Chapter C: P. Cranch

A BALLAD OF OLD METRES.

When, in the merry realm of France,
Bluff Francis ruled and loved and laughed,
Now held the lists with knightly lance,
Anon the knightly beaker quaffed;
Where wit could wing his keenest shaft
With Villon's verse or Montaigne's prose,
Then poets exercised their craft
In ballades, triolets, rondeaux.

O quaint old times! O fitting chants!
With fluttering banners fore and aft,
With mirth of minstrelsy and dance,
Sped Poesy's enchanted craft;
The odorous gale was blowing abaft
Her silken sails, as on she goes,
Doth still to us faint echoes waft
Of ballades, triolets, rondeaux.

But tell me with what countenance
Ye seek on modern rhymes to graft
Those tender shoots of old Romance-
Romance that now is only chaffed?
O iron days! O idle raft
Of rhymesters! they are '_peu de chose_,'
What Scott would call supremely "saft"
_Your_ ballades, triolets, rondeaux.

_Envoy._

Bards, in whose vein the maddening draught
Of Hippocrene so wildly glows,
Forbear, and do not drive us daft
With ballades, triolets, rondeaux.

_The Century._

BALLADE OF CRICKET.

(To T. W. Lang.)

The burden of hard hitting: slog away!
Here shalt thou make a "five" and there a "four,"
And then upon thy bat shalt lean and say,
That thou art in for an uncommon score.
Yea, the loud ring applauding thee shall roar,
And thou to rival THORNTON shalt aspire,
When low, the Umpire gives thee "leg before,"-
"This is the end of every man's desire!"

The burden of much bowling, when the stay
Of all thy team is "collared," swift or slower,
When "bailers" break not in their wonted way,
And "yorkers" come not off as heretofore.
When length balls shoot no more, ah never more,
When all deliveries lose their former fire,
When bats seem broader than the broad barn-door,-
"This is the end of every man's desire!"

The burden of long fielding, when the clay
Clings to thy shoon in sudden showers downpour,
And running still thou stumblest, or the ray
Of blazing suns doth bite and burn thee sore,
And blind thee till, forgetful of thy lore,
Thou dost most mournfully misjudge a "skyer"
And lose a match the Fates cannot restore,--
"This is the end of every man's desire!"

_Envoy._

Alas, yet liefer on youth's hither shore
Would I be some poor Player on scant hire
Than king among the old who play no more,-
"_This_ is the end of every man's desire!"

ANDREW LANG.

THE PRODIGALS.

(Dedicated to Mr. Chaplin, M.P., and Mr. Richard Power, M.P.
and 223 who followed them.)

Ministers!-you, most serious,
Critics and statesmen of all degrees,
Hearken awhile to the motion of us,-
Senators keen for the Epsom breeze!
Nothing we ask of posts or fees;
Worry us not with objections pray!
Lo,-for the speakers wig we seize-
Give us-ah! give us-the Derby Day.

Scots most prudent, penurious!
Irishmen busy as humblebees!
Hearken awhile to the motion of us,-
Senators keen for the Epsom breeze!
For Sir Joseph's sake, and his owner's, please!
(Solomon raced like fun, they say)
Lo for we beg on our bended knees,-
Give us-ah! give us-the Derby Day.

Campbell-Asheton be generous!
(But they voted such things were not the cheese)
Sullivan, hear us, magnanimous!
(But Sullivan thought with their enemies.)
And shortly they got both of help and ease
For a mad majority crowded to say-
"Debate we've drunk to the dregs and lees;
Give us--ah! give us--the Derby Day."

_Envoi._

Prince, most just was the motion of these
And many were seen by the dusty way,
Shouting glad to the Epsom breeze
Give us--ah! give us--the Derby Day.

ANONYMOUS (_after Austin Dobson_).

VILLON'S STRAIGHT TIP TO ALL CROSS COVES.

"Tout aux tavernes et aux filles."

Suppose you screeve? or go cheap-jack?
Or fake the broads? or fig a nag?
Or thimble-rig? or knap a yack?
Or pitch a snide? or smash a rag?
Suppose you duff? or nose and lag?
Or get the straight, and land your pot?
How do you melt the multy swag?
Booze and the blowens cop the lot.

Fiddle, or fence, or mace, or mack;
Or moskeneer, or flash the drag;
Dead-lurk a crib, or do a crack;
Pad with a slang, or chuck a fag;
Bonnet, or tout, or mump and gag;
Rattle the tats, or mark the spot;
You can not bank a single stag;
Booze and the blowens cop the lot.

Suppose you try a different tack,
And on the square you flash your flag?
At penny-a-lining make your whack,
Or with the mummers mug and gag?
For nix, for nix the dibbs you bag!
At any graft, no matter what,
Your merry goblins soon stravag:
Booze and the blowens cop the lot.

THE MORAL.

It's up the spout and Charley Wag
With wipes and tickers and what not.
Until the squeezer nips your scrag,
Booze and the blowens cop the lot.

W. E. HENLEY.

A BALLADE OF BALLADE-MONGERS.

(After the manner of Master FRANÇOIS VILLON of Paris.)

In _Ballades_ things always contrive to get lost,
And Echo is constantly asking where
Are last year's roses and last year's frost?
And where are the fashions we used to wear?
And what is a "gentleman," what is a "player?"
Irrelevant questions I like to ask:
Can you reap the _tret_ as well as the _tare_?
And who was the Man in the Iron Mask?

What has become of the ring I tossed
In the lap of my mistress, false and fair?
Her grave is green and her tombstone mossed;
But who is to be the next Lord Mayor,
And where is King William of Leicester Square?
And who has emptied my hunting flask?
And who is possessed of Stella's hair?
And who was the Man in the Iron Mask?

And what has become of the knee I crossed,
And the rod, and the child they would not spare?
And what will a dozen herring cost
When herring are sold at threehalfpence a pair?
And what in the world is the Golden Stair?
Did Diogenes die in a tub or a cask,
Like Clarence for love of liquor there?
And who was the Man in the Iron Mask?

_Envoy._

Poets, your readers have much to bear,
For _Ballade_-making is no great task.
If you do not remember, I don't much care
Who was the Man in the Iron Mask.

AUGUSTUS M. MOORE.

ON NEWPORT BEACH.

(Rondeau.)

On Newport beach there ran right merrily,
In dainty navy blue clothed to the knee,
Thence to the foot in white _au naturel_,
A little maid. Fair was she, truth to tell,
As Oceanus' child Callirrhoë.
In the soft sand lay one small shell, its wee
Keen scallops tinct with faint hues, such as be
In girlish cheeks. In some old storm it fell
On Newport Beach.
There was a bather of the species _he_,
Who saw the little maid go toward the sea;
Rushing to help her through the billowy swell,
He set his sole upon the little shell,
And heaped profanely phraséd obloquy
On Newport Beach.

H. C. BUNNER.

CULTURE IN THE SLUMS.

(Inscribed to an Intense Poet.)