere sacrilege to smile. + I'll hie me to my lonely hall, and by its cheerless hob + I'll muse on other days, and wish—and wish I were—A SNOB. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0064" id="link2H_4_0064"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LEGEND OF ST. SOPHIA OF KIOFF. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + AN EPIC POEM, IN TWENTY BOOKS. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [The Poet describes the city and spelling of Kiow, Kioff, or Kiova.] + + A thousand years ago, or more, + A city filled with burghers stout, + And girt with ramparts round about, + Stood on the rocky Dnieper shore. + In armor bright, by day and night, + The sentries they paced to and fro. + Well guarded and walled was this town, and called + By different names, I'd have you to know; + For if you looks in the g'ography books, + In those dictionaries the name it varies, + And they write it off Kieff or Kioff, Kiova or Kiow. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Its buildings, public works, and ordinances, religious and civil.] + + Thus guarded without by wall and redoubt, + Kiova within was a place of renown, + With more advantages than in those dark ages + Were commonly known to belong to a town. + There were places and squares, and each year four fairs, + And regular aldermen and regular lord-mayors; + And streets, and alleys, and a bishop's palace; + And a church with clocks for the orthodox— + With clocks and with spires, as religion desires; + And beadles to whip the bad little boys + Over their poor little corduroys, + In service-time, when they DIDN'T make a noise; + And a chapter and dean, and a cathedral-green + With ancient trees, underneath whose shades + Wandered nice young nursery-maids. + + [The poet shows how a certain priest dwelt at Kioff, a godly + clergyman, and one that preached rare good sermons.] + + Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-ding-a-ring-ding, + The bells they made a merry merry ring, + From the tall tall steeple; and all the people + (Except the Jews) came and filled the pews— + Poles, Russians and Germans, + To hear the sermons + Which HYACINTH preached godly to those Germans and Poles, + For the safety of their souls. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + III. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [How this priest was short and fat of body;] + + A worthy priest he was and a stout— + You've seldom looked on such a one; + For, though he fasted thrice in a week, + Yet nevertheless his skin was sleek; + His waist it spanned two yards about + And he weighed a score of stone. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IV. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [And like unto the author of "Plymley's Letters."] + + A worthy priest for fasting and prayer + And mortification most deserving; + And as for preaching beyond compare, + He'd exert his powers for three or four hours, + With greater pith than Sydney Smith + Or the Reverend Edward Irving. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + V. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Of what convent he was prior, and when the convent was built.] + + He was the prior of Saint Sophia + (A Cockney rhyme, but no better I know)— + Of St. Sophia, that Church in Kiow, + Built by missionaries I can't tell when; + Who by their discussions converted the Russians, + And made them Christian men. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VI. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Of Saint Sophia of Kioff; and how her statue miraculously + travelled thither.] + + Sainted Sophia (so the legend vows) + With special favor did regard this house; + And to uphold her converts' new devotion + Her statue (needing but her legs for HER ship) + Walks of itself across the German Ocean; + And of a sudden perches + In this the best of churches, + Whither all Kiovites come and pay it grateful worship. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VII. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [And how Kioff should have been a happy city; but that] + + Thus with her patron-saints and pious preachers + Recorded here in catalogue precise, + A goodly city, worthy magistrates, + You would have thought in all the Russian states + The citizens the happiest of all creatures,— + The town itself a perfect Paradise. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VIII. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Certain wicked Cossacks did besiege it,] + + No, alas! this well-built city + Was in a perpetual fidget; + For the Tartars, without pity, + Did remorselessly besiege it. + + Tartars fierce, with sword and sabres, + Huns and Turks, and such as these, + Envied much their peaceful neighbors + By the blue Borysthenes. + + [Murdering the citizens,] + + Down they came, these ruthless Russians, + From their steppes, and woods, and fens, + For to levy contributions + On the peaceful citizens. + + Winter, Summer, Spring, and Autumn, + Down they came to peaceful Kioff, + Killed the burghers when they caught 'em, + If their lives they would not buy off. + + [Until they agreed to pay a tribute yearly.] + + Till the city, quite confounded + By the ravages they made, + Humbly with their chief compounded, + And a yearly tribute paid. + + [How they paid the tribute, and suddenly refused it,] + + Which (because their courage lax was) + They discharged while they were able: + Tolerated thus the tax was, + Till it grew intolerable, + + [To the wonder of the Cossack envoy.] + + And the Calmuc envoy sent, + As before to take their dues all, + Got, to his astonishment, + A unanimous refusal! + + [Of a mighty gallant speech] + + "Men of Kioff!" thus courageous + Did the stout lord-mayor harangue them, + "Wherefore pay these sneaking wages + To the hectoring Russians? hang them! + + [That the lord-mayor made,] + + "Hark! I hear the awful cry of + Our forefathers in their graves; + "'Fight, ye citizens of Kioff! + Kioff was not made for slaves.' + + [Exhorting the burghers to pay no longer.] + + "All too long have ye betrayed her; + Rouse, ye men and aldermen, + Send the insolent invader— + Send him starving back again." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IX. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Of their thanks and heroic resolves.] + + He spoke and he sat down; the people of the town, + Who were fired with a brave emulation, + Now rose with one accord, and voted thanks unto the lord- + Mayor for his oration: + + [They dismiss the envoy, and set about drilling.] + + The envoy they dismissed, never placing in his fist + So much as a single shilling; + And all with courage fired, as his lordship he desired, + At once set about their drilling. + + [Of the City guard: viz. Militia, dragoons, and bombardiers, and + their commanders.] + + Then every city ward established a guard, + Diurnal and nocturnal: + Militia volunteers, light dragoons, and bombardiers, + With an alderman for colonel. + + [Of the majors and captains.] + + There was muster and roll-calls, and repairing city walls, + And filling up of fosses: + And the captains and the majors, gallant and courageous, + A-riding about on their hosses. + + [The fortifications and artillery.] + + To be guarded at all hours they built themselves watch-towers, + With every tower a man on; + And surely and secure, each from out his embrasure, + Looked down the iron cannon! + + [Of the conduct of the actors and the clergy.] + + A battle-song was writ for the theatre, where it + Was sung with vast enérgy + And rapturous applause; and besides, the public cause, + Was supported by the clergy. + + The pretty ladies'-maids were pinning of cockades, + And tying on of sashes; + And dropping gentle tears, while their lovers bluster'd fierce, + About gunshot and gashes; + + [Of the ladies;] + + The ladies took the hint, and all day were scraping lint, + As became their softer genders; + And got bandages and beds for the limbs and for the heads + Of the city's brave defenders. + + [And, finally, of the taylors.] + + The men, both young and old, felt resolute and bold, + And panted hot for glory; + Even the tailors 'gan to brag, and embroidered on their flag, + "AUT WINCERE AUT MORI." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + X. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Of the Cossack chief,—his stratagem;] + + Seeing the city's resolute condition, + The Cossack chief, too cunning to despise it, + Said to himself, "Not having ammunition + Wherewith to batter the place in proper form, + Some of these nights I'll carry it by storm, + And sudden escalade it or surprise it. + + [And the burghers' sillie victorie.] + + "Let's see, however, if the cits stand firmish." + He rode up to the city gates; for answers, + Out rushed an eager troop of the town élite, + And straightway did begin a gallant skirmish: + The Cossack hereupon did sound retreat, + Leaving the victory with the city lancers. + + [What prisoners they took,] + + They took two prisoners and as many horses, + And the whole town grew quickly so elate + With this small victory of their virgin forces, + That they did deem their privates and commanders + So many Caesars, Pompeys, Alexanders, + Napoleons, or Fredericks the Great. + + [And how conceited they were.] + + And puffing with inordinate conceit + They utterly despised these Cossack thieves; + And thought the ruffians easier to beat + Than porters carpets think, or ushers boys. + Meanwhile, a sly spectator of their joys, + The Cossack captain giggled in his sleeves. + + [Of the Cossack chief,—his orders;] + + "Whene'er you meet yon stupid city hogs." + (He bade his troops precise this order keep), + "Don't stand a moment—run away, you dogs!" + 'Twas done; and when they met the town battalions, + The Cossacks, as if frightened at their valiance, + Turned tail, and bolted like so many sheep. + + [And how he feigned a retreat.] + + They fled, obedient to their captain's order: + And now this bloodless siege a month had lasted, + When, viewing the country round, the city warder + (Who, like a faithful weathercock, did perch + Upon the steeple of St. Sophy's church), + Sudden his trumpet took, and a mighty blast he blasted. + + [The warder proclayms the Cossacks' retreat, and the citie greatly + rejoyces.] + + His voice it might be heard through all the streets + (He was a warder wondrous strong in lung), + "Victory, victory! the foe retreats!" + "The foe retreats!" each cries to each he meets; + "The foe retreats!" each in his turn repeats. + Gods! how the guns did roar, and how the joy-bells rung! + + Arming in haste his gallant city lancers, + The mayor, to learn if true the news might be, + A league or two out issued with his prancers. + The Cossacks (something had given their courage a damper) + Hastened their flight, and 'gan like mad to scamper: + Blessed be all the saints, Kiova town was free! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XI. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Now, puffed with pride, the mayor grew vain, + Fought all his battles o'er again; + And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain. + 'Tis true he might amuse himself thus, + And not be very murderous; + For as of those who to death were done + The number was exactly NONE, + His lordship, in his soul's elation, + Did take a bloodless recreation— + + [The manner of the citie's rejoycings,] + + Going home again, he did ordain + A very splendid cold collation + For the magistrates and the corporation; + Likewise a grand illumination, + For the amusement of the nation. + That night the theatres were free, + The conduits they ran Malvolsie; + Each house that night did beam with light + And sound with mirth and jollity; + + [And its impiety.] + + But shame, O shame! not a soul in the town, + Now the city was safe and the Cossacks flown, + Ever thought of the bountiful saint by whose care + The town had been rid of these terrible Turks— + Said even a prayer to that patroness fair, + For these her wondrous works! + + [How the priest, Hyacinth, waited at church, and nobody came + thither.] + + Lord Hyacinth waited, the meekest of priors— + He waited at church with the rest of his friars; + He went there at noon and he waited till ten, + Expecting in vain the lord-mayor and his men. + He waited and waited from mid-day to dark; + But in vain—you might search through the whole of the church, + Not a layman, alas! to the city's disgrace, + From mid-day to dark showed his nose in the place. + The pew-woman, organist, beadle, and clerk, + Kept away from their work, and were dancing like mad + Away in the streets with the other mad people, + Not thinking to pray, but to guzzle and tipple + Wherever the drink might be had. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XII. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [How he went forth to bid them to prayer.] + + Amidst this din and revelry throughout the city roaring, + The silver moon rose silently, and high in heaven soaring; + Prior Hyacinth was fervently upon his knees adoring: + "Towards my precious patroness this conduct sure unfair is; + I cannot think, I must confess, what keeps the dignitaries + And our good mayor away, unless some business them contraries." + He puts his long white mantle on and forth the prior sallies— + (His pious thoughts were bent upon good deeds and not on malice): + Heavens! how the banquet lights they shone about the mayor's palace! + + [How the grooms and lackeys jeered him.] + + About the hall the scullions ran with meats both and fresh and + potted; + The pages came with cup and can, all for the guests allotted; + Ah, how they jeered that good fat man as up the stairs he trotted! + + He entered in the ante-rooms where sat the mayor's court in; + He found a pack of drunken grooms a-dicing and a-sporting; + The horrid wine and 'bacco fumes, they set the prior a-snorting! + The prior thought he'd speak about their sins before he went hence, + And lustily began to shout of sin and of repentance; + The rogues, they kicked the prior out before he'd done a sentence! + + And having got no portion small of buffeting and tussling, + At last he reached the banquet-hall, where sat the mayor + a-guzzling, + And by his side his lady tall dressed out in white sprig muslin. + + [And the mayor, mayoress, and aldermen, being tipsie refused to go + church.] + + Around the table in a ring the guests were drinking heavy; + They'd drunk the church, and drunk the king, and the army and the + navy; + In fact they'd toasted everything. The prior said, "God save ye!" + + The mayor cried, "Bring a silver cup—there's one upon the beaufét; + And, Prior, have the venison up—it's capital rechauffé. + And so, Sir Priest, you've come to sup? And pray you, how's Saint + Sophy?" + The prior's face quite red was grown, with horror and with anger; + He flung the proffered goblet down—it made a hideous clangor; + And 'gan a-preaching with a frown—he was a fierce haranguer. + + He tried the mayor and aldermen—they all set up a-jeering: + He tried the common-councilmen—they too began a-sneering; + He turned towards the may'ress then, and hoped to get a hearing. + He knelt and seized her dinner-dress, made of the muslin snowy, + "To church, to church, my sweet mistress!" he cried; "the way I'll + show ye." + Alas, the lady-mayoress fell back as drunk as Chloe! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XIII. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [How the prior went back alone.] + + Out from this dissolute and drunken court + Went the good prior, his eyes with weeping dim: + He tried the people of a meaner sort— + They too, alas, were bent upon their sport, + And not a single soul would follow him! + But all were swigging schnaps and guzzling beer. + + He found the cits, their daughters, sons, and spouses, + Spending the live-long night in fierce carouses: + Alas, unthinking of the danger near! + One or two sentinels the ramparts guarded, + The rest were sharing in the general feast: + "God wot, our tipsy town is poorly warded; + Sweet Saint Sophia help us!" cried the priest. + + Alone he entered the cathedral gate, + Careful he locked the mighty oaken door; + Within his company of monks did wait, + A dozen poor old pious men—no more. + Oh, but it grieved the gentle prior sore, + To think of those lost souls, given up to drink and fate! + + [And shut himself into Saint Sophia's chapel with his brethren.] + + The mighty outer gate well barred and fast, + The poor old friars stirred their poor old bones, + And pattering swiftly on the damp cold stones, + They through the solitary chancel passed. + The chancel walls looked black and dim and vast, + And rendered, ghost-like, melancholy tones. + + Onward the fathers sped, till coming nigh a + Small iron gate, the which they entered quick at, + They locked and double-locked the inner wicket + And stood within the chapel of Sophia. + Vain were it to describe this sainted place, + Vain to describe that celebrated trophy, + The venerable statue of Saint Sophy, + Which formed its chiefest ornament and grace. + + Here the good prior, his personal griefs and sorrows + In his extreme devotion quickly merging, + At once began to pray with voice sonorous; + The other friars joined in pious chorus, + And passed the night in singing, praying, scourging, + In honor of Sophia, that sweet virgin. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XIV. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [The episode of Sneezoff and Katinka.] + + Leaving thus the pious priest in + Humble penitence and prayer, + And the greedy cits a-feasting, + Let us to the walls repair. + + Walking by the sentry-boxes, + Underneath the silver moon, + Lo! the sentry boldly cocks his— + Boldly cocks his musketoon. + + Sneezoff was his designation, + Fair-haired boy, for ever pitied; + For to take his cruel station, + He but now Katinka quitted. + + Poor in purse were both, but rich in + Tender love's delicious plenties; + She a damsel of the kitchen, + He a haberdasher's 'prentice. + + 'Tinka, maiden tender-hearted, + Was dissolved in tearful fits, + On that fatal night she parted + From her darling, fair-haired Fritz. + + Warm her soldier lad she wrapt in + Comforter and muffettee; + Called him "general" and "captain," + Though a simple private he. + + "On your bosom wear this plaster, + 'Twill defend you from the cold; + In your pipe smoke this canaster, + Smuggled 'tis, my love, and old. + + "All the night, my love, I'll miss you." + Thus she spoke; and from the door + Fair-haired Sneezoff made his issue, + To return, alas, no more. + + He it is who calmly walks his + Walk beneath the silver moon; + He it is who boldly cocks his + Detonating musketoon. + + He the bland canaster puffing, + As upon his round he paces, + Sudden sees a ragamuffin + Clambering swiftly up the glacis. + + "Who goes there?" exclaims the sentry; + "When the sun has once gone down + No one ever makes an entry + Into this here fortified town!" + + [How the sentrie Sneezoff was surprised and slayn.] + + Shouted thus the watchful Sneezoff; + But, ere any one replied, + Wretched youth! he fired his piece off + Started, staggered, groaned, and died! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XV. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [How the Cossacks rushed in suddenly and took the citie.] + + Ah, full well might the sentinel cry, "Who goes there!" + But echo was frightened too much to declare. + Who goes there? who goes there? Can any one swear + To the number of sands sur les bords de la mer, + Or the whiskers of D'Orsay Count down to a hair? + As well might you tell of the sands the amount, + Or number each hair in each curl of the Count, + As ever proclaim the number and name + Of the hundreds and thousands that up the wall came! + + [Of the Cossack troops,] + + Down, down the knaves poured with fire and with sword: + There were thieves from the Danube and rogues from the Don; + There were Turks and Wallacks, and shouting Cossacks; + Of all nations and regions, and tongues and religions— + Jew, Christian, Idolater, Frank, Mussulman: + Ah, horrible sight was Kioff that night! + + [And of their manner of burning, murdering, and ravishing.] + + The gates were all taken—no chance e'en of flight; + And with torch and with axe the bloody Cossacks + Went hither and thither a-hunting in packs: + They slashed and they slew both Christian and Jew— + Women and children, they slaughtered them too. + Some, saving their throats, plunged into the moats, + Or the river—but oh, they had burned all the boats! + + . . . . . + + [How they burned the whole citie down, save the church,] + + But here let us pause—for I can't pursue further + This scene of rack, ravishment, ruin, and murther. + Too well did the cunning old Cossack succeed! + His plan of attack was successful indeed! + The night was his own—the town it was gone; + 'Twas a heap still a-burning of timber and stone. + + [Whereof the bells began to ring.] + + One building alone had escaped from the fires, + Saint Sophy's fair church, with its steeples and spires, + Calm, stately, and white, + It stood in the light; + And as if 'twould defy all the conqueror's power,— + As if nought had occurred, + Might clearly be heard + The chimes ringing soberly every half-hour! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XVI. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The city was defunct—silence succeeded + Unto its last fierce agonizing yell; + And then it was the conqueror first heeded + The sound of these calm bells. + + [How the Cossack chief bade them burn the church too.] + + Furious towards his aides-de-camp he turns, + And (speaking as if Byron's works he knew) + "Villains!" he fiercely cries, "the city burns, + Why not the temple too? + Burn me yon church, and murder all within!" + + [How they stormed it, and of Hyacinth, his anger thereat.] + + The Cossacks thundered at the outer door; + And Father Hyacinth, who, heard the din, + (And thought himself and brethren in distress, + Deserted by their lady patroness) + Did to her statue turn, and thus his woes outpour. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XVII. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [His prayer to the Saint Sophia.] + + "And is it thus, O falsest of the saints, + Thou hearest our complaints? + Tell me, did ever my attachment falter + To serve thy altar? + Was not thy name, ere ever I did sleep, + The last upon my lip? + Was not thy name the very first that broke + From me when I awoke? + Have I not tried with fasting, flogging, penance, + And mortified counténance + For to find favor, Sophy, in thy sight? + And lo! this night, + Forgetful of my prayers, and thine own promise, + Thou turnest from us; + Lettest the heathen enter in our city, + And, without pity, + Murder out burghers, seize upon their spouses, + Burn down their houses! + Is such a breach of faith to be endured? + See what a lurid + Light from the insolent invader's torches + Shines on your porches! + E'en now, with thundering battering-ram and hammer + And hideous clamor; + With axemen, swordsmen, pikemen, billmen, bowmen, + The conquering foemen, + O Sophy! beat your gate about your ears, + Alas! and here's + A humble company of pious men, + Like muttons in a pen, + Whose souls shall quickly from their bodies be thrusted, + Because in you they trusted. + Do you not know the Calmuc chiefs desires— + KILL ALL THE FRIARS! + And you, of all the saints most false and fickle, + Leave us in this abominable pickle." + + [The statue suddenlie speaks;] + + "RASH HYACINTHUS!" + (Here, to the astonishment of all her backers, + Saint Sophy, opening wide her wooden jaws, + Like to a pair of German walnut-crackers, + Began), "I did not think you had been thus,— + O monk of little faith! Is it because + A rascal scum of filthy Cossack heathen + Besiege our town, that you distrust in ME, then? + Think'st thou that I, who in a former day + Did walk across the Sea of Marmora + (Not mentioning, for shortness, other seas),— + That I, who skimmed the broad Borysthenes, + Without so much as wetting of my toes, + Am frightened at a set of men like THOSE? + I have a mind to leave you to your fate: + Such cowardice as this my scorn inspires." + + [But is interrupted by the breaking in of the Cossacks.] + + Saint Sophy was here + Cut short in her words,— + For at this very moment in tumbled the gate, + And with a wild cheer, + And a clashing of swords, + Swift through the church porches, + With a waving of torches, + And a shriek and a yell + Like the devils of hell, + With pike and with axe + In rushed the Cossacks,— + In rushed the Cossacks, crying, + "MURDER THE FRIARS!" + + [Of Hyacinth, his outrageous address;] + + Ah! what a thrill felt Hyacinth, + When he heard that villanous shout Calmuc! + Now, thought he, my trial beginneth; + Saints, O give me courage and pluck! + "Courage, boys, 'tis useless to funk!" + Thus unto the friars he began: + "Never let it be said that a monk + Is not likewise a gentleman. + Though the patron saint of the church, + Spite of all that we've done and we've pray'd, + Leaves us wickedly here in the lurch, + Hang it, gentlemen, who's afraid!" + + [And preparation for dying.] + + As thus the gallant Hyacinthus spoke, + He, with an air as easy and as free as + If the quick-coming murder were a joke, + Folded his robes around his sides, and took + Place under sainted Sophy's legs of oak, + Like Caesar at the statue of Pompeius. + The monks no leisure had about to look + (Each being absorbed in his particular case), + Else had they seen with what celestial race + A wooden smile stole o'er the saint's mahogany face. + + [Saint Sophia, her speech.] + + "Well done, well done, Hyacinthus, my son!" + Thus spoke the sainted statue. + "Though you doubted me in the hour of need, + And spoke of me very rude indeed, + You deserve good luck for showing such pluck, + And I won't be angry at you." + + [She gets on the prior's shoulder straddle-back,] + + The monks by-standing, one and all, + Of this wondrous scene beholders, + To this kind promise listened content, + And couldn't contain their astonishment, + When Saint Sophia moved and went + Down from her wooden pedestal, + And twisted her legs, sure as eggs is eggs, + Round Hyacinthus's shoulders! + + [And bids him run.] + + "Ho! forwards," cried Sophy, "there's no time for waiting, + The Cossacks are breaking the very last gate in: + See the glare of their torches shines red through the grating; + We've still the back door, and two minutes or more. + Now boys, now or never, we must make for the river, + For we only are safe on the opposite shore. + Run swiftly to-day, lads, if ever you ran,— + Put out your best leg, Hyacinthus, my man; + And I'll lay five to two that you carry us through, + Only scamper as fast as you can." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XVIII. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [He runneth,] + + Away went the priest through the little back door, + And light on his shoulders the image he bore: + The honest old priest was not punished the least, + Though the image was eight feet, and he measured four. + Away went the prior, and the monks at his tail + Went snorting, and puffing, and panting full sail; + And just as the last at the back door had passed, + In furious hunt behold at the front + The Tartars so fierce, with their terrible cheers; + With axes, and halberts, and muskets, and spears, + With torches a-flaming the chapel now came in. + They tore up the mass-book, they stamped on the psalter, + They pulled the gold crucifix down from the altar; + The vestments they burned with their blasphemous fires, + And many cried, "Curse on them! where are the friars?" + When loaded with plunder, yet seeking for more, + One chanced to fling open the little back door, + Spied out the friars' white robes and long shadows + In the moon, scampering over the meadows, + And stopped the Cossacks in the midst of their arsons, + By crying out lustily, "THERE GO THE PARSONS!" + + [And the Tartars after him.] + + With a whoop and a yell, and a scream and a shout, + At once the whole murderous body turned out; + And swift as the hawk pounces down on the pigeon, + Pursued the poor short-winded men of religion. + + [How the friars sweated.] + + When the sound of that cheering came to the monks' hearing, + O heaven! how the poor fellows panted and blew! + At fighting not cunning, unaccustomed to running, + When the Tartars came up, what the deuce should they do? + "They'll make us all martyrs, those bloodthirsty Tartars!" + Quoth fat Father Peter to fat Father Hugh. + The shouts they came clearer, the foe they drew nearer; + Oh, how the bolts whistled, and how the lights shone! + "I cannot get further, this running is murther; + Come carry me, some one!" cried big Father John. + And even the statue grew frightened, "Od rat you!" + It cried, "Mr. Prior, I wish you'd get on!" + On tugged the good friar, but nigher and nigher + Appeared the fierce Russians, with sword and with fire. + On tugged the good prior at Saint Sophy's desire,— + A scramble through bramble, through mud, and through mire, + The swift arrows' whizziness causing a dizziness, + Nigh done his business, fit to expire. + + [And the pursuers fixed arrows into their tayles.] + + Father Hyacinth tugged, and the monks they tugged after: + The foemen pursued with a horrible laughter, + And hurl'd their long spears round the poor brethren's ears, + So true, that next day in the coats of each priest, + Though never a wound was given, there were found + A dozen arrows at least. + + [How at the last gasp,] + + Now the chase seemed at its worst, + Prior and monks were fit to burst; + Scarce you knew the which was first, + Or pursuers or pursued; + When the statue, by heaven's grace, + Suddenly did change the face + Of this interesting race, + As a saint, sure, only could. + + For as the jockey who at Epsom rides, + When that his steed is spent and punished sore, + Diggeth his heels into the courser's sides, + And thereby makes him run one or two furlongs more; + Even thus, betwixt the eighth rib and the ninth, + The saint rebuked the prior, that weary creeper; + Fresh strength into his limbs her kicks imparted, + One bound he made, as gay as when he started. + + [The friars won, and jumped into Borysthenes fluvius.] + + Yes, with his brethren clinging at his cloak, + The statue on his shoulders—fit to choke— + One most tremendous bound made Hyacinth, + And soused friars, statue, and all, slap-dash into the Dnieper! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XIX. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [And how the Russians saw] + + And when the Russians, in a fiery rank, + Panting and fierce, drew up along the shore; + (For here the vain pursuing they forbore, + Nor cared they to surpass the river's bank,) + Then, looking from the rocks and rushes dank, + A sight they witnessed never seen before, + And which, with its accompaniments glorious, + Is writ i' the golden book, or liber aureus. + + [The statue get off Hyacinth his back, and sit down with the friars + on Hyacinth his cloak.] + + Plump in the Dnieper flounced the friar and friends— + They dangling round his neck, he fit to choke. + When suddenly his most miraculous cloak + Over the billowy waves itself extends, + Down from his shoulders quietly descends + The venerable Sophy's statue of oak; + Which, sitting down upon the cloak so ample, + Bids all the brethren follow its example! + + [How in this manner of boat they sayled away.] + + Each at her bidding sat, and sat at ease; + The statue 'gan a gracious conversation, + And (waving to the foe a salutation) + Sail'd with her wondering happy protégés + Gayly adown the wide Borysthenes, + Until they came unto some friendly nation. + And when the heathen had at length grown shy of + Their conquest, she one day came back again to Kioff. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XX. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Finis, or the end.] + + THINK NOT, O READER, THAT WE'RE LAUGHING AT YOU; + YOU MAY GO TO KIOFF NOW, AND SEE THE STATUTE! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0065" id="link2H_4_0065"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TITMARSH'S CARMEN LILLIENSE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + LILLE, Sept. 2, 1843. + + My heart is weary, my peace is gone, + How shall I e'er my woes reveal? + I have no money, I lie in pawn, + A stranger in the town of Lille. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + With twenty pounds but three weeks since + From Paris forth did Titmarsh wheel, + I thought myself as rich a prince + As beggar poor I'm now at Lille. + + Confiding in my ample means— + In troth, I was a happy chiel! + I passed the gates of Valenciennes, + I never thought to come by Lille. + + I never thought my twenty pounds + Some rascal knave would dare to steal; + I gayly passed the Belgic bounds + At Quiévrain, twenty miles from Lille. + + To Antwerp town I hasten'd post, + And as I took my evening meal + I felt my pouch,—my purse was lost, + O Heaven! Why came I not by Lille? + + I straightway called for ink and pen, + To grandmamma I made appeal; + Meanwhile a loan of guineas ten + I borrowed from a friend so leal. + + I got the cash from grandmamma + (Her gentle heart my woes could feel,) + But where I went, and what I saw, + What matters? Here I am at Lille. + + My heart is weary, my peace is gone, + How shall I e'er my woes reveal? + I have no cash, I lie in pawn, + A stranger in the town of Lille. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To stealing I can never come, + To pawn my watch I'm too genteel, + Besides, I left my watch at home, + How could I pawn it then at Lille? + + "La note," at times the guests will say. + I turn as white as cold boil'd veal; + I turn and look another way, + I dare not ask the bill at Lille. + + I dare not to the landlord say, + "Good sir, I cannot pay your bill;" + He thinks I am a Lord Anglais, + And is quite proud I stay at Lille. + + He thinks I am a Lord Anglais, + Like Rothschild or Sir Robert Peel, + And so he serves me every day + The best of meat and drink in Lille. + + Yet when he looks me in the face + I blush as red as cochineal; + And think did he but know my case, + How changed he'd be, my host of Lille. + + My heart is weary, my peace is gone, + How shall I e'er my woes reveal? + I have no money, I lie in pawn, + A stranger in the town of Lille. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + III. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The sun bursts out in furious blaze, + I perspirate from head to heel; + I'd like to hire a one-horse chaise, + How can I, without cash at Lille? + + I pass in sunshine burning hot + By cafés where in beer they deal; + I think how pleasant were a pot, + A frothing pot of beer of Lille! + + What is yon house with walls so thick, + All girt around with guard and grille? + O gracious gods! it makes me sick, + It is the PRISON-HOUSE of Lille! + + O cursed prison strong and barred, + It does my very blood congeal! + I tremble as I pass the guard, + And quit that ugly part of Lille. + + The church-door beggar whines and prays, + I turn away at his appeal + Ah, church-door beggar! go thy ways! + You're not the poorest man in Lille. + + My heart is weary, my peace is gone, + How shall I e'er any woes reveal? + I have no money, I lie in pawn, + A stranger in the town of Lille. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IV. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Say, shall I to you Flemish church, + And at a Popish altar kneel? + Oh, do not leave me in the lurch,— + I'll cry, ye patron-saints of Lille! + + Ye virgins dressed in satin hoops, + Ye martyrs slain for mortal weal, + Look kindly down! before you stoops + The miserablest man in Lille. + + And lo! as I beheld with awe + A pictured saint (I swear 'tis real), + It smiled, and turned to grandmamma!— + It did! and I had hope in Lille! + + 'Twas five o'clock, and I could eat, + Although I could not pay my meal: + I hasten back into the street + Where lies my inn, the best Lille. + + What see I on my table stand,— + A letter with a well-known seal? + 'Tis grandmamma's! I know her hand,— + "To Mr. M. A. Titmarsh, Lille." + + I feel a choking in my throat, + I pant and stagger, faint and reel! + It is—it is—a ten-pound note, + And I'm no more in pawn at Lille! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [He goes off by the diligence that evening, and is restored to the + bosom of his happy family.] +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0066" id="link2H_4_0066"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE WILLOW-TREE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Know ye the willow-tree + Whose gray leaves quiver, + Whispering gloomily + To yon pale river; + Lady, at even-tide + Wander not near it, + They say its branches hide + A sad, lost spirit? + + Once to the willow-tree + A maid came fearful, + Pale seemed her cheek to be, + Her blue eye tearful; + Soon as she saw the tree, + Her step moved fleeter, + No one was there—ah me! + No one to meet her! + + Quick beat her heart to hear + The far bell's chime + Toll from the chapel-tower + The trysting time: + But the red sun went down + In golden flame, + And though she looked round, + Yet no one came! + + Presently came the night, + Sadly to greet her,— + Moon in her silver light, + Stars in their glitter; + Then sank the moon away + Under the billow, + Still wept the maid alone— + There by the willow! + + Through the long darkness, + By the stream rolling, + Hour after hour went on + Tolling and tolling. + Long was the darkness, + Lonely and stilly; + Shrill came the night-wind, + Piercing and chilly. + + Shrill blew the morning breeze, + Biting and cold, + Bleak peers the gray dawn + Over the wold. + Bleak over moor and stream + Looks the grey dawn, + Gray, with dishevelled hair, + Still stands the willow there— + THE MAID IS GONE! + + Domine, Domine! + Sing we a litany,— + Sing for poor maiden-hearts broken and weary; + Domine, Domine! + Sing we a litany, + Wail we and weep we a wild Miserere! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0067" id="link2H_4_0067"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE WILLOW-TREE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (ANOTHER VERSION). +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I. + + Long by the willow-trees + Vainly they sought her, + Wild rang the mother's screams + O'er the gray water: + "Where is my lovely one? + Where is my daughter? + + II. + + "Rouse thee, sir constable— + Rouse thee and look; + Fisherman, bring your net, + Boatman your hook. + Beat in the lily-beds, + Dive in the brook!" + + III. + + Vainly the constable + Shouted and called her; + Vainly the fisherman + Beat the green alder, + Vainly he flung the net, + Never it hauled her! + + IV. + + Mother beside the fire + Sat, her nightcap in; + Father, in easy chair, + Gloomily napping, + When at the window-sill + Came a light tapping! + + V. + + And a pale countenance + Looked through the casement. + Loud beat the mother's heart, + Sick with amazement, + And at the vision which + Came to surprise her, + Shrieked in an agony— + "Lor! it's Elizar!" + + VI + + Yes, 'twas Elizabeth— + Yes, 'twas their girl; + Pale was her cheek, and her + Hair out of curl. + "Mother!" the loving one, + Blushing, exclaimed, + "Let not your innocent + Lizzy be blamed. + + VII. + + "Yesterday, going to aunt + Jones's to tea, + Mother, dear mother, I + FORGOT THE DOOR-KEY! + And as the night was cold, + And the way steep, + Mrs. Jones kept me to + Breakfast and sleep." + + VIII. + + Whether her Pa and Ma + Fully believed her, + That we shall never know, + Stern they received her; + And for the work of that + Cruel, though short, night, + Sent her to bed without + Tea for a fortnight. + + IX. + + MORAL + + Hey diddle diddlety, + Cat and the Fiddlety, + Maidens of England take caution by she! + Let love and suicide + Never tempt you aside, + And always remember to take the door-key. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0068" id="link2H_4_0068"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LYRA HIBERNICA + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + THE POEMS OF THE MOLONY OF KILBALLYMOLONY. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0069" id="link2H_4_0069"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE PIMLICO PAVILION. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ye pathrons of janius, Minerva and Vanius, + Who sit on Parnassus, that mountain of snow, + Descind from your station and make observation + Of the Prince's pavilion in sweet Pimlico. + + This garden, by jakurs, is forty poor acres, + (The garner he tould me, and sure ought to know;) + And yet greatly bigger, in size and in figure, + Than the Phanix itself, seems the Park Pimlico. + + O 'tis there that the spoort is, when the Queen and the Court is + Walking magnanimous all of a row, + Forgetful what state is among the pataties + And the pine-apple gardens of sweet Pimlico. + + There in blossoms odorous the birds sing a chorus, + Of "God save the Queen" as they hop to and fro; + And you sit on the binches and hark to the finches, + Singing melodious in sweet Pimlico. + + There shuiting their phanthasies, they pluck polyanthuses + That round in the gardens resplindently grow, + Wid roses and jessimins, and other sweet specimins, + Would charm bould Linnayus in sweet Pimlico. + + You see when you inther, and stand in the cinther, + Where the roses, and necturns, and collyflowers blow, + A hill so tremindous, it tops the top-windows + Of the elegant houses of famed Pimlico. + + And when you've ascinded that precipice splindid + You see on its summit a wondtherful show— + A lovely Swish building, all painting and gilding, + The famous Pavilion of sweet Pimlico. + + Prince Albert, of Flandthers, that Prince of Commandthers, + (On whom my best blessings hereby I bestow,) + With goold and vermilion has decked that Pavilion, + Where the Queen may take tay in her sweet Pimlico. + + There's lines from John Milton the chamber all gilt on, + And pictures beneath them that's shaped like a bow; + I was greatly astounded to think that that Roundhead + Should find an admission to famed Pimlico. + + O lovely's each fresco, and most picturesque O; + And while round the chamber astonished I go, + I think Dan Maclise's it baits all the pieces + Surrounding the cottage of famed Pimlico. + + Eastlake has the chimney, (a good one to limn he,) + And a vargin he paints with a sarpent below; + While bulls, pigs, and panthers, and other enchanthers, + Are painted by Landseer in sweet Pimlico. + + And nature smiles opposite, Stanfield he copies it; + O'er Claude or Poussang sure 'tis he that may crow: + But Sir Ross's best faiture is small mini-áture— + He shouldn't paint frescoes in famed Pimlico. + + There's Leslie and Uwins has rather small doings; + There's Dyce, as brave masther as England can show; + And the flowers and the sthrawherries, sure he no dauber is, + That painted the panels of famed Pimlico. + + In the pictures from Walther Scott, never a fault there's got, + Sure the marble's as natural as thrue Scaglio; + And the Chamber Pompayen is sweet to take tay in, + And ait butther'd muffins in sweet Pimlico. + + There's landscapes by Gruner, both solar and lunar, + Them two little Doyles too, deserve a bravo; + Wid de piece by young Townsend, (for janins abounds in't;) + And that's why he's shuited to paint Pimlico. + + That picture of Severn's is worthy of rever'nce, + But some I won't mintion is rather so so; + For sweet philoso'phy, or crumpets and coffee, + O where's a Pavilion like sweet Pimlico? + + O to praise this Pavilion would puzzle Quintilian, + Daymosthenes, Brougham, or young Cicero; + So heavenly Goddess, d'ye pardon my modesty, + And silence, my lyre! about sweet Pimlico. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0070" id="link2H_4_0070"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE CRYSTAL PALACE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + With ganial foire + Thransfuse me loyre, + Ye sacred nympths of Pindus, + The whoile I sing + That wondthrous thing, + The Palace made o' windows! + + Say, Paxton, truth, + Thou wondthrous youth, + What sthroke of art celistial, + What power was lint + You to invint + This combineetion cristial. + + O would before + That Thomas Moore, + Likewoise the late Lord Boyron, + Thim aigles sthrong + Of godlike song, + Cast oi on that cast oiron! + + And saw thim walls, + And glittering halls, + Thim rising slendther columns, + Which I poor pote, + Could not denote, + No, not in twinty vollums. + + My Muse's words + Is like the bird's + That roosts beneath the panes there; + Her wing she spoils + 'Gainst them bright toiles, + And cracks her silly brains there. + + This Palace tall, + This Cristial Hall, + Which Imperors might covet, + Stands in High Park + Like Noah's Ark, + A rainbow bint above it. + + The towers and fanes, + In other scaynes, + The fame of this will undo, + Saint Paul's big doom, + Saint Payther's Room, + And Dublin's proud Rotundo. + + 'Tis here that roams, + As well becomes + Her dignitee and stations, + Victoria Great, + And houlds in state + The Congress of the Nations. + + Her subjects pours + From distant shores, + Her Injians and Canajians; + And also we, + Her kingdoms three, + Attind with our allagiance. + + Here come likewise + Her bould allies, + Both Asian and Europian; + From East and West + They send their best + To fill her Coornucopean. + + I seen (thank Grace!) + This wonthrous place + (His Noble Honor Misther + H. Cole it was + That gave the pass, + And let me see what is there). + + With conscious proide + I stud insoide + And look'd the World's Great Fair in, + Until me sight + Was dazzled quite, + And couldn't see for staring. + + There's holy saints + And window paints, + By Maydiayval Pugin; + Alhamborough Jones + Did paint the tones + Of yellow and gambouge in. + + There's fountains there + And crosses fair; + There's water-gods with urrns: + There's organs three, + To play, d'ye see? + "God save the Queen," by turrns. + + There's Statues bright + Of marble white, + Of silver, and of copper; + And some in zinc, + And some, I think, + That isn't over proper. + + There's staym Ingynes, + That stands in lines, + Enormous and amazing, + That squeal and snort + Like whales in sport, + Or elephants a-grazing. + + There's carts and gigs, + And pins for pigs, + There's dibblers and there's harrows. + And ploughs like toys + For little boys, + And ilegant wheelbarrows. + + For thim genteels + Who ride on wheels, + There's plenty to indulge 'em: + There's Droskys snug + From Paytersbug, + And vayhycles from Bulgium. + + There's Cabs on Stands + And Shandthry danns; + There's Waggons from New York here; + There's Lapland Sleighs + Have cross'd the seas, + And Jaunting Cyars from Cork here. + + Amazed I pass + From glass to glass, + Deloighted I survey 'em; + Fresh wondthers grows + Before me nose + In this sublime Musayum! + + Look, here's a fan + From far Japan, + A sabre from Damasco: + There's shawls ye get + From far Thibet, + And cotton prints from Glasgow. + + There's German flutes, + Marocky boots, + And Naples Macaronies; + Bohaymia + Has sent Bohay; + Polonia her polonies. + + There's granite flints + That's quite imminse, + There's sacks of coals and fuels, + There's swords and guns, + And soap in tuns, + And Gingerbread and Jewels. + + There's taypots there, + And cannons rare; + There's coffins fill'd with roses; + There's canvas tints, + Teeth insthrumints, + And shuits of clothes by MOSES. + + There's lashins more + Of things in store, + But thim I don't remimber; + Nor could disclose + Did I compose + From May time to Novimber! + + Ah, JUDY thru! + With eyes so blue, + That you were here to view it! + And could I screw + But tu pound tu, + 'Tis I would thrait you to it! + + So let us raise + Victoria's praise, + And Albert's proud condition, + That takes his ayse + As he surveys + This Cristial Exhibition. + + 1851. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0071" id="link2H_4_0071"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MOLONY'S LAMENT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O TIM, did you hear of thim Saxons, + And read what the peepers report? + They're goan to recal the Liftinant, + And shut up the Castle and Coort! + + Our desolate counthry of Oireland, + They're bint, the blagyards, to desthroy, + And now having murdthered our counthry, + They're goin to kill the Viceroy, Dear boy; + 'Twas he was our proide and our joy! + + And will we no longer behould him, + Surrounding his carriage in throngs, + As he weaves his cocked-hat from the windies, + And smiles to his bould aid-de-congs? + I liked for to see the young haroes, + All shoining with sthripes and with stars, + A horsing about in the Phaynix, + And winking the girls in the cyars, + Like Mars, + A smokin' their poipes and cigyars. + + Dear Mitchell exoiled to Bermudies, + Your beautiful oilids you'll ope, + And there'll be an abondance of croyin' + From O'Brine at the Keep of Good Hope, + When they read of this news in the peepers, + Acrass the Atlantical wave, + That the last of the Oirish Liftinints + Of the oisland of Seents has tuck lave. God save + The Queen—she should betther behave. + + And what's to become of poor Dame Sthreet, + And who'll ait the puffs and the tarts, + Whin the Coort of imparial splindor + From Doblin's sad city departs? + And who'll have the fiddlers and pipers, + When the deuce of a Coort there remains? + And where'll be the bucks and the ladies, + To hire the Coort-shuits and the thrains? + In sthrains, + It's thus that ould Erin complains! + + There's Counsellor Flanagan's leedy + 'Twas she in the Coort didn't fail, + And she wanted a plinty of popplin, + For her dthress, and her flounce, and her tail; + She bought it of Misthress O'Grady, + Eight shillings a yard tabinet, + But now that the Coort is concluded, + The divvle a yard will she get; I bet, + Bedad, that she wears the old set. + + There's Surgeon O'Toole and Miss Leary, + They'd daylings at Madam O'Riggs'; + Each year at the dthrawing-room sayson, + They mounted the neatest of wigs. + When Spring, with its buds and its dasies, + Comes out in her beauty and bloom, + Thim tu'll never think of new jasies, + Becase there is no dthrawing-room, + For whom + They'd choose the expense to ashume. + + There's Alderman Toad and his lady, + 'Twas they gave the Clart and the Poort, + And the poine-apples, turbots, and lobsters, + To feast the Lord Liftinint's Coort. + But now that the quality's goin, + I warnt that the aiting will stop, + And you'll get at the Alderman's teeble + The devil a bite or a dthrop, + Or chop; + And the butcher may shut up his shop. + + Yes, the grooms and the ushers are goin, + And his Lordship, the dear honest man, + And the Duchess, his eemiable leedy, + And Corry, the bould Connellan, + And little Lord Hyde and the childthren, + And the Chewter and Governess tu; + And the servants are packing their boxes,— + Oh, murther, but what shall I due + Without you? + O Meery, with ois of the blue! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0072" id="link2H_4_0072"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MR. MOLONY'S ACCOUNT OF THE BALL. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + GIVEN TO THE NEPAULESE AMBASSADOR BY THE PENINSULAR AND ORIENTAL + COMPANY. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O will ye choose to hear the news, + Bedad I cannot pass it o'er: + I'll tell you all about the Ball + To the Naypaulase Ambassador. + Begor! this fête all balls does bate + At which I've worn a pump, and I + Must here relate the splendthor great + Of th' Oriental Company. + + These men of sinse dispoised expinse, + To fête these black Achilleses. + "We'll show the blacks," says they, "Almack's, + And take the rooms at Willis's." + With flags and shawls, for these Nepauls, + They hung the rooms of Willis up, + And decked the walls, and stairs, and halls, + With roses and with lilies up. + + And Jullien's band it tuck its stand, + So sweetly in the middle there, + And soft bassoons played heavenly chunes, + And violins did fiddle there. + And when the Coort was tired of spoort, + I'd lave you, boys, to think there was + A nate buffet before them set, + Where lashins of good dhrink there was. + + At ten before the ball-room door, + His moighty Excellincy was, + He smoiled and bowed to all the crowd, + So gorgeous and immense he was. + His dusky shuit, sublime and mute, + Into the door-way followed him; + And O the noise of the blackguard boys, + As they hurrood and hollowed him! + + The noble Chair* stud at the stair, + And bade the dthrums to thump; and he + Did thus evince, to that Black Prince, + The welcome of his Company. + O fair the girls, and rich the curls, + And bright the oys you saw there, was; + And fixed each oye, ye there could spoi, + On Gineral Jung Bahawther, was! + + This Gineral great then tuck his sate, + With all the other ginerals, + (Bedad his troat, his belt, his coat, + All bleezed with precious minerals;) + And as he there, with princely air, + Recloinin on his cushion was, + All round about his royal chair + The squeezin and the pushin was. + + O Pat, such girls, such Jukes, and Earls, + Such fashion and nobilitee! + Just think of Tim, and fancy him + Amidst the hoigh gentilitee! + There was Lord De L'Huys, and the Portygeese + Ministher and his lady there, + And I reckonized, with much surprise, + Our messmate, Bob O'Grady, there; + + There was Baroness Brunow, that looked like Juno, + And Baroness Rehausen there, + And Countess Roullier, that looked peculiar + Well, in her robes of gauze in there. + There was Lord Crowhurst (I knew him first, + When only Mr. Pips he was), + And Mick O'Toole, the great big fool, + That after supper tipsy was. + + There was Lord Fingall, and his ladies all, + And Lords Killeen and Dufferin, + And Paddy Fife, with his fat wife: + I wondther how he could stuff her in. + There was Lord Belfast, that by me past, + And seemed to ask how should I go there? + And the Widow Macrae, and Lord A Hay, + And the Marchioness of Sligo there. + + Yes, Jukes, and Earls, and diamonds, and pearls, + And pretty girls, was sporting there; + And some beside (the rogues!) I spied, + Behind the windies, coorting there. + O there's one I know, bedad would show + As beautiful as any there, + And I'd like to hear the pipers blow, + And shake a fut with Fanny there! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + * James Matheson, Esq., to whom, and the Board of Directors of the + Peninsular and Oriental Company, I, Timotheus Molony, late stoker + on board the "Iberia," the "Lady Mary Wood," the "Tagus," and the + Oriental steamships, humbly dedicate this production of my grateful + muse. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0073" id="link2H_4_0073"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BATTLE OF LIMERICK. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ye Genii of the nation, + Who look with veneration. + And Ireland's desolation onsaysingly deplore; + Ye sons of General Jackson, + Who thrample on the Saxon, + Attend to the thransaction upon Shannon shore, + + When William, Duke of Schumbug, + A tyrant and a humbug, + With cannon and with thunder on our city bore, + Our fortitude and valiance + Insthructed his battalions + To respict the galliant Irish upon Shannon shore. + + Since that capitulation, + No city in this nation + So grand a reputation could boast before, + As Limerick prodigious, + That stands with quays and bridges, + And the ships up to the windies of the Shannon shore. + + A chief of ancient line, + 'Tis William Smith O'Brine + Reprisints this darling Limerick, this ten years or more: + O the Saxons can't endure + To see him on the flure, + And thrimble at the Cicero from Shannon shore! + + This valliant son of Mars + Had been to visit Par's, + That land of Revolution, that grows the tricolor; + And to welcome his returrn + From pilgrimages furren, + We invited him to tay on the Shannon shore. + + Then we summoned to our board + Young Meagher of the sword: + 'Tis he will sheathe that battle-axe in Saxon gore; + And Mitchil of Belfast + We bade to our repast, + To dthrink a dish of coffee on the Shannon shore. + + Convaniently to hould + These patriots so bould, + We tuck the opportunity of Tim Doolan's store; + And with ornamints and banners + (As becomes gintale good manners) + We made the loveliest tay-room upon Shannon shore. + + 'Twould binifit your sowls, + To see the butthered rowls, + The sugar-tongs and sangwidges and craim galyore, + And the muffins and the crumpets, + And the band of hearts and thrumpets, + To celebrate the sworry upon Shannon shore. + + Sure the Imperor of Bohay + Would be proud to dthrink the tay + That Misthress Biddy Rooney for O'Brine did pour; + And, since the days of Strongbow, + There never was such Congo— + Mitchil dthrank six quarts of it—by Shannon shore. + + But Clarndon and Corry + Connellan beheld this sworry + With rage and imulation in their black hearts' core; + And they hired a gang of ruffins + To interrupt the muffins, + And the fragrance of the Congo on the Shannon shore. + + When full of tay and cake, + O'Brine began to spake; + But juice a one could hear him, for a sudden roar + Of a ragamuffin rout + Began to yell and shout, + And frighten the propriety of Shannon shore. + + As Smith O'Brine harangued, + They batthered and they banged: + Tim Doolan's doors and windies down they tore; + They smashed the lovely windies + (Hung with muslin from the Indies), + Purshuing of their shindies upon Shannon shore. + + With throwing of brickbats, + Drowned puppies and dead rats, + These ruffin democrats themselves did lower; + Tin kettles, rotten eggs, + Cabbage-stalks, and wooden legs, + They flung among the patriots of Shannon shore. + + O the girls began to scrame + And upset the milk and crame; + And the honorable gintlemin, they cursed and swore: + And Mitchil of Belfast, + 'Twas he that looked aghast, + When they roasted him in effigy by Shannon shore. + + O the lovely tay was spilt + On that day of Ireland's guilt; + Says Jack Mitchil, "I am kilt! Boys, where's the back door? + 'Tis a national disgrace: + Let me go and veil me face;" + And he boulted with quick pace from the Shannon shore. + + "Cut down the bloody horde!" + Says Meagher of the sword, + "This conduct would disgrace any blackamore;" + But the best use Tommy made + Of his famous battle blade + Was to cut his own stick from the Shannon shore. + + Immortal Smith O'Brine + Was raging like a line; + 'Twould have done your sowl good to have heard him roar; + In his glory he arose, + And he rushed upon his foes, + But they hit him on the nose by the Shannon shore. + + Then the Futt and the Dthragoons + In squadthrons and platoons, + With their music playing chunes, down upon us bore; + And they bate the rattatoo, + But the Peelers came in view, + And ended the shaloo on the Shannon shore. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0074" id="link2H_4_0074"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LARRY O'TOOLE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + You've all heard of Larry O'Toole, + Of the beautiful town of Drumgoole; + He had but one eye, + To ogle ye by— + Oh, murther, but that was a jew'l! + A fool + He made of de girls, dis O'Toole. + + 'Twas he was the boy didn't fail, + That tuck down pataties and mail; + He never would shrink + From any sthrong dthrink, + Was it whisky or Drogheda ale; + I'm bail + This Larry would swallow a pail. + + Oh, many a night at the bowl, + With Larry I've sot cheek by jowl; + He's gone to his rest, + Where's there's dthrink of the best, + And so let us give his old sowl + A howl, + For 'twas he made the noggin to rowl. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0075" id="link2H_4_0075"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE ROSE OF FLORA. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sent by a Young Gentleman of Quality to Miss Br-dy, of Castle + Brady. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + On Brady's tower there grows a flower, + It is the loveliest flower that blows,— + At Castle Brady there lives a lady, + (And how I love her no one knows); + Her name is Nora, and the goddess Flora + Presents her with this blooming rose. + + "O Lady Nora," says the goddess Flora, + "I've many a rich and bright parterre; + In Brady's towers there's seven more flowers, + But you're the fairest lady there: + Not all the county, nor Ireland's bounty, + Can projuice a treasure that's half so fair!" + + What cheek is redder? sure roses fed her! + Her hair is maregolds, and her eye of blew. + Beneath her eyelid, is like the vi'let, + That darkly glistens with gentle jew! + The lily's nature is not surely whiter + Than Nora's neck is,—and her arrums too. + + "Come, gentle Nora," says the goddess Flora, + "My dearest creature, take my advice, + There is a poet, full well you know it, + Who spends his lifetime in heavy sighs,— + Young Redmond Barry, 'tis him you'll marry, + If rhyme and raisin you'd choose likewise." +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0076" id="link2H_4_0076"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LAST IRISH GRIEVANCE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + On reading of the general indignation occasioned in Ireland by the + appointment of a Scotch Professor to one of HER MAJESTY'S Godless + colleges, MASTER MOLLOY MOLONY, brother of THADDEUS MOLONY, Esq., + of the Temple, a youth only fifteen years of age, dashed off the + following spirited lines:— +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + As I think of the insult that's done to this nation, + Red tears of rivinge from me fatures I wash, + And uphold in this pome, to the world's daytistation, + The sleeves that appointed PROFESSOR M'COSH. + + I look round me counthree, renowned by exparience, + And see midst her childthren, the witty, the wise,— + Whole hayps of logicians, potes, schollars, grammarians, + All ayger for pleeces, all panting to rise; + + I gaze round the world in its utmost diminsion; + LARD JAHN and his minions in Council I ask; + Was there ever a Government-pleece (with a pinsion) + But children of Erin were fit for that task? + + What, Erin beloved, is thy fetal condition? + What shame in aych boosom must rankle and burrun, + To think that our countree has ne'er a logician + In the hour of her deenger will surrev her turrun! + + On the logic of Saxons there's little reliance, + And, rather from Saxons than gather its rules, + I'd stamp under feet the base book of his science, + And spit on his chair as he taught in the schools! + + O false SIR JOHN KANE! is it thus that you praych me? + I think all your Queen's Universitees Bosh; + And if you've no neetive Professor to taych me, + I scawurn to be learned by the Saxon M'COSH. + + There's WISEMAN and CHUME, and His Grace the Lord Primate, + That sinds round the box, and the world will subscribe; + 'Tis they'll build a College that's fit for our climate, + And taych me the saycrets I burn to imboibe! + + 'Tis there as a Student of Science I'll enther, + Fair Fountain of Knowledge, of Joy, and Contint! + SAINT PATHRICK'S sweet Statue shall stand in the centher, + And wink his dear oi every day during Lint. + + And good Doctor NEWMAN, that praycher unwary, + 'Tis he shall preside the Academee School, + And quit the gay robe of ST. PHILIP of Neri, + To wield the soft rod of ST. LAWRENCE O'TOOLE! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0077" id="link2H_4_0077"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BALLADS OF POLICEMAN X. + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0078" id="link2H_4_0078"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE WOLFE NEW BALLAD OF JANE RONEY AND MARY BROWN. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + An igstrawnary tail I vill tell you this veek— + I stood in the Court of A'Beckett the Beak, + Vere Mrs. Jane Roney, a vidow, I see, + Who charged Mary Brown with a robbin of she. + + This Mary was pore and in misery once, + And she came to Mrs. Roney it's more than twelve monce. + She adn't got no bed, nor no dinner nor no tea, + And kind Mrs. Roney gave Mary all three. + + Mrs. Roney kep Mary for ever so many veeks, + (Her conduct disgusted the best of all Beax,) + She kep her for nothink, as kind as could be, + Never thinkin that this Mary was a traitor to she. + + "Mrs. Roney, O Mrs. Roney, I feel very ill; + Will you just step to the Doctor's for to fetch me a pill?" + "That I will, my pore Mary," Mrs. Roney says she; + And she goes off to the Doctor's as quickly as may be. + + No sooner on this message Mrs. Roney was sped, + Than hup gits vicked Mary, and jumps out a bed; + She hopens all the trunks without never a key— + She bustes all the boxes, and vith them makes free. + + Mrs. Roney's best linning, gownds, petticoats, and close, + Her children's little coats and things, her boots, and her hose, + She packed them, and she stole 'em, and avay vith them did flee. + Mrs. Roney's situation—you may think vat it vould be! + + Of Mary, ungrateful, who had served her this vay, + Mrs. Roney heard nothink for a long year and a day. + Till last Thursday, in Lambeth, ven whom should she see + But this Mary, as had acted so ungrateful to she? + + She was leaning on the helbo of a worthy young man, + They were going to be married, and were walkin hand in hand; + And the Church bells was a ringing for Mary and he, + And the parson was ready, and a waitin for his fee. + + When up comes Mrs. Roney, and faces Mary Brown, + Who trembles, and castes her eyes upon the ground. + She calls a jolly pleaseman, it happens to be me; + I charge this yonng woman, Mr. Pleaseman, says she. + + "Mrs. Roney, O, Mrs. Roney, O, do let me go, + I acted most ungrateful I own, and I know, + But the marriage bell is a ringin, and the ring you may see, + And this young man is a waitin," says Mary says she. + + "I don't care three fardens for the parson and clark, + And the bell may keep ringin from noon day to dark. + Mary Brown, Mary Brown, you must come along with me; + And I think this young man is lucky to be free." + + So, in spite of the tears which bejew'd Mary's cheek, + I took that young gurl to A'Beckett the Beak; + That exlent Justice demanded her plea— + But never a sullable said Mary said she. + + On account of her conduck so base and so vile, + That wicked young gurl is committed for trile, + And if she's transpawted beyond the salt sea, + It's a proper reward for such willians as she. + + Now you young gurls of Southwark for Mary who veep, + From pickin and stealin your ands you must keep, + Or it may be my dooty, as it was Thursday veek, + To pull you all hup to A'Beckett the Beak. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0079" id="link2H_4_0079"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE THREE CHRISTMAS WAITS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + My name is Pleaceman X; + Last night I was in bed, + A dream did me perplex, + Which came into my Edd. + I dreamed I sor three Waits + A playing of their tune, + At Pimlico Palace gates, + All underneath the moon. + One puffed a hold French horn, + And one a hold Banjo, + And one chap seedy and torn + A Hirish pipe did blow. + They sadly piped and played, + Dexcribing of their fates; + And this was what they said, + Those three pore Christmas Waits: + + "When this black year began, + This Eighteen-forty-eight, + I was a great great man, + And king both vise and great, + And Munseer Guizot by me did show + As Minister of State. + + "But Febuwerry came, + And brought a rabble rout, + And me and my good dame + And children did turn out, + And us, in spite of all our right. + Sent to the right about. + + "I left my native ground, + I left my kin and kith, + I left my royal crownd, + Vich I couldn't travel vith, + And without a pound came to English ground, + In the name of Mr. Smith. + + "Like any anchorite + I've lived since I came here, + I've kep myself quite quite, + I've drank the small small beer, + And the vater, you see, disagrees vith me + And all my famly dear. + + "O Tweeleries so dear, + O darling Pally Royl, + Vas it to finish here + That I did trouble and toyl? + That all my plans should break in my ands, + And should on me recoil? + + "My state I fenced about + Vith baynicks and vith guns; + My gals I portioned hout, + Rich vives I got my sons; + O varn't it crule to lose my rule, + My money and lands at once? + + "And so, vith arp and woice, + Both troubled and shagreened, + I hid you to rejoice, + O glorious England's Queend! + And never have to veep, like pore Louis-Phileep, + Because you out are cleaned. + + "O Prins, so brave and stout, + I stand before your gate; + Pray send a trifle hout + To me, your pore old Vait; + For nothink could be vuss than it's been along vith us + In this year Forty-eight." + + "Ven this bad year began," + The nex man said, seysee, + "I vas a Journeyman, + A taylor black and free, + And my wife went out and chaired about, + And my name's the bold Cuffee. + + "The Queen and Halbert both + I swore I would confound, + I took a hawfle hoath + To drag them to the ground; + And sevral more with me they swore + Aginst the British Crownd. + + "Aginst her Pleacemen all + We said we'd try our strenth; + Her scarlick soldiers tall + We vow'd we'd lay full lenth; + And out we came, in Freedom's name, + Last Aypril was the tenth. + + "Three 'undred thousand snobs + Came out to stop the vay, + Vith sticks vith iron knobs, + Or else we'd gained the day. + The harmy quite kept out of sight, + And so ve vent avay. + + "Next day the Pleacemen came— + Rewenge it was their plann— + And from my good old dame + They took her tailor-mann: + And the hard hard beak did me bespeak + To Newgit in the Wann. + + "In that etrocious Cort + The Jewry did agree; + The Judge did me transport, + To go beyond the sea: + And so for life, from his dear wife + They took poor old Cuffee. + + "O Halbert, Appy Prince! + With children round your knees, + Ingraving ansum Prints, + And taking hoff your hease; + O think of me, the old Cuffee, + Beyond the solt solt seas! + + "Although I'm hold and black, + My hanguish is most great; + Great Prince, O call me back, + And I vill be your Vait! + And never no more vill break the Lor, + As I did in 'Forty-eight." + + The tailer thus did close + (A pore old blackymore rogue), + When a dismal gent uprose, + And spoke with Hirish brogue: + "I'm Smith O'Brine, of Royal Line, + Descended from Rory Ogue. + + "When great O'Connle died, + That man whom all did trust, + That man whom Henglish pride + Beheld with such disgust, + Then Erin free fixed eyes on me, + And swoar I should be fust. + + "'The glorious Hirish Crown,' + Says she, 'it shall be thine: + Long time, it's wery well known, + You kep it in your line; + That diadem of hemerald gem + Is yours, my Smith O'Brine. + + "'Too long the Saxon churl + Our land encumbered hath; + Arise my Prince, my Earl, + And brush them from thy path: + Rise, mighty Smith, and sveep 'em vith + The besom of your wrath.' + + "Then in my might I rose, + My country I surveyed, + I saw it filled with foes, + I viewed them undismayed; + 'Ha, ha!' says I, 'the harvest's high, + I'll reap it with my blade.' + + "My warriors I enrolled, + They rallied round their lord; + And cheafs in council old + I summoned to the board— + Wise Doheny and Duffy bold, + And Meagher of the Sword. + + "I stood on Slievenamaun, + They came with pikes and bills; + They gathered in the dawn, + Like mist upon the hills, + And rushed adown the mountain side + Like twenty thousand rills. + + "Their fortress we assail; + Hurroo! my boys, hurroo! + The bloody Saxons quail + To hear the wild Shaloo: + Strike, and prevail, proud Innesfail, + O'Brine aboo, aboo! + + "Our people they defied; + They shot at 'em like savages, + Their bloody guns they plied + With sanguinary ravages: + Hide, blushing Glory, hide + That day among the cabbages! + + "And so no more I'll say, + But ask your Mussy great. + And humbly sing and pray, + Your Majesty's poor Wait: + Your Smith O'Brine in 'Forty-nine + Will blush for 'Forty-eight." +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0080" id="link2H_4_0080"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LINES ON A LATE HOSPICIOUS EWENT.* + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + BY A GENTLEMAN OF THE FOOTGUARDS (BLUE). +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I paced upon my beat + With steady step and slow, + All huppandownd of Ranelagh Street: + Ran'lagh St. Pimlico. + + While marching huppandownd + Upon that fair May morn, + Beold the booming cannings sound, + A royal child is born! + + The Ministers of State + Then presnly I sor, + They gallops to the Pallis gate, + In carridges and for. + + With anxious looks intent, + Before the gate they stop, + There comes the good Lord President, + And there the Archbishopp. + + Lord John he next elights; + And who comes here in haste? + 'Tis the ero of one underd fights, + The caudle for to taste. + + Then Mrs. Lily, the nuss, + Towards them steps with joy; + Says the brave old Duke, "Come tell to us, + Is it a gal or a boy?" + + Says Mrs. L. to the Duke, + "Your Grace, it is A PRINCE." + And at that nuss's bold rebuke, + He did both laugh and wince. + + He vews with pleasant look + This pooty flower of May, + Then, says the wenarable Duke, + "Egad, it's my buthday." + + By memory backwards borne, + Peraps his thoughts did stray + To that old place where he was born, + Upon the first of May. + + Perhaps he did recal + The ancient towers of Trim; + And County Meath and Dangan Hall + They did rewisit him. + + I phansy of him so + His good old thoughts employin'; + Fourscore years and one ago + Beside the flowin' Boyne. + + His father praps he sees, + Most Musicle of Lords, + A playing maddrigles and glees + Upon the Arpsicords. + + Jest phansy this old Ero + Upon his mother's knee! + Did ever lady in this land + Ave greater sons than she? + + And I shoudn be surprize + While this was in his mind, + If a drop there twinkled in his eyes + Of unfamiliar brind. + + . . . . . + + To Hapsly Ouse next day + Drives up a Broosh and for, + A gracious prince sits in that Shay + (I mention him with Hor!) + + They ring upon the bell, + The Porter shows his Ed, + (He fought at Vaterloo as vell, + And vears a Veskit red). + + To see that carriage come, + The people round it press: + "And is the galliant Duke at ome?" + "Your Royal Ighness, yes." + + He stepps from out the Broosh + And in the gate is gone; + And X, although the people push, + Says wary kind, "Move hon." + + The Royal Prince unto + The galliant Duke did say, + "Dear duke, my little son and you + Was born the self same day. + + "The Lady of the land, + My wife and Sovring dear, + It is by her horgust command + I wait upon you here. + + "That lady is as well + As can expected be; + And to your Grace she bid me tell + This gracious message free. + + "That offspring of our race, + Whom yesterday you see, + To show our honor for your Grace, + Prince Arthur he shall be. + + "That name it rhymes to fame; + All Europe knows the sound: + And I couldn't find a better name + If you'd give me twenty pound. + + "King Arthur had his knights + That girt his table round, + But you have won a hundred fights, + Will match 'em I'll be bound. + + "You fought with Bonypart, + And likewise Tippoo Saib; + I name you then with all my heart + The Godsire of this babe." + + That Prince his leave was took, + His hinterview was done. + So let us give the good old Duke + Good luck of his god-son. + + And wish him years of joy + In this our time of Schism, + And hope he'll hear the royal boy + His little catechism. + + And my pooty little Prince + That's come our arts to cheer, + Let me my loyal powers ewince + A welcomin of you ere. + + And the Poit-Laureat's crownd, + I think, in some respex, + Egstremely shootable might be found + For honest Pleaseman X. + + * The birth of Prince Arthur. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0081" id="link2H_4_0081"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BALLAD OF ELIZA DAVIS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Galliant gents and lovely ladies, + List a tail vich late befel, + Vich I heard it, bein on duty, + At the Pleace Hoffice, Clerkenwell. + + Praps you know the Fondling Chapel, + Vere the little children sings: + (Lor! I likes to hear on Sundies + Them there pooty little things!) + + In this street there lived a housemaid, + If you particklarly ask me where— + Vy, it vas at four-and-tventy + Guilford Street, by Brunsvick Square. + + Vich her name was Eliza Davis, + And she went to fetch the beer: + In the street she met a party + As was quite surprized to see her. + + Vich he vas a British Sailor, + For to judge him by his look: + Tarry jacket, canvass trowsies, + Ha-la Mr. T. P. Cooke. + + Presently this Mann accostes + Of this hinnocent young gal— + "Pray," saysee, "excuse my freedom, + You're so like my Sister Sal! + + "You're so like my Sister Sally, + Both in valk and face and size, + Miss, that—dang my old lee scuppers, + It brings tears into my heyes!" + + "I'm a mate on board a wessel, + I'm a sailor bold and true; + Shiver up my poor old timbers, + Let me be a mate for you! + + "What's your name, my beauty, tell me;" + And she faintly hansers, "Lore, + Sir, my name's Eliza Davis, + And I live at tventy-four." + + Hoftimes came this British seaman, + This deluded gal to meet; + And at tventy-four was welcome, + Tventy-four in Guilford Street. + + And Eliza told her Master + (Kinder they than Missuses are), + How in marridge he had ast her, + Like a galliant Brittish Tar. + + And he brought his landlady vith him, + (Vich vas all his hartful plan), + And she told how Charley Thompson + Reely vas a good young man. + + And how she herself had lived in + Many years of union sweet, + Vith a gent she met promiskous, + Valkin in the public street. + + And Eliza listened to them, + And she thought that soon their bands + Vould be published at the Fondlin, + Hand the clergymen jine their ands. + + And he ast about the lodgers, + (Vich her master let some rooms), + Likevise vere they kep their things, and + Vere her master kep his spoons. + + Hand this vicked Charley Thompson + Came on Sundy veek to see her; + And he sent Eliza Davis + Hout to fetch a pint of beer. + + Hand while pore Eliza vent to + Fetch the beer, dewoid of sin, + This etrocious Charley Thompson + Let his wile accomplish him. + + To the lodgers, their apartments, + This abandingd female goes, + Prigs their shirts and umberellas; + Prigs their boots, and hats, and clothes. + + Vile the scoundrel Charley Thompson, + Lest his wictim should escape, + Hocust her vith rum and vater, + Like a fiend in huming shape. + + But a hi was fixt upon 'em + Vich these raskles little sore; + Namely, Mr. Hide, the landlord + Of the house at tventy-four. + + He vas valkin in his garden, + Just afore he vent to sup; + And on looking up he sor the + Lodgers' vinders lighted hup. + + Hup the stairs the landlord tumbled; + Something's going wrong, he said; + And he caught the vicked voman + Underneath the lodgers' bed. + + And he called a brother Pleaseman, + Vich vas passing on his beat; + Like a true and galliant feller, + Hup and down in Guilford Street. + + And that Pleaseman able-bodied + Took this voman to the cell; + To the cell vere she was quodded, + In the Close of Clerkenwell. + + And though vicked Charley Thompson + Boulted like a miscrant base, + Presently another Pleaseman + Took him to the self-same place. + + And this precious pair of raskles + Tuesday last came up for doom; + By the beak they was committed, + Vich his name was Mr. Combe. + + Has for poor Eliza Davis, + Simple gurl of tventy-four, + SHE I ope, vill never listen + In the streets to sailors moar. + + But if she must ave a sweet-art, + (Vich most every gurl expex,) + Let her take a jolly pleaseman; + Vich his name peraps is—X. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0082" id="link2H_4_0082"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DAMAGES, TWO HUNDRED POUNDS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Special Jurymen of England! who admire your country's laws, + And proclaim a British Jury worthy of the realm's applause; + Gayly compliment each other at the issue of a cause + Which was tried at Guildford 'sizes, this day week as ever was. + + Unto that august tribunal comes a gentleman in grief, + (Special was the British Jury, and the Judge, the Baron Chief,) + Comes a British man and husband—asking of the law relief; + For his wife was stolen from him—he'd have vengeance on the thief. + + Yes, his wife, the blessed treasure with the which his life was + crowned, + Wickedly was ravished from him by a hypocrite profound. + And he comes before twelve Britons, men for sense and truth renowned, + To award him for his damage, twenty hundred sterling pound. + + He by counsel and attorney there at Guildford does appear, + Asking damage of the villain who seduced his lady dear: + But I can't help asking, though the lady's guilt was all too clear, + And though guilty the defendant, wasn't the plaintiff rather queer? + + First the lady's mother spoke, and said she'd seen her daughter cry + But a fortnight after marriage: early times for piping eye. + Six months after, things were worse, and the piping eye was black, + And this gallant British husband caned his wife upon the back. + + Three months after they were married, husband pushed her to the door, + Told her to be off and leave him, for he wanted her no more. + As she would not go, why HE went: thrice he left his lady dear; + Left her, too, without a penny, for more than a quarter of a year. + + Mrs. Frances Duncan knew the parties very well indeed, + She had seen him pull his lady's nose and make her lip to bleed; + If he chanced to sit at home not a single word he said: + Once she saw him throw the cover of a dish at his lady's head. + + Sarah Green, another witness, clear did to the jury note + How she saw this honest fellow seize his lady by the throat, + How he cursed her and abused her, beating her into a fit, + Till the pitying next-door neighbors crossed the wall and witnessed it. + + Next door to this injured Briton Mr. Owers a butcher dwelt; + Mrs. Owers's foolish heart towards this erring dame did melt; + (Not that she had erred as yet, crime was not developed in her), + But being left without a penny, Mrs. Owers supplied her dinner— + God be merciful to Mrs. Owers, who was merciful to this sinner! + + Caroline Naylor was their servant, said they led a wretched life, + Saw this most distinguished Briton fling a teacup at his wife; + He went out to balls and pleasures, and never once, in ten months' + space, + Sat with his wife or spoke her kindly. This was the defendant's + case. + + Pollock, C.B., charged the Jury; said the woman's guilt was clear: + That was not the point, however, which the Jury came to hear; + But the damage to determine which, as it should true appear, + This most tender-hearted husband, who so used his lady dear— + + Beat her, kicked her, caned her, cursed her, left her starving, + year by year, + Flung her from him, parted from her, wrung her neck, and boxed her + ear— + What the reasonable damage this afflicted man could claim, + By the loss of the affections of this guilty graceless dame? + + Then the honest British Twelve, to each other turning round, + Laid their clever heads together with a wisdom most profound: + And towards his Lordship looking, spoke the foreman wise and sound;— + "My Lord, we find for this here plaintiff, damages two hundred + pound." + + So, God bless the Special Jury! pride and joy of English ground, + And the happy land of England, where true justice does abound! + British jurymen and husbands, let us hail this verdict proper: + If a British wife offends you, Britons, you've a right to whop her. + + Though you promised to protect her, though you promised to defend her, + You are welcome to neglect her: to the devil you may send her: + You may strike her, curse, abuse her; so declares our law renowned; + And if after this you lose her,—why, you're paid two hundred pound. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0083" id="link2H_4_0083"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE KNIGHT AND THE LADY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There's in the Vest a city pleasant + To vich King Bladud gev his name, + And in that city there's a Crescent + Vere dwelt a noble knight of fame. + + Although that galliant knight is oldish, + Although Sir John as gray, gray air, + Hage has not made his busum coldish, + His Art still beats tewodds the Fair! + + 'Twas two years sins, this knight so splendid, + Peraps fateagued with Bath's routines, + To Paris towne his phootsteps bended + In sutch of gayer folks and seans. + + His and was free, his means was easy, + A nobler, finer gent than he + Ne'er drove about the Shons-Eleesy, + Or paced the Roo de Rivolee. + + A brougham and pair Sir John prowided, + In which abroad he loved to ride; + But ar! he most of all enjyed it, + When some one helse was sittin' inside! + + That "some one helse" a lovely dame was + Dear ladies you will heasy tell— + Countess Grabrowski her sweet name was, + A noble title, ard to spell. + + This faymus Countess ad a daughter + Of lovely form and tender art; + A nobleman in marridge sought her, + By name the Baron of Saint Bart. + + Their pashn touched the noble Sir John, + It was so pewer and profound; + Lady Grabrowski he did urge on + With Hyming's wreeth their loves to crownd. + + "O, come to Bath, to Lansdowne Crescent," + Says kind Sir John, "and live with me; + The living there's uncommon pleasant— + I'm sure you'll find the hair agree. + + "O, come to Bath, my fair Grabrowski, + And bring your charming girl," sezee; + "The Barring here shall have the ouse-key, + Vith breakfast, dinner, lunch, and tea. + + "And when they've passed an appy winter, + Their opes and loves no more we'll bar; + The marridge-vow they'll enter inter, + And I at church will be their Par." + + To Bath they went to Lansdowne Crescent, + Where good Sir John he did provide + No end of teas and balls incessant, + And hosses both to drive and ride. + + He was so Ospitably busy, + When Miss was late, he'd make so bold + Upstairs to call out, "Missy, Missy, + Come down, the coffy's getting cold!" + + But O! 'tis sadd to think such bounties + Should meet with such return as this; + O Barring of Saint Bart, O Countess + Grabrowski, and O cruel Miss! + + He married you at Bath's fair Habby, + Saint Bart he treated like a son— + And wasn't it uncommon shabby + To do what you have went and done! + + My trembling And amost refewses + To write the charge which Sir John swore, + Of which the Countess he ecuses, + Her daughter and her son-in-lore. + + My Mews quite blushes as she sings of + The fatle charge which now I quote: + He says Miss took his two best rings off, + And pawned 'em for a tenpun note. + + "Is this the child of honest parince, + To make away with folks' best things? + Is this, pray, like the wives of Barrins, + To go and prig a gentleman's rings?" + + Thus thought Sir John, by anger wrought on, + And to rewenge his injured cause, + He brought them hup to Mr. Broughton, + Last Vensday veek as ever waws. + + If guiltless, how she have been slandered! + If guilty, wengeance will not fail: + Meanwhile the lady is remanded + And gev three hundred pouns in bail. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0084" id="link2H_4_0084"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + JACOB HOMNIUM'S HOSS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A NEW PALLICE COURT CHANT. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + One sees in Viteall Yard, + Vere pleacemen do resort, + A wenerable hinstitute, + 'Tis call'd the Pallis Court. + A gent as got his i on it, + I think 'twill make some sport. + + The natur of this Court + My hindignation riles: + A few fat legal spiders + Here set & spin their viles; + To rob the town theyr privlege is, + In a hayrea of twelve miles. + + The Judge of this year Court + Is a mellitary beak, + He knows no more of Lor + Than praps he does of Greek, + And prowides hisself a deputy + Because he cannot speak. + + Four counsel in this Court— + Misnamed of Justice—sits; + These lawyers owes their places to + Their money, not their wits; + And there's six attornies under them, + As here their living gits. + + These lawyers, six and four, + Was a livin at their ease, + A sendin of their writs abowt, + And droring in the fees, + When their erose a cirkimstance + As is like to make a breeze. + + It now is some monce since, + A gent both good and trew + Possest an ansum oss vith vich + He didn know what to do: + Peraps he did not like the oss; + Peraps he was a scru. + + This gentleman his oss + At Tattersall's did lodge; + There came a wulgar oss-dealer, + This gentleman's name did fodge, + And took the oss from Tattersall's + Wasn that a artful dodge? + + One day this gentleman's groom + This willain did spy out, + A mounted on this oss + A ridin him about; + "Get out of that there oss, you rogue," + Speaks up the groom so stout. + + The thief was cruel whex'd + To find himself so pinn'd; + The oss began to whinny, + The honest gloom he grinn'd; + And the raskle thief got off the oss + And cut avay like vind. + + And phansy with what joy + The master did regard + His dearly bluvd lost oss again + Trot in the stable yard! + + Who was this master good + Of whomb I makes these rhymes? + His name is Jacob Homnium, Exquire; + And if I'd committed crimes, + Good Lord I wouldn't ave that mann + Attack me in the Times! + + Now shortly after the groomb + His master's oss did take up, + There came a livery-man + This gentleman to wake up; + And he handed in a little bill, + Which hangered Mr. Jacob. + + For two pound seventeen + This livery-man eplied, + For the keep of Mr. Jacob's oss, + Which the thief had took to ride. + "Do you see anythink green in me?" + Mr. Jacob Homnium cried. + + "Because a raskle chews + My oss away to robb, + And goes tick at your Mews + For seven-and-fifty bobb, + Shall I be call'd to pay?—It is + A iniquitious Jobb." + + Thus Mr. Jacob cut + The conwasation short; + The livery-man went ome, + Detummingd to ave sport, + And summingsd Jacob Homnium, Exquire, + Into the Pallis Court. + + Pore Jacob went to Court, + A Counsel for to fix, + And choose a barrister out of the four, + An attorney of the six: + And there he sor these men of Lor, + And watch'd 'em at their tricks. + + The dreadful day of trile + In the Pallis Court did come; + The lawyers said their say, + The Judge look'd wery glum, + And then the British Jury cast + Pore Jacob Hom-ni-um. + + O a weary day was that + For Jacob to go through; + The debt was two seventeen + (Which he no mor owed than you), + And then there was the plaintives costs, + Eleven pound six and two. + + And then there was his own, + Which the lawyers they did fix + At the wery moderit figgar + Of ten pound one and six. + Now Evins bless the Pallis Court, + And all its bold ver-dicks! + + I cannot settingly tell + If Jacob swaw and cust, + At aving for to pay this sumb; + But I should think he must, + And av drawn a cheque for L24 4s. 8d. + With most igstreme disgust. + + O Pallis Court, you move + My pitty most profound. + A most emusing sport + You thought it, I'll be bound, + To saddle hup a three-pound debt, + With two-and-twenty pound. + + Good sport it is to you + To grind the honest pore, + To pay their just or unjust debts + With eight hundred per cent. for Lor; + Make haste and get your costes in, + They will not last much mor! + + Come down from that tribewn, + Thou shameless and Unjust; + Thou Swindle, picking pockets in + The name of Truth august: + Come down, thou hoary blasphemy, + For die thou shalt and must. + + And go it, Jacob Homnium, + And ply your iron pen, + And rise up, Sir John Jervis, + And shut me up that den; + That sty for fattening lawyers in, + On the bones of honest men. + + PLEACEMAN X. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0085" id="link2H_4_0085"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE SPECULATORS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The night was stormy and dark, + The town was shut up in sleep: + Only those were abroad who were out on a lark, + Or those who'd no beds to keep. + + I pass'd through the lonely street, + The wind did sing and blow; + I could hear the policeman's feet + Clapping to and fro. + + There stood a potato-man + In the midst of all the wet; + He stood with his 'tato-can + In the lonely Hay-market. + + Two gents of dismal mien, + And dank and greasy rags, + Came out of a shop for gin, + Swaggering over the flags: + + Swaggering over the stones, + These shabby bucks did walk; + And I went and followed those seedy ones, + And listened to their talk. + + Was I sober or awake? + Could I believe my ears? + Those dismal beggars spake + Of nothing but railroad shares. + + I wondered more and more: + Says one—"Good friend of mine, + How many shares have you wrote for, + In the Diddlesex Junction line?" + + "I wrote for twenty," says Jim, + "But they wouldn't give me one;" + His comrade straight rebuked him + For the folly he had done: + + "O Jim, you are unawares + Of the ways of this bad town; + I always write for five hundred shares, + And THEN they put me down." + + "And yet you got no shares," + Says Jim, "for all your boast;" + "I WOULD have wrote," says Jack, "but where + Was the penny to pay the post?" + + "I lost, for I couldn't pay + That first instalment up; + But here's 'taters smoking hot—I say, + Let's stop, my boy, and sup." + + And at this simple feast + The while they did regale, + I drew each ragged capitalist + Down on my left thumbnail. + + Their talk did me perplex, + All night I tumbled and tost, + And thought of railroad specs, + And how money was won and lost. + + "Bless railroads everywhere," + I said, "and the world's advance; + Bless every railroad share + In Italy, Ireland, France; + For never a beggar need now despair, + And every rogue has a chance." +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0086" id="link2H_4_0086"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A WOEFUL NEW BALLAD + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + OF THE PROTESTANT CONSPIRACY TO TAKE THE POPE'S LIFE. + + (BY A GENTLEMAN WHO HAS BEEN ON THE SPOT.) +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Come all ye Christian people, unto my tale give ear, + 'Tis about a base consperracy, as quickly shall appear; + 'Twill make your hair to bristle up, and your eyes to start and glow, + When of this dread consperracy you honest folks shall know. + + The news of this consperracy and villianous attempt, + I read it in a newspaper, from Italy it was sent: + It was sent from lovely Italy, where the olives they do grow, + And our holy father lives, yes, yes, while his name it is No NO. + + And 'tis there our English noblemen goes that is Puseyites no + longer, + Because they finds the ancient faith both better is and stronger, + And 'tis there I knelt beside my lord when he kiss'd the POPE his + toe, + And hung his neck with chains at St. Peter's Vinculo. + + And 'tis there the splendid churches is, and the fountains playing + grand, + And the palace of PRINCE TORLONIA, likewise the Vatican; + And there's the stairs where the bagpipe-men and the piffararys + blow. + And it's there I drove my lady and lord in the Park of Pincio. + + And 'tis there our splendid churches is in all their pride and + glory, + Saint Peter's famous Basilisk and Saint Mary's Maggiory; + And them benighted Prodestants, on Sunday they must go + Outside the town to the preaching-shop by the gate of Popolo. + + Now in this town of famous Room, as I dessay you have heard, + There is scarcely any gentleman as hasn't got a beard. + And ever since the world began it was ordained so, + That there should always barbers he wheresumever beards do grow. + + And as it always has been so since the world it did begin, + The POPE, our Holy Potentate, has a beard upon his chin; + And every morning regular when cocks begin to crow, + There comes a certing party to wait on POPE PIO. + + There comes a certing gintlemen with razier, soap, and lather, + A shaving most respectfully the POPE, our Holy Father. + And now the dread consperracy I'll quickly to you show, + Which them sanguinary Prodestants did form against NONO. + + Them sanguinary Prodestants, which I abore and hate, + Assembled in the preaching-shop by the Flaminian gate; + And they took counsel with their selves to deal a deadly blow + Against our gentle Father, the Holy POPE PIO. + + Exhibiting a wickedness which I never heard or read of; + What do you think them Prodestants wished? to cut the good Pope's + head off! + And to the kind POPE'S Air-dresser the Prodestant Clark did go, + And proposed him to decapitate the innocent PIO. + + "What hever can be easier," said this Clerk—this Man of Sin, + "When you are called to hoperate on His Holiness's chin, + Than just to give the razier a little slip—just so?— + And there's an end, dear barber, of innocent PIO!" + + The wicked conversation it chanced was overerd + By an Italian lady; she heard it every word: + Which by birth she was a Marchioness, in service forced to go + With the parson of the preaching-shop at the gate of Popolo. + + When the lady heard the news, as duty did obleege, + As fast as her legs could carry her she ran to the Poleege. + "O Polegia," says she (for they pronounts it so), + "They're going for to massyker our Holy POPE PIO. + + "The ebomminable Englishmen, the Parsing and his Clark, + His Holiness's Air-dresser devised it in the dark! + And I would recommend you in prison for to throw + These villians would esassinate the Holy POPE PIO? + + "And for saving of His Holiness and his trebble crownd + I humbly hope your Worships will give me a few pound; + Because I was a Marchioness many years ago, + Before I came to service at the gate of Popolo." + + That sackreligious Air-dresser, the Parson and his man + Wouldn't, though ask'd continyally, own their wicked plan— + And so the kind Authoraties let those villians go + That was plotting of the murder of the good PIO NONO. + + Now isn't this safishnt proof, ye gentlemen at home, + How wicked is them Prodestants, and how good our Pope at Rome? + So let us drink confusion to LORD JOHN and LORD MINTO, + And a health unto His Eminence, and good PIO NONO. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0087" id="link2H_4_0087"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LAMENTABLE BALLAD OF THE FOUNDLING OF SHOREDITCH. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Come all ye Christian people, and listen to my tail, + It is all about a doctor was travelling by the rail, + By the Heastern Counties' Railway (vich the shares I don't desire), + From Ixworth town in Suffolk, vich his name did not transpire. + + A travelling from Bury this Doctor was employed + With a gentleman, a friend of his, vich his name was Captain Loyd, + And on reaching Marks Tey Station, that is next beyond Colchest- + er, a lady entered into them most elegantly dressed. + + She entered into the Carriage all with a tottering step, + And a pooty little Bayby upon her bussum slep; + The gentlemen received her with kindness and siwillaty, + Pitying this lady for her illness and debillaty. + + She had a fust-class ticket, this lovely lady said, + Because it was so lonesome she took a secknd instead. + Better to travel by secknd class, than sit alone in the fust, + And the pooty little Baby upon her breast she nust. + + A seein of her cryin, and shiverin and pail, + To her spoke this surging, the Ero of my tail; + Saysee you look unwell, Ma'am, I'll elp you if I can, + And you may tell your ease to me, for I'm a meddicle man. + + "Thank you, Sir," the lady said, "I only look so pale, + Because I ain't accustom'd to travelling on the Rale; + I shall be better presnly, when I've ad some rest:" + And that pooty little Baby she squeeged it to her breast. + + So in the conwersation the journey they beguiled, + Capting Loyd and the meddicle man, and the lady and the child, + Till the warious stations along the line was passed, + For even the Heastern Counties' trains must come in at last. + + When at Shoreditch tumminus at lenth stopped the train, + This kind meddicle gentleman proposed his aid again. + "Thank you, Sir," the lady said, "for your kyindness dear; + My carridge and my osses is probibbly come here. + + "Will you old this baby, please, vilst I step and see?" + The Doctor was a famly man: "That I will," says he. + Then the little child she kist, kist it very gently, + Vich was sucking his little fist, sleeping innocently. + + With a sigh from her art, as though she would have bust it, + Then she gave the Doctor the child—wery kind he nust it: + Hup then the lady jumped hoff the bench she sat from, + Tumbled down the carridge steps and ran along the platform. + + Vile hall the other passengers vent upon their vays, + The Capting and the Doctor sat there in a maze; + Some vent in a Homminibus, some vent in a Cabby, + The Capting and the Doctor vaited vith the babby. + + There they sat looking queer, for an hour or more, + But their feller passinger neather on 'em sore: + Never, never back again did that lady come + To that pooty sleeping Hinfnt a suckin of his Thum! + + What could this pore Doctor do, bein treated thus, + When the darling Baby woke, cryin for its nuss? + Off he drove to a female friend, vich she was both kind and mild, + And igsplained to her the circumstance of this year little child. + + That kind lady took the child instantly in her lap, + And made it very comfortable by giving it some pap; + And when she took its close off, what d'you think she found? + A couple of ten pun notes sewn up, in its little gownd! + + Also in its little close, was a note which did conwey + That this little baby's parents lived in a handsome way + And for his Headucation they reglarly would pay, + And sirtingly like gentlefolks would claim the child one day, + If the Christian people who'd charge of it would say, + Per adwertisement in The Times where the baby lay. + + Pity of this bayy many people took, + It had such pooty ways and such a pooty look; + And there came a lady forrard (I wish that I could see + Any kind lady as would do as much for me); + + And I wish with all my art, some night in MY night gownd, + I could find a note stitched for ten or twenty pound— + There came a lady forrard, that most honorable did say, + She'd adopt this little baby, which her parents cast away. + + While the Doctor pondered on this hoffer fair, + Comes a letter from Devonshire, from a party there, + Hordering the Doctor, at its Mar's desire, + To send the little Infant back to Devonshire. + + Lost in apoplexity, this pore meddicle man, + Like a sensable gentleman, to the Justice ran; + Which his name was Mr. Hammill, a honorable beak, + That takes his seat in Worship Street, four times a week. + + "O Justice!" says the Doctor, "instrugt me what to do. + I've come up from the country, to throw myself on you; + My patients have no doctor to tend them in their ills, + (There they are in Suffolk without their drafts and pills!) + + "I've come up from the country, to know how I'll dispose + Of this pore little baby, and the twenty pun note, and the close, + And I want to go back to Suffolk, dear Justice, if you please, + And my patients wants their Doctor, and their Doctor wants his feez." + + Up spoke Mr. Hammill, sittin at his desk, + "This year application does me much perplesk; + What I do adwise you, is to leave this babby + In the Parish where it was left, by its mother shabby." + + The Doctor from his worship sadly did depart— + He might have left the baby, but he hadn't got the heart + To go for to leave that Hinnocent, has the law allows, + To the tender mussies of the Union House. + + Mother, who left this little one on a stranger's knee, + Think how cruel you have been, and how good was he! + Think, if you've been guilty, innocent was she; + And do not take unkindly this little word of me: + Heaven be merciful to us all, sinners as we be! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0088" id="link2H_4_0088"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE ORGAN-BOY'S APPEAL. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "WESTMINSTER POLICE COURT.—Policeman X brought a paper of doggerel + verses to the MAGISTRATE, which had been thrust into his hands, X + said, by an Italian boy, who ran away immediately afterwards. + + "The MAGISTRATE, after perusing the lines, looked hard at X, and + said he did not think they were written by an Italian. + + "X, blushing, said he thought the paper read in Court last week, + and which frightened so the old gentleman to whom it was addressed, + was also not of Italian origin." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O SIGNOR BRODERIP, you are a wickid ole man, + You wexis us little horgin-boys whenever you can: + How dare you talk of Justice, and go for to seek + To pussicute us horgin-boys, you senguinary Beek? + + Though you set in Vestminster surrounded by your crushers, + Harrogint and habsolute like the Hortocrat of hall the Rushers, + Yet there is a better vurld I'd have you for to know, + Likewise a place vere the henimies of horgin-boys will go. + + O you vickid HEROD without any pity! + London vithout horgin-boys vood be a dismal city. + Sweet SAINT CICILY who first taught horgin-pipes to blow, + Soften the heart of this Magistrit that haggerywates us so! + + Good Italian gentlemen, fatherly and kind, + Brings us over to London here our horgins for to grind; + Sends us out vith little vite mice and guinea-pigs also + A popping of the Veasel and a Jumpin of JIM CROW. + + And as us young horgin-boys is grateful in our turn + We gives to these kind gentlemen hall the money we earn, + Because that they vood vop up as wery wel we know + Unless we brought our hurnings back to them as loves us so. + + O MR. BRODERIP! wery much I'm surprise, + Ven you take your valks abroad where can be your eyes? + If a Beak had a heart then you'd compryend + Us pore little horgin-boys was the poor man's friend. + + Don't you see the shildren in the droring-rooms + Clapping of their little ands when they year our toons? + On their mothers' bussums don't you see the babbies crow + And down to us dear horgin-boys lots of apence throw? + + Don't you see the ousemaids (pooty POLLIES and MARIES), + Ven ve bring our urdigurdis, smiling from the hairies? + Then they come out vith a slice o' cole puddn or a bit o' bacon or so + And give it us young horgin-boys for lunch afore we go. + + Have you ever seen the Hirish children sport + When our velcome music-box brings sunshine in the Court? + To these little paupers who can never pay + Surely all good horgin-boys, for GOD'S love, will play. + + Has for those proud gentlemen, like a serting B—k + (Vich I von't be pussonal and therefore vil not speak), + That flings their parler-vinders hup von ve begin to play + And cusses us and swears at us in such a wiolent way, + + Instedd of their abewsing and calling hout Poleece + Let em send out JOHN to us vith six-pence or a shillin apiece. + Then like good young horgin-boys avay from there we'll go, + Blessing sweet SAINT CICILY that taught our pipes to blow. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0089" id="link2H_4_0089"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LITTLE BILLEE.* + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Air—"Il y avait un petit navire." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There were three sailors of Bristol city + Who took a boat and went to sea. + But first with beef and captain's biscuits + And pickled pork they loaded she. + + There was gorging Jack and guzzling Jimmy, + And the youngest he was little Billee. + Now when they got as far as the Equator + They'd nothing left but one split pea. + + Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, + "I am extremely hungaree." + To gorging Jack says guzzling Jimmy, + "We've nothing left, us must eat we." + + Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, + "With one another we shouldn't agree! + There's little Bill, he's young and tender, + We're old and tough, so let's eat he. + + "Oh! Billy, we're going to kill and eat you, + So undo the button of your chemie." + When Bill received this information + He used his pocket handkerchie. + + "First let me say my catechism, + Which my poor mamy taught to me." + "Make haste, make haste," says guzzling Jimmy, + While Jack pulled out his snickersnee. + + So Billy went up to the main-top gallant mast, + And down he fell on his bended knee. + He scarce had come to the twelfth commandment + When up he jumps. "There's land I see: + + "Jerusalem and Madagascar, + And North and South Amerikee: + There's the British flag a riding at anchor, + With Admiral Napier, K.C.B." + + So when they got aboard of the Admiral's + He hanged fat Jack and flogged Jimmee; + But as for little Bill he made him + The Captain of a Seventy-three. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + * As different versions of this popular song have been set to music + and sung, no apology is needed for the insertion in these pages of + what is considered to be the correct version. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0090" id="link2H_4_0090"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE END OF THE PLAY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The play is done; the curtain drops, + Slow falling to the prompter's bell: + A moment yet the actor stops, + And looks around, to say farewell. + It is an irksome word and task; + And, when he's laughed and said his say, + He shows, as he removes the mask, + A face that's anything but gay. + + One word, ere yet the evening ends, + Let's close it with a parting rhyme, + And pledge a hand to all young friends, + As fits the merry Christmas time.* + On life's wide scene you, too, have parts, + That Fate ere long shall bid you play; + Good night! with honest gentle hearts + A kindly greeting go alway! + + Goodnight—I'd say, the griefs, the joys, + Just hinted in this mimic page, + The triumphs and defeats of boys, + Are but repeated in our age. + I'd say, your woes were not less keen, + Your hopes more vain than those of men; + Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen + At forty-five played o'er again. + + I'd say, we suffer and we strive, + Not less nor more as men, than boys; + With grizzled beards at forty-five, + As erst at twelve in corduroys. + And if, in time of sacred youth, + We learned at home to love and pray, + Pray Heaven that early Love and Truth + May never wholly pass away. + + And in the world, as in the school, + I'd say, how fate may change and shift; + The prize be sometimes with the fool, + The race not always to the swift. + The strong may yield, the good may fall, + The great man be a vulgar clown, + The knave be lifted over all, + The kind cast pitilessly down. + + Who knows the inscrutable design? + Blessed be He who took and gave! + Why should your mother, Charles, not mine, + Be weeping at her darling's grave?** + We bow to Heaven that will'd it so, + That darkly rules the fate of all, + That sends the respite or the blow, + That's free to give, or to recall. + + This crowns his feast with wine and wit: + Who brought him to that mirth and state? + His betters, see, below him sit, + Or hunger hopeless at the gate. + Who bade the mud from Dives' wheel + To spurn the rags of Lazarus? + Come, brother, in that dust we'll kneel, + Confessing Heaven that ruled it thus. + + So each shall mourn, in life's advance, + Dear hopes, dear friends, untimely killed; + Shall grieve for many a forfeit chance, + And longing passion unfulfilled. + Amen! whatever fate be sent, + Pray God the heart may kindly glow, + Although the head with cares be bent, + And whitened with the winter snow. + + Come wealth or want, come good or ill, + Let young and old accept their part, + And bow before the Awful Will, + And bear it with an honest heart, + Who misses or who wins the prize. + Go, lose or conquer as you can; + But if you fail, or if you rise, + Be each, pray God, a gentleman. + + A gentleman, or old or young! + (Bear kindly with my humble lays); + The sacred chorus first was sung + Upon the first of Christmas days: + The shepherds heard it overhead— + The joyful angels raised it then: + Glory to Heaven on high, it said, + And peace on earth to gentle men. + + My song, save this, is little worth; + I lay the weary pen aside, + And wish you health, and love, and mirth, + As fits the solemn Christmas-tide. + As fits the holy Christmas birth, + Be this, good friends, our carol still— + Be peace on earth, be peace on earth, + To men of gentle will. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + * These verses were printed at the end of a Christmas Book (1848- + 9), "Dr. Birch and his Young Friends." + + ** C.B ob. 29th November, 1848. aet. 42. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0091" id="link2H_4_0091"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VANITAS VANITATUM. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + How spake of old the Royal Seer? + (His text is one I love to treat on.) + This life of ours he said is sheer + Mataiotes Mataioteton. + + O Student of this gilded Book, + Declare, while musing on its pages, + If truer words were ever spoke + By ancient, or by modern sages! + + The various authors' names but note,* + French, Spanish, English, Russians, Germans: + And in the volume polyglot, + Sure you may read a hundred sermons! + + What histories of life are here, + More wild than all romancers' stories; + What wondrous transformations queer, + What homilies on human glories! + + What theme for sorrow or for scorn! + What chronicle of Fate's surprises— + Of adverse fortune nobly borne, + Of chances, changes, ruins, rises! + + Of thrones upset, and sceptres broke, + How strange a record here is written! + Of honors, dealt as if in joke; + Of brave desert unkindly smitten. + + How low men were, and how they rise! + How high they were, and how they tumble! + O vanity of vanities! + O laughable, pathetic jumble! + + Here between honest Janin's joke + And his Turk Excellency's firman, + I write my name upon the book: + I write my name—and end my sermon. + + ————— + + O Vanity of vanities! + How wayward the decrees of Fate are; + How very weak the very wise, + How very small the very great are! + + What mean these stale moralities, + Sir Preacher, from your desk you mumble? + Why rail against the great and wise, + And tire us with your ceaseless grumble? + + Pray choose us out another text, + O man morose and narrow-minded! + Come turn the page—I read the next, + And then the next, and still I find it. + + Read here how Wealth aside was thrust, + And Folly set in place exalted; + How Princes footed in the dust, + While lackeys in the saddle vaulted. + + Though thrice a thousand years are past, + Since David's son, the sad and splendid, + The weary King Ecclesiast, + Upon his awful tablets penned it,— + + Methinks the text is never stale, + And life is every day renewing + Fresh comments on the old old tale + Of Folly, Fortune, Glory, Ruin. + + Hark to the Preacher, preaching still + He lifts his voice and cries his sermon, + Here at St. Peter's of Cornhill, + As yonder on the Mount of Hermon; + + For you and me to heart to take + (O dear beloved brother readers) + To-day as when the good King spake + Beneath the solemn Syrian cedars. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + * Between a page by Jules Janin, and a poem by the Turkish + Ambassador, in Madame de R——'s album, containing the autographs + of kings, princes, poets, marshals, musicians, diplomatists, + statesmen, artists, and men of letters of all nations. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Ballads, by William Makepeace Thackeray + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BALLADS *** + +***** This file should be named 2732-h.htm or 2732-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/7/3/2732/ + +Produced by Donald Lainson, and David Widger + +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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