Chapter I: Front Matter (1)

THE BOOK OF BALLADS

By Various

Edited by BON GAULTIER

Illustrated by DOYLE, LEECH, CROMQUILL

Eleventh Edition

1870

THE BROKEN PITCHER

It {003}was a Moorish maiden was sitting by a well,
And what the maiden thought of, I cannot, cannot tell,
When by there rode a valiant knight from the town of
Oviedo--
Alphonzo Guzman was he hight, the Count of Tololedo.

"Oh, maiden, Moorish maiden, why sitt'st thou by the
spring?
Say, dost thou seek a lover, or any other thing?
Why dost thou look upon me, with eyes so dark and wide,
And wherefore doth the pitcher lie broken by thy side?"

"I {004}do not seek a lover, thou Christian knight so gay,
Because an article like that hath never come my way;
And why I gaze upon you, I cannot, cannot tell,
Except that in your iron hose you look uncommon swell.

"My pitcher it is broken, and this the reason is,--
A shepherd came behind me, and tried to snatch a kiss;
I would not stand his nonsense, so ne'er a word I spoke,
But scored him on the costard, and so the jug was broke.

"My uncle, the Alcaydè, he waits for me at home,
And will not take his tumbler until Zorayda come:
I cannot bring him water--the pitcher is in pieces--
And so I'm sure to catch it, 'cos he wallops all his nieces."

"Oh, maiden, Moorish maiden! wilt thou be ruled by me!
So wipe thine eyes and rosy lips, and give me kisses three;
And I'll give thee my helmet, thou kind and courteous lady,
To carry home the water to thy uncle, the Alcaydè."

He lighted down from off his steed--he tied him to a
tree--
He bent him to the maiden, and he took his kisses three;
"To wrong thee, sweet Zorayda, I swear would be a sin!"
And he knelt him at the fountain, and he dipped his
helmet in.

Up {005}rose the Moorish maiden--behind the knight she steals,
And caught Alphonzo Guzman in a twinkling by the heels:
She tipped him in, and held him down beneath the bub-
bling water,--
"Now, take thou that for venturing to kiss Al Hamet's
daughter!"

A Christian maid is weeping in the town of Oviedo;
She waits the coming of her love, the Count of Tololedo.
I pray you all in charity, that you will never tell,
How he met the Moorish maiden beside the lonely well.

DON FERNANDO GOMERSALEZ

From the Spanish of Astley's.

Don {006}Fernando Gomersalez! basely have
they borne thee down;
Paces ten behind thy charger is thy
glorious body thrown;
Fetters have they bound upon thee--iron
fetters, fast and sure;
Don Fernando Gomersalez, thou art cap-
tive to the Moor!

Long {007}within a dingy dungeon pined that brave and noble
knight,
For the Saracenic warriors well they knew and feared his
might;
Long he lay and long he languished on his dripping bed
of stone,
Till the cankered iron fetters ate their way into his bone.

On the twentieth day of August--'twas the feast of false
Mahound--
Came the Moorish population from the neighbouring cities
round;
There to hold their foul carousal, there to dance and there
to sing,
And to pay their yearly homage to Al-Widdicomb, the
King!

First they wheeled their supple coursers, wheeled them at
their utmost speed,
Then they galloped by in squadrons, tossing far the light
jereed;
Then around the circus racing, faster than the swallow
flies,
Did they spurn the yellow sawdust in the rapt spectators'
eyes.

Proudly {008}did the Moorish monarch every passing warrior
greet,
As he sate enthroned above them, with the lamps beneath
his feet;
"Tell me, thou black-bearded Cadi! are there any in the
land,
That against my janissaries dare one hour in combat stand?"

Then the bearded Cadi answered--"Be not wroth, my lord
the King,
If thy faithful slave shall venture to observe one little thing;
Valiant, {009}doubtless, are thy warriors, and their beards are
long and hairy,
And a thunderbolt in battle is each bristly janissary:

"But I cannot, O my sovereign, quite forget that fearful
day,
"When I saw the Christian army in its terrible array;
When they charged across the footlights like a torrent
down its bed,
With the red cross floating o'er them, and Fernando at
their head!

"Don Fernando Gomersalez! matchless chieftain he in war,
Mightier than Don Sticknejo, braver than the Cid Bivar!
Not a cheek within Grenada, O my King, but wan and
pale is,
When they hear the dreaded name of Don Fernando
Gomersalez!"

"Thou shalt see thy champion, Cadi! hither quick the
captive bring!"
Thus in wrath and deadly anger spoke Al-Widdicomb, the
King:
"Paler than a maiden's forehead is the Christian's hue, I
ween,
Since a year within the dungeons of Grenada he hath
been!"

Then {010}they brought the Gomersalez, and they led the
warrior in;
Weak and wasted seemed his body, and his face was pale
and thin;
But the ancient fire was burning, unallayed, within his eye,
And his step was proud and stately, and his look was stern
and high.

Scarcely from tumultuous cheering could the galleried
crowd refrain,
For they knew Don Gomersalez and his prowess in the
plain;
But they feared the grizzly despot and his myrmidons in
steel,
So their sympathy descended in the fruitage of Seville.

"Wherefore, monarch, hast thou brought me from the
dungeon dark and drear,
Where these limbs of mine have wasted in confinement
for a year?
Dost thou lead me forth to torture?--Rack and pincers
I defy!
Is it that thy base grotesquos may behold a hero die?"

"Hold thy peace, thou Christian caitiff, and attend to what
I say!
Thou art called the starkest rider of the Spanish cur's array:
If {011}thy courage be undaunted, as they say it was of yore,
Thou mayst yet achieve thy freedom,--yet regain thy
native shore.

"Courses three within this circus 'gainst my warriors shalt
thou run,
Ere yon weltering pasteboard ocean shall receive yon
muslin sun;
Victor--thou shalt have thy freedom; but if stretched
upon the plain,
To thy dark and dreary dungeon they shall hale thee back
again."

"Give me but the armour, monarch, I have worn in many
a field,
Give me but my trusty helmet, give me but my dinted
shield;
And my old steed, Bavieca, swiftest courser in the ring,
And I rather should imagine that I'll do the business, King!"

Then they carried down the armour from the garret where
it lay,
O! but it was red and rusty, and the plumes were shorn
away:
And they led out Bavieca from a foul and filthy van,
For the conqueror had sold him to a Moorish dogs'-meat
man.

When {012}the steed beheld his master, then he whinnied loud
and free,
And, in token of subjection, knelt upon each broken knee;
And a tear of walnut largeness to the warrior's eyelids
rose,
As he fondly picked a bean-straw from his coughing
courser's nose.

"Many a time, O Bavieca, hast thou borne me through
the fray!
Bear me but again as deftly through the listed ring this
day;
Or if thou art worn and feeble, as may well have come to
pass,
Time it is, my trusty charger, both of us were sent to grass!"

Then he seized his lance, and vaulting in the saddle sate
upright;
Marble seemed the noble courser, iron seemed the mailèd
knight;
And a cry of admiration burst from every Moorish lady.
"Five to four on Don Fernando!" cried the sable-bearded
Cadi.

Warriors three from Alcantara burst into the listed space,
Warriors three, all bred in battle, of the proud Alhambra
race:
Trumpets {013}sounded, coursers bounded, and the foremost
straight went down,
Tumbling, like a sack of turnips, just before the jeering
Clown.

In the second chieftain galloped, and he bowed him to the
King,
And his saddle-girths were tightened by the Master of the
Ring;
Through three blazing hoops he bounded ere the desperate
fight began--
Don Fernando! bear thee bravely!--'tis the Moor Abdor-
rhoman!

Like a double streak of lightning, clashing in the sulphurous
sky,
Met the pair of hostile heroes, and they made the sawdust
And the Moslem spear so stiffly smote on Don Fernando's
mail,
That he reeled, as if in liquor, back to Bavieca's tail:

But he caught the mace beside him, and he griped it hard
and fast,
And he swung it starkly upwards as the foeman bounded
past;
And {014}the deadly stroke descended through, the skull and
through the brain,
As ye may have seen a poker cleave a cocoa-nut in twain.

Sore astonished was the monarch, and the Moorish warriors
all,
Save the third bold chief, who tarried and beheld his
brethren fall;
And the Clown, in haste arising from the footstool where
he sat,
Notified the first appearance of the famous Acrobat;

Never on a single charger rides that stout and stalwart
Moor,--
Five beneath his stride so stately bear him o'er the
trembling floor;
Five Arabians, black as midnight--on their necks the rein
he throws,
And the outer and the inner feel the pressure of his toes.

Never wore that chieftain armour; in a knot himself he
ties,
With his grizzly head appearing in the centre of his
thighs,
Till the petrified spectator asks, in paralysed alarm,
Where may be the warrior's body,--which is leg, and
which is arm?

"Sound [015]the charge!" The coursers started; with a yell
and furious vault,
High in air the Moorish champion cut a wondrous somer-
sault;
O'er the head of Don Fernando like a tennis-ball he sprung,
Caught him tightly by the girdle, and behind the crupper
hung.

Then his dagger Don Fernando plucked from out its
jewelled sheath,
And he struck the Moor so fiercely, as he grappled him
beneath,
That {016}the good Damascus weapon sank within the folds
of fat,
And as dead as Julius Cæsar dropped the Gordian
Acrobat.

Meanwhile fast the sun was sinking--it had sunk beneath
the sea,
Ere Fernando Gomersalez smote the latter of the three;
And Al-Widdicomb, the monarch, pointed, with a bitter
smile,
To the deeply-darkening canvass;--blacker grew it all the
while.

"Thou hast slain my warriors, Spaniard! but thou hast
not kept thy time;
Only two had sunk before thee ere I heard the curfew
chime;
Back thou goest to thy dungeon, and thou mayst be
wondrous glad
That thy head is on thy shoulders for thy work to-day,
my lad!

"Therefore all thy boasted valour, Christian dog, of no
avail is!"
Dark as midnight grew the brow of Don Fernando Gomer-
salez;--
Stiffly {017}sate he in his saddle, grimly looked around the
ring,
Laid his lance within the rest, and shook his gauntlet at
the King.

"O, thou foul and faithless traitor! wouldst thou play me
false again?
Welcome death and welcome torture, rather than the
captive's chain!
But I give thee warning, caitiff! Look thou sharply to
thine eye--
Unavenged, at least in harness, Gomersalez shall not
die!"

Thus he spoke, and Bavieca like an arrow forward flew,
Right and left the Moorish squadron wheeled to let the
hero through;
Brightly gleamed the lance of vengeance--fiercely sped
the fatal thrust--
From his throne the Moorish monarch tumbled lifeless in
the dust.

Speed thee, speed thee, Bavieca! speed thee faster than
the wind!
Life and freedom are before thee, deadly foes give chase
behind!

Speed {018}thee up the sloping spring-board; o'er the bridge
that spans the seas;
Yonder gauzy moon will light thee through the grove of
canvas trees.
Close {019}before thee, Pampeluna spreads her painted paste-
board gate!
Speed thee onward, gallant courser, speed thee with thy
knightly freight!

Victory! The town receives them!--Gentle ladies, this
the tale is,
Which I learned in Astley's Circus, of Fernando Gomer-
salez.

THE COURTSHIP OF OUR CID

What {020}a pang of sweet emotion
Thrilled the Master of the Ring,
When he first beheld the lady
Through the stabled portal spring!
Midway in his wild grimacing
Stopped the piebald-visaged Clown
And the thunders of the audience
Nearly brought the gallery down.

Donna {021}Inez Woolfordinez!
Saw ye ever such a maid,
With the feathers swaling o'er her,
And her spangled rich brocade?
In her fairy hand a horsewhip,
On her foot a buskin small,
So she stepped, the stately damsel,
Through the scarlet grooms and all.

And she beckoned for her courser,
And they brought a milk-white mare;
Proud, I ween, was that Arabian
Such a gentle freight to bear:
And the Master moved to greet her,
With a proud and stately walk;
And, in reverential homage,
Rubbed her soles with virgin chalk.

Round she flew, as Flora flying
Spans the circle of the year;
And the youth of London, sighing,
Half forgot the ginger-beer--
Quite forgot the maids beside them;
As they surely well might do,
When she raised two Roman candles,
Shooting fireballs red and blue!
Swifter {022}than the Tartar's arrow,

Lighter than the lark in flight,
On the left foot now she bounded,
Now she stood upon the right.
Like a beautiful Bacchante,
Here she soars, and there she kneels,
While amid her floating tresses
Flash two whirling Catherine wheels!
Hark! the blare of yonder trumpet!

See, the gates are opened wide!
Room, there, room for Gomersalez,--
Gomersalez in his pride!
Rose the shouts of exultation,
Rose the cat's triumphant call,
As he bounded, man and courser,
Over Master, Clown, and all!
Donna Inez Woolfordinez!

Why those blushes on thy cheek?
Doth thy trembling bosom tell thee,
He hath come thy love to seek?
Fleet thy Arab, but behind thee
He is rushing like a gale;
One foot on his coal-black's shoulders,
And the other on his tail!
Onward, {023}onward, panting maiden!

He is faint, and fails, for now
By the feet he hangs suspended
From his glistening saddle-bow.
Down are gone both cap and feather,
Lance and gonfalon are down!
Trunks, and cloak, and vest of velvet,
He has flung them to the Clown,
Faint and failing! Up he vaulteth,
Fresh as when he first began;
All in coat of bright vermilion,
'Quipped as Shaw, the Lifeguardsman;
Eight and left his whizzing broadsword,
Like a sturdy flail, he throws;
Cutting out a path unto thee
Through imaginary foes.

Woolfordinez! speed thee onward!
He is hard upon thy track,--
Paralysed is Widdicombez,
Nor his whip can longer crack;
He has flung away his broadsword,
'Tis to clasp thee to his breast.
Onward!--see, he bares his bosom,
Tears away his scarlet vest;
Leaps {024}from out his nether garments,
And his leathern stock unties--
As the flower of London's dustmen,
Now in swift pursuit he flies.

Nimbly now he cuts and shuffles,
O'er the buckle, heel and toe!
Flaps his hands in his tail-pockets,
Winks to all the throng below!

Onward, onward rush the coursers;
Woolfordinez, peerless girl,
O'er the garters lightly bounding
From her steed with airy whirl!
Gomersalez, wild with passion,
Danger--all but her--forgets;
Wheresoe'er she flies, pursues her,
Casting clouds of somersets!

Onward, onward rush the coursers;
Bright is Gomersalez' eye;
Saints protect thee, Woolfordinez,
For his triumph sure is nigh:
Now his courser's flanks he lashes,
O'er his shoulder flings the rein,
And his feet aloft he tosses,
Holding stoutly by the mane!

Then, {025}his feet once more regaining,
Doffs his jacket, doffs his smalls,
And in graceful folds around him
A bespangled tunic falls.
Pinions from his heels are bursting,
His bright locks have pinions o'er them;
And the public see with rapture
Maia's nimble son before them.

Speed thee, speed thee, Woolfordinez!
For a panting god pursues;
And the chalk is very nearly
Rubbed from thy White satin shoes;
Every bosom throbs with terror,
You might hear a pin to drop;
All is hushed, save where a starting
Cork gives out a casual pop.

One smart lash across his courser,
One tremendous bound and stride,
And our noble Cid was standing
By his Woolfordinez' side!
With a god's embrace he clasped her,
Raised her in his manly arms;
And the stables' closing barriers
Hid his valour, and her charms!

AMERICAN BALLADS

THE FIGHT WITH THE SNAPPING TURTLE

FYTTE FIRST

Have {029}you heard of Philip Slingsby,
Slingsby of the manly chest;
How he slew the Snapping Turtle
In the regions of the 'West?

Every day the huge Cawana
Lifted up its monstrous jaws;
And it swallowed Langton Bennett,
And digested Rufus Dawes.

Riled, {030}I ween, was Philip Slingsby,
Their untimely deaths to hear;
For one author owed him money,
And the other loved him dear.

"Listen now, sagacious Tyler,
Whom the loafers all obey;
What reward will Congress give me,
If I take this pest away?"

Then sagacious Tyler answered,
"You're the ring-tailed squealer! Less
Than a hundred heavy dollars
Won't be offered you, I guess!

"And a lot of wooden nutmegs
In the bargain, too, we'll throw--
Only you just fix the critter.
Won't you liquor ere you go?"

Straightway leaped the valiant Slingsby
Into armour of Seville,
With a strong Arkansas toothpick
Screwed in every joint of steel.

"Come thou with me, Cullen Bryant,
Come with me, as squire, I pray;
Be the Homer of the battle
Which I go to wage to-day."

So {031}they went along careering
With a loud and martial tramp,
Till they neared the Snapping Turtle
In the dreary Swindle Swamp.

But when Slingsby saw the water,
Somewhat pale, I ween, was he.
"If I come not back, dear Bryant,
Tell the tale to Melanie!

"Tell her that I died devoted,
Victim to a noble task!
Han't you got a drop of brandy
In the bottom of your flask?"

As he spoke, an alligator
Swam across the sullen creek;
And the two Columbians started,
When they heard the monster shriek;

For a snout of huge dimensions
Rose above the waters high,
And took down the alligator,
As a trout takes down a fly.

"'Tarnal death! the Snapping Turtle!"
Thus the squire in terror cried;
But the noble Slingsby straightway
Drew the toothpick from his side.

"Fare {032}thee well!" he cried, and dashing
Through the waters, strongly swam:
Meanwhile, Cullen Bryant, watching,
Breathed a prayer and sucked a dram.

Sudden from the slimy bottom
Was the snout again upreared,
With a snap as loud as thunder,--
And the Slingsby disappeared.

Like a mighty steam-ship foundering,
Down the monstrous vision sank;
And the ripple, slowly rolling,
Plashed and played upon the bank.

Still and stiller grew the water,
Hushed the canes within the brake;
There was but a kind of coughing
At the bottom of the lake.

Bryant wept as loud and deeply
As a father for a son--
"He's a finished 'coon, is Slingsby,
And the brandy's nearly done!"

FYTTE SECOND.

In a {033}trance of sickening anguish,
Cold and stiff, and sore and damp,
For two days did Bryant linger
By the dreary Swindle Swamp;

Always peering at the water,
Always waiting for the hour
When those monstrous jaws should open
As he saw them ope before..

Still in vain;--the alligators
Scrambled through the marshy brake,
And the vampire leeches gaily
Sucked the garfish in the lake.

But the Snapping Turtle never
Rose for food or rose for rest,
Since he lodged the steel deposit
In the bottom of his chest.

Only always from the bottom
Sounds of frequent coughing rolled,
Just as if the huge Cawana
Had a most confounded cold.

On {034}the bank lay Cullen Bryant,
As the second moon arose,
Gouging on the sloping greensward
Some imaginary foes;

When the swamp began to tremble,
And the canes to rustle fast,
As though some stupendous body
Through their roots were crushing past.

And the waters boiled and bubbled,
And, in groups of twos and threes,
Several alligators bounded,
Smart as squirrels, up the trees.

Then a hideous head was lifted,
With such huge distended jaws,
That they might have held Goliath
Quite as well as Rufus Dawes.

Paws of elephantine thickness
Dragged its body from the bay,
And it glared at Cullen Bryant
In a most unpleasant way.

Then it writhed as if in torture,
And it staggered to and fro;
And its very shell was shaken
In the anguish of its throe:

And {035}its cough grew loud and louder,
And its sob more husky thick!
For, indeed, it was apparent
That the beast was very sick.

Till, {036}at last, a spasmy vomit
Shook its carcass through and through,
And as if from out a cannon,
All in armour Slingsby flew.

Bent and bloody was the bowie
Which he held within his grasp;
And he seemed so much exhausted
That he scarce had strength to gasp--

"Gouge him, Bryant! darn ye, gouge him!
Gouge him while he's on the shore!"
Bryant's thumbs were straightway buried
Where no thumbs had pierced before.

Right from out their bony sockets
Did he scoop the monstrous balls;
And, with one convulsive shudder,
Dead the Snapping Turtle falls!

****

"Post the tin, sagacious Tyler!"
But the old experienced file,
Leering first at Clay and Webster,
Answered, with a quiet smile--

"Since {037}you dragged the 'tarnal crittur
From the bottom of the ponds,
Here's the hundred dollars due you,
_All in Pennsylvanian Bonds!_"

THE LAY OF MR COLT.

[The {038}story of Mr Colt, of which our Lay contains merely the sequel, is this: A New York printer, of the name of Adams, had the effrontery to call upon him one day for payment of an account, which the independent Colt settled by cutting his creditor's head to fragments with an axe. He then packed his body in a box, sprinkling it with salt, and despatched it to a packet bound for New Orleans. Suspicions having been excited, he was seized and tried before Judge Kent. The trial is, perhaps, the most disgraceful upon the records of any country. The ruffian's mistress was produced in court, and examined, in disgusting detail, as to her connection with Colt, and his movements during the days and nights succeeding the murder. The head of the murdered man was bandied to and fro in the court, handed up to the jury, and commented on by witnesses and counsel; and to crown the horrors of the whole proceeding, the wretch's own counsel, a Mr Emmet, commencing the defence with a cool admission that his client took the life of Adams, and following it up by a de-tail of the whole circumstances of this most brutal-murder in the first person, as though he himself had been the murderer, ended by telling the jury, that his client was "_entitled to the sympathy_ of a jury of his country," as "a young man just entering into life, _whose prospects, probably, have been permanently blasted_." Colt was found guilty; but a variety of exceptions were taken to the charge by the judge, and after a long series of appeals, which _occupied more than a year from the date of conviction_, the sentence of death was ratified by Governor Seward. The rest of Colt's story is told in our ballad.]

STREAK THE FIRST.

And now the sacred rite was done, and the marriage-knot
was tied,
And Colt withdrew his blushing wife a little way aside;
"Let's go," he said, "into my cell; let's go alone, my dear;
I fain would shelter that sweet face from the sheriff's
odious leer.

The {039}jailer and the hangmen, they are waiting both for
me,--
I cannot bear to see them wink so knowingly at thee!
Oh, how I loved thee, dearest! They say that I am
wild,
That a mother dares not trust me with the weasand of
her child;

They say my bowie-knife is keen to sliver into halves
The carcass of my enemy, as butchers slay their calves.
They say that I am stern of mood, because, like salted
beef,
I packed my quartered foeman up, and marked him 'prime
tariff;'

Because I thought to palm him on the simple-souled John
Bull,
And clear a small percentage on the sale at Liverpool;
It may be so, I do not know--these things, perhaps,
may be;
But surely I have always been a gentleman to thee!

Then come, my love, into my cell, short bridal space is
ours,--
Nay, sheriff, never look thy watch--I guess there's good
two hours.
We'll shut the prison doors and keep the gaping world
at bay,
For love is long as 'tarnity, though I must die to-day!"

STREAK THE SECOND.

The {040}clock is ticking onward,
It nears the hour of doom,
And no one yet hath entered
Into that ghastly room.

The jailer and the sheriff,
They are walking to and fro:
And the hangman sits upon the steps,
And smokes his pipe below.

In grisly expectation
The prison all is bound,
And, save expectoration,
You cannot hear a sound.

The turnkey stands and ponders,--,
His hand upon the bolt,--
"In twenty minutes more, I guess,
'Twill all be up with Colt!"

But see, the door is opened!
Forth comes the weeping bride;
The courteous sheriff lifts his hat,
And saunters to her side,--

"I beg your pardon, Mrs C.,
But is your husband ready?"
"I {041}guess you'd better ask himself,"
Replied the woeful lady.

The clock is ticking onward,
The minutes almost run,
The hangman's pipe is nearly out,
'Tis on the stroke of one.

At every grated window,
Unshaven faces glare;
There's Puke, the judge of Tennessee,
And Lynch, of Delaware;

And Batter, with the long black beard,
Whom Hartford's maids know well;
And Winkinson, from Fish Kill Reach,
The pride of New Rochelle;

Elkanah Nutts, from Tarry Town,
The gallant gouging boy;
And 'coon-faced Bushwhack, from the hills
That frown o'er modern Troy;

Young Julep, whom our Willis loves,
Because, 'tis said, that he
One morning from a bookstall filched
The tale of "Melanie;"

And Skunk, who fought his country's fight
Beneath the stripes and stars,--
All thronging at the windows stood,
And gazed between the bars.

The {042}little hoys that stood behind
(Young thievish imps were they!)
Displayed considerable _nous_
On that eventful day;

For bits of broken looking-glass
They held aslant on high,
And there a mirrored gallows-tree
Met their delighted eye. *

* A fact.

The clock is ticking onward;
Hark! Hark! it striketh one!
Each felon draws a whistling breath,
"Time's up with Colt! he's done

The sheriff looks his watch again,
Then puts it in his fob,
And turns him to the hangman,--
"Get ready for the job."

The jailer knocketh loudly,
The turnkey draws the bolt,
And pleasantly the sheriff says,
"We're waiting, Mister Colt!"

No answer! no! no answer!
All's still as death within;
The sheriff eyes the jailer,
The jailer strokes his chin.

"I {043}shouldn't wonder, Nahum, if
It were as you suppose."
The hangman looked unhappy, and
The turnkey blew his nose.

They entered. On his pallet
The noble convict lay,--
The bridegroom on his marriage-bed,
But not in trim array.

His red right hand a razor held,
Fresh sharpened from the hone,
And his ivory neck was severed,
And gashed into the bone.

****

And when the lamp is lighted
In the long November days,
And lads and lasses mingle
At the shucking of the maize;

When pies of smoking pumpkin
Upon the table stand,
And bowls of black molasses
Go round from hand to hand;

When slap-jacks, maple-sugared,
Are hissing in the pan,
And cider, with a dash of gin,
Foams in the social can;

When {044}the goodman wets his whistle,
And the goodwife scolds the child;
And the girls exclaim convulsively,
"Have done, or I'll be riled!"

When the loafer sitting next them
Attempts a sly caress,
And whispers, "O! you 'possum,
You've fixed my heart, I guess!"

With laughter and with weeping,
Then shall they tell the tale,
How Colt his foeman quartered,
And died within the jail.

THE DEATH OF JABEZ DOLLAR

[Before {045}the following poem, which originally appeared in 'Fraser's Magazine,' could have reached America, intelligence was received in this country of an affray in Congress, very nearly the counterpart of that which the Author has here imagined in jest. It was very clear, to any one who observed the state of public manners in America, that such occurrences _must_ happen, sooner or later. The Americans apparently felt the force of the satire, as the poem was widely reprinted throughout the States. It subsequently returned to this country, embodied in an American work on American manners, where it characteristically appeared as the writer's _own_ production; and it afterwards went the round of British newspapers, as an amusing satire, by an American, of his countrymen's foibles!]

The Congress met, the day was wet, Van Buren took the
chair;
On either side, the statesman pride of far Kentuck was
there.
With moody frown, there sat Calhoun, and slowly in his
cheek
His quid he thrust, and slaked the dust, as Webster rose
to speak.

Upon that day, near gifted Clay, a youthful member sat,
And like a free American upon the floor he spat;
Then turning round to Clay, He said, and wiped his manly
chin,
"What kind of Locofoco's that, as wears the painter's
skin?"

"Young {046}man," quoth Clay, "avoid the way of Slick of
Tennessee;
Of gougers fierce, the eyes that pierce, the fiercest gouger
he;
He chews and spits, as there he sits, and whittles at the
chairs,
And in his hand, for deadly strife, a bowie-knife he
bears.

"Avoid that knife. In frequent strife its blade, so long
and thin,
Has found itself a resting-place his rivals' ribs within."
But coward fear came never near young Jabez Dollar's
heart,--
"Were he an alligator, I would rile him pretty smart!"

Then up he rose, and cleared his nose, and looked toward
the chair;
He saw the stately stripes and stars,--our country's flag
was there!
His heart beat high, with eldritch cry upon the floor he
sprang,
Then raised his wrist, and shook his fist, and spoke his
first harangue.

"Who {047}sold the nutmegs made of wood--the clocks that
wouldn't figure?
Who grinned the bark off gum-trees dark--the everlasting
nigger?
For twenty cents, ye Congress gents, through 'tarnity I'll
kick
That man, I guess, though nothing less than 'coon-faced
Colonel Slick!"

The {047}Colonel smiled--with frenzy wild,--his very beard
waxed blue,--
His shirt it could not hold him, so wrathy riled he grew;
He foams and frets, his knife he whets upon his seat
below--
He sharpens it on either side, and whittles at his toe,--

"Oh! waken snakes, and walk your chalks!" he cried,
with ire elate;
"Darn my old mother, but I will in wild cats whip my
weight!
Oh! 'tarnal death, I'll spoil your breath, young Dollar, and
your chaffing,--
Look to your ribs, for here is that will tickle them without
laughing!"

His {048}knife he raised--with, fury crazed, he sprang across
the hall;
He cut a caper in the air--he stood before them all:
He never stopped to look or think if he the deed should
do,
But spinning sent the President, and on young Dollar
flew.

They met--they closed--they sank--they rose,--in vain
young Dollar strove--
For, like a streak of lightning greased, the infuriate Colonel
drove
His bowie-blade deep in his side, and to the ground they
rolled,
And, drenched in gore, wheeled o'er and o'er, locked in
each other's hold.

With fury dumb--with nail and thumb--they struggled
and they thrust,--
The blood ran red from Dollar's side, like rain, upon the
dust;
He nerved his might for one last spring, and as he sank
and died,
Reft of an eye, his enemy fell groaning by his side.

Thus {049}did he fall within the hall of Congress, that brave
youth;
The bowie-knife has quenched his life of valour and of
truth;
And still among the statesmen throng at Washington they
tell
How nobly Dollar gouged his man--how gallantly he fell.

THE ALABAMA DUEL

"Young {050}chaps, give ear, the case is clear. You, Silas
Fixings, you
Pay Mister Nehemiali Dodge them dollars as you're due.
You are a bloody cheat,--you are. But spite of all your
tricks, it
Is not in you Judge Lynch to do. No! nohow you can
fix it!"

Thus {051}spake Judge Lynch, as there he sat in Alabama's
forum,
Around he gazed, with legs upraised upon the bench before
him;
And, as he gave this sentence stern to him who stood
beneath,
Still with his gleaming bowie-knife he slowly picked his
teeth.

It was high noon, the month was June, and sultry was the
air,
A cool gin-sling stood by his hand, his coat hung o'er his
chair;
All naked were his manly arms, and shaded by his hat,
Like an old senator of Rome that simple Archon sat.

"A bloody cheat?--Oh, legs and feet!" in wrath young
Silas cried;
And springing high into the air, he jerked his quid
aside.
"No man shall put my dander up, or with my feelings
trifle,
As long as Silas Fixings wears a bowie-knife and rifle."

"If your shoes pinch," replied Judge Lynch, "you'll very,
soon have ease;
I'll give you satisfaction, squire, in any way you please;
What are your weapons?--knife or gun?--at both I'm
pretty spry!"
"Oh! 'tarnal death, you're spry, you are?" quoth Silas;
"so am I!"

Hard by the town a forest stands, dark with the shades
of time,
And they have sought that forest dark at morning's early
prime;
Lynch, backed by Nehemiah Dodge, and Silas with a
friend,
And half the town in glee came down to see that contest's
end.

They led their men two miles apart, they measured out
the ground;
A belt of that, vast wood it was, they notched the trees
around;
Into the tangled brake they turned them off, and neither
knew
Where he should seek his wagered foe, how get him into
view.

With {053}stealthy tread, and stooping head,
from tree to tree they passed,
They crept beneath the crackling furze, they
held their rifles fast:

Hour passed on hour, the noonday sun
smote fiercely down, but yet
No sound to the expectant crowd proclaimed
that they had met.

And now the sun was going down, when,
hark! a rifle's crack!
Hush--hush! another strikes the air,--and
all their breath draw back,--
Then crashing on through bush and briar,
the crowd from either side
Rush in to see whose rifle sure with blood
the moss has dyed.

Weary {054}with watching up and down, brave Lynch con-
ceived a plan,
An artful dodge whereby to take at unawares his man;
He hung his hat upon a bush, and hid himself hard by;
Young Silas thought he had him fast, and at the hat let
fly.
It fell; up sprang young Silas,--he hurled his gun
away;
Lynch fixed him with his rifle, from the ambush where he
lay.

The bullet pierced his manly breast--yet, valiant to the
last,
Young Fixings drew his bowie-knife, and up his foxtail *
cast.

* The Yankee substitute for the _chapeau de soie_.

With tottering step and glazing eye he cleared the space
between,
And stabbed the air as stabs in grim Macbeth the younger
Kean:
Brave Lynch received him with a bang that stretched him
on the ground,
Then sat himself serenely down till all the crowd drew
round.

They {055}hailed him with triumphant cheers--in him each
loafer saw
The bearing bold that could uphold the majesty of law;
And, raising him aloft, they bore him homewards at his
ease,--
That noble judge, whose daring hand enforced his own
decrees.

They buried Silas Fixings in the hollow where he fell,
And gum-trees wave above his grave--that tree he loved
so well;
And the 'coons sit chattering o'er him when the nights are
long and damp;
But he sleeps well in that lonely dell, the Dreary 'Possum
Swamp.

THE AMERICAN'S APOSTROPHE TO BOZ

[Rapidly {056}as oblivion does its work nowadays, the burst of amiable indignation with which enlightened America received the issue of Boz's _Notes_ can scarcely yet be forgotten. Not content with waging a universal rivalry in the piracy of the work, Columbia showered upon its author the riches of its own choice vocabulary of abuse; while some of her more fiery spirits threw out playful hints as to the propriety of gouging the "stranger," and furnishing him with a permanent suit of tar and feathers, in the very improbable event of his paying them a second visit. The perusal of these animated expressions of free opinion suggested the following lines, which those who remember Boz's book, and the festivities with which he was all but hunted to death, will at once understand. We hope we have done justice to the bitterness and "immortal hate" of these thin-skinned sons of freedom. When will Americans cease to justify the ridicule of Europe, by bearing rebuke, or even misrepresentation, calmly as a great nation should?]

Sneak across the wide Atlantic, worthless London's puling
child,
Better that its waves should bear thee, than the land thou
hast reviled;
Better in the stifling cabin, on the sofa thou shouldst lie,
Sickening as the fetid nigger bears the greens and bacon by;
Better, when the midnight horrors haunt the strained and
creaking ship,
Thou shouldst yell in vain for brandy with a fever-sodden
lip;

When amid the deepening darkness and the lamp's ex-
piring shade,
From {057}the bagman's berth above thee comes the bountiful
cascade,
Better than upon the Broadway thou shouldst be at noon-
day seen,
Smirking like a Tracy Tupman with a Mantalini mien,
With a rivulet of satin falling o'er thy puny chest,
Worse than even P. Willis for an evening party drest!

We received thee warmly--kindly--though we knew thou
wert a quiz,
Partly for thyself it may be, chiefly for the sake of Phiz!
Much we bore, and much we suffered, listening to remorse-
less spells
Of that Smike's unceasing drivellings, and these everlast-
ing Nells.
When you talked of babes and sunshine, fields, and all
that sort of thing,
Each Columbian inly chuckled, as he slowly sucked his
sling;

And though all our sleeves were bursting, from the many
hundreds near
Not one single scornful titter rose on thy complacent ear.
Then to show thee to the ladies, with our usual want of sense
We engaged the place in Park Street at a ruinous expense;
Even our own three-volumed Cooper waived his old pre-
scriptive right,
And deluded Dickens figured first on that eventful night.

Clusters {058}of uncoated Yorkers, vainly striving to be cool,
Saw thee desperately plunging through, the perils of La
Poule:
And their muttered exclamation drowned the tenor of the
tune,--
"Don't he beat all natur hollow? Don't He foot it like a
'coon?"
Did we spare our brandy-cocktails, stint thee of our whisky-
grogs?
Half the juleps that we gave thee would have floored a
Newman Noggs;

And thou took'st them in so kindly, little was there then
to blame,
To thy parched and panting palate sweet as mother's milk
they came.
Did the hams of old Virginny find no favour in thine
eyes?
Came no soft compunction o'er thee at the thought of
pumpkin pies?
Could not all our chicken fixings into silence fix thy scorn?
Did not all our cakes rebuke thee, Johnny, waffle, dander,
corn?

Could not all our care and coddling teach, thee how to
draw it mild?
Well, no matter, we deserve it. Serves us right! We
spoilt the child!
You, {059}forsooth, must come crusading, boring us with broad-
est hints
Of your own peculiar losses by American reprints.
Such an impudent remonstrance never in our face was flung;
Lever stands it, so does Ainsworth; _you_, I guess, may hold
your tongue.

Downpour throats you'd cram your projects, thick and hard
as pickled salmon,
That, I s'pose, you call free trading,--I pronounce it utter
gammon.
No, my lad, a 'cuter vision than your own might soon
have seen
That a true Columbian ogle carries little that is green;
That we never will surrender useful privateering rights,
Stoutly won at glorious Bunker's Hill, and other famous
fights;

That we keep our native dollars for our native scribbling
gents,
And on British manufacture only waste our straggling cents;
Quite enough we pay, I reckon, when we stump of these a few
For the voyages and travels of a freshman such as you.

I have been at Niagara, I have stood beneath the Falls,
I have marked the water twisting over its rampagious walls;
But "a holy calm sensation," one, in fact, of perfect peace,
Was as much my first idea as the thought of Christmas
geese.
As for {060}"old familiar faces," looking through the misty air,
Surely you were strongly liquored when you saw your
Chuckster there.

One familiar face, however, you will very likely see,
If you'll only treat the natives to a call in Tennessee,
Of a certain individual, true Columbian every inch,
In a high judicial station, called by 'mancipators, Lynch.
Half an hour of conversation with his worship in a wood,
Would, I strongly notion, do you an infernal deal of good.

Then you'd understand more clearly than you ever did
before,
Why an independent patriot freely spits upon the floor,
Why he gouges when he pleases, why he whittles at the
chairs,
Why for swift and deadly combat still the bowie-knife he
bears,--
Why he sneers at the old country with republican disdain,
And, unheedful of the negro's cry, still tighter draws his
chain.

All these things the judge shall teach thee of the land
thou hast reviled;
Get thee o'er the wide Atlantic, worthless London's puling
child!

MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS

THE STUDENT OF JENA

Once--'twas {063}when I lived at Jena--
At a Wirthshous' door I sat;
And in pensive contemplation
Ate the sausage thick and fat'
Ate the kraut that never sourer
Tasted to my lips than here;
Smoked my pipe of strong canaster,
Sipped my fifteenth jug of beer;
Gazed upon the glancing river,
Gazed upon the tranquil pool,
Whence {064}the silver-voiced Undine,
When the nights were calm and cool,
As the Baron Fouqué tells us,
Rose from out her shelly grot,
Casting glamour o'er the waters,
Witching that enchanted spot.

From the shadow which the coppice
Flings across the rippling stream,
Did I hear a sound of music--
Was it thought or was it dream?
There, beside a pile of linen,
Stretched along the daisied sward,
Stood a young and blooming maiden--
'Twas her thrush-like song I heard.

Evermore within the eddy
Did she plunge the white chemise;
And her robes were losely gathered
Rather far above her knees;
Then my breath at once forsook me,
For too surely did I deem
That I saw the fair Undine
Standing in the glancing stream--
And I felt the charm of knighthood;
And from that remembered day,
Every evening to the Wirthshaus
Took I my enchanted way.

Shortly {065}to relate my story,
Many a week of summer long
Came I there, when beer-o'ertaken,
With my lute and with my song;
Sang in mellow-toned soprano
All my love and all my woe,
Till the river-maiden answered,
Lilting in the stream below:--
"Fair Undine! sweet Undine!
Dost thou love as I love thee?"
"Love is free as running water,"
Was the answer made to me.

Thus, in interchange seraphic,
Did I woo my phantom fay,
Till the nights grew long and chilly,
Short and shorter grew the day;
Till at last--'twas dark and gloomy,
Dull and starless was the sky,
And my steps were all unsteady,
For a little flushed was I,--
To the well-accustomed signal
No response the maiden gave;
But I heard the waters washing,
And the moaning of the wave.

Vanished {066}was my own Undine,
All her linen, too, was gone;
And I walked about lamenting
On the river bank alone.
Idiot that I was, for never
Had I asked the maiden's name.
Was it Lieschen--was it Gretchen?
Had she tin, or whence she came?
So I took my trusty meerschaum,
And I took my lute likewise;
Wandered forth in minstrel fashion,
Underneath the louring skies;
Sang before each comely Wirthshaus,
Sang beside each purling stream,
That same ditty which I chanted
When Undine was my theme,
Singing, as I sang at Jena,
When the shifts were hung to dry,
"Fair Undine! young Undine!
Dost thou love as well as I?"

But, alas! in field or village,
Or beside the pebbly shore,
Did I see those glancing ankles,
And the white robe never more;
And {067}no answer came to greet me,
No sweet voice to mine replied;
But I heard the waters rippling,
And the moaning of the tide.

THE LAY OF THE JEBITE

There {068}is a sound that's dear to me,
It haunts me in my sleep;
I wake, and, if I hear it not,
I cannot choose but weep.

Above the roaring of the wind,
Above the river's flow,
Methinks I hear the mystic cry
Of "Clo!--Old Clo!"

The exile's song, it thrills among
The dwellings of the free,
Its {69}sound is strange to English ears,
But 'tis not strange to me;

For it hath shook the tented field
In ages long ago,
And hosts have quailed before the cry
Of "Clo!--Old Clo!"

Oh, lose it not! forsake it not!
And let no time efface
The memory of that solemn sound,
The watchword of our race;

For not by dark and eagle eye
The Hebrew shall you know,
So well as by the plaintive cry
Of "Clo!--Old Clo!"

Even now, perchance, by Jordan's banks,
Or Sidon's sunny walls,
Where, dial-like, to portion time,
The palm-tree's shadow falls,

The pilgrims, wending on their way,
Will linger as they go,
And listen to the distant cry
Of "Clo!--Old Clo!"

BURSCH GROGGNEBURG

[After the manner of Schiller.]

"Bursch! {070}if foaming beer content ye,
Come and drink your fill;
In our cellars there is plenty;
Himmel! how you swill!
That the liquor hath allurance,
Well I understand;
But 'tis really past endurance,
When you squeeze my hand!"

And he heard her as if dreaming,
Heard her half in awe;
And {071}the meerschaum's smoke came streaming
From his open jaw:
And his pulse heat somewhat quicker
Than it did before,
And he finished off his liquor,
Staggered through the door;

Bolted off direct to Munich,
And within the year
Underneath his German tunic
Stowed whole butts of beer.
And he drank like fifty fishes,
Drank till all was blue;
For he felt extremely vicious--
Somewhat thirsty too.

But at length this dire deboshing
Drew towards an end;
Few of all his silver groschen
Had he left to spend.
And he knew it was not prudent
Longer to remain;
So, with weary feet, the student
Wended home again.

At the tavern's well-known portal
Knocks he as before,
And a {072}waiter, rather mortal,
Hiccups through the door--
"Master's sleeping in the kitchen
You'll alarm the house;
Yesterday the Jungfrau Fritchen
Married baker Kraus!"

Like a fiery comet bristling,
Rose the young man's hair,
And, poor soul! he fell a-whistling
Out of sheer despair.
Down the gloomy street in silence,
Savage-calm he goes;
But he did no deed of vi'lence--
Only blew his nose.

Then he hired an airy garret
Near her dwelling-place;
Grew a beard of fiercest carrot,
Never washed his face;
Sate all day beside the casement,
Sate a dreary man;
Found in smoking such an easement
As the wretched can;

Stared for hours and hours together.
Stared yet more and more;
Till {073}in fine and sunny weather.
At the baker's door,
Stood, in apron white and mealy,
That beloved dame,
Counting out the loaves so freely,
Selling of the same.

Then like a volcano puffing,
Smoked he out his pipe;
Sighed and supped on ducks and stuffing,
Ham and kraut and tripe;
Went to bed, and, in the morning,
Waited as before,
Still his eyes in anguish turning
To the baker's door;

Till, with apron white and mealy,
Came the lovely dame,
Counting out the loaves so freely,
Selling of the same.
So one day--the fact's amazing!--
On his post he died!
And they found the body gazing
At the baker's bride.

NIGHT AND MORNING

[Not by Sir E. Bulwer Lytton.]

"Thy {074}coffee, Tom, 's untasted,
And thy egg is very cold;
Thy cheeks are wan and wasted,
Not rosy as of old.

My boy, what has come o'er ye?
You surely are not well!
Try some of that ham before ye,
And then, Tom, ring the bell!"

"I cannot eat, my mother,
My tongue is parched and bound,
And my head, somehow or other,
Is swimming round and round.

In my Eyes there is a fulness,
And my pulse is beating quick;
On my brain is a weight of dulness:
Oh, mother, I am sick!"

"These {075}long, long nights of watching
Are killing you outright;
The evening dews are catching,
And you're out every night.

Why does that horrid grumbler,
Old Inkpen, work you so?"
"My head! Oh, that tenth tumbler!
'Twas that which wrought my woe!"

THE BITTER BIT

The {076}sun is in the sky, mother, the flowers are springing
fair,
And the melody of woodland birds is stirring in the air;
The river, smiling to the sky, glides onward to the sea,
And happiness is everywhere, oh mother, but with me!

They are going to the church, mother,--I hear the mar-
riage-bell;
It booms along the upland,--oh! it haunts me like a
knell;
He leads her on his arm, mother, he cheers her faltering
step,
And closely to his side she clings,--she does, the demirep!

They are crossing by the stile, mother, where we so oft
have stood,
The stile beside the shady thorn, at the corner of the
wood;
And the boughs, that wont to murmur back the words
that won my ear,
Wave their silver blossoms o'er him, as he leads his bridal
fere.

He will pass {077}beside the stream, mother, where first my
hand he pressed,
By the meadow where, with quivering lip, his passion he
confessed;
And down the hedgerows where we've strayed again and
yet again;
But he will not think of me, mother, his broken-hearted
Jane!

He said that I was proud, mother,--that I looked for rank
and gold;
He said I did not love him,--he said my words were
cold;
He said I kept him off and on, in hopes of higher
game--
And it may be that I did, mother; but who hasn't done
the same?

I did not know my heart, mother,--I know it now too
late;
I thought that I without a pang could wed some nobler
mate;
But no nobler suitor sought me,--and he has taken wing,
And my heart is gone, and I am left a lone and blighted
thing.

You {078}may lay me in my "bed, mother,--my head is throb-
bing sore;
And, mother, prithee, let the sheets be duly aired before;
And, if you'd do a kindness to your poor desponding
child,
Draw me a pot of beer, mother--and, mother, draw it mild!

THE MEETING

Once {079}I lay beside a fountain,
Lulled me with its gentle song,
And my thoughts o'er dale and mountain
With the clouds were borne along.

There I saw old castles flinging
Shadowy gleams on moveless seas,
Saw gigantic forests swinging
To and fro without a breeze;

And in dusky alleys straying,
Many a giant shape of power,
Troops of nymphs in sunshine playing,
Singing, dancing, hour on hour.

I, too, trod these plains Elysian,
Heard their ringing tones of mirth,
But a brighter, fairer vision
Called me back again to earth.

From the forest shade advancing,
See, where comes a lovely May;
The dew, like gems, before her glancing,
As she brushes it away!

Straight {080}I rose, and ran to meet her,
Seized her hand--the heavenly blue
Of her eyes smiled brighter, sweeter,
As she asked me--"Who are you?"

To that question came another--
What its aim I still must doubt--
And she asked me, "How's your mother?
Does she know that you are out?"

"No! my mother does not know it,
Beauteous, heaven-descended muse!"
"Then be off, my handsome poet,
And say I sent you with the news!"

THE CONVICT AND THE AUSTRALIAN LADY

Thy {081}skin is dark as jet, ladye,
Thy cheek is sharp and high,
And there's a cruel leer, love,
Within thy rolling eye:

These tangled ebon tresses
No comb hath e'er gone through;
And thy forehead, it is furrowed by
The elegant tattoo!

I love {082}thee,--oh, I love thee,
Thou strangely-feeding maid!
Nay, lift not thus thy boomerang,
I meant not to upbraid!

Come, let me taste those yellow lips
That ne'er were tasted yet,
Save when the shipwrecked mariner
Passed through them for a whet.

Nay, squeeze me not so tightly!
For I am gaunt and thin;
There's little flesh to tempt thee
Beneath a convict's skin.

I came not to be eaten;
I sought thee, love, to woo;
Besides, bethink thee, dearest,
Thou'st dined on cockatoo.

Thy father is a chieftain!
Why, that's the very thing!
Within my native country
I too have been a king.

Behold this branded letter,
Which nothing can efface!
It is the royal emblem,
The token of my race!

But {083}rebels rose against me,
And dared my power disown--
You've heard, love, of the judges?
They drove me from my throne.

And I have wandered hither,
Across the stormy sea,
In search of glorious freedom,--
In search, my sweet, of thee!

The bush is now my empire,
The knife my sceptre keen;
Come with me to the desert wild,
And be my dusky queen.

I cannot give thee jewels,
I have nor sheep nor cow,
Yet there are kangaroos, love,
And colonists enow.

We'll meet the unwary settler,
As whistling home he goes,
And I'll take tribute from him,
His money and his clothes.

Then on his bleeding carcass
Thou'lt lay thy pretty paw,
And lunch upon him roasted,
Or, if you like it, raw!

Then {084}come with me, my princess,
My own Australian dear,
Within this grove of gum-trees
We'll hold our bridal cheer!

Thy heart with love is heating,
I feel it through my side:--
Hurrah, then, for the noble pair,
The Convict and his Bride!

DOLEFUL LAY OF THE HONORABLE J. O. UWINS