Chapter XIV: Part THE SEVENTH: Double Damnation (2)

The knights were assembled, the tourney was gay!
Sir Ulric rode first in the warrior-_mêlée_.
In the dire battle-hour, when the tourney was done,
And you gave to another the wreath you had won!
Though I never reproached thee, cold, cold was my breast,
As I thought of that BATTLE-AXE, ah! and that crest!

But away with remembrance, no more will I pine
That others usurped for a time what was mine!
There's a FESTIVAL HOUR for my Ulric and me;
Once more, as of old, shall he bend at my knee;
Once more by the side of the knight I love best
Shall I blazon his BANNER and broider his CREST.

WILLIAM EDMONDSTOUNE AYTOUN.

THE MASSACRE OF THE MACPHERSON.

('FROM THE GAELIC')

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

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.

'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!'

'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 plunder'd.'

'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!'

'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.

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 spoil'd ta Flood,
By trinking up ta water:

Which he would have done,
I at least believe 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!

A MIDNIGHT MEDITATION

(BULWER LYTTON)

Fill me once more the foaming pewter up!
Another board of oysters, ladye mine!
To-night Lucullus with himself shall sup.
These mute inglorious Miltons are divine!
And as I here in slipper'd ease recline,
Quaffing of Perkins's Entire my fill,
I sigh not for the lymph of Aganippe's rill.

A nobler inspiration fires my brain,
Caught from Old England's fine time-hallow'd drink;
I snatch the pot again, and yet again,
And as the foaming fluids shrink and shrink,
Fill me once more, I say, up to the brink!
This makes strong hearts--strong heads attest its charm--
This nerves the might that sleeps in Britain's brawny arm!

But these remarks are neither here nor there.
Where was I? Oh, I see--old Southey's dead!
They'll want some bard to fill the vacant chair,
And drain the annual butt--and oh, what head
More fit with laurel to be garlanded
Than this, which, curled in many a fragrant coil,
Breathes of Castalia's streams, and best Macassar oil?

I know a grace is seated on my brow,
Like young Apollo's with his golden beams
There should Apollo's bays be budding now:--
And in my flashing eyes the radiance beams
That marks the poet in his waking dreams,
When, as his fancies cluster thick and thicker,
He feels the trance divine of poesy and liquor.

They throng around me now, those things of air,
That from my fancy took their being's stamp:
There Pelham sits and twirls his glossy hair,
There Clifford leads his pals upon the tramp;
There pale Zanoni, bending o'er his lamp,
Roams through the starry wilderness of thought,
Where all is everything, and everything is nought.

Yes, I am he who sang how Aram won
The gentle ear of pensive Madeline!
How love and murder hand in hand may run,
Cemented by philosophy serene,
And kisses bless the spot where gore has been!
Who breathed the melting sentiment of crime,
And for the assassin waked a sympathy sublime!

Yes, I am he, who on the novel shed
Obscure philosophy's enchanting light!
Until the public, 'wildered as they read,
Believed they saw that which was not in sight--
Of course 'twas not for me to set them right;
For in my nether heart convinced I am,
Philosophy's as good as any other bam.

Novels three-volumed I shall write no more--
Somehow or other now they will not sell;
And to invent new passions is a bore--
I find the Magazines pay quite as well.
Translating's simple, too, as I can tell,
Who've hawked at Schiller on his lyric throne,
And given the astonish'd bard a meaning all my own.

Moore, Campbell, Wordsworth, their best days are grass'd:
Batter'd and broken are their early lyres.
Rogers, a pleasant memory of the past,
Warm'd his young hands at Smithfield's martyr fires,
And, worth a plum, nor bays nor butt desires.
But these are things would suit me to the letter,
For though this Stout is good, old Sherry's greatly better.

A fico for your small poetic ravers,
Your Hunts, your Tennysons, your Milnes, and these!
Shall they compete with him who wrote 'Maltravers,'
Prologue to 'Alice or the Mysteries'?
No! Even now my glance prophetic sees
My own high brow girt with the bays about.
What ho! within there, ho! another pint of Stout!

THE HUSBAND'S PETITION.

(AYTOUN)

Come hither, my heart's darling,
Come, sit upon my knee,
And listen, while I whisper
A boon I ask of thee.
You need not pull my whiskers
So amorously, my dove;
'Tis something quite apart from
The gentle cares of love.

I feel a bitter craving--
A dark and deep desire,
That glows beneath my bosom
Like coals of kindled fire.
The passion of the nightingale,
When singing to the rose,
Is feebler than the agony
That murders my repose!

Nay, dearest! do not doubt me,
Though madly thus I speak--
I feel thy arms about me,
Thy tresses on my cheek:
I know the sweet devotion
That links thy heart with mine,--
I know my soul's emotion
Is doubly felt by thine:

And deem not that a shadow
Hath fallen across my love:
No, sweet, my love is shadowless,
As yonder heaven above.
These little taper fingers--
Ah, Jane! how white they be!--
Can well supply the cruel want
That almost maddens me.

Thou wilt not sure deny me
My first and fond request;
I pray thee, by the memory
Of all we cherish best--
By all the dear remembrance
Of those delicious days
When, hand in hand, we wander'd
Along the summer braes;

By all we felt, unspoken,
When 'neath the early moon,
We sat beside the rivulet,
In the leafy month of June;
And by the broken whisper
That fell upon my ear,
More sweet than angel music,
When first I woo'd thee, dear!

By that great vow which bound thee
For ever to my side,
And by the ring that made thee
My darling and my bride!
Thou wilt not fail nor falter,
But bend thee to the task--
A BOILED SHEEP'S HEAD ON SUNDAY
Is all the boon I ask!

CHARLES WILLIAM SHIRLEY BROOKS.

SONNET CCCI.

TO MY FIVE NEW KITTENS.

(TUPPER)

Soft little beasts, how pleasantly ye lie
Snuggling and snoozling by your purring sire,
Mother I mean (but sonnet-rhymes require
A shorter word, and boldly I defy
Those who would tie the bard by pedant rule).
O kittens, you're not thinking, I'll be bound,
How three of you had yesterday been drowned
But that my little boy came home from school,
And begged your lives, though Cook remonstrance made,
Declaring we were overrun with cats,
That licked her cream-dish and her butter-pats,
But childhood's pleadings won me, and I said--
'O Cook, we'll keep the innocents alive;
They're five, consider, and you've fingers five.'

FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT.

A NEW VERSION, RESPECTFULLY RECOMMENDED TO SUNDRY WHOM
IT CONCERNS.

(BURNS)

More luck to honest poverty,
It claims respect, and a' that;
But honest wealth's a better thing,
We dare be rich for a' that.
For a' that, and a' that,
And spooney cant and a' that,
A man may have a ten-pun note,
And be a brick for a' that.

What though on soup and fish we dine,
Wear evening togs and a' that,
A man may like good meat and wine,
Nor be a knave for a' that.
For a' that, and a' that,
Their fustian talk and a' that,
A gentleman, however clean,
May have a heart for a' that.

You see yon prater called a Beales,
Who bawls and brays and a' that,
Tho' hundreds cheer his blatant bosh,
He's but a goose for a' that.
For a' that, and a' that,
His Bubblyjocks, and a' that,
A man with twenty grains of sense,
He looks and laughs at a' that.

A prince can make a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, and a' that,
And if the title's earned, all right,
Old England's fond of a' that.
For a' that, and a' that,
Beales' balderdash, and a' that,
A name that tells of service done
Is worth the wear, for a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may
And come it will for a' that,
That common sense may take the place
Of common cant and a' that.
For a' that, and a' that,
Who cackles trash and a' that,
Or be he lord, or be he low,
The man's an ass for a' that.

SIR THEODORE MARTIN.

THE LAY OF THE LOVELORN.

(TENNYSON)

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.[106]

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.[107]

Better thou wert dead before me,--better, better that I stood,
Looking on thy murdered body, like the injured Daniel Good![107]

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 I turn the honest penny, scribbling for the weekly press,
And in writing Sunday libels drown my private wretchedness?[108]

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;[109]

Felt the exquisite enjoyment, tossing nightly off, oh heavens!
Brandies at the Cider Cellars, kidneys smoking-hot at Evans'![110]

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.[111]

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 Spitalfields.

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 thoroughbred 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!

TOM TAYLOR.

THE LAUREATE'S BUST AT TRINITY.

A FRAGMENT OF AN IDYLL.

(TENNYSON)

--So the stately bust abode
For many a month, unseen, among the Dons.
Nor in the lodge, nor in the library,
Upon its pedestal appeared, to be
A mark for reverence of green gownsman-hood,
Of grief to ancient fogies, and reproof
To those who knew not Alfred, being hard
And narrowed in their honour to old names
Of poets, who had vogue when _they_ were young,
And not admitting later bards; but now,
Last week, a rumour widely blown about,
Walking the windy circle of the Press,
Came, that stern Whewell, with the Seniors,
Who rule the destinies of Trinity,
Had of the sanctuary barred access
Unto the bust of Alfred Tennyson,
By Woolner carved, subscribed for by the youth
Who loved the Poet, hoped to see him set
Within the Library of Trinity,
One great man more o' the house, among the great,
Who grace that still Valhalla, ranged in row,
Along the chequered marbles of the floor,
Two stately ranks--to where the fragrant limes
Look thro' the far end window, cool and green.
A band it is, of high companionship,--
Chief, Newton, and the broad-browed Verulam,
And others only less than these in arts
Or science: names that England holds on high.
Among whom, hoped the youth, would soon be set,
The living likeness of a living Bard,--
Great Alfred Tennyson, the Laureate,
Whom Trinity most loves of living sons.
But other thought had Whewell and the Dons,
Deeming such honour only due to those
Upon whose greatness Death had set his seal.
So fixed their faces hard, and shut the doors
Upon the living Poet: for, said one,
'It is too soon,' and when they heard the phrase,
Others caught up the cue, and chorussed it,
Until, the Poet echoing 'Soon? too soon?'
As if in wrath, Whewell looked up, and said:--
'O Laureate, if indeed you list to try,
Try, and unfix our purpose in this thing.'
Whereat full shrilly sang th' excluded bard:

'Soon, soon, so soon! Whewell looks stern and chill,
Soon, soon, so soon! but I can enter still.'
'Too soon, too soon! You cannot enter now.'

'I am not dead: of that I do repent.
But to my living prayer, oh now relent.'
'Too soon, too soon! You cannot enter now.'

'Honour in life is sweet: my fame is wide,
Let me to stand at Dryden's, Byron's side.'
'Too soon, too soon! You cannot enter now!'

'Honour that comes in life is rare as sweet;
I cannot taste it long: for life is fleet.'
'No, no, too soon! You cannot enter now!'

So sang the Laureate, while all stonily,
Their chins upon their hands, as men that had
No entrails to be moved, sat the stern Dons.

FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON.

UNFORTUNATE MISS BAILEY.

AN EXPERIMENT.

(TENNYSON)

When he whispers, 'O Miss Bailey,
Thou art brightest of the throng'--
She makes murmur, softly-gaily--
'Alfred, I have loved thee long.'

Then he drops upon his knees, a
Proof his heart is soft as wax;
She's--I don't know who, but he's a
Captain bold from Halifax.

Though so loving, such another
Artless bride was never seen;
Coachee thinks that she's his mother
--Till they get to Gretna Green.

There they stand, by him attended,
Hear the sable smith rehearse
That which links them, when 'tis ended,
Tight for better--or for worse.

Now her heart rejoices--ugly
Troubles need disturb her less--
Now the Happy Pair are snugly
Seated in the night express.

So they go with fond emotion,
So they journey through the night--
London is their land of Goshen--
See, its suburbs are in sight!

Hark! the sound of life is swelling,
Pacing up, and racing down,
Soon they reach her simple dwelling--
Burley Street, by Somers Town.

What is there to so astound them?
She cries 'Oh!' for he cries 'Hah!'
When five brats emerge, confound them!
Shouting out, 'Mamma!--Papa!'

While at this he wonders blindly,
Nor their meaning can divine,
Proud she turns them round, and kindly,
'All of these are mine and thine!'

* * * * *

Here he pines, and grows dyspeptic,
Losing heart he loses pith--
Hints that Bishop Tait's a sceptic--
Swears that Moses was a myth.

Sees no evidence in Paley--
Takes to drinking ratafia:
Shies the muffins at Miss Bailey
While she's pouring out the tea.

One day, knocking up his quarters,
Poor Miss Bailey found him dead,
Hanging in his knotted garters,
Which she knitted ere they wed.

PHOEBE CARY.

'THE DAY IS DONE.'

(LONGFELLOW)

The day is done, and darkness
From the wing of night is loosed,
As a feather is wafted downward
From a chicken going to roost.

I see the lights of the baker
Gleam through the rain and mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me
That I cannot well resist.

A feeling of sadness and _longing_,
That is not like being sick,
And resembles sorrow only
As a brickbat resembles a brick.

Come, get for me some supper,--
A good and regular meal,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the pain I feel.

Not from the pastry baker's,
Not from the shops for cake,
I wouldn't give a farthing
For all that they can make.

For, like the soup at dinner,
Such things would but suggest
Some dishes more substantial,
And to-night I want the best.

Go to some honest butcher,
Whose beef is fresh and nice
As any they have in the city,
And get a liberal slice.

Such things through days of labour,
And nights devoid of ease,
For sad and desperate feelings
Are wonderful remedies.

They have an astonishing power
To aid and reinforce,
And come like the 'Finally, brethren,'
That follows a long discourse.

Then get me a tender sirloin
From off the bench or hook,
And lend to its sterling goodness
The science of the cook.

And the night shall be filled with comfort,
And the cares with which it begun
Shall fold up their blankets like Indians,
And silently cut and run.

(SHAKESPEARE)

That very time I saw, (but thou couldst not,)
Walking between the garden and the barn,
Reuben, all armed; a certain aim he took
At a young chicken, standing by a post,
And loosed his bullet smartly from his gun,
As he would kill a hundred thousand hens.
But I might see young Reuben's fiery shot
Lodged in the chaste board of the garden fence,
And the domesticated fowl passed on,
In henly meditation, bullet free.

'WHEN LOVELY WOMAN.'

(GOLDSMITH)

When lovely woman wants a favour,
And finds, too late, that man won't bend,
What earthly circumstance can save her
From disappointment in the end?

The only way to bring him over,
The last experiment to try,
Whether a husband or a lover,
If he have feeling, is, to cry!

EDWARD BRADLEY ('CUTHBERT BEDE').

ON A TOASTED MUFFIN.

(BY SIR E. L. B. L. B. L. B. LITTLE, BART., AUTHOR OF 'THE
NEW SIMON,' ETC.)

(LYTTON)

Object belov'd! when day to eve gives place,
And Life's best nectar thy fond vot'ry sips,
How sweet to gaze upon thy shining face,
And press thy tender form unto my lips!

Fair as the Naiad of the Grecian stream,
And beautiful as Oread of the lawn;
Bright-beaming as the iv'ry-palac'd dream,
And melting as the dewy Urns of Dawn.

For thee I strike the sounding Lyre of Song,
And hymn the Beautiful, the Good, the True;
The dying notes of thankfulness prolong,
And light the Beacon-fires of Praise for you.

Butter'd Ideal of Life's coarser food!
Thou calm Egeria in a world of strife!
Antigone of crumpets! mild as good,
Decent in death, and beautiful in life!

Fairest where all is _fare_! shine on me still,
And gild the dark To-Morrow of my days;
In public Marts and crowded Senates thrill,
My soul, with Tea-time thoughts and Muffin lays.

IN IMMEMORIAM.

[Ascribed to the author of 'In Memoriam,' but not believed to be his.]

(TENNYSON)

We seek to know, and, knowing, seek;
We seek, we know, and every sense
Is trembling with the great intense,
And vibrating to what we speak.

We ask too much, we seek too oft;
We know enough, and should no more;
And yet we skim through Fancy's lore,
And look to earth, and not aloft.

A something comes from out the gloom--
I know it not, nor seek to know--
I only see it swell and grow,
And more than this would not presume.

Meseems, a circling void I fill,
And I unchanged where all is change;
It seems unreal--I own it strange--
Yet nurse the thoughts I cannot kill.

I hear the ocean's surging tide
Raise, quiring on, its carol-tune;
I watch the golden-sickled moon,
And clearer voices call beside.

O sea! whose ancient ripples lie
On red-ribbed sands where seaweeds shone;
O moon! whose golden sickle's gone,
O voices all! like you, I die! (_Dies._)

BAYARD TAYLOR.

ODE ON A JAR OF PICKLES.

(KEATS)

I.

A sweet, acidulous, down-reaching thrill
Pervades my sense: I seem to see or hear
The lushy garden-grounds of Greenwich Hill
In autumn, when the crispy leaves are sere:
And odours haunt me of remotest spice
From the Levant or musky-aired Cathay,
Or from the saffron-fields of Jericho,
Where everything is nice:
The more I sniff, the more I swoon away,
And what else mortal palate craves, forgo.

II.

Odours unsmelled are keen, but those I smell
Are keener; wherefore let me sniff again!
Enticing walnuts, I have known ye well
In youth, when pickles were a passing pain;
Unwitting youth, that craves the candy stem,
And sugar-plums to olives doth prefer,
And even licks the pots of marmalade
When sweetness clings to them:
But now I dream of ambergris and myrrh,
Tasting these walnuts in the poplar shade.

III.

Lo! hoarded coolness in the heart of noon,
Plucked with its dew, the cucumber is here,
As to the Dryad's parching lips a boon,
And crescent bean-pods, unto Bacchus dear;
And, last of all, the pepper's pungent globe,
The scarlet dwelling of the sylph of fire,
Provoking purple draughts; and, surfeited,
I cast my trailing robe
O'er my pale feet, touch up my tuneless lyre,
And twist the Delphic wreath to suit my head.

IV.

Here shall my tongue in other wise be soured
Than fretful men's in parched and palsied days;
And, by the mid-May's dusky leaves embowered,
Forget the fruitful blame, the scanty praise.
No sweets to them who sweet themselves were born,
Whose natures ooze with lucent saccharine;
Who, with sad repetition soothly cloyed,
The lemon-tinted morn
Enjoy, and find acetic twilight fine:
Wake I, or sleep? The pickle-jar is void.

GWENDOLINE.

(E. B. BROWNING)

'Twas not the brown of chestnut boughs
That shadowed her so finely;
It was the hair that swept her brows
And framed her face divinely;
Her tawny hair, her purple eyes,
The spirit was ensphered in,
That took you with such swift surprise,
Provided you had peered in.

Her velvet foot amid the moss
And on the daisies patted,
As, querulous with sense of loss,
It tore the herbage matted:
'And come he early, come he late,'
She saith, 'it will undo me;
The sharp fore-speeded shaft of fate
Already quivers through me.

'When I beheld his red-roan steed,
I knew what aim impelled it;
And that dim scarf of silver brede,
I guessed for whom he held it;
I recked not, while he flaunted by,
Of Love's relentless vi'lence,
Yet o'er me crashed the summer sky,
In thunders of blue silence.

'His hoof-prints crumbled down the vale,
But left behind their lava;
What should have been my woman's mail,
Grew jellied as guava:
I looked him proud, but 'neath my pride
I felt a boneless tremor;
He was the Beër, I descried,
And I was but the Seemer!

'Ah, how to be what then I seemed,
And bid him seem that is so!
We always tangle threads we dreamed,
And contravene our bliss so.
I see the red-roan steed again!
He looks, as something sought he:
Why, hoity toity!--_he_ is fain,
So _I_'ll be cold and haughty!'

ANGELO ORDERS HIS DINNER.

(R. BROWNING)

I, Angelo, obese, black-garmented,
Respectable, much in demand, well fed
With mine own larder's dainties,--where, indeed,
Such cakes of myrrh or fine alyssum seed,
Thin as a mallow-leaf, embrowned o' the top,
Which, cracking, lets the ropy, trickling drop
Of sweetness touch your tongue, or potted nests
Which my recondite recipe invests
With cold conglomerate tidbits--ah, the bill!
(You say,) but given it were mine to fill
My chests, the case so put were yours, we'll say,
(This counter, here, your post, as mine to-day,)
And you've an eye to luxuries, what harm
In smoothing down your palate with the charm
Yourself concocted? There we issue take;
And see! as thus across the rim I break
This puffy paunch of glazed embroidered cake,
So breaks, through use, the lust of watering chaps
And craveth plainness: do I so? Perhaps;
But that's my secret. Find me such a man
As Lippo yonder, built upon the plan
Of heavy storage, double-navelled, fat
From his own giblets' oil, an Ararat
Uplift o'er water, sucking rosy draughts
From Noah's vineyard,--... crisp, enticing wafts
Yon kitchen now emits, which to your sense
Somewhat abate the fear of old events,
Qualms to the stomach,--I, you see, am slow
Unnecessary duties to forgo,--
You understand? A venison haunch, _haut goût_,
Ducks that in Cimbrian olives mildly stew,
And sprigs of anise, might one's teeth provoke
To taste, and so we wear the complex yoke
Just as it suits,--my liking, I confess,
More to receive, and to partake no less,
Still more obese, while through thick adipose
Sensation shoots, from testing tongue to toes
Far-off, dim-conscious, at the body's verge,
Where the froth-whispers of its waves emerge
On the untasting sand. Stay, now! a seat
Is bare: I, Angelo, will sit and eat.

THE SHRIMP-GATHERERS.

(JEAN INGELOW)

Scarlet spaces of sand and ocean,
Gulls that circle and winds that blow;
Baskets and boats and men in motion,
Sailing and scattering to and fro.

Girls are waiting, their wimples adorning
With crimson sprinkles the broad grey flood;
And down the beach the blush of the morning
Shines reflected from moisture and mud.

Broad from the yard the sails hang limpy;
Lightly the steersman whistles a lay;
Pull with a will, for the nets are shrimpy,
Pull with a whistle, our hearts are gay!

Tuppence a quart; there are more than fifty!
Coffee is certain, and beer galore:
Coats are corduroy, and minds are thrifty,
Won't we go it on sea and shore!

See, behind, how the hills are freckled
With low white huts, where the lasses bide!
See, before, how the sea is speckled
With sloops and schooners that wait the tide!

Yarmouth fishers may rail and roister,
Tyne-side boys may shout, 'Give way!'
Let them dredge for the lobster and oyster,
Pink and sweet are our shrimps to-day!

Shrimps and the delicate periwinkle,
Such are the sea-fruits lasses love:
Ho! to your nets till the blue stars twinkle,
And the shutterless cottages gleam above!

CIMABUELLA.

(D. G. ROSSETTI)

I.

Fair-tinted cheeks, clear eyelids drawn
In crescent curves above the light
Of eyes, whose dim, uncertain dawn
Becomes not day: a forehead white
Beneath long yellow heaps of hair:
She is so strange she must be fair.

II.

Had she sharp, slant-wise wings outspread,
She were an angel; but she stands
With flat dead gold behind her head,
And lilies in her long thin hands:
Her folded mantle, gathered in,
Falls to her feet as it were tin.

III.

Her nose is keen as pointed flame;
Her crimson lips no thing express;
And never dread of saintly blame
Held down her heavy eyelashes:
To guess what she were thinking of,
Precludeth any meaner love.

IV.

An azure carpet, fringed with gold,
Sprinkled with scarlet spots, I laid
Before her straight, cool feet unrolled:
But she nor sound nor movement made
(Albeit I heard a soft, shy smile,
Printing her neck a moment's while);

V.

And I was shamed through all my mind
For that she spake not, neither kissed,
But stared right past me. Lo! behind
Me stood, in pink and amethyst,
Sword-girt and velvet-doubleted,
A tall, gaunt youth, with frowzy head,

VI.

Wide nostrils in the air, dull eyes,
Thick lips that simpered, but, ah me!
I saw, with most forlorn surprise,
He was the Thirteenth Century,
I but the Nineteenth: then despair
Curdled beneath my curling hair.

VII.

O, Love and Fate! How could she choose
My rounded outlines, broader brain,
And my resuscitated Muse?
Some tears she shed, but whether pain
Or joy in him unlocked their source,
I could not fathom which, of course.

VIII.

But I from missals, quaintly bound,
With cither and with clavichord
Will sing her songs of sovran sound:
Belike her pity will afford
Such faint return as suits a saint
So sweetly done in verse and paint.

FROM 'THE TAMING OF THEMISTOCLES.'

(WILLIAM MORRIS)

'He must be holpen; yet how help shall I,
Steeped to the lips in ancient misery,
And by the newer grief apparellèd?
If that I throw these ashes on mine head,
Do this thing for thee,--while about my way
A shadow gathers, and the piteous day,
So wan and bleak for very loneliness,
Turneth from sight of such untruthfulness?'
Therewith he caught an arrow from the sheaf,
And brake the shaft in witlessness of grief;
But Chiton's vest, such dismal fear she had,
Shook from the heart that sorely was a-drad,
And she began, withouten any pause,
To say: 'Why break the old Ætolian laws?
Send this man forth, that never harm hath done,
Between the risen and the setten sun.'

And next, they wandered to a steepy hill,
Whence all the land was lying grey and still,
And not a living creature there might be
From the cold mountains to the salt, cold sea;
Only, within a little cove, one sail
Shook, as it whimpered at the cruel gale,
And the mast moaned from chafing of the rope;
So all was pain: they saw not any hope.

ALL OR NOTHING.

(EMERSON)

Whoso answers my questions
Knoweth more than me;
Hunger is but knowledge
In a less degree:
Prophet, priest, and poet
Oft prevaricate,
And the surest sentence
Hath the greatest weight.

When upon my gaiters
Drops the morning dew,
Somewhat of Life's riddle
Soaks my spirit through.
I am buskined by the goddess
Of Monadnock's crest,
And my wings extended
Touch the East and West.

Or ever coal was hardened
In the cells of earth,
Or flowed the founts of Bourbon,
Lo! I had my birth.
I am crowned coeval
With the Saurian eggs,
And my fancy firmly
Stands on its own legs.

Wouldst thou know the secret
Of the barberry-bush,
Catch the slippery whistle
Of the moulting thrush,
Dance upon the mushrooms,
Dive beneath the sea,
Or anything else remarkable,
Thou must follow me!

THE BALLAD OF HIRAM HOVER.

(WHITTIER)

Where the Moosatockmaguntic
Pours its waters in the Skuntic,
Met, along the forest-side,
Hiram Hover, Huldah Hyde.

She, a maiden fair and dapper,
He, a red-haired, stalwart trapper,
Hunting beaver, mink, and skunk,
In the woodlands of Squeedunk.

She, Pentucket's pensive daughter,
Walked beside the Skuntic water,
Gathering, in her apron wet,
Snakeroot, mint, and bouncing-bet.

'Why,' he murmured, loath to leave her,
'Gather yarbs for chills and fever,
When a lovyer, bold and true,
Only waits to gather you?'

'Go,' she answered, 'I'm not hasty;
I prefer a man more tasty:
Leastways, one to please me well
Should not have a beasty smell.'

'Haughty Huldah!' Hiram answered;
'Mind and heart alike are cancered:
Jest look here! these peltries give
Cash, wherefrom a pair may live.

'I, you think, am but a vagrant,
Trapping beasts by no means fragrant:
Yet--I'm sure it's worth a thank--
I've a handsome sum in bank.'

Turned and vanished Hiram Hover;
And, before the year was over,
Huldah, with the yarbs she sold,
Bought a cape, against the cold.

Black and thick the furry cape was;
Of a stylish cut the shape was,
And the girls, in all the town,
Envied Huldah up and down.

Then, at last, one winter morning,
Hiram came, without a warning:
'Either,' said he, 'you are blind,
Huldah, or you've changed your mind.

'Me you snub for trapping varmints,
Yet you take the skins for garments:
Since you wear the skunk and mink,
There's no harm in me, I think.'

'Well,' she said, 'we will not quarrel,
Hiram: I accept the moral,
Now the fashion's so, I guess
I can't hardly do no less.'

Thus the trouble all was over
Of the love of Hiram Hover;
Thus he made sweet Huldah Hyde
Huldah Hover as his bride.

Love employs, with equal favour,
Things of good and evil savour;
That, which first appeared to part,
Warmed, at last, the maiden's heart.

Under one impartial banner,
Life, the hunter, Love, the tanner,
Draw, from every beast they snare,
Comfort for a wedded pair!

THE SEWING-MACHINE.

(LONGFELLOW)

A strange vibration from the cottage window
My vagrant steps delayed,
And half abstracted, like an ancient Hindoo,
I paused beneath the shade.

What is, I said, this unremitted humming,
Louder than bees in spring?
As unto prayer the murmurous answer coming,
Shed from Sandalphon's wing.

Is this the sound of unimpeded labour,
That now usurpeth play?
Our harsher substitute for pipe and tabor,
Ghittern and virelay?

Or, is it yearning for a higher vision,
By spiritual hearing heard?
Nearer I drew, to listen with precision,
Detecting not a word.

Then, peering through the pane, as men of sin do,
Myself the while unseen,
I marked a maiden seated by the window,
Sewing with a machine.

Her gentle foot propelled the tireless treadle,
Her gentle hand the seam:
My fancy said, it were a bliss to peddle
Those shirts, as in a dream!

Her lovely fingers lent to yoke and collar
Some imperceptible taste;
The rural swain, who buys it for a dollar,
By beauty is embraced.

O fairer aspect of the common mission!
Only the Poet sees
The true significance, the high position
Of such small things as these.

Not now doth Toil, a brutal Boanerges,
Deform the maiden's hand;
Her implement its soft sonata merges
In songs of sea and land.

And thus the hum of the unspooling cotton,
Blent with her rhythmic tread,
Shall still be heard, when virelays are forgotten,
And troubadours are dead.

MORTIMER COLLINS.

IF.

(SWINBURNE)

If life were never bitter,
And love were always sweet,
Then who would care to borrow
A moral from to-morrow--
If Thames would always glitter,
And joy would ne'er retreat,
If life were never bitter,
And love were always sweet?

If Care were not the waiter
Behind a fellow's chair,
When easy-going sinners
Sit down to Richmond dinners,
And life's swift stream flows straighter--
By Jove, it would be rare
If Care were not the waiter
Behind a fellow's chair.

If wit were always radiant,
And wine were always iced,
And bores were kicked out straightway
Through a convenient gateway;
Then down the years' long gradient
'Twere sad to be enticed;
If wit were always radiant,
And wine were always iced.

SALAD.

(SWINBURNE)

_Brow._

O cool in the summer is salad,
And warm in the winter is love;
And a poet shall sing you a ballad
Delicious thereon and thereof.
A singer am I, if no sinner,
My Muse has a marvellous wing,
And I willingly worship at dinner
The Sirens of Spring.

Take endive... like love it is bitter;
Take beet... for like love it is red;
Crisp leaf of the lettuce shall glitter,
And cress from the rivulet's bed;
Anchovies foam-born, like the Lady
Whose beauty has maddened this bard;
And olives, from groves that are shady;
And eggs--boil 'em hard.

(R. BROWNING)

_Beard._

Waitress, with eyes so marvellous black,
And the blackest possible lustrous gay tress,
This is the month of the Zodiac
When I want a pretty deft-handed waitress.
Bring a china-bowl, you merry young soul;
Bring anything green, from worsted to celery;
Bring pure olive-oil, from Italy's soil...
Then your china-bowl we'll well array.
When the time arrives chip choicest chives,
And administer quietly chili and capsicum...
(Young girls do not quite know what 's what
Till as a Poet into their laps I come).
Then a lobster fresh as fresh can be
(When it screams in the pot I feel a murderer);
After which I fancy we
Shall want a few bottles of Heidsieck or Roederer.

(TENNYSON)

_Hair._

King Arthur, growing very tired indeed
Of wild Tintagel, now that Lancelot
Had gone to Jersey or to Jericho,
And there was nobody to make a rhyme,
And Cornish girls were christened Jennifer,
And the Round Table had grown rickety,
Said unto Merlin (who had been asleep
For a few centuries in Broceliande,
But woke, and had a bath, and felt refreshed):
'What shall I do to pull myself together?'
Quoth Merlin, 'Salad is the very thing,
And you can get it at the "Cheshire Cheese."'
King Arthur went there: _verily_, I believe
That he has dined there every day since then.
Have you not marked the portly gentleman
In his cool corner, with his plate of greens?
The great knight Lancelot prefers the 'Cock,'
Where port is excellent (in pints), and waiters
Are portlier than kings, and steaks are tender,
And poets have been known to meditate...
Ox-fed orating ominous octastichs.

ROBERT BARNABAS BROUGH.

I'M A SHRIMP.

('I'M AFLOAT, I'M AFLOAT')

I'm a shrimp! I'm a shrimp, of diminutive size:
Inspect my antennæ, and look at my eyes;
I'm a natural syphon, when dipped in a cup,
For I drain the contents to the latest drop up.
I care not for craw-fish, I heed not the prawn,
From a flavour especial my fame has been drawn;
Nor e'en to the crab or the lobster do yield,
When I'm properly cook'd and efficiently peeled.
Quick! quick! pile the coals--let your saucepan be deep,
For the weather is warm, and I'm sure not to keep;
Off, off with my head--split my shell into three--
I'm a shrimp! I'm a shrimp--to be eaten with tea.

DANTE, GABRIEL ROSSETTI.

MACCRACKEN.

(TENNYSON)

Getting his pictures, like his supper, cheap,
Far, far away in Belfast by the sea,
His watchful one-eyed uninvaded sleep
MacCracken sleepeth. While the P.R.B.
Must keep the shady side, he walks a swell
Through spungings of perennial growth and height:
And far away in Belfast out of sight,
By many an open do and secret sell,
Fresh daubers he makes shift to scarify,
And fleece with pliant shears the slumbering 'green.'
There he has lied, though aged, and will lie,
Fattening on ill-got pictures in his sleep,
Till some Preraphael prove for him too deep.
Then, once by Hunt and Ruskin to be seen,
Insolvent he will turn, and in the Queen's Bench die.

THE BROTHERS.

_By a Scotch Bard and English Reviewer._

(TENNYSON)

I am two brothers with one face,
So which is the real man who can trace?
(My wrongs are raging inside of me.)
Here are some poets and they sell,
Therefore revenge becomes me well.
(Oh Robert-Thomas is dread to see.)

Of course you know it's a burning shame,
But of my last books the press makes game!
(My wrongs are boiling inside of me.)
So at least all other bards I'll slate
Till no one sells but the Laureate.
(Oh Robert-Thomas is dread to see.)

I took a beast of a poet's tome
And nailed a cheque, and brought them home;
(My wrongs were howling inside of me.)
And after supper, in lieu of bed,
I wound wet towels round my head.
(Oh Robert-Thomas is dread to see.)

Of eyelids kissed and all the rest,
And rosy cheeks that lie on one's breast,
(My wrongs were yelling inside of me.)
I told the worst that pen can tell,--
And Strahan and Company loved me well.
(Oh Robert-Thomas is dread to see.)

I crowed out loud in the silent night,
I made my digs so sharp and bright:
(My wrongs were gnashing inside of me.)
In our Contemptible Review
I struck the beggar through and through.
(Oh Robert-Thomas is dread to see.)

I tanned his hide and combed his head,
And that bard, for one, I left for dead.
(My wrongs are hooting inside of me.)
And now he's wrapped in a printer's sheet,
Let's fling him at our Public's feet.
(Oh Robert-Thomas is dread to see.)

CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY.

ODE TO TOBACCO.

(LONGFELLOW)

Thou who, when fears attack,
Bid'st them avaunt, and Black
Care, at the horseman's back
Perching, unseatest;
Sweet when the morn is grey;
Sweet, when they've cleared away
Lunch; and at close of day
Possibly sweetest:

I have a liking old
For thee, though manifold
Stories, I know, are told,
Not to thy credit;
How one (or two at most)
Drops make a cat a ghost--
Useless, except to roast--
Doctors have said it:

How they who use fusees
All grow by slow degrees
Brainless as chimpanzees,
Meagre as lizards;
Go mad, and beat their wives;
Plunge (after shocking lives)
Razors and carving knives
Into their gizzards.

Confound such knavish tricks!
Yet know I five or six
Smokers who freely mix
Still with their neighbours;
Jones--who, I'm glad to say,
Asked leave of Mrs. J.--
Daily absorbs a clay
After his labours.

Cats may have had their goose
Cooked by tobacco-juice;
Still why deny its use
Thoughtfully taken?
We're not as tabbies are:
Smith, take a fresh cigar!
Jones, the tobacco-jar!
Here's to thee, Bacon!

BEER.

(BYRON)

In those old days which poets say were golden--
(Perhaps they laid the gilding on themselves:
And, if they did, I'm all the more beholden
To those brown dwellers in my dusty shelves,
Who talk to me 'in language quaint and olden'
Of gods and demigods and fauns and elves,
Pan with his pipes, and Bacchus with his leopards,
And staid young goddesses who flirt with shepherds:)

In those old days, the Nymph called Etiquette
(Appalling thought to dwell on) was not born.
They had their May, but no Mayfair as yet,
No fashions varying as the hues of morn.
Just as they pleased they dressed and drank and ate,
Sang hymns to Ceres (their John Barleycorn)
And danced unchaperoned, and laughed unchecked,
And were no doubt extremely incorrect.

Yet do I think their theory was pleasant:
And oft, I own, my 'wayward fancy roams'
Back to those times, so different from the present;
When no one smoked cigars, nor gave At-homes,
Nor smote a billiard-ball, nor winged a pheasant,
Nor 'did' their hair by means of long-tailed combs,
Nor migrated to Brighton once a year,
Nor--most astonishing of all--drank Beer.

No, they did not drink Beer, 'which brings me to'
(As Gilpin said) 'the middle of my song.'
Not that 'the middle' is precisely true,
Or else I should not tax your patience long:
If I had said 'beginning' it might do;
But I have a dislike to quoting wrong:
I was unlucky--sinned against, not sinning--
When Cowper wrote down 'middle' for 'beginning.'

So to proceed. That abstinence from Malt
Has always struck me as extremely curious.
The Greek mind must have had some vital fault,
That they should stick to liquors so injurious--
(Wine, water, tempered p'raps with Attic salt)--
And not at once invent that mild, luxurious,
And artful beverage, Beer. How the digestion
Got on without it, is a startling question.

Had they digestions? and an actual body
Such as dyspepsia might make attacks on?
Were they abstract ideas--(like Tom Noddy
And Mr. Briggs)--or men, like Jones and Jackson?
Then Nectar--was that beer, or whisky-toddy?
Some say the Gaelic mixture, _I_ the Saxon:
I think a strict adherence to the latter
Might make some Scots less pigheaded, and fatter.

Besides, Bon Gaultier definitely shows
That the real beverage for feasting gods on
Is a soft compound, grateful to the nose
And also to the palate, known as 'Hodgson.'
I know a man--a tailor's son--who rose
To be a peer: and this I would lay odds on,
(Though in his Memoirs it may not appear,)
That that man owed his rise to copious Beer.

O Beer! O Hodgson, Guinness, Allsopp, Bass!
Names that should be on every infant's tongue!
Shall days and months and years and centuries pass,
And still your merits be unrecked, unsung?
Oh! I have gazed into my foaming glass,
And wished that lyre could yet again be strung
Which once rang prophet-like through Greece, and taught her
Misguided sons that 'the best drink was water.'

How would he now recant that wild opinion,
And sing--as would that I could sing--of you!
I was not born (alas!) the 'Muses' minion,'
I'm not poetical, not even blue:
And he (we know) but strives with waxen pinion,
Whoe'er he is that entertains the view
Of emulating Pindar, and will be
Sponsor at last to some now nameless sea.

Oh! when the green slopes of Arcadia burned
With all the lustre of the dying day,
And on Cithaeron's brow the reaper turned,
(Humming, of course, in his delightful way,
How Lycidas was dead, and how concerned
The Nymphs were when they saw his lifeless clay;
And how rock told to rock the dreadful story
That poor young Lycidas was gone to glory:)

What would that lone and labouring soul have given,
At that soft moment, for a pewter pot!
How had the mists that dimmed his eye been riven,
And Lycidas and sorrow all forgot!
If his own grandmother had died unshriven,
In two short seconds he'd have recked it not;
Such power hath Beer. The heart which Grief hath canker'd
Hath one unfailing remedy--the Tankard.

Coffee is good, and so no doubt is cocoa;
Tea did for Johnson and the Chinamen:
When 'Dulce est desipere in loco'
Was written, real Falernian winged the pen.
When a rapt audience has encored 'Fra Poco'
Or 'Casta Diva,' I have heard that then
The Prima Donna, smiling herself out,
Recruits her flagging powers with bottled stout.

But what is coffee, but a noxious berry,
Born to keep used-up Londoners awake?
What is Falernian, what is Port or Sherry,
But vile concoctions to make dull heads ache?
Nay stout itself--(though good with oysters, very)--
Is not a thing your reading man should take.
He that would shine, and petrify his tutor,
Should drink draught Allsopp in its 'native pewter.'

But hark! a sound is stealing on my ear--
A soft and silvery sound--I know it well.
Its tinkling tells me that a time is near
Precious to me--it is the Dinner Bell.
O blessed Bell! Thou bringest beef and beer,
Thou bringest good things more than tongue may tell:
Seared is (of course) my heart--but unsubdued
Is, and shall be, my appetite for food.

I go. Untaught and feeble is my pen:
But on one statement I may safely venture:
That few of our most highly gifted men
Have more appreciation of the trencher.
I go. One pound of British beef, and then
What Mr. Swiveller called 'a modest quencher';
That, home-returning, I may 'soothly say,'
'Fate cannot touch me: I have dined to-day.'

WANDERERS.

(TENNYSON)

As o'er the hill we roam'd at will,
My dog and I together,
We mark'd a chaise, by two bright bays
Slow-moved along the heather:

Two bays arch-neck'd, with tails erect
And gold upon their blinkers;
And by their side an ass I spied;
It was a travelling tinker's.

The chaise went by, nor aught cared I;
Such things are not in my way;
I turn'd me to the tinker, who
Was loafing down a by-way:

I ask'd him where he lived--a stare
Was all I got in answer,
As on he trudged: I rightly judged
The stare said, 'Where I can, sir.'

I ask'd him if he'd take a whiff
Of 'bacco; he acceded;
He grew communicative too,
(A pipe was all he needed,)
Till of the tinker's life, I think,
I knew as much as he did.

'I loiter down by thorp and town,
For any job I'm willing;
Take here and there a dusty brown,
And here and there a shilling.

'I deal in every ware in turn,
I've rings for buddin' Sally
That sparkle like those eyes of her'n;
I've liquor for the valet.

'I steal from th' parson's strawberry-plots,
I hide by th' squire's covers;
I teach the sweet young housemaids what's
The art of trapping lovers.

'The things I've done 'neath moon and stars
Have got me into messes:
I've seen the sky through prison bars,
I've torn up prison dresses:

'I've sat, I've sigh'd, I've gloom'd, I've glanced
With envy at the swallows
That through the window slid, and danced
(Quite happy) round the gallows;