Chapter XIII: Part THE SEVENTH: Double Damnation (1)

I.

The Devil now knew his proper cue.--
Soon as he read the ode, he drove
To his friend Lord MacMurderchouse's,
A man of interest in both houses,
And said:--'For money or for love,

II.

'Pray find some cure or sinecure;
To feed from the superfluous taxes
A friend of ours--a poet--fewer
Have fluttered tamer to the lure
Than he.' His lordship stands and racks his

III.

Stupid brains, while one might count
As many beads as he had boroughs,--
At length replies; from his mean front,
Like one who rubs out an account,
Smoothing away the unmeaning furrows:

IV.

'It happens fortunately, dear Sir,
I can. I hope I need require
No pledge from you, that he will stir
In our affairs;--like Oliver,
That he'll be worthy of his hire.'

V.

These words exchanged, the news sent off
To Peter, home the Devil hied,--
Took to his bed; he had no cough,
No doctor,--meat and drink enough,--
Yet that same night he died.

VI.

The Devil's corpse was leaded down;
His decent heirs enjoyed his pelf,
Mourning-coaches, many a one,
Followed his hearse along the town:--
Where was the Devil himself?

VII.

When Peter heard of his promotion,
His eyes grew like two stars for bliss:
There was a bow of sleek devotion
Engendering in his back; each motion
Seemed a Lord's shoe to kiss.

VIII.

He hired a house, bought plate, and made
A genteel drive up to his door,
With sifted gravel neatly laid,--
As if defying all who said,
Peter was ever poor.

IX.

But a disease soon struck into
The very life and soul of Peter--
He walked about--slept--had the hue
Of health upon his cheeks--and few
Dug better--none a heartier eater.

X.

And yet a strange and horrid curse
Clung upon Peter, night and day;
Month after month the thing grew worse,
And deadlier than in this my verse
I can find strength to say.

XI.

Peter was dull--he was at first
Dull--oh, so dull--so very dull!
Whether he talked, wrote, or rehearsed--
Still with this dullness was he cursed--
Dull--beyond all conception--dull.

XII.

No one could read his books--no mortal,
But a few natural friends, would hear him;
The parson came not near his portal;
His state was like that of the immortal
Described by Swift--no man could bear him.

XIII.

His sister, wife, and children yawned,
With a long, slow, and drear ennui,
All human patience far beyond;
Their hopes of Heaven each would have pawned,
Anywhere else to be.

XIV.

But in his verse, and in his prose,
The essence of his dullness was
Concentred and compressed so close,
'Twould have made Guatimozin doze
On his red gridiron of brass.

XV.

A printer's boy, folding those pages,
Fell slumbrously upon one side;
Like those famed Seven who slept three ages,
To wakeful frenzy's vigil-rages,
As opiates, were the same applied.

XVI.

Even the Reviewers who were hired
To do the work of his reviewing,
With adamantine nerves, grew tired;--
Gaping and torpid they retired,
To dream of what they should be doing.

XVII.

And worse and worse, the drowsy curse
Yawned in him, till it grew a pest--
A wide contagious atmosphere,
Creeping like cold through all things near;
A power to infect and to infest.

XVIII.

His servant-maids and dogs grew dull;
His kitten, late a sportive elf;
The woods and lakes so beautiful,
Of dim stupidity were full.
All grew dull as Peter's self.

XIX.

The earth under his feet--the springs,
Which lived within it a quick life,
The air, the winds of many wings,
That fan it with new murmurings,
Were dead to their harmonious strife.

XX.

The birds and beasts within the wood,
The insects, and each creeping thing,
Were now a silent multitude;
Love's work was left unwrought--no brood
Near Peter's house took wing.

XXI.

And every neighbouring cottager
Stupidly yawned upon the other:
No jackass brayed; no little cur
Cocked up his ears;--no man would stir
To save a dying mother.

XXII.

Yet all from that charmed district went
But some half-idiot and half-knave,
Who rather than pay any rent,
Would live with marvellous content,
Over his father's grave.

XXIII.

No bailiff dared within that space,
For fear of the dull charm, to enter;
A man would bear upon his face,
For fifteen months in any case,
The yawn of such a venture.

XXIV.

Seven miles above--below--around--
This pest of dullness holds its sway;
A ghastly life without a sound;
To Peter's soul the spell is bound--
How should it ever pass away?

WILLIAM MAGINN.

THE RIME OF THE AUNCIENT WAGGONERE.

(COLERIDGE)

PART FIRST.

[Sidenote: An auncient waggonere stoppoth ane tailore going to a wedding, whereat he hath been appointed to be best manne, and to take a hand in the casting of the slippere.]

It is an auncient Waggonere,
And hee stoppeth one of nine:--
'Now wherefore dost thou grip me soe
With that horny fist of thine?

[Sidenote: The waggonere in mood for chat, and admits of no excuse.]

'The bridegroom's doors are opened wide,
And thither I must walke;
Soe, by youre leave, I must be gone,
I have noe time for talke!'

[Sidenote: The tailore seized with the ague.]

Hee holds him with his horny fist--
'There was a wain,' quothe hee,
'Hold offe, thou raggamouffine tykke.'
Eftsoones his fist dropped hee.

[Sidenote: He listeneth like a three years and a half child.]

Hee satte him downe upon a stone,
With ruefulle looks of feare;
And thus began this tippsye manne,
The red-nosed waggonere.

[Sidenote: The appetite of the tailore whetted by the smell of cabbage.]

'The waine is fulle, the horses pulle,
Merrilye did we trotte
Alonge the bridge, alonge the road,
A jolly crewe, I wotte;'--
And here the tailore smotte his breaste,
He smelte the cabbage potte!

[Sidenote: The waggonere in talking anent Boreas, maketh bad orthographye.]

'The night was darke, like Noe's arke,
Oure waggone moved alonge;
The hail pour'd faste, loude roared the blaste,
Yet stille we moved alonge;
And sung in chorus, "Cease, loud Borus,"
A very charminge songe.

[Sidenote: Their mirth interrupted.]

'"Bravoe, bravissimoe," I cried,
The sounde was quite elatinge;
But, in a trice, upon the ice,
We hearde the horses skaitinge.

[Sidenote: And the passengers exercise themselves in the pleasant art of swimminge, as doeth also their prog, to witte, great store of colde roasted beef; item, ane beef-stake pye: item, viii choppines of usquebaugh.]

'The ice was here, the ice was there,
It was a dismale mattere,
To see the cargoe, one by one,
Flounderinge in the wattere!

'With rout and roare, we reached the shore,
And never a soul did sinke;
But in the rivere, gone for evere,
Swum our meate and drinke.

[Sidenote: The waggonere hailethe ane goose with ane novel salutatione.]

'At lengthe we spied a goode grey goose,
Thorough the snow it came;
And with the butte ende of my whippe,
I hailed it in Goddhis name.

'It staggered as it had been drunke,
So dexterous was it hitte;
Of brokene boughs we made a fire,
Thomme Loncheone roasted itte.'--

[Sidenote: The tailore impatient to be gone, but is forcibly persuaded to remain.]

'Be done, thou tipsye waggonere,
To the feaste I must awaye.'--
The waggonere seized him bye the coatte,
And forced him there to staye,
Begginge, in gentlemanlie style,
Butte halfe ane hour's delaye.

PART SECOND.

[Sidenote: The waggonere's bowels yearn towards the sunne.]

'The crimson sunne was rising o'ere
The verge of the horizon;
Upon my worde, as faire a sunne
As ever I clapped eyes onne.

[Sidenote: The passengers throwe the blame of the goose massacre on the innocent waggonere.]

'"'Twill bee ane comfortable thinge,"
The mutinous crewe 'gan crye;
"'Twill be ane comfortable thinge,
Within the jaile to lye;
Ah! execrable wretche," saide they,
"Thatte caused the goose to die!"

[Sidenote: The sunne sufferes ane artificial eclipse, and horror follows, the same not being mentioned in the Belfaste Almanacke.]

'The day was drawing near itte's close,
The sunne was well nighe settinge;
When lo! it seemed as iffe his face
Was veiled with fringe-warke-nettinge.

[Sidenote: Various hypotheses on the subject, frome which the passengeres draw wronge conclusions.]

'Somme saide itte was ane apple tree,
Laden with goodlye fruite,
Somme swore itte was ane foreigne birde,
Some said it was ane brute;
Alas! it was ane bumbailiffe
Riding in pursuite!

[Sidenote: Ane lovelye sound ariseth; ittes effects described.]

A hue and crye sterte uppe behind,
Whilke smote our ears like thunder.
Within the waggone there was drede,
Astonishmente and wonder.

[Sidenote: The passengers throw somersets.]

'One after one, the rascalls rann,
And from the carre did jump;
One after one, one after one,
They felle with heavy thump.

'Six miles ane houre theye offe did scoure,
Like shippes on ane stormye ocean,
Theire garments flappinge in the winde,
With ane shorte uneasy motion.

[Sidenote: The waggonere complimenteth the bumbailiffe with ane Mendoza.]

'Their bodies with their legs did flye,
Theye fled with feare and glyffe;
Why star'st thoue soe?--With one goode blow,
I felled the bumbailiffe!'

PART THIRD.

[Sidenote: The tailore meeteth Corporal Feare.]

'I feare thee, auncient waggonere,
I feare thy hornye fiste,
For itte is stained with goose's gore,
And bailiffe's blood, I wist.

'I fear to gette ane fisticuffe
From thy leathern knuckles brown';
With that the tailore strove to ryse--
The waggonere thrusts him down.

'Thou craven, if thou mov'st a limbe,
I'll give thee cause for feare;'
And thus went on that tipsye man,
The red-billed waggonere.

[Sidenote: The bailiffe complaineth of considerable derangement of his animal economye.]

The bumbailiffe so beautiful
Declared itte was no joke,
For, to his knowledge, both his legs
And fifteen ribbes were broke.

[Sidenote: Policemen with their lanthornes pursue the waggonere.]

'The lighte was gone, the nighte came on,
Ane hundrede lantherns' sheen
Glimmerred upon the kinge's highwaye--
Ane lovelye sighte, I ween.

'"Is it he," quoth one, "is this the manne?
I'll laye the rascalle stiffe;"--
With cruel stroke the beak he broke
Of the harmless bumbailiffe.

[Sidenote: Steppeth twenty feete in imitatione of the Admirable Crichtovn.]

'The threatening of the saucye rogue
No more I coulde abide;
Advancing forthe my goode right legge
Three paces and a stride,
I sent my lefte foot dexterously
Seven inches thro' his side.

[Sidenote: Complaineth of foul play and falleth down in ane trance.]

'Up came the seconde from the vanne;
We had scarcely fought a round,
When someone smote me from behinde,
And I fell down in a swound:

[Sidenote: One acteth the parte of Job's comfortere.]

'And when my head began to clear,
I heard the yemering crew--
Quoth one, "this man hath penance done,
And penance more shall do."'

PART FOURTH.

[Sidenote: The waggonere maketh ane shrewd observation.]

'O Freedom is a glorious thing!--
And, tailore, by the by,
I'd rather in a halter swing,
Than in a dungeon lie.

[Sidenote: The waggonere tickleth the spleen of the jailer, who daunces ane Fandango.]

'The jailere came to bring me foode,
Forget it will I never,
How he turned up the white o' his eye
When I stuck him in the liver.

[Sidenote: Rejoicethe in the fragrance of the aire.]

'His threade of life was snapt: once more
I reached the open streete;
The people sung out "Gardyloo"
As I ran down the streete.
Methought the blessed air of heaven
Never smelte so sweete.

[Sidenote: Dreadeth Shoan Dhu, the corporal of the guarde.]

'Once more upon the broad highwaye,
I walked with feare and drede;
And every fifteen steppes I tooke
I turned about my heade,
For feare the corporal of the guarde
Might close behind me trede!

'Behold, upon the western wave
Setteth the broad bright sunne;
So I must onward, as I have
Full fifteen miles to runne;--

[Sidenote: The waggonere taketh leave of the tailore, to whome ane small accidente happeneth. Whereupon followeth the morale very proper to be had in minde by all members of the Dilettanti Society when they come over the bridge at these houres. Wherefore let them take heed and not lay blame where it lyeth nott.]

'And should the bailiffes hither come
To aske whilke way I've gone,
Tell them I took the othere road,'
Said hee, and trotted onne.

The tailore rushed into the roome,
O'erturning three or foure;
Fractured his skulle against the walle,
And worde spake never more!!

MORALE.

Such is the fate of foolish men,
The danger all may see,
Of those, who list to waggonere,
And keepe bad companye.

TO A BOTTLE OF OLD PORT.

(MOORE)

When he who adores thee has left but the dregs
Of such famous old stingo behind,
Oh! say will he bluster and weep? No, 'ifegs!
He'll seek for some more of the kind.
He'll laugh and though doctors perhaps may condemn--
Thy tide shall efface the decree,
For many can witness, though subject to phlegm,
He has always been faithful to thee!

With thee were the dreams of his earliest love,
Every rap in his pocket was thine,
And his very last prayer, every morning, by Jove!
Was to finish the evening in wine.
How blest are the tipplers whose heads can outlive
The effects of four bottles of thee,
But the next dearest blessing that heaven can give,
Is to stagger home muzzy from three!

THE LAST LAMP OF THE ALLEY.

(MOORE)

The last lamp of the alley
Is burning alone!
All its brilliant companions
Are shivered and gone.
No lamp of her kindred,
No burner is nigh,
To rival her glimmer,
Or light to supply.

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one!
To vanish in smoke;
As the bright ones are shattered,
Thou too shalt be broke:
Thus kindly I scatter
Thy globe o'er the street;
Where the watch in his rambles
Thy fragments shall meet.

Then home will I stagger,
As well as I may;
By the light of my nose sure
I'll find out the way.
When thy blaze is extinguished,
Thy brilliancy gone,
Oh! my beak shall illumine
The alley alone.

THE GALIONGEE.

A FRAGMENT OF A TURKISH TALE.

(BYRON)

The Pacha sat in his divan,
With silver-sheathed ataghan;
And called to him a Galiongee,
Come lately from the Euxine Sea
To Stamboul; chains were on his feet,
And fetters on his hands were seen,
Because he was a Nazarene:
When, duly making reverence meet,
With haughty glance on that divan,
And curling lip, he thus began:

'By broad Phingari's silver light,
When sailing at the noon of night,
Bismillah! whom did we descry
But dark corsairs, who, bent on spoil,
Athwart the deep sea ever toil!
We knew their blood-red flags on high:
The Capitan he called, belike,
With gesture proud, to bid us strike,
And told his Sonbachis to spare
Of not one scalp a single hair,
Though garbs of green showed Emirs there!
It boots not, Pacha, to relate
What souls were sent to Eblis throne,
How Azrael's arrows scattered fate,
How wild, wet, wearied, and alone,
When all my crew were drench'd in blood,
Or floated lifeless on the flood,
I fought unawed, nor e'er thought I
To shout "Amaun!" the craven's cry--
I took my handkerchief to wipe
My burning brow, and then I took,
With placid hand, my long chibouque,
That is to say, my Turkish pipe,
And having clapp'd it in my cheek
Disdaining e'er a word to speak,
I shouted to the pirate, "Now,
You've fairly beat me, I allow,"' &c.

JOHN KEATS.

STANZAS ON CHARLES ARMITAGE BROWN.

(SPENSER)

He is to weet a melancholy carle:
Thin in the waist, with bushy head of hair,
As hath the seeded thistle when in parle
It holds the Zephyr, ere it sendeth fair
Its light balloons into the summer air;
Therto his beard had not begun to bloom,
No brush had touch'd his chin, or razor sheer;
No care had touch'd his cheek with mortal doom,
But new he was and bright as scarf from Persian loom.

Ne cared he for wine, or half and half,
Ne cared he for fish or flesh or fowl,
And sauces held he worthless as the chaff;
He 'sdeigned the swine-head at the wassail-bowl;
Ne with lewd ribbalds sat he cheek by jowl;
Ne with sly Lemans in the scorner's chair;
But after water-brooks this Pilgrim's soul
Panted, and all his food was woodland air
Though he would oft-times feast on gilliflowers rare.

The slang of cities in no wise he knew,
_Tipping the wink_ to him was heathen Greek;
He sipp'd no olden Tom or ruin blue,
Or nantz or cherry-brandy drank full meek
By many a damsel hoarse and rouge of cheek;
Nor did he know each aged watchman's beat,
Nor in obscured purlieus would he seek
For curlèd Jewesses, with ankles neat,
Who as they walk abroad make tinkling with their feet.

ON OXFORD.

(WORDSWORTH)

The Gothic looks solemn,
The plain Doric column
Supports an old Bishop and Crosier;
The mouldering arch,
Shaded o'er by a larch
Stands next door to Wilson the Hosier.

Vicè--that is, by turns,--
O'er pale faces mourns
The black tassell'd trencher and common hat;
The Chantry boy sings,
The Steeple-bell rings,
And as for the Chancellor--_dominat_.

There are plenty of trees,
And plenty of ease,
And plenty of fat deer for Parsons;
And when it is venison,
Short is the benison,--
Then each on a leg or thigh fastens.

HARTLEY COLERIDGE.

HE LIVED AMIDST TH' UNTRODDEN WAYS.

(WORDSWORTH)

He lived amidst th' untrodden ways
To Rydal Lake that lead;
A bard whom there were none to praise,
And very few to read.

Behind a cloud his mystic sense,
Deep hidden, who can spy?
Bright as the night when not a star
Is shining in the sky.

Unread his works--his 'Milk White Doe'
With dust is dark and dim;
It's still in Longman's shop, and oh!
The difference to him!

JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS.

PETER BELL: A LYRICAL BALLAD.

(WORDSWORTH)

I do affirm that I am the REAL SIMON PURE.--_Bold Stroke for
a Wife._

I.

It is the thirty-first of March,
A gusty evening--half-past seven;
The moon is shining o'er the larch,
A simple shape--a cock'd-up arch,
Rising bigger than a star,
Though the stars are thick in Heaven.

II.

Gentle moon! how canst thou shine
Over graves and over trees,
With as innocent a look
As my own grey eyeball sees,
When I gaze upon a brook?

III.

Od's me! how the moon doth shine:
It doth make a pretty glitter,
Playing in the waterfall;
As when Lucy Gray doth litter
Her baby-house with bugles small.

IV.

Beneath the ever blessed moon
An old man o'er an old grave stares,
You never look'd upon his fellow;
His brow is covered with grey hairs,
As though they were an umbrella.

V.

He hath a noticeable look,[90]
This old man hath--this grey old man;
He gazes at the graves, and seems,
With over waiting, over wan,
Like Susan Harvey's[91] pan of creams.

VI.

'Tis Peter Bell--'t is Peter Bell,
Who never stirreth in the day;
His hand is wither'd--he is old!
On Sundays he is us'd to pray,
In winter he is very cold.[92]

VII.

I've seen him in the month of August,
At the wheatfield, hour by hour,
Picking ear,--by ear,--by ear,--
Through wind,--and rain,--and sun,--and shower,
From year,--to year,--to year,--to year.

VIII.

You never saw a wiser man,
He knows his Numeration Table;
He counts the sheep of Harry Gill,[93]
Every night that he is able,
When the sheep are on the hill.

IX.

Betty Foy--_My_ Betty Foy,--
Is the aunt of Peter Bell;
And credit me, as I would have you,
Simon Lee was once his nephew,
And his niece is Alice Fell.[94]

X.

He is rurally related;
Peter Bell hath country cousins,
(He had once a worthy mother)
Bells and Peters by the dozens,
But Peter Bell he hath no brother.

XI.

Not a brother owneth he,
Peter Bell he hath no brother,
His mother had no other son,
No other son e'er call'd her mother;
Peter Bell hath brother none.

XII.

Hark! the churchyard brook is singing
Its evening song amid the leaves;
And the peering moon doth look
Sweetly on that singing brook,
Round[95] and sad as though it grieves.

XIII.

Peter Bell doth lift his hand,
That thin hand, which in the light
Looketh like to oiled paper;
Paper oiled,--oily bright,--
And held up to a waxen taper.

XIV.

The hand of Peter Bell is busy,
Under the pent-house of his hairs;
His eye is like a solemn sermon;
The little flea severely fares,
'Tis a sad day for the vermin.

XV.

He is thinking of the Bible--
Peter Bell is old and blest;
He doth pray and scratch away,
He doth scratch, and bitten, pray
To _flee_ away, and be at rest.

XVI.

At home his foster child is cradled--
Four brown bugs are feeding there[96];
Catch as many, sister Ann,
Catch as many as you can[97]
And yet the little insects spare.

XVII.

Why should blessed insects die?
The flea doth skip o'er Betty Foy,
Like a little living thing:
Though it hath not fin or wing,
Hath it not a moral joy?

XVIII.

I the poet of the mountain,
Of the waterfall and fell,
I the mighty mental medlar,
I the lonely lyric pedlar,
I the Jove of Alice Fell,

XIX.

I the Recluse--a gentle man,[98]
A gentle man--a simple creature,
Who would not hurt--God shield the thing,--
The merest, meanest May-bug's wing,
Am tender in my tender nature.

XX.

I do doat on my dear wife,
On the linnet, on the worm,
I can see sweet written salads
Growing in the Lyric Ballads,
And always find them green and firm.

XXI.

Peter Bell is laughing now,
Like a dead man making faces;
Never saw I smile so old,
On face so wrinkled and so cold,
Since the Idiot Boy's grimaces.

XXII.

He is thinking of the moors,
Where I saw him in his breeches;
Bagged though they were, a pair
Fit for a grey old man to wear;
Saw him poking,--gathering leeches.[99]

XXIII.

And gather'd leeches are to him,
To Peter Bell, like gather'd flowers;
They do yield him such delight,
As roses poach'd from porch at night,
Or pluck'd from oratoric[100] bowers.

XXIV.

How that busy smile doth hurry
O'er the cheek of Peter Bell;
He is surely in a flurry,
Hurry skurry--hurry skurry,
Such delight I may not tell.

XXV.

His stick is made of wilding wood,
His hat was formerly of felt,
His duffel cloak of wool is made,
His stockings are from stock in trade,
His belly's belted with a belt.

XXVI.

His father was a bellman once,
His mother was a beldame old;
They kept a shop at Keswick Town,
Close by the Bell, (beyond the Crown.)
And pins and peppermint they sold.

XXVII.

He is stooping now about
O'er the gravestones one and two;
The clock is now a striking eight,
Four more hours and 't will be late.
And Peter Bell hath much to do.

XXVIII.

O'er the gravestones three and four.
Peter stoopeth old and wise;
He counteth with a wizard glee
The graves of all his family,
While the hooting owlet cries.

XXIX.

Peter Bell, he readeth ably,
All his letters he can tell;
Roman W,--Roman S,
In a minute he can guess,
Without the aid of Dr. Bell.

XXX.

Peter keeps a gentle pony,
But the pony is not here;
Susan who is very tall,[101]
And very sick and sad withal,
Rides it slowly far and near.

XXXI.

Hark! the voice of Peter Bell,
And the belfry bell is knelling;
It soundeth drowsily and dead,
As though a corse th' 'Excursion' read;
Or Martha Ray her tale was telling.

XXXII.

Do listen unto Peter Bell,
While your eyes with tears do glisten:
Silence! his old eyes do read
All, on which the boys do tread
When holidays do come--Do listen!

XXXIII.

The ancient Marinere lieth here,
Never to rise, although he pray'd,--
But all men, all, must have their fallings;
And, like the Fear of Mr. Collins,[102]
He died 'of sounds himself had made.'

XXXIV.

Dead mad mother,--Martha Ray,
Old Matthew too, and Betty Foy,
Lack-a-daisy! here's a rout full;
Simon Lee whose age was doubtful,[103]
Simon even the Fates destroy.

XXXV.

Harry Gill is gone to rest,
Goody Blake is food for maggot;
They lie sweetly side by side,
Beautiful as when they died;
Never more shall she pick faggot.

XXXVI.

Still he reads, and still the moon
On the churchyard's mounds doth shine;
The brook is still demurely singing,
Again the belfry bell is ringing,
'Tis nine o'clock, six, seven, eight, nine!

XXXVII.

Patient Peter pores and proses
On, from simple grave to grave;
Here marks the children snatch'd to heaven,
None left to blunder 'we are seven';--
Even Andrew Jones[104] no power could save.

XXXVIII.

What a Sexton's work[105] is here,
Lord! the Idiot Boy is gone;
And Barbara Lewthwaite's fate the same,
And cold as mutton is her lamb;
And Alice Fell is bone by bone.

XXXIX.

And tears are thick with Peter Bell,
Yet still he sees one blessed tomb;
Tow'rds it he creeps with spectacles,
And bending on his leather knees,
He reads the _Lake_iest Poet's doom.

XL.

The letters printed are by fate,
The death they say was suicide;
He reads--'Here lieth W. W.
Who never more will trouble you, trouble you':
The old man smokes who 'tis that died.

XLI.

Go home, go home--old Man, go home;
Peter, lay thee down at night,
Thou art happy, Peter Bell,
Say thy prayers for Alice Fell,
Thou hast seen a blessed sight.

XLII.

He quits that moonlight yard of skulls,
And still he feels right glad, and smiles
With moral joy at that old tomb;
Peter's cheek recalls its bloom,
And as he creepeth by the tiles,
He mutters ever--'W. W.
Never more will trouble you, trouble you.'

_Here endeth the ballad of Peter Bell._

ROBERT GILFILLAN.

BLUE BONNETS OVER THE BORDER.

(SCOTT)

Read, read, _Woodstock_ and _Waverley_,
Turn every page and read forward in order;
Read, read, every tale cleverly,
All the old novels are over the border.
Many a book lies dead,
Dusty and never read,
Many a chiel wants a thread to his story;
While Walter, that king o' men,
Just with his single pen,
Like a giant, well _grogged_, marches on in his glory!

Come from your tales full of murders amazing,
Come from romaunts gone to bed long ago;
Come from the scribblers whom pye-men are praising,
Come to _Redgauntlet_ and brave _Ivanhoe_!
Scott's fame is sounding,
Readers abounding,
May laurels long circle his locks thin and hoary!
Scotland shall many a day
Speak of her bard, and say,
He lived for his country, and wrote for her glory!

THOMAS HOOD.

THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER.

(SPENSER)

I.

Alack! 'tis melancholy theme to think
How Learning doth in rugged states abide,
And, like her bashful owl, obscurely blink,
In pensive glooms and corners, scarcely spied;
Not, as in Founders' Halls and domes of pride,
Served with grave homage, like a tragic queen,
But with one lonely priest compell'd to hide,
In midst of foggy moors and mosses green,
In that clay cabin hight the College of Kilreen!

II.

This College looketh South and West alsoe,
Because it hath a cast in windows twain;
Crazy and crack'd they be, and wind doth blow
Thorough transparent holes in every pane,
Which Dan, with many paines, makes whole again
With nether garments, which his thrift doth teach
To stand for glass, like pronouns, and when rain
Stormeth, he puts, 'once more unto the breach,'
Outside and in, tho' broke, yet so he mendeth each.

III.

And in the midst a little door there is,
Whereon a board that doth congratulate
With painted letters, red as blood I wis,
Thus written,
'CHILDREN TAKEN IN TO BATE.'
And oft, indeed, the inward of that gate,
Most ventriloque, doth utter tender squeak,
And moans of infants that bemoan their fate,
In midst of sounds of Latin, French, and Greek,
Which, all i' the Irish tongue, he teacheth them to speak.

IV.

For some are meant to right illegal wrongs,
And some for Doctors of Divinitie,
Whom he doth teach to murder the dead tongues,
And so win academical degree;
But some are bred for service of the sea,
Howbeit, their store of learning is but small.
For mickle waste he counteth it would be
To stock a head with bookish wares at all,
Only to be knocked off by ruthless cannon ball.

V.

Six babes he sways,--some little and some big,
Divided into classes six;--alsoe,
He keeps a parlour boarder of a pig,
That in the College fareth to and fro,
And picketh up the urchins' crumbs below,--
And eke the learned rudiments they scan,
And thus his A, B, C, doth wisely know,--
Hereafter to be shown in caravan,
And raise the wonderment of many a learned man.

VI.

Alsoe, he schools some tame familiar fowls,
Whereof, above his head, some two or three
Sit darkly squatting, like Minerva's owls,
But on the branches of no living tree,
And overlook the learned family;
While, sometimes, Partlet, from her gloomy perch,
Drops feather on the nose of Dominie,
Meanwhile, with serious eye, he makes research
In leaves of that sour tree of knowledge--now a birch.

VII.

No chair he hath, the awful Pedagogue,
Such as would magisterial hams imbed,
But sitteth lowly on a beechen log,
Secure in high authority and dread:
Large, as a dome for learning, seems his head,
And like Apollo's, all beset with rays,
Because his locks are so unkempt and red,
And stand abroad in many several ways:--
No laurel crown he wears, howbeit his cap is baize.

VIII.

And, underneath, a pair of shaggy brows
O'erhang as many eyes of gizzard hue,
That inward giblet of a fowl, which shows
A mongrel tint, that is ne brown ne blue;
His nose,--it is a coral to the view;
Well nourished with Pierian Potheen,--
For much he loves his native mountain dew;--
But to depict the dye would lack, I ween,
A bottle-red, in terms, as well as bottle-green.

IX.

As for his coat, 'tis such a jerkin short
As Spencer had, ere he composed his Tales;
But underneath he hath no vest, nor aught,
So that the wind his airy breast assails;
Below, he wears the nether garb of males,
Of crimson plush, but non-plushed at the knee;--
Thence further down the native red prevails,
Of his own naked fleecy hosiery:--
Two sandals, without soles, complete his cap-a-pee.

X.

Nathless, for dignity, he now doth lap
His function in a magisterial gown,
That shows more countries in it than a map,--
Blue tinct, and red, and green, and russet brown,
Besides some blots, standing for country-town;
And eke some rents, for streams and rivers wide;
But, sometimes, bashful when he looks adown,
He turns the garment of the other side,
Hopeful that so the holes may never be espied!

XI.

And soe he sits, amidst the little pack,
That look for shady or for sunny noon,
Within his visage, like an almanack,--
His quiet smile foretelling gracious boon:
But when his mouth droops down, like rainy moon,
With horrid chill each little heart unwarms,
Knowing that infant show'rs will follow soon,
And with forebodings of near wrath and storms
They sit, like timid hares, all trembling on their forms.

XII.

Ah! luckless wight, who cannot then repeat
'Corduroy Colloquy,'--or 'Ki, Kæ, Kod,'--
Full soon his tears shall make his turfy seat
More sodden, tho' already made of sod,
For Dan shall whip him with the word of God,--
Severe by rule, and not by nature mild,
He never spoils the child and spares the rod,
But spoils the rod and never spares the child,
And soe with holy rule deems he is reconcil'd.

XIII.

But, surely, the just sky will never wink
At men who take delight in childish throe,
And stripe the nether-urchin like a pink
Or tender hyacinth, inscribed with woe;
Such bloody Pedagogues, when they shall know,
By useless birches, that forlorn recess,
Which is no holiday, in Pit below,
Will hell not seem designed for their distress,--
A melancholy place, that is all bottomlesse?

XIV.

Yet would the Muse not chide the wholesome use
Of needful discipline, in due degree.
Devoid of sway, what wrongs will time produce,
Whene'er the twig untrained grows up a tree.
This shall a Carder, that a Whiteboy be,
Ferocious leaders of atrocious bands,
And Learning's help be used for infamie,
By lawless clerks, that, with their bloody hands,
In murder'd English write Rock's murderous commands.

XV.

But ah! what shrilly cry doth now alarm
The sooty fowls that dozed upon the beam,
All sudden fluttering from the brandish'd arm,
And cackling chorus with the human scream;
Meanwhile, the scourge plies that unkindly seam,
In Phelim's brogues, which bares his naked skin,
Like traitor gap in warlike fort, I deem,
That falsely lets the fierce besieger in,
Nor seeks the pedagogue by other course to win.

XVI.

No parent dear he hath to heed his cries;--
Alas! his parent dear is far aloof,
And deep in Seven-Dial cellar lies,
Killed by kind cudgel-play, or gin of proof;
Or climbeth, catwise, on some London roof,
Singing, perchance, a lay of Erin's Isle,
Or, whilst he labours, weaves a fancy-woof,
Dreaming he sees his home,--his Phelim smile;
Ah me! that luckless imp, who weepeth all the while!

XVII.

Ah! who can paint that hard and heavy time,
When first the scholar lists in learning's train,
And mounts her rugged steep, enforc'd to climb,
Like sooty imp, by sharp posterior pain,
From bloody twig, and eke that Indian cane,
Wherein, alas! no sugar'd juices dwell,
For this the while one stripling's sluices drain
Another weepeth over chilblains fell,
Always upon the heel, yet never to be well!

XVIII.

Anon a third, for his delicious root,
Late ravish'd from his tooth by elder chit,
So soon is human violence afoot,
So hardly is the harmless biter bit!
Meanwhile, the tyrant, with untimely wit
And mouthing face, derides the small one's moan,
Who, all lamenting for his loss, doth sit,
Alack,--mischance comes seldomtimes alone,
But aye the worried dog must rue more curs than one.

XIX.

For lo! the Pedagogue, with sudden drub,
Smites his scald head, that is already sore,--
Superfluous wound,--such is Misfortune's rub!
Who straight makes answer with redoubled roar,
And sheds salt tears twice faster than before,
That still, with backward fist he strives to dry;
Washing, with brackish moisture, o'er and o'er,
His muddy cheek, that grows more foul thereby,
Till all his rainy face looks grim as rainy sky.

XX.

So Dan, by dint of noise, obtains a peace,
And with his natural untender knack,
By new distress, bids former grievance cease,
Like tears dried up with rugged huckaback,
That sets the mournful visage all awrack;
Yet soon the childish countenance will shine
Even as thorough storms the soonest slack,
For grief and beef in adverse ways incline,
This keeps, and that decays, when duly soak'd in brine.

XXI.

Now all is hushed, and, with a look profound,
The Dominie lays ope the learned page
(So be it called); although he doth expound
Without a book, both Greek and Latin sage;
Now telleth he of Rome's rude infant age,
How Romulus was bred in savage wood,
By wet-nurse wolf, devoid of wolfish rage;
And laid foundation-stone of walls of mud,
But watered it, alas! with warm fraternal blood.

XXII.

Anon, he turns to that Homeric war,
How Troy was sieged like Londonderry town;
And stout Achilles, at his jaunting-car,
Dragged mighty Hector with a bloody crown:
And eke the bard, that sung of their renown,
In garb of Greece most beggar-like and torn,
He paints, with collie, wand'ring up and down:
Because, at once, in seven cities born;
And so, of parish rights, was, all his days, forlorn.

XXIII.

Anon, through old Mythology he goes,
Of gods defunct, and all their pedigrees,
But shuns their scandalous amours, and shows
How Plato wise, and clear-ey'd Socrates,
Confess'd not to those heathen hes and shes;
But thro' the clouds of the Olympic cope
Beheld St. Peter, with his holy keys,
And own'd their love was naught, and bow'd to Pope,
Whilst all their purblind race in Pagan mist did grope.

XXIV.

From such quaint themes he turns, at last, aside,
To new philosophies, that still are green,
And shows what rail-roads have been track'd to guide
The wheels of great political machine;
If English corn should grow abroad, I ween,
And gold be made of gold, or paper sheet;
How many pigs be born to each spalpeen;
And, ah! how man shall thrive beyond his meat,--
With twenty souls alive, to one square sod of peat!

XXV.

Here, he makes end; and all the fry of youth,
That stood around with serious look intense,
Close up again their gaping eyes and mouth,
Which they had opened to his eloquence,
As if their hearing were a threefold sense;
But now the current of his words is done,
And whether any fruits shall spring from thence,
In future time, with any mother's son,
It is a thing, God wot! that can be told by none.

XXVI.

Now by the creeping shadows of the noon,
The hour is come to lay aside their lore;
The cheerful pedagogue perceives it soon,
And cries, 'Begone!' unto the imps,--and four
Snatch their two hats, and struggle for the door,
Like ardent spirits vented from a cask,
All blythe and boisterous,--but leave two more,
With Reading made Uneasy for a task,
To weep, whilst all their mates in merry sunshine bask.

XXVII.

Like sportive Elfins, on the verdant sod,
With tender moss so sleekly overgrown,
That doth not hurt, but kiss, the sole unshod,
So soothly kind is Erin to her own!
And one, at Hare and Hound, plays all alone,--
For Phelim's gone to tend his step-dame's cow;
Ah! Phelim's step-dame is a canker'd crone!
Whilst other twain play at an Irish row,
And, with shillelagh small, break one another's brow!

XXVIII.

But careful Dominie, with ceaseless thrift,
Now changeth ferula for rural hoe;
But, first of all, with tender hand doth shift
His college gown, because of solar glow,
And hangs it on a bush, to scare the crow:
Meanwhile, he plants in earth the dappled bean,
Or trains the young potatoes all a-row,
Or plucks the fragrant leek for pottage green,
With that crisp curly herb, call'd Kale in Aberdeen.

XXIX.

And so he wisely spends the fruitful hours,
Linked each to each by labour, like a bee;
Or rules in Learning's hall, or trims her bow'rs;--
Would there were many more such wights as he,
To sway each capital academie
Of Cam and Isis, for, alack! at each
There dwells, I wot, some dronish Dominie,
That does no garden work, nor yet doth teach,
But wears a floury head, and talks in flow'ry speech!

HUGGINS AND DUGGINS.

A PASTORAL AFTER POPE.

Two swains or clowns--but call them swains--
While keeping flocks on Salisbury Plains,
For all that tend on sheep as drovers,
Are turned to songsters, or to lovers,
Each of the lass he call'd his dear
Began to carol loud and clear.
First Huggins sang, and Duggins then,
In the way of ancient shepherd men;
Who thus alternate hitch'd in song,
'All things by turns, and nothing long.'

_Huggins._

Of all the girls about our place,
There's one beats all in form and face;
Search through all Great and Little Bumpstead
You'll only find one Peggy Plumstead.

_Duggins._

To groves and streams I tell my flame;
I make the cliffs repeat her name:
When I'm inspired by gills and noggins,
The rocks re-echo Sally Hoggins!

_Huggins._

When I am walking in the grove,
I think of Peggy as I rove.
I'd carve her name on every tree,
But I don't know my A, B, C.

_Duggins._

Whether I walk in hill or valley,
I think of nothing else but Sally.
I'd sing her praise, but I can sing
No song, except 'God save the King.'

_Huggins._

My Peggy does all nymphs excel,
And all confess she bears the bell,--
Where'er she goes swains flock together,
Like sheep that follow the bellwether.

_Duggins._

Sally is tall and not too straight,--
Those very poplar shapes I hate;
But something twisted like an S,--
A crook becomes a shepherdess.

_Huggins._

When Peggy's dog her arms emprison,
I often wish my lot was hisn;
How often I should stand and turn,
To get a pat from hands like hern.

_Duggins._

I tell Sall's lambs how blest they be,
To stand about and stare at she;
But when I look, she turns and shies,
And won't bear none but their sheep's-eyes!

_Huggins._

Love goes with Peggy where she goes,--
Beneath her smile the garden grows;
Potatoes spring, and cabbage starts,
'Tatoes have eyes, and cabbage hearts!

_Duggins._

Where Sally goes it's always Spring,
Her presence brightens everything;
The sun smiles bright, but where her grin is,
It makes brass farthings look like guineas.

_Huggins._

For Peggy I can have no joy,
She's sometimes kind, and sometimes coy,
And keeps me, by her wayward tricks,
As comfortless as sheep with ticks.

_Duggins._

Sally is ripe as June or May,
And yet as cold as Christmas day;
For when she's asked to change her lot,
Lamb's wool,--but Sally, she wool not.

_Huggins._

Only with Peggy and with health,
I'd never wish for state or wealth;
Talking of having health and more pence,
I'd drink her health if I had four pence.

_Duggins._

Oh, how that day would seem to shine,
If Sally's banns were read with mine;
She cries, when such a wish I carry,
'Marry come up!' but will not marry.

SEA SONG.

(DIBDIN)

Pure water it plays a good part in
The swabbing the decks and all that--
And it finds its own level for sartin--
For it sartinly drinks very flat:--
For my part a drop of the creatur
I never could think was a fault,
For if Tars should swig water by natur,
The sea would have never been salt!--
Then off with it into a jorum
And make it strong, sharpish, or sweet,
For if I've any sense of decorum,
It never was meant to be neat!--

One day when I was but half sober,--
Half measures I always disdain--
I walk'd into a shop that sold Soda,
And ax'd for some Water Champagne:--
Well, the lubber he drew and he drew, boys,
Till I'd shipped my six bottles or more,
And blow off my last limb but it's true, boys,
Why, I warn't half so drunk as afore!--
Then off with it into a jorum,
And make it strong, sharpish, or sweet,
For if I've any sense of decorum,
It never was meant to be neat.

'WE MET--'TWAS IN A CROWD.'

(T. H. BAYLY)

We met--'twas in a mob--and I thought he had done me--
I felt--I could not feel--for no watch was upon me;
He ran--the night was cold--and his pace was unalter'd,
I too longed much to pelt--but my small-boned legs falter'd.
I wore my bran new boots--and unrivall'd their brightness;
They fit me to a hair--how I hated their tightness!
I call'd, but no one came, and my stride had a tether,
Oh _thou_ hast been the cause of this anguish, my leather!

And once again we met--and an old pal was near him,
He swore, a something low--but 'twas no use to fear him;
I seized upon his arm, he was mine and mine only,
And stept--as he deserv'd--to cells wretched and lonely:
And there he will be tried--but I shall ne'er receive her,
The watch that went too sure for an artful deceiver;
The world may think me gay,--heart and feet ache together,
Oh _thou_ hast been the cause of this anguish, my leather!

THOSE EVENING BELLS.

(MOORE)

Those Evening Bells, those Evening Bells,
How many a tale their music tells,
Of Yorkshire cakes and crumpets prime,
And letters only just in time!--

The Muffin-boy has pass'd away,
The Postman gone--and I must pay,
For down below Deaf Mary dwells,
And does not hear those Evening Bells.

And so 'twill be when she is gone,
That tuneful peal will still ring on,
And other maids with timely yells
Forget to stay those Evening Bells.

THE WATER PERI'S SONG.

(MOORE)

Farewell, farewell, to my mother's own daughter,
The child that she wet-nursed is lapp'd in the wave;
The _Mussul_-man coming to fish in this water
Adds a tear to the flood that weeps over her grave.

This sack is her coffin, this water's her bier,
This greyish _bath_ cloak is her funeral pall;
And, stranger, O stranger! this song that you hear
Is her epitaph, elegy, dirges, and all!

Farewell, farewell, to the child of Al Hassan,
My mother's own daughter--the last of her race--
She's a corpse, the poor body! and lies in this basin,
And sleeps in the water that washes her face.

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

CABBAGES.

(LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON)

Cabbages! bright green cabbages!
April's loveliest gifts, I guess.
There is not a plant in the garden laid,
Raised by the dung, dug by the spade,
None by the gardener watered, I ween,
So sweet as the cabbage, the cabbage green.

I do remember how sweet a smell
Came with the cabbage I loved so well,
Served up with the beef that beautiful looked,
The beef that the dark-eyed Ellen cooked.
I have seen beef served with radish of horse,
I have seen beef served with lettuce of Cos,
But it is far nicer, far nicer, I guess,
As bubble and squeak, beef and cabbages.

And when the dinner-bell sounds for me--
I care not how soon that time may be--
Carrots shall never be served on my cloth;
They are far too sweet for a boy of my broth;
But let me have there a mighty mess
Of smoking hot beef and cabbages.

LARRY O'TOOLE.

(LEVER)

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
That 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 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 WILLOW TREE.

(THACKERAY)

Long by the willow-trees
Vainly they sought her,
Wild rang the mother's screams
O'er the grey water:
'Where is my lovely one?
Where is my daughter?

'Rouse thee, sir constable--
Rouse thee and look;
Fisherman, bring your net,
Boatman, your hook.
Beat in the lily-beds,
Dive in the brook!'

Vainly the constable
Shouted and called her;
Vainly the fisherman
Beat the green alder,
Vainly he flung the net,
Never it hauled her!

Mother, beside the fire
Sat, her nightcap in;
Father, in easy-chair,
Gloomily napping,
When at the window-sill
Came a light tapping!

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!'

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.

'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.'

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.

_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!

DEAR JACK.

(FRANCIS FAWKES)

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.

THE GHAZUL, OR ORIENTAL LOVE-SONG.

I. _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.

II. _The Merry Bard._

Zuleikah! The young Agas in the bazaar are slim-waisted and wear yellow slippers. I am old and hideous. One of my eyes is out, and the hairs of my beard are mostly grey. 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.

III. _The Caïque._

Yonder to the kiosk, beside the creek,
Paddle the swift caïque.
Thou brawny oarsman with the sunburnt cheek,
Quick! for it soothes my heart to hear the Bulbul speak!

Ferry me quickly to the Asian shores,
Swift bending to your oars.
Beneath the melancholy sycamores,
Hark! what a ravishing note the lovelorn Bulbul pours.

Behold, the boughs seem quivering with delight,
The stars themselves more bright,
As 'mid the waving branches out of sight
The Lover of the Rose sits singing through the night.

Under the boughs I sat and listened still,
I could not have my fill.
'How comes,' I said, 'such music to his bill?
Tell me for whom he sings so beautiful a trill.'

'Once I was dumb,' then did the Bird disclose,
'But looked upon the Rose;
And in the garden where the loved one grows,
I straightway did begin sweet music to compose.'

'O bird of song, there's one in this caïque
The Rose would also seek,
So he might learn like you to love and speak.'
Then answered me the bird of dusky beak,
'The Rose, the Rose of Love blushes on Leilah's cheek.'

THE ALMACK'S ADIEU.

('WAPPING OLD STAIRS')

Your Fanny was never false-hearted,
And this she protests and she vows,
From the _triste moment_ when we parted
On the staircase at 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 faisais moi tapisserie_)
You danced every one of the dances,
And never once thought of poor me!
_Mon pauvre petit cœur!_ what a shiver
I felt as she danced the last set,
And you gave, _ô 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 these Circes,
_Reviens_ for a nice little chat;
And I've made you the sweetest of purses,
And a lovely black satin cravat!

THE KNIGHTLY GUERDON.

('WAPPING OLD STAIRS')

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 confessed,
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.