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 EDITED BY 
 
 A NEW EDITION. WITH SEVERAL NEW BALLADS 
 
 Illustrations. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 TV. J. TVIDDLETON 
 
 SUCCESSOR TO J. i. BEBFIELD 
 
 1862
 
 IHSfeb 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Span is ft 
 
 PAGB 
 
 THE BROKEN PITCIIEE 11 
 
 DON FERNANDO GOMEE8ALEZ : FEOM tax SPAKKH OF ASTLEY'S, 14 
 THE COURTSHIP OF OUR CID . 25 
 
 Jlmnitan 
 
 THE FIGUT WITH THE SNAPPING TURTLE, OR THE AMERI- 
 CAN ST. GEORGE : 
 
 FTTTE FIRST ........ 30 
 
 FYTTE SECOND ....... 88 
 
 THE LAY OF MR. COLT: 
 
 STREAK THE FIRST ...... 8T 
 
 STREAK THE SECOND ...... 39 
 
 THE DEATH OF JABEZ DOLLAR ..... 43 
 
 THE ALABAMA DUEL ....... 47 
 
 THE AMERICAN'S APOSTROPHE TO BOZ 51
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PASS 
 
 THE STUDENT OF JENA ...... 66 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LEVITE ...... 60 
 
 BURSCH GROGGENBURG ...... 68 
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING ...... 6 
 
 THE BITER BIT . ...... 63 
 
 THE CONVICT AND THE AUSTRALIAN LADY . . 71 
 THE DOLEFUL LAY OF THE HONORABLE I. 0. 
 
 UWIN8 ......... 74 
 
 THE KNYGHTE AND THE TAYLZEOUR'S DAUGHTER . 79 
 
 THE MIDNIGHT VISIT ....... 83 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LOVELORN ..... 8T 
 
 MY WIFE'S COUSIN ....... 95 
 
 THE QUEEN IN FRANCE: AN ANCIENT SCOTTISH BALLAD: 
 
 PAST 1 ......... 99 
 
 PABT II ........ 104 
 
 THE MASSACRE OF THE MACPHER80N: FBOM THE GAELIC . 108 
 
 THE STOCKBROKER'S BRIDE ...... 112 
 
 THE LAUREATES' TOURNEY: 
 
 FYTTE THE FIRST ....... 115 
 
 FYTTB THB SECOND ....... 119 
 
 THE ROYAL BANQUET 128 
 
 THE BARD OF ERIN'S LAMENT ..... 127 
 
 THE LAUREATE ........ 129 
 
 A MIDNIGHT MEDITATION ...... 182 
 
 MONTGOMERY : a POEM ...... 185 
 
 THE DEATH OF SPACE ....... 138 
 
 LITTLE JOHN AND THE RED FRIAR: A LAY o SHER- 
 WOOD: 
 
 Frrr* THE FIBST ...*... 141 
 
 FTTTE THE SECOND ...... 144 
 
 THE RHYME OF SIR LAUNCELOT BOGLE . . .150 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LOVER'S FRIEND .... 162 
 
 FRANCESCA DA RIMINI ....... 165 
 
 THE CADI'S DAUGHTER: A LEGEND or THE BOSPHOKUB . . 169
 
 CONTENTS. Vii 
 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS (ooNTnoriD) : 
 
 PAGE 
 
 EASTERN SERENADE 171 
 
 THE DEATH OF DTTVAL 178 
 
 THE DIRGE OF THE DRINKER 173 
 
 DAME FREDEGONDE .181 
 
 THE DEATH OF ISHMAEL 185 
 
 PARR'S LIFE PILLS 1S7 
 
 TARQUIN AND THE AUGUR 189 
 
 LA MORT D'ARTHUR 191 
 
 JUPITER AND THE INDIAN ALE 192 
 
 THE LAY OF THE DOUDNET BROTHERS . . . .194 
 
 PARIS AND HELEN 197 
 
 SONG OF THE ENNUYE 200 
 
 CAROLINE . . . . . . . . 202 
 
 TO A FORGET ME-NOT 205 
 
 THE MISHAP 207 
 
 COMFORT IN AFFLICTION 209 
 
 THE INVOCATION 211 
 
 THE HUSBAND'S PETITION 214
 
 COME, buy my lays, and read them if you ^st; 
 
 My pensive public, if you list not, buy. 
 
 Come, for you know me. I am he who sung 
 
 Of Mister Colt, and I am he who framed 
 
 Of Widdicomb the mild and wond'rous song. 
 
 Come, listen to my lays, and you shall hear 
 
 How Wordsworth, battling for the laureate J 
 
 wreath, 
 
 Bore to the dust the terrible Fitzball ; 
 How N. P. "Willis, for his country's good, 
 In complete steel, all bowie-knived at point, 
 Took lodgings in the Snapping Turtle's mouth. 
 Come, listen to my lays, and you shall hear 
 The mingled music of all modern bards 
 Floating aloft in such peculiar strains, 
 As strike themselves with envy and amaze ; 
 For you " bright-harped " Tennyson shall sing , 
 Macaulay chant a more than Roman lay ; 
 And Bulwer Lytton, Lytton Bulwer erst, 
 Unseen amidst a metaphysic fog, 
 Bawl melancholy homage to the man : 
 For you once more Montgomery sha.l rave 
 1 n all his rapt rabidity of rhyme ; 
 Nankeen'd Cockaigne shall pipe his puny note, 
 
 And our Young England's penny trumpet b 1 3w. 
 l*
 
 SPANISH BALLADS. 
 
 IT 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 Desparedo. 
 
 " Oh, maiden, Moorish maiden ? why sitt'st thou by the 
 
 spring ? 
 
 Say, dost thou seek a lover, or any other thing ? 
 Why gazest thou upon me, with eyes so large and 
 
 wide, 
 And wherefore doth the pitcher lie broken by thy 
 
 side 1 ?" 
 
 " I dp 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.
 
 12 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 " 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 Alcayde, 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 hia 
 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 '11 give thee my helmet, thou kind and courteous 
 
 lady, 
 To carry home the water to thy uncle, the Alcayde." 
 
 He lighted down from off his steed he tied him to a 
 
 tree 
 
 He bowed him to the maiden, and took his kisses three : 
 "To wrong thee, sweet Zorayda, I swear would be a 
 
 sin !" 
 He knelt him at the fountain, and he dipped his helmet in. 
 
 Up rose the Moorish maiden behind the knight she 
 
 steals, 
 And caught Alphonzo Guzman up tightly by the heels ;
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. Id 
 
 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 Desparedo. 
 I pray you all in charity, that you will never tell, 
 How he met the Moorish maiden beside the lonely well.
 
 14 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 Dim ftmSa <0>nmmiaUj. 
 
 FROM THE SPANISH OF ASTLEY's. 
 
 DON 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 captive to the Moor ! 
 
 Long within a sable 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 't; was the feast of 
 
 false Mahound 
 Came the Moorish population from the neighboring cities 
 
 round ;
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 15 
 
 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 saw-dust in the rapt specta 
 
 tors' eyes. 
 
 Proudly did the Moorish monarch every passing warrior 
 
 greet, 
 As he sat 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 wrotn, my 
 
 lord, the King, 
 If thy faithful slave shall venture to observe one little 
 
 thing ; 
 Valiant, doubtless, are thy warriors, and their bearda 
 
 are long and hairy, 
 And a thunderbolt in battle is each bristly janissary :
 
 It) THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 " But I cannot, O my sovereign, quite forgot 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 
 
 Bavar ! 
 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 they brought the Gomersalez, and they led the 
 
 warrior in, 
 Weak and wasted seemed his body, and his face was 
 
 pule and thin ;
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 17 
 
 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 grotesques 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 curs' 
 
 array 
 If thy courage be undaunted, as they say it was of 
 
 yore, 
 Thou may'st yet achieve thy freedom, yet regain thy 
 
 native shore.
 
 18 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 "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 bear thee 
 
 back again." 
 
 " Give me but the armor, monarch, I have worn in many 
 
 a field, 
 Give me but a 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 '11 do the business, 
 
 King !" 
 
 Then they carried down the armor 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 the steed beheld his master, then he whinned loud 
 
 and free, 
 And, in token of subjection, knelt upon each broken 
 
 knee;
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 19 
 
 And a tear of walnut largeness to the warrior's eyelids 
 
 rose, 
 As he fondly picked a beanstraw 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 
 mailed 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 Alham 
 
 bra race : 
 Trumpets sounded, coursers bounded, and the foremost 
 
 straight went down, 
 Tumbling, like a sack of turnips, just before the jeering 
 
 Clown.
 
 20 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 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 blazoned hoops he bounded ere the des- 
 perate fight began 
 
 Don Fernando ! bear thee bravely ! 'tis the Moor Ab- 
 dorrhoman ! 
 
 Like a double streak of lightning, clashing in the sul- 
 phurous sky, 
 
 Met the pair of hostile heroes, and they made the saw- 
 dust fly ; 
 
 And the Moslem spear so stiffly smote on Don Fernan- 
 do'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 bound- 
 ed past ; 
 
 And 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 war- 
 riors all, 
 
 Save the third bold chief, who tarried and beheld his 
 brethren fall ;
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 2* 1 
 
 And the Clown in haste arising from the footstool where 
 
 he set, 
 Notified the first appearance of the famous Acrobat ! 
 
 Never on a single charger rides that stout and stalwarc 
 
 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 armor ; in a knot himself he 
 
 ties, 
 With his grizzly head appearing in the centre of his 
 
 thighs. 
 
 Till the petrified spectator asks in paralyzed alarm 
 Where may be the warrior's body, which is leg, and 
 
 which is arm ? 
 
 " Sound the charge !" the coursers started ; with a yell 
 and furious vault, 
 
 High in air the Moorish champion cut a wondrous 
 somersault ; 
 
 O'er the head of Don Fernando like a tennis-ball he 
 sprung, 
 
 Caught him tightly by the girdle, and behind the crup- 
 per hung.
 
 22 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 Then his dagger Don Fernando plucked from out its 
 
 jewelled sheath, 
 And he struck the Moor so fiercely, as he grappled him 
 
 beneath, 
 That the good Damascus weapon sunk within the folds 
 
 of fat, 
 And, as dead as Julius Caesar, dropped the Gordian 
 
 Acrobat. 
 
 Meanwhile, fast the sun was sinking, it had sunk be- 
 neath 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 inay'st be 
 
 wondrous glad, 
 That thy head is on thy shoulders for thy wonc to-day, 
 
 my lad ! 
 
 "Therefore, all thy boasted valor, Christian dog, of no 
 
 avail is !" 
 Dark as midnight grew the brow of Don Fernando 
 
 Gomersalez ;
 
 THE BOOK OP BALLADS. 23 
 
 Btiffly 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 light 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 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.
 
 24 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 Close 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 !
 
 THB BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 (tartsijiji of nnr Ci 
 
 WHAT a pang of sweet emotion 
 
 Thrilled the Master of the Ring, 
 When he first beheld the lady, 
 
 Through the stabled portal spring f 
 Midway in his wild grimacing 
 
 Stopped the piebald-visaged Clowe r 
 And the thunders of the audience 
 
 Nearly brought the gallery down 
 
 Donna Inez Woolfordinez ! 
 
 Saw ye ever such a maid, 
 With the feathers swaling o'er her, 
 
 And her spangled rich brocade 1 
 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 :
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 And the Master moved towards 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 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 open 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 !
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 27 
 
 Donua Inez Woolfordinez ! 
 
 Why those blushes on thy cheek 1 
 Doth thy trembling bosom tell thee, 
 
 He hath come thy love to seek 1 
 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, 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 Life-guardsman. 
 Right 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, 
 Paralyzed is Widdicombez, 
 
 Nor his whip can longer crack ;
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 He has flung away his broadsword, 
 'Tis to clasp thee to his breast. 
 
 Onward ! see he bares his bosom, 
 Tears away his scarlet vest j 
 
 Leaps 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 ! 
 And with hands deep in his 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 !
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 Then 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 sees with rapture 
 
 Maia's nimble son before them. 
 
 Speed thee, speed thee, Wodfordinez ! 
 
 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 was hushed, save where a starting 
 
 Cork gave 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 clasj>ed her, 
 
 Raised her in his manly arms ; 
 And the stables' closing barriers 
 
 Hid his valor, and her charms !
 
 30 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 AMEBICAN BALLADS 
 
 /igjjt tnitjr tjp Snapping (Turtle. 
 
 OR, THE AMERICAN ST. GEORGE. 
 
 FTTTE FIRST. 
 
 HAVE 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, I ween, was Philip Slingsby, 
 Their untimely deaths to hear ; 
 
 For one author owed him money, 
 And the other loved him dear.
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 31 
 
 " 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 criter 
 
 Won't you liquor ere you go ?" 
 
 Straightway leaped the valiant Slingsby 
 
 Into armor 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 
 
 That I go to wage to-day." 
 
 So 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 !
 
 82 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 "Tell her that I died devoted, 
 
 Victim to a noble task ! 
 Ha'n't you got a drop of brandy 
 
 In the bottom of your flask 1" 
 
 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, 
 
 M Fare 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.
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 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 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. 
 
 2*
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 Only always from the bottom 
 
 Violent sounds of coughing rolled, 
 
 Just as if the huge Cawana 
 Had a most confounded cold. 
 
 On the bank lay Cull en Bryant, 
 
 As the second moon arose ; 
 Gouging on the sloping green sward 
 
 Some imaginary foes. 
 
 When the swamp began to tremble 
 
 And the canes to rustle fast, 
 As if some stupendous body 
 
 Through their roots was crushing past. 
 
 And the water 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 :
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 85 
 
 And its cough grew loud and louder. 
 
 And its sob more husky thick ; 
 For, indeed, it was apparent 
 
 That the beast was very sick. 
 
 Till at last a violent vomit 
 
 Shook its carcass through and through, 
 And, as if from out a cannon, 
 
 All in armor 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 !" 
 And his 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
 
 36 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 Since you dragged the 'tarnal crittur 
 From the bottom of the ponds, 
 
 Here's the hundred dollars due you, 
 All in Pennsylvanian Bonds /" 
 
 " The only Good American Securities.''
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 87 
 
 rf air. 
 
 [THE 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 effron- 
 tery to call upon him one day for the payment of an account, which 
 the independent Colt settled by cutting his creditor's head to frag- 
 ments 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 connexion 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, hand- 
 ed 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 admis- 
 sion that his client took the life of Adams, and following it up by a 
 detail 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 pros- 
 pects, probably have been permanently 'blasted.' 1 ' 1 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 the 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 ;
 
 38 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 " 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. 
 Fhe gaoler and the hangman, 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 foreman up, and marked him 
 
 ' prime tariff ;' 
 Because I thought to palm him on the simple-souled John 
 
 Bull, 
 
 And clear a small per centage 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 '11 shut the prison doors and keep the gaping world 
 
 at bay, 
 For love is long as 'tarnity, though I must die to-day !"
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. . 39 
 
 STREAK THE SECOND. 
 
 THE clock is ticking onward, 
 
 It nears the hour of doom, 
 And no one yet hath entered 
 
 Into that ghastly room. 
 The gaoler 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, 
 
 'T will 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 guess you'd better ask himself," 
 Eeplied the woful lady. 
 
 The clock is ticking onward, 
 
 The minutes almost run, 
 The hangman's pipe is nearly out, 
 
 'T is on the stroke of one.
 
 40 .THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 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 Wheezer, whom our Willis loves, 
 
 Because, 't is 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 little boys 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 BOOK OF BALLADS. 41 
 
 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 gaoler knocketh loudly, 
 
 The turnkey draws the bolt. 
 And pleasantly the sheriff says, 
 
 " We 're waiting, Mister Colt !" 
 
 No answer 1 No ! no answer ! 
 
 All 's still as death within ; 
 The sheriff eyes the gaoler, 
 
 The gaoler strokes his chin. 
 " I should n'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.
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 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 the good man wets his whistle, 
 
 And the good wife 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, " Oh ! you 'possum, 
 
 You Ve fixed my heart, I guess !" 
 With laughter and with weeping, 
 
 Then shall they tell the tale, 
 How Colt his foreman quartered, 
 
 And died within the gaol.
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 Dtfltjj <Df 3fltof Dollar. 
 
 [Before the following poem, which originally appeared in " Fraser'a 
 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 re- 
 printed 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 amu- 
 sing satire by an American, of his countrymen's foibles !] 
 
 THE Congress met, the day was wet, Van Bur en took 
 
 the chair, 
 On either side, the statesman pride of fair 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?"
 
 44 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 " Young 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 ho 
 
 bears. 
 
 " Avoid that knife ! In frequent strife its blade, so long 
 
 and thin, 
 
 Has found itself a resting-place his rival's 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 savage cry upon the floor he 
 
 sprang, 
 Then raised his wrist, and shook his fist, and spoke his 
 
 first harangue. 
 
 " Who sold the nutmegs made of wood the clocks that 
 wouldn't figure 1 
 
 Who grinned the bark off gum-trees dark, the ever- 
 lasting nigger ?
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 45 
 
 For twenty cents, ye Congress gents, through 'tarnity 
 
 I'll kick 
 That man, I guess, though nothing less than coon-faced 
 
 Colonel Slick!" 
 
 The 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 with- 
 out laughing ! " 
 
 His 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 t)r think if he the deed should 
 
 do, 
 But spinning sent the President, and on young Dollai 
 
 flew.
 
 4b THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 They met they closed they sunk 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 
 
 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 sunk 
 
 and died, 
 Reft of an eye, his enemy fell groaning at his side. 
 
 I 
 
 Thus did he fall within the hall of Congress, that brave 
 
 youth ; 
 The bowie-knife had quenched his life of valor and of 
 
 truth ; 
 And still among the statesmen throng at Washington 
 
 they tell 
 How nobly Dollar gouged his man how gallantly he 
 
 fell!
 
 TUB BOOK OF BALLADS. 47 
 
 tal 
 
 " YOUNG chaps, give ear, the case is clear. You, Silas 
 
 Fixings, you 
 Pay Mister Nehemiah 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 ! no how you 
 
 can fix it !" 
 
 Thus spake Judge Lynch, as there he sat in Alabama's 
 
 forum, 
 Around he gazed with legs upraised upon the bench high 
 
 o'er 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.
 
 48 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 " 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 '11 
 
 very soon have ease, 
 I '11 give you satisfaction, squire, in any way you 
 
 please ; 
 Where 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 con- 
 test'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 ;
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 49 
 
 Into the tangled brake they turned them off, and neither 
 
 knew 
 Where he should seek his wagered foe, how get him into 
 
 view. 
 
 With 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 noon-day 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 
 
 drew back, 
 Then crashing on through bush and briar, the crowd from 
 
 either side 
 Rushed in to see whose rifle sure with blood the moss 
 
 had dyed. 
 
 Weary 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.
 
 50 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 It fell ; up sprung 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, 
 He drew his fatal bowie-knife, and up his foxtail* cast. 
 
 With tottering steps and glazing eye he cleared the space 
 
 between, 
 And stabbed the air as, in Macbeth, still stabs 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 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 Dix-ury 
 
 'Possum Swamp. 
 
 The Yankee substitute for the chapeau At sole.
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 Immnm's ImstrnitiB tn 
 
 [Kapidly as oblivion dees its work now-a-days, the burst of amiable 
 indignation with which enlightened America received the issue of 
 Boz's " Notes," can scarcely yet be forgotten. Not content with wa- 
 ging 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 "strannger," and furnishing him with a per- 
 manent suit of tar and feathers, in the very improbable event of his 
 paying them a second visit. The perusal of these animated expres- 
 sions 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.] 
 
 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 should'st thou 
 
 lie, 
 Sickening as the fetid nigger bears the greens and bacon 
 
 by. 
 Better, when the midnight horrors haunt the strained 
 
 and creaking ship, 
 Thou should'st yell in vain for brandy with a fever- 
 
 sodden lip ;
 
 52 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 When amid the deepening darkness and the lamp's 
 
 expiring shade, 
 
 From the bagman's berth above thee comes the boun- 
 tiful cascade. 
 Better than upon the Broadway thou should'st 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 N. P. Willis for an evening party 
 dressed ! 
 
 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 
 
 remorseless spells 
 
 Of that Smike's unceasing drivellings, and these ever- 
 lasting Nells. 
 When you talk 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 ;
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 53 
 
 Ev'n our own three-volumed Cooper waived his old pre- 
 scriptive right, 
 
 And deluded Dickens figured first on that eventful 
 night. 
 
 Clusters 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 1 " 
 
 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 favor- in thine 
 
 eyes? 
 Came no soft compunction o'er thee at the thought of 
 
 pumpkin pies ? 
 Could not all our care and coddling teach thee how to 
 
 draw it mild ? 
 But, no matter, we deserve it. Serves us right ! We 
 
 spoilt the child! 
 
 You, forsooth, must come crusading, boring us with 
 
 broadest hints 
 Of your own peculiar losses by American reprints.
 
 54 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 Such an impudent remonstrance never in our face was 
 
 flung; 
 Lever stands it, so does Ainsworth ; you, I guess, may 
 
 hold your tongue. 
 Down our 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. 
 Quite enough we pay, I reckon, when we stump a cent 
 
 or two 
 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 " 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.
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 55 
 
 Half-an-hour of conversation with his worship in a wood 
 Would, 1 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 tne wide Atlantic, worthless London's 
 
 puling child !
 
 56 THE BOOK OF BALLADS, 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 
 
 ONCE, 't was when I lived at Jena, 
 
 At a Wirthshaus' door I sat ; 
 And in pensive contemplation, 
 
 Eat tbe sausage thick and fat ; 
 Eat 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 the silver-voiced Undine, 
 
 When the nights were calm and cool, 
 As the Baron Fouque tells us, 
 
 Rose from out her shelly grot, 
 Casting glamor o'er the waters, 
 
 Witching that enchanted spot. 
 From the shadow which the coppice 
 
 Flings across the rippling stream,
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 57 
 
 Did I hear a sound of music 
 
 Was it thought or was it dream? 
 There, beside a pile of linen, 
 
 Stretched along the daised sward, 
 Stood a young and blooming maiden 
 
 'T was her thrush-like song I heard, 
 Evermore within the eddy 
 
 Did she plunge the white chemise ; 
 And her robes were loosely 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 1 felt the charm of knighthood ; 
 
 And from that remembered day, 
 Every evening to the Wirthshaus 
 
 Took I my enchanted way. 
 Shortly 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 wo, 
 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.
 
 58 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 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 't was 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 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 1 
 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 lowering skies ; 
 Sang before each comely Wirthshaus, 
 
 Sang beside each purling stream, 
 That same ditty which I chanted 
 
 When Undine wa*S my theme,
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 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 nevermore ; 
 And no answer came to greet me, 
 
 No sweet voice to mine replied ; 
 But I heard the waters rippling, 
 
 And the moaning of the tide. 
 
 59 
 
 "The moaning of the TIED.'
 
 CO THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 THERE 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 " Clb ! Old Clo !" 
 
 The exile's song, it thrills among 
 
 The dwellings of the free, 
 Its sound is strange to English ears, 
 
 But 't is 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 net ! 
 
 And let no time efface 
 The memory of that solemn sound, 
 
 The watchword of our race.
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 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!" 
 
 6. 
 
 \
 
 6? THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 AFTER THE MANNER OF SCHILLER. 
 
 " BURSCH ! 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 't is really past endurance, 
 
 When you squeeze my hand !" 
 
 And he heard her as if dreaming, 
 
 Heard her half in awe ; 
 And the meerschaum's smoke came streaming 
 
 From his open jaw : 
 And his pulse beat somewhat quicker 
 
 Than it did before, 
 And he finished off his liquor, 
 
 Staggered through the door ;
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 03 
 
 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 silber-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 waiter, rather mortal, 
 
 Hiccups through the door, 
 " Masters 's sleeping in the kitchen ; 
 
 You '11 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.
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 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 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 ; 
 Sigh'd and supp'd 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 ;
 
 TUB BOOK OF BALLADS. 65 
 
 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.
 
 66 THE BOOK OF BALLAD*. 
 
 Jdigjjt mrtr fflortrtng. 
 
 NOT BY SIR E. BULWER LYTTON. 
 
 " THY 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 !"
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 67 
 
 " These 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 ?" 
 
 TOM (lene susurrans) 
 
 "My head ! Oh, that tenth tumbler ! 
 'T was that wihch wrought my wo !"
 
 68 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 ty 3Sitit 3&it. 
 
 THE 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 
 
 marriage 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 ;
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 69 
 
 And the boughs, that wont to murmur back the words 
 
 that won my ear, 
 Wave their silver branches o'er him, as he leads his 
 
 bridal fere. 
 
 He will pass 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 has n'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.
 
 70 
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 You may lay me in my bed, mother, my head is 
 throbbing sore ; 
 
 And, mother, prithee, let the sheets be duly aired 
 before ; 
 
 And, if you 'd please, my mother dear, your poor des- 
 ponding child, 
 
 Draw me a pot of beer, mother, ana, mother, draw it 
 mild! 
 
 * Love gone to poL' :
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 71 
 
 Ctairt En& tjp Australian 
 
 THY 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 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 
 
 Pass'd 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.
 
 THE BOOK OP BALLADS. 
 
 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 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.
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 73 
 
 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 come with me, my princess, 
 
 My own Australian dear, 
 Within this grove of gum trees, 
 
 We'll hold our bridal cheer t 
 Thy heart with love is beating, 
 
 I feel it through my side : 
 Hurrati- then, for the noble pair, 
 
 Tive Convict and his bride !
 
 74 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 Snlrful I nil iif % IntinrnlilB 3. d>. drains. 
 
 COME and listen, lords and ladies, 
 
 To a woful lay of mine ; 
 He whose tailor's bill unpaid is, 
 
 Let him now his **r incline ! 
 Let him hearken to my story, 
 
 How the noblest of the land 
 Pined long time in dreary duresse 
 
 'Neath a sponging bailiff's hail. 
 
 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 reck'd he of his prison 
 
 Whilst the sun was in the sky : 
 Only when the moon was risen, 
 
 Did you hear the captive's cry;
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 75 
 
 For, till then, cigars and claret 
 
 Lull'd him in oblivion sweet; 
 And he much preferr'd a garret, 
 
 For his drinking, to the street. 
 
 But the moonlight, pale and broken, 
 
 Pain'd 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, 
 Mangling 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-bottom'd 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. 
 
 Leer'd upon the maiden's face, 
 And, her hand with ardor catching, 
 
 Folded her in close embrace.
 
 76 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 " 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 1 ?" the Bailiff mutter'd, 
 
 Rushing in with fury wild ; 
 " Ish your muffins so veil butter'd 
 
 Dat you darsh insult ma shild ? " 
 
 " Honorable 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 ? " 
 
 " 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 you musht join our nashun, 
 
 And renounsh 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. 
 
 The fashionnble abbreviation for a thousand pounds
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 77 
 
 But at times a baleful vision 
 
 Rose before his trembling 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 former debts compounded, 
 
 From the spunging 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, John ! the pig and gravy ! 
 
 Kick this dirty scoundrel out ! " 
 
 Forth rush'd 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.
 
 78 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 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 1 
 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 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 HOOK OK BALLADS. 79 
 
 mift tjp 
 
 DID you ever hear the story 
 
 Old the legend is and true 
 How a knyghte of fame and glory 
 
 All aside his armor 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 ! 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.
 
 80 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 Christinas and its bills are coming, 
 Soon will they be showering in ;, 
 
 Therefore, once for all, my rum 'un,. 
 I expect you '11 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 noaravedi 
 
 Have I got my soul to bless ;. 
 And I feel extremely seedy, 
 
 Languishing in vile duresse. 
 Therefore listen, ruthless taylzeour, 
 
 Take my steed and armor 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 taylzeourJcnyghte repair! 
 And the cabbage and cucumber 
 
 Were his sole and simple fare.
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 8 
 
 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 lattice window, 
 
 Looked the taylzeour's daughter down, 
 And she instantly discovered 
 
 That her heart was not her own. 
 
 " Canst thou love me, gentle stranger ]" 
 
 Blushing like a rose she stood 
 And the knyghte at once admitted, 
 
 That he rather thought he could. 
 " He 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 armor, 
 
 From the unbelieving Jew. 
 Though in garments mean and lowly, 
 
 Thou wouldst roam the world with me, 
 Only as a belted warrior, 
 
 Stranger, will I wed with thee !" 
 
 At the feast of good Saint Alban, 
 
 In the middle of the Spring, 
 There was some superior jousting 
 
 By the order of the king. 
 4*
 
 82 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 " Valiant knyghtes !" exclaimed 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, 
 " Princely blood may not be wasted 
 
 On a simple knyghte like me. 
 She I love is meek and lowly ; 
 
 But her heart is high and frank ; 
 And there must be tin forthcoming, 
 
 That will do as well as rank." 
 
 Slowly 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 tho taylzc/our's daughter's feet.
 
 THB BOOK OF BALLADS. 83 
 
 BWgjjt Eisit. 
 
 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 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 1 
 
 A little man, of stately mien, with slow and solemn 
 
 stride ; 
 His hands are crossed upon his back, his coat is opened 
 
 wide :
 
 84 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 And on his vest of green he wears an eagle and a 
 star, 
 
 Saint George 1 protect us ! 't is THE MAN the thunder- 
 bolt of war ! 
 
 Is that the famous hat that waved along Marengo's 
 
 ridge 1 
 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 1 
 
 Pale 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 thought' st the lion was afar, but he hath burst 
 
 the chain 
 The watchword for to-night is France the answer, St. 
 
 Helcne. 
 
 " And didst thou deem the barren isle, or ocean waves, 
 
 could bind 
 The master <>f tho universe the monarch of mankind?
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 85 
 
 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 think'st that England hates me! Mark! This 
 
 very night my name 
 
 Was thundered in its capital with tumult and acclaim ! 
 They 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 'It 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 't is 
 
 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 (ho floor?
 
 HG 
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 And could that be the Emperor that moved before my 
 
 eyes? 
 Ah, yes ! too sure it was himself, for here the paper 
 
 lies !" 
 
 With trembling hands, Lord Castlereagh undid the mys- 
 tic scroll, 
 
 With glassy eye essayed to read, for fear was on his 
 soul 
 
 What's here 1 ' At Astley's, every night, the play of 
 Moscow's FALL ! 
 
 NAPOLEON for the thousandth time, by Mr. GOMERSAL !"
 
 THB BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 nf 
 
 COMRADES, 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 't was the sauce at dinner, or that glass of gin- 
 
 ger beer, 
 Or these strong cheroots, I know not, but I feel a little 
 
 queer. 
 
 Let me go. Now, 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 ! 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 favorite tunes 
 Bless my heart, how very odd ! Why, surely there's a 
 brace of moons !
 
 88 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 See ! the stars ! how bright they twinkle, winking with 
 
 a frosty glare, 
 Like my faithless cousin Amy when she drove me to 
 
 despair. 
 
 O, my cousin, spider-hearted ! Oh, my Amy ! No, 
 
 confound 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 color 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.
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 89 
 
 What is tins'? His eyes are pinky. Was't the claret 1 ? 
 
 Oh, no, no, 
 Bless your soul, it was the salmon, salmon always 
 
 makes him so. 
 
 Take him to thy dainty chamber soothe him with thy 
 
 lightest fancies, 
 He will understand thee, won't he ] pay thee with a 
 
 lover's glances? 
 
 Louder 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 !
 
 90 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 Cursed be the marriage contract, that enslaved thy soul 
 
 to greed ! 
 Cursed be the sallow lawyer, that prepared and drew 
 
 the deed ! 
 
 Cursed be his foul apprentice, who the loathsome fees 
 
 did earn ! 
 Cursed be the clerk and parson, cursed be the whole 
 
 concern! 
 
 Oh, 't is 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. 
 'T will 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 wretch- 
 edness ? 
 
 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.
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 91 
 
 When 1 smoked my independent pipe along the Quad- 
 rant wide, 
 
 With the many larks of London flaring up on every 
 side. 
 
 W hen 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 melo-drama 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 scenes as these I triumphed, ere my passion's 
 
 edge was rusted, 
 And my cousin's cold refusal left me very much dis- 
 
 gusted !
 
 92 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 Since, my heart is sere and withered, and I do not caw 
 
 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 '11 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.
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 93 
 
 There, methinks, would be enjoyment, where no envirous 
 
 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 take some savage woman nay, I '11 take at least 
 
 a dozen. 
 
 There I '11 rear my young mulattoes, as no Bond Street 
 
 brats are reared : 
 They shall dive for aligators, catch the wild 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 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 noon-day 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.
 
 94 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 I the swell the city dandy ! I to seek such horrid 
 places, 
 
 I to haunt with squalid negroes, blubber-lips, and mon- 
 key faces. 
 
 I to wed with Coromantees ! I, who managed very 
 
 near 
 To secure the heart and fortune of the widow Shilli- 
 
 beer 1 
 
 Stuff and nonsense ! let me never fling a single chance 
 
 away, 
 Maids ere now, I know, have loved me, and another 
 
 maiden may. 
 
 " Morning 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 inter- 
 esting woman : 
 
 Looks are not so much an object, if the shiners be forth- 
 coming ! 
 
 " 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 '11 go and 
 
 taste the balmy, 
 Rest thee with thy yellow nabob, spider-hearted cousin 
 
 Amy !
 
 TUB BOOK OF BALLADS. 95 
 
 DECKED 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-storied Eden, 
 
 Where my wife awaits my coming. 
 And our solitary handmaid 
 
 Mutton chops with care is crumbing. 
 
 When the clock proclaims my freedom. 
 
 Then my hat I seize and vanish ; 
 Every trouble from my bosom, 
 
 Every anxious care I banish.
 
 90 THE BOOK OP BALLAUs. 
 
 Swiftly brushing o'er the pavement, 
 
 At a furious pace 1 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 1 
 
 'T is the smoke of a cigar ! 
 Instantly into the parlor 
 
 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 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 !"
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS, 97 
 
 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 scienw 
 
 In his estimate of beer. 
 
 Hallf-and-half goes down before him, 
 
 Gurgling from the pewter-pot ; 
 And he 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.
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 Evermore he stays to dinner, 
 Evermore devours my meal j 
 
 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 hera.
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 Itt ft&W. 
 
 AN ANCIENT SCOTTISH BALLAD. 
 PART I. 
 
 IT fell upon the August month, 
 When landsmen bide at hame, 
 
 That our gude Queen went out to sail 
 Upon the saut-sea faem. 
 
 And she has ta'en the silk and gowd, 
 
 The like was never seen ; 
 And she has ta'en the Prince Albert, 
 
 And the bauld Lord Aberdeen. 
 
 " Ye'se bide at hame, Lord Wellington : 
 
 Ye daurna gang wi' me : 
 For ye hae been ance in the land o' France 
 
 And that 's eneuch for ye." 
 
 " Ye'se bide at hame, Sir Robert Peel, 
 To gather the red and the white monie ; 
 
 And see that my men dinna eat me up 
 At Windsor wi' their gluttonie."
 
 100 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 They hadna sailed a league, a league, 
 
 A league, but barely twa, 
 When the lift grew dark, and the waves grew wan, 
 
 And the wind began to blaw. 
 
 " O weel, weel may the waters rise, 
 
 In welcome o' their Queen ; 
 What gars ye look sae white, Albert 1 
 
 What makes your e'e sae green ?" 
 
 "My heart is sick, my heid is sair: 
 
 Gie me a glass o' gude brandie : 
 To set my foot on the braid green sward. 
 
 I 'd gie the half o' my yearly fee. 
 
 " It 's sweet to hunt the sprightly hare 
 On the bonny slopes o' Windsor lea, 
 
 But O, it 's ill to bear the thud 
 And pitching o' the saut, saut sea !" 
 
 And aye they sailed, and aye they sailed, 
 
 Till England sank behind, 
 And over to the coast of France 
 
 They drave before the wind. 
 
 Then up and spak the King o' France, 
 
 Was birling at the wine ; 
 " O wha may be the gay ladye 
 
 That owns that ship sae fine 1 
 
 " And wha may be that bonny lad, 
 
 That looks sae pale and wan ? 
 I '11 wad my lands o' Picardie 
 
 That he 's nae Englishman."
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 101 
 
 Then up and spak an auld French lord, 
 
 Was sitting beneath his knee, 
 " It is the Queen o' braid England 
 
 That's come across the sea." 
 
 " And O an it be England's Queen, 
 
 She's welcome here the day ; 
 I 'd rather hae her for a friend 
 
 Than for a deadly fae. 
 
 " Gae, kill the eerock in the yard, 
 
 The auld sow in the stye, 
 And bake for her the brockit calf, 
 
 But and the puddock-pie !" 
 
 And he has gane until the ship. 
 
 As sune as it drew near, 
 And he has ta'en her by the hand 
 
 " Ye 're kindly welcome here !" 
 
 And syne he kissed her on ae cheek, 
 
 And syne upon the ither ; 
 And he ca'ed her his sister dear, 
 
 And she ca'ed him her brither. 
 
 " Light doun, light doun now, layde mine, 
 
 Light doun upon the shore ; 
 Nae English king has trodden here, 
 
 This thousand years and more." 
 
 " And gin I lighted on your land, 
 
 As light fu' weel I may, 
 O am I free to feast wi' you, 
 
 And free to come and gae ?"
 
 102 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 And he has sworn by the Haly Rood, 
 And the black staue o' Dumblane, 
 
 That she is free to come and gae 
 Till twenty days are gane. 
 
 " I 've lippened to a Frenchman's aith," 
 
 Said gude Lord Aberdeen ; 
 " But I '11 never lippen to it again 
 
 Sae lang 's the grass is green. 
 
 " Yet gae your ways, my sovereign liege, 
 
 Since better may na be ; 
 The wee bit bairns are safe at hame, 
 
 By the blessing o' Marie!" 
 
 Then doun she lighted frae the ship, 
 
 She lighted safe and sound; 
 And glad was our good Prince Albert 
 
 To step upon the ground. 
 
 " Is that your Queen, My Lord," she said, 
 
 " That auld and buirdly dame 1 
 I see the crown upon her heid ; 
 
 But I dinna ken her name." 
 
 And she has kissed the Frenchman's Queen, 
 
 And eke her daughters three, 
 And gi'en her hand to the young Princess 
 
 That louted upon the knee. 
 
 And she has gane to the proud castle, 
 
 That 's biggit beside the sea : 
 But aye, when she thought o' the bairns at hame, 
 
 The tear was in her e'e.
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 103 
 
 She gied the King the Cheshire cheese, 
 
 But and the porter fine ; 
 And he gied her the puddock-pies, 
 
 But and the blude-red wine. 
 
 Then up and spak the dourest prince, 
 
 An Admiral was he ; 
 " Let 's keep the Queen o' England here, 
 
 Sin' better may na be ! 
 
 " O mony is the dainty king 
 
 That we hae trap'pit here ; 
 And mony is the English yerl 
 
 That 's in our dungeons drear !" 
 
 " You lee, you lee, ye graceless loon, 
 
 Sae loud 's I hear ye lee ! 
 There never yet was Englishman 
 
 That came to skaith by me. 
 
 " Gae out, gae out, ye fause traitor ! 
 
 Gae out until the street ; 
 It 's shame that Kings and Queens should sit 
 
 Wi' sic a knave at meat !" 
 
 Then up and raise the young French lord, 
 
 In wrath and hie disdain- 
 " O ye may sit, and ye may eat 
 
 Your puddock-pies alane ! 
 
 " But were I in my ain gude ship, 
 
 And sailing wi' the wind, 
 And did I meet wi' auld Napier,, 
 
 I M tell him o' my mind."
 
 104 THE BOOE OP BALLADS. 
 
 O then the Queen leuch loud and lang, 
 And her color went and came ; 
 
 " Gin ye met wi' Charlie on the sea 
 Ye 'd wish yersell at hame !" 
 
 And aye they birlit at the wine, 
 
 And drank right merrilie, 
 Till the auld cock crawed in the castle-yar*. 
 
 And the abbey bell struck three. 
 
 The Queen she gaed until her bed> 
 
 And Prince Albert likewise ; 
 And the last word that gay ladye said 
 
 Was " O thae puddock-pies 1" 
 
 PAKT ir. 
 
 The sun was high within the lift 
 Afore the French King raise ; 
 
 And syne he louped intil his sark, 
 And warslit on his claes. 
 
 " Gae up, gae up, my little foot-page, 
 
 Gae up until the toun ; 
 And gin ye meet wi' the aald harper, 
 
 Be sure ye bring him doun." 
 
 And he has met wi' the auld harper; 
 
 O but his e'en were red ; 
 And the bizzing o' a swarm o' bees 
 
 Was singing in his heid*
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 K Alack ! alack !" the harper said, 
 " That this should e'er hae been ! 
 
 I daurna gang before my liege, 
 For I was fou yestreen." 
 
 " It 's ye maun come, ye auld harper : 
 
 Ye daurna tarry lang ; 
 The King is just dementit-like 
 
 For wanting o' a sang." 
 
 And when he came to the King's chamber, 
 
 He loutit on his knee, 
 " O what may be your gracious will 
 
 Wi' an auld frail man like me ?" 
 
 " I want a sang, harper," he said, 
 * " I want a sang richt speedilie ; 
 And gin ye dinna make a sang, 
 
 1 '11 hang ye up on the gallows-tree." 
 
 "I cannot do 't, my liege," he said, 
 " Hae mercy on my auld gray hair ! 
 
 But gin that I had got the words, 
 I think that I might mak the air." 
 
 " And wha 's to mak the words, fause loon. 
 When minstrels we have barely twa ; 
 
 And Lamartine is in Paris toun, 
 And Victor Hugo far awa?" 
 
 " The deil may gang for Lamartine, 
 
 And flie awa wi' auld Hugo, 
 For a better minstrel than them baith 
 
 Within this very toun I know. 
 5*
 
 106 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 " O kens my liege the gude Walter, 
 At hame they ca' him BON GAULTIER ? 
 
 He '11 rhyme ony day wi' True Thomas, 
 And he is in the castle here." 
 
 The French King first he lauchit loud, 
 And syne did he begin to sing ; 
 
 " My e'en are auld, and my heart is cauld, 
 Or I suld hae known the minstrels' King. 
 
 " Gae take to him this ring o' gowd, 
 And this mantle o' the silk sae fine, 
 
 And bid him mak a maister sang 
 
 For his sovereign ladye's sake and mine." 
 
 " I winna take the gowden ring, 
 
 Nor yet the mantle fine : 
 But I'll mak the sang for my ladye's sake, 
 
 And for a cup of wine." 
 
 The Queen was sitting at the cards, 
 
 The King ahint her back ; 
 And aye she dealed the red honors, 
 
 And aye she dealed the black ; 
 
 And syne unto the dourest Prince 
 She spak richt courteouslie : 
 
 " Now will ye play, Lord Admiral. 
 Now will ye play wi' me ?" 
 
 The dourest prince he bit his lip, 
 And his brow was black as glaur : 
 
 u The only game that e'er I play 
 Is the bluiily game o' war !"
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 107 
 
 " And gin ye play at that, young man, 
 
 It weel may cost ye sair ; 
 Ye 'd better stick to the game at cards, 
 
 For you '11 win nae honors there !" 
 
 The King he Icuch, and the Queen she leuch, 
 
 Till the tears ran blithely doun ; 
 But the Admiral he raved and swore, 
 
 Till they kicked him frae the room. 
 
 The Harper came, and the Harper sang, 
 
 And O but they were fain ; 
 For when he had sung the gude sang twice, 
 
 They called for it again. 
 
 It was the sang o' the Field o' Gowd, 
 
 In the days of auld lang syne ; 
 When bauld King Henry crossed the seas, 
 
 Wi' his brither King to dine. 
 
 And aye he harped, and aye he carped, 
 
 Till up the Queen she sprang 
 " I '11 wad a County Palatine, 
 
 Gude Walter made that sang." 
 
 Three days had come, three days had gane, 
 
 The fourth began to fa', 
 When our gude Queen to the Frenchman said, 
 
 " It 's time I was awa ! 
 
 " O, bonny are the fields o' France, 
 
 And saftly draps the rain ; 
 But my bairnies are in Windsor Tower, 
 
 And greeting a' their lane.
 
 108 THE BOOK OF BALLADS, 
 
 " Now ye mauii come to me, Sir King, 
 
 As I have come to ye ; 
 And a benison upon your heid 
 
 For a' your courtesie ! 
 
 "Ye maun come, and bring your ladye fere: 
 
 Ye sail na say me no ; 
 And ye 'se mind, we have aye a bed to spare 
 
 For your wily friend Guizot." 
 
 Now he has ta'en her lily white hand, 
 
 And put it to his lip, 
 And he has ta'en her to the strand, 
 
 And left her in her ship. 
 
 " Will ye come back, sweet bird," he cried, 
 
 "Will ye come kindly here, 
 When the lift is blue, and the lavrocks sing, 
 
 In the spring-time o' the year?" 
 
 " It 's I would blithely come, my Lord, 
 
 To see ye in the spring ; 
 It 's I would blithely venture back, 
 
 But for ae little thing. 
 
 "It is na that the winds are rude, 
 
 Or that the waters rise, 
 But I lo'e the roasted beef at hame. 
 
 And no thae puddock-pies !"
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 109 
 
 fflmzm nf tjp 
 
 FROM THE GAELIC. 
 
 FHAIRSTON swore a feud 
 
 Against the clan MTavish ; 
 Marched into their land 
 
 To murder and to rafish : 
 For he did resolve 
 
 To extirpate the vipers, 
 With four and-twenty men, 
 
 And five-and-thirty pipers. 
 
 n. 
 But when he had gone 
 
 Half-way down Strath Canaan, 
 Of his fighting tail 
 
 Just three were remainin'. 
 They were all he had, 
 
 To back him in ta battle ; 
 All the rest had gone 
 
 Off, to drive tn cattle.
 
 110 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 III. 
 
 " Feiy coot !" cried Fhairshon, 
 
 " So my clan disgraced is ; 
 Lads, we '11 need to fight 
 
 Pefore we touch the peas ties. 
 Here 's Mhic-Mac-Methusalen 
 
 Coming wi' his fassals, 
 Gillies seventy-three, 
 
 And sixty Dhuinewassails !" 
 
 IV. 
 
 " Coot tay to you, sir ; 
 
 Are not you ta Fhairshon \ 
 Was you coining here 
 
 To visit any person ? 
 You are a plackguard. sir ! 
 
 It is now six hundred 
 Coot long years, and more, 
 
 Since my glen was plundered." 
 
 v. 
 
 Fat is tat you say ? 
 
 Dar you cock your peaver? 
 I will teach you, sir, 
 
 Fat is coot pehavior ! 
 You shall not exist 
 
 For another day more ; 
 I will shot you, sir, 
 
 Or stap you with my claymore !"
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. I 1 1 
 
 VI. 
 
 " I am fery glad 
 
 To learn what you mention, 
 Since I can prevent 
 
 Any such intention." 
 So Mhic-Mac-Methusaleh 
 
 Gave some warlike howls, 
 Trew his skhian-dhu, 
 
 An' stuck it in his powels. 
 
 vn. 
 
 ID this fery way 
 
 Tied ta faliant Fhairshon, 
 Who was always thought 
 
 A superior person. 
 Fhairshon had a son, 
 
 Who married Noah's daughter, 
 And nearly spoiled ta Flood, 
 
 By trinking up ta water. 
 
 vm. 
 
 Which he would have done, 
 
 I at least believe it, 
 Had ta mixture peen 
 
 Only half Glenlivet. 
 This is all my tale : 
 
 Sirs. I hope 't is new t' ye ! 
 Here 's your fery good healths, 
 
 And tamn ta whusky tuty !
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 torkhrate's 
 
 " O SWIFTLY speed the gallant bark ! 
 
 I say, you mind my luggage, porter ! 
 1 do not heed yon storm-cloud dark, 
 
 I go to wed old Jenkin's daughter. 
 I go to claim my own Mariar, 
 
 The fairest flower that blooms in Harwich ; 
 My panting bosom is on fire, 
 
 And all is ready for the marriage." 
 
 Thus spoke young Mivins, as he stepped 
 
 On board the " Firefly," Harwich packet ; 
 The bell rung out, the paddles swept 
 
 Plish-pl ashing round with noisy racket. 
 The lowering clouds young Mivins saw, 
 
 But fear, he felt, was only folly ; 
 And so he smoked a fresh cigar, 
 
 Then fell to whistling " Nix my dolly !" 
 
 The wind it roared ; the packet's hulk 
 Rocked with a most unpleasant motion ; 
 
 Young Mivins leant him o'er a bulk, 
 And poured his sorrows to the ocean.
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 Tints blue and yellow signs of wo 
 Flushed, rainbow-like, his noble face in, 
 
 As suddenly he rushed below, 
 
 Crying, " Steward, steward, bring a basin !" 
 
 On sped the bark : the howling storm 
 
 The funnel's tapering smoke did blow far ; 
 Unmoved, young Mivins' lifeless form 
 
 Was stretehed upon a hair-cloth sofar. 
 All night he moaned, the steamer groaned, 
 
 And he was hourly getting fainter ; 
 When it came bump against the pier, 
 
 And there was fastened by the painter. 
 
 Young Mivins rose, and blew his nose, 
 
 Caught wildly at his small portmanteau ; 
 He was unfit to lie or sit, 
 
 And found it difficult to stand, too. 
 He sought the deck, he sought the shore, 
 
 He sought the lady's house like winking, 
 And asked, low tapping at the door, 
 
 " Is this the house of Mr. Jenkin ?" 
 
 A short man came he told his name 
 
 Mivins was short he cut him shorter, 
 For in a fury, he exclaimed, 
 
 " Are you the man as vants my darter ? 
 Vot kim'd on you last night, young squire ?" 
 
 " It was the steamer, rot and scuttle her !' ? 
 " Mayhap it vos, but our Mariar, 
 
 Valked off last night vith Bill the butler.
 
 114 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 "And so you 've kim'd a post too late." 
 
 " It was the packet, sir, miscarried !" 
 " Vy, does you think a gal can vait 
 
 As sets 'er 'art on being married ? 
 Last night she vowed she 'd be a bride, 
 
 And 'ave a spouse for vuss or better : 
 So Bill struck in ; the knot vos tied, 
 
 And now I vishes you may get her !" 
 
 Young Mivins turned him from the spot, 
 
 Bewilder'd with the dreadful stroke, her 
 Perfidy came like a shot 
 
 He was a thunderstruck stockbroker. 
 " A curse on steam and steamers too ! 
 
 By their delays I 've been undone !" 
 He cried, as, looking very blue, 
 
 He rode a bachelor to London.
 
 THX BOOK OF BALLADS. 115 
 
 BY THE HOX. 
 
 [Tms and the five following poems were among those forwarded to 
 the Home Secretary, by the unsuccessful competitors for the Laureate- 
 ship, on its becoming vacant by the death of Southey. How they 
 came in our possession is a matter between Sir James Graham and 
 ourselves. The result of the contest could never have been doubtful, 
 least of all the great poet who then succeeded to the bays. His own 
 sonnet on the subject, is fall of the serene consciousness of superiority, 
 which does not even admit the idea of rivalry, far less of defeat. 
 
 Bays, which in former days have graced the brow 
 
 Of some, who lived and loved, and sung and died ; 
 
 Leaves, that were gathered on the pleasant side 
 Of old Parnassus from Apollo's bongn ; 
 With palpitating hand I take ye now, 
 
 Since worthier minstrel there is none beside, 
 
 And with a thrill of song half deified, 
 I bind them proudly on my locks of snow, 
 There shall they bide, till he who follows next, 
 
 Of whom I cannot even guess the name, 
 Shall by Court favor, or some vain pretext 
 
 Of fancied merit, desecrate the same, 
 And think, perchance, he wears them quite as well 
 As the sole bard who sang of Peter Bell !] 
 
 FTTTB THE FIRST. 
 
 " WHAT news, what news, thou pilgrim grey, what news 
 
 from southern land 1 
 How fare the bold Conservatives, how is it with Ferrand ?
 
 116 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 How does the little Prince of Wales how looks our 
 
 lady Queen ; 
 And tell me, is the gentle Brough* once more at Windsor 
 
 seen?" 
 
 " I bring no tidings from the court, nor from St. Stephen's 
 
 hall; 
 I Ve heard the thundering tramp of horse, and the 
 
 trumpet's battle call ; 
 And these old eyes have seen a fight, which England 
 
 ne'er hath seen, 
 Since fell King Richard sobbed his soul through blood 
 
 on Bosworth Green. 
 
 " He 's dead, he 's dead, the Laureate's dead !" Twas 
 
 thus the cry began, 
 And straightway every garret roof gave up its minstrel 
 
 man ; 
 From Grub Street, and from Houndsditch, and from 
 
 Farrinedon Within, 
 The poets all towards Whitehall poured on with eldritch 
 
 din. 
 
 Loud yelled they for Sir James the Graham : but sore 
 
 afraid was he ; 
 A hardy knight were he that might face such a min- 
 
 strelsie. 
 
 For the convenience of fntnre commentators It may be mentioned, that the 
 "(tentle Brongh" was the Monthly Xnrse who attended her Majesty on the 
 occasion of the birth of the Princess Rovsl.
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 117 
 
 " Now by St. Giles of Nethcrby, my patron saint, I 
 
 swear, 
 I 'd rather by a thousand crowns Lord Palmerston were 
 
 here ! 
 
 " What is 't ye seek, ye rebel knaves, what make you 
 
 there beneath ?" 
 " The bays, the bays ! we want the bays ! we seek the 
 
 laureate wreath ! 
 We seek the butt of generous wine that cheers the sons 
 
 of song: 
 Choose thou among us all, Sir Knight we may not 
 
 tarry long !" 
 
 Loud laughed the good Sir James in scom " Rare jest 
 
 it were, I think, 
 But one poor butt of Xeres, and a thousand rogues to 
 
 drink ! 
 
 An' if it flowed with wine or beer, 't is easy to be seen 
 That dry within the hour would be the well of Hippo- 
 
 crene. 
 
 "Tell me, if on Parnassus' heights there grow a thou- 
 sand sheaves: 
 
 Or has Apollo's laurel bush yet borne ten hundred 
 leaves ? 
 
 Or if so many leaves were there, how long would they 
 sustain 
 
 The ravage and the glutton bite of such a locust 
 train ?
 
 118 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 " No ! get ye back into your dens, take counsel for the 
 
 night, 
 And choose me out two champions to meet in deadly 
 
 fight; 
 To-morrow's dawn shall see the lists marked out in 
 
 Spitalfields, 
 And he who wins shall have the bays, and he shall die 
 
 who yields !" 
 
 Down went the window with a crash, in silence and in 
 
 fear 
 Each ragged bard looked anxiously upon his neighbor 
 
 near; 
 Then up and spake young Tennyson "Who 's here that 
 
 fears for death ? 
 'T were better one of us should die, than England lose 
 
 the wreath ! 
 
 " Let's cast the lots among us now, which two shall fight 
 
 to-morrow ; 
 For armor bright we '11 club our mite, and horses we 
 
 can borrow. 
 T were shame that bards of France should sneer, and 
 
 German Dichters too, 
 If none of British song might dare a deed of derring-do /" 
 
 " The lists of love are mine," said Moore, " and not the 
 
 lists of Mars ;" 
 fcJaid Hunt, " I seek the jars of wine, but shun the com 
 
 bat's jars !"
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 119 
 
 "I 'm old," quoth Samuel Rogers. "Faith," ^ays 
 
 Campbell, " so am I !" 
 "And I 'm in holy orders, sir !" quoth Tom of Ingoldsby. 
 
 " Now out upon ye, craven loons !" cried Moxon, good 
 
 at need, 
 " Bide, if ye will, secure at home, and sleep while others 
 
 bleed. 
 I second Alfred's motion, boys, let 's try the chance of 
 
 lot; 
 And monks shall sing, and bells shall ring, for him that 
 
 goes to pot." 
 
 Eight hundred minstrels slunk away two hundred 
 
 stayed to draw, 
 Now heaven protect the daring wight that pulls the 
 
 longest straw ! 
 'T is done ! 't is done ! And who hath won ? Keep 
 
 silence, one and all, 
 The first is William Wordsworth hight, the second Ned 
 
 Fitzball !" 
 
 FYTTE THE SECOND. 
 
 OH, bright and gay hath dawned the day on lordly 
 
 Spitalfields, 
 How flash the rays with ardent blaze from polished 
 
 helms and shields ! 
 On either side the chivalry of England throng the 
 
 green, 
 \nd in the middle balcony appears our gracious Queen.
 
 120 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 With iron fists, to keep the lists, two valiant knights 
 
 appear, 
 The Marquis Hal of Waterford, and stout Sir Aubrey 
 
 Vere. 
 " What ho, there, herald, blow the trump ! Let 's see 
 
 who comes to claim 
 The butt of golden Xeres, and the Laureate's honored 
 
 name !" 
 
 That instant dashed into the lists, all armed from head 
 
 to heel, 
 On courser brown, with vizor down, a warrior sheathed 
 
 in steel ; 
 Then said our Queen " Was ever seen so stout a knight 
 
 and tall ? 
 His name his race ?" " An 't please your grace, it is 
 
 the brave Fitzball. 
 
 "Oft in the Melodrama line his prowess hath been 
 
 shown, 
 And well throughout the Surrey side his thirst for blood 
 
 is known. 
 But see, the other champion comes !" Then rung the 
 
 startled air 
 With shouts of " Wordsworth, Wordsworth, ho ! the 
 
 bard of Rydal 's there." 
 
 And lo ! upon a little steed, unmeet for such a 
 
 course, 
 Appeared the honored veteran ; but weak seemed man 
 
 and horse.
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 121 
 
 Then shook their ears the sapient peers, " That joust 
 
 will soon be done: 
 My Lord of Brougham, I '11 back Fit/ball, and give you 
 
 two to one !" 
 
 " Done," quoth the Brougham, " and done with you !" 
 
 " Now, Minstrels, are you ready ?" 
 Exclaimed the Lord of Waterford, " You 'd better 
 
 both sit steady. 
 Blow, trumpets, blow the note of charge ! and forward 
 
 to the fight !" 
 "Amen !" said good Sir Aubrey Vere; "Saint Schism 
 
 defend the right !" 
 
 As sweeps the blast against the mast, when blows the 
 furious squall, 
 
 So started at the trumpet's sound, the terrible Fitz- 
 ball ; 
 
 His lance he bore his breast before, Saint George pro- 
 tect the just, 
 
 Or Wordsworth's hoary head must roll along the shame- 
 ful dust ! 
 
 " Who threw that calthrop 1 Seize the knave !" Alas 
 
 the deed is done ; 
 Down went the steed, and o'er his head flew bright 
 
 Apollo's son. 
 "Undo his helmet! cut the lace! pour water on his 
 
 head !" 
 " It ain't no use at all, my lord ; 'cos vy 1 the covey 's 
 
 dead !"
 
 122 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 Above him stood the Bydal bard his face was full of 
 
 wo 
 " Now there thou liest, stiff and stark, who never feared 
 
 a foe : 
 A braver knight, or more renowned in tourney and in 
 
 hall, 
 Ne'er brought the upper gallery down, than terrible 
 
 Fitzball !" 
 
 They led our Wordsworth to the Queen she crowned 
 him with the bays, 
 
 And wished him many happy years, and many quarter- 
 days, 
 
 And if you 'd have the story told by abler lips than 
 mine, 
 
 You 've but to call at Rydal Mount, and taste the 
 Laureate's wine !
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 323 
 
 BY THE HON. O- 
 
 THE Queen, she kept high festival in Windsor's lordly 
 
 hall, 
 And round her sat the gartered knights, and ermined 
 
 nobles all ; 
 There drank the valiant Wellington, there fed the wary 
 
 Peel, 
 And at the bottom of the board, Prince Albert carved 
 
 the veal. 
 
 " What, pantler, ho ! remove the cloth ! Ho ! cellarer, 
 
 the wine, 
 And bid the royal nurse bring in the hope of Brunswick's 
 
 line!" 
 Then rose, with one tumultuous shout, the band of 
 
 British peers, 
 " God bless her sacred Majesty ! Let 's see the little 
 
 dears !"
 
 124 THE BOOK OP BALLADS. 
 
 Now by Saint George, our patron saint, 't was a touch- 
 ing sight to see 
 
 That iron warrior gently place the Princess on his 
 knee ; 
 
 To hear him hush her infant fears, and teach her how to 
 gape 
 
 With rosy mouth expectant for the raisin and the 
 grape ! 
 
 They passed the wine, the sparkling wine they filled 
 
 the goblets up, 
 Even Brougham, the cynic anchorite, smiled blandly on 
 
 the cup ; 
 And Lyndhurst, with a noble thirst, that nothing could 
 
 appease, 
 Proposed the immortal memory of King William on his 
 
 knees. 
 
 " What want we here, my gracious liege," cried good 
 Lord Aberdeen, 
 
 " Save gladsome song and minstrelsy to flow our cups 
 between 1 
 
 I ask not now for Goulburn's voice or Knatchbull's 
 warbling lay, 
 
 But where 's the Poet Laureate to grace our board to- 
 day?" 
 
 Loud laughed the Knight of Netherby, and scornfully he 
 
 cried, 
 " Or art thou mad with wine, Lord Earl, or art thyself 
 
 beside ?
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 125 
 
 Eight hundred Bedlam bards have claimed the Laureate's 
 vacant crown, 
 
 And now like frantic Bacchanals run wild through Lon- 
 don town !" 
 
 " Now glory to our gracious Queen !" a voice was heard 
 to cry, 
 
 And dark Macaulay stood before them all with frenzied 
 eye; 
 
 " Now glory to our gracious Queen, and all her glorious 
 race, 
 
 A boon, a boon, my sovran liege ! Give me the Lau- 
 reate's place ! 
 
 " 'T was I that sang the might of Rome, the glories of 
 
 Navarre ; 
 And who could swell the fame so well of Britain's Isles 
 
 afar? 
 The hero of a hundred fights " Then Wellington up 
 
 sprung, 
 " Ho, silence in the ranks, I say ! Sit down, and hold 
 
 your tongue. 
 
 " By heaven thou shalt not twist my name into a jingling 
 
 lay, 
 
 Or mimic in thy puny song the thunders of Assaye ! 
 'T is hard that for thy lust of place in peace we cannot 
 
 dine. 
 Nurse, take her Royal Highness here ! Sir Robet, pass 
 
 the wine !"
 
 126 
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 " No laureate need we at our board !" then spoke the 
 
 Lord of Vaux ; 
 " Here 's many a voice to charm the ear with minstrel 
 
 song, I know. 
 Even I, myself " Then rose the cry " A song, a song 
 
 from Brougham !" 
 He sang, and straightway found himself alone within 
 
 the room.
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 nf 
 
 BY T M RE, ESQ. 
 
 OH, weep for the hours when the little blind boy 
 
 Wove round me the spells of his Paphian bower; 
 When I dipp'd my light wings in the nectar of joy, 
 
 And soar'd in the sunshine, the moth of the hour ! 
 From beauty to beauty, I pass'd like the wind ; 
 
 Now fondled the lily, now toy'd with the rose ; 
 And the fair, that at morn had enchanted my mind, 
 
 Was forsook for another ere evening's close. 
 
 I sighed not for honor, I cared not for fame, 
 
 While Pleasure sat by me, and Love was my guest ; 
 They twined a fresh wreath for each day as it came, 
 
 And the bosom of beauty still pillowed my rest ; 
 And the harp of my country neglected it slept 
 
 In hall or by greenwood unheard were its songs ; 
 From Lore's Sybarite dreams I aroused me, and swept 
 
 Its chord to the tale of her glories and wrongs.
 
 128 THE^pOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 But weep for the hour ! Life's summer is past, 
 
 And the snow of its winter lies cold on my brow; 
 And my soul, as it shrinks from each stroke of the blast, 
 
 Cannot turn to a fire that glows inwardly now. 
 No, its ashes are dead and, alas ! Love or Song 
 
 No charm to Life's lengthening shadows can lend, 
 Like a cup of old wine, rich, mellow, and strong, 
 
 And a seat by the fire tete-a-tete with a friend.
 
 THE BOOK OF BAL^DS. 129 
 
 Iflitrwrt*. 
 
 BY A- 
 
 WHO would not be 
 
 The Laureate bold 
 With his butt of sherry 
 To keep him merry, 
 And nothing to do but to pocket his gold 
 
 Tis I would be the Laureate bold ! 
 
 When the days are hot, and the sun is strong, 
 
 I 'd lounge in the gateway all the day long, 
 
 With her Majesty's footmen in crimson and gold. 
 
 I 'd care not a pin for the waiting-lord ; 
 
 But I 'd lie on my back on the smooth green sward, 
 
 With a straw in my mouth, and an open vest, 
 
 And the cool wind blowing upon my breast, 
 
 And I 'd vacantly stare at the clear blue sky, 
 
 And watch the clouds as listless as I, 
 
 Lazily, lazily ! 
 6*
 
 130 THB4BOOK OP BALLADS. 
 
 And I 'd pick the moss and daisies white, 
 
 And chew their stalks with a nibbling bite ; 
 
 And I 'd let my fancies roam abroad 
 
 In search of a hint for a birth-day ode, 
 
 Crazily, erazily ! 
 
 Oh, that would be the life for me, 
 With plenty to- g.et and nothing to do, 
 But to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of bluey 
 And whistle all day to- the Qneen's cockatoo, 
 
 Trance-somely y trance-swrnely, 
 Then the chambermaids, that elean the rooms, 
 Would come to the windows and! vest on their broom*, 
 With their saucy caps, and their crisped hair, 
 And they 'd toss their heads in the fragrant air, 
 And say to each other " Just look do\yn tfceve, 
 At the nice young man, so tidy and small, 
 Who is paid for writing on nothing at all, 
 Handsomely, handsomely !"" 
 
 They would pelt me with matches and sweet pastilles, 
 And crumpled up balls of the royal bills, 
 Giggling and laughing, and screaming with fun, 
 As they 'd see me start, with a leap and a run, 
 From the broad of my back to the point of my toes, 
 When a pellet of paper hit my nose, 
 
 Teazingly, sneezingly. 
 
 Then I 'd fling them bunches of garden flowers, 
 And hyacinths plucked from the Castle bowers ; 
 And I 'd challenge them all to come down to me, 
 And 1 'd kiss them all till they kissed me, 
 
 Laughingly, laughingly.
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 1 
 
 Oh, would r.ot that be a merry life, 
 Apart from care, and apart from strife, 
 With the Laureate's wine, and the Laureate's pay, 
 And no deductions at quarter-day ? 
 Oh, that would be the post for me ! 
 With plenty to get and nothing to do 
 But to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of blue, 
 And whistle a tune to the Queen's cockatoo, 
 And scribble of verses remarkably few, 
 And at evening empty a bottle or two, 
 Quaffingly, quaffingly ! 
 
 T is I would be 
 
 The Laureate bold, 
 With my butt of sherry 
 To keep me merry, 
 And nothing to do but to pocket my gold !
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 FILL me once more the foaming pewter up ! 
 
 Another board of oysters, ladye mine ! 
 To-night Lucullus with himself shall sup. 
 
 These mute inglorious Miltons are divine ; 
 
 And as I here in slippered ease recline, 
 Quaffing of Perkins' Entire my fill, 
 I sigh not for the lymph of Aganippe's rill. 
 
 A nobler inspiration fires my brain, 
 
 Caught from Old England's fine time-hallowed drink ; 
 
 I snatch the pot again and yet again, 
 
 And as the foaming fluids shrink and shrink, 
 Fill me once more, I say, up to the brink ! 
 
 This makes strong hearts strong heads attest its charm 
 
 This nerves the might that sleeps in JBritain's brawn v 
 arm ! 
 
 But these remarks are neither here nor there. 
 
 Where was I ? Oh, I see old Southey 's dead ! 
 They '11 want some bard to fill the vacant chair, 
 
 And drain the annual butt and oh, what head 
 
 More fit with laurel to be garlandec 1
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 133 
 
 Than this, which, curled in many a fragrant coil, 
 Breathes of Castalia's streams, and best Macassar oil ? 
 
 I know a grace is seated on my brow, 
 
 Like young Apollo's with his golden beams ; 
 
 There should Apollo's bays be budding now : 
 And in my flashing eyes the radiance beams 
 That marks the poet in his waking dreams, 
 
 When as his fancies cluster thick and thicker, 
 
 He feels the trance divine of poesy and liquor. 
 
 They throng around me now, those things of air, 
 That from my fancy took their being's stamp : 
 
 There Pelham sits and twirls his glossy hair, 
 There Clifford leads his pals upon the tramp ; 
 Their pale Zanoni, bending o'er his lamp, 
 
 Roams through the starry wilderness of thought, 
 
 Where all is everything, and everything is nought. 
 
 Yes, I am he, who sung how Aram won 
 
 The gentle ear of pensive Madeline ! 
 How love and murder hand in hand may run, 
 
 Cemented by philosophy serene, 
 
 And kisses bless the spot where gore has been ! 
 Who breathed the melting sentiment of crime, 
 And for the assassin waked a sympathy sublime ! 
 
 Yes, I am he, who on the novel shed 
 Obscure philosophy's enchanting light ! 
 
 I'ntil the public, wildered as they read, 
 
 Believed they saw that which was not in sight 
 Of course 't was not for me to set them right;
 
 134 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 For in my nether heart convinced I am, 
 Philosophy 's as good as any other bam. 
 
 Novels three-volumed I shall write no more 
 Somehow or other now they will not sell ; 
 
 And to invent new passions is a bore 
 I find the Magazines pay quite as well. 
 Translating 's simple, too, as I can tell, 
 
 Who 've hawked at Schiller on his lyric throne, 
 
 And given the astonished bard a meaning all my own. 
 
 Moore, Campbell, Wordsworth, their best days are 
 
 grassed ; 
 
 Battered and broken are their early lyres. 
 Rogers, a pleasant memory of the past, 
 
 Warmed his young hands at Smithfield's martyr fires, 
 And, worth a plum, nor bays, nor butt desires. 
 But these are things would suit me to the letter, 
 For though this Stout is good, old Sherry 's greatly 
 better. 
 
 A fico for your small poetic ravers, 
 
 Your Hunts, your Tennysons, your Milnes, and these ! 
 
 Shall they compete with him who wrote " Maltravers," 
 Prologue to " Alice or the Mysteries ?" 
 No ! Even now, my glance prophetic sees 
 
 My own high brow girt with the bays about. 
 
 What ho, within there, ho ! another pint of STOUT !
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 135 
 
 A POEM. 
 
 LIKE one who, waking from a troublous dream, 
 
 Pursues with force his meditative theme ; 
 
 Calm as the ocean in its halcyon still, 
 
 Calm as the sunlight sleeping on the hill : 
 
 Calm as at Ephesus great Paul was seen 
 
 To rend his robes in agonres serene ; 
 
 Calm as the love that radiant Luther bore 
 
 To all that lived behind him, and before ; 
 
 Calm as meek Calvin, when, with holy smile, 
 
 He sang the mass around Servetus' pile, 
 
 So once again I snatch this harp of mine, 
 
 To breathe rich incense from a mystic shrine. 
 
 Not now to whisper to the ambient air 
 
 The sound of Satan's Universal Prayer ; 
 
 Not now to sing in sweet domestic strife 
 
 That woman reigns the Angel of our life; 
 
 But to proclaim the wish, with pious art, 
 
 Which thrills through Britain's universal heart, 
 
 That on this brow, with native honors graced, 
 
 The Laureate's chaplet should at length be placed !
 
 136 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 Fear not, ye maids, who love to hear me speak ; 
 Let no desponding tears bedim your cheek ! 
 No gust of envy, no malicious scorn, 
 Hath this poor heart of mine with frenzy torn. 
 There are who move so far above the great, 
 Their very look disarms the glance of hate ; 
 Their thoughts, more rich than emerald or gold, 
 Enwrap them like the prophet's mantle's fold. 
 Fear not for me, nor think that this our age, 
 Blind though it be, hath yet no Archimage. 
 I, who have bathed in bright Castalia's tide, 
 By classic Isis and more classic Clyde ; 
 I, who have handled in my lofty strain, 
 All things divine, and many things profane ; 
 I, who have trod where seraphs fear to tread ; 
 I, who on mountain honey dew have fed ; 
 I, who undaunted broke the mystic seal, 
 And left no page for prophets to reveal ; 
 I, who in shade portentous Dante threw ; 
 I, who have done what Milton dared not do, 
 I fear no rival for the vacant throne ; 
 No mortal thunder shall eclipse my own ! 
 
 Let dark Macaulay chaunt his Roman lays, 
 Let Monckton Milnes go mounder for the bays, 
 Let Simmons call on great Napoleon's shade, 
 Let Lytton Bulwer seek his Aram's aid, 
 Let Wordsworth ask for help from Peter Bell, 
 Let Campbell carol Copenhagen's knell, 
 Let Delta warble through his Delphic groves, 
 Let Elliot shout for pork and penny loaves,
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 137 
 
 I cai e not, I ! resolved to stand or fall ; 
 One down, another on, I '11 smash them all ! 
 
 Back, ye profane ! this hand alone hath power 
 To pluck the laurel from its sacred bower ; 
 This brow alone is privileged to wea 
 The ancient wreath o'er hyacinthine hair ; 
 These lips alone may quaff the sparkling wine, 
 And make its mortal juice once more divine. 
 Back, ye profane ! And thou, fair queen, rejoice : 
 A nation's praise shall consecrate thy choice. 
 Thus, then, I kneel where Spencer knelt before, 
 On the same spot perchance, of Windsor's floor ; 
 And take, while awe-struck millions round me stand, 
 The hallowed wreath from epeat Victoria's hand.
 
 138 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 totjj nf f par?. 
 
 [WHY has Satan's own Laureate never given to the world his mar- 
 vellous threnody on "The Death of Space?" Who knows where 
 the bays might have fallen, had he forwarded that mystic manuscript 
 to the Home Office ? If unwonted modesty withholds it from the 
 public eye, the public will pardon the boldness that tears from blush- 
 ing obscurity the following fragments of this unique poem.] 
 
 ETERNITY shall raise her funeral pile 
 
 In the vast dungeon of the extinguish'd sky, 
 
 And, clothed in dim barbaric splendor, smile, 
 And murmur shouts of elegiac joy. 
 
 While those that dwell beyond the realms of space, 
 
 And those that people all that dreary void, 
 
 When old Time's endless heir hath run his race, 
 
 Shall live for aye, enjoying and eujoy'd. 
 
 And 'mid the agony of unsullied bliss, 
 
 Her Demogorgon's doom shall Sin bewail, 
 
 The undying serpent at the spheres shall hiss, 
 And lash the empyrean with his tail.
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 139 
 
 And Hell, inflated with supernal wrath, 
 Shall open wide her thunder-bolted jaws, 
 
 And shout into the dull cold ear of Death, 
 That he must pay his debt to Nature's laws. 
 
 And when the King of Terrors breathes his last, 
 
 Infinity shall creep into her shell, 
 Cause and effect shall from their thrones be cast, 
 
 And end their strife with suicidal yell. 
 
 While from their ashes, burnt with pomp of Kings 
 'Mid incense floating to the evanished skies, 
 
 Nonentity, on circumambient wings, 
 An everlasting Phoenix shall arise.
 
 140 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 ITittb Satjit rait tjrr EA fmt. 
 
 A LAY OF SHERWOOD. 
 
 FYTTE THE FIRST. 
 
 THE deer may leap within the glade ; 
 
 The fawns may follow free 
 For Robin is dead, and his bones are laid 
 
 Beneath the greenwood tree. 
 
 And broken are his merry, merry men, 
 
 That goodlie companie ; 
 There 's some have ta'en thu n. rthern road 
 
 With Jem of Netherbee. 
 
 The best and bravest of the band 
 
 With Derby Ned are gone ; 
 But Earlie Gray and Charlie Wood, 
 
 They staid with Little John. 
 
 Now Little John was an outlaw proud, 
 
 A prouder ye never saw ; 
 Through Nottingham and Leicester shires 
 
 He thought his word was law, 
 And he strutted through the greenwood wide 
 
 Like a pestilent jack-daw.
 
 fMK BOOK OF BALLADS. 141 
 
 He swore that none, but with leave of him, 
 
 Should set foot on the turf so free 
 And he thought to spread his cutter's rule, 
 
 All over the south countrie. 
 " There 's never a knave in the land," he said, 
 
 " But shall pay his toll to me !" 
 
 And Charlie Wood was a taxman good 
 
 As ever stepped the ground, 
 He levied mail, like a sturdy thief, 
 
 From all the yeomen round. 
 " Nay, stand !" quoth he, " thou shalt pay to me, 
 
 Seven pence from every pound !" 
 
 Now word has come to Little John, 
 
 As he lay upon the grass, 
 That a friar red was in merry Sherwood 
 
 "Without his leave to pass. 
 
 " Come hither, come hither, my little foot-page ! 
 
 Ben Hawes, come tell to me, 
 What manner of man is this burly frere 
 
 Who walks the wood so free !" 
 
 " My master good !" the little page said, 
 
 "His name I wot not well, 
 But he wears on his head a hat so red, 
 
 With a monstrous scallop-shell. 
 
 " He says he is Prior of Copmanshurst. 
 
 And Bishop of London town, 
 And he comes with a rope from our father, the Pope 
 
 To put the outlaws down.
 
 142 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 " I saw him ride but yester-tide 
 With his jolly chaplains three ; 
 
 And he swears that he has an open pass 
 From Jem of Netherbee !" 
 
 Little John has ta'en an arrow so broad, 
 
 And broke it o'er his knee ; 
 " Now I may never strike doe again, 
 
 But this wrong avenged shall be ! 
 
 " And has he dared, this greasy frere, 
 
 To trespass in my bound, 
 Nor asked for leave from Little John 
 
 To range with hawk and hound *? 
 
 " And has he dared to take a pass 
 
 From Jem of Netherbee, 
 Forgetting that the Sherwood shawf 
 
 Pertain of right to me ? 
 
 " O were he but a simple man 
 
 And not a slip-shod frere ! 
 I M hang him up by his own waist-rope 
 
 Above yon tangled brere. 
 
 " O did he come alone from Jem 
 And not from our father the Pope, 
 
 I 'd bring him in to Copmanshurst. 
 With the noose of a hempen rope !
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 143 
 
 " But since he has come from our father the Pope, 
 
 And sailed across the sea, 
 And since he has power to bind and loose, 
 
 His life is safe for me ; 
 But a heavy penance he shall do 
 
 Beneath the greenwood tree !" 
 
 " O tarry yet," quoth Charlie Wood, 
 
 " O tarry, master mine ! 
 It 's ill to shear a yearling hog, 
 
 Or twist the wool of swine ! 
 
 " It 's ill to make a bonny silk purse 
 
 From the ear of a bristly boar ; 
 It 's ill to provoke a shaveling's curse, 
 
 When the way lies him before. 
 
 " I 've walked the forest for twenty years, 
 
 In weather wet and dry, 
 And never stopped a good fellawe 
 
 Who had no coin to buy. 
 
 " What boots it to search a beggarman's bags 
 
 When no silver groat he has ? 
 So, master mine, I rede you well, 
 
 E'en let the Friar pass !" 
 
 "Now cease thy prate," quoth Little John, 
 
 " Thou japest but in vain ; 
 An he have not a groat within his pouch 
 
 We may find a silver chain.
 
 144 THE BOOK OP BALLADS. 
 
 " But were he as bare as a ne\V-flayed buck, 
 
 As truly he may be, 
 He shall not tread the Sherwood shaws 
 
 Without the leave of me !" 
 
 " Little John has taken his arrows and bow, 
 His sword and buckler strong, 
 
 And lifted up his quarter-staff, 
 "Was full three cloth yards long 
 
 And he has left his merry men 
 
 At the trysting-tree behind, 
 And gone into the gay greenwood, 
 
 This burly frere to find. 
 
 O'er holt and hill, thro' brake and brere 
 
 He took his way alone 
 Now, Lordlings, list and you shall hear 
 
 This geste of Little John. 
 
 FTTTE THE SECOND. 
 
 T is merry, 't is merry in gay greenwood, 
 When the little birds are singing, 
 
 When the buck is belling in the fern 
 
 And the hare from the thicket springing! 
 
 'T is merry to hear the waters clear 
 As they splash in the pebbly fall ; 
 
 And the ouzel whistling to his mate 
 As he lights on the stones so small.
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLA.DS. 14i) 
 
 But small pleasaunce took little John 
 
 In all he heard and saw ; 
 Till h(j reached the cave of a hermit old 
 
 Who wonned within the shaw. 
 
 " Ora pro >iobis /" quoth Little John 
 
 His Latin was somewhat rude 
 " Now, holy Father, hast thou seen 
 
 A frere within the wood? 
 
 " By his scarlet hose, and his ruddy nose, 
 
 I guess you may know him well ; 
 And he wears on his head a hat so red, 
 
 And monstrous scallop shell." 
 
 " I have served Saint Pancras," the hermit saidj 
 
 " In this cell for thirty year, 
 Yet never saw I, in the forest bounds, 
 
 The face of such a frere ! 
 
 " And if ye find him, master mine, 
 
 E'en take an old man's advice, 
 And raddle him well, till he roar again. 
 
 Lest ye fail to meet liim twice !" 
 
 'Trust me for that !" qucih Little John 
 " Trust me foi that !" quoth he with a laueh, 
 
 "There never was man of woman horn, 
 
 That a?k'd twice for the taste of my quarter-staff!"
 
 116 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 Then Little John, he strutted on, 
 'Till he came to an open bound, 
 
 And he was aware of a Red Friar 
 Was sitting upon the ground. 
 
 His shoulders they were broad and stror g, 
 
 And large was he of limb : 
 Few yeomen in the north countrie 
 
 Would care to mell with him. 
 
 He heard the rustling of the boughs, 
 
 As Little John drew near ; 
 But. never a single word he spoke, 
 
 Of welcome or of cheer. 
 
 I like not his looks ! thought Little John, 
 Nor his staff of the oaken tree. 
 
 Now may our Lady be my help, 
 Else beaten I well may be ! 
 
 " What dost thou here, thou strong Friar, 
 
 In Sherwood's merry round, 
 Without the leave of Little John, 
 
 To range with hawk and hound ?" 
 
 " Small thought have I," quoth the Red Filar, 
 
 " Of any leave, I trow. 
 That Little John is an outlawed thief, 
 
 And so, I ween, art thou !
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 147 
 
 "Know, 1 am Prior of Copmanshurst, 
 
 And Bishop of London town, 
 And I bring a rope from our father the Pope, 
 
 To put the outlaws down." 
 
 Then out spoke Little John in wrath, 
 
 "I tell thee, burly frere, 
 The Pope may do as he likes at home, 
 
 But he sends no Bishops here! 
 
 " Up, and away, Red Friar !" he said, 
 
 " Up, and away, right speedilie ; 
 An it were not for that cowl of thine, 
 
 Avenged on thy body I would be !" 
 
 " Nay, heed not that," said the Red Friar, 
 " And let my cowl no hindrance be ; 
 
 I warrant that I can give as good 
 As ever I think to take from thee !" 
 
 Little John he raised his quarter-staff, 
 
 And so did the burly priest, 
 And they fought beneath the greenwood tree, 
 
 A stricken hour at least. 
 
 But Little John was weak of fence, 
 
 And his strength began to fail, 
 Whilst the Friar's blows came thundering down, 
 
 Like the strokes of a threshing flail.
 
 148 
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 " Now, hold thy hand," thou stalwart Friar, 
 
 " Now rest beneath the thorn, 
 Until I gather breath enow, 
 
 For a blast at my bugle horn !" 
 
 " I '11 hold my hand," the Friar said, 
 
 " Since that is your propine, 
 But, an you sound your bugle horn, 
 
 I '11 even blow on mine !" 
 
 Little John he wound a blast so shrill 
 
 That it rung o'er rock and linn, 
 And Charlie Wood and his merry men all 
 
 Came lightly bounding in. 
 
 The Friar he wound a blast so strong 
 That it shook both bush and tree, 
 
 And to his side came Witless Will 
 And Jem of Netherbee ; 
 
 With all the worst of Robin's band, 
 And many a Rapparee ! 
 
 Liltle John he wist not what to do, 
 
 When he saw the others come ; 
 So he twisted his quarter-staff between 
 
 His fingers and his thumb. 
 
 
 
 "There 's some mistake, good Friar!" he said, 
 "There 's some mistake 'twixt thee and me; 
 
 I know thou art Prior of Copmanshurst, 
 But not beneath the greenwood tree.
 
 7I1E BOOK OF LALLALS. 
 
 " And if you will take some other name, 
 You shall have ample leave to bide ; 
 
 With pasture also for your Bulls, 
 And power tc range the forest wide." 
 
 "Thre 't, no mistake' 5 ' the Friar said, 
 " I '11 call myself j'ist what 1 olease. 
 
 My ioctrinj id that chalk is chalk, 
 
 And cheese is nothing else than cneese.'' 
 
 "So be it then P quoth Little John ; 
 
 " But surely you will not object, 
 If 1 and all my merry men 
 
 Should treat you with reserved respect r { 
 
 "' We can't call you Prior of Coprnanshurst, 
 
 Nor Bishop of London town, 
 Nor on the grass, as you chance to pass, 
 
 Can we very well kneel down. 
 
 :< But you '11 send the Pope my compliments, 
 
 And say, as a further hint, 
 That, within the Sherwood bounds, you saw 
 Little John, who is the son-in-law 
 
 Of his friend, old Mat-o'-the-Mint !" 
 
 So ends this geste of Little John 
 
 God save our noble Queen! 
 But, Lordlings, say is Sherwood now 
 
 What Sherwood once hath been ? 
 
 140
 
 150 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 m $3 
 
 A LEGEND OF GLASGOW. 
 
 BY MRS. E B B- 
 
 THERE 's a pleasant place of rest, near a City of the 
 
 West, 
 
 Where its bravest and its best find their grave. 
 Below the willows weep, and their hoary branches steep 
 In the waters still and deep, 
 
 Not a wave ! 
 
 And the old Cathedral Wall, so scathed, a/id gray, and 
 
 tall. 
 
 Like a priest surveying all, stands beyond. 
 And the ringing of its bell, when the ringers ring it well, 
 Makes a kind of tidal swell 
 
 On the pond ! 
 
 And there it was I lay, on a beauteous summer's day, 
 
 With the odor of the hay floating by ; 
 And I heard the blackbirds sing, and the bells demurely 
 
 ring, 
 Chime by chime, ting by ting, 
 
 Droppingly.
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 151 
 
 Then my thoughts went wandering back on a very 
 
 beaten track 
 
 To the confine deep and black of the tomb, 
 And 1 wondered who he was, that is laid beneath the 
 
 grass, 
 Where the dandelion has 
 
 Such a bloom. 
 
 Then I straightway did espy, with my slantly sloping 
 eye, 
 
 A carved stone hard by, somewhat worn ; 
 And I read in letters cold 
 
 ff.je.race.off.Uofltle.oUi, 
 
 Here the letters failed outright, but I knew 
 That a stout crusading lord, who had crossed the Jordan's 
 
 ford, 
 Lay there beneath the sward, 
 
 Wet with dew. 
 
 Time and tide they passed away, ou that pleasant sum- 
 mer's day, 
 
 And arounJ me as I lay, all grew old : 
 Sank the ehimn^s from the town, and the clouds of 
 
 vapor brown 
 No ioiger. like a crown, 
 
 O'er it rolled.
 
 153 THE BOOK O* BALLAP3. 
 
 Sank the great Saint Roliux stalk, like a pile of dingy 
 
 chalk 
 
 Disappeared the cypress walk, and the flowers. 
 And a donjon keep arose, that might baffle any foes, 
 With its men-at-arms in rows, 
 
 On its towers. 
 
 And the flag that flaunted there, snowed the grim and 
 
 grizzly bear, 
 
 Which the Bogles always wear for their crest. 
 And I heard the warder call, as he stood upon the wall, 
 " Wake ye up ! my comrades all, 
 
 From your rest ! 
 
 " For by the blessed rood, there 's a glimpse of armor good 
 In the deep Cowcaddens wood, o'er the stream ; 
 
 And I hear the stifled hum, of a multitude that come, 
 Though they have not beat the drum 
 
 It would seem ! 
 
 " Go tell it to my Lord, lest he wish to man the ford 
 
 With partizan and sword, just beneath ; 
 Ho, Gilkison and Nares ! Ho, Provan of Cowlairs ! 
 
 We '11 back the bonny bears 
 
 To the death !" 
 
 To the tower above the moat, like one who heedeth not, 
 Came the bold Sir Launcelot, half undressed ; 
 
 On the outer rim he stood, and peered into the wood, 
 With his arms across him glued 
 
 On his breast.
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 153 
 
 And he muttered " Foe accurst ! has thou dared to seek 
 
 me first? 
 
 George of Gorbals, do thy worst for J swear, 
 O'er thy gory corpse to ride, ere thy sister and my 
 
 bride, 
 From my undesevered side, 
 
 Thou shalt tear ! 
 
 "Ho! herald mine, Brownlee! ride forth, I pray and 
 
 see, 
 
 Who, what, and whence is he, foe or friend ! 
 Sir Roderick Dalgleish, and my foster-brother Neish 
 With his bloodhounds in the leash, 
 
 Shall attend." 
 
 Forth went the herald stout, o'er the drawbridge and 
 
 without, 
 
 Then a wild and savage shout rose amain, 
 Six arrows sped their force, and, a pale and bleeding 
 
 corse, 
 He sank from off his horse 
 
 On the plain ! 
 
 Back drew the bold Dalgleish, back started stalwart 
 
 Neish, 
 
 With his bloodhounds in the leash, from Brownlee. 
 " Now shame be to the sword that made thee knight 
 
 and lord, 
 Thou caitiff thrice abhorred, 
 
 Shame on thee! 
 7*
 
 154 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 " Ho, bowmen, bend your bows ! Discharge upon the 
 
 foes, 
 
 Forthwith no end of those heavy bolts. 
 Three angels to the brave who finds the foe a grave, 
 And a gallows for the slave 
 
 Who revolts !" 
 
 Ten days the combat lasted ; but the bold defenders 
 
 fasted, 
 
 While the foemen, better pastied, fed their host ; 
 You might hear the savage cheers of the hungry Gorba- 
 
 liers, 
 As at night they dressed the steers 
 
 For the roast. 
 
 And Sir Launcelot grew thin, and Provan's double chin 
 Showed sundry folds of skin down beneath ; 
 
 In silence and in grief found Gilkisoii relief, 
 Nor did Neish the spellword, beef, 
 
 Dare to breathe. 
 
 To the ramparts Edith came, that fair and youthful 
 
 dame, 
 
 With the rosy evening flame on her face. 
 She sighed, and looked around on the soldiers on th" 
 
 ground, 
 Who but little penance found, 
 
 Saying grace !
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 155 
 
 And she said unto her lord, as he leaned upon his 
 
 sword, 
 
 " One short and little word may I speak ? 
 I cannofc bear to view those eyes so ghastly blue, 
 Or mark the sallow hue 
 
 Of thy cheek ! 
 
 " I know the rage and wrath that my furious brothet 
 
 hath 
 
 Is less against us both than at me. 
 Then, dearest, let me go, to find among the foe 
 An arrow from the bow, 
 
 Like Brownlee !" 
 
 " I would soil my father's name, I would lose my trea- 
 sured fame, 
 
 Ladye mine, should such a shame on me light : 
 While I wear a belted brand, together still we 
 
 stand, 
 Heart to heart, hand to hand !" 
 
 Said the knight. 
 
 " All our chances are not lost, as your brother and his 
 
 host 
 
 Shall discover to their cost rather hard ! 
 Ho, Provan ! take this key hoist up the Malvoisie, 
 And heap it, d' ye see, 
 
 In the ynr.fi.
 
 156 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 " Of usquebaugh and rum, you will find I reckon 
 
 some, 
 
 Besides the beer and mum, extra stout ; 
 Go straightway to your tasks, and roll me all the 
 
 casks, 
 As also range the flasks, 
 
 Just without. 
 
 "If I know the Gorbaliers, they are sure to dip their 
 
 ears 
 
 In the very inmost tiers of the drink. 
 Let them win the outer-court, and hold it for their sport, 
 Since their time is rather short, 
 
 I should think !" 
 
 With a loud triumphant yell, as the heavy drawbridge 
 
 fell, 
 
 Rushed the Gorbaliers pell-mell, wild as Druids ; 
 Mad with thirst for human gore, how they threatened 
 
 and they swore, 
 Till they stumbled on the floor, 
 
 O'er the fluids ! 
 
 Down their weapons then they threw, and each savage 
 
 soldier drew 
 
 From his belt an iron screw, in his fist : 
 George of Gorbals found it vain their excitement to 
 
 restrain, 
 And indeed waa rather fain 
 
 To assist.
 
 THK BOOK OF BALLADS. 157 
 
 With a beaker in his hand, in the midst he took his 
 
 stand, 
 
 And silence did command all below 
 " Ho ! Launcelot the bold, ere thy lips are icy cold, 
 In the centre of thy hold, 
 
 Pledge me now ! 
 
 " Art surly, brother mine ? In this cup of rosy 
 
 wine, 
 
 I drink to the decline of thy race ! 
 Thy proud career is done, thy sand is nearly run, 
 Never more shall setting sun 
 
 Gild thy face ! 
 
 " The pilgrim in amaze, shall see a goodly blaze, 
 
 Ere the pallid morning rays flicker up. 
 And perchance he may espy certain corpses swinging 
 
 high! 
 What, brother ! art thou dry ? 
 
 Fill my cup !" 
 
 Dumb as death stood Launcelot, as though he heard 
 
 him not, 
 
 But his bosom Provan smote, and he swore : 
 And Sir Roderick Dalgleish, remarked aside to 
 
 Neish, 
 " Never sure did thirsty fish 
 
 Swallow more !"
 
 158 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 " Thirty casks are nearly done, yet the revel 's scarce 
 
 begun, 
 
 It were knightly sport and fun to strike in !" 
 "Nay, tarry till they come," quoth Neish, "unto the 
 
 rum 
 They are working at the mum, 
 
 And the gin !" 
 
 Then straight there did appear to each gallant Gorbalier 
 
 Twenty castles dancing near, all around, 
 The solid earth did shake, and the stones beneath them 
 
 quake, 
 And sinuous as a snake 
 
 Moved the ground. 
 
 Why and wherefore they had come, seemed intricate to 
 
 some, 
 
 But all agreed the rum was divine. 
 And they looked with bitter scorn on their leader highly 
 
 born, 
 Who preferred to fill his horn 
 
 Up with wine ! 
 
 Then said Launcelot the tall, " Bring the chargers from 
 
 their stall ; 
 
 Lead them straight unto the hall, down below : 
 Draw your weapons from your side, fling the gates 
 
 asunder wide, 
 And together we shall ride 
 
 On the foe !"
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 159 
 
 Then Provan knew full well, as he leaped into his 
 
 selle, 
 
 That few would 'scape to tell how they fared, 
 And Gilkison and Nares, both mounted on their mares, 
 Looked terrible as bears, 
 
 All prepared. 
 
 With his bloodhounds in the leash, stood the iron-sinew- 
 ed Neish, 
 
 And the falchion of Dalgleish glittered bright 
 " Now, wake the trumpet's blast ; and, comrades, follow 
 
 fast; 
 Smite them down unto the last !" 
 
 Cried the knight. 
 
 In the cumbered yard without, there was shriek, and 
 
 yell, and shout, 
 
 As the warriors wheeled about, all in mail. 
 On the miserable kerne, fell the death-strokes stiff and 
 
 stern, 
 As the deer treads down the fern, 
 
 In the vale ! 
 
 Saint Mungo be my guide ! It was goodly in that 
 
 tide 
 
 To see the Bogle ride in his haste ; 
 He accompanied each blow, with a cry of " Ha !" or 
 
 " Ho !" 
 And always cleft the foe 
 
 To the waist.
 
 160 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 " George of Gorbals craven lord ! thou didst threat me 
 
 with the cord, 
 
 Come forth and brave my sword, if you dare !"' 
 But he met with no reply, and never could descry 
 The glitter of his eye 
 
 Anywhere. 
 
 Ere the dawn of morning shone, all the Gorbaliers were 
 
 down, 
 
 Like a field of barley mown in the ear : 
 It had done a soldier good, to see how Provan stood, 
 With Neish all bathed in blood, 
 
 Panting near. 
 
 "Now ply ye to your tasks go carry down those 
 
 casks, 
 
 And place the empty flasks on the floor. 
 George of Gorbals scarce will come, with trumpet and 
 
 with drum, 
 To taste our beer and rum 
 
 Any more ! 
 
 So they plied them to their tasks, and they carried down 
 
 the casks, 
 
 And replaced the empty flasks on the floor ; 
 But pallid for a week was the cellar master's check. 
 For he swore he heard a shriek 
 
 Through the door.
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 161 
 
 When the merry Christmas came, and the Yule-log lent 
 
 its flame 
 
 To the face of squire and dame in the hall, 
 The cellarer went down to tap October brown, 
 Which was rather of renown 
 
 'Mongst them all. 
 
 He placed the spigot low, and gave the cask a blow. 
 
 But his liquor would not flow through the pin. 
 " Sure, 't is sweet as honeysuckles !" so he rapped it 
 
 with his knuckles, 
 But a sound as if of buckles, 
 
 Clashed within. 
 
 " Bring a hatchet, varlets, here !" and they cleft the 
 
 cask of beer ; 
 
 What a spectacle of fear met their sight ! 
 There George of Gorbals lay, skull and bones all blanched 
 
 and grey, 
 In the arms he bore the day 
 
 Of the fight ! 
 
 1 have sung this ancient tale, not, I trust, without avail, 
 Though the moral ye may fail to perceive, 
 
 Sir Launcelot is dust, and his gallant sword is rust, 
 And now, I think, I must 
 
 Take my leave !
 
 162 
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 nf tju 
 
 [Am " The days we went a gipsying."] 
 
 I WOULD all womankind were dead, 
 
 Or banished o'er the sea ; 
 For they have been a bitter plague 
 
 These last six weeks to me : 
 It is not that I 'm touched myself, 
 
 For that I do not fear ; 
 No female face hath shown me grace 
 For many a bygone year. 
 
 But 't is the most infernal bore, 
 
 Of all the bores I know, 
 To have a friend who 's lost his heart 
 A short time ago. 
 
 Whene'er we steam it to Blackwall, 
 
 Or down to Greenwich run, 
 To quaff the pleasant cider cup, 
 
 And feed on fish and fun ;
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 163 
 
 Or climb the slopes of Eichmond Hill, 
 
 To catch a breath of air : 
 Then, for my sins, he straight begins 
 To rave about his fair. 
 
 Oh, 't is the most tremendous bore, 
 
 Of all the bores I know, 
 To have a friend who 's lost his heart 
 A short time ago. 
 
 In vain you pour into his ear 
 Your own confiding grief; 
 In vain you claim his sympathy, 
 
 In vain you ask relief; 
 In vain you try to rouse him by 
 
 Joke, repartee, or quiz ; 
 His sole reply 's a burning sigh, 
 And " What a mind it is !" 
 
 O Lord ! it is the greatest bore, 
 
 Of all the bores I know, 
 To have a friend who 's lost his heart 
 A short time ago. 
 
 I've heard her thoroughly described 
 
 A hundred times, I 'in sure ; 
 And all the while I 've tried to smile, 
 
 And patiently endure ; 
 He waxes strong upon his pangs, 
 
 And potters o'er his grog ; 
 And still I say, in a playful way 
 
 " Why you 're a lucky dog !"
 
 164 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 But oh ! it is the heaviest bore, 
 Of all the bores I know, 
 
 To have a friend who's lost his heart 
 A short time ago. 
 
 I really wish he'd do like me 
 
 When I was young and strong ; 
 > I formed a passion every week, 
 
 But never kept it long. 
 But he has not the sportive mood 
 
 That always rescued me, 
 And so I would all women could 
 Be banished o'er the sea. 
 
 For 't is the most egregious bore, 
 
 Of all the bores I know, 
 To have a friend who's lost his heart 
 A short time ago.
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 165 
 
 ftamm fto Hirnrai. 
 
 TO BON GAULTIER. 
 
 ARGUMENT. An impassioned pupil of Leigh Hunt, having met Bon 
 Gaultier at a Fancy Ball, declares the destructive consequences 
 thus.] 
 
 DIDST thou not praise me, Gaultier, at the ball, 
 Ripe lips, trim boddice, and a waist so small, 
 With clipsome lightness, dwindling ever less, 
 Beneath the robe of pea-y greeniness ? 
 Dost thou remember, when with stately prance, 
 Our heads went crosswise in the country dance ; 
 How soft, warm fingers, tipp'd like buds of balm, 
 Trembled within the squeezing of thy palm ; 
 And how a cheek grew flush'd and peachy-wise 
 At the frank lifting of thy cordial eyes ? 
 Ah, me ! that night there was one gentle thing, 
 Who like a dove, with its scarce-feather'd wing, 
 Flutter'd at the approach of thy quaint swaggering !
 
 166 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 There 's wont to be, at conscious times like these, 
 An affectation of a bright-eyed ease, 
 A crispy-cheekiness, if so I dare 
 Describe the swaling of a jaunty air ; 
 And thus, when swirling from the waltz's wheel, 
 You craved my hand to grace the next quadrille, 
 That smiling voice, although it made me start, 
 Boil'd in the meek o'erlifting of my heart ; 
 And, picking at my flowers, I said with free 
 And usual tone, " Oh yes, sir, certainly !" 
 
 Like one that swoons, 'twixt sweet amaze and fear, 
 
 I heard the music burning in my ear, 
 
 And felt I cared not, so thou wert Avith me, 
 
 If Gurth or Wamba were our vis-a-vis. 
 
 So, when a tall Knight Templar ringing came, 
 
 And took his place against us with his dame, 
 
 I neither turned away, nor bashful shrunk 
 
 From the stern survey of the soldier-monk, 
 
 Though rather more than full three-quarters drunk ; 
 
 But threading through the figure, first in rule, 
 
 I paused to see thee plunge into La Poule. 
 
 Ah, what a sight was that ? Not prurient Mars, 
 Pointing his toe through ten celestial bars 
 Not young Apollo, beamily array'd 
 In tripsome guise for Juno's masquerade 
 Not smartest Hermes, with his pinion girth, 
 Jerking with freaks and snatches down to earth, 
 Look'd half so bold, so beautiful and strong, 
 As thou when pranking thro' the glittering throng !
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 167 
 
 How the calm'd ladies looked with eyes of love 
 On thy trim velvet doublet laced above ; 
 The hem of gold, that, like a wavy river, 
 Flowed down into thy back with glancing shiver ! 
 So bare was thy fine throat, and curls of black 
 So lightsomely dropp'd on thy lordly back, 
 So crisply swaled the feather in thy bonnet, 
 So glanced thy thigh, and spanning palm upon it, 
 That my weak soul took instant flight to thee, 
 Lost in the fondest gush of that sweet witchery ! 
 
 But when the dance was o'er, and arm in arm, 
 
 (The full heart beating 'gainst the elbow warm,) 
 
 We pass'd into the great refreshment hall, 
 
 Where the heap'd cheese-cakes and the comfits small 
 
 Lay, like a hive of sunbeams, brought to burn 
 
 Around the margin of the negus urn ; 
 
 When my poor quivering hand you finger'd twice, 
 
 And, with enquiring accents, whisper'd " Ice, 
 
 Water, or cream ?" I could no more dissemble, 
 
 But dropp'd upon the couch all in a tremble. 
 
 A swimming faintness misted o'er my brain, 
 
 The corks seem'd starting from the brisk champagne, 
 
 The custards fell untouch'd upon the floor, 
 
 Thine eyes met mine. That night we danced no more !
 
 168 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 'B Dnngjjtrr. 
 
 A LKGEND OF THE BOSPHORU8. 
 
 How beauteous is the star of night 
 
 Within the eastern skies, 
 Like the twinkling glance of the Toorkman's lance, 
 
 Or the antelope's azure eyes ! 
 A lamp of love in the heaven above, 
 
 That star is fondly streaming ; 
 And the gay kiosk and the shadowy mosque 
 
 In the Golden Horn are gleaming. 
 Young Leila sits in her jasmine bower, 
 
 And she hears the bulbul sing, 
 As it thrills its throat to the first full note, 
 
 That anthems the flowery spring. 
 She gazes still, as a maiden will, 
 
 On that beauteous eastern star : 
 You might see the throb of her bosom's sob 
 
 Beneath the white cymar ! 
 
 She thinks of him who is far away, 
 
 Her own brave Galiongee, 
 Where the billows foam and the breezes roam, 
 
 On the wild Carpathian sea.
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 169 
 
 She thinks of the oath that bound them both 
 
 Beside the stormy water ; 
 And the words of love, that in Athens' grove 
 
 He spake to the Cadi's daughter. 
 
 " My Selim !" thus the maiden said, 
 
 " Though severed thus we be, 
 By the raging deep and the mountains' steep, 
 
 My soul still yearns to thee. 
 Thy form so dear is mirror'd here 
 
 In my heart's pellucid well, 
 As the rose looks up to Phingari's orb, 
 
 Or the moth to 'the gay gazelle, 
 
 " I think of the time, when the Kaftan's crime 
 
 Our love's young joys o'ertook, 
 And thy name still floats in the plaintive notes 
 
 Of my silver-toned chibouque. 
 Thy hand is red with the blood it has shed, 
 
 Thy soul it is heavy laden ; 
 Yet come, my Giaour, to thy Leila's bower j 
 
 Oh, come to thy Turkish maiden !" 
 
 A light step trode on the dewy sod, 
 
 And a voice was in her ear, 
 And an arm embraced young Leila's waist 
 
 " Beloved ! I am here !" 
 Like the phantom form that rules the storm, 
 
 Appeared the pirate lover, 
 And his fiery eye was like Zatanai, 
 
 As he fondly bent above her.
 
 170 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 " Speak, Leila, speak ! for my light caique 
 
 Rides proudly in yonder bay ; , 
 
 I have come from my rest to her I love best, 
 
 To carry thee, love, away. 
 The breast of thy lover shall shield thee, and cover 
 
 My own jemscheed from harm ; 
 Think'st thou I fear the dark vizier, 
 
 Or the mufti's vengeful arm ? 
 
 " Then droop not, love, nor turn away 
 
 From this rude hand of mine !" 
 And Leila looked in her lover's eyes, 
 
 And murmured " I am thine !" 
 But a gloomy man with a yataghan 
 
 Stole through the acacia blossoms, 
 And the thrust he made with his gleaming blade 
 
 Had pierced through both their bosoms. 
 
 " There ! there ! thou cursed caitiff Giaour ! 
 
 There, there, thou false one, lie !" 
 Eemorseless Hassan stands above, 
 
 And he smiles to see them die. 
 They sleep beneath the fresh green turf, 
 
 The lover and the lady 
 And the maidens wail to hear the tale 
 
 Of the daughter of the Cadi !
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 171 
 
 immik 
 
 THE minarets wave on the plain of Stamboul, 
 
 And the breeze of the evening blows freshly and cool ; 
 
 The voice of the niusnud is heard from the west, 
 
 And kaftan and kalpac have gone to their rest, 
 
 The notes of the kislar re-echo no more, 
 
 And the waves of Al Sirat fall light on the shore. 
 
 Where art thou, my beauty ; where art thou, my bride ? 
 
 Oh, come and repose by the dragoman's side ! 
 
 I wait for thee still by the flowery tophaik 
 
 I have broken my Eblis for Zuleima's sake. 
 
 But the heart that adores thee is faithful and true, 
 
 Though it beats 'neath the folds of a Greek Allah-hu ! 
 
 Oh, wake thee, my dearest ! the muftis are still. 
 
 And the tschocadars sleep on the Franguestan hill ; 
 
 No sullen aleikoum no derveesh is here, 
 
 And the mosques are all watching by lonely Kashmere '. 
 
 Oh, come hi the gush of thy beauty so full, 
 
 I have waited for thee, my adored attar-gul !
 
 172 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 I see thee I hear thee thy antelope foot 
 Treads lightly and soft on the velvet cheroot ; 
 The jewelled amaun of thy zemzem is bare, 
 And the folds of thy palampore wave in the air. 
 Come, rest on the bosom that loves thee so well, 
 My dove ! my phingari ! my gentle gazelle ! 
 
 Nay, tremble not, dearest ! I feel thy heart throb, 
 'Neath the sheltering shroud of thy snowy kiebaub ; 
 Lo, there shines Muezzin, the beautiful star ! 
 Thy lover is with thee, and danger afar : 
 Say, is it the glance of the haughty vizier, 
 Or the bark of the distant effendi, you fear ? 
 
 Oh, swift fly the hours in the garden of bliss ! 
 And sweeter than balm of Gehenna, thy kiss ! 
 Wherever I wander wherever I roam, 
 My spirit flies back to its beautiful home : 
 It dwells by the lake of the limpid Stamboul, 
 With thee, my adored one ! my own attar-gul !
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 173 
 
 tetlj nf Dmml. 
 
 PH, ESQ. 
 
 Methinks I see him already in the cart, sweeter and more lovely 
 than the nosegay in his hand ! I hear the crowd extolling his re- 
 solution and intrepidity ! What volleys of sighs are sent from 
 the windows of Holborn, that so comely a youth should be brought 
 to disgrace ! I see him at the tree ! the whole circle are in tears ! 
 even butchers weep !" BEGGAR'S OPERA. 
 
 A LIVING sea of eager human faces, 
 
 A thousand bosoms, throbbing all as one, 
 
 Walls, windows, balconies, all sorts of places, 
 Holding their crowds of gazers to the sun : 
 Through the hushed groups low buzzing murmurs run; 
 
 And on the air, with slow reluctant swell, 
 
 Comes the dull funeral boom of old Sepulchre's bell. 
 
 Oh, joy in London now ! in festal measure 
 Be spent the evening of this festive day ! 
 
 For thee is opening now a high-strung pleasure 
 Now, even now, in yonder press-yard they 
 Strike from his limbs the fetters loose away ! 
 
 A little while, and he, the brave Duval, 
 
 Will issue forth, serene, to glad and greet you all.
 
 174 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 " Why comes he not ? say, wherefore doth he tarry ?" 
 Starts the enquiry loud from every tongue. 
 
 " Surely," they cry, " that tedious Ordinary 
 
 His tedious psalms must long ere this have sung, 
 Tedious to him that's waiting to be hung !" 
 
 But hark ! old Newgate's doors fly wide apart. 
 
 " He comes, he comes !" A thrill shoots through each 
 gazer's heart. 
 
 Join'd in the stunning cry ten thousand voices, 
 All Smithfield answered to the loud acclaim. 
 " He comes, he comes !" and every breast rejoices, 
 As down Snow Hill the shout tumultuous came, 
 Bearing to Holborn's crowd the welcome fame. 
 " He comes, he comes !" and each holds back his 
 
 breath, 
 
 Some ribs are broke and some few scores are crush'd to 
 death. 
 
 With step majestic to the cart advances 
 
 The dauntless Claude, and springs into his seat. 
 
 He feels that on him now are fix'd the glances 
 Of many a Britain bold and maiden sweet, 
 Whose hearts responsive to his glories beat. 
 
 In him the honor of " The Road" is centred, 
 
 And all the hero's fire into his bosom enter'd. 
 
 His was the transport his the exultation 
 
 Of Rome's great generals, when from afar, 
 Up to the Capitol, in the ovation,
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 175 
 
 They bore with them in the triumphal car, 
 
 Rich gold and gems, the spoils of foreign war. 
 lo Triumphe ! They forgot their clay. 
 E'en so Duval who rode in glory on his way. 
 
 His laced cravat, his kids of purest yellow, 
 The many-tinted nosegay in his hand, 
 
 His large black eyes, so fiery, yet so mellow, 
 Like the old vintages of Spanish land, 
 Locks clustering o'er a brow of high command, 
 
 Subdue all hearts ; and, as up Holborn's steep 
 
 Toils the slow car of death, e'en cruel butchers weep. 
 
 He saw it, but he heeded not. His story, 
 He knew, was graven on the page of Time. 
 
 Tyburn to him was as a field of glory, 
 
 Where he must stoop to death his head sublime, 
 Hymn'd in full many an elegiac rhyme. 
 
 He left his deeds behind him, and his name 
 
 For he, like Caesar, had lived long enough for fame. 
 
 He quail'd not, save when, as he raised the chalice, 
 St. Giles's bowl, filled with the mildest ale, 
 
 To pledge the crowd, on her his beauteous Alice 
 His eye alighted, and his cheek grew pale. 
 She, whose sweet breath was like the spicy gale, 
 
 (She, whom he fondly deem'd his own dear girl, 
 
 Stood with a tall dragoon, drinking long draughts of 
 purl.
 
 176 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 He bit his lip it quiver'd but a moment 
 Then pass'd his hand across his flashing brows : 
 
 He could have spared so forcible a comment 
 Upon the constancy of woman's vows. 
 One short, sharp pang his hero-soul allows ; 
 
 But in the bowl he drowned the stinging pain, 
 
 And on his pilgrim-course went calmly forth again. 
 
 A princely group of England's noble daughters 
 
 Stood in a balcony suffused with grief, 
 Diffusing fragrance round them, of strong waters, 
 
 And waving many a snowy handkerchief. 
 
 Then glow'd the prince of highwayman and thief! 
 His soul was touched with a seraphic gleam : 
 That woman could be false was but a mocking dream. 
 
 And now, his bright career of triumph ended, 
 His chariot stood beneath the triple tree. 
 
 The law's grim finisher to its boughs ascended, 
 And fix'd the hempen bandages, while he 
 Bow'd to the throng^ then bade the car go free. 
 
 The car roll'd on, and left him dangling there 
 
 Like famed Mahommed's tomb, uphung midway in air 
 
 As droops the cup of the surcharged lily 
 Beneath the buffets of the surly storm, 
 
 Or the soft petals of the daffodilly, 
 When Sirius is uncomfortably warm, 
 So drooped his head upon his manly form, 
 
 While floated in the breeze his tresses brown. 
 
 He hung the stated time, and then they cut him down.
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 177 
 
 With soft and tender care the trainbands bore him, 
 Just as they found him, nightcap, rope, and all, 
 
 And placed this neat though plain inscription o'er him, 
 Among the otomies in Surgeon's Hall : 
 "THESE ARE THE BONES OF THE RENOWN'D DUVAL!" 
 
 There still they tell us, from their glassy case, 
 
 He was the last, the best of all that noble race !
 
 178 1HE BOOK OF BALLAD?- 
 
 ff irgr of tlft IhMrr. 
 
 ESQ. 
 
 BROTHERS, spare awhile your liquor, lay your final tum- 
 bler down; 
 He has dropp'd that star of honor on the field of his 
 
 renown ! 
 Raise the wail, but raise it softly, lowly bending on your 
 
 knees, 
 If you find it more convenient, you may hiccup if you 
 
 please. 
 
 Sons of Pantagruel, gently let your hip-hurraing sink, 
 Be your manly accents clouded, half with sorrow, half 
 
 with drink ! 
 
 Lightly to the sofa pillow lift his head from off the floor ; 
 See, how calm he sleeps, unconscious as the deadest nail 
 
 in door! 
 Widely o'er the earth I've wander'd ; where the drink 
 
 most freely flow'd, 
 I have ever reel'd the foremost, foremost to the beaker 
 
 strode.
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 179 
 
 Deep in shady Cider Cellars I have dream'd o'er heavy 
 
 wet, 
 By the fountains of Damascus I have quaff'd the ric) 
 
 Sherbet, 
 
 Regal Montepulciano drained beneath its native rock, 
 On Johannis' sunny mountain frequent hiccup'd o'er my 
 
 hock; 
 I have bathed in butts of Xeres deeper than did e'er 
 
 Monsoon, 
 Sangaree'd with bearded Tartars in the Mountains of the 
 
 Moon; 
 
 In beer-swilling Copenhagen I have drunk your Danes- 
 man blind, 
 I have kept my feet in Jena, when each bursch to earth 
 
 declined ; 
 Glass for glass, in fierce Jamaica, 1 havs shared the 
 
 planter's rum, 
 Drank with Highland dhuinie-wassels, till each gibbering 
 
 Gael grew dumb ; 
 But a stouter, bolder drinker one that loved his liquor 
 
 more 
 Never yet did I encounter than our friend upon the 
 
 floor ! 
 
 Yet the best of us are mortal, we to weakness all are heir, 
 He has fallen, who rarely stagger'd let the rest of us 
 
 beware ! 
 We shall leave him, as we found him, lying where his 
 
 manhood fell, 
 'Mong the trophies of the revel, for he took his tipple 
 
 well.
 
 180 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 Better 't were we loosed his neckcloth, laid his throat 
 
 and bosom bare, 
 Pulled his Hobies off, and turn'd his toes to taste the 
 
 breezy air. 
 Throw the sofa cover o'er him, dim the flaring of the 
 
 gas, 
 Calmly, calmly let him slumber, and, as by the bar we 
 
 pass, 
 We shall bid that thoughtful waiter place beside him, 
 
 near and handy, 
 Large supplies of soda water, tumbler's bottomed well 
 
 with brandy, 
 So when waking, he shall drain them, with that deathless 
 
 thirst of his, 
 Clinging to the hand that smote him, like a good 'un as. 
 
 he is!
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 181 
 
 WHEN folks with headstrong passion blind, 
 To play the fool make up their mind, 
 They 're sure to come with phrases nice, 
 And modest air, for your advice. 
 But, as a truth unfailing make it, 
 They ask, but never mean to take it. 
 T is not advice they want, in fact, 
 But confirmation in their act. 
 Now mark what did, in such a case, 
 A worthy priest who knew the race. 
 
 A dame more buxsome, blithe and free, 
 Than Fredegonde you scarce would see. 
 So smart her dress, so trim her shape, 
 Ne'er hostess offer'd juice of grape, 
 Could for her trade wish better sign ; 
 Her looks gave flavor to her wine, 
 And each guest feels it, as he sips, 
 Smack of the ruby of her lips. 
 A smile for all, a welcome glad, 
 A jovial coaxing way she had ;
 
 182 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 And, what was more her fate than blame, 
 
 A nine months' widow was our dame. 
 
 But toil was hard, for trade was good, 
 
 And gallants sometimes will be rude. 
 
 " And what can a lone woman do 1 
 
 The nights are long, and eerie too. 
 
 Now, Guillot there 's a likely man. 
 
 None better draws or taps a can ; 
 
 He 's just the man, I think, to suit, 
 
 If I could bring my courage to 't." 
 
 With thoughts like these her mind is cross'd : 
 
 The dame, they say, who doubts is lost. 
 
 " But then the risk 1 ? I'll beg a slice 
 
 Of Father Eaulin's good advice." 
 
 Prankt in her best, with looks demure, 
 She seeks the priest ; and, to be sure, 
 Asks if he thinks she ought to wed : 
 " With such a business on my head, 
 I 'm worried off my legs with care, 
 And need some help to keep things square. 
 I 'vc thought of Guillot, truth to ti-11 ! 
 He 's steady, knows his business well. 
 What do you think ?" When thus he met her ; 
 " Oh, take him, dear, you can't do better !" 
 " But then the danger, my good pasor, 
 If of the man I make the master. 
 There is no trusting to these men." 
 " Well, well, my dear, don't have him then !" 
 " But help I must have, there 's the curse. 
 I may go farther and fare worse."
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 183 
 
 " Why, take him then !" " But if he should 
 
 Turn out a thankless ne'er-do-good, 
 
 In drink and riot waste my all, 
 
 And rout me out of house and hall ?" 
 
 " Don't have him, then ! But I 've a plan 
 
 To clear your doubts, if any can. 
 
 The bells a peal are ringing, hark ! 
 
 Go straight, and what they tell you mark. 
 
 If they say ' Yes !' wed, and be blest 
 
 If ' No,' why do as you think best." 
 
 The bells rung out a triple bob : 
 Oh, how our widow's heart did throb, 
 As thus she heard their burden go, 
 " Marry, mar-marry, mar-Guillot !" 
 Bells were not then left to hang idle : 
 A week, and the rang for her bridal. 
 But, woe the while, they might as well 
 Have rung the poor dame's parting knell. 
 The rosy dimples left her cheek, 
 She lost her beauties plump and sleek ; 
 For Guillot oftener kicked than kiss'd 
 And back'd his orders with his fist, 
 Proving by deeds as well as words, 
 That servants make the worst of lords. 
 
 She seeks the priest, her ire to wreak, 
 And speaks as angry women speak, 
 With tiger looks, and bosom swelling, 
 Cursing the hour she took his telling.
 
 184 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 To all, his calm reply was this, 
 " I fear you Ve read the bells amiss. 
 If they have led you wrong in aught, 
 Your wish, not they, inspired the thought. 
 Just go, and mark well what they say." 
 Off trudged the dame upon her way, 
 And sure enough their chime went so, 
 " Don't have that knave, that knave Guillot !" 
 
 " Too true," she cried, " there 's not a doubt ; 
 What could my ears have been about !" 
 She had forgot, that, as fools think, 
 The bell is ever sure to clink.
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 185 
 
 <Ejre fJwrtjj of 
 
 [This and the six following poems are examples of that new achieve- 
 ment of modern song which, blending the utUe with the dulcf, 
 symbolizes at once the practical and spiritual characteristics of 
 the age, aiid is called familiarly " the puff poetical."] 
 
 DIED the Jew 1 "The Hebrew died. 
 
 On the pavement cold he lay, 
 Around him closed the living tide ; 
 
 The butcher's cad set down his tray : 
 The pot-boy from the Dragon Green 
 
 No longer for his pewter calls ; 
 The Nereid rushes in between, 
 
 Nor more her ' Fine live mackerel !' bawls." 
 
 Died the Jew ? " The Hebrew died. 
 
 They raised him gently from the stone, 
 They flung his coat and neckcloth wide 
 
 But linen had that Hebrew none. 
 They raised the pile of hats that pressed 
 
 His noble head, his locks of snow ; 
 But, ah, that head, upon his breast, 
 
 Sank down with an expiring ' Clo !' "
 
 186 THE BOOK OF BALLADW. 
 
 Died the Jew ? " The Hebrew died, 
 
 Struck with overwhelming qualms, 
 From the flavor spreading wide 
 
 Of some fine Virginia Hams. 
 Would you know the fatal spot, 
 
 Fatal to that child of sin ? 
 These fine-flavored hams are bought 
 
 At 50, BISHOPSGATE WITHIN !"
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 187 
 
 art's 
 
 T WAS in the town of Lubeck. 
 
 A hundred years ago. 
 An old man walk'd into the church 
 
 With beard as white as snow ; 
 Yet were his cheeks not wrinkled, 
 
 Nor dim his eagle eye : 
 There's many a knight that steps the street, 
 Might wonder, should he chance to meet 
 
 That man erect and high ! 
 
 When silenced was the organ, 
 
 And hush'd the vespers loud, 
 The Sacristan approached the sire, 
 
 And drew him from the crowd 
 " There's something in thy visage, 
 
 On which I dare not look, 
 And when I rang the passing bell, 
 A tremor that I may not tell, 
 
 My very vitals shook.
 
 188 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 " Who art thou, awful stranger \ 
 
 Our ancient annals say, 
 That twice two hundred years ago 
 
 Another passed this way, 
 Like thee in face and feature ; 
 
 And, if the tale be true, 
 'T is writ, that in this very year 
 Again the stranger shall appear. 
 
 Art thou the wandering Jew ?" 
 
 " The wandering Jew, thou dotard !" 
 
 The wondrous phantom cried 
 'T is several centuries ago 
 
 Since that poor stripling died. 
 He would not use my nostrums 
 
 See, shaveling, here they are ! 
 These put to flight all human ills, 
 These conquer death unfailing pills, 
 
 And I 'm the inventor, PARR !"
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 189 
 
 itt unit tlje Smjnr. 
 
 GINGERLY is good King Tarquin shaving, 
 
 Gently glides the razor o'er his chin, 
 Near him stands a grim Haruspex raving, 
 And with nasal whine he pitches in 
 Church Extension hints, 
 Till the monarch squints, 
 Snicks his chin, and swears a deadly sin ! 
 
 " Jove confound thee, thou bare-legg'd impostor ! 
 
 From my dressing-table get thee gone ! 
 Dost thou think my flesh is double Glo'ster ? 
 There again ! That cut was to the bone ! 
 Get ye from my sight ; 
 I '11 believe you 're right 
 When my razor cuts the sharping hone !" 
 
 Thus spoke Tarquin with a deal of dryness ; 
 
 But the Augur, eager for his fees, 
 Answered " Try it, your Imperial Highness, 
 
 Press a little harder, if you please.
 
 190 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 There ! the deed is done !" 
 Through the solid stone 
 Went the steel as glibly as through cheese. 
 
 So the Augur touch'd the tin of Tarquin, 
 
 Who suspected some celestial aid : 
 But he wronged the blameless Gods ; for hearken ! 
 Ere the monarch's bet was rashly laid, 
 With his seaching eye 
 Did the priest espy 
 RODOERS' name engraved upon the blade.
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 NOT BY ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 SLOWLY, as one who bears a mortal hurt, 
 Through which the fountain of his life runs dry, 
 Crept good King Arthur down unto the lake. 
 A roughening wind was bringing in the waves 
 With cold, dull plash and plunging to the shore, 
 And a great bank of clouds came sailing up 
 Athwart the aspect of the gibbous moon, 
 Leaving no glimpse save starlight, as he sank, 
 With a short stagger, senseless on the stones. 
 
 No man yet knows how long he lay in swound ; 
 But long enough it was to let the rust 
 Lick half the surface of his polished shield ; 
 For it was made by far inferior hands 
 Than forged his helm, his breastplate, and his greaves, 
 Whereon no canker lighted, for they bore 
 The magic stamp of MECHI'S SILVER STEEL.
 
 192 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 ntti tip 3nMan 
 
 " TAKE away this clammy nectar !" 
 
 Said the king of gods and men ; 
 " Never at Olympus' table 
 
 Let that trash be served again. 
 Ho, Lyseus, thou, the beery ! 
 
 Quick invent some other drink ; 
 Or, in a brace of shakes, thou standest 
 
 On Cocytus' sulphury brink!" 
 
 Terror shook the limbs of Bacchus, 
 
 Paly grew his pimpled nose, 
 And already in his rearward 
 
 Felt he Jove's tremendous toes ; 
 When a bright idea struck him 
 
 " Dash my thyrsus ! I '11 be bail 
 For you never were in India 
 
 That you know not HOUGSON'H ALE !"
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 " Bring it !" quoth the Cloud-compeller ; 
 
 And the wine-god brought the beer 
 " Port and Claret are like water 
 
 To the noble stuff that's here !" 
 And Saturnius drank and nodded, 
 
 Winking with his lightning eyes ; 
 And amidst the constellations 
 
 Did the star of HODGSON rise! 
 
 193
 
 194 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 jp flt{ nf tjp Dnnhrtf flrntjjra. 
 
 COATS at five-and-forty shillings ! trousers ten-and-six a 
 pair! 
 
 Summer waistcoats, three a sovereign, light and comfort- 
 able wear! 
 
 Taglionis, black or colored, Chesterfield and velveteen ! 
 
 The old English shooting-jacket, doeskins, such as ne'er 
 were seen! 
 
 Army cloaks and riding-habits, Alberts at a trifling cost ! 
 
 Do you want an annual contract ? Write to DOUDNEY'S 
 by the post. 
 
 DOUDNEY BROTHERS ! DOUDNEY BROTHERS ! Not the 
 men that drive the van, 
 
 Plaster'd o'er with advertisements, heralding some paltry 
 plaa, 
 
 How, by base mechanic measure, and by pinching of 
 their backs, 
 
 Slim attorneys' clerks may manage to retrieve their 
 Income-tax : 
 
 But the old established business where the best of 
 clothes are given 
 
 At the very lowest prices Fleet-street, Number Ninety- 
 seven.
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 195 
 
 . Would' st thou know the works of DOUDNEY? Hie thee 
 to the thronged Arcade, 
 
 To the Park upon a Sunday, to the terrible Parade. 
 
 There, amid the bayonets bristling, and the flashing of 
 the steel, 
 
 When the household troops in squadrons round the bold 
 field-marshals wheel, 
 
 Should'st thou see an aged warrior in a plain blue morn- 
 ing frock, 
 
 Peering at the proud battalion o'er the margin of his 
 stock, 
 
 Should thy throbbing heart then tell thee, that the vete- 
 ran, worn an gray, 
 
 Curbed the course of Bonaparte, rolled the thunders of 
 Assaye 
 
 Let it tell thee, stranger, likewise, that the goodly garb 
 he wears 
 
 Started into shape and being from the DOUDNEY BRO- 
 THERS' shears ! 
 
 Seek thou next the rooms of Willis mark, where 
 D'Orsay's Count is bending, 
 
 See the trousers' undulation from his graceful hip 
 descending ; 
 
 Hath the earth another trouser so compact and love- 
 compelling 1 
 
 Thou canst find it, stranger, only, if thou seek'st the 
 DOUDNEYS' dwelling. 
 
 Hark, from Windsor's royal palace, what sweet voice 
 enchants the ear ? 
 
 "Goodness, what a lovely waistcoat? Oh, who made 
 it, Albert, dear ?
 
 196 THE BOOK OP BALLADS. 
 
 'T is the very prettiest pattern ! You must get a dozen 
 
 others !" 
 And the Prince, in rapture, answers " 'T is the work 
 
 of DOUDNEY BROTHERS !"
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 197 
 
 arts 
 
 As the youthful Paris presses 
 
 Helen to his ivory breast, 
 Sporting with her golden tresses, 
 
 Close and ever closer pressed, 
 
 He said : " So let me quaff the nectar, 
 Which thy lips of ruby yield ; 
 
 Glory I can leave to Hector, 
 Gathered in the tented field. 
 
 " Let me ever gaze upon thee, 
 Look into thine eyes so deep ; 
 
 With a daring hand I won thee, 
 With a faithful heart I'll keep. 
 
 " Oh, my Helen, thou bright wonder, 
 Who was ever like to thee? 
 
 Jove would lay aside his thunder, 
 So he might be blest like me.
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 " How mine eyes so fondly linger 
 On thy soft and pearly skin ; 
 
 Scan each round and rosy finger, 
 Drinking draughts of beauty in ! 
 
 " Tell me, whence thy beauty, fairest ! 
 
 Whence thy cheek's enchanting bloom ? 
 Whence the rosy hue thou wearest, 
 
 Breathing round thee rich perfume ?" 
 
 Thus he spoke, with heart that panted, 
 Clasped her fondly to his side, 
 
 Gazed on her with look enchanted, 
 While his Helen thus replied : 
 
 " Be no discord, love, between us, 
 
 If I not the secret tell ! 
 'T was a gift I had of Venus, 
 
 Venus, who hath loved me well. 
 
 " And she told me as she gave it, 
 ' Let not e'er the charm be known, 
 
 O'er thy person freely lave it, 
 Only when thou art alone.' 
 
 " 'T is enclosed in yonder casket 
 Here behold its golden key ; 
 
 But its name love, do not ask it, 
 Tell 't, I may not, even to thee !"
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS, 199 
 
 Long with vow and kiss he plied her, 
 
 Still the secret did she keep, 
 Till at length he sank beside her, 
 
 Seemed as he had dropped to sleep. 
 
 Soon was Helen laid in slumber, 
 
 When her Paris, rising slow, 
 Did his fair neck disencumber 
 
 From her rounded arms of snow ; 
 
 Then her heedless fingers oping, 
 
 Takes the key and steals away, 
 To the eben table groping, 
 
 Where the wondrous casket lay ; 
 
 Eagerly the lid uncloses, 
 
 Sees within it, laid aslope, 
 PEAR'S LIQUID BLOOM OF KOSES, 
 
 Cakes of his TRANSPARENT SOAP !
 
 200 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 nug nf tlje 
 
 I 'M weary, and sick, and disgusted 
 
 With Britain's mechanical din ; 
 Where I 'm much too well known to be trusted, 
 
 And plaguily pestered for tin ; 
 Where love has two eyes for your banker, 
 
 And one chilly glance for yourself; 
 Where souls can afford to be franker, 
 
 But when they 're well garnished with pelf. 
 
 I 'm sick of the whole race of poets, 
 
 Emasculate, missy, and fine ; 
 They brew their small beer, and don't know its 
 
 Distinction from full-bodied wine. 
 I 'm sick of the prosers, that house up 
 
 At drowsy St. Stephen's, ain't you ? 
 I want some strong spirits to rouse up 
 
 A good revolution or two ! 
 
 I 'm sick of a land, where each morrow 
 
 Repeats the dull tale of to-day, 
 Where you can't even find a new sorrow, 
 
 To chase your stale pleasures away.
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 201 
 
 I 'm sick of blue-stockings horrific, 
 
 Steam, railroads, gas, scrip, and consols; 
 So I '11 off where the golden Pacific 
 Round islands of paradise rolls. 
 
 There the passions shall revel unfettered, 
 
 And the heart never speak but in truth, 
 And the intellect wholly unlettered, 
 
 Be bright with the freedom of youth ; 
 There the earth can rejoice in her blossoms, 
 
 Unsullied by vapor or soot, 
 And there chimpanzees and opossums 
 
 Shall playfully pelt me with fruit. 
 
 There I '11 sit with my dark Orianas, 
 
 In groves by the murmuring sea, 
 And they '11 give, as I suck the bananas, 
 
 Their kisses, nor ask them from me. 
 They '11 never torment me for sonnets. 
 
 Nor bore me to death with their owi ; 
 They '11 ask not for shawls nor for bonnets, 
 
 For milliners there are unknown. 
 
 There my couch shall be earth's freshest flowers, 
 
 My curtains the night and the stars, 
 And my spirit shall gather new powers, 
 
 Uncramped by conventional bars. 
 Love for love, truth for truth ever giving, 
 
 My days shall be manfully sped ; 
 I shall know that I 'm loved while I 'm living, 
 
 And be wept by fond oycs when T 'm dead ! 
 9*
 
 202 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 LIGHTSOME, brightsome, cousin mine . 
 Easy, breezy Caroline ! 
 
 With thy locks all raven-shaded, 
 
 
 From thy merry brow up-braided, 
 
 And thine eyes of laughter full, 
 
 Brightsome cousin mine ! 
 Thou in chains of love hast bound me 
 "Wherefore dost thou flit around me, 
 
 Laughter-loving Caroline ? 
 
 When I fain would go to sleep 
 
 In my easy chair, 
 
 Wherefore on my slumbers creep 
 W T herefore start me from repose, 
 Tickling of my hooked nose, 
 
 Pulling of my hair 1 
 Wherefore, then, if thou dost love me, 
 So to words of anger move me, 
 
 Corking of this face of mine, 
 
 Tricksy cousin Caroline 1
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 203 
 
 When a sudden sound I hear, 
 Much my nervous system suffers, 
 
 Shaking through and through, 
 Cousin Caroline, I fear, 
 
 'T was no other, now, but you 
 Put gunpowder in the snuffers, 
 
 Springing such a mine ! 
 Yes, it was your tricksy self, 
 Wicked-tricked, little elf, 
 
 Naughty cousin Caroline ! 
 
 Pins she sticks into my shoulder, 
 
 Places needles in my chair, 
 And, when I begin to scold her, 
 
 Tosses back her combed hair, 
 
 With so saucy -vexed an air, 
 That the pitying beholder 
 Cannot brook that I should scold her : 
 Then again she comes, and bolder, 
 
 Blacks anew this face of mine, 
 
 Artful cousin Caroline ! 
 
 Would she only say she 'd love me, 
 
 Winsome tinsome Caroline, 
 Unto such excess 't would move me, 
 
 Teasing, pleasing, cousin mine! 
 That she might the live-long day 
 Undermine the snuffer tray, 
 Tickle still my hooked nose, 
 Startle me from calm repose
 
 204 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 With her pretty persecution ; 
 Throw the tongs against my shins, 
 Run me through and through with pins, 
 
 Like a pierced cushion ; 
 Would she onl y say she 'd love me, 
 Darning needles should not move me ; 
 But reclining back, I 'd say, 
 " Dearest ! there 's the snuffer tray ; 
 Pinch, O pinch those legs of mine ! 
 
 Cork me, cousin Caroline !"
 
 TTTK nnoK or BALLADS. 205 
 
 n 
 
 FOUND IN MY EMPORIUM CF LOVE TOKENS. 
 
 SWEET flower, that with thy soft blue eye 
 Did'st once look up in shady spot, 
 
 To whisper to the passer-by 
 
 Those tender words Forget-me-not ! 
 
 Though withered now, thou art to me 
 The minister of gentle thought, 
 
 And I could weep to gaze on thee, 
 Love's faded pledge Forget-me-not ! 
 
 Thou speak'st of hours when I was young, 
 
 And happiness arose unsought, 
 When she, the whispering woods among, 
 
 Gave me thy bloom Forget-me-not ! 
 
 What rapturous hour with that dear maid 
 From memory's page no time shall blot, 
 
 When, yielding to my kiss, she said, 
 "Oh, Theodore Forget-me-not!"
 
 206 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 Alas, for love ! alas, for truth ! 
 
 Alas for man's uncertain lot ! 
 Alas for all the hopes of youth 
 
 That fade like thee Forget-me-not ! 
 
 Alas ! for that one image fair, 
 
 With all my brightest dreams inwrought ! 
 That walks beside me everywhere, 
 
 Still whispering Forget-me-not ! 
 
 Oh, memory ! thou art but a sigh 
 
 For friendships dead and loves forgot ; 
 
 And many a cold and altered eye, 
 That once did say Forget-me-not ! 
 
 And I must bow me to thy laws, 
 
 For odd although it may be thought 
 
 I can't tell who the deuce it was 
 That gave me this Forget-me-not !
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 207 
 
 " WHY art thou weeping, sister ? 
 
 Why is thy cheek so pale ? 
 Look up, dear Jane, and tell me 
 
 What is it thou dost ail ? 
 
 " I know thy will is froward, 
 Thy feelings warm and keen, 
 
 And that that Augustus Howard 
 For weeks has not been seen. 
 
 " I know how much you loved him ; 
 
 But I know thou dost not weep 
 For him ; for though his passion be, 
 
 His purse is noways deep. 
 
 " Then tell me why those teardrops ; 
 
 What means this woful mood ? 
 Say, has the tax-collector 
 
 Been calling, and been rude?
 
 208 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 " Or has that hateful grocer, 
 The slave ! been here to-day ? 
 
 Of course he had, by morrow's noon, 
 A heavy bill to pay ! 
 
 " Come, on thy brother's bosom 
 
 Unburden all thy woes ; 
 Look up, look up, sweet sister ; 
 
 There, dearest, blow your nose." 
 
 " Oh, John, 't is not the grocer, 
 
 For his account ; although 
 How ever he is to be paid, 
 
 I really do not know. 
 
 " 'T is not the tax-collector ; 
 
 Though by his fell command, 
 They Ve seized our old paternal e]jck, 
 
 And new umbrella-stand : 
 
 " Nor that Augustus Howard, 
 
 Whom I despise almost, 
 But the soot's come down the chimney. John, 
 
 And fairly spoiled the roast !"
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 209 
 
 (Cnmfnrt in Mirtinn. 
 
 " WHEREFORE starts my bosom's lord ? 
 
 Why this anguish in thine eye? 
 Oh, it seems as thy heart's chord 
 
 Had broken with that sign . 
 
 " Rest thee, my dear lord, I praj. 
 Rest thee on my bosom now ! 
 
 And let me wipe the dews away, 
 Are gathering on thy brow. 
 
 " There, again ! that fevered start ! 
 
 What, love ! husband ! is thy pain 1 
 There is a sorrow on thy heart, 
 
 A weight upon thy brain ! 
 
 ' Nay, nay, that sickly smile can ne'er 
 Deceive affection's searching eye ; 
 
 'T is a wife's duty, love, to share 
 Her husband's agony.
 
 iJlO THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 " Sirce the dawn began to peep, 
 Have I lain with stifled breath ; 
 
 Heard thee moaning in thy sleep, 
 As thou wert at grips with death. 
 
 " Oh, what joy it was to see 
 
 My gentle lord once more awake ! 
 
 Tell me, what is amiss with thee 1 
 Spean, or my heart will break !" 
 
 " Mary, thou angel of my life, 
 Thou ever good and kind ; 
 
 'T is not, believe me, my dear wife, 
 The anguish of the mind ! 
 
 " It is not in my bosom dear, 
 No, nor my brain, in sooth ; 
 
 But Mary, oh, I feel it here, 
 Here hi my wisdom tooth ! 
 
 " Then give, oh, first, best antidote,- 
 Sweet partner of my bed ! 
 
 Give me thy flannel petticont 
 To wrap around my head !"
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 Smrarntinti. 
 
 " BROTHER, thou art very weary, 
 
 And thine eye is sunk and dim, 
 And thy neckcloth's tie is crumpled, 
 
 And thy collar out of trim ; 
 There is dust upon thy visage, 
 
 Think not Charles I would hurt ye. 
 When I say, that altogether, 
 
 You appear extremely dirty. 
 
 " Frown not, brother, now, but hie thee 
 
 To thy chamber's distant room ; 
 Drown the odors of the ledger 
 
 With the lavender's perfume. 
 Brush the mud from off thy trowsers, 
 
 O'er the china basin kneel, 
 Lave thy brows in water softened 
 
 With the soap of Old Castile. 
 
 " Smooth the locks that o'er thy forehead 
 Now in loose disorder stray ; 
 
 Pare thy nails, and from thy whiskers 
 Cut those ragged points away.
 
 212 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 Let no more thy calculations 
 Thy bewildered brain beset ; 
 
 Life has other hopes than Cocker's, 
 Other joys than tare and tret. 
 
 " Haste thee, for I ordered dinner, 
 
 Waiting to the very last, 
 Twenty minutes after seven, 
 
 And 't is now the quarter past. 
 'T is a dinner which Lucullus 
 
 Would have wept with joy to see, 
 One, might wake the soul of Curtis 
 
 From Death's drowsy atrophy. 
 
 " There is soup of real turtle, 
 
 Turbot, and the dainty sole ; 
 And the mottled roe of lobsters 
 
 Blushes through the butter bowl. 
 There the lordly haunch of mutton, 
 
 Tender as the mountain grass, 
 Waits to mix its ruddy juices 
 
 With the girdling caper-sauce. 
 
 " There a stag, whose branching forehead 
 
 Spoke him monarch of the herds, 
 He whose flight was o'er the heather, 
 
 Swift as through the air the bird's, 
 m Yields for thee a dish of cutlets ; 
 
 And the haunch that wont to dash 
 O'er the roaring mountain torrent, 
 
 Smokes in most delicious hash.
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 21tS 
 
 " There, besides, are amber jellies 
 
 Floating like a golden dream ; 
 Ginger from the far Bermudas 
 
 Dishes of Italian cream ; 
 And a princely apple-dumpling, 
 
 Which my own fair fingers wrought, 
 Shall unfold its nectared treasures 
 
 To thy lips all smoking hot. 
 
 " Ha ! I see thy brow is clearing, 
 
 Lustre flashes from thine eyes ; 
 To thy lips I see the moisture 
 
 Of anticipation rise. 
 Hark ! the dinner bell is sounding !" 
 
 " Only wait one moment, Jane : 
 I'll be dressed, and down, before you 
 
 Can get up the iced champagne !"
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
 
 COME hither, my heart's darling, 
 
 Come, sit upon my knee, 
 And listen, while I whisper 
 
 A boon I ask of thee. 
 You need not pull my whiskers 
 
 So amorously, my dove ; 
 'T is something quite apart from 
 
 The gentle cares of love. 
 
 I feel a bitter craving 
 
 A dark and deep desire, 
 That glows beneath my bosom 
 
 Like coals of kindled fire. 
 The passion of the nightingale, 
 
 When singing to the rose. 
 Is feebler than the agony 
 
 That murders my repose ! 
 
 Nay, dearest ! do not doubt me, 
 Though madly thus I speak 
 
 I feel thy arms about me, 
 Thy tresses on my cheek :
 
 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 215 
 
 I know the sweet devotion 
 
 That links thy heart with mine, 
 
 I know my soul's emotion 
 Is doubly felt by thine : 
 
 And deem not that a shadow 
 
 Hath fallen across my love : 
 No, sweet, my love is shadowless, 
 
 As yonder heaven above. 
 These little taper fingers 
 
 Ah, Jane ! how white they be ! 
 Can well supply the cruel want 
 
 That almost maddens me. 
 
 Thou wilt not sure deny me 
 
 My first and fond request ; 
 I pray thee, by the memory 
 
 Of all we cherish best 
 By all the dear remembrance 
 
 Of those delicious days, 
 When, hand in hand, we wandered 
 
 Along the summer braes : 
 
 By all we felt, unspoken, 
 
 When 'neath the early moon, 
 We sat beside the rivulet, 
 
 In the leafy month of June ; 
 And by the broken whisper 
 
 That fell upon my ear, 
 More sweet than angel-music, 
 
 When first I woo'd thee, dour !
 
 MSB