Chapter XI: Introduction

The way was long, the wind was cold,
The Minstrel was infirm and old;
His wither’d cheek, and tresses gray,
Seem’d to have known a better day!
The harp, his sole remaining joy,
Was carried by an orphan boy.
The last of all the bards was he,
Who sung of Border chivalry;
For, well a day! their date was fled,
His tuneful brethren all were dead;
And he, neglected and oppress’d
Wish’d to be with them, and at rest.
No more on prancing palfrey borne,
He caroll’d light as lark at morn;
No longer courted and caress’d,
High placed in hall, a welcome guest,
He pour’d, to lord and lady gay,
The unpremeditated lay:
Old times were changed, old manners gone
A stranger fill’d the Stuarts’ throne;
The bigots of the iron time
Had called his harmless art a crime.
A wandering Harper, scorn’d and poor,
He begg’d his bread from door to door,
And tuned, to please a peasant’s ear,
The harp, a king had loved to hear.

WALTER SCOTT.

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ANOTHER

LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL.

The Tide was low, the wind was cold,
Upon the sands the minstrel strolled;
His burnt-cork cheek and croaking lay
Seemed to have known a better day;
His banjo, sole remaining joy,
Was thrummed by an obstreperous boy;
The last of all the band was he
Who sang of nigger minstrelsy.
For, well a day! their date was fled――
His tuneful brethren earned their bread
In other channels. He confessed
That had he done so it were best.
No more to fiddle, harp and horn,
He sang his melodies forlorn;
No longer courted and caressed,
The tenor squared his manly chest,
And poured to lord and lady gay
His unpremeditated lay.
Old times were changed, old music gone,
The folks had “scientific” grown,
Neglected his untutored chime,
Pronouncing _Wagner_ quite sublime.
A wandering nigger, scorned and poor,
He hummed and strummed from door to door,
And tuned, to please a vagrant ear,
The banjo swells had loved to hear.

_Funny Folks_, May 22, 1875.

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THE GRAND OLD M――INSTREL.

[“Mr. Gladstone, attired in a light summer suit, and without
any wrapper round his throat, walked on Tuesday afternoon up
Whitehall from his residence in Richmond-terrace. On reaching
Trafalgar Square the right hon. gentleman was closely
followed by a considerable number of people. He repeatedly
raised his hat in acknowledgment of the salutes he received
from many persons as he proceeded. Turning up the Strand, Mr.
Gladstone made his way in the direction of Covent Garden,
still followed by about a hundred persons.”――_Daily News_,
July, 1885.]

The sun was hot, the day was bright,
The statesman found his collars tight;
He threw the starchy things aside,
And round his neck no choker tied;
In summer suit he quickly dressed――
True Paisley cloth, and of the best,
Presented by admiring Scots
Who gave him presents, lots on lots.
“Ah, now,” he cried, in accents gay,
“I think I’ll take a walk to-day;
The crowd that oft my footsteps dogs,
Will never know me in these togs;
Not one can recognise in me,
The potent statesmen, W.G.!”
He first from Richmond Terrace hied,
Without policeman at his side;
And then up Whitehall took the air
Until he reached Trafalgar Square;
By twos and threes the folks came out
And welcomed Gladstone with a shout;
Others, attracted by the sound,
In tens and dozens gathered round;
Desiring but to be alone,
The baffled Statesman hurried on;
With eager steps he paced along,
But always followed by the throng;
He fled from crowded street to street,
Precipitately in retreat;
And yet, despite the pace he flew,
The crowd only the greater grew;
And now, though several days have gone,
That Statesman still is hurrying on;
And strangers in a London street
Perchance may any moment meet
An old man in a summer suit
Endeavouring to avoid pursuit,
But vainly; for where’er he goes
The crowd behind him cheers and grows.

_The Weekly Echo_, July 25, 1885.

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THE LAY OF THE LAST CAB-HACK.

The way was long, the wind was cold,
The cab-hack was infirm and old.
His withered hide, a dirty grey,
Seemed to have known a better day;
His nose-bag, sole remaining joy,
Was pilfered by a ragged boy.
The last of all the hacks was he,
Of bony frame and broken knee:
For, well-a-day, their date was fled,
His wretched brethren all were dead;
And he, neglected and oppressed,
Wished to be with them, and at rest.
No more ’neath damsel lightly borne,
He caracolled like lark at morn;
No longer curried and caressed,
Snug placed in stall of corn the best,
He pranced for lord and lady gay
Throughout the equine-octial day.
His form was changed, his strength was gone,
A stranger owned his frame of bone;
His master of the iron time
To starve him thought it not a crime――
A wandering cabby, scorned and poor,
He urged his hack from door to door,
And drove, to win a peasant’s fare,
The horse that once a lord did bear.
He crawled where London’s smoky Tower
Looks out from Thames’ muddy bower;
The cab-hack gazed with wistful eye,
Alas! no resting-place was nigh,
With weak and faltering step at last
The glaring sausage-shop he passed,
Whose ponderous chopping-up machine
The rest of all his race had seen.
The shopman marked his weary pace,
His hang-dog mien and bony face,
And bade his boy the cabby tell
He’d buy if he the hack would sell;
For he had bought much worse than he,
Though born of racing pedigree,
In pride of power, in beauty’s bloom――
They’d gone unwept to this same tomb.

_Funny Folks._

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THE BRAY OF THE LAST DONKEY.

The way was long, the wind was cold,
The donkey was infirm and old;
His wrinkled nose and rough coat grey,
Seemed to have known a better day;
A whip, that sadden’d all his joy,
Was wielded by an awful boy;
The last of all his race was he,
Who lived in age of chivalry.
For, well-a-day, their date had fled,
His long-ear’d brethren all were dead;
And he, o’er-loaded and oppress’d,
Would soon be with them――and at rest.
No more with light load gladly borne,
He caracolled from night till morn;
No longer well-fed and caress’d.
High placed in stall, a welcome guest,
He pour’d to lord and lady gay
His most unmusical of bray;
Old steeds were changed, the donkeys gone,
The stalls with horses filled alone,
Proud favourites of degenerate time――
Even his braying call’d a crime,
A groggy donkey, starved and poor,
He carried sand from door to door,
Hard words and blows still doomed to bear.
Till death relieves him from his care.

ANONYMOUS.

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THE LAY OF THE LAST MINISTRY.

The way was long, the voters cold,
The Minister was weak――not old;
His wither’d hopes and messes gay
Seem’d to have known a better day;
The lyre, his sole remaining joy,
Was carried by the Office Boy;
The last of the stop-gaps was he,
And which his name was Salisbury.
His brethren to the towns had fled,
Expecting to be shortly dead,
And he, dejected and oppress’d,
Wished they were back, and feared for rest.
No more on wings of fancy borne
He chortled light as lark at morn;
No longer standing on the boards
As leader of the House of Lords,
To nobles young, and nobles grey,
He pour’d the Governmental lay:
His occupation nearly gone,
_He_ felt he must vacate his throne;
For many at Election-time
Look’d on his policy as crime.
A Premier on a touting tour,
He begged for votes from door to door,
And tried to please the peasant’s ear
With tunes that few might care to hear.
Et cetera.

_Fun_, November 18, 1885.

This was accompanied by a cartoon representing the Marquis of Salisbury as the aged minstrel, with Lord Randolph Churchill as his boy carrying the lyre.

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