Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

Come and listen, lords and ladies,
To a woeful lay of mine;
He whose tailor's bill unpaid is,
Let him now his ear incline!

Let him hearken to my story,
How the noblest of the land
Pined in piteous purgatory,
'Neath a sponging Bailiffs hand.

I. O. Uwins! I. O. Uwins!
Baron's son although thou be,
Thou must pay for thy misdoings
In the country of the free!

None of all thy sire's retainers
To thy rescue now may come;
And there lie some score detainers
With Abednego, the bum.

Little recked he of his prison
Whilst the sun was in the sky:
Only when the moon was risen
Did you hear the captive's cry.

For till then, cigars and claret
Lulled him in oblivion sweet;
And {086}he much, preferred a garret,
For his drinking, to the street.

But the moonlight, pale and broken,
Pained at soul the Baron's son;
For he knew, by that soft token,
That the larking had begun;--

That the stout and valiant Marquis
Then was leading forth his swells,
Milling some policeman's carcass,
Or purloining private bells.

So he sat in grief and sorrow,
Rather drunk than otherwise,
Till the golden gush of morrow
Dawned once more upon his eyes:

Till the sponging Bailiff's daughter,
Lightly tapping at the door,
Brought his draught of soda-water,
Brandy-bottomed as before.

"Sweet Rebecca! has your father,
Think you, made a deal of brass?"
And she answered--"Sir, I rather
Should imagine that he has."

Uwins then, his whiskers scratching,
Leered upon the maiden's face,
And, {087}her hand with ardour catching,
Folded her in close embrace.

"La, Sir! let alone--you fright me!"
Said the daughter of the Jew:
"Dearest, how those eyes delight me!
Let me love thee, darling, do!"

"Vat is dish?" the Bailiff muttered,
Rushing in with fury wild;
"Ish your muffins so veil buttered,
Dat you darsh insult ma shild?"

"Honourable my intentions,
Good Abednego, I swear!
And I have some small pretensions,
For I am a Baron's heir.

If you'll only clear my credit,
And advance a _thou_ * or so,
She's a peeress--I have said it:
Don't you twig, Abednego?"

* The fashionable abbreviation for a thousand pounds.

"Datsh a very different matter,"
Said the Bailiff, with a leer;
"But you musht not cut it fatter
Than ta slish will shtand, ma tear!

If you seeksh ma approbation,
You musht quite give up your rigsh,
Alsho {088}you musht join our nashun,
And renounsli ta flesh of pigsh.

Fast as one of Fagin's pupils,
I. O. Uwins did agree!
little plagued with holy scruples
From the starting-post was he.

But at times a baleful vision
Rose before his shuddering view,
For he knew that circumcision
Was expected from a Jew.

At a meeting of the Rabbis,
Held about the Whitsuntide,
Was this thorough-paced Barabbas
Wedded to his Hebrew bride:

All his previous debts compounded,
From the sponging-house he came,
And his father's feelings wounded
With reflections on the same.

But the sire his son accosted--
"Split my wig! if any more
Such a double-dyed apostate
Shall presume to cross my door!

Not a penny-piece to save ye
From the kennel or the spout;--
Dinner, {089}John! the pig and gravy!--
Kick this dirty scoundrel out!"

Forth rushed I. O. Uwins, faster
Than all winking--much afraid
That the orders of the master
Would be punctually obeyed:

Sought his club, and then the sentence
Of expulsion first he saw;
No one dared to own acquaintance
With a Bailiff's son-in-law.

Uselessly, down Bond Street strutting,
Did he greet his friends of yore:
Such a universal cutting
Never man received before:

Till at last his pride revolted--
Pale, and lean, and stern he grew;
And his wife Rebecca bolted
With a missionary Jew.

Ye who read this doleful ditty,
Ask ye where is Uwins now?
Wend your way through London city,
Climb to Holborn's lofty brow;

Near the sign-post of the "Nigger,"
Near the baked-potato shed,
You {090}may see a ghastly figure
With three hats upon his head.

When the evening shades are dusky,
Then the phantom form draws near,
And, with accents low and husky,
Pours effluvium in your ear;

Craving an immediate barter
Of your trousers or surtout;
And you know the Hebrew martyr,
Once the peerless I. O. U

THE KNYGHTE AND THE TAYLZEOUR'S DAUGHTER

Did {091}you ever hear the story--
Old the legend is, and true--
How a knyghte of fame and glory
All aside his armour threw;
Spouted spear and pawned habergeon,
Pledged his sword and surcoat gay,
Sate down cross-legged on the shop-board,
Sate and stitched the livelong day?

"Taylzeour! {092}not one single shilling
Does my breeches-pocket hold:
I to pay am really willing,
If I only had the gold.
Farmers none can I encounter,
Graziers there are none to kill;
Therefore, prithee, gentle taylzeour,
Bother not about thy bill."

"Good Sir Knyghte, just once too often
Have you tried that slippery trick;
Hearts like mine you cannot soften,
Vainly do you ask for tick.
Christmas and its bills are coming,
Soon will they be showering in;
Therefore, once for all, my rum un,
I expect you'll post the tin.

"Mark, Sir Knyghte, that gloomy bayliffe
In the palmer's amice brown;
He shall lead you unto jail, if
Instantly you stump not down."
Deeply swore the young crusader,
But the taylzeour would not hear;
And the gloomy, bearded bayliffe
Evermore kept sneaking near.

"Neither groat nor maravedi
Have I got my soul to bless;
And {093}I'd feel extremely seedy,
Languishing in vile duresse.
Therefore listen, ruthless taylzeour,
Take my steed and armour free,
Pawn them at thy Hebrew uncle's,
And I'll work the rest for thee."

Lightly leaped he on the shop-board,
Lightly crooked his manly limb,
Lightly drove the glancing needle
Through the growing doublet's rim.
Gaberdines in countless number
Did the taylzeour knyghte repair,
And entirely on cucumber
And on cabbage lived he there.

Once his weary task beguiling
With a low and plaintive song,
That good knyghte o'er miles of broadcloth
Drove the hissing goose along;
From her lofty latticed window
Looked the taylzeour's daughter down,
And she instantly discovered
That her heart was not her own.

"Canst thou love me, gentle stranger?"
Picking at a pink she stood--
And the knyghte at once admitted
That he rather thought he could.
"He {094}who weds me shall have riches,
Gold, and lands, and houses free."
"For a single pair of--_small-clothes_,
I would roam the world with thee!"

Then she flung him down the tickets--
Well the knyghte their import knew--
"Take this gold, and win thy armour
From the unbelieving Jew.
Though in garments mean and lowly,
Thou wouldst roam the world with me,
Only {095}as a belted warrior,
Stranger, will I wed with, thee!"

At the feast of good Saint Stitchem,
In the middle of the Spring,
There was some superior jousting,
By the order of the King.
"Valiant knyghtes!" proclaimed the monarch,
"You will please to understand,
He who bears himself most bravely
Shall obtain my daughter's hand."

Well and bravely did they bear them,
Bravely battled, one and all;
But the bravest in the tourney
Was a warrior stout and tall.
None could tell his name or lineage,
None could meet him in the field,
And a goose regardant proper
Hissed along his azure shield.

"Warrior, thou hast won my daughter!"
But the champion bowed his knee,
"Royal blood may not be wasted
On a simple knight like me.
She I love is meek and lowly;
But her heart is kind and free;
Also, there is tin forthcoming,
Though she is of low degree."

Slowly {096}rose that nameless warrior,
Slowly turned his steps aside,
Passed the lattice where the princess
Sate in beauty, sate in pride.
Passed the row of noble ladies,
Hied him to an humbler seat,
And in silence laid the chaplet
At the taylzeour's daughter's feet.

THE MIDNIGHT VISIT

It was the Lord of Castlereagh, he sat within his room,
His arms were crossed upon his breast, his face was
marked with gloom;
They said that St Helena's Isle had rendered up its
charge,
That France was bristling high in arms--the Emperor at
large.

'Twas {098}midnight! all the lamps were dim, and dull as
death the street,
It might be that the watchman slept that night upon his
beat,
When lo! a heavy foot was heard to creak upon the
stair,
The door revolved upon its hinge--Great Heaven!--What
enters there?

A little man, of stately mien, with slow and solemn
stride;
His hands are crossed upon his back, his coat is opened
wide;
And on his vest of green he wears an eagle and a
star,--
Saint George! protect us! 'tis The Man--the thunder-
bolt of war!

Is that the famous hat that waved along Marengo's
ridge?
Are these the spurs of Austerlitz--the boots of Lodi's
bridge?
Leads he the conscript swarm again from France's hornet
hive?

What seeks the fell usurper here, in Britain, and alive?
Pale {099}grew the Lord of Castlereagh, his tongue was parched
and dry,
As in his brain he felt the glare of that tremendous eye;
What wonder if he shrunk in fear, for who could meet the
glance
Of him who reared, 'mid Russian snows, the gonfalon of
France?

From the side-pocket of his vest a pinch the despot
took,
Yet not a whit did he relax the sternness of his look:
"Thou thoughtst the lion was afar, but he hath burst the
chain--
The watchword for to-night is France--the answer St
Heléne.

"And didst thou deem the barren isle, or ocean waves,
could bind
The master of the universe--the monarch of mankind?
I tell thee, fool! the world itself is all too small for me;
I laugh to scorn thy bolts and bars--I burst them, and
am free.

"Thou thinkst that England hates me! Mark!--This
very night my name
Was thundered in its capital with tumult and acclaim!
They {100}saw me, knew me, owned my power--Proud lord!
I say, beware!
There be men within the Surrey side, who know to do
and dare!

"To-morrow in thy very teeth my standard will I rear--
Ay, well that ashen cheek of thine may blanch and shrink
with fear!
To-morrow night another town shall sink in ghastly
flames;
And as I crossed the Borodin, so shall I cross the
Thames!

"Thou'lt seize me, wilt thou, ere the dawn? Weak
lordling, do thy worst!
These hands ere now have broke thy chains, thy fetters
they have burst.
Yet, wouldst thou know my resting-place? Behold, 'tis
written there!
And let thy coward myrmidons approach me if they dare!"

Another pinch, another stride--he passes through the
door--
"Was it a phantom or a man was standing on the floor?
And could that be the Emperor that moved before my eyes?
Ah, yes! too sure it was himself, for here the paper lies!"

With, {101}trembling hands Lord Castlereagh undid the mystic
scroll,
With glassy eye essayed to read, for fear was on his soul--
"What's here?--'At Astley's, every night, the play of
Moscow's Fall!
Napoleon, for the thousandth time, by Mr Gomersal!'"

THE LAY OF THE LOVELORN.

Comrades, {102}you may pass the rosy. With permission of
the chair,
I shall leave you for a little, for I'd like to take the air.
Whether 'twas the sauce at dinner, or that glass of ginger-
beer,
Or these strong cheroots, I know not, but I feel a little queer.

Let me go. Nay, Chuckster, blow me, 'pon my soul, this
is too bad!
When you want me, ask the waiter; he knows where I'm
to be had.
Whew! {103}This is a great relief now! Let me but undo my
stock;
Resting here beneath the porch, my nerves will steady
like a rock.

In my ears I hear the singing of a lot of favourite tunes--
Bless my heart, how very odd! Why, surely there's a
brace of moons!
See! the stars! how bright they twinkle, winking with a
frosty glare,
Like my faithless cousin Amy when she drove me to
despair.

Oh, my cousin, spider-hearted! Oh, my Amy! No, con-
found it!
I must wear the mournful willow,--all around my hat
I've bound it.
Falser than the bank of fancy, frailer than a shilling glove,
Puppet to a father's anger, minion to a nabob's love!

Is it well to wish thee happy? Having known me, could
you ever
Stoop to marry half a heart, and little more than half a
liver?
Happy! Damme! Thou shalt lower to his level day by
day,
Changing from the best of china to the commonest of
clay.

As the husband is, the wife is,--he is stomach-plagued
and old;
And his curry soups will make thy cheek the colour of
his gold.
When his feeble love is sated, he will hold thee surely
then
Something lower than his hookah,--something less than
his cayenne.

What is this? His eyes are pinky. Was't the claret?
Oh, no, no,--
Bless your soul! it was the salmon,--salmon always makes
him so.
Take him to thy dainty chamber--sooth him with thy
lightest fancies;
He will understand thee, won't he?--pay thee with a
lover's glances?

Louder {105}than the loudest trumpet, harsh as harshest
ophicleide,
Nasal respirations answer the endearments of his bride.
Sweet response, delightful music! Gaze upon thy noble
charge,
Till the spirit fill thy bosom that inspired the meek
Laffarge.

Better thou wert dead before me,--better, better that I
stood,
Looking on thy murdered body, like the injured Daniel
Good!
Better thou and I were lying, cold and timber-stiff and
dead,
With a pan of burning charcoal underneath our nuptial
bed!

Cursed be the Bank of England's notes, that tempt the
soul to sin!
Cursed be the want of acres,--doubly cursed the want of tin!
Cursed be the marriage-contract, that enslaved thy soul
to greed!
Cursed be the sallow lawyer, that prepared and drew the
deed!

Cursed {106}be his foul apprentice, who the loathsome fees did
earn!
Cursed be the clerk and parson,--cursed be the whole
concern!
Oh, 'tis well that I should bluster,--much I'm like to
make of that;
Better comfort have I found in singing "All Around my
Hat."

But that song, so wildly plaintive, palls upon my British
ears.
'Twill not do to pine for ever,--I am getting up in
years.
Can't I turn the honest penny, scribbling for the weekly
press,
And in writing Sunday libels drown my private wretched-
ness?
Oh, to feel the wild pulsation that in manhood's dawn I
knew,
When my days were all before me, and my years were
twenty-two!

When I {107}smoked my independent pipe along the Quadrant
wide,
With the many larks of London flaring up on every side;

When I went the pace so wildly, caring little what might
come;
Coffee-milling care and sorrow, with a nose-adapted thumb;
Felt the exquisite enjoyment, tossing nightly off, oh
heavens!
Brandy at the Cider Cellars, kidneys smoking-hot at
Evans'!

Or in the Adelphi sitting, half in rapture, half in tears,
Saw the glorious melodrama conjure up the shades of
years!
Saw Jack Sheppard, noble stripling, act his wondrous feats
again,
Snapping Newgate's bars of iron, like an infant's daisy
chain.

Might was right, and all the terrors, which had held the
world in awe,
Were despised, and prigging prospered, spite of Laurie,
spite of law.
In such {108}scenes as these I triumphed, ere my passion's
edge was rusted,
And my cousin's cold refusal left me very much dis-
gusted!

Since, my heart is sere and withered, and I do not care a
curse,
Whether worse shall be the better, or the better be the
worse.
Hark! my merry comrades call me, bawling for another
jorum;
They would mock me in derision, should I thus appear
before 'em.

Womankind no more shall vex me, such at least as go
arrayed.
In the most expensive satins and the newest silk brocade.
I'll to Afric, lion-haunted, where the giant forest yields
Rarer robes and finer tissue than are sold at Spital-
fields.

Or to burst all chains of habit, flinging habit's self
aside,
I shall walk the tangled jungle in mankind's primeval
pride;
Feeding on the luscious berries and the rich cassava root,
Lots of dates and lots of guavas, clusters of forbidden
fruit.

Never comes the trader thither, never o'er the purple
main
Sounds the oath of British commerce, or the accents of
Cockaigne.
There, methinks, would be enjoyment, where no envious
rule prevents;
Sink the steamboats! cuss the railways! rot, O rot the
Three per Cents!

There the passions, cramped no longer, shall have space
to breathe, my cousin!
I will wed some savage woman--nay, I'll wed at least a
dozen.
There I'll rear my young mulattoes, as no Bond Street
brats are reared:
They shall dive for alligators, catch the mid goats by the
beard--

Whistle to the cockatoos, and mock the hairy-faced
baboon,
Worship mighty Mumbo Jumbo in the Mountains of the
Moon.
I myself, in {110}far Timbuctoo, leopard's blood will daily
quaff,
Ride a tiger-hunting, mounted on a thorough-bred giraffe.

Fiercely shall I shout the war-whoop, as some sullen
stream he crosses,
Startling from their noonday slumbers iron-bound rhino-
ceroses.
Fool! again the dream, the fancy! But I know my words
are mad,
For I hold the grey barbarian lower than the Christian
cad.

I the swell--the city dandy! I to seek such horrid
places,--
I to haunt with squalid negroes, blubber-lips, and monkey-
faces!
I to wed with Coromantees! I, who managed--very
near--
To secure theheart and fortune of the widow Shilli-
beer!

Stuff and nonsense! let me never fling a single chance
away;
Maids ere now, I know, have loved me, and another
maiden may.
'Morning {111}post' ('The Times' won't trust me)
help me, as I know you can;
I will pen an advertisement,--that's a never-
failing plan.

"Wanted--By a bard, in wedlock, some young
interesting woman:
Looks are not so much an object, if the shiners
be forthcoming!
"Hymen's chains the advertiser vows shall be
but silken fetters;
Please address to A. T., Chelsea. N.B.--You
must pay the letters."
That's the sort of thing to do it. Now I'll go
and taste the balmy,--
Rest thee with thy yellow nabob, spider-hearted
Cousin Amy!

MY WIFE'S COUSIN

Decked {112}with shoes of blackest polish,
And with shirt as white as snow,
After matutinal breakfast
To my daily desk I go;

First a fond salute bestowing
On my Mary's ruby lips,
Which, perchance, may be rewarded
With a pair of playful nips.

All day long across the ledger
Still my patient pen I drive,
Thinking what a feast awaits me
In my happy home at five;

In my small one-storeyed Eden,
Where my wife awaits my coming,
And our solitary handmaid
Mutton-chops with care is crumbing.

When {113}the clock proclaims my freedom,
Then my hat I seize and vanish;
Every trouble from my bosom,
Every anxious care I banish.

Swiftly brushing o'er the pavement,
At a furious pace I go,
Till I reach my darling dwelling
In the wilds of Pimlico.

"Mary, wife, where art thou, dearest?"
Thus I cry, while yet afar;
Ah! what scent invades my nostrils?--
'Tis the smoke of a cigar!

Instantly into the parlour
Like a maniac I haste,
And I find a young Life-Guardsman,
With his arm round Mary's waist.

And his other hand is playing
Most familiarly with hers;
And I think my Brussels carpet
Somewhat damaged by his spurs.

"Fire and furies! what the blazes?"
Thus in frenzied wrath I call;
When my spouse her arms upraises,
With a most astounding squall.

"Was there ever such a monster,
Ever such a wretched wife?
Ah! how {114}long must I endure it,
How protract this hateful life?

All day long, quite unprotected,
Does he leave his wife at home;
And she cannot see her cousins,
Even when they kindly come!"

Then the young Life-Guardsman, rising,
Scarce vouchsafes a single word,
But, with look of deadly menace,
Claps his hand upon his sword;

And in fear I faintly falter--
"This your cousin, then he's mine!
Very glad, indeed, to see you,-
Won't you stop with us, and dine?"

Won't a ferret suck a rabbit?--
As a thing of course he stops;
And with most voracious swallow
Walks into my mutton-chops.

In the twinkling of a bed-post
Is each savoury platter clear,
And he shows uncommon science
In his estimate of beer.

Half-and-half goes down before him,
Gurgling from the pewter pot;
And he {115}moves a counter motion
For a glass of something hot.

Neither chops nor beer I grudge him,
Nor a moderate share of goes;
But I know not why he's always
Treading upon Mary's toes.

Evermore, when, home returning,
From the counting-house I come,
Do I find the young Life-Guardsman
Smoking pipes and drinking rum.

Evermore he stays to dinner,
Evermore devours my meal;
For I have a wholesome horror
Both of powder and of steel.

Yet I know he's Mary's cousin,
For my only son and heir
Much resembles that young Guardsman,
"With the self-same curly hair;

But I wish he would not always
Spoil my carpet with his spurs;
And I'd rather see his fingers
In the fire, than touching hers.

THE QUEEN IN FRANCE

An Ancient Scottish Ballad.