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diff --git a/old/7bwmt10.txt b/old/7bwmt10.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a7bd985 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/7bwmt10.txt @@ -0,0 +1,8060 @@ +Project Gutenberg Etext Ballads, by William Makepeace Thackeray +#20 in our series by William Makepeace Thackeray + + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check +the copyright laws for your country before posting these files!! + +Please take a look at the important information in this header. +We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an +electronic path open for the next readers. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* + + + + + +This etext was prepared by Donald Lainson, charlie@idirect.com. + + + + + +BALLADS + +by William Makepeace Thackeray + + + + +CONTENTS + + +The Chronicle of the Drum. Part I + Part II +Abd-el-Kader at Toulon; or, The Caged Hawk +The King of Brentford's Testament +The White Squall +Peg of Limavaddy +May-Day Ode +The Ballad of Bouillabaisse +The Mahogany Tree +The Yankee Volunteers +The Pen and the Album +Mrs. Katherine's Lantern +Lucy's Birthday +The Cane-Bottom'd Chair +Piscator and Piscatrix +The Rose upon my Balcony +Ronsard to his Mistress +At the Church Gate +The Age of Wisdom +Sorrows of Werther +A Doe in the City +The Last of May +"Ah, Bleak and Barren was the Moor" +Song of the Violet +Fairy Days +Pocahontas +From Pocahontas + + +LOVE-SONGS MADE EASY:-- + + What makes my Heart to Thrill and Glow? + The Ghazul, or, Oriental Love-Song:-- + The Rocks + The Merry Bard + The Caique + My Nora + To Mary + Serenade + The Minaret Bells + Come to the Greenwood Tree + +FIVE GERMAN DITTIES:-- + + A Tragic Story + The Chaplet + The King on the Tower + On a very Old Woman + A Credo + +FOUR IMITATIONS OF BERANGER:-- + + Le Roi d'Yvetot + The King of Yvetot + The King of Brentford + Le Grenier + The Garret + Roger Bontemps + Jolly Jack + +IMITATION OF HORACE:-- + + To his Serving Boy + Ad Ministram + +OLD FRIENDS WITH NEW FACES:-- + + The Knightly Guerdon + The Almack's Adieu + When the Gloom is on the Glen. + The Red Flag + Dear Jack + Commanders of the Faithful + When Moonlike ore the Hazure Seas + King Canute + Friar's Song + Atra Cura + Requiescat + Lines upon my Sister's Portrait + The Legend of St. Sophia of Kioff + Titmarsh's Carmen Lilliense + The Willow-Tree + The Willow-Tree (another version) + +LYRA HIBERNICA:-- + + The Pimlico Pavilion + The Crystal Palace + Molony's Lament + Mr. Molony's Account of the Ball given to the Nepaulese + Ambassador by the Peninsular and Oriental Company + The Battle of Limerick + Larry O'Toole + The Rose of Flora + The Last Irish Grievance + + +THE BALLADS OF POLICEMAN X.:-- + + The Wofle New Ballad of Jane Roney and Mary Brown + The Three Christmas Waits + Lines on a Late Hospicious Ewent + The Ballad of Eliza Davis + Damages, Two Hundred Pounds + The Knight and the Lady + Jacob Homnium's Hoss + The Speculators + A Woeful New Ballad of the Protestant Conspiracy to take the + Pope's Life + The Lamentable Ballad of the Foundling of Shoreditch + The Organ Boy's Appeal + +Little Billee +The End of the Play +Vanitas Vanitatum + + + + +BALLADS. + + + +THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM. + +PART I. + + +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 Conde 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. + + +PART II. + + +"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. + + + +ABD-EL-KADER AT TOULON. + +OR, THE CAGED HAWK. + + +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! + +Availed 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 aman; +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! + + + +THE KING OF BRENTFORD'S TESTAMENT. + + +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. + + + +THE WHITE SQUALL. + + +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 Sturm 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. + + + +PEG OF LIMAVADDY. + + +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! + + + +MAY-DAY ODE. + + +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. + + +* The U. S. frigate "St. Lawrence." + + + +THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE. + + +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 TERRE'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 ecaillere is + Still opening oysters at the door. +Is TERRE 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 TERRE, 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 TERRE'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 TERRE'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! + + + +THE MAHOGANY TREE. + + +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. + + + +THE YANKEE VOLUNTEERS. + + +"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. + + +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! + + + +THE PEN AND THE ALBUM. + + +"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." + + + +MRS. KATHERINE'S LANTERN. + +WRITTEN IN A LADY'S ALBUM. + + +"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." + + + +LUCY'S BIRTHDAY. + + +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. + + + +THE CANE-BOTTOM'D CHAIR. + + +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. + + + +PISCATOR AND PISCATRIX. + +LINES WRITTEN TO AN ALBUM PRINT. + + +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 as. + +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. + + + +THE ROSE UPON MY BALCONY. + + +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. + + + +RONSARD TO HIS MISTRESS. + + +"Quand vous serez bien vielle, le soir a la chandelle +Assise aupres du feu devisant et filant, +Direz, chantant mes vers en vous esmerveillant, +Ronsard m'a celebre du temps que j'etois belle." + + +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! + + + +AT THE CHURCH GATE. + + +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. + + + +THE AGE OF WISDOM. + + +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. + + + +SORROWS OF WERTHER. + + +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. + + + +A DOE IN THE CITY. + + +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. + + + +THE LAST OF MAY. + +(IN REPLY TO AN INVITATION DATED ON THE 1ST.) + + +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! + + + +"AH, BLEAK AND BARREN WAS THE MOOR." + + +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! + + + +SONG OF THE VIOLET. + + +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! + + + +FAIRY DAYS. + + +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 faerie! +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! + + + +POCAHONTAS. + + +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. + + + +FROM POCAHONTAS. + + +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! + + + + +LOVE-SONGS MADE EASY. + + + +WHAT MAKES MY HEART TO THRILL AND GLOW? + +THE MAYFAIR LOVE-SONG. + + +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 Curaco? +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. + + + +THE GHAZUL, OR ORIENTAL LOVE-SONG. + +THE ROCKS. + + +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. + + + +THE MERRY BARD. + + +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. + + + +THE CAIQUE. + + +Yonder to the kiosk, beside the creek, +Paddle the swift caique. +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 caique +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." + + + +MY NORA. + + +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! + + + +TO MARY. + + +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! + + + +SERENADE. + + +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! + + + +THE MINARET BELLS. + + +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! + + + +COME TO THE GREENWOOD TREE. + + + 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! + + + + +FIVE GERMAN DITTIES. + + + +A TRAGIC STORY. + +BY ADELBERT VON CHAMISSO. + + +"--'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. + + + +THE CHAPLET. + +FROM UHLAND. + + +"Es pfluckte Blumlein mannigfalt." + + +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! + + + +THE KING ON THE TOWER. + +FROM UHLAND. + + +"Da liegen sie alle, die grauen Hohen." + + +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? + + + +ON A VERY OLD WOMAN. + +LA MOTTE FOUQUE. + + +"Und Du gingst einst, die Myrt' im Haare." + + +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! + + + +A CREDO. + + +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!" + + + + +FOUR IMITATIONS OF BERANGER. + + +LE ROI D'YVETOT. + + +Il etait un roi d'Yvetot, + Peu connu dans l'histoire; +Se levant tard, se couchant tot, + Dormant fort bien sans gloire, +Et couronne par Jeanneton +D'un simple bonnet de coton, + Dit-on. + Oh! oh! oh! oh! ah! ah! ah! ah! + Quel bon petit roi c'etait la! + La, la. + +Il fesait ses quatre repas + Dans son palais de chaume, +Et sur un ane, pas a 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 gout onereux + Qu'une soif un peu vive; +Mais, en rendant son peuple heureux, + Il faut bien qu'un roi vive. +Lui-meme a table, et sans suppot, +Sur chaque muid levait un pot + D'impot. + 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 pere: +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 etats, + Fut un voisin commode, +Et, modele 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 fete, bien souvent, +La foule s'ecrie en buvant + Devant: + Oh! oh! oh! oh! ah! ah! ah! ah! &c. + + + +THE KING OF YVETOT. + + +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. + + + +THE KING OF BRENTFORD. + +ANOTHER VERSION. + + +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. + + +LE GRENIER. + +Je viens revoir l'asile ou ma jeunesse +De la misere a subi les lecons. +J'avais vingt ans, une folle maitresse, +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 etages, +Dans un grenier qu'on est bien a vingt ans. + +C'est un grenier, point ne veux qu'on l'ignore. +La fut mon lit, bien chetif et bien dur; +La fut ma table; et je retrouve encore +Trois pieds d'un vers charbonnes sur le mur. +Apparaissez, plaisirs de mon bel age, +Que d'un coup d'aile a fustiges le temps, +Vingt fois pour vous j'ai ma montre en gage. +Dans un grenier qu'on est bien a vingt ans! + +Lisette ici doit surtout apparaitre, +Vive, jolie, avec un frais chapeau; +Deja sa main a l'etroite fenetre +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 a 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'allegresse; +A Marengo Bonaparte est vainqueur. +Le canon gronde; un autre chant commence; +Nous celebrons tant de faits eclatans. +Les rois jamais n'envahiront la France. +Dans un grenier qu'on est bien a vingt ans! + +Quittons ce toit ou ma raison s'enivre. +Oh! qu'ils sont loin ces jours si regrettes! +J'echangerais ce qu'il me reste a vivre +Contre un des mois qu'ici Dieu ma comptes. +Pour rever gloire, amour, plaisir, folie, +Pour depenser sa vie en peu d'instans, +D'un long espoir pour la voir embellie, +Dans un grenier qu'on est bien a vingt ans! + + + +THE GARRET. + + +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! + + + +ROGER-BONTEMPS. + + +Aux gens atrabilaires +Pour exemple donne, +En un temps de miseres +Roger-Bontemps est ne. +Vivre obscur a sa guise, +Narguer les mecontens; +Eh gai! c'est la devise +Du gros Roger-Bontemps. + +Du chapeau de son pere +Coiffe 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. + +Posseder dans en hutte +Une table, un vieux lit, +Des cartes, une flute, +Un broc que Dieu remplit; +Un portrait de maitresse, +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'elite, +Sabler ceux du canton: +Preferer 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 pere, a ta bonte; +De ma philosophie +Pardonne le gaite; +Que ma saison derniere +Soit encore un printemps; +Eh gai! c'est la priere +Du gros Roger-Bontemps. + +Vous pauvres pleins d'envie, +Vous riches desireux, +Vous, dont le char devie +Apres un cours heureux; +Vous qui perdrez peut-etre +Des titres eclatans, +Eh gai! prenez pour maitre +Le gros Roger-Bontemps. + + + +JOLLY JACK. + + +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. + + + + +IMITATION OF HORACE. + + +TO HIS SERVING BOY. + + +Persicos odi +Puer, apparatus; +Displicent nexae +Philyra coronae: +Mitte sectari, +Rosa qua locorum +Sera moretur. + +Simplici myrto +Nihil allabores +Sedulus, curo: +Neque te ministrum +Dedecet myrtus, +Neque me sub arcta +Vite bibentem. + + + +AD MINISTRAM. + + +Dear LUCY, you know what my wish is,-- + I hate all your Frenchified fuss: +Your silly entrees 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. + + + + +OLD FRIENDS WITH NEW FACES. + + + +THE KNIGHTLY GUERDON.* + + +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-melee. +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. + + +* "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." + + + +THE ALMACK'S ADIEU. + + +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! + + + +WHEN THE GLOOM IS ON THE GLEN. + + +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! + + + +THE RED FLAG. + + +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! + + + +DEAR JACK. + + +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. + + + +COMMANDERS OF THE FAITHFUL. + + +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. + + + +WHEN MOONLIKE ORE THE HAZURE SEAS. + + +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? + + + +KING CANUTE. + + +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. + + + +FRIAR'S SONG. + + +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! + + + +ATRA CURA. + + +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. + + + +REQUIESCAT. + + +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. + + + +LINES UPON MY SISTER'S PORTRAIT. + +BY THE LORD SOUTHDOWN. + + +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. + + + +THE LEGEND OF ST. SOPHIA OF KIOFF. + +AN EPIC POEM, IN TWENTY BOOKS. + + +I. + + +[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. + + +II. + + +[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. + + +III. + + +[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. + + +IV. + + +[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. + + +V. + + +[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. + + +VI. + + +[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. + + +VII. + + +[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. + + +VIII. + + +[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." + + +IX. + + +[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 energy +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." + + +X. + + +[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 elite, +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! + + +XI. + + +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. + + +XII. + + +[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 beaufet; +And, Prior, have the venison up--it's capital rechauffe. +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! + + +XIII. + + +[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. + + +XIV. + + +[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! + + +XV. + + +[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! + + +XVI. + + +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. + + +XVII. + + +[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 countenance +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." + + +XVIII. + + +[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! + + +XIX. + + +[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 proteges +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. + + +XX. + + +[Finis, or the end.] + +THINK NOT, O READER, THAT WE'RE LAUGHING AT YOU; +YOU MAY GO TO KIOFF NOW, AND SEE THE STATUTE! + + + + +TITMARSH'S CARMEN LILLIENSE. + + +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. + + +I. + + +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 Quievrain, 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. + + +II. + + +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. + + +III. + + +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 cafes 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. + + +IV. + + +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! + + +[He goes off by the diligence that evening, and is restored to the +bosom of his happy family.] + + + +THE WILLOW-TREE. + + +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! + + + +THE WILLOW-TREE. + +(ANOTHER VERSION). + + +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. + + + + +LYRA HIBERNICA + +THE POEMS OF THE MOLONY OF KILBALLYMOLONY. + + + +THE PIMLICO PAVILION. + + +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-ature-- + 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. + + + +THE CRYSTAL PALACE. + + + 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. + + + +MOLONY'S LAMENT. + + +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! + + + +MR. MOLONY'S ACCOUNT OF THE BALL. + +GIVEN TO THE NEPAULESE AMBASSADOR BY THE PENINSULAR AND ORIENTAL +COMPANY. + + +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 fete 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 fete 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! + + +* 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. + + + +THE BATTLE OF LIMERICK. + + + 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. + + + +LARRY O'TOOLE. + + +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. + + + +THE ROSE OF FLORA. + + +Sent by a Young Gentleman of Quality to Miss Br-dy, of Castle +Brady. + + +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." + + + +THE LAST IRISH GRIEVANCE. + + +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:-- + + +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! + + + + +THE BALLADS OF POLICEMAN X. + + + +THE WOLFE NEW BALLAD OF JANE RONEY AND MARY BROWN. + + +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. + + + +THE THREE CHRISTMAS WAITS. + + +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." + + + +LINES ON A LATE HOSPICIOUS EWENT.* + +BY A GENTLEMAN OF THE FOOTGUARDS (BLUE). + + +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. + + + +THE BALLAD OF ELIZA DAVIS. + + +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 hin. + +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. + + + +DAMAGES, TWO HUNDRED POUNDS. + + +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. + + + +THE KNIGHT AND THE LADY. + + +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. + + + +JACOB HOMNIUM'S HOSS. + +A NEW PALLICE COURT CHANT. + + +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. + + + +THE SPECULATORS. + + +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." + + + +A WOEFUL NEW BALLAD + +OF THE PROTESTANT CONSPIRACY TO TAKE THE POPE'S LIFE. + +(BY A GENTLEMAN WHO HAS BEEN ON THE SPOT.) + + +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. + + + +THE LAMENTABLE BALLAD OF THE FOUNDLING OF SHOREDITCH. + + +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 bayby 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! + + + +THE ORGAN-BOY'S APPEAL. + + +"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." + + +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. + + + +LITTLE BILLEE.* + +Air--"Il y avait un petit navire." + + +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. + + +* 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. + + + +THE END OF THE PLAY. + + +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. + + +* 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. + + + +VANITAS VANITATUM. + + +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. + + +* 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. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg Etext Ballads, by William Makepeace Thackeray + |