Бесплатный фрагмент - Book of Ballads

The Broken Pitcher

It was a Moorish maiden was sitting by a well,

And what the maiden thought of, I cannot, cannot tell,

When by there rode a valiant knight from the town of Oviedo —

Alphonzo Guzman was he hight, the Count of Tololedo.

«Oh, maiden, Moorish maiden, why sit’st thou by the spring?

Say, dost thou seek a lover, or any other thing?

Why dost thou look upon me, with eyes so dark and wide,

And wherefore doth the pitcher lie broken by thy side?»

«I do not seek a lover, thou Christian knight so gay,

Because an article like that hath never come my way;

And why I gaze upon you, I cannot, cannot tell,

Except that in your iron hose you look uncommon swell.

«My pitcher it is broken, and this the reason is,

— A shepherd came behind me, and tried to snatch a kiss;

I would not stand his nonsense, so ne’er a word I spoke,

But scored him on the costard, and so the jug was broke.

«My uncle, the Alcaydè, he waits for me at home,

And will not take his tumbler until Zorayda come:

I cannot bring him water — the pitcher is in pieces —

And so I’m sure to catch it, ’cos he wallops all his nieces.»

«Oh, maiden, Moorish maiden! wilt thou be ruled by me?

Then wipe thine eyes and rosy lips, and give me kisses three;

And I’ll give thee my helmet, thou kind and courteous lady,

To carry home the water to thy uncle, the Alcaydè.»

He lighted down from off his steed — he tied him to a tree —

He bent him to the maiden, and he took his kisses three;

«To wrong thee, sweet Zorayda, I swear would be a sin!»

And he knelt him at the fountain, and he dipped his helmet in.

Up rose the Moorish maiden — behind the knight she steals,

And caught Alphonzo Guzman in a twinkling by the heels:

She tipped him in, and held him down beneath the bubbling water, —

«Now, take thou that for venturing to kiss Al Hamet’s daughter!»

A Christian maid is weeping in the town of Oviedo;

She waits the coming of her love, the Count of Tololedo.

I pray you all in charity, that you will never tell,

How he met the Moorish maiden beside the lonely well.

Don Fernando Gomersalez. From the Spanish of Astley’s

Don Fernando Gomersalez! basely have they borne thee down;

Paces ten behind thy charger is thy glorious body thrown;

Fetters have they bound upon thee — iron fetters, fast and sure;

Don Fernando Gomersalez, thou art captive to the Moor!

Long within a dingy dungeon pined that brave and noble knight,

For the Saracenic warriors well they knew and feared his might;

Long he lay and long he languished on his dripping bed of stone,

Till the cankered iron fetters ate their way into his bone.

On the twentieth day of August — ’twas the feast of false Mahound —

Came the Moorish population from the neighbouring cities round;

There to hold their foul carousal, there to dance and there to sing,

And to pay their yearly homage to Al-Widdicomb, the King!

First they wheeled their supple coursers, wheeled them at their utmost speed,

Then they galloped by in squadrons, tossing far the light jereed;

Then around the circus racing, faster than the swallow flies,

Did they spurn the yellow sawdust in the rapt spectators’ eyes.

Proudly did the Moorish monarch every passing warrior greet,

As he sate enthroned above them, with the lamps beneath his feet;

«Tell me, thou black-bearded Cadi! are there any in the land,

That against my janissaries dare one hour in combat stand?»

Then the bearded Cadi answered — «Be not wroth, my lord the King,

If thy faithful slave shall venture to observe one little thing;

Valiant, doubtless, are thy warriors, and their beards are long and hairy,

And a thunderbolt in battle is each bristly janissary:

«But I cannot, O my sovereign, quite forget that fearful day,

When I saw the Christian army in its terrible array;

When they charged across the footlights like a torrent down its bed,

With the red cross floating o’er them, and Fernando at their head!

«Don Fernando Gomersalez! matchless chieftain he in war,

Mightier than Don Sticknejo, braver than the Cid Bivar!

Not a cheek within Grenada, O my king, but wan and pale is,

When they hear the dreaded name of Don Fernando Gomersalez!»

«Thou shalt see thy champion, Cadi! hither quick the captive bring!»

Thus in wrath and deadly anger spoke Al-Widdicomb, the King:

«Paler than a maiden’s forehead is the Christian’s hue, I ween,

Since a year within the dungeons of Grenada he hath been!»

Then they brought the Gomersalez, and they led the warrior in;

Weak and wasted seemed his body, and his face was pale and thin;

But the ancient fire was burning, unsubdued, within his eye,

And his step was proud and stately, and his look was stern and high.

Scarcely from tumultuous cheering could the galleried crowd refrain,

For they knew Don Gomersalez and his prowess in the plain;

But they feared the grizzly despot and his myrmidons in steel,

So their sympathy descended in the fruitage of Seville.

«Wherefore, monarch, hast thou brought me from the dungeon dark and drear,

Where these limbs of mine have wasted in confinement for a year?

Dost thou lead me forth to torture? — Rack and pincers I defy!

Is it that thy base grotesquos may behold a hero die?»

«Hold thy peace, thou Christian caitiff, and attend to what I say!

Thou art called the starkest rider of the Spanish cur’s array

If thy courage be undaunted, as they say it was of yore,

Thou mayst yet achieve thy freedom, — yet regain thy native shore.

«Courses three within this circus ’gainst my warriors shalt thou run,

Ere yon weltering pasteboard ocean shall receive yon muslin sun;

Victor — thou shalt have thy freedom; but if stretched upon the plain,

To thy dark and dreary dungeon they shall hale thee back again.»

«Give me but the armour, monarch, I have worn in many a field,

Give me but my trusty helmet, give me but my dinted shield;

And my old steed, Bavieca, swiftest courser in the ring,

And I rather should imagine that I’ll do the business, King!»

Then they carried down the armour from the garret where it lay,

Oh! but it was red and rusty, and the plumes were shorn away:

And they led out Bavieca from a foul and filthy van,

For the conqueror had sold him to a Moorish dog’s-meat man.

When the steed beheld his master, loud he whinnied loud and free,

And, in token of subjection, knelt upon each broken knee;

And a tear of walnut largeness to the warrior’s eyelids rose,

As he fondly picked a bean-straw from his coughing courser’s nose.

«Many a time, O Bavieca, hast thou borne me through the fray!

Bear me but again as deftly through the listed ring this day;

Or if thou art worn and feeble, as may well have come to pass,

Time it is, my trusty charger, both of us were sent to grass!»

Then he seized his lance, and, vaulting, in the saddle sate upright;

Marble seemed the noble courser, iron seemed the mailèd knight;

And a cry of admiration burst from every Moorish lady.

«Five to four on Don Fernando!» cried the sable-bearded Cadi.

Warriors three from Alcantara burst into the listed space,

Warriors three, all bred in battle, of the proud Alhambra race:

Trumpets sounded, coursers bounded, and the foremost straight went down, Tumbling, like a sack of turnips, right before the jeering Clown.

In the second chieftain galloped, and he bowed him to the King, And his saddle-girths were tightened by the Master of the Ring; Through three blazing hoops he bounded ere the desperate fight began — Don Fernando! bear thee bravely! — ’tis the Moor Abdorrhaman!

Like a double streak of lightning, clashing in the sulphurous sky, Met the pair of hostile heroes, and they made the sawdust fly; And the Moslem spear so stiffly smote on Don Fernando’s mail, That he reeled, as if in liquor, back to Bavieca’s tail:

But he caught the mace beside him, and he gripped it hard and fast, And he swung it starkly upwards as the foeman bounded past; And the deadly stroke descended through the skull and through the brain, As ye may have seen a poker cleave a cocoa-nut in twain.

Sore astonished was the monarch, and the Moorish warriors all, Save the third bold chief, who tarried and beheld his brethren fall; And the Clown, in haste arising from the footstool where he sat, Notified the first appearance of the famous Acrobat;

Never on a single charger rides that stout and stalwart Moor, — Five beneath his stride so stately bear him o’er the trembling floor; p. 18Five Arabians, black as midnight — on their necks the rein he throws, And the outer and the inner feel the pressure of his toes.

Never wore that chieftain armour; in a knot himself he ties,

With his grizzly head appearing in the centre of his thighs,

Till the petrified spectator asks, in paralysed alarm,

Where may be the warrior’s body, — which is leg, and which is arm?

«Sound the charge!»

The coursers started; with a yell and furious vault,

High in air the Moorish champion cut a wondrous somersault;

O’er the head of Don Fernando like a tennis-ball he sprung,

Caught him tightly by the girdle, and behind the crupper hung.

Then his dagger Don Fernando plucked from out its jewelled sheath,

And he struck the Moor so fiercely, as he grappled him beneath,

That the good Damascus weapon sank within the folds of fat,

And as dead as Julius Cæsar dropped the Gordian Acrobat.

Meanwhile fast the sun was sinking — it had sunk beneath the sea,

Ere Fernando Gomersalez smote the latter of the three;

And Al-Widdicomb, the monarch, pointed, with a bitter smile,

To the deeply-darkening canvas; — blacker grew it all the while.

«Thou hast slain my warriors,

Spaniard! but thou hast not kept thy time;

Only two had sunk before thee ere I heard the curfew chime;

Back thou goest to thy dungeon, and thou may’st be wondrous glad,

That thy head is on thy shoulders for thy work to-day, my lad!

«Therefore all thy boasted valour, Christian dog, of no avail is!»

Dark as midnight grew the brow of Don Fernando Gomersalez:

— Stiffly sate he in his saddle, grimly looked around the ring,

Laid his lance within the rest, and shook his gauntlet at the King.

«Oh, thou foul and faithless traitor! wouldst thou play me false again?

Welcome death and welcome torture, rather than the captive’s chain!

But I give thee warning, caitiff! Look thou sharply to thine eye —

Unavenged, at least in harness, Gomersalez shall not die!»

Thus he spoke, and Bavieca like an arrow forward flew,

Right and left the Moorish squadron wheeled to let the hero through;

Brightly gleamed the lance of vengeance — fiercely sped the fatal thrust —

From his throne the Moorish monarch tumbled lifeless in the dust.

Speed thee, speed thee, Bavieca! speed thee faster than the wind!

Life and freedom are before thee, deadly foes give chase behind!

Speed thee up the sloping spring-board; o’er the bridge that spans the seas;

Yonder gauzy moon will light thee through the grove of canvas trees.

Close before thee Pampeluna spreads her painted pasteboard gate!
Speed thee onward, gallant courser, speed thee with thy knightly freight!
Victory! The town receives them! — Gentle ladies, this the tale is, Which I learned in Astley’s Circus, of Fernando Gomersalez.

The Courtship of our Cid

What a pang of sweet emotion

Thrilled the Master of the Ring,

When he first beheld the lady

Through the stable portal spring!

Midway in his wild grimacing

Stopped the piebald-visaged Clown;

And the thunders of the audience

Nearly brought the gallery down.

Donna Inez Woolfordinez!

Saw ye ever such a maid,

With the feathers swaling o’er her,

And her spangled rich brocade?

In her fairy hand a horsewhip,

On her foot a buskin small,

So she stepped, the stately damsel,

Through the scarlet grooms and all.

And she beckoned for her courser,

And they brought a milk-white mare;

Proud, I ween, was that Arabian

Such a gentle freight to bear:

And the master moved to greet her,

With a proud and stately walk;

And, in reverential homage,

Rubbed her soles with virgin chalk.

Round she flew, as Flora flying

Spans the circle of the year;

And the youth of London, sighing,

Half forgot the ginger-beer —

Quite forgot the maids beside them;

As they surely well might do,

When she raised two Roman candles,

Shooting fireballs red and blue!

Swifter than the Tartar’s arrow,

Lighter than the lark in flight,

On the left foot now she bounded,

Now she stood upon the right.

Like a beautiful Bacchante,

Here she soars, and there she kneels,

While amid her floating tresses

Flash two whirling Catherine wheels!

Hark! the blare of yonder trumpet!

See, the gates are opened wide!

Room, there, room for Gomersalez, —

Gomersalez in his pride!

Rose the shouts of exultation,

Rose the cat’s triumphant call,

As he bounded, man and courser,

Over Master, Clown, and all!

Donna Inez Woolfordinez!

Why those blushes on thy cheek?

Doth thy trembling bosom tell thee,

He hath come thy love to seek!

Fleet thy Arab, but behind thee

He is rushing like a gale;

One foot on his coal-black’s shoulders,

And the other on his tail!

Onward, onward, panting maiden!

He is faint, and fails, for now

By the feet he hangs suspended

From his glistening saddle-bow.

Down are gone both cap and feather,

Lance and gonfalon are down!

Trunks, and cloak, and vest of velvet,

He has flung them to the Clown.

Faint and failing! Up he vaulteth,

Fresh as when he first began;

All in coat of bright vermilion,

«Quipped as Shaw, the Lifeguardsman;

Right and left his whizzing broadsword,

Like a sturdy flail, he throws;

Cutting out a path unto thee Through imaginary foes.

Woolfordinez! speed thee onward!

He is hard upon thy track, —

Paralysed is Widdicombez,

Nor his whip can longer crack;

He has flung away his broadsword,

«Tis to clasp thee to his breast.

Onward! — see, he bares his bosom,

Tears away his scarlet vest;

Leaps from out his nether garments,

And his leathern stock unties —

As the flower of London’s dustmen,

Now in swift pursuit he flies.

Nimbly now he cuts and shuffles,

O’er the buckle, heel and toe!

Flaps his hands in his side-pockets,

Winks to all the throng below!

Onward, onward rush the coursers;

Woolfordinez, peerless girl,

O’er the garters lightly bounding

From her steed with airy whirl!

Gomersalez, wild with passion,

Danger — all but her — forgets;

Wheresoe’er she flies, pursues her,

Casting clouds of somersets!

Onward, onward rush the coursers;

Bright is Gomersalez’ eye;

Saints protect thee, Woolfordinez,

For his triumph sure is nigh!

Now his courser’s flanks he lashes,

O’er his shoulder flings the rein,

And his feet aloft he tosses,

Holding stoutly by the mane!

Then, his feet once more regaining,

Doffs his jacket, doffs his smalls,

And in graceful folds around him

A bespangled tunic falls.

Pinions from his heels are bursting,

His bright locks have pinions o’er them;

And the public see with rapture

Maia’s nimble son before them.

Speed thee, speed thee, Woolfordinez!

For a panting god pursues;

And the chalk is very nearly

Rubbed from thy white satin shoes;

Every bosom throbs with terror,

You might hear a pin to drop;

All is hushed, save where a starting

Cork gives out a casual pop.

One smart lash across his courser,

One tremendous bound and stride,

And our noble Cid was standing

By his Woolfordinez’ side!

With a god’s embrace he clasps her,

Raised her in his manly arms;

And the stables’ closing barriers Hid his valour, and her charms!

The Fight with the Snapping Turtle; or, The American St George

FYTTE FIRST

Have you heard of Philip Slingsby,

Slingsby of the manly chest;

How he slew the Snapping

Turtle In the regions of the West?

Every day the huge Cawana

Lifted up its monstrous jaws;

And it swallowed Langton Bennett,

And digested Rufus Dawes.

Riled, I ween, was Philip Slingsby,

Their untimely deaths to hear;

For one author owed him money,

And the other loved him dear.

«Listen now, sagacious Tyler,

Whom the loafers all obey;

What reward will Congress give me,

If I take this pest away?»

Then sagacious Tyler answered,

«You’re the ring-tailed squealer! Less

Than a hundred heavy dollars

Won’t be offered you, I guess!

«And a lot of wooden nutmegs

In the bargain, too, we’ll throw —

Only you just fix the critter.

Won’t you liquor ere you go?»

Straightway leaped the valiant

Slingsby Into armour of Seville,

With a strong Arkansas toothpick

Screwed in every joint of steel.

«Come thou with me, Cullen Bryant,

Come with me, as squire,

I pray; Be the Homer of the battle

Which I go to wage to-day.»

So they went along careering

With a loud and martial tramp,

Till they neared the Snapping

Turtle In the dreary Swindle Swamp.

But when Slingsby saw the water,

Somewhat pale, I ween, was he.

«If I come not back, dear Bryant,

Tell the tale to Melanie!

«Tell her that I died devoted,

Victim to a noble task!

Han’t you got a drop of brandy

In the bottom of your flask?»

As he spoke, an alligator

Swam across the sullen creek;

And the two Columbians started,

When they heard the monster shriek;

For a snout of huge dimensions

Rose above the waters high,

And took down the alligator,

As a trout takes down a fly.

««Tarnal death! the Snapping Turtle!»

Thus the squire in terror cried;

But the noble Slingsby straightway

Drew the toothpick from his side.

«Fare thee well!» he cried, and dashing

Through the waters, strongly swam:

Meanwhile, Cullen Bryant, watching,

Breathed a prayer and sucked a dram.

Sudden from the slimy bottom

Was the snout again upreared,

With a snap as loud as thunder, —

And the Slingsby disappeared.

Like a mighty steam-ship foundering,

Down the monstrous vision sank;

And the ripple, slowly rolling,

Plashed and played upon the bank.

Still and stiller grew the water,

Hushed the canes within the brake;

There was but a kind of coughing

At the bottom of the lake.

Bryant wept as loud and deeply

As a father for a son —

«He’s a finished ’coon, is Slingsby,

And the brandy’s nearly done!»

FYTTE SECOND

In a trance of sickening anguish,

Cold and stiff, and sore and damp,

For two days did Bryant linger

By the dreary Swindle Swamp;

Always peering at the water,

Always waiting for the hour
When those monstrous jaws should open

As he saw them ope before.

Still in vain; — the alligators

Scrambled through the marshy brake,

And the vampire leeches gaily

Sucked the garfish in the lake.

But the Snapping Turtle never

Rose for food or rose for rest,

Since he lodged the steel deposit

In the bottom of his chest.

Only always from the bottom

Sounds of frequent coughing rolled, Just as if the huge Cawana Had a most confounded cold.

On the banks lay Cullen Bryant, As the second moon arose, Gouging on the sloping greensward Some imaginary foes;

When the swamp began to tremble, And the canes to rustle fast, As though some stupendous body Through their roots were crushing past.

And the waters boiled and bubbled, And, in groups of twos and threes, Several alligators bounded, Smart as squirrels, up the trees.

Then a hideous head was lifted, With such huge distended jaws, That they might have held Goliath Quite as well as Rufus Dawes.

Paws of elephantine thickness Dragged its body from the bay, And it glared at Cullen Bryant In a most unpleasant way.

Then it writhed as if in torture, And it staggered to and fro; And its very shell was shaken In the anguish of its throe:

And its cough grew loud and louder, And its sob more husky thick!
For, indeed, it was apparent That the beast was very sick.

Till, at last, a spasmy vomit Shook its carcass through and through, And as if from out a cannon, All in armour Slingsby flew.

Bent and bloody was the bowie Which he held within his grasp; And he seemed so much exhausted That he scarce had strength to gasp—

«Gouge him, Bryant! darn ye, gouge him! Gouge him while he’s on the shore!»
Bryant’s thumbs were straightway buried Where no thumbs had pierced before.

Right from out their bony sockets Did he scoop the monstrous balls; And, with one convulsive shudder, Dead the Snapping Turtle falls!

* * * * *

«Post the tin, sagacious Tyler!» But the old experienced file, Leering first at Clay and Webster, Answered, with a quiet smile—

«Since you dragged the ’tarnal crittur From the bottom of the ponds, Here’s the hundred dollars due you, All in Pennsylvanian Bonds!»

The Lay of Mr Colt

[The story of Mr Colt, of which our Lay contains merely the sequel, is this: A New York printer, of the name of Adams, had the effrontery to call upon him one day for payment of an account, which the independent Colt settled by cutting his creditor’s head to fragments with an axe. He then packed his body in a box, and sprinkling it with salt, despatched it to a packet bound for New Orleans. Suspicions having been excited, he was seized and tried before Judge Kent. The trial is, perhaps, the most disgraceful upon the records of any country. The ruffian’s mistress was produced in court, and examined, in disgusting detail, as to her connection with Colt, and his movements during the days and nights succeeding the murder. The head of the murdered man was bandied to and fro in the court, handed up to the jury, and commented on by witnesses and counsel; and to crown the horrors of the whole proceeding, the wretch’s own counsel, a Mr Emmet, commencing the defence with a cool admission that his client took the life of Adams, and following it up by a detail of the whole circumstances of this most brutal murder in the first person, as though he himself had been the murderer, ended by telling the jury, that his client was «entitled to the sympathy of a jury of his country,» as «a young man just entering into life, whose prospects, probably, have been permanently blasted.» Colt was found guilty; but a variety of exceptions were taken to the charge by the judge, and after a long series of appeals, which occupied more than a year from the date of conviction, the sentence of death was ratified by Governor Seward. The rest of Colt’s story is told in our ballad.]

STREAK THE FIRST

* * * *

And now the sacred rite was done, and the marriage-knot was tied, And Colt withdrew his blushing wife a little way aside; «Let’s go,» he said, «into my cell; let’s go alone, my dear; I fain would shelter that sweet face from the sheriff’s odious leer. The jailer and the hangman, they are waiting both for me, — I cannot bear to see them wink so knowingly at thee!
Oh, how I loved thee, dearest! They say that I am wild, That a mother dares not trust me with the weasand of her child; They say my bowie-knife is keen to sliver into halves
The carcass of my enemy, as butchers slay their calves. They say that I am stern of mood, because, like salted beef, I packed my quartered foeman up, and marked him «prime tariff;»

Because I thought to palm him on the simple-souled John Bull, And clear a small percentage on the sale at Liverpool; It may be so, I do not know — these things, perhaps, may be; But surely I have always been a gentleman to thee!

Then come, my love, into my cell, short bridal space is ours, — Nay, sheriff, never con thy watch — I guess there’s good two hours. We’ll shut the prison doors and keep the gaping world at bay, For love is long as ’tarnity, though I must die to-day!»

STREAK THE SECOND

The clock is ticking onward, It nears the hour of doom, And no one yet hath entered Into that ghastly room. The jailer and the sheriff, They are walking to and fro: And the hangman sits upon the steps, And smokes his pipe below. In grisly expectation The prison all is bound, And, save expectoration, You cannot hear a sound.

The turnkey stands and ponders; — His hand upon the bolt, — «In twenty minutes more, I guess, «Twill all be up with Colt!»
But see, the door is opened! Forth comes the weeping bride; The courteous sheriff lifts his hat, And saunters to her side, — «I beg your pardon, Mrs C., But is your husband ready?»
«I guess you’d better ask himself,» Replied the woeful lady.

The clock is ticking onward, The minutes almost run, The hangman’s pipe is nearly out, «Tis on the stroke of one. At every grated window, Unshaven faces glare; There’s Puke, the judge of Tennessee, And Lynch, of Delaware; And Batter, with the long black beard, Whom Hartford’s maids know well;

And Winkinson, from Fish Kill Reach, The pride of New Rochelle; Elkanah Nutts, from Tarry Town, The gallant gouging boy; And ’coon-faced Bushwhack, from the hills That frown o’er modern Troy; Young Julep, whom our Willis loves, Because, ’tis said, that he

One morning from a bookstall filched The tale of «Melanie;”
And Skunk, who fought his country’s fight Beneath the stripes and stars, — All thronging at the windows stood, And gazed between the bars. The little boys that stood behind (Young thievish imps were they!)
Displayed considerable nous On that eventful day; For bits of broken looking-glass They held aslant on high, And there a mirrored gallows-tree Met their delighted eye.

The clock is ticking onward; Hark! hark! it striketh one!
Each felon draws a whistling breath, «Time’s up with Colt! he’s done!»

The sheriff cons his watch again, Then puts it in his fob, And turning to the hangman, says — «Get ready for the job.»
The jailer knocketh loudly, The turnkey draws the bolt, And pleasantly the sheriff says, «We’re waiting, Mister Colt!»

No answer! no! no answer! All’s still as death within; The sheriff eyes the jailer, The jailer strokes his chin. «I shouldn’t wonder, Nahum, if It were as you suppose.»
The hangman looked unhappy, and The turnkey blew his nose.

They entered. On his pallet The noble convict lay, — The bridegroom on his marriage-bed But not in trim array. His red right hand a razor held, Fresh sharpened from the hone, And his ivory neck was severed, And gashed into the bone.

* * * *

And when the lamp is lighted In the long November days, And lads and lasses mingle At the shucking of the maize; When pies of smoking pumpkin Upon the table stand, And bowls of black molasses Go round from hand to hand; When slap-jacks, maple-sugared, Are hissing in the pan, And cider, with a dash of gin, Foams in the social can;

When the goodman wets his whistle, And the goodwife scolds the child; And the girls exclaim convulsively, «Have done, or I’ll be riled!»
When the loafer sitting next them Attempts a sly caress, And whispers, «Oh, you ’possum, You’ve fixed my heart, I guess!»

With laughter and with weeping, Then shall they tell the tale, How Colt his foeman quartered, And died within the jail.

The Death of Jabez Dollar

[Before the following poem, which originally appeared in «Fraser’s Magazine,» could have reached America, intelligence was received in this country of an affray in Congress, very nearly the counterpart of that which the Author has here imagined in jest. It was very clear, to any one who observed the then state of public planners in America, that such occurrences must happen, sooner or later. The Americans apparently felt the force of the satire, as the poem was widely reprinted throughout the States. It subsequently returned to this country, embodied in an American work on American manners, where it characteristically appeared as the writer’s own production; and it afterwards went the round of British newspapers, as an amusing satire, by an American, of his countrymen’s foibles!]

The Congress met, the day was wet, Van Buren took the chair; On either side, the statesman pride of far Kentuck was there. With moody frown, there sat Calhoun, and slowly in his cheek
His quid he thrust, and slaked the dust, as Webster rose to speak.

Upon that day, near gifted Clay, a youthful member sat, And like a free American upon the floor he spat; Then turning round to Clay, he said, and wiped his manly chin, «What kind of Locofoco’s that, as wears the painter’s skin?»

«Young man,» quoth Clay, «avoid the way of Slick of Tennessee; Of gougers fierce, the eyes that pierce, the fiercest gouger he; He chews and spits, as there he sits, and whittles at the chairs, And in his hand, for deadly strife, a bowie-knife he bears.

«Avoid that knife. In frequent strife its blade, so long and thin, Has found itself a resting-place his rivals’ ribs within.»
But coward fear came never near young Jabez Dollar’s heart, — «Were he an alligator, I would rile him pretty smart!»

Then up he rose, and cleared his nose, and looked toward the chair; He saw the stately stripes and stars, — our country’s flag was there!
His heart beat high, with eldritch cry upon the floor he sprang, Then raised his wrist, and shook his fist, and spoke his first harangue.

«Who sold the nutmegs made of wood — the clocks that wouldn’t figure?

Who grinned the bark off gum-trees dark — the everlasting nigger?
For twenty cents, ye Congress gents, through ’tarnity I’ll kick
That man, I guess, though nothing less than ’coonfaced Colonel Slick!»

The Colonel smiled — with frenzy wild, — his very beard waxed blue, — His shirt it could not hold him, so wrathy riled he grew; p. 56He foams and frets, his knife he whets upon his seat below — He sharpens it on either side, and whittles at his toe.

«Oh! waken snakes, and walk your chalks!» he cried, with ire elate; «Darn my old mother, but I will in wild cats whip my weight!
Oh! ’tarnal death, I’ll spoil your breath, young Dollar, and your chaffing, — Look to your ribs, for here is that will tickle them without laughing!»

His knife he raised — with fury crazed, he sprang across the hall; He cut a caper in the air — he stood before them all: He never stopped to look or think if he the deed should do, But spinning sent the President, and on young Dollar flew.

They met — they closed — they sank — they rose, — in vain young Dollar strove — For, like a streak of lightning greased, the infuriate Colonel drove

His bowie-blade deep in his side, and to the ground they rolled, And, drenched in gore, wheeled o’er and o’er, locked in each other’s hold.

With fury dumb — with nail and thumb — they struggled and they thrust, The blood ran red from Dollar’s side, like rain, upon the dust; He nerved his might for one last spring, and as he sank and died, Reft of an eye, his enemy fell groaning by his side.

Thus did he fall within the hall of Congress, that brave youth; The bowie-knife has quenched his life of valour and of truth; p. 58And still among the statesmen throng at Washington they tell
How nobly Dollar gouged his man — how gallantly he fell.

The Alabama Duel

«Young chaps, give ear, the case is clear. You, Silas Fixings, you
Pay Mister Nehemiah Dodge them dollars as you’re due. p. 60You are a bloody cheat, — you are. But spite of all your tricks, it
Is not in you Judge Lynch to do. No! nohow you can fix it!»

Thus spake Judge Lynch, as there he sat in Alabama’s forum, Around he gazed, with legs upraised upon the bench before him; And, as he gave this sentence stern to him who stood beneath, Still with his gleaming bowie-knife he slowly picked his teeth.

It was high noon, the month was June, and sultry was the air, A cool gin-sling stood by his hand, his coat hung o’er his chair; All naked were his manly arms, and shaded by his hat, Like an old senator of Rome that simple Archon sat.

«A bloody cheat? — Oh, legs and feet!» in wrath young Silas cried; And springing high into the air, he jerked his quid aside. «No man shall put my dander up, or with my feelings trifle, As long as Silas Fixings wears a bowie-knife and rifle.»

«If your shoes pinch,» replied Judge Lynch, «you’ll very soon have ease; I’ll give you satisfaction, squire, in any way you please; What are your weapons? — knife or gun? — at both I’m pretty spry!»; «Oh! ’tarnal death, you’re spry, you are?» quoth Silas; «so am I!»

Hard by the town a forest stands, dark with the shades of time, And they have sought that forest dark at morning’s early prime; p. 62Lynch, backed by Nehemiah Dodge, and Silas with a friend, And half the town in glee came down to see that contest’s end.

They led their men two miles apart, they measured out the ground; A belt of that vast wood it was, they notched the trees around; Into the tangled brake they turned them off, and neither knew
Where he should seek his wagered foe, how get him into view.

With stealthy tread, and stooping head, from tree to tree they passed, They crept beneath the crackling furze, they held their rifles fast: Hour passed on hour, the noonday sun smote fiercely down, but yet
No sound to the expectant crowd proclaimed that they had met.

And now the sun was going down, when, hark! a rifle’s crack!
Hush — hush! another strikes the air, and all their breath draw back, — Then crashing on through bush and briar, the crowd from either side
Rush in to see whose rifle sure with blood the moss has dyed.

Weary with watching up and down, brave Lynch conceived a plan, An artful dodge whereby to take at unawares his man; p. 64He hung his hat upon a bush, and hid himself hard by; Young Silas thought he had him fast, and at the hat let fly.

It fell; up sprang young Silas, — he hurled his gun away; Lynch fixed him with his rifle, from the ambush where he lay. The bullet pierced his manly breast — yet, valiant to the last, Young Fixings drew his bowie-knife, and up his foxtail cast.

With tottering step and glazing eye he cleared the space between, And stabbed the air as stabs in grim Macbeth the younger Kean: Brave Lynch received him with a bang that stretched him on the ground, Then sat himself serenely down till all the crowd drew round.

They hailed him with triumphant cheers — in him each loafer saw
The bearing bold that could uphold the majesty of law; And, raising him aloft, they bore him homewards at his ease, — That noble judge, whose daring hand enforced his own decrees.

They buried Silas Fixings in the hollow where he fell, And gum-trees wave above his grave — that tree he loved so well; And the ’coons sit chattering o’er him when the nights are long and damp; But he sleeps well in that lonely dell, the Dreary «Possum Swamp.

L’ENVOY

Come, buy my lays, and read them if you list;

My pensive public, if you list not, buy.

Come, for you know me. I am he who sang

Of Mister Colt, and I am he who framed

Of Widdicomb the wild and wondrous song.

Come, listen to my lays, and you shall hear

How Wordsworth, battling for the Laureate’s wreath,

Bore to the dust the terrible Fitzball;

How N. P. Willis for his country’s good,

In complete steel, all bowie-knived at point,

Took lodgings in the Snapping Turtle’s womb.

Come, listen to my lays, and you shall hear

The mingled music of all modern bards

Floating aloft in such peculiar strains,

As strike themselves with envy and amaze;

For you «bright-harpéd» Tennyson shall sing;

Macaulay chant a more than Roman lay;

And Bulwer Lytton, Lytton Bulwer erst,

Unseen amidst a metaphysic fog,

Howl melancholy homage to the moon;

For you once more Montgomery shall rave

In all his rapt rabidity of rhyme; Nankeened

Cockaigne shall pipe his puny note,

And our young England’s penny trumpet blow.

The American’s Apostrophe to Boz

[So rapidly does oblivion do its work nowadays that the burst of amiable indignation with which America received the issue of his American Notes and Martin Chuzzlewit is now almost wholly forgotten. Not content with waging a universal rivalry in the piracy of the Notes, Columbia showered upon its author the riches of its own choice vocabulary of abuse; while some of her more fiery spirits threw out playful hints as to the propriety of gouging the «stranger,» and furnishing him with a permanent suit of tar and feathers, in the then very improbable event of his paying them a second visit. The perusal of these animated expressions of free opinion suggested the following lines, which those who remember Boz’s book, and the festivities with which he was all but hunted to death, will at once understand. The object aimed at was to do justice to the bitterness and «immortal hate» of these thin-skinned sons of freedom. Happily the storm passed over: Dickens paid, in 1867—68, a second visit to the States, was well received, made a not inconsiderable fortune by his Readings there, and confessed that he had judged his American hosts harshly on his former visit.]

Sneak across the wide Atlantic, worthless London’s puling child, Better that its waves should bear thee, than the land thou hast reviled; Better in the stifling cabin, on the sofa thou shouldst lie, Sickening as the fetid nigger bears the greens and bacon by; p. 67Better, when the midnight horrors haunt the strained and creaking ship, Thou shouldst yell in vain for brandy with a fever-sodden lip; When amid the deepening darkness and the lamp’s expiring shade, From the bagman’s berth above thee comes the bountiful cascade, Better than upon the Broadway thou shouldst be at noonday seen, Smirking like a Tracy Tupman with a Mantalini mien, With a rivulet of satin falling o’er thy puny chest, Worse than even N. P. Willis for an evening party drest!

We received thee warmly — kindly — though we knew thou wert a quiz, Partly for thyself it may be, chiefly for the sake of Phiz!
Much we bore, and much we suffered, listening to remorseless spells

Of that Smike’s unceasing drivellings, and these everlasting Nells. When you talked of babes and sunshine, fields, and all that sort of thing, Each Columbian inly chuckled, as he slowly sucked his sling; And though all our sleeves were bursting, from the many hundreds near
Not one single scornful titter rose on thy complacent ear. Then to show thee to the ladies, with our usual want of sense

We engaged the place in Park Street at a ruinous expense; Even our own three-volumed Cooper waived his old prescriptive right, And deluded Dickens figured first on that eventful night. Clusters of uncoated Yorkers, vainly striving to be cool, Saw thee desperately plunging through the perils of la Poule: And their muttered exclamation drowned the tenor of the tune, — «Don’t he beat all natur hollow? Don’t he foot it like a ’coon?»

Did we spare our brandy-cocktails, stint thee of our whisky-grogs?
Half the juleps that we gave thee would have floored a Newman Noggs; And thou took’st them in so kindly, little was there then to blame, To thy parched and panting palate sweet as mother’s milk they came. Did the hams of old Virginny find no favour in thine eyes?

Came no soft compunction o’er thee at the thought of pumpkin pies?

Could not all our chicken fixings into silence fix thy scorn?

Did not all our cakes rebuke thee, — Johnny, waffle, dander, corn?
Could not all our care and coddling teach thee how to draw it mild?
Well, no matter, we deserve it. Serves us right! We spoilt the child!
You, forsooth, must come crusading, boring us with broadest hints
Of your own peculiar losses by American reprints.

Such an impudent remonstrance never in our face was flung; Lever stands it, so does Ainsworth; you, I guess, may hold your tongue. Down our throats you’d cram your projects, thick and hard as pickled salmon, That, I s’pose, you call free trading, — I pronounce it utter gammon. No, my lad, a ’cuter vision than your own might soon have seen, That a true Columbian ogle carries little that is green; That we never will surrender useful privateering rights, Stoutly won at glorious Bunker’s Hill, and other famous fights; That we keep our native dollars for our native scribbling gents, And on British manufacture only waste our straggling cents; Quite enough we pay, I reckon, when we stump of these a few
For the voyages and travels of a freshman such as you.

I have been at Niagara, I have stood beneath the Falls, I have marked the water twisting over its rampagious walls; But «a holy calm sensation,» one, in fact, of perfect peace, Was as much my first idea as the thought of Christmas geese. As for «old familiar faces,» looking through the misty air, Surely you were strongly liquored when you saw your Chuckster there. One familiar face, however, you will very likely see, If you’ll only treat the natives to a call in Tennessee, Of a certain individual, true Columbian every inch, In a high judicial station, called by ’mancipators Lynch. Half an hour of conversation with his worship in a wood, Would, I strongly notion, do you an infernal deal of good. Then you’d understand more clearly than you ever did before, p. 72Why an independent patriot freely spits upon the floor, Why he gouges when he pleases, why he whittles at the chairs, Why for swift and deadly combat still the bowie-knife he bears, — Why he sneers at the old country with republican disdain, And, unheedful of the negro’s cry, still tighter draws his chain. All these things the judge shall teach thee of the land thou hast reviled; Get thee o’er the wide Atlantic, worthless London’s puling child!

MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS

The Student of Jena

Once — ’twas when I lived at Jena —

At a Wirthshaus’ door I sat;

And in pensive contemplation

Ate the sausage thick and fat;

Ate the kraut that never sourer

Tasted to my lips than here;

Smoked my pipe of strong canaster,

Sipped my fifteenth jug of beer; Gazed upon the glancing river, Gazed upon the tranquil pool, Whence the silver-voiced Undine, When the nights were calm and cool, As the Baron Fouqué tells us, Rose from out her shelly grot, Casting glamour o’er the waters, Witching that enchanted spot. From the shadow which the coppice Flings across the rippling stream, Did I hear a sound of music — Was it thought or was it dream?

There, beside a pile of linen, Stretched along the daisied sward, Stood a young and blooming maiden — «Twas her thrush-like song I heard. Evermore within the eddy Did she plunge the white chemise; And her robes were loosely gathered Rather far above her knees; Then my breath at once forsook me, For too surely did I deem

That I saw the fair Undine Standing in the glancing stream — And I felt the charm of knighthood; And from that remembered day, Every evening to the Wirthshaus Took I my enchanted way.

Shortly to relate my story, Many a week of summer long
Came I there, when beer-o’ertaken, With my lute and with my song; Sang in mellow-toned soprano All my love and all my woe, Till the river-maiden answered, Lilting in the stream below: — «Fair Undine! sweet Undine! Dost thou love as I love thee?»
«Love is free as running water,» Was the answer made to me.

Thus, in interchange seraphic, Did I woo my phantom fay, Till the nights grew long and chilly, Short and shorter grew the day; Till at last — ’twas dark and gloomy, Dull and starless was the sky, And my steps were all unsteady For a little flushed was I, — To the well-accustomed signal No response the maiden gave; But I heard the waters washing And the moaning of the wave. Vanished was my own Undine, All her linen, too, was gone; And I walked about lamenting On the river bank alone. Idiot that I was, for never Had I asked the maiden’s name. Was it Lieschen — was it Gretchen? Had she tin, or whence she came?

So I took my trusty meerschaum, And I took my lute likewise; Wandered forth in minstrel fashion, Underneath the louring skies: Sang before each comely Wirthshaus, Sang beside each purling stream, That same ditty which I chanted When Undine was my theme, Singing, as I sang at Jena, p. 79When the shifts were hung to dry, «Fair Undine! young Undine! Dost thou love as well as I?»

But, alas! in field or village, Or beside the pebbly shore, Did I see those glancing ankles, And the white robe never more; And no answer came to greet me, No sweet voice to mine replied; But I heard the waters rippling, And the moaning of the tide.

The Lay of the Levite

There is a sound that’s dear to me, It haunts me in my sleep; I wake, and, if I hear it not, I cannot choose but weep. Above the roaring of the wind, Above the river’s flow, Methinks I hear the mystic cry Of «Clo! — Old Clo!»

The exile’s song, it thrills among The dwellings of the free, p. 81Its sound is strange to English ears, But ’tis not strange to me; For it hath shook the tented field In ages long ago, And hosts have quailed before the cry Of «Clo! — Old Clo!»

Oh, lose it not! forsake it not! And let no time efface
The memory of that solemn sound, The watchword of our race; For not by dark and eagle eye The Hebrew shall you know, So well as by the plaintive cry Of «Clo! — Old Clo!»

Even now, perchance, by Jordan’s banks, Or Sidon’s sunny walls, Where, dial-like, to portion time, The palm-tree’s shadow falls, The pilgrims, wending on their way, Will linger as they go, And listen to the distant cry Of «Clo! — Old Clo!»

Bursch Groggenburg

[after the manner of schiller.]

«Bursch! if foaming beer content ye, Come and drink your fill; In our cellars there is plenty; Himmel! how you swill!
That the liquor hath allurance, Well I understand: But ’tis really past endurance, When you squeeze my hand!»

And he heard her as if dreaming, Heard her half in awe; And the meerschaum’s smoke came streaming From his open jaw: And his pulse beat somewhat quicker Than it did before, And he finished off his liquor, Staggered through the door;

Bolted off direct to Munich, And within the year
Underneath his German tunic Stowed whole butts of beer. And he drank like fifty fishes, Drank till all was blue; For he felt extremely vicious — Somewhat thirsty too.

But at length this dire deboshing Drew towards an end; Few of all his silver groschen Had he left to spend. p. 84And he knew it was not prudent Longer to remain; So, with weary feet, the student Wended home again.

At the tavern’s well-known portal Knocks he as before, And a waiter, rather mortal, Hiccups through the door — «Master’s sleeping in the kitchen; You’ll alarm the house; Yesterday the Jungfrau Fritchen Married baker Kraus!»

Like a fiery comet bristling, Rose the young man’s hair, And, poor soul! he fell a-whistling Out of sheer despair. Down the gloomy street in silence, Savage-calm he goes; But he did no deed of vi’lence — Only blew his nose.

Then he hired an airy garret

Near her dwelling-place;

Grew a beard of fiercest carrot,

Never washed his face;

Sate all day beside the casement,

Sate a dreary man;

Found in smoking such an easement

As the wretched can;

Stared for hours and hours together,

Stared yet more and more; Till in fine and sunny weather, At the baker’s door, Stood, in apron white and mealy, That belovèd dame, Counting out the loaves so freely, Selling of the same.

Then like a volcano puffing, Smoked he out his pipe; Sighed and supped on ducks and stuffing, Ham and kraut and tripe; p. 86Went to bed, and, in the morning, Waited as before, Still his eyes in anguish turning To the baker’s door;

Till, with apron white and mealy, Came the lovely dame, Counting out the loaves so freely, Selling of the same. So one day — the fact’s amazing! — On his post he died!
And they found the body gazing At the baker’s bride.

Night and Morning

[not by sir e. bulwer lytton.]

«Thy coffee, Tom, ’s untasted,

And thy egg is very cold;

Thy cheeks are wan and wasted,

Not rosy as of old.

My boy, what has come o’er ye?

You surely are not well!

Try some of that ham before ye,

And then, Tom, ring the bell!»

«I cannot eat, my mother,

My tongue is parched and bound,

And my head, somehow or other,

Is swimming round and round.

In my eyes there is a fulness,

And my pulse is beating quick;

On my brain is a weight of dulness:

Oh, mother, I am sick!»

«These long, long nights of watching

Are killing you outright;

The evening dews are catching,

And you’re out every night.

Why does that horrid grumbler,

Old Inkpen, work you so?»

(TOM — lene susurrans)

«My head! Oh, that tenth tumbler! «Twas that which wrought my woe!»

The Biter Bit

The sun is in the sky, mother, the flowers are springing fair, And the melody of woodland birds is stirring in the air; The river, smiling to the sky, glides onward to the sea, And happiness is everywhere, oh mother, but with me!

They are going to the church, mother, — I hear the marriage-bell; It booms along the upland, — oh! it haunts me like a knell; He leads her on his arm, mother, he cheers her faltering step, And closely to his side she clings, — she does, the demirep!

They are crossing by the stile, mother, where we so oft have stood, The stile beside the shady thorn, at the corner of the wood; p. 90And the boughs, that wont to murmur back the words that won my ear, Wave their silver blossoms o’er him, as he leads his bridal fere.

He will pass beside the stream, mother, where first my hand he pressed, By the meadow where, with quivering lip, his passion he confessed; And down the hedgerows where we’ve strayed again and yet again; But he will not think of me, mother, his broken-hearted Jane!

He said that I was proud, mother, — that I looked for rank and gold; He said I did not love him, — he said my words were cold; He said I kept him off and on, in hopes of higher game, — And it may be that I did, mother; but who hasn’t done the same?

I did not know my heart, mother, — I know it now too late; p. 91I thought that I without a pang could wed some nobler mate; But no nobler suitor sought me, — and he has taken wing, And my heart is gone, and I am left a lone and blighted thing.

You may lay me in my bed, mother, — my head is throbbing sore; And, mother, prithee, let the sheets be duly aired before; And, if you’d do a kindness to your poor desponding child, Draw me a pot of beer, mother — and, mother, draw it mild!

The Convict and the Australian Lady

Thy skin is dark as jet, ladye, Thy cheek is sharp and high, And there’s a cruel leer, love, Within thy rolling eye: p. 93These tangled ebon tresses No comb hath e’er gone through; And thy forehead, it is furrowed by The elegant tattoo!

I love thee, — oh, I love thee, Thou strangely-feeding maid!
Nay, lift not thus thy boomerang, I meant not to upbraid!
Come, let me taste those yellow lips That ne’er were tasted yet, Save when the shipwrecked mariner Passed through them for a whet.

Nay, squeeze me not so tightly! For I am gaunt and thin; There’s little flesh to tempt thee Beneath a convict’s skin. I came not to be eaten; I sought thee, love, to woo; Besides, bethink thee, dearest, Thou’st dined on cockatoo.

Thy father is a chieftain! Why, that’s the very thing!
Within my native country I too have been a king. Behold this branded letter, Which nothing can efface!
It is the royal emblem, The token of my race!

But rebels rose against me, And dared my power disown — You’ve heard, love, of the judges? They drove me from my throne. And I have wandered hither, Across the stormy sea, In search of glorious freedom, — In search, my sweet, of thee!

The bush is now my empire, The knife my sceptre keen; Come with me to the desert wild, And be my dusky queen. p. 95I cannot give thee jewels, I have nor sheep nor cow, Yet there are kangaroos, love, And colonists enow.

We’ll meet the unwary settler, As whistling home he goes, And I’ll take tribute from him, His money and his clothes. Then on his bleeding carcass Thou’lt lay thy pretty paw, And lunch upon him roasted, Or, if you like it, raw!

Then come with me, my princess,

My own Australian dear,

Within this grove of gum-trees

We’ll hold our bridal cheer!

Thy heart with love is beating,

I feel it through my side: —

Hurrah, then, for the noble pair,

The Convict and his Bride!

The Doleful Lay of the Honourable I. O. Uwins

Come and listen, lords and ladies,

To a woeful lay of mine;

He whose tailor’s bill unpaid is,

Let him now his ear incline!

Let him hearken to my story,

How the noblest of the land
Pined in piteous purgatory, «Neath a sponging Bailiff’s hand.

I. O. Uwins! I. O. Uwins! Baron’s son although thou be, Thou must pay for thy misdoings In the country of the free!
None of all thy sire’s retainers To thy rescue now may come; And there lie some score detainers With Abednego, the bum.

p. 97Little recked he of his prison Whilst the sun was in the sky: Only when the moon was risen Did you hear the captive’s cry. For till then, cigars and claret Lulled him in oblivion sweet; And he much preferred a garret, For his drinking, to the street.

But the moonlight, pale and broken, Pained at soul the baron’s son; For he knew, by that soft token, That the larking had begun; — That the stout and valiant Marquis Then was leading forth his swells, Milling some policeman’s carcass, Or purloining private bells.

So he sat in grief and sorrow, Rather drunk than otherwise, Till the golden gush of morrow Dawned once more upon his eyes: p. 98Till the sponging Bailiff’s daughter, Lightly tapping at the door, Brought his draught of soda-water, Brandy-bottomed as before.

«Sweet Rebecca! has your father,

Think you, made a deal of brass?»

And she answered — «Sir, I rather

Should imagine that he has.»
Uwins then, his whiskers scratching,

Leered upon the maiden’s face,

And, her hand with ardour catching,

Folded her in close embrace.

«La, Sir! let alone — you fright me!»

Said the daughter of the Jew:

«Dearest, how those eyes delight me!

Let me love thee, darling, do!»

«Vat is dish?» the Bailiff muttered,

Rushing in with fury wild;

«Ish your muffins so vell buttered,

Dat you darsh insult ma shild?»

«Honourable my intentions,

Good Abednego, I swear!

And I have some small pretensions,

For I am a Baron’s heir. If you’ll only clear my credit, And advance a thou or so, She’s a peeress — I have said it: Don’t you twig, Abednego?»

«Datsh a very different matter,» Said the Bailiff, with a leer; «But you musht not cut it fatter Than ta slish will shtand, ma tear!
If you seeksh ma approbation, You musht quite give up your rigsh, Alsho you musht join our nashun, And renounsh ta flesh of pigsh.»

Fast as one of Fagin’s pupils, I. O. Uwins did agree!
Little plagued with holy scruples From the starting-post was he. But at times a baleful vision Rose before his shuddering view, For he knew that circumcision Was expected from a Jew.

At a meeting of the Rabbis, Held about the Whitsuntide, Was this thorough-paced Barabbas Wedded to his Hebrew bride: All his previous debts compounded, From the sponging-house he came, And his father’s feelings wounded With reflections on the same.

But the sire his son accosted — «Split my wig! if any more
Such a double-dyed apostate Shall presume to cross my door!
Not a penny-piece to save ye From the kennel or the spout; — Dinner, John! the pig and gravy! — Kick this dirty scoundrel out!»

Forth rushed I. O. Uwins, faster Than all winking — much afraid

That the orders of the master Would be punctually obeyed: Sought his club, and then the sentence Of expulsion first he saw; No one dared to own acquaintance With a Bailiff’s son-in-law.

Uselessly, down Bond Street strutting, Did he greet his friends of yore: Such a universal cutting Never man received before: Till at last his pride revolted — Pale, and lean, and stern he grew; And his wife Rebecca bolted With a missionary Jew.

Ye who read this doleful ditty, Ask ye where is Uwins now?
Wend your way through London city, Climb to Holborn’s lofty brow; Near the sign-post of the «Nigger,» Near the baked-potato shed, You may see a ghastly figure With three hats upon his head.

When the evening shades are dusky, Then the phantom form draws near, And, with accents low and husky, Pours effluvium in your ear; Craving an immediate barter Of your trousers or surtout; And you know the Hebrew martyr, Once the peerless I. O. U.

The Knyghte and the Taylzeour’s Daughter

Did you ever hear the story — Old the legend is, and true — How a knyghte of fame and glory All aside his armour threw; Spouted spear and pawned habergeon, Pledged his sword and surcoat gay, Sate down cross-legged on the shop-board, Sate and stitched the livelong day?

«Taylzeour! not one single shilling Does my breeches-pocket hold: I to pay am really willing, If I only had the gold. Farmers none can I encounter, Graziers there are none to kill; Therefore, prithee, gentle taylzeour, Bother not about thy bill.»

«Good Sir Knyghte, just once too often Have you tried that slippery trick; Hearts like mine you cannot soften, Vainly do you ask for tick. Christmas and its bills are coming, Soon will they be showering in; Therefore, once for all, my rum un, I expect you’ll post the tin.

«Mark, Sir Knyghte, that gloomy bayliffe In the palmer’s amice brown; He shall lead you unto jail, if Instantly you stump not down.»
Deeply swore the young crusader, But the taylzeour would not hear; And the gloomy, bearded bayliffe Evermore kept sneaking near.

«Neither groat nor maravedi Have I got my soul to bless; And I’d feel extremely seedy, Languishing in vile duresse. Therefore listen, ruthless taylzeour, Take my steed and armour free, Pawn them at thy Hebrew uncle’s, And I’ll work the rest for thee.»

Lightly leaped he on the shop-board, Lightly crooked his manly limb, Lightly drove the glancing needle Through the growing doublet’s rim
Gaberdines in countless number Did the taylzeour knyghte repair, And entirely on cucumber And on cabbage lived he there.

Once his weary task beguiling With a low and plaintive song, That good knyghte o’er miles of broadcloth Drove the hissing goose along; From her lofty latticed window Looked the taylzeour’s daughter down, And she instantly discovered That her heart was not her own.

«Canst thou love me, gentle stranger?» Picking at a pink she stood — And the knyghte at once admitted That he rather thought he could. «He who weds me shall have riches, Gold, and lands, and houses free.»
«For a single pair of — small-clothes, I would roam the world with thee!»

Then she flung him down the tickets Well the knyghte their import knew — «Take this gold, and win thy armour From the unbelieving Jew. Though in garments mean and lowly Thou wouldst roam the world with me, Only as a belted warrior, Stranger, will I wed with thee!»

At the feast of good Saint Stitchem, In the middle of the spring, There was some superior jousting, By the order of the King. «Valiant knyghtes!» proclaimed the monarch, «You will please to understand, He who bears himself most bravely Shall obtain my daughter’s hand.»

Well and bravely did they bear them, Bravely battled, one and all; But the bravest in the tourney Was a warrior stout and tall. None could tell his name or lineage, None could meet him in the field, And a goose regardant proper Hissed along his azure shield.

«Warrior, thou hast won my daughter!» But the champion bowed his knee, «Royal blood may not be wasted On a simple knyghte like me. She I love is meek and lowly; But her heart is kind and free; Also, there is tin forthcoming, Though she is of low degree.»

Slowly rose that nameless warrior, Slowly turned his steps aside, Passed the lattice where the princess Sate in beauty, sate in pride. Passed the row of noble ladies, Hied him to an humbler seat, And in silence laid the chaplet At the taylzeour’s daughter’s feet.

The Midnight Visit

It was the Lord of Castlereagh, he sat within his room, His arms were crossed upon his breast, his face was marked with gloom; They said that St Helena’s Isle had rendered up its charge, That France was bristling high in arms — the Emperor at large.

«Twas midnight! all the lamps were dim, and dull as death the street, It might be that the watchman slept that night upon his beat, When lo! a heavy foot was heard to creak upon the stair, The door revolved upon its hinge — Great Heaven! — What enters there?

A little man, of stately mien, with slow and solemn stride; His hands are crossed upon his back, his coat is opened wide; And on his vest of green he wears an eagle and a star, — Saint George! protect us! ’tis The Man, — the thunder-bolt of war!

Is that the famous hat that waved along Marengo’s ridge?
Are these the spurs of Austerlitz — the boots of Lodi’s bridge?

Leads he the conscript swarm again from France’s hornet hive?
What seeks the fell usurper here, in Britain, and alive?

Pale grew the Lord of Castlereagh, his tongue was parched and dry, As in his brain he felt the glare of that tremendous eye; What wonder if he shrank in fear, for who could meet the glance
Of him who rear’d, ’mid Russian snows, the gonfalon of France?

From the side-pocket of his vest a pinch the despot took, Yet not a whit did he relax the sternness of his look: «Thou thoughtst the lion was afar, but he hath burst the chain — The watchword for to-night is France — the answer St Heléne.

«And didst thou deem the barren isle, or ocean waves, could bind
The master of the universe — the monarch of mankind?
I tell thee, fool! the world itself is all too small for me; I laugh to scorn thy bolts and bars — I burst them, and am free.

«Thou thinkst that England hates me! Mark! — This very night my name

Was thundered in its capital with tumult and acclaim!
They saw me, knew me, owned my power — Proud lord! I say, beware!
There be men within the Surrey side, who know to do and dare!

«To-morrow in thy very teeth my standard will I rear — Ay, well that ashen cheek of thine may blanch and shrink with fear!

To-morrow night another town shall sink in ghastly flames; And as I crossed the Borodin, so shall I cross the Thames!

«Thou’lt seize me, wilt thou, ere the dawn? Weak lordling, do thy worst!

These hands ere now have broke thy chains, thy fetters they have burst. Yet, wouldst thou know my resting-place? Behold, ’tis written there!
And let thy coward myrmidons approach me if they dare!»

Another pinch, another stride — he passes through the door — «Was it a phantom or a man was standing on the floor?
And could that be the Emperor that moved before my eyes?
Ah, yes! too sure it was himself, for here the paper lies!»

With trembling hands Lord Castlereagh undid the mystic scroll, With glassy eye essayed to read, for fear was on his soul — «What’s here? — „At Astley’s, every night, the play of Moscow’s Fall!
Napoleon, for the thousandth time, by Mr Gomersal!“»

The Lay of The Lovelorn

Comrades, you may pass the rosy. With permission of the chair, I shall leave you for a little, for I’d like to take the air.

Whether ’twas the sauce at dinner, or that glass of ginger-beer, Or these strong cheroots, I know not, but I feel a little queer.

Let me go. Nay, Chuckster, blow me, ’pon my soul, this is too bad!
When you want me, ask the waiter; he knows where I’m to be had.

Whew! This is a great relief now! Let me but undo my stock; Resting here beneath the porch, my nerves will steady like a rock.

In my ears I hear the singing of a lot of favourite tunes — Bless my heart, how very odd! Why, surely there’s a brace of moons!

See! the stars! how bright they twinkle, winking with a frosty glare, Like my faithless cousin Amy when she drove me to despair.

Oh, my cousin, spider-hearted! Oh, my Amy! No, confound it!
I must wear the mournful willow, — all around my heart I’ve bound it.

Falser than the bank of fancy, frailer than a shilling glove, Puppet to a father’s anger, minion to a nabob’s love!

Is it well to wish thee happy? Having known me, could you ever
Stoop to marry half a heart, and little more than half a liver?

Happy! Damme! Thou shalt lower to his level day by day, Changing from the best of china to the commonest of clay.

As the husband is, the wife is, — he is stomach-plagued and old; And his curry soups will make thy cheek the colour of his gold.

When his feeble love is sated, he will hold thee surely then
Something lower than his hookah, — something less than his cayenne.

What is this? His eyes are pinky. Was’t the claret? Oh, no, no, — Bless your soul! it was the salmon, — salmon always makes him so.

Take him to thy dainty chamber — soothe him with thy lightest fancies; He will understand thee, won’t he? — pay thee with a lover’s glances?

Louder than the loudest trumpet, harsh as harshest ophicleide, Nasal respirations answer the endearments of his bride.

Sweet response, delightful music! Gaze upon thy noble charge, Till the spirit fill thy bosom that inspired the meek Laffarge.

Better thou wert dead before me, — better, better that I stood, Looking on thy murdered body, like the injured Daniel Good!

Better thou and I were lying, cold and timber-stiff and dead, With a pan of burning charcoal underneath our nuptial bed!

Cursed be the Bank of England’s notes, that tempt the soul to sin!
Cursed be the want of acres, — doubly cursed the want of tin!

Cursed be the marriage-contract, that enslaved thy soul to greed!

Cursed be the sallow lawyer, that prepared and drew the deed!

Cursed be his foul apprentice, who the loathsome fees did earn!

Cursed be the clerk and parson, — cursed be the whole concern!

* * * *

Oh, ’tis well that I should bluster, — much I’m like to make of that; Better comfort have I found in singing «All Around my Hat.»

But that song, so wildly plaintive, palls upon my British ears.

«Twill not do to pine for ever, — I am getting up in years.

Can’t I turn the honest penny, scribbling for the weekly press,

And in writing Sunday libels drown my private wretchedness!

Oh, to feel the wild pulsation that in manhood’s dawn I knew, When my days were all before me, and my years were twenty-two!

When I smoked my independent pipe along the Quadrant wide,
With the many larks of London flaring up on every side;

When I went the pace so wildly, caring little what might come; Coffee-milling care and sorrow, with a nose-adapted thumb;

Felt the exquisite enjoyment, tossing nightly off, oh heavens!
Brandies at the Cider Cellars, kidneys smoking-hot at Evans’!

Or in the Adelphi sitting, half in rapture, half in tears,

Saw the glorious melodrama conjure up the shades of years!

Saw Jack Sheppard, noble stripling, act his wondrous feats again,

Snapping Newgate’s bars of iron, like an infant’s daisy chain.

Might was right, and all the terrors, which had held the world in awe,

Were despised, and prigging prospered, spite of Laurie, spite of law.

In such scenes as these I triumphed, ere my passion’s edge was rusted,

And my cousin’s cold refusal left me very much disgusted!

Since, my heart is sere and withered, and I do not care a curse,

Whether worse shall be the better, or the better be the worse.

Hark! my merry comrades call me, bawling for another jorum;

They would mock me in derision, should I thus appear before ’em.

Womankind no more shall vex me, such at least as go arrayed
In the most expensive satins and the newest silk brocade.

I’ll to Afric, lion-haunted, where the giant forest yields
Rarer robes and finer tissue than are sold at Spital fields.

Or to burst all chains of habit, flinging habit’s self aside,

I shall walk the tangled jungle in mankind’s primeval pride;

Feeding on the luscious berries and the rich cassava root,

Lots of dates and lots of guavas, clusters of forbidden fruit.

Never comes the trader thither, never o’er the purple main

Sounds the oath of British commerce, or the accent of Cockaigne.

There, methinks, would be enjoyment, where no envious rule prevents; Sink the steamboats! cuss the railways! rot,

O rot the Three per Cents!

There the passions, cramped no longer, shall have space to breathe, my cousin!
I will wed some savage woman — nay, I’ll wed at least a dozen.

There I’ll rear my young mulattoes, as no Bond Street brats are reared: They shall dive for alligators, catch the wild goats by the beard—

Whistle to the cockatoos, and mock the hairy-faced baboon, Worship mighty Mumbo Jumbo in the Mountains of the Moon.

I myself, in far Timbuctoo, leopard’s blood will daily quaff, Ride a tiger-hunting, mounted on a thorough-bred giraffe.

Fiercely shall I shout the war-whoop, as some sullen stream he crosses,

Startling from their noonday slumbers iron-bound rhinoceroses.

Fool! again the dream, the fancy!

But I know my words are mad,

For I hold the grey barbarian lower than the Christian cad.

I the swell — the city dandy! I to seek such horrid places, —

I to haunt with squalid negroes, blubber-lips, and monkey-faces!

I to wed with Coromantees! I, who managed — very near —

To secure the heart and fortune of the widow Shillibeer!

Stuff and nonsense! let me never fling a single chance away;

Maids ere now, I know, have loved me, and another maiden may.

«Morning Post’ («The Times’ won’t trust me) help me, as I know you can;

I will pen an advertisement, — that’s a never-failing plan.

«Wanted — By a bard, in wedlock, some young interesting woman:

Looks are not so much an object, if the shiners be forthcoming!

«Hymen’s chains the advertiser vows shall be but silken fetters;

Please address to A. T., Chelsea. N.B. — You must pay the letters.»

That’s the sort of thing to do it. Now I’ll go and taste the balmy, —

Rest thee with thy yellow nabob, spider-hearted Cousin Amy!

My Wife’s Cousin

Decked with shoes of blackest polish,

And with shirt as white as snow,

After early morning breakfast To my daily desk I go;

First a fond salute bestowing

On my Mary’s ruby lips,

Which, perchance, may be rewarded

With a pair of playful nips.

All day long across the ledger

Still my patient pen I drive,

Thinking what a feast awaits me

In my happy home at five;

In my small one-storeyed Eden,

Where my wife awaits my coming,

And our solitary handmaid

Mutton-chops with care is crumbing.

When the clock proclaims my freedom,

Then my hat I seize and vanish;

Every trouble from my bosom,

Every anxious care I banish.

Swiftly brushing o’er the pavement,

At a furious pace I go,

Till I reach my darling dwelling

In the wilds of Pimlico.

«Mary, wife, where art thou, dearest?»

Thus I cry, while yet afar;

Ah! what scent invades my nostrils? —

«Tis the smoke of a cigar!

Instantly into the parlour Like a maniac,

I haste, And I find a young Life-Guardsman,

With his arm round Mary’s waist.

And his other hand is playing

Most familiarly with hers;

And I think my Brussels carpet

Somewhat damaged by his spurs.

«Fire and furies! what the blazes?»

Thus in frenzied wrath I call;

When my spouse her arms upraises,

With a most astounding squall.

«Was there ever such a monster,

Ever such a wretched wife?

Ah! how long must I endure it,

How protract this hateful life?

All day long, quite unprotected,

Does he leave his wife at home;

And she cannot see her cousins,

Even when they kindly come!»

Then the young Life-Guardsman, rising,

Scarce vouchsafes a single word,

But, with look of deadly menace,

Claps his hand upon his sword;

And in fear I faintly falter —

«This your cousin, then he’s mine!

Very glad, indeed, to see you, —

Won’t you stop with us, and dine?»

Won’t a ferret suck a rabbit? —

As a thing of course he stops;

And with most voracious swallow

Walks into my mutton-chops.

In the twinkling of a bed-post

Is each savoury platter clear,

And he shows uncommon science

In his estimate of beer.

Half-and-half goes down before him,

Gurgling from the pewter pot;

And he moves a counter motion

For a glass of something hot.

Neither chops nor beer I grudge him,

Nor a moderate share of goes;

But I know not why he’s always

Treading upon Mary’s toes.

Evermore, when, home returning,

From the counting-house I come,

Do I find the young Life-Guardsman

Smoking pipes and drinking rum.

Evermore he stays to dinner,

Evermore devours my meal;

For I have a wholesome horror

Both of powder and of steel.

Yet I know he’s Mary’s cousin,

For my only son and heir

Much resembles that young Guardsman,

With the self-same curly hair;

But I wish he would not always

Spoil my carpet with his spurs;

And I’d rather see his fingers

In the fire, than touching hers.

The Queen in France

an ancient scottish ballad.

PART I

It fell upon the August month,

When landsmen bide at hame,

That our gude Queen went out to sail

Upon the saut-sea faem.

And she has ta’en the silk and gowd,

The like was never seen;

And she has ta’en the Prince Albert,

And the bauld Lord Aberdeen.

«Ye’se bide at hame, Lord Wellington:

Ye daurna gang wi’ me:

For ye hae been ance in the land o’ France,

And that’s eneuch for ye.

«Ye’se bide at hame, Sir Robert Peel,

To gather the red and the white monie;

And see that my men dinna eat me up

At Windsor wi’ their gluttonie.»

They hadna sailed a league, a league, —

A league, but barely twa,

When the lift grew dark, and the waves grew wan,

And the wind began to blaw.

«O weel weel may the waters rise,

In welcome o’ their Queen;

What gars ye look sae white, Albert?

What makes yer ee sae green?»

«My heart is sick, my heid is sair:

Gie me a glass o’ the gude brandie:

To set my foot on the braid green sward,

I’d gie the half o’ my yearly fee.

«It’s sweet to hunt the sprightly hare

On the bonny slopes o’ Windsor lea,

But oh, it’s ill to bear the thud

And pitching o’ the saut saut sea!»

And aye they sailed, and aye they sailed,

Till England sank behind,

And over to the coast of France

They drave before the wind.

Then up and spak the King o’ France,

Was birling at the wine;

«O wha may be the gay ladye,

That owns that ship sae fine?

«And wha may be that bonny lad,

That looks sae pale and wan

I’ll wad my lands o’ Picardie,

That he’s nae Englishman.»

Then up and spak an auld French lord,

Was sitting beneath his knee,

«It is the Queen o’ braid England

That’s come across the sea.»

«And oh an it be England’s Queen,

She’s welcome here the day;

I’d rather hae her for a friend

Than for a deadly fae.

«Gae, kill the eerock in the yard,

The auld sow in the sty,

And bake for her the brockit calf,

But and the puddock-pie!»

And he has gane until the ship,

As soon as it drew near,

And he has ta’en her by the hand —

«Ye’re kindly welcome here!»

And syne he kissed her on ae cheek,

And syne upon the ither;

And he ca’d her his sister dear,

And she ca’d him her brither.

«Light doun, light doun now, ladye mine,

Light doun upon the shore;

Nae English king has trodden here

This thousand years and more.»

«And gin I lighted on your land,

As light fu’ weel I may,

O am I free to feast wi’ you,

And free to come and gae?»

And he has sworn by the Haly Rood,

And the black stane o’ Dumblane,

That she is free to come and gae

Till twenty days are gane.

«I’ve lippened to a Frenchman’s aith,»

Said gude Lord Aberdeen;

«But I’ll never lippen to it again,

Sae lang’s the grass is green.

«Yet gae your ways, my sovereign liege,

Sin’ better mayna be;

The wee bit bairns are safe at hame,

By the blessing o’ Marie!»

Then doun she lighted frae the ship,

She lighted safe and sound;

And glad was our good Prince Albert

To step upon the ground.

«Is that your Queen, my Lord,» she said,

«That auld and buirdly dame?

I see the crown upon her head;

But I dinna ken her name.»

And she has kissed the Frenchman’s Queen,

And eke her daughters three,

And gien her hand to the young Princess,

That louted upon the knee.

And she has gane to the proud castel,

That’s biggit beside the sea:

But aye, when she thought o’ the bairns at hame,

The tear was in her ee.

She gied the King the Cheshire cheese,

But and the porter fine;

And he gied her the puddock-pies,

But and the blude-red wine.

Then up and spak the dourest Prince,

An admiral was he;

«Let’s keep the Queen o’ England here,

Sin’ better mayna be!

«O mony is the dainty king

That we hae trappit here;

And mony is the English yerl

That’s in our dungeons drear!»

«You lee, you lee, ye graceless loon,

Sae loud’s I hear ye lee!

There never yet was Englishman

That came to skaith by me.

«Gae oot, gae oot, ye fause traitour!

Gae oot until the street;

It’s shame that Kings and Queens should sit

Wi’ sic a knave at meat!»

Then up and raise the young French lord,

In wrath and hie disdain —

«O ye may sit, and ye may eat

Your puddock-pies alane!

«But were I in my ain gude ship,

And sailing wi’ the wind,

And did I meet wi’ auld Napier,

I’d tell him o’ my mind.»

O then the Queen leuch loud and lang,

And her colour went and came;

«Gin ye meet wi’ Charlie on the sea,

Ye’ll wish yersel at hame!»

And aye they birlit at the wine,

And drank richt merrilie,

Till the auld cock crawed in the castle-yard,

And the abbey bell struck three.

The Queen she gaed until her bed,

And Prince Albert likewise;

And the last word that gay ladye said Was —

«O thae puddock-pies!»

PART II

The sun was high within the lift

Afore the French King raise;

And syne he louped intil his sark,

And warslit on his claes.

«Gae up, gae up, my little foot-page,

Gae up until the toun;

And gin ye meet wi’ the auld harper,

Be sure ye bring him doun.»

And he has met wi’ the auld harper;

O but his een were reid;

And the bizzing o’ a swarm o’ bees

Was singing in his heid.

«Alack! alack!» the harper said,

«That this should e’er hae been!

I daurna gang before my liege,

For I was fou yestreen.»

«It’s ye maun come, ye auld harper:

Ye daurna tarry lang;

The King is just dementit-like

For wanting o’ a sang.»

And when he came to the King’s chamber,

He loutit on his knee,

«O what may be your gracious will

Wi’ an auld frail man like me?»

«I want a sang, harper,» he said,

«I want a sang richt speedilie;

And gin ye dinna make a sang,

I’ll hang ye up on the gallows tree.»

«I canna do’t, my liege,» he said,

«Hae mercy on my auld grey hair!

But gin that I had got the words,

I think that I might mak the air.»

«And wha’s to mak the words, fause loon,

When minstrels we have barely twa;

And Lamartine is in Paris toun,

And Victor Hugo far awa?»

«The diel may gang for Lamartine,

And flee away wi’ auld Hugo,

For a better minstrel than them baith

Within this very toun I know.

«O kens my liege the gude Walter,

At hame they ca’ him Bon Gaultier?

He’ll rhyme ony day wi’ True Thomas,

And he is in the castle here.»

The French King first he lauchit loud,

And syne did he begin to sing;

«My een are auld, and my heart is cauld,

Or I suld hae known the minstrels’ King.

«Gae take to him this ring o’ gowd,

And this mantle o’ the silk sae fine, And bid him mak a maister sang For his sovereign ladye’s sake and mine.»

«I winna take the gowden ring, Nor yet the mantle fine: But I’ll mak the sang for my ladye’s sake, And for a cup of wine.»

The Queen was sitting at the cards, The King ahint her back; And aye she dealed the red honours, And aye she dealed the black;

And syne unto the dourest Prince She spak richt courteouslie; — «Now will ye play, Lord Admiral, Now will ye play wi’ me?»

The dourest Prince he bit his lip, And his brow was black as glaur; «The only game that e’er I play Is the bluidy game o’ war!»

«And gin ye play at that, young man, It weel may cost ye sair; Ye’d better stick to the game at cards, For you’ll win nae honours there!»

The King he leuch, and the Queen she leuch, Till the tears ran blithely doon; But the Admiral he raved and swore, Till they kicked him frae the room.

The harper came, and the harper sang, And oh but they were fain; For when he had sung the gude sang twice, They called for it again.

It was the sang o’ the Field o’ Gowd, In the days of auld langsyne; When bauld King Henry crossed the seas, Wi’ his brither King to dine.

And aye he harped, and aye he carped, Till up the Queen she sprang — «I’ll wad a County Palatine, Gude Walter made that sang.»

Three days had come, three days had gane, The fourth began to fa’, When our gude Queen to the Frenchman said, «It’s time I was awa!

«O, bonny are the fields o’ France, And saftly draps the rain; But my bairnies are in Windsor Tower, And greeting a’ their lane.

«Now ye maun come to me, Sir King, As I have come to ye; And a benison upon your heid For a’ your courtesie!

«Ye maun come, and bring your ladye fere; Ye sall na say me no; And ye’se mind, we have aye a bed to spare For that gawsy chield Guizot.»

Now he has ta’en her lily-white hand, And put it to his lip, And he has ta’en her to the strand, And left her in her ship.

«Will ye come back, sweet bird?» he cried, «Will ye come kindly here, When the lift is blue, and the lavrocks sing, In the spring-time o’ the year?»

«It’s I would blithely come, my Lord, To see ye in the spring; It’s I would blithely venture back But for ae little thing.

«It isna that the winds are rude, Or that the waters rise, But I loe the roasted beef at hame, And no thae puddock-pies!»

The Massacre of the Macpherson

[from the gaelic.]

I

Fhairshon swore a feud Against the clan M’Tavish; Marched into their land To murder and to rafish; p. 151For he did resolve To extirpate the vipers, With four-and-twenty men And five-and-thirty pipers.

II

But when he had gone Half-way down Strath Canaan, Of his fighting tail Just three were remainin’. They were all he had, To back him in ta battle; All the rest had gone Off, to drive ta cattle.

III

«Fery coot!» cried Fhairshon,

«So my clan disgraced is;

Lads, we’ll need to fight,

Pefore we touch the peasties.

Here’s Mhic-Mac-Methusaleh

Coming wi’ his fassals,

Gillies seventy-three,

And sixty Dhuinéwassails!»

IV

«Coot tay to you, sir;

Are you not ta Fhairshon?

Was you coming here

To fisit any person?

You are a plackguard, sir!

It is now six hundred

Coot long years, and more,

Since my glen was plundered.»

V

«Fat is tat you say?

Dare you cock your peaver?

I will teach you, sir,

Fat is coot pehaviour!

You shall not exist

For another day more;

I will shoot you, sir,

Or stap you with my claymore!»

VI

«I am fery glad, To learn what you mention, Since I can prevent Any such intention.»
So Mhic-Mac-Methusaleh Gave some warlike howls, Trew his skhian-dhu, An’ stuck it in his powels.

VII

In this fery way

Tied ta faliant Fhairshon,

Who was always thought

A superior person.

Fhairshon had a son,

Who married Noah’s daughter,

And nearly spoiled ta Flood,

By trinking up ta water:

VIII

Which he would have done,

I at least pelieve it,

Had ta mixture peen

Only half Glenlivet.

This is all my tale:

Sirs, I hope ’tis new t’ye!

Here’s your fery good healths,

And tamn ta whusky duty!

The Laureates’ Tourney

FYTTE THE FIRST

«What news, what news, thou pilgrim grey, what news from southern land?

How fare the bold Conservatives, how is it with Ferrand?

How does the little Prince of Wales — how looks our lady Queen?

And tell me, is the monthly nurse once more at Windsor seen?»

«I bring no tidings from the Court, nor from St Stephen’s hall;

I’ve heard the thundering tramp of horse, and the trumpet’s battle-call;

And these old eyes have seen a fight, which England ne’er hath seen,

Since fell King Richard sobbed his soul through blood on Bosworth Green.

«He’s dead, he’s dead, the Laureate’s dead!»

«Twas thus the cry began,

And straightway every garret-roof gave up its minstrel man;

From Grub Street, and from Houndsditch, and from Farringdon Within, The poets all towards Whitehall poured on with eldritch din.

Loud yelled they for Sir James the Graham: but sore afraid was he;

A hardy knight were he that might face such a minstrelsie.

«Now by St Giles of Netherby, my patron Saint,

I swear, I’d rather by a thousand crowns Lord Palmerston were here! —

«What is’t ye seek, ye rebel knaves — what make you there beneath?»

«The bays, the bays! we want the bays! we seek the laureate wreath!

We seek the butt of generous wine that cheers the sons of song;

Choose thou among us all, Sir Knight — we may not tarry long!»

Loud laughed the good Sir James in scorn —

«Rare jest it were, I think, But one poor butt of Xeres, and a thousand rogues to drink!

An’ if it flowed with wine or beer, ’tis easy to be seen,

That dry within the hour would be the well of Hippocrene.

«Tell me, if on Parnassus’ heights there grow a thousand sheaves:

Or has Apollo’s laurel bush yet borne ten hundred leaves?

Or if so many leaves were there, how long would they sustain

The ravage and the glutton bite of such a locust train?

«No! get ye back into your dens, take counsel for the night,

And choose me out two champions to meet in deadly fight;

To-morrow’s dawn shall see the lists marked out in Spitalfields,

And he who wins shall have the bays, and he shall die who yields!»

Down went the window with a crash, — in silence and in fear

Each raggèd bard looked anxiously upon his neighbour near;

Then up and spake young Tennyson —

«Who’s here that fears for death?

«Twere better one of us should die, than England lose the wreath!

«Let’s cast the lot among us now, which two shall fight to-morrow; —

For armour bright we’ll club our mite, and horses we can borrow;

«Twere shame that bards of France should sneer, and German Dichters too, If none of British song might dare a deed of derring-do!»

«The lists of Love are mine,» said Moore, «and not the lists of Mars;»

Said Hunt, «I seek the jars of wine, but shun the combat’s jars!»
«I’m old,» quoth Samuel Rogers. —

«Faith,» says Campbell, «so am I!»

«And I’m in holy orders, sir!» quoth Tom of Ingoldsby.

«Now out upon ye, craven loons!» cried Moxon, good at need, — «Bide, if ye will, secure at home, and sleep while others bleed. I second Alfred’s motion, boys, — let’s try the chance of lot; And monks shall sing, and bells shall ring, for him that goes to pot.»

Eight hundred minstrels slunk away — two hundred stayed to draw, — Now Heaven protect the daring wight that pulls the longest straw!
«Tis done! ’tis done! And who hath won? Keep silence one and all, — The first is William Wordsworth hight, the second Ned Fitzball!

FYTTE THE SECOND

Oh, bright and gay hath dawned the day on lordly Spitalfields, —

How flash the rays with ardent blaze from polished helms and shields!

On either side the chivalry of England throng the green,

And in the middle balcony appears our gracious Queen.

With iron fists, to keep the lists, two valiant knights appear,

The Marquis Hal of Waterford, and stout Sir Aubrey Vere.

«What ho! there, herald, blow the trump!

Let’s see who comes to claim

The butt of golden Xeres, and the Laureate’s honoured name!»

That instant dashed into the lists, all armed from head to heel,

On courser brown, with vizor down, a warrior sheathed in steel;

Then said our Queen —

«Was ever seen so stout a knight and tall?

His name — his race?» —

«An’t please your grace, it is the brave Fitzball.

«Oft in the Melodrama line his prowess hath been shown,

And well throughout the Surrey side his thirst for blood is known.

But see, the other champion comes!» —

Then rang the startled air

With shouts of «Wordsworth, Wordsworth, ho! the bard of Rydal’s there.»

And lo! upon a little steed, unmeet for such a course,

Appeared the honoured veteran; but weak seemed man and horse.

Then shook their ears the sapient peers, —

«That joust will soon be done: My Lord of Brougham,

I’ll back Fitzball, and give you two to one!»

«Done,» quoth the Brougham, —

«And done with you!» «Now, Minstrels, are you ready?»

Exclaimed the Lord of Waterford, —

«You’d better both sit steady.

Blow, trumpets, blow the note of charge! and forward to the fight!»

«Amen!» said good Sir Aubrey Vere;

«Saint Schism defend the right!»

As sweeps the blast against the mast when blows the furious squall,

So started at the trumpet’s sound the terrible Fitzball;

His lance he bore his breast before, —

Saint George protect the just!

Or Wordsworth’s hoary head must roll along the shameful dust!

«Who threw that calthrop?

Seize the knave!» Alas! the deed is done;

Down went the steed, and o’er his head flew bright Apollo’s son.

«Undo his helmet! cut the lace! pour water on his head!»

«It ain’t no use at all, my lord; ’cos vy? the covey’s dead!»

Above him stood the Rydal bard — his face was full of woe.

«Now there thou liest, stiff and stark, who never feared a foe:

A braver knight, or more renowned in tourney and in hall,

Ne’er brought the upper gallery down than terrible Fitzball!»

They led our Wordsworth to the Queen — she crowned him with the bays,

And wished him many happy years, and many quarter-days;

And if you’d have the story told by abler lips than mine,

You’ve but to call at Rydal Mount, and taste the Laureate’s wine!»

The Royal Banquet

The Queen she kept high festival in Windsor’s lordly hall,

And round her sat the gartered knights, and ermined nobles all;

There drank the valiant Wellington, there fed the wary Peel,

And at the bottom of the board Prince Albert carved the veal.

«What, pantler, ho! remove the cloth! Ho! cellarer, the wine,

And bid the royal nurse bring in the hope of Brunswick’s line!»

Then rose with one tumultuous shout the band of British peers,

«God bless her sacred Majesty! Let’s see the little dears!»

Now by Saint George, our patron saint, ’twas a touching sight to see

That iron warrior gently place the Princess on his knee;

To hear him hush her infant fears, and teach her how to gape

With rosy mouth expectant for the raisin and the grape!

They passed the wine, the sparkling wine — they filled the goblets up;

Even Brougham, the cynic anchorite, smiled blandly on the cup;

And Lyndhurst, with a noble thirst, that nothing could appease,

Proposed the immortal memory of King William on his knees.

«What want we here, my gracious liege,» cried gay Lord Aberdeen,

«Save gladsome song and minstrelsy to flow our cups between?

I ask not now for Goulburn’s voice or Knatchbull’s warbling lay,

But where’s the Poet Laureate to grace our board to-day?»

Loud laughed the Knight of Netherby, and scornfully he cried,

«Or art thou mad with wine, Lord Earl, or art thyself beside?

Eight hundred Bedlam bards have claimed the Laureate’s vacant crown,

And now like frantic Bacchanals run wild through London town!»

«Now glory to our gracious Queen!» a voice was heard to cry,

And dark Macaulay stood before them all with frenzied eye;

«Now glory to our gracious Queen, and all her glorious race,

A boon, a boon, my sovran liege! Give me the Laureate’s place!

««Twas I that sang the might of Rome, the glories of Navarre;

And who could swell the fame so well of Britain’s Isles afar?

The hero of a hundred fights — » Then Wellington up sprung,

«Ho, silence in the ranks, I say! Sit down and hold your tongue!

«By heaven, thou shalt not twist my name into a jingling lay,

Or mimic in thy puny song the thunders of Assaye!

«Tis hard that for thy lust of place in peace we cannot dine.

Nurse, take her Royal Highness, here! Sir Robert, pass the wine!»

«No Laureate need we at our board!» then spoke the Lord of Vaux;

«Here’s many a voice to charm the ear with minstrel song, I know.

Even I myself — » Then rose the cry —

«A song, a song from Brougham!»

He sang, — and straightway found himself alone within the room.

The Bard of Erin’s Lament

Oh, weep for the hours, when the little blind boy

Wove round me the spells of his Paphian bower;

When I dipped my light wings in the nectar of joy,

And soared in the sunshine, the moth of the hour!

From beauty to beauty I passed, like the wind;

Now fondled the lily, now toyed with the Rose;

And the fair, that at morn had enchanted my mind,

Was forsook for another ere evening’s close.

I sighed not for honour, I cared not for fame,

While Pleasure sat by me, and Love was my guest;

They twined a fresh wreath for each day as it came,

And the bosom of Beauty still pillowed my rest:

And the harp of my country — neglected it slept —

In hall or by greenwood unheard were its songs;

From Love’s Sybarite dreams

I aroused me, and swept

Its chords to the tale of her glories and wrongs.

But weep for the hour! —

Life’s summer is past,

And the snow of its winter lies cold on my brow;

And my soul, as it shrinks from each stroke of the blast,

Cannot turn to a fire that glows inwardly now.

No, its ashes are dead — and, alas!

Love or Song No charm to

Life’s lengthening shadows can lend,