Chapter III: Preface (3)

The minstrel’s song was no sooner done,
Than ’twas plain that his lay had extinguished the fun,
And yawning fearfully, one by one,
They vanished knights and ladies.
The lights were put out, not a single “glim”
Shed its ray o’er the walls of that castle grim;
And the banqueting hall was soon as dim
As ’tis said to be in Hades.

My story thus forward, I now must relate
Some previous details concerning the fate
Of that famous young hero, Sir Blutwurst the Great,
Of whom I’ve just made mention—
And so, to prevent the smallest mystery,
Or the thread of my story from getting a twist awry,
To his death, which took place ere the date of my history,
I must call my readers’ attention.

Blutwurst and Rupert were two pretty men
As ever were sketched by pencil or pen—
Together they’d hunt, shoot, fish, frolic, and gamble,
In short, to dispense with a longer preamble,
They so loved each other,
That Corsican Brother,
Or Damon, or Pythias, or Siamese twin,
Ne’er cared for his friend, or his kith or his kin,
As did Blutwurst for Rupert: they ne’er knew division,
But were like Box and Cox in a German edition.
Mr. Coleridge says, “Truth, that exists in the young,
Too often is killed by a whispering tongue;”
And this proved the case between Blutwurst and Rupert.
The former, perhaps, in his language was too pert;
For having committed some irregularities,
Which _he_ called “peccadilloes,” but others “barbarities,”
Sir Rupert declined to subscribe to some charities
Which Blutwurst advised as a species of “hedge.”
Then the latter blazed out;—the “thin end of the wedge”
Being thus once inserted, the matter grew serious.
Each spake words of high disdain
And insult to his heart’s best brother—
“Just repeat those words again!”
“You’re a scoundrel!” “You’re another!”
With curses and oaths, to repeat which would weary us,
Till from furious words they proceeded to blows.
Who first drew his rapier nobody knows;
But Hans, the old seneschal, sitting down stairs,
Heard a shriek, then a plunge in the river, he swears;
And going up found Rupert, all haggard and wan,
Who stated that Blutwurst had started for Bonn,
And requested that thither his bag be sent on.
This story gained ground,
Till the body was found
A great distance off—in fact, down at Dusseldorf,
Whence the horrified finder all hurriedly bustled off
To tell Blutwurst’s parents the terrible news.
A coroner’s inquest was held on the body,
Where, after much talking and more Hollands toddy,
Much anger, much squabbling, and dreadful abuse,
They found that, “returning home, muddled with wine,
The deceased had been murdered and flung in the Rhine,
By some persons unknown, with malicious design!”
To Rupert no blame e’er attached in the matter;
Poor Blutwurst was called mad, “as mad as a hatter,”
For drinking so much as to fall from his perch.
And now, if you please, we’ll return to the castle,
Where I think we shall find that, fatigued by the wassail,
With two small exceptions, each master and vassal
May safely be reckoned as “fast as a church.”
Fair Margaret sits at her toilette-glass,
And rests her head on her snow-white hand;
Through her throbbing brain what visions pass,
As over her shoulders there falls a mass
Of curls, ne’er touched by the crimping brand;
She thinks of Sir Rupert’s attentions that night,
And of them, too, she thinks less with pleasure than fright;
For his great leering eyes
Seem before her to rise,
And she looks o’er her shoulder, and shivers and sighs,
For the room is so large, and the pictures so grim,
And the wind howls so loud, and her light burns so dim,
And she sees in the mirror, not herself, but _him_.
Yes! he kneels at her side;
Says he wont be denied;
And calls her “his dear little duck of a bride!”
His utt’rance is thick, his cravat is untied,
And his face is as red as a new Murray’s Guide;
His gait is unsteady, his manner so rude,
It’s plain to perceive that Sir Rupert is “screwed.”
But he touches his heart, and he turns up his eyes,
And by language and gesture most earnestly tries
To convince her that ne’er from his knees will he rise,
Till to wed on the morrow she freely complies.

If you’ve seen Mrs. Kean
In that excellent scene
Which she with Mr. Wigan so forcibly plays,
In Bourcicault’s comedy, “Love in a Maze,”
When her scorn for her tempter, her love for her spouse,
In language theatrical, “bring down the house,”
You can fancy how Margaret, deeply enraged,
And backed up by the feeling that she was engaged
To Otto Von Rosen, the dearest of men,
Rejected Sir Rupert at once, there and then.
In vain he implored,
Declared himself “floored.”
Wept by turns and entreated, then ranted and roared;
She still was disdainful,
And said “it was painful
To witness the friend of her brother so lowered.”
Till, maddened with fury, he seized her, and said—
“Be mine, or thou’rt numbered this night with the dead.
No maiden has yet refused Rupert the Red!”

That instant there rang through the castle a shriek—
Compared with which e’en Madame Celeste’s are weak—
The chamber-doors fell with a terrible crash,
And with, under his left arm, a yet gory gash—
Come forth from his grave,
Stood Blutwurst the brave,
Who’d arrived just in time his poor sister to save.
Sir Rupert gazed at him a second or more,
Made one strong exclamation, then sunk on the floor.

From every side a swarming tide of vassals pour amain,
And, struggling with each other, the fatal room they gain,
And quickly entering, they find fair Margaret in a swoon,
They cut the lace that holds her ⸺, base must be the man who’d own
That such a garment now exists; with water from Cologne
They sprinkle her, and she revives, and sweetly smiles once more,
And points to what appears a heap of ashes on the floor!

Alas! ’twas so; the gallant knight, the former “man of mark,”
Is fitted now for nought but dust for Stapleton or Darke;
All shrivelled into nothingness, a horrid mass he lay,
His projects vanished into smoke, himself a yard of clay!

And never from that hour has anything been seen,
Except the ruin pointed out to Robinson or Green,
That e’er pertained to him of all the Rhenish clans the head,
To him, the hero of my song, Sir Rupert called the Red.

E. H. Y.

COUNT LOUIS OF TOULOUSE.

When Henri Quatre ruled in France there was a gay young knight,
The loudest in the banquet-hall, the foremost in the fight.
No dame, howe’er fatigued, to tread a measure could refuse
When she heard the silver accents of Count Louis of Toulouse.

But not only to a dance would these gentle tones invite,
But to “measures” of more dangerous kind, confounding wrong with right.
Won over by his sophistry, what conscience could accuse?
But the dread of every husband was Count Louis of Toulouse.

The man above all others who the direst hate did feel
Was the husband of fair Eleanor, the Marquis de St. Lille;
And he vowed the deepest vengeance when he heard the dreadful news
That his wife had found a lover in Count Louis of Toulouse.

He called his spies around him, caused her movements to be tracked,
And, listening, heard sufficient to convince him of the fact.
Then he quietly retired, and determined to infuse
Some poison in the claret of Count Louis of Toulouse.

Next evening, as the Marchioness was waiting in her bower,
The clocks of all the churches round pealed forth the usual hour.
She began to grow impatient, murmur, and at length abuse
The extreme unpunctuality of Louis of Toulouse.

But when two servants entered, who between them bore a box,
She was half afraid that something else had struck besides the clocks;
And when the men retired, she still thinking it a _ruse_,
Raised up the lid and found the corpse of Louis of Toulouse.

Without a word, without a shriek, she fell upon the ground,
The maidens hast’ning to her aid, a lifeless body found.
So, young gentlemen, take warning, and ne’er yourselves amuse
By attempting fascinations like Count Louis of Toulouse.

E. H. Y.

ANNIE LYLE.

Annie Lyle, Annie Lyle,
No longer you smile
At my jokes, which a month since enjoyed such prosperity;
Howe’er I behave,
Your face is quite grave,
And your darling red lips speak unwonted severity.

Annie Lyle, Annie Lyle,
It may do for a while,
This on-ing and off-ing, repulsing and wooing:
But beware of the hour
When, escaped from your power,
No longer I seek you, beseeching and suing.

With your glance _espiègle_,
You quickly inveigle
A freshman from Oxford, a youth in the Guards;
But enough of Love’s strife
I have seen in my life
To furnish good subjects for hundreds of bards.

You take a great pride
To see at your side
A lord, and upon him how sweetly you smile;
Now I set forth no riddle,
I _will_ play “first fiddle,”
So take warning at once, Annie Lyle, Annie Lyle.

How stately and grand
You parade by the band
Which each Friday in Kensington Gardens entrances!
Dressed in _mousseline-de-laine_,
What transports you feign,
And how skilfully use you your battery of glances!

Then how pleased are the “swells,”
How jealous the belles,
At least, so your vanity prompts you to reckon;
And ogling and smiling,
Poor victims beguiling,
You whisper and conquer, flirt, flatter, and beckon.

Annie Lyle, Annie Lyle,
It rouses my bile
To see one so lovely descend to such tricks:
Such flirting’s below you—
To people who know you
All feeling it beats, or what Yankees call “licks.”

What! tears in those eyes!
Are those genuine sighs?
Then once more I’m your slave—change that sob to a smile;
My lecture is o’er,
I’m your own, as before,
So come to my arms, Annie Lyle, Annie Lyle.

E. H. Y.

JACK RASPER’S WAGER; OR, “NE SUTOR ULTRA CREPIDAM.”

Introduction.

If I have dared again to wake the lyre
Of him whose hand shall sweep no more the strings—
That great enchanter, at whose funeral pyre
Laughter and Grief stood each with drooping wings
And head dejected (him, whose “Bridge of Sighs”
And “Number One” drew teardrops from the eyes
Of Mirth and Sadness), I trust you’ll have mercy,
And that, kind Reader, you will not ejaculate
“Oh, ah!” or “Pooh!”
“This never _will_ do!”
“_Je trouve que ces vers soient bien ennuyeux!_”
“Dull, flat, quite a failure!” “Contemptible stuff!”
“What’s the name of the author? I pity the muff!”
And such-like expressions upon my poor versicles,
which even I don’t consider immaculate!
No! like any poor cousin who lives with a rich one
As companion or governess, awful condition!
I think I may say that, “I know my position.”
And since I can’t hope to be first in the race
I must e’en be content to put up with the place
Which Report to the “little boat” says was assigned,
In some nameless aquatics, _i. e._ “far behind.”

Ye Storye.

Mr. and Mrs. Theophilus Browne
Had a house in a newly-built suburb of town,
“Twelve good rooms and an attic.”
Mr. Browne had a share in a City bank,
But when at home “the shop” he sank,
And assuming the airs of a person of rank,
Was quite aristocratic.

Invitations to dinner he oft obtained,
Showers of cards upon him rained,
For party and picnic pleasant;
Indeed, ’twas his constant pride and boast
That his name once appeared in the “Morning Post,”
(Which he took each day with his tea and toast,)
As “amongst the company present.”

But as never was rose without a thorn,
So surely was mortal never born
To a life without vexation;
And some bachelor chums of our friend Mr. B.
Had a habit of “dropping in to tea,”
And merely saying, “We’ve made so free,”
Would create quite a consternation.

For they reeked of tobacco, that dreadful herb,
Which will ever a lady’s nerves disturb,
E’en the mildest of mild Havannah;
And when with their cabman they came to arrange,
They never appeared to have any change
To settle his fare, but in language strange
They borrowed “two bob and a tanner.”

We need not say that poor Mrs. Browne
Had a hate of these rollicking men about town,
Of which she made no mystery;
But surely her bitterness and spite
Were never wrought up to such a height
As upon the very eventful night
When we commence our history.

The servants had all retired to rest,
The worthy couple, in _deshabille_ dressed,
Had just finished their nightly refection,
When a thundering double knock at the door,
Caused Mrs. Browne to exclaim, “Oh Lor!”
While her husband added to “what a bore”
An ungodly interjection.

Then, seizing a light, he ran down stairs,
Growling like one of the grisly bears
In the Gardens Zoological
(That lately were cured with such skill and tact,
Of an overflowing cataract,
Under chloroform, an astonishing fact,
Which a very artful dodge-I-call).

He opened the door in a furious rage,
Nor did it his passion at all assuage
To see his old friend, Jack Rasper,—
Jack Rasper, the fastest man in town,
Who never would go when he once sat down,
Who mimicked all actors of renown,
And could row with Coombes or Clasper.

His intimates called him “an out-and-out brick,
A fellow who at nothing would stick,
And a first-rate judge of malt, sir.”
Nay, the ladies themselves, who are clearly the best
To decide on such matters, had often confessed.—
“Mr. Rasper, besides being very well dressed,
Was an excellent _deux-temps_ waltzer.”

Darting past the unhappy Browne,
At the foot of the stairs he sat himself down,
And laughed like the clown in a pantomime;
Then jumping up, he made a grimace
Might have rivalled e’en Mr. Grimaldi’s face,
To describe the which with sufficient grace
Quite baffles my Muse for want-o’-rhyme.

“Browne,” he began, “I’m come to sup.
I suppose I may. Walk up, walk up,
And observe the living lions;
The thickly-coated armadillo,
Brought from furrin’ parts beyond the billow
By Don Alphonso de Padrillo,
That ornament of science!

“But, joking apart, Browne, how’s your wife?
Not annoyed, I hope; to cause any strife
Would give me infinite sorrow.”
Then springing up stairs with a loud “Ha! ha!”
He thrust his head through the door ajar,
And greeted the lady with “Here we are,”
And “How d’ye do to-morrow.”

Mrs. Browne received him with looks so black
That he felt himself quite taken aback,
And received what he called “a staggerer.”
Indeed, as he told his friends next night,
“He soon saw that fowl would never fight,
So he instantly came the dodge polite,
And entirely dropped the swaggerer!”

Then changing his tone, “Mrs. Browne, to you
I am sure,” said he, “I ought to sue
In terms most apologetic.”
But not a whit the angry dame
Was soothed, her expression remained the same,
And Jack thought he’d best go, the way he came,
Like a well-bred dog, prophetic.

He tried again, “If you remember,
We went together, last September,
To see the Hippopotamus,
And how, in the crowd, when you dropped those loves
Of delicate tinted primrose gloves,
As I hunted about with kicks and shoves,
Do you recollect who brought ’em us?

“Lord Augustus Aype, that _cheválièr preûx_,
Who was evidently struck with you,
For he said, in a whisper audible,
‘Rasper, who is that splendid creature?’”
Mrs. Browne relaxed in every feature,
For she thought—alas! poor human nature!—
Each act of a Lord was _laud-able_.

Jack continued, “’Twas only yesterday,
At dinner, I heard his lordship say
He should ne’er forget the circumstance;
He has met you since, at a public ball,
Or at Albert Smith’s—the Egyptian Hall!
You shake your head! what! not at all?
Yes, yes! ’twas at the Kirkham’s dance!”

Here Browne come frowningly in, but smiled,
When he found his wife seemed nothing riled,
And begged his guest to be seated:
And looking at Mrs. Browne askance,
Received in return a conjugal glance,
Which showed, “_sans doûte_,” as they say in France,
She wished Jack civilly treated.

So he bustled about, and soon laid out
A cold chicken, some ham, a bottle of stout,
With ale of Bass’s brewing.
And when these were dispatched by the modest youth,
Placed a flask on the board, which, to tell the truth,
Had on it the name of “Sir Felix Booth,”
But which Jack pronounced “blue ruin.”

Jack plied at the spirit, and soon began
To play so well the agreeable man,
The retailer of jokes and scandal,
That good Mrs. Browne grew quite elate;
And Browne, though he muttered, “It’s rather late,”
Replenished the fire, and swept up the grate,
And trimmed the Palmer’s candle.

Thus went the talk,—“Poor Lady Flashe
Has eloped with Captain Sabretasche;
They bolted from Baden-Baden,
While Sir Anthony Flashe their flight ne’er checked,
As it on his rheumatics had no effect;
Like the Jews of old, since he’s grown ‘stiffnecked,’
His heart has begun to harden.

“But I heard last night from Lord De Vere,
From Boulogne who has just come over here,
The most wonderful adventure;
For his Lordship last season received a ‘call,’—
Not such as those folks who at Exeter Hall
About Popery wrangle, his was all
About railway scrip and debenture.

“He said, one night that, homeward walking,
There were two men before him, talking,
Whose words caught his instant attention,
For he heard one say, as he drew more near,
‘I’ll cut his throat from ear to ear
And send his soul to ⸺’ a place which here
I really don’t like to mention.

“Shocked at these words, though somewhat alarmed,
His Lordship his noble heart soon calmed,
And set his nerves firm as rockstone,
Then followed the men up a street so lone
And dark that,”—here Mrs. Browne gave a groan,
While Browne looked the picture of fright, as shown
So well by Keeley and Buckstone.

Narrowly eyeing them, Jack continued,—
“The hands of these men so iron-sinewed,
Were red as the cover of ‘Murray,’
And in these hands they carried sticks
Of the pattern and size with which Mr. Hicks
All at once, single-handed, so easily licks
Ten land-sharks at the Surrey.

“These horrible ruffians, as more near
They approached, caught sight of Lord De Vere,
And seized him, pale and shrinking,
And as him on the ground they threw
Yelled out⸺
By Jove! it’s half-past two,
I’ve kept you up till all is blue,
I’ll run away like winkin’.”

Then, while with open mouth and eyes
The pair sat speechless with surprise,
Jack vanished quick as thought is,
And as the stairs he darted down,
Called out, “My wager, Browne, I’ve won,—
’Twas that here I’d sup; and you’re fairly done
Of ham, chicken, and aquafortis!

“My boasted acquaintance with Lord De Vere,
The tale of the street so dark and drear,
Was all improvisatoré!
You would _pardon_ a lord, though a church he should rob,
Yet _hang_ what T. P. Cooke would call ‘a poor swab,’
And you’re nothing at best but a tuft-hunting snob,
So I’ll ‘leave you alone in your glory.’”

Ye Moralle.

When once you are wed, bid a friendly adieu
To all bachelor chums, or keep just one or two,
And be sure they’re not fast men, but moral and true;
And in order that Rasper-like insults you may shun,
Don’t talk about lords upon every occasion,
But, like clerks at a terminus, _keep in your station_.

E. H. Y.

THE OVERFLOWINGS OF THE LATE PELLUCID RIVERS, ESQ.

Edited by Edmund H. Yates.

In submitting to the public some of the productions of my lamented friend Rivers, I think it right to endeavour to sketch some faint outline of the career of their illustrious author. “The world knows nothing of its greatest men,” says Philip Van Artevelde, and its general ignorance of Rivers clearly proves the truth of the remark.

Born of poor but respectable parents, in the parish of St. Pancras, at an early age Rivers evinced symptoms of that poetic talent which, in later life, made him so renowned—I mean, which would have made him so renowned, had he not been crushed by the wretched blindness and illiberality of the publishers of the metropolis. He could not have been more than five years of age when he first burst forth in metrical numbers; it was at the family dinner-table, when, pointing first to the smoking joint, then to the domestic implement by which he was conveying a portion of it to his mouth, he exclaimed—

“Pork!
Fork!”

A moment after, indicating the beer jug, his juvenile “poet’s eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,” he continued, “chalk!” His meaning on this point was vague, but it is generally considered he implied that the liquid was not paid for at the time, but was chalked up behind the door to the family account—a custom prevalent, I have ascertained, in many parts of the United Kingdom. From that period until his death he was constantly engaged in writing;—though his name never appeared to any of his productions, they were most extensively read; indeed, one of his minor poems—

“Dearest maid, I thee do love;
This my tender vows shall prove—
Little Cupid’s thrilling dart
Has found refuge in my heart,”

has been considered so successful, that the publication of it is annually revived, and the fourteenth of February, sacred to St. Valentine, is the day usually chosen for its reappearance.

For the last twenty years of his life, poor Rivers laboured under severe fits of melancholy and depression, the cause of which he long held secret. Shortly before his decease, however, he confided to me the source of his grief. It was, that manuscripts which he had forwarded on approval to various publishers, had been returned as worthless, while a few months afterwards the same publishers would send forth books of poems in which the most direct plagiarisms from my poor friend’s productions would appear. He made me solemnly pledge myself to see him righted in the opinion of the world, and hence the publication of these papers.

I regret exceedingly to be obliged to hold up to public odium names which have hitherto stood so highly as those of Mr. A—f—d T—ys—n and his publisher, Mr. M—x—n, but I defy any candid reader to peruse the following vigorous and striking stanzas of my poor friend’s, and then turn to that weak and rambling production, “L—cks—y H—ll,” without perceiving which is the grand original, which the mean and despicable parody!

VAUXHALL.

Cabman, stop thy jaded knacker; cabman, draw thy slackened rein;
Take this sixpence—do not grumble, swear not at Sir Richard Mayne!

’Tis the place, and all around it, as of old, the cadgers bawl—
Sparkling rockets, squibs and crackers, whizzing over gay Vauxhall.

Gay Vauxhall! that in the summer all the youth of town attracts,
Glittering with its lamps and fireworks, and its flashing cataracts.

Many a night in yonder gilded temple, ere I went to rest,
Did I look on great Von Joel, mimicking the feathered nest;

Many a night I saw Hernandez in a tinsel garb arrayed,
With his odorif’rous ringlets tangled in a silver braid;

Here about the paths I wandered, chaffing, laughing all the time,
Laughing at the piebald clown, or listening to the minstrel’s rhyme;

When beneath the business-counter linendraper’s men reposed,
When in calm and peaceful slumber, sharp maternal eyes are closed;

When I dipt into the pewter pot that held the foaming stout,
When I quaffed the burning punch, or wildly sipped the “cold without.”

In the spring a finer cambric’s wrapped around the lordling’s breast;
In the spring the gent at Redmayne’s gets himself a Moses’ “vest;”

In the spring we make investment in a white or lilac glove;
In the spring my youthful fancy prompted me to fall in love.

Then she danced through all the _ballet_, as a fairy blithe and young,
Stood a tiptoe on a flow’ret or from clouds of pasteboard swung—

And I said, “Miss Julia Belmont, speak, and speak the truth to me,
Wilt thou from this fairy region with a heart congenial flee?”

On her lovely cheek and forehead came a blushing through her paint,
And she sank upon my bosom in the semblance of a faint;

Then she turned, her voice was broken (so, if I must tell the truth,
Was her English—all I pardoned in the generous warmth of youth),

Saying, “Pray excuse my feelings, nothing wrong, indeed, is meant,”
Saying, “Will you be my loveyer?” weeping, “You are quite the gent.”

Love took up the glass before me, filled it foaming to the brim,
Love changed every comic ballad to a sweet euphonious hymn!

Many a morning in the railway did we run to Richmond, Kew,
And her hunger cleared my pockets oft of shillings not a few!

Many an evening down at Greenwich did we eat the pleasant “bait,”
Till I found my earnings going at a rather rapid rate.—

Oh! Miss Belmont, fickle-hearted! Oh, Miss Belmont, known too late!
Oh, that horrid, horrid Richmond, oh, the cursed, cursed “bait.”

Falser far than Lola Montes, falser e’en than Alice Gray,
Scorner of a faithful press-man, sharer of a tumbler’s pay!—

Is it well to wish thee happy? having once loved _me_—to wed
With a fool who gains his living by his heels and not his head!

As the husband is, the wife is: thou art mated with a clown,
And, pursuing his profession, he will strive to drag thee down.

He will hold thee, in the winter, when his fooleries begin,
Something better than his wig, a little dearer than his gin.

What is this? his legs are bending! think’st thou he is weary, faint?
Go to him, it is thy duty; kiss him, how he tastes of paint!

Am I mad, that I should cherish memories of the by-gone time?
Think of loving one whose husband fools it in a pantomime!

Never, though my mortal summers should be lengthened to the sum
Granted to the aged Parr, or more illustrious Widdicomb—

Comfort!—talk to me of comfort!—what is comfort here below?
Lies it in iced drinks in summer, aquascutum coats in snow?

Think not thou wilt know its meaning, wait of all his vows the proof,
Till the manager is sulky, and the rain pours through the roof:

See, his life he acts in dreams, while thou art staring in his face,
Listen to his hollow laughter, mark his effort at grimace!

Thou shalt hear “Hot Codlins” muttered in his vision-haunted sleep,
Thou shalt hear his feigned ecstatics, thou shalt hear his curses deep:

Let them fall on gay Vauxhall, that scene to me of deepest woe,
But—the waiters are departing, and perhaps I’d better go!

Such is the noble ballad of Vauxhall! but Rivers was master of all styles. The following exquisite picture of the joys and sorrows of modern domestic life presents an example of that happy blending of the real and the romantic with which the head of Rivers overflowed. The ballad of “Boreäna” has been kindly communicated by my literary friend Frank Fairleigh, who knew, loved, and admired Rivers as much as myself. After pointing out some of the more subtle and mysterious beauties of this matchless lyric, Fairleigh adds, “and yet after this, A—f—d T—ny—n had the face to publish that bombastic, trashy ballad of “Oriana,” and pretend it was original; where does that misguided man expect to go to?”

THE BALLAD OF BOREÄNA.

My brain is wearied with thy prate,
Boreäna,
I sit and curse my hapless fate,
Boreäna,
What time the rain pours down the gutter,
Still your platitudes you utter,
Boreäna,
I unholy wishes mutter,
Boreäna.

Ere the night-light’s flame was fading,
Boreäna,
While the cats were serenading,
Boreäna,
Sheep were bleating, oxen lowing,
We heard the beasts to Smithfield going,
Boreäna,
You said the butcher’s bill was owing,
Boreäna.

At Cremorne, we two alone,
Boreäna,
Ere my wisdom teeth were grown,
Boreäna,
While the dancers gaily hopped,
And the brass band never stopped,
Boreäna,
I to thee the question popped,
Boreäna.

She stood behind the area gate,
Boreäna,
She did it just to aggravate,
Boreäna,
She saw me wink, she heard me swear,
She recognized the scoundrel there,
Boreäna,
She knows a bailiff I can’t bear,
Boreäna.

The cursed writ he pushed it through,
Boreäna,
The area rails, and gave it you,
Boreäna,
The infernal summons me un-nerved,
He from his duty never swerved,
Boreäna,
On thee, my bride, the writ he served,
Boreäna.

Oh! narrow-minded County Court,
Boreäna,
’Tis death to me, to them ’tis sport,
Boreäna,
Oh! stab in my most tender place,
My pocket! oh! the deep disgrace,
Boreäna,
I fell down flat upon my face,
Boreäna.

They fined me at the next court day,
Boreäna,
Locked up, how can I get away,
Boreäna?
I don’t perceive of hope a ray,
’Tis a true bill, but, oh! I say,
Boreäna,
How without tin am I to pay,
Boreäna?

When turns the never-pausing mill,
Boreäna,
I tread, I do not dare stand still,
Boreäna:
At home, of beer thou drink’st thy fill,
I may not come to thee and swill,
Boreäna,
I hear the rolling of the mill,
Boreäna.