ili I In mm ill 11 I 1^1 Mi %m\ ■^ ^— 'P V t^ 1^ ,—'1 I' § StllBRARYQc -^ILIBRARYQ^ ^WEUNIVERS-//, ^lOSANCElfjv. .^ mi "^ '^ o ■ r?i33Nvsoi^^ "^/^aaAiNnjwv MEUNIVERS//, o ril30NVS01^ v5;lOSANCElfj> o ^v^UIBRARY6)/^ ^^IIIBRARYQ^ ^OFCAllF0/?;<^ ^OFCAIIFO/?^ "^/^aaAiNrt-awv* ^^Aavaani^ ^^^AHvaaii^- SlllBRARY^^ ^^ILIBRARY6?/^ '' n» = '■m^^ > f %1^. ':? !ARYa^ ^ ^>MllBRARYa^^ VJJO"^ '^d/OdllVDJO'f^ ^WE•UNIVER^/A o ^lOSANCElfx> o ■^Aa3AiNn-3WV [IFOff/j^ ^.OFCAIIFO;?^^ fYi i ian# > ^'CAyvaaiH'^^ AW[UNIV£RS7/v. ^lOSANCflfj^^ o ^ %}l3AINn]WV ^ VER% v>:lOSANCElfj> "^/^aiAINfl-JWV ^IIIBRARYO^ -^HIBRARYQ^ ^JITVJJO'^ '^ o ^OfCAiIFO% .^OFCAIIFO% %a3AiNn3WV^ '^f?Aiiv}iani^ '^^Aavaaiii^ ^ OS ARYQc Oi^"^ so ^ '^- ^-rtE UNIVER^//, ^ o ^■■iTTJn, ^lOSANCElfj> ^ r^ P= SENT BACK BY THE ANGELS AND OTHER BALLADS SENT BACK BY THE ANGELS; AND OTHER BALLADS OF HOME AND HOMELY LIFE. BY FREDERICK LANGBRIDGE, M.A., AUTHOR OF "songs in Sl'NSHINE," "GASLIGHT AND STARS," " HER BEAUTIFUL DREAM," ETC. ETC. I'UBLISHED FOR THE AUTHOR CASSELL & COMPANY, Limited: LONDON, PARIS, NEW YORK 5f MELBOURNE. 1885. TO A MASTER OF THE DIFFICULT ART OF WRITING BALLADS AND STORY -POEMS: TO THE AUTHOR OF 'THE BALLAD OF JUDAS ISCARIOT,' 'NELL,' 'the wedding OF SHON MACLEAN,' AND 'PHIL BLOOD'S LEAP': TO ROBERT BUCHANAN I DEDICATE THESE POOR RHYMES WITH THE GRATITUDE AND HOMAGE OF TWENTY YEARS. F. L. PREFACE. The English of such of these Ballads as vary from that over which Her Gracious Majesty is supposed to preside can hardly claim to rank as a dialect. It presents few salient features — probably something very like it can be heard in most of the great towns of the Midlands — and I have not attempted to reproduce it with severe fidelity. Those who are familiar with the speech of a district stand in need of few hints upon its pronunciation. To the uninitiated I doubt if the most laborious phoneticism can convey the speech's true significance, while I am quite certain that the average stranger, confused and terrified by mysterious symbols, is very apt to shut the book and flee. Moreover, this kind of speech is hardly capable of systematic representation. Its //, for example, is abso- lutely fluctuating and errant. As a rule, people use it as they do pepper, sprinkling it more or less plentifully according to individual taste, and with no sense of responsibility. Its tendency, however, is rather to be 937807 viii PREFACE. missing than to obtrude. The general density of the brogue, too, varies indefinitely. One general remark I may make : — oi is generally /, and l is generally aoi. Thus you bile a kettle, and zvraoite a letter. To any curious impertinent I may say that the char- acters in my Ballads follow in the main the speech which I heard, five-and-twenty years ago, from the lips of my old nurse, in what was then a pretty rural spot on the Staffordshire fringe of Birmingham, and is now almost a bit of the big black town. One more gulp of the tall chimneys, and the dearest associations of my life will be without a local habitation. On the whole, I would ask that the Ballads should be judged rather as colloquial than as dialect poems. Several of these pieces were received, on their first appearance in Good Words^ London Society, The Graphic, Time, and Eastward Ho ! with a good deal of favour. Miss Wakefield's music and vocalisation have made A Bunch of Cowslips popular, and various reciters have rendered a similar service to Seth Baker and Joe^s Bespeak. To reciters in particular I would commend the collection as a whole. I should say that the present volume includes one or two short pieces which, though written several years ago, have more real affinity in pur- pose and in treatment with their associates in this collection than with those in whose company they happened to make their debut. PREFACE. ix I think that the present attitude of the public mind disposes it to give at least a fair hearing to any literary work treating honestly of the struggles and temptations, the joys and sorrows of the poor. And this much I dare to say in favour of these humble rhymes. They are the outcome of true sympathy and earnest study. Their laughter is genuine mirth and their tears are real tears. FREDERICK LANGBRIDGE. S. John's Rectory, Limerick, February 20, 1885. CONTENTS. Sammy : a very Sorrowful Ballad about him and HIS Cart. Amos Dunn's Wooing A Lay of a Cracked Fiddle The Demon of the Pit : a Ballad of the Boards Sent back by the Angels How THE Light came to Jim " I mean to wait for Jack " Going into the House : or, the Little Crutch Redwood's Revenge A Tale of a Turkey Exit Tommy A Bunch of Cowslips Courtship . My own Girl Her Last Posy Joe's Bespeak Seth Baker Joe to the Rescue 1 II 20 25 30 38 48 50 56 61 64 68 70 72 74 76 78 83 xii CONTENTS. Sam Green's Love . The Parson's Comforter . The Ballad of the Blind Beggar Christ in the City Job Sanderson's Mind : a Bit of it A Christmas Quarrel Doctor Dan's Secret The Roses know A Daisy Chain Walter's Choice . I'AGE 85 98 Id los 109 114 120 122 124 125 SAMMY : A VERY SORROWFUL BALLAD ABOUT HIM AND HIS CART. That poor little go-cart yonder, So cranky, and mean, and old — I tell you, you shouldn't have it For double its weight in gold. It's a bit of my own contriving, And far from a clever job ; They'd sell you one twice as handsome For somewheres about five-bob. But — laugh if you like, old feller ! I know as it do seem queer — I've kep' that poor little go-cart For many a weary year. I've kep' it, sacred and holy. When — Heaven forgive my sin ! — I've popped my boots and my blanket For sake of the cursed gin. And whenever I get the- summons To give up the key, and go To jine my own little Sammy, That's wanted me long, I know. They'll find as I've left directions The box shall be deep and wide That, close to my heart, that poor little cart May tenderly rest inside. SAMMY. He was our little kid, was Sammy — The first and the last we had ; And only the Lord knows rightly The way as we loved that lad. There was parties as kep' their dog-cart, And counted us naught but skim, Whose youngsters hadn't, I tell you, Such wittles nor togs as him. With new-laid eggs for his breakfast. And jam that thick on his bread — Why, fighting-cocks wasn't in it, Regarding the way he fed. . His hair in tight little ringlets. And dressed in his sailor-suit. His trousers flapping so knowing A-top of his lace-up boot. And the name of his ship, the "JINGO," Wrote out on his cap so bold. He was really a perfec' pictur' — Our stout little eight-year-old. A-trotting to church between us. And prattling in childish joy. He was one in a crowd, and our hearts was proud Of our brave little sailor-boy. But summat went wrong with Sammy — Quite slow-like, the child fell oft'; There was nothing as you could p'int to — He hadn't no pain nor cough ; But somehow he failed and faded — His feet, so merry and gay, As danced like rain on the pavement, Got dragginger day by day. SAMMY. And — he ! such a chattering magpie ! — He'd reggerler lost his tongue ; And, Lord ! when his mother dressed him, How baggy his jacket hung ! The doctor he come to see him, And Hstened agen his chest, And sent him bottles with caps on, And coloured his very best ; And he'd chicken and calf s-fut jelly, And beautiful black beef-tea, And we took him down by the 'scursion, And got six hours at the sea ; And if melted gold could have helped him To even the smallest start. The hat on my head, and the clothes on the bed, I'd have sold with a thankful heart. It wasn't no use, God help us ! He drooped and he pined away — For all the world like the blackbird I brought him from town one day. And coming sometimes to meet me A bit of the way down street, It hurted, to see how weary He crawled on his little feet. And I thinks to myself one evening, " To pleasure his precious heart, And keep him out in the sunshine, I'll make him a sort of cart — • A nice little bit of a go-cart, With wheels, and a handle too. To drive his self out, God bless him ! As poor little cripples do." SAMMY. So, after my work-hours nightly, When Sammy was safe in bed, I tinkered the toy together. And painted it blue and red. And I tell you I got my payment When, out on the horse-road there, I sees him ride in his pomp and pride As grand as the great Lord Mayor. You never see nothing like it — The way as it pleased the kid ; More good than a score of bottles One ride in the go-cart did. His cheeks was as red as roses. When— coming to get my meals — He clattered along to meet me, A-guiding the rum old wheels. I was glad in my heart to see him — I tell you my eyes would swim, To think no hand but his daddy's Had tinkered the fad for him. And sometimes I'd cheer his mammy, A-smoking my pipe at night, And say as our fears and fancies Was only a foolish fright. " He's getting the roses back, 'ma, He's growing quite strong and fain ; He'll soon be our jolly sailor A-rolling to church again." She'd answer, knitting her stocking, " Yes, father, he'll soon be well ;" But I'd see as her smile died out in a while, And often a tear-drop fell. SAMMY. It wasn't a great while arter As terrible times began ; I couldn't no ways remember The likes on 'em, boy or man. For sixteen weeks of the winter, Save just for a turn or two, I was loafing about the entry. With nothing on earth to do. And — Lord ! in that cruel weather, 'Twas hard on the shivering souls ! — It was sixpence for every scuttle — A couple of fires — of coals. 'Twas a shilling a pound for bacon, However you'd growl or beg ; 'Twas twopence for every bloater, 'Twas twopence for every egg. And whenever you went o' Fridays Your few little things to get, Dear heart ! they was bad to look at. The faces of folks you met. And, running against your neighbours, It cut like a knife to see That all as they'd buy for the week's supply Was a loaf and an ounce of tea. I'd never been much on drinking. Save just of a Friday night ; And the wife was a rare good woman For keeping us right and tight. So — spite of the youngster's bottles A-pumping us rayther dry — We'd still in the good wife's stocking A couple of pounds laid by. SAMMY. Life isn't all beer and skittles — I never was one to fuss, And I knew as the shoe pinched others More sharper a deal than us. It was easy to knock off butter, And do with your breakfast plain. And say as there was a turning To even the longest lane. And, though me and the wife might often Have plenty of room inside. The little 'un lived in clover — He'd never been once denied. And still as the gloom got deeper. We'd comfort ourselves and say, " The darkest, a sight, of the hours of night Is the hour before the day." But daylight was long a-coming — My God ! it was hard to bear — To look in the eyes that loved you. And feel there was hunger there ! To sit while the wife was scrubbing. Or tidying up a bit. And see how it tired and dragged her — How often she'd have to sit ! God bless her ! she never fretted, She never complained nor cried. But oft in her sleep she'd moan like, A-turning from side to side. I felt as my heart was breaking, And, last, in my grief of soul, I followed the chaps about me. And fled to the flowing bowl. SAMMY. I didn't know where to look to, I couldn't abide to think, And the last half-crown in the stocking Would deaden my brain with drink. I was laid in my bed, God help me ! I couldn't tell when nor how ; But all night through there was tears, I knew, A-wetting mj' cheek and brow. Old feller, from that day forrud. To tip it you straight and square, I booked tirst-class to perdition. And terrible soon got there. For welly a month together. Spun reggerler off the reel, I soaked myself through with sperrits. And never had one good meal. I'd have my fits of repentance, And now and again I'd sign — But it wasn't in pumps and pledges To put out a fire like mine. Why what's your buns and your ribbons To seven devils within, A-gnawring your very witals. And yelling aloud for gin ?i ^ I hope I shall not be charged with any desire to throw cold water on the labours of the Temperance Societies — except in the friendliest sense possible. The case I am representing is not, unfortunately, by any means a wholly fictitious one. The temperance pledge has reclaimed many drunkards, but one is sorrowfully compelled to admit that, in cases of confirmed dipsomania, any kind of voluntary renuncia- tion of alcohol is wholly inefficacious. SAMMY. Overcoat, chair, and blanket — One after one they went, To quiet the fiends within me. As never would be content, Till things they comes to a crisis — I finds myself laying here. And feels like the duds just out of the suds, Most terrible weak and queer. • Well, laying quite still and wacant. And looking across the street, The wife she comes to my bedside, To bring me a bit to eat — A cup of hot tea she'd made me, Along with a slice of bread ; — But I waves them off in disgust, like, A-turning away my head. Not ten minutes arter, Sammy Comes dragging his go-cart — so ; Then mounts out there on the level. And lastly perceeds to go. But, Lord ! he had failed that dreadful He hardly could walk at all. And his fastest pace on the go-cart Was only a wobbly crawl. I thinks to myself, quite weak-like, " He'll never be hale and strong !" And then I goes on to wonder What kep' him away so long, And last, I begins to whimper — It cut me that deep to think I never had known how ill he'd grown, Along of the cursed drink. SAMMY. But feeling that weak and helpless, That desperate queer and bad, I soon dropped into a doze, like, Forgetting the thoughts I had. But when I awoke, old feller, I thought I was dreaming still. For the house was full of the hodour Of summat upon the grill ; And I hears, not very long arter, The pop of a blessed cork, The bustle of busy footsteps, The clatter of knife and fork. I rubs my eyes in amazement, And doesn't know what to say. When the wife comes up to the bedside A-bearing a little tray — A roll and a slice of butter, A bottle of sherry-wine. And a chop as had dropped from heaven, Its hodour was that divine. She props me up with the piller, The tray on my knee she claps. While Sammy breaks out, and dances about, The maddest of little chaps. God bless him, my little Sammy, And shew him a father's love. Till, pardoned and fit for glory, I clasp him again above ! I cried when his mother told me. As if I must break my heart ; — To tempt his daddy with dainties. He'd been and he'd sold his cart — SAMMY. He'd sold it for two-and-a-tanner, He'd bought me the wine and chop, He'd carried 'em home in triumph, But trembhng, and fit to drop. So that's the end of the story ! — The terrible times passed o'er, And slowly we growed to prosper, And stand as we stood afore. And I learned, in the matter of drinking. To lean on Another's strength. And though I had many a back-fall, I conquered the fiend at length ; And as for the little go-cart — I reckon it's pretty plain I spent my very fust savings In buying it back again. But Sammy ... he failed and faded . He's left me an empty heart ! . . . There, now you know why I prize it so, That poor little broken cart. AMOS DUNN'S WOOING. Billy has won his sweetheart, And Billy's a happy man ; Here's health and luck to him and his duck, His snug little Mary Ann. There's many a smart young feller Would jump at a swop with Bill, When up in the chancel Parson stands, And, axing the lass, as he joins their hands, " Come, Mary Ann, Will you have this man ?" She rayther believes she will. Now, seeing we're snug and hearty, A-doing our pipes and pots. And the thoughts, I swear, of the youngsters there Is running on true-love knots, If any one's very pressing. And says as he won't take Nay, ril tell you a tale as is strictly true. Conveying the moral to them as woo — That modest and shy Is all my eye. And himperence wins the day. AMOS DUNN'S WOOING. There wasn't in all the parish A patch upon Amos Dunn ; Six-foot, sir, good, in his shoes he stood, And nearer to six-foot one — Lithe as a weeping wilier, And game as the Putney Pet ; H ambrosial curls and an 'eavenly leg ; Biceps as rose like a goose's egg ; Eyes of the blue As could look you through, And never feared nothing yet. And didn't the girls adore him ! Now, didn't they just, I say ! They set their cap at that luckless chap, In the most outfacing way. They was waving their hands from winders- They was peeping from ev'iy door ; He couldn't just nod to Jane or Grace, But Sally was ready to slap her face ; A smile from Dunn Was heaven to one. And hanging to twenty more. There was Molly a-blowing kisses, And Susie — the baker's Sue — A-slipping a note in the tail of his coat. As he sat in his mother's pew. They met him in lanes and corners, They chivied him here and there ; He couldn't well marry the lot all through. And, seeing as nothing but that would do, AMOS DUNN'S WOOING. He'd have swopped his soul For a carroty poll, And hoptics as warn't a pair. Of course there was lots of fellers Would rather have liked the fun, And felt resigned, if the girls was kind — But it wasn't that way with Dunn. You'd have thought as them brazen lasses Had cured him of loutish tricks ; But, somehow or other — I can't tell why — The lad, to the last, was desp'ate shy ; And oggles and grins They pricked like pins, And kisses was worse nor kicks. He wasn't a milksop, neither — Poor Amos was far from that ; He could sing with the best, when properly pressed He'd plenty of pleasant chat. On market-days at the Ploughshare There wasn't a chap so gay. But set him to talk to the women-folk. And, my ! you'd think as he meant to choke ; And, coax as they would, It was all no good — The deuce of a word he'd say. And now, sirs, the p'int's a-coming ! The lasses was getting low ; They shook their head, and they sighed, and said, " It's clear as it's all no go. 13 14 AMOS DUNN'S WOOING. No nail in a pauper's coffin Was ever more hard and grim ; It isn't no use to curl your hair ; He takes no notice of what you wear ; He's a reggerler stock, And the sweetest frock Is nothing on earth to him. " He's no more heart nor a milestone — I've done with the monster — there 1" And down on their beds they'd bury their heads A-sobbing in sheer despair. " He's no more heart nor a milestone " — They muttered it o'er and o'er ; But, hang it ! sure, as an egg's an egg, The boot was quite on the other leg : He'd a heart and a half. But the stupid calf Had give it away before ! A widder had done the bizness, A couple of miles away. What boasted a shape like a dead-ripe grape, And a fut like a shower in May ; A voice like a buttered crumpet, A laugh like the chimes a-ring, Two sparkling eyes, so merry and brown. Like sunbeams frolicking up and down, And a chin and cheek Where, hide-and-go-seek, The dimples would peep and spring. She wasn't not quite a chicken. Confessing to thirty-three ; — AMOS DUNNS WOOING. 15 Well, lads may sigh for a school-girl shy, A woman full-ripe for me. Her husband, a general dealer, Through taking his glass too free, To a better world with a bust had gone, But his relic' carried the bizness on ; And into the shop Young Amos would drop For sugar and soap and tea. A widder ain't ky nor timid — She meets you a good half-way ; She wants no stuff, and a wink's enough To tell her the time of day. Dunn's face was a round-hand copy, As needed no spelling through ; Why, bless you, the very first time he came, She was up to the drift of his little game ; He'd only to speak, " Shall it be next week ?" And the answer was, " Done with you !" She see he was deadly bashful, A-blushing about the shop ; But so was her John, and she'd twiddled him on. Till finally he went Pop. So she wasn't at all downhearted, And says to herself, just so, " He wants encouraging, poor young man ! The last was as bad when he first began ; A widder with tact May be safely backed To show him the road to go." i6 AMOS DUNN'S WOOING. " The course of true love don't never Run smooth," you'll have heard it said : I tell you it ran for that young man Like ile on a good bald head. You never see nothing like it, When, blushing from hair to boots. He axed for his sugar or soap, with a grin — The sugar and soap she throwed him in ! The smiles and the yearns As she give by turns, Mixed up like her candied fruits ! She might heave soft sighs at a mummy, Or oggle the pump as well ; The further she crept, the backer he stept, A-shrinking inside his shell. " It really is too provoking," She'd sigh, as she drank her tea, " Such terrible waste of time as this ! It's all very well with a gawky miss. But practical folk Don't relish the joke. And it isn't the style for me." At last, after months of waiting. She thought as the ile was struck. He was doing his best to empty his breast Of summat as kind o' stuck. " It's coming," she says, " it's coming," And modestly drops her eyes ; At last he stammers, a-plucking up cheek, " My mother is killing a pig next week. AMOS DUNN'S WOOING. 17 And I hope as a friend Might ventiir' to send A couple of nice pork-pies." Thei'e come not very long arter The busiest time 0' year ; "Twas a month or more ere he crossed her door, Or ever beheld his dear. But the very first ofif-night sees him A-tramping it through the dust. He sighs to himself, "It's awful weak ! Each time as I start I means to speak. But the moment I tries, I catches her eyes. And the elegant speech goes bust." When Amos had reached the widder's, He didn't slap-off go in ; He kind o' stopped, for his heart flip-flopped, Till he thought as she'd hear the din. Well, pausing agen the doorstep, A minute or two at most, A sound there come as struck with a chill, And made that floppiting heart stand still : He stared agape, The moral and shape Of a party as sees a ghost. The sound of a pair of voices Come clear from the room inside ; To the meller tones of the Widder Jones The bass of a man replied. c i8 AMOS DUNN'S WOOING. Then, glancing up at the winder, He got a more bitterer dose, For, gracious ! over the Hghted glass, He see two shadders waver and pass ; Their hands was j'ined Most terrible kind. And their heads tremenjous close. "My darling," the chap perceeded, " My darling, my duck, my dove ! All words is weak, when I tries to speak Of such very pertickler love. I wish as my soul had a winder, Wherein you could gaze, my pet ! I love you hot and I love you strong, And, oh ! my life, I have loved you long !" " Now, come," says she, " That never can be — It was only to-day we met." "No matter," says he, "no matter — I've known you in dreams, I swear. Oh, say you respond to a love so fond." (The kisses came in just there.) " My own little lamb, my wifie ! " — He never got through no more. For just at that p'int — it was rayther rough- Five fingers like vices gript his scruff. And there followed a kick. As pretty and slick Persuaded him through the door. The Widder, she thought of fainting. But ere she could do it right. AMOS DUNN'S WOOING. 19 She was sitting, you see, on Amos's knee. Exceedingly snug and tight. " My darhng," he whispers fondly, A-drawing her closer to, *' You've had my heart for a year and more, But I never could find my tongue before ; At last I speak. And " (he kisses her cheek) " You know as my words is true. " When feelings is all on the top, like, Then words comes easy and cheap ; It's different quite if you'd drag to light The love in your bo-som's deep. It lies down there in its caverns, Where never no words can touch ; The tenderest thing as a man can say Won't reach to them depths of his heart half-way ; And why I was mum. And nothing would come, Was — just that I loved so much." Now that wasn't bad for Amos — It wasn't at all amiss ; — The trick was done, and the prize was won ; Thenceforth it was kiss and bliss. And when through the door the stranger Glared in on the pair so gay, The Widder exclaimed, with a blushing cheek, " The wedding is fixed for Thursday week : Now, say you'll attend And oblige a friend By giving the bride away." A LAY OF A CRACKED FIDDLE. When I was quite a tiny mite, And life a joyful ditty, I used to know a poor old wight Who fiddled through the city. Alas ! it's thirty years ago — Time is so quaint and flighty ! And now I've mites myself, you know. And not so very mity. And he's unvexed by flat and sharp ; He's guessed the awful riddle, And, haply, got a golden harp In place of that old fiddle. And yet, methinks, I see him now — So clear the memoiy lingers — His long grey hair, his puckered brow, His trembling, grimy fingers. The comforter that dangled down Beyond his waist a long way. The beaver hat with battered crown. He'd pause to brush — the wrong way, The brown surtout that still could brag Its buttons down the middle, And, crowning all, the greenish bag That held the sacred fiddle. A LAY OF A CRACKED FIDDLE. Two tunes he played, and only two, One over, one beginning ; " God Save the Queen's " collapse we knew Was " Kitty Clover's " inning. How startlingly the bow behaved — Curvetted, jerked, and bounded — The while our gracious Queen was saved, And knavish tricks confounded ! And oh ! the helpless, hopeless woe, Brimful and running over. In {very slow) the o — o — oh Of bothering Kitty Clover ! And so he'd jerk and file and squeak Like twenty thousand hinges. While every sympathetic cheek Was racked with shoots and twinges. The lawyer left his lease or will, The workman stopped his hammer. The druggist ceased to roll the pill. And ran to calm the clamour. From doors and windows jingled down A dancing shower of copper, Accompanied by many a frown, And sometimes speech improper. He gathered up the grudging dole. And sought a different station, But always with a bitter soul, And deep humiliation. For what though music win you pence. If praise it fail to win you t A LAY OF A CRACKED FIDDLE. If fees are paid to hurry hence, And never to continue ? " Bad times for art," he'd sometimes say To any youthful scholar ; " They'd rather grub for brass to-day, Than listen to Apoller." And so with quaint, pathetic face. Aggrieved and disappointed. The minstrel moved from place to place. And mourned the times disjointed. His hat was browner than of yore, His grizzled head was greyer, And none had ever cried, " Encore,"' Or praised the poor old player. I came to feel (and was not wrong) — His day was nearly over — He'd not be bothered very long By cruel Kitty Clover. One day, within a shady square. Where people lounged or sat round. He'd played his second woful air. And now he took the hat round. He met with many a gibe and grin. With coarser disaffection, The while he tottered out and in. Receiving the collection. At length he stopped, with downcast eye, Beneath a lime-tree's cover. Where sat a maiden, sweet and shy, Beside her handsome lover. A LAY OF A CRACKED FIDDLE. 23 Half-hidden in her leafy place, The modest little sitter Just glanced into the fiddler's face, And read his story bitter. Unskilled in life and worldly ways, By womanhood's divining, She knew the minstrel's soul for praise And sympathy was pining. Herself with all a heart could need, No dearest dream denied her, She felt her gentle spirit bleed For that poor wretch beside her. She hung her head a little while. Then, growing somewhat bolder. She rose, and with a blush and smile. Just touched the minstrel's shoulder. " How charmingly you play," she said. " How nice to be so clever ! My friend and I " (her cheeks grew red) " Could sit entranced for ever. I've taken lessons — all in vain ; ]\Iy touch is simply hateful. Oh ! if you'd play those tunes again, I'd be so very grateful." He rosined up his rusty bow (His eyes were brimming over). Then (o — o — oh !) meandered slow Through endless " Kitty Clover." He'd suffered many a cruel wrong Amid a sordid nation ; 24 A LAY OF A CRACKED FIDDLE. He'd waited wearily and long — At last the compensation ! What cared he now for snub and sneer From churlish fools around him ? In those sweet eyes he saw a tear, And felt that fame had crowned him. And you, my friends, may laugh or frown, And still I'll risk the saying, That angels stooped from glory down To hear the fiddler playing. And He that holds the golden pen, That chief of all the bright ones, Who registers the deeds of men. The wrong ones and the right ones — He oped the book, and did record A sweet and gracious deed there — A deed performed to Christ the Lord That He shall smile to read there. THE DEMON OF THE PIT : A BALLAD OF THE BOARDS. If you chance to make a sally Through the region of Soho, You may pass a frightful alley That is known as Eden Row ; And among the children playing On the cobble pavement there, There is one that's worth surveying, For she's really very fair. She's a perfect darling — bless her ! And she has such charming ways That the passers-by address her With a word or two of praise ; And enthusiastic stoppers Are occasionally known To present the child with coppers — Having darlings of their own ; Whereupon she'll call her cronies, Who are always pretty near, And invest in proud polonies, Or imperial ginger-beer : 26 THE DEMON OF THE PIT. She will call her friends and cronies, Who make answer with a cheer, And invest in proud polonies, In the fat and fair polonies. In the rich and rare polonies, Or imperial ginger-beer. So when next you're not too busy, Let me beg of you to go, And inquire for little Lizzy In her grimy Eden Row ; You will find her, sweet and dimply, On a doorstep sitting down. And she'll look an angel simply In her short and shabby gown. Now I fancy few, if any, Who have seen my little pet, And have tipped her with a penny. Which she laughed aloud to get. Have imagined for a second That this charming little fay Must decidedly be reckoned Quite a " woman of the day." It has never crossed their fancy For a moment, I'll engage. That the child was Miss Delancy Of the Pandemonium Stage — It would never cross the fancy, If one pondered for an age. That the child was Miss Delancy, The surprising Miss Delancy, The prodigious Miss Delancy, Of the Pandemonium Stage. THE DEMON OF THE PIT. 27 Though herself no hint affording Of the footlights' lurid flame, Each adjacent shop and hoarding Is emblazoned with her name : See — " Aerial flights of fancy ! Pyrotechnic blaze of wit ! With Miss Juliet Delancy As the Demon of the Pit ! Though the boldest might have faltered At an outlay half as large, Yet the prices are unaltered — There will be no extra charge ! Amid plaudits loud as thunder. And emotion past control, The astounding Infant Wonder Will sustain her famous role. In a Diise where all entrances, The most unexampled hit Is Miss Juliet Delancy's, As the Demon of the Pit ; While the tout ensemble entrances. It is owned the choicest grit Is Miss Juliet Delancy's — The enormous Miss Delancy's, The astounding Miss Delancy's, As the Demon of the Pit !" While the eye delighted ranges Through the Halls of Dazzling Light, Lo ! the scene by magic changes To the Rayless Realms of Night. 28 THE DEMON OF THE PIT. Through the caverns weird and gloomy Of that Stygian world below, You may see (the stage is roomy) All the marshalled goblins go. Then the lights burn dim and bluely, And the music dies away, And the thunder rumbles truly In a very awful way. There's a yet more frightful rumble, There's a chord from wind and strings, And the goblins prostrate tumble As their chief before them springs. You may hear John whisper Nancy — And they tremble where they sit — " It's Miss Juliet Delancy As the Demon of the Pit." You may hear him say to Nancy — ■ And his accents shake a bit — " It's Miss Juliet Delancy, The enormous Miss Delancy, The astounding Miss Delancy, As the Demon of the Pit !" So until the Opening closes. With just here and there a pause, Miss Delancy flits and poses 'Mid tumultuous applause ; While a matron, short and snuffy, With a face that's not unkind, And a cold that's always stuffy, Waits resignedly behind. See ! the supers nudge each other. And the fairy tells the gnome THE DEMON OF THE PIT. 29 " That there's Miss Delancy's mother, As will stay to take her 'ome." So at ten, or shortly after. While the Monstrous Little Joe Is evoking shrieks of laughter, They are trudging to Soho. Then they've something light to dream on, And the childish prayer is said, And the weary little Demon Goes contentedly to bed. They have tripe, as light to dream on, Or it may be chops instead. And the weary little Demon — Not at all a wicked Demon, But a sleepy, blinking Demon — Is put quietly to bed. SENT BACK BY THE ANGELS. " A LITTLE bit queer " — my Mary ! " Her roof not quite in repair !" And it's that you think, with a nod and wink, As you sit in my easy-chair ! Drop it, I say, old feller — Drop it, I tell you, do. Or language, I doubt, I shall soon let out I'd rather not use to you. Shake hands, and I ax your pardon — 'Twas chaffing I knowed you were ; But a hint or a slur or a joke on her Is a thing as I can't abear. And what if she has her fancies ? Why, so has us all, old chap ; Not many's the roof as is reg'lar proof, If a bit of a whim's a gap. She's up to the nines, my Mary ; Lord bless her, she keeps us right ! It's up with her gown and the house scrubbed down As certain as Friday night. SENT BACK BY THE ANGELS. 31 Is it rheumatiz, cough, lumbager? Is anything queer inside ? She'll physic you up with a sup in a cup As tickles the doctor's pride. Is it mending of socks or trousers, Or starching your best cravat ? Is it letting alone the joint with the bone, And choosing the goose that's fat ? She hasn't her likes, my Mary — And never put out nor riled ; She hasn't a fad, and she never had — Excepting about the child. Six years we was wed, and over, And never a cradle got — And nowheres, I swear, a more dotinger pair On baby and tiny tot ; So when of a winter morning At last we was 'ma and dad, No Royal Princess had the welcome, I guess, As our little stranger had. Lord, wasn't she Christmas sunshine To gladden the childless place ' She was nothing in size, with tremenjous eyes. And the oldest-fashioned face. She'd stare at the folks that knowing. Laid over the nurse's knee. As I'd laugh, and I'd say, in a joking way, " She's older nor you nor me." 32 SENT BACK BY THE ANGELS. And wasn't she nuts to Mary ! Just picter her, them as can, A-doing her best with her mother's breast For Alexandrina Ann ! It was so as we'd named the baby. By way of a start in Hfe, From parties, I knew, as could help her through- The Queen and my uncle's wife. And wasn't the baby feted ! She lay in her bassinet With muslin and lace on her tiny face. As ever growed smaller yet. But it wasn't in lace nor coral To bribe her to linger here ; I looks in her eyes, and " She's off," I sighs, " She's off to her proper sp'ere." Her treasures was all around her. But she was too wise and grave For the pug on the shelf and, as big as herself, The doll as her grand'ma gave. She wanted the stars for playthings, Our wonderful six-weeks' guest ; So, with one little sigh, she closed her eye, And woke on a hansrel's breast. And how did the missis take it .'' Most terrible calm and mild ; With a face a'most like a bloodless ghost, She covered the sleeping child. SENT BACK BY THE ANGELS. 33 There was me, like a six-foot babby, A-blubbering long and loud, While she sat there in the rocking-chair, A-sewing the little shroud. I couldn't abide to see it — The look in her tearless eye ; I touches her so, and I whispers low, " My darlingest, can't you cry ?" She gave me a smile for answer, Then over her work she bowed. And all through the night her needle bright Was sewing- the little shroud. In the grey of the winter morning. The sun like a ball of flame, Sent up like a toy by a whistling boy, The mite of a coffin came. He reckoned it only a plaything — A drum or a horse-and-cart — The box that had space, O Father of Grace, To bury a mother's heart ! Great God, such a shaller coffin, And yet so awful deep ! I placed it there by the poor wife's chair. And I thinks, " At last she'll weep." But she rose with never a murmur. As calm as a spectre thin, And — waxy and cold and so light to hold — ■ She places the baby in. D 34 SENT BACK BY THE ANGELS. Then, moving with noiseless footfall, She reaches from box and shelf The little 'un's mug, and the china pug. And the doll that was big as herself. Then — God ! it was dread to watch her — All white in her crape-black gown, With her own cold hands, my Mary stands And fastens the coffin down. I carried the plaything coffin, Tucked under my arm just so ; And she stood there at the head of the stair, And quietly watched us go. So parson he comes in his nightgown, And says that as grass is man ; And earth had trust of the pinch of dust That was Alexandrina Ann. I was trying to guess the riddle I never could answer pat — What the Wisdom and Love as is planning above Could mean by a life like that ; And I'd got my foot on the doorstep. When, scaring my mournful dream. Shrill, wild and clear, there tore on my ear The sound of a manyac scream. The scream of a raving manyac, But, Father of Death and Life ! I listened and knew, the madness through, The voice of my childless wife. SENT BACK BY THE ANGELS. 35 One moment I clutched and staggered, Then down on my bended knee, And up to the sky my wresthng cry Went up for my wife and me. I went to her room, and found her ; She sat on the floor, poor soul ! Two burning streaks on her death-pale cheeks. And eyes that were gleeds of coal. And now she would shriek and shudder, And now she would laugh aloud, And now for a while, with an awful smile, She'd sew at a little shroud. Dear Lord ! through the day and darkness, Dear Lord ! through the endless night, I sat at her side, while she shrieked and cried, And I thought it would ne'er be light. And still, through the blackness, thronging With shapes that was dread to see, My shuddering cry to the God on high Went up for my girl and me. At last, through the winder, morning Came glimmering cold and pale ; And, faint but clear, to my straining ear Was carried a feeble wail. I went to the door in wonder, And there, in the dawning day, All swaddled and bound in a bundle round, A sweet little baby lay. 36 SENT BACK BY THE ANGELS. It lay on the frosty doorstep, A peart little two-months' child ; Dumfounded and slow, I raised it so. And it looked in my face and smiled. And so, as I kissed and loved it, I grajuly growed aware As the Father in bliss had sent us this. The answer to wrestling pray'r. In wonder and joy and worship, With tears that were soft and blest, I carried the mite, and, still and light, I laid it on Mary's breast. I didn't know how she'd take it, So goes on an artful tack : " The little 'un cried for her mother's side, And the hangels has sent her back !" Aly God ! I shall ne'er forget it, Though spared for a hundred years — The soft delight on her features white, The rush of her blissful tears. The eyes that was hard and vacant Grew wonderful sweet and mild, As she cries, " Come rest on your mammy's breast, My own little hangel child !" And so from that hour my darling Grew happy and strong and well ; And the joy that I felt as to God I knelt Is what I can noways tell. SENT BACK BY THE ANGELS. 37 There's parties as sneers and tells you There's nothing but clouds up there ; I answers 'em so, " There's a God, I know, And a Father that heareth pray'r." And what if my Mary fancies The babe is a child of light — Our own little dear sent back to us here ! — And mayn't she be somewheres right ? Here, Mary, my darling, Mary ! A friend has come in to town ; Don't mind for her nose nor changing her clo'es, But bring us the hangel down. HOW THE LIGHT CAME TO JIM. A CHRISTMAS RHYME. Never were sweeter eyes Than the eyes of our Jim — Tender and large and wide, And blue with the delicate dyes, Dreamy and dim, Of harebells that are seen On a dusty strip of green By the high-road's rim. Watching him there In his little chair, You only thought how sweet they were, How pure and kind. It was not till you saw him rise and go Coasting by couch and table so, With fingers faUing as light as snow. That ever a thought would cross your mind, The beautiful eyes were blind. Once they had looked on the skies, Blue through the smoke-clouds black, Had seen the thin moon rise Over the chimney-stack ; Had watched the rain-drops patter down. Laying the dust of the droughty town ; HOW THE LIGHT CAME TO JIM. 39 And when, on few and favoured days, I had led the child on country ways, Had grown all dim with soft delight, To see the wonderful hawthorn white, And the great crows black on the dusty road, And the merry sparrows, pert and quick. Flirting away with a single flick Into the hedgerows green and thick. Where they and their chattering friends abode ; And the delicate country smoke-wreaths, curled Filmy and slow ; — Once they had looked on the happy world, And loved it so. Once they had looked on a face that bent, With soft brown hair on a thoughtful brow, Had scanned each line with a full content — Each line and shadow that came and went. Alas ! that the hands must feel it now ! All beautiful sights were left behind, For Jim was blind. Seven nights he lay. And tossed on his bed, The curls shorn away That laughed round his head ! Ah ! the tears shed ! Ah ! the prayers said ! As through the long night We moved with footsteps light, Or sat by his bed ! He spoke in wandering words Of hedgerows in spring, 40 HOW THE LIGHT CAME TO JIM. Of wild-flowers and birds, And of many a sweet thing. He talked about his games, His plans and his aims. His little playmates' names In turn he would speak ; But he did not know his mother, When, with sobs she could not smother, She kissed his hot cheek. Or sang his pet hymn, Or called him her Jim. Ever the fever strengthened ; He toiled hard for breath ; Over him lengthened — lengthened The thick shadow of death. And ever up to the sky Rose an agonised cry, " Father, Father of mercy, Blessed Father on high. Don't let Jim die !" Somewhere in the blue Opes a little gate ; Prayers glide through. And are not made to wait. 'Mid the harpings clear, And the shouts of joy. The Father could hear, And think of our boy. Yes, our Father heard. And spake the saving word : HOW THE LIGHT CAME TO JIM. 41 Slowly, slowly, backward the dark shadow crept, And Jim slept : Woke very weak. But quite clear and calm — Wholesome pale cheek And sweet cold palm. Sitting up in bed, In his nightgown white ; " Mother," Jim said, " 'Tis a dark night — No star, no moon — Will it be morning soon ? I want to see the light." We knew it all then — We let the tears run ; We whispered, '* Amen ! His will be done." Our own little Jim, Our one little son ! — Thenceforth for ever, Till all things were done. Gold light and grey light, Midnight and daylight, To him were as one — All one to him — All dark to Jim ! For e'en while he spoke. After gusts of rain, The glad sun broke Through the shrouded pane ; 42 HOW THE LIGHT CAME TO JIM. And one dusty ray Found a chink and lay Over Jim's shoulder, And another, yet bolder, Settled on his hair, And made a glory there — And Jim did not know. Ah, woe, woe ! Till the last sand was run, Till the last hour was done. Thenceforth for ever To our little son. Gold light and grey light, Midnight and daylight, Were even as one — All one to him — All dark to Jim. And so for a while. For two summers after. We had Jim's smile. But nevermore his laughter. He did not care to play — He'd sit the whole day, Thinking, thinking, there. In his little low chair. Oft, to while the time That lagged so dull and slow, His mother sang to Jim Ballad or childish hymn, Or told him tale or rhyme Of days long ago. HOW THE LIGHT CAME TO JIM. 43 He always listened well, But never listened so — Never with such a look — As when she used to tell Tales from the Holy Book ; — Tales of that One who came, Wearing our frame, Son of man by name, Son of God by right ; The Saviour good and kind, Who spake the word of might, That made the dumb to talk, And the lame to leap and walk ; Who said to the blind, " Have thou thy sight." " Mother," once he said, Going to bed, " Though He lives so far. Beyond the highest star. And we are here below, Jesus still can see us Just the same, you know ; — He pitied Bartimseus Long ago. Oh, if He can see, Won't He pity me ? Though He's far, He's near ; — Don't you think He'll hear, If I ask Him right ? Mother, when I pray. Don't you think I may Ask Him every day To give me my sight ? " 44 HOW THE LIGHT CAME TO JIM. Thenceforward every night His mother used to hark, While Jim in his bedgown white, Stretched his hands in the dark, Praying for light. And so the weeks went on — While Jim at the chimney-side Sat, silent and weak. His hand propping his cheek, The starlings had gathered and gone, The leaves had shrivelled and died ; And though the days were bright, There was frost every night ; And the year began to glide Into Christmastide. And still, as the day drew near Of the blessed Saviour's birth, Jim grew more eager to hear From the lips of his mother dear How Jesus had come to earth. And how each Christmas Day Christians were wont to say The Saviour came again, Made in the likeness of men. " Mother," one day he said (Too weak to rise from bed), " Mother, I have guessed. And I'm sure I'm not wrong. Why Jesus thought it best To keep me so long. HOW THE LIGHT CAME TO JIM. 45 He did not think it right — Heaven's so far away — To send me my sight By any angel bright ; He'll bring it, dear mother, Himself and no other. When He comes on Christmas Day." Nothing that we could say Might shake the fancy's sway ; Daily in force and might It waxed and grew. Until, to our bitter grief, It became a fixed belief. And Jimmy said he kjiew Jesus would come in the night, And bring him back his sight ; He would wake and see the light On Christmas Day. We could not foretoken — Who, indeed, could deem — The Lord Himself had spoken? That He, the Supreme, In vision or in dream, In premonition dim, His purposes had broken Darkly unto him — To our little Jim 1 Christmas Eve found us And Jimmy very ill ; The night closed around us. And we were watching' still. 46 HOW THE LIGHT CAME TO JIM. On the hour-hand crept, And still he dozed or slept. At last the slow twelfth stroke From many a clock we heard, And — ding-a-ding-a-ding- The bells began to ring ; Jimmy's eyelids stirred, But he never woke. At length each patient sitter In the cold so bitter, Felt the night turn, Felt the morning yearn ; Heard the cocks crow, Heard the birds twitter, Saw the light grow, Making the taper Faintlier burn, Till the wall-paper Each might discern. Now grew a flush. Faint in the East ; Then, with a rush, The morning increased — The night was outworn. There, by the bed, We whispered low, and said, — " Tis Christmas morn — The Christ is born !" Jim had been dozing ; But lo ! while we spoke. His great eyes unclosing. Sudden he woke, HOW THE LIGHT CAME TO JIM. 47 While o'er his features thin, Bright from the soul within, A glory broke. He half rose in bed ; He stretched out his hands ; — " He is come," he said ; " Knocking, he stands. Hark ! don't you hear ? Louder than before — Mother, mother dear, Open the door. He comes with footstep light- He is bending over me ; He says, * Receive thy sight ' — ■ Mother, I can see !" His arms grew slack ; His smile grew dim ! Quietly he sank back. Farewell to Jim ! Kiss the tranquil brow ; Seal the eyes fast ; No more darkness now — Jim can see at last ! "I MEAN TO WAIT FOR JACK."i A LESSON FOR LOVERS. Sweet Kate at Wyndham's Dairy, and Jack of Oldham Mill— Oh, long they woo'd and fond they coo'd, a faithful Jack and Jill ! But times were bad for lass and lad, and sadly both confess'd 'Twas not the thing to buy the ring before they'd lined the nest. " Courage, lad !" said Katie. " Yes, we'll have to wait ; But though, my dear, it's twenty year, I'll take no other mate." But England wanted Jacky, for war was in the air. And arms more grim were press'd on him than Katie's bonny pair. So all through Spain, in rough campaign, he chivied bold Mossoo, And fired his gun and made him run like fun at Waterloo. When the lads came round her, Katie bade them pack. " There's girls enow - for you to woo ; I mean to wait for Jack." ^ Set to music by Cotsford Dick, and published by Messrs. Robert Cocks and Co., New Burlington Street. - Pronounce enoo, as commonly in the Midlands. "I MEAN TO WAIT FOR JACK." 49 The grey in Katie's ringlets was mingling with the brown, When, bump-a-thump, an eager stump came pegging through the town. " It's me, you see, come back," says he, " except a leg or so ; And safe and sound here's twenty pound ; so let the parson know." Jangle, jingle, jangle ! set the bells a-chime. And health and bliss to love like this that bravely bides its time. GOING INTO THE HOUSE: OR, THE LITTLE CRUTCH. Take it, and pay what's due ; Take all but the walls and floor ; I'd no one to leave it to, For my children are gone before. You may carry off bed and chair, Whatever your hands can clutch ; But oh ! for the Lord's sake spare, Spare me the little crutch. Ah yes ! it was just your joke ! It wouldn't have sold for much — So old, and the handle broke, My poor little hunchback's crutch. I must have something to kiss. To quiet my aching breast ; As long as He leaves me this, I'll say that the Lord knows best. But oh ! He has tried me sore ! I'm old and well-nigh blind ; Seven children I bore. And none of them's left behind. GOING INTO THE HOUSE. 51 Seven children I had, And six were sturdy and tall, And one was a hunchback lad — And the Lord has taken all. Hard have I wrought and fared — The neighbours can prove it true As long as my sight was spared, I knitted the night half through. A little would do for me — It was only my chair and bed ; It was only an ounce of tea, A twopenny loaf of bread. Oh, don't you hurry and scold ! You must let me have my cry ; I am old, sir, very old. And I thought ere this to die. I hoped that my time would come To sleep with the quiet dead. Or ever I touched a crumb Of the shameful workhouse bread. I've sat for a day and night, When money was bad to earn, With never a sup nor bite. And scarcely a stick to burn. But I thought, " It will soon be o'er ; It cannot be long," I said — And now, when I'm past fourscore. To ask for the workhouse bread ! 52 GOING INTO THE HOUSE. I've managed, and pinched, and wrought- Past eighty, and well-nigh blind — But I've paid for the things I've bought, And when was the rent behind ? Of decent folks I came, I've ever held up my head, And oh ! the shame, the shame. To eat of the workhouse bread. There, take whatever you find — I couldn't have kept it long ; — But I know that the Lord is kind, And nothing He does is wrong. I'm going this afternoon. To the House that's square and big ; I shall move to a small one soon — A house that the spade shall dig. So take it, and pay what's due, And leave me a naked floor ; I'd none to bequeath it to, For my children are gone before. Carry it off in your cart. Whatever your hands can clutch. For the Lord has moved your heart To leave me the little crutch. Seven children I've had, And six were sturdy and tall, And one was a hunchback lad. And he was the pet of all. GOING INTO THE HOUSE. 53 The others could shift and fight — They were healthy and stout of limb ; But my poor little hunchback mite — His mother was all to him. They are all of them dead and gone ; There was David, and Jane, and Grace, There was Willy, and Dick, and John — I can hardly recall a face. But the one that was weak and ill, The poor little hunchback mite, He lives in my heart, sir, still — He never has left me quite. For oft when the nights are cold — Too bitter to go to bed — I sit in the chair and hold The dear little crutch instead. And, " Charlie," I say, " I'm sad, I'm lonesome and cold, my dear ; Won't you come from your grave, my lad. And sit with your mother here ?" I never have long to wait. For there, in the gusts that blow, Is the swing of the wicket-gate. The sharp little voice I know. And my heart will flutter and jump, And beautiful tears run o'er, As — clump, clump, clump, — His crutch goes over the floor. 54 GOING INTO THE HOUSE. He sits on the hearth-stone there, And lays his head in my lap, And I finger his curly hair, My own little loving chap. And he talks to me blithe and light, Of his book and his childish play. Till we feel the turn of the night, And he has to limp away. And whenever the Trump is blown, And I rise from my workhouse grave, To stand at the great white Throne, With them that the Lord shall save. Not pale, as he was, and thin. But healthy, and tall, and straight, Impatient to lead me in, He'll stand at the golden gate. He'll stand at the gate, my dear ! And laugh as he lets me through ; And he'll whisper, " It's lovely here. But, Mammy, I've wanted you." And the blest will wonder much (He being so tall and strong) When I hand to my boy the crutch I've kept for him all along. So, when we have laughed and cried, And gazed in each other's face, We shall wander, side by side. Through the beautiful, happy place. GOING INTO THE HOUSE. S5 And, though he won't need it then, Grown straight in the lovely climes, He'll shoulder his crutch again, For sake of the dear old times. And oh ! in the days that flow. So peaceful and warm up there, With never a stitch to sew, And victuals to eat and spare, He'll feign that he limps a touch. To mind us of days of yore, And his mother will hear his crutch Ring clear on the golden floor. REDWOOD'S REVENGE. Nick Redwood's gun in the rafters brown Lay idle many a day ; One night Nick Redwood Hfted it down, And scoured the rust away. A friend had sat for a pipe and chat, Might be an hour or so ; The clock struck ten, and he rose at that, With " Time for me to go." Then Nick rose too, and a candle showed. And lounged the door beside, Till he heard " Good-night " from the open road. And the steps grew faint and died. Then he shut the door, and the great bolt drew, And fastened the bar so stout, And the lumbering shutters clattered to, And blew the candle out. Then, while he softly hummed or sung A hymn from the chapel-book, From over the beam where the flitches hung The stout old gun he took. REDWOOD'S REVENGE. 57 He dipped a rag in a cup of oil ; He sat in the red fire-light, He rubbed the barrels with patient toil To gleaming mirrors bright. No plate or screw did his fingers shirk, No inch of the walnut stock ; But they dallied as though they loved their work About the heavy lock. They dallied and played with the heavy lock And the trigger most of all ; It seemed as he loved the click of the cock And the snap of the hammer's fall. He loaded each barrel with bullets two, Still humming his favourite hymn ; And now, the holes in the shutters through, Stole hints of the morning dim. He drew the shutters a foot aside — 'Twas hardly daylight yet, But the skies were flushed with a glory wide. And all the grass was wet. Then he knelt him down beside the bed. And clasped his hands to pray ; " Lord, prosper the work," was all he said, " Bless Thou my hand this day." A little grove of firs began At the back of Nick's abode ; For fifty yards it straggled and ran, Till it met the turnpike road. 58 REDWOOD'S REVENGE. 'Twas early dawn — no soul astir — The quiet neighbours slept ; Nick entered the wood, and from fir to fir Without a sound he crept. A bank of turf at the high-road's edge Was fence on left and right, And the white road sloped to a long-drawn wedge At the furthest range of sight. He crouched and crawled till he reached the bank, Where a gorse-bush flowered aflame ; And faint to his sense, as down he sank. Its heavy odour came. He lay on his face, and hardly stirred Till six by the steeple-clock ; Then he rose to his knee, and with never a word The trigger set full-cock. He pointed the gun through the flowering gorse ; The long, bright barrels glowed ; And hark ! far off the hoof of a horse Rings faint on the dry, white road. 'Twas six o'clock in the mid-July, Yet scarcely a bird had sung, And overhead in the copper sky The clouds in masses hung. There was not a breath to stir a bough, Or shake the grasses weak ; The sweat-drops gathered on Redwood's brow, And trickled down his cheek. REDWOOD'S REVENGE. 59 His swollen fingers loose his tie, He draws his breath in pain ; He glances up at the stifling sky, And longs for the blessed rain. The hoofs ring clear — Nick cranes his neck. And peers through the thick-flower'd gorse ; A moving dust-cloud — a growing speck — At last, a man and horse. Now near and clear on his straining ear The clank of the horse-hoofs grows ; — Ah, not in vain has he crouched and lain — 'Tis the iron-grey he knows ! He stoops his head to the polished butt — Along the barrels bright. With tight-drawn lips and an eye half shut, He looks to the brazen sight. " O God of vengeance," Nick Redwood cries, " O God of the flames of hell. Flash down Thine Arm from yon thunderous skies, And speed Thy message well ! " On comes the grey with a spanking stride — Her flank is full abreast ; Nick's barrels cover the rider's side — '* Now, God, do Thou the rest." His finger crooks on the trigger bright ; — There follows no crack of gun, But sheer from the sky one flash of light — Thunder and flash in one — 6o REDWOOD'S REVENGE. One long straight shaft from the cloven sky- God's Arm that flashes bare — The mad steed tears with his rider by ; Nick Redwood's standing there. His finger still on the trigger crooks — His cheek to the stock inclined, Along the barrel his wild eye looks — Blind — stone-blind ! A TALE OF A TURKEY. My rooms are not of a princely pattern ; The couch has springs that one can't but feel ; The girl that waits is a snub-nosed slattern ; The knives are black, and the forks are steel. A chum is welcome to roll and butter, A cup of tea or a glass of wine ; But I frankly own my surprise was utter When Aunt declared she would come and dine It thrilled my heart with intense pulsations To learn that this excellent aunt of mine. From whom I cherish my expectations, Was coming on Christmas Day to dine. The air was raw, and the sky was murky ; The feet slip-slopped on the slushy ground ; Yet I sallied forth, and I bought a turkey. And sausages strung in a necklace round ; Of lemons a brace, and of sage a plateful ; A bottle of port that was old and fine ; For what's expense to a nephew grateful Who's proudly expecting his aunt to dine ? It's freely acknowledged that ostentation Can never be reckoned a fault of mine, But I know what's due to a dear relation Who's coming on Christmas Day to dine. 62 A TALE OF A TURKEY. The day came round, and the hour of dining ; But froHcsome fiends were abroad that night ; Fining the air with their shrieks and whining, Whirhng the snowflakes in gusts of white. Within, rare odours the sense were freighting, Not all of earth and not all divine ; I called to Nancy, " It's useless waiting — Serve up the turkey and let me dine." That bird, though high in my estimation, But seldom graces a board of mine ; To let it burn were a profanation. Though Oueen and Court had been asked to dine. I helped myself to some slices tender, Sausages crisp and not too fat ; Never did monarch, the Faith's Defender, Banquet on royaller fare than that. A wing came next, with a leg to follow. Washed down with blood of the purple vine ; And I left in fine but a framework hollow, That scarce sufficed for a mouse to dine. I viewed with satisfied contemplation The sculpture carved by that knife of mine ; And I felt that life has its compensation, And, come what will, it is sweet to dine. I said my grace — and, for once, devoutly — I filled my glass, and I blew my cloud ; But hark ! the knocker goes banging stoutly, A step comes up with a creaking loud ! A TALE OF A TURKEY. 63 I peered thro' the smoke — for the room was quite full — And saw benevolent gig-lamps shine ; " I'm late," said Aunt, " for the night was frightful ; But here I am, and I 7)iean to dine !" With nerves that fluttered with strange pulsations, I viewed that excellent aunt of mine, And I ceased expecting my expectations On hearing her say that she meant to dine. EXIT TOMMY. " Tommy must leave us to-night," we said, Moving so softly about his bed. Though seven sweet years he had borne our name, His Father above had the better claim. His poor little curls had been shorn away, And his tiny face was old and grey ; Cold was his hand and moist his brow, And his voice was only a whisper now. Tommy lay there with his great round eyes. And we, the watchers, were old and wise. But a deepening light in those eyes we saw. That touched our grief with a tender awe. A message had come from the King of kings — We heard the sound of the angels' wings, We caught faint whispers and glimmerings dim. But the words and the touch were for only him. Much had we pondered, and probed, and read, Had questioned the living, invoked the dead. "What is Death's secret?" had cried — while he. The child of seven, went forth to see. EXIT TOMMY. 65 We might follow him down to the awful shore, Be drenched and stunned with the spray and roar, But we must linger, with wavings fond. While he would sail to the land beyond. We felt that the angel who held his hand And led him down to the misty strand, Was telling him now, in whispers low, What sights he would see, and whither go. But hush ! the voice from the little bed. And the watchful mother bent her head. "Mammy, I know that I'm soon to die. And I want to wish them all good-bye. " I shouldn't like anything here to say, ' He didn't shake hands when he went away ; He was glad to be off to his harp and wings And couldn't remember his poor old things.' "In Heaven I never should feel content If I hadn't been kind before I went ; So let me take leave of them, great and small, Animals, people, and toys, and all." So the word went forth, and in no great while The servants entered in solemn file, The stout old cook, and the housemaid Rose, And the aproned boy with his smutted nose. So each of the women, with streaming cheek. Bent over and kissed him and could not speak ; But he said that they must not grieve and cry For they'd meet again in the happy sky. F 66 EXIT TOMMY. 'Twas longer and harder to deal with Jim — The child grew grave as he looked at him, For he thought to himself, " He bets and swears, And I hardly believe that he says his prayers." " Oh, Jim, dear Jim, if you do such things You'll never be dressed in a harp and wings." He talked to the boy as a father should, And begged him hard to be grave and good. The lad lounged out with a brazen air And whistled derisively down the stair. But they found him hid in the hole for coal. Sobbing and praying in grief of soul. Old Rover came next, sedate and good. And gazed at his master and understood. Then up we carried, in order due, Maria, the cat, and her kittens two. Proud purred the mother, and arched her back. And vaunted her kittens, one white, one black ; And the sweet white kitten was good and still. But the black one played with his nightgown's frill. He stroked them all with his poor weak hand. But he felt that they could not understand. He smiled, however, and was not vext. And bade us bring him the rabbit next. He welcomed Punch with a loving smile, And hugged him close in his arms awhile, And we knew (for the dear child's eyes grew dim) How grievous it was to part with him. EXIT TOMMY. 67 His mother he bade, with tearful cheek, Give Punch his carrot three days a week, With lettuce-leaves on a cautious plan, And only just moisten his daily bran. Then next we brought to him, one by one, His drum and his trumpet, his sword and gun ; And we lifted up for his fondling hand His good grey steed on the rocking-stand. Then close to his feet we placed a tray. And we set his armies in array ; And his eyes were bright with fire and dew As we propped him up for his last review. His ark came next, and pair by pair Passed beasts of the earth and fowls of the air ; He kissed good Japheth, and Ham, and Shem, And waved his hands to the rest of them. But we saw that his eyes had lost their fire, And his dear little voice begun to tire ; He lay quite still for a little while. With eyes half-closed and a peaceful smile. Then, " Mammy," he said, and never stirred. And his mother bent for the whispered word ; " Give him his carrot each second day," Our Tommy murmured, and passed away. A BUNCH OF COWSLIPS.i Polly and I were sweethearts, As all the neighbours know ; Polly and I were sweethearts Twenty years ago. Polly was made of dimples, So winsome and wee and fair, And if ever you missed a sunbeam. You'd find it in Polly's hair ; And her eyes had something in them She never knew how to say ; And I looked at my sweet Httle darling Till she looked my heart away. Polly and I were sweethearts. As all the neighbours know ; Polly and I were sweethearts, Twenty years ago. Oh, it was rare on Sundays, With Polly upon my arm. To stroll through the Castle Meadows, Or round by the Gable Farm ; ^ Set to music by Miss A. M. Wakefield, and published by Messrs. Metzler and Co. , Great Marlborough Street. A BUNCH OF COWSLIPS. 69 To talk of the house we'd furnish, And the ring I'd have to give, And the love that we'd bear for each other, As long as we both should live. Polly and I were sweethearts. As all the neighbours know ; Polly and I were sweethearts, Twenty years ago. Polly grew weak and weary. And the roses paled on her cheek ; She looked like an April primrose, When the wind blows dry and bleak. I prayed to Our Father in Heaven, And Our Father kept me brave ; — Yes, that's what I want with the cowslips- To lay them on Polly's grave. Polly and I were sweethearts, As all the neighbours know ; Polly and I were sweethearts, Twenty years ago. COURTSHIRi It chanced, they say, upon a day, A furlong from the town, That she was stroUing up the way As he was strolHng down — She humming low, as might be so, A ditty sweet and small ; He whistling loud a tune, you know, That had no tune at all. It happened so — precisely so — As all their friends and neighbours know. As I and you perhaps might do. They gazed upon the ground ; But when they'd gone a yard or two Of course they both looked round. They both were pained, they both explained What caused their eyes to roam ; And nothing after that remained But he should see her home. It happened so — precisely so — As all their friends and neighbours know. ^ Set to music by Charles Marshall, and published by Messrs. Patey and Willis, Great Marlborough Street, who also publish a setting by A. H. Behrend, under the title, It Happened So. COURTSHIP. 71 Next day to that 'twas common chat, Admitting no debate, A bonnet close beside a hat Was sitting on a gate. A month, not more, had bustled o'er, When, braving nod and smile. One blushing soul came through the door Where two went up the aisle. It happened so — precisely so — - As all their friends and neighbours know. MY OWN GIRL. Fifteen shillings — no more, sir — The wages I weekly touch ; For labour steady and sore, sir. It isn't a deal too much. Your money has wings in the City, And vanishes left and right ; But I hand a crown to Kitty As sure as Saturday night. Bless her, my own, my wee ! She's better than gold to me. She lives in a reeking court, sir, With roguery, drink, and woe ; But Kitty has never a thought, sir. That isn't as white as snow. She has not a thought or feeling An angel would blush to meet ; I love to think of her kneeling. And praying for me so sweet. Bless her, my own, my wee ! She's better than gold to me. MY OWN GIRL. 73 I must be honest and simple, I must be manful and true ; Or how could I pinch her dimple, Or gaze in her frank eyes' blue ? I feel not anger, but pity, When workmates go to the bad ; I say, " They've never a Kitty ! They'd all keep square if they had." Bless her, my own, my wee ! She's better than gold to me. One day she will stand at the altar. Modest, and white, and still, And forth from her lips will falter The beautiful low " I will." Our home shall be bright and pretty As ever a poor man's may ; And my soft little dove, my Kitty, Shall nest in my heart for aye. Bless her, my own, my wee ! She's better than gold to me. HER LAST POSY. In the rarest of English valleys A motherless girl ran wild, And the greenness and silence and gladness Were soul of the soul of the child. The birds were her gay little brothers, The squirrels her sweethearts shy ; And her heart kept tune with the rain-drops, And sailed with the clouds in the sky. And angels kept coming and going, With beautiful things to do ; And wherever they left a footprint A cowslip or primrose grew. She was taken to live in London, So thick with pitiless folk. And she could not smile for its badness, And could not breathe for its smoke. And now, as she lay on her pallet, Too weary and weak to rise, A smile of ineffable longing Brought dews to her faded eyes : " O me, for a yellow cowslip, A pale little primrose dear ! Won't some kind angel remember, And pluck one and bring it here ?" HER LAST POSY. 75 They bought her a bunch of cowslips ; She took them with fingers weak, And kissed them, and stroked them, and loved them, And laid them against her cheek. " It was kind of the angels to send them, And, now I'm too tired to pray. If God looks down at the cowslips, He'll know what I want to say." They buried them in her bosom, And when she shall wake and rise, Why may not the flowers be quickened And bloom in her happy skies ? JOE'S BESPEAK. A PANTALOON'S STORY. There wasn't a place for gold nor pray'rs — We'd six big bobbies to keep 'em back — They was nursin' each other in stalls and chairs, And the pit was a reg'lar sardine-pack. A chap got dazed with the din and glare, And the sea of faces ev'rywhere. And now and agen a woman 'u'd shriek — - It was always so at Joe's Bespeak. There was never a clown a patch on Joe — I've played with the lot, and I bought to know. Why, he'd more reppertee in them bandy shins Than parties I know in their bumptious brains ; He'd tip you one of his rummy grins, And you'd suffer from hawful hinternal pains ; Look in his face, and you'd laugh and cry ; Twig him wink, and you'd want to die ; 'Ear him do the Little Pig's Squeak, And bed was your place for the rest of the week. There was never a clown a patch on Joe — I've played with the lot, and I bought to know. JOE'S BESPEAK. 77 The 'ouse was one continooal roar — When he tumbled in for his third recall, They rose, 071 massy, from roof to floor. And bellered like Bedlam, nobs and all. The curtain fell, and they stopped to shout And 'oiler "Joe," till the lights was hout. There was ninety pound, sir, silver and gold — More nor we reckoned the 'ouse 'u'd 'old. There was never a clown a patch on Joe — I've played with the lot, and I hought to know. Joe never stopped to reckon the blunt. Nor change his togs, nor nothin' o' that. But he buttoned his long old coat in front. And hover his heyebrows jammed his 'at. We'd counted on glasses — or fizz, may'ap, For Joe was a hopen-'anded chap — But through the 'ollerin' roughs houtside I twigged him wriggle and dive and slide. And I says to myself, I says, just so, " I doubt there's summat amiss with Joe !" I collared my 'at, and I follered him straight. And I see him stop at the door, and stand (Old Mother Cobble's, at Number Height), And he pulled the bell with a shaky 'and. The light from the lamp on the door fell slick, And I watched his face turn white and sick ; But he never spoke, as the woman said, "Dead, sir — mother and child — ^just dead !" Well, Joe went to 'em a year ago — There was never a clown a patch on Joe. SETH BAKER. Stow it, I say, for it's waste of breath ; I know as you means it well ; But the eye sees clear when it's filmed with death, And the thing as I sees is Hell ! I know of the Blood for sinners shed, And the pardon full and free, And the Grace that washes snow-white the red. But there ain't no Grace for me ! Stop ! let me speak, for the time is short ; You wasn't fetched here to spout. I'm none of your Hallelujah sort : White chokers and me falls out. But you ain't, not you, of the smug-faced crew, All Glory and white of eye ; I trust you, parson ; by snakes, I do ! So listen before I die. I'm bound, I am, for the brimstone lake, With its horrible reek and stench ; For the worms as writhe and the flames as quake. And the thirst you can noways squench. I don't make out as I likes the trip, But I tell you all the same, I means to start with a good stiff lip, And a step as shows I'm game. SETH BAKER. 79 I'm game to the bottom — curse the cough ! It saws me through and through — And if ever my pals takes on to scoff, And say as I sent for you — I fetched you away to jabber and pray, And show me the road to die — " He was game to the bottom," just you say. And choke the fools with their lie. I'm quiet — all right — I am, I swear ; No, I won't let out no more. Just give me a pull of the brandy there — Is there nobody nigh the door ? Are you sure as there's never a listening sneak ? Then give me your hand'to ketch ; Bend down while I speak, for I'm horful weak. And the words is hard to fetch. Here's a newspaper under my head, you see. What tells, with a heap of lies, Seth Baker was tried in 'sixty-three At the Worcester County 'Size. Don't spout it aloud, for it's waste of breath ; I can give you the pith, I can ; The sentence of death was passed on Seth For knifing a pollis-man ! You remember it ? No ? Why, the world went mad! 'Twas a nine-days'-wonder case ; They talked of the lad, and the ways he had, His pluck and his handsome face. 8o SETH BAKER. It wasn't right proved how the blood was spilt, And they'd easy have pulled him through ; But the stoopid young fool confessed his guilt — So what could the lawyer do ? Petitions was signed — for the chap was young- Imploring the Queen for grace ; But the end of it all was, Seth was hung, In spite of his youth and face. And I stood there, in the struggling square, And stared in the prisoner's eye ; I saw them cover his face, so fair. And fasten his hempen tie ! Yes, I stood there, in the death-still square. And met Seth Baker's eye ; I heard him mutter a tag of pray'r ; I saw — I saw him die ! He took the drop with a rare good pluck. With never a shake nor whine ; — And the knife in the peeler's heart that stuck, It wasn't not Seth's, but mine ! It happened along of a wench, you see — Young Seth was a-courtin' Kate ; But — so rum is a she — she took to me. And jilted my handsome mate. So we got spliced, — but I used her bad ; It was nothin' but drink and row ; But she's getting paid back for the time she had, A-singing in Glory now ! SETH BAKER. 8i Well, Seth was a chap as was always soft — He reggerler drove me wild ; For he'd foller and say to me, oft and oft, " Be kind to your wife and child ! " But he gave it up, and he let me go- No preachin' would keep me straight ; And he got to know as it meant a blow And a worser time for Kate ! I was always in drink ; I was deep in debt ; I was sacked from my job of work ; And then I got in with a poachin' set, As nothin' at all would shirk. We'd many a spree, my pals and me, And many a right good bag ; And we packed the game to town, you see. And fuddled away the swag. We was out one night — I was settin' a snare ; Afore you could reckon three, A peeler was out of some cursed lair, And grapplin' along of me. He called for the rest — I was devilish pressed, I didn't know what to do ; I draws my knife, and the peeler's breast I drives it through and throusrh. He staggered and fell with a horful yell ; I hadn't no sense nor breath ; And the ruck tears on, hke the fiends of hell. In a s:ame of life and death. SETH BAKER. I Staggered and tript ; I was well-nigh gript When, out of the fir-trees dim, A bloke crep' soft, and behind me slipt, And the peelers makes for him. I couldn't tell how — and 1 can't tell now — Seth come in the nick of time ; Unless he was there on the scent of a row. To resker his pal from crime. He touches my arm, and he says, says he, As he points to the belt of fir, " Crawl in on your knee — no matter for me It's all for the sake of Her !" I've told it you, parson, straight and^fair, With devil a slur or lie ; And I stood there, in the death-still square, And saw Seth Baker die ! I know of the Blood for sinners shed. And the pardon full and free ; But the Grace that washes snow-white the red, It isn't no go for me ! A lifer in Hell is the sentence spoke On a soul so mean and grim . . . Yet tell us the tale of that dying bloke. And Christ as went bail for him . . . Just mutter a prayer ... I know it well. This here is the grip of death . . . It ain't as I want to beg off Hell ! I'm sorry I done it . . . Seth ! JOE TO THE RESCUE.^ I SHALL never forget till I say good-bye How the darned old tinder did blaze and fly ; It was touch-and-go for me and Brown To carry the poor young mother down- — Stiff as a statter, all deadly white, Yet hugging her week-old baby tight ; And my heart stopped short when I heard 'em cry, " There's another little 'un left to die." The smoke rolled up like the reek of hell, And the rotten rafters cracked and fell. I clears my eyes, and I looks, and lo ! One foot on the ladder, I sees old Joe. 'Twas a madman's game, and me and Jack We grips his arm, and we holds him back : " It's death, old feller !" — " It may be so. But it ain't no harm to try," says Joe. Lord ! it was summat to split your ears, The laughing and sobbing, the shrieks and cheers, 1 Set to music, under the title of Brave Old Joe, by Louis Diehl, and published by Joseph Williams, Berners Street. JOE TO THE RESCUE. As, blackened and bruised, yet safe and sound. Steps Joe with the Httle 'un round by round. He kind o' sighed and he kind o' smiled. And he says to himself, as he kissed the child, " Dead twenty years — my youngest, Jim — And he'd just the curls and the cheeks of him." SAM GREEN'S LOVE. I KNOW of a lo\-e of the modern time That was moulded in chivalry's rarest mould, As worthy, I think, of the grace of rhyme As ever a love of the knights of old ; Yet I own that I feel my courage fail, As I take it in hand to tell the tale. Scant favour the ladies will show, I ween, To a poet who sings of Samuel Green. Yes, Samuel Green is my hero's name — A sadly prosaic name, in truth ; Yet hardly a better might justice claim • For one who was quite a prosaic youth. It was proper enough for a common clerk, Perched on a stool from nine till dark. Earning each week by his glib steel pen The moderate stipend of one pound ten. Of thoroughly commonplace aspect too — Snub nose, red whiskers, and light-blue eyes ; Favouring vigour of form and hue In the outward matters of pants and ties. 86 SAM GREEN'S LOVE. You know the type — on each tramway car You may see it sucking its cheap cigar ; At every tavern, with killing leer, It asks the barmaid for bitter beer. You know the type — it is amply rife ; Its standard of taste is the Monstrous Dance ; Its crown of glory and goal in life Is to win a ballet girl's wink or glance. Its h's are scant and its oaths are thick ; Its spirited garments are got on tick ; It seldom reads, and it never thinks, And half of its salary goes in drinks. Now, Samuel Green would have surely been Just one of the swaggering, rowdy throng At every Palace of Music seen, Yelling the chorus of Brabourne's song. He'd have trod in the steps of those gay young sparks. His cousins, and neighbours, and fellow-clerks, Had fate not come with a saving shove. And soused him head over heels in love. 'Twas love that saved him— be love's the praise ; 'Twas love that gave him an aim in life, Haunting his thoughts through the dreary days With the beautiful vision of home and wife. How could he drift into drink and debt With a hope like that before him set ? How could he sue for a barmaid's smile With Mabel awaiting him all the while .'' SAM GREEN'S LOVE. 87 Through alternations of hopes and fears, Of proud elation, depression grim, He had courted the girl for three slow years — The only girl in the world to him ; And when, the long probation done. The " Yes " was said, and the Eden won. The only thorn in his rosy bliss Was the thought that he was not worthy tJiis. The love that the poor young fellow felt Was tender and touching and half-divine : The gimcrack villa where Mabel dwelt In the eyes of Sam was a sacred shrine. On entering there, he was half inclined To leave his boots and his socks behind ; When Mabel warbled (extremely sharp), Hushed, he believed, was each angel's harp. And every night the tears would swim — Proud, grateful tears — in his honest eyes. When he thanked the Father for granting him, So plain and common, that peerless prize — That lovely maiden, so pure and good. The crown and blossom of womanhood. " Oh, make me better, my God !" he'd pray — " More like my little one, day by day." Never, alas ! was incense poured On a pettier, paltrier, baser shrine ; Never was goddess by man adored Earthlier, sordider, less divine. SAM GREEN'S LOVE. Never did woman walk the earth Less worthy of love's surpassing worth ; Never had maiden, slow and loth, Plisrhted so selfish and mean a troth. In Mabel's bedroom a mirror hung. Whereof not seldom she took advice : The face that it showed her was fair and young- And youth and beauty are things of price. Her trashy novels had much to tell Of Croesuses charmed by beauty's spell : And why — if romances did occur — Why shouldn't a Croesus come to her ? She hated the humdrum life she led — Knitting and darning her father's socks. Dusting the china, and making the bed, And turning for ever her faded frocks. She hated the furniture, cheap and mean, The six rep chairs of yellowing green. The table with books set primly round, And the old piano with tinkling sound. She felt she was made for a better fate — If beauty came by its proper due. She would lounge in a boudoir in graceful state, Each day in a costume entirely new ; Whilst elegant callers went and came, And society bruited her charming name ; Whilst duels were fought for her sovereign smile. And fashion-books copied her every style. SAM GREEN'S LOVE. And so poor Samuel's pleading meek Miss Mabel had met with a scornful mien ; A clerk at thirty shillings a week, And a clerk with the odious name of Green ! She knew a trick worth many of that ; At first there came refusal flat — Those cheeks' soft bloom and those tresses' sheen Were hardly designed for a Samuel Green ! But, somehow or other, as time went past, Her manner to Sam grew a shade less chill ; Was it that constancy told at last ? Or was it that Croesus lingered still ? She tossed, as artful maidens can, A thread of silk to the drowning man ; And last of all — for I hate to prose — One " Yes " atoned for a score of " Noes." Then Sam went straight to the heavenly height : Life's water for him was turned to wine ; The ink in his bottle grew rosy-bright. And the little shop where he went to dine — A dirty unsavoury hole, I fear — Brought him thenceforth, for his chop and beer, Ambrosia (fat and a trifle red) And nectar, poured with a lovely head. So since the day of that blissful " Yes," With its exquisite thriH of proud surprise. Poor Sam — though he'd rather a taste for dress- Had grown quite sparing of gloves and ties. 90 SAM GREENS LOVE. No fat cigars, no meerschaums now, No bitters and gin, would his rule allow ; He was cutting all bachelor joys away. And saving up for his wedding-day. Then, after a while (on the Traddles plan) — The secret locked in his simple breast — To haunt cheap sale-rooms the lad began. And gather moss for his future nest : — A little round-table, an easy-chair, A couple of brackets rich and rare, A biscuit-box, and some bits of delf. And a clock for the parlour mantel-shelf. So glided a year as a week might glide, As full of bliss as a year could hold ; For, what though he found his promised bride A little weary, a little cold ? She let him see her each second day — She did not take her hand away ; She let him wonder, gaze, adore — And who could ask of a goddess more ? It wasn't a great while after that Sam entered the parlour with sparkling eyes ; " My darling," he cried, and waved his hat, " The greatest of news — I've got a rise ! I've got a rise, and a good one, too — Two pounds a week is a handsome screw ; What need, I ask, of more delay ? Come, Mabel dear, you must fix the day." SAM GREEN'S LOVE. 91 So the day was fixed for a quarter thence — No need to tell how the lover's heart Fluttered and thrilled with a joy intense, As they looked for a house in a quiet part, And found at last a cottage sweet. And bought the furniture, new and neat ; And canvassed seaports' conflicting claims, And mentioned possible bridesmaids' names. If Mabel's manner, about this time. Was often absent, and sometimes strange. Why, that could hardly be called a crime — - She stood on the verge of a solemn change. If, once or twice, when he made a call, She had slipped away unknown to all. She had pressing reasons, he did not doubt — A bride has so much to think about. One night- — a month from the blissful day — Sam went to the house of his destined bride ; A letter was placed on a little tray. And he saw that it bore his name outside — A letter from Mabel ! Wondering much, He took it up with an eager clutch, And, with cheeks that changed from red to white, He read it there by the gas-jet's light. By the time that this letter has reached your hand, Vou must think of me as Another's ivife. You know that my notions were always grand; I shrank from the thought 0/ our prosy life — 92 SAM GREEN'S LOVE. The little JioKse in the third-rate street^ The pinching to make the two ends meet, The commonplace, stupid, weary days, And all the pitiful shabby ways. Forgive me, Sam, if J cause you pain ; I know that you love me with all your heart j I have thought for yoti, and my patli is plain. Yes ! it is best that we two should part. I should but have made you a dreary bride — Peevish, and dull, and dissatisfied ; I know that you'll live to thank me yet — Forgive me, then, and try to forget. My name and address are a secret, Sam, For ex'cellent reasons, as friends will fiiul. Fm very Jiappy — indeed, I am ! My husband is handsome and rich and kind. I fear that you'll think me hard and mean, But, oh ! it never could have been I You will meet with a worthier wife than I. Explain to Father — ajtd 7iow, Good-bye. I could not picture — I will not try — Each stage of the almost-bridegroom's grief ; The vacant stare in his hollow eye, Of mingled wonder and unbelief; And then, when realisation came. The rending sobs that shook his frame ; And later, and worse a thousandfold. The silent sorrow that made him old. SAM GREEN'S LOVE. 93 His life still followed its wonted round — He was there at the office sharp at nine ; His pen scratched on with its bustling sound ; At one, as of old, he went to dine. For any casual friend that he met He had the joke or the stoiy yet. It was only the few of keener wit That dreamed how sorely the lad was hit. One thought in his bosom day by day To solider shape and purpose grew — To bury his anguish deep away : It would mar her gladness if Mabel knew. " Her heart was so tender," he said, "poor lamb ! She must never learn what a fool I am." So he bustled about, with a nod and smile, And the pitiless fox gnawed on the while. But as soon as the weary day was past, And, safe and alone in his little den. He pulled the mask from his face at last, How haggard and old were his features then ! He would stare for hours, with a yearning look. At Mabel's face in his portrait-book, Moaning, " O God ! 'tis a heavy blow — My little darling, I loved her so !" At last, in that wonderful way unknown, Whereby ill-tidings are ever spread, A sudden rumour was tossed and blown That Mabel's lover was dead or fled ; 94 SAM GREEN'S LOVE, That she who had crushed, by her mean deceit, As gentle a heart as ever beat, Was doomed herself to a piteous life — A shameful mother, and not a wife. Then, though his heart was sore for her. Though tears fell fast for her bitter fate, A flutter of hope began to stir — Was it e'en now, then, quite too late ? Let her come back, his poor soiled dove, To the sheltering wing of his mighty lo\"e. Not one reproach should be thought or said, And the weary past should bury its dead. But the hope was fated stillborn to die — The dream that had seemed so fair and sweet. He tried all means that a man may try To find the girl in her sad retreat ; He followed on many a hopeful clue, And found it broken, and tried anew. There was patient waiting, and weary doubt, And the hope burnt low, and mouldered out. And now ten years had loitered slow ; Our Sam, come down from his clerkly stool, To enter the firm as a humble Co., Had gone on a mission to Liverpool. There were fifty matters the day to fill. Some of them taxing his tact and skill ; And night had gathered morosely round. When at last he was fairly homeward bound. SAM GREEN'S LOVE. 95 It was cold and raw, and the streets were thin ; A thickening drizzle dripped and fell ; He hurried along, right glad to win The shelter and rest of his bright hotel. The tall policeman's measured tread On the dripping flags fell dull and dead ; And here and there, with meaning eye, Some mournful Magdalen flaunted by. Sam checked at a corner his rapid stride, And glanced around, of his path in doubt : The door of a tavern grated wide. And a piteous woman staggered out. Her eyes were glazed, and her hollow cheeks Were mockingly smeared with two bright streaks And her dripping bonnet and draggled dress, Still sat with a dreadful jauntiness. She caught his arm with a tipsy hold ; He shook her away, but she clutched him tight " My love," she simpered, " it's wet and cold — Now won't you stand me a drink to-night ?" Why does he start with a dread surprise ? Why does he stare in the woman's eyes ? That voice ! — but the haggard face — ah, no ! " Come, now, my girl, you must let me go." In the face of the woman a softening grew ; " Instead of a drink, you shall give me a kiss : You mind me of some one that once I knew. In the days before I had come to this. 96 SAM GREEN'S LOVE. You are taller and graver and not so slim, But, somehow, your eyes have a look of him ; Poor Sam ! — what ails you ? why do you start ?- He loved me well — and I broke his heart." Policeman X., of the Vine Street beat, Next day had a singular tale to tell : An unknown Party had stopped in the street To speak to a Female known too well. That Party's face was an angel's face, As he clasped the girl in a long embrace. And whispered, while tears were trickling fast, " Mabel, my little one, found at last !" But one more word, and my tale shall close : He took her away in her ghastly shame ; In spite of a storm of indignant " Oh's," He gave her his home and his stainless name. " I take thee, Mabel, to cherish and love !" And God, who stooped from His throne above. Heard one deep vow from a man's true heart — " Till death do part us — till death do part." " What else," he would say to a trusted friend — "What else could I do ? Why, it had to be. Once loved, you know, is loved to the end. There was only one woman on earth to me — My little one ! God has tried her sore ; But at last there are quiet days in store : That weary look has left her brow. And I think she is learning to love me now." SAM GREEN'S LOVE, There ! I've told of a love of the modern time That was cast in the true heroic mould : As worthy, I think, of the grace of rhyme As ever a love of the knights of old. So remember, pray, when you hear it said That the age of chivalry's cold and dead, Fair play's a jewel, and intervene With the simple story of Samuel Green. 97 THE PARSON'S COMFORTER. A PHOTOGRAPH FROM LIFE. The parson goes about his daily ways With all the parish troubles in his head, And takes his Bible out, and reads and prays, Beside the sufferer's chair, the dying bed. Whate'er the secret skeleton may be — Doubt, drink, or debt — that keeps within his lair. When parson comes, the owner turns the key. And lets him out to " squeak and gibber " there. It seems a possibility unguessed — Or little borne in mind, if haply known — That he who cheers in trouble all the rest May now and then have troubles of his own. Alas ! God knows, he has his foe to fight. His closet-atomy, severe and grim ; All others claim his comfort as of right. But, hapless parson ! who shall comfort him f A friend he has to whom he may repair (Besides that One who carries all our grief), And when his load is more than he can bear He seeks his comforter, and finds relief. THE PARSON'S COMFORTER. 99 He finds a cottage, very poor and small, The meanest tenement where all are mean ; Yet decency and order mark it all : — The panes are bright, the step severely clean. He lifts the latch — his comforter is there, Propt in the bed, where now for weeks she stays. Or, haply, seated knitting in her chair, If this be one of those rare " better days." A tiny woman, stunted, bent, and thin ; Her features sharp with pain that always wakes ; The nimble hand she holds the needles in Is warped and wrenched by dire rheumatic aches. Sometimes she gets a grateful change of pain. Sometimes for half a day she quits her bed ; And — lying, sitting, crawled to bed again— Always she knits : her needles are her bread. Too well she knows what 'tis a meal to miss, Often the grate has not a coal of fire ; She has no hope of better things than this : The future darkens, suffering grows more dire. Where will they take her, if betide it should Her stiffened hand the needles cannot ply ? Not to the workhouse — God is very good ; He knows her weakness — He will let her die. Sometimes, but seldom, neighbours hear her moan. Wrung by some sudden stress of fiercer pain ; Often they hear her pray, but none has known, No single soul has heard her lips complain. THE PARSON'S COMFORTER. The parson enters, and a gracious smile Over the poor pinched features brightly grows ; She lets the needles rest a little while : " You're kindly welcome, sir !" — ah ! that he knows. He takes the Book, and opens at the place — No need to ask her which her favourite psalm ; And, as he reads, upon her tortured face There comes a holy rapture, deep and calm. She murmurs softly with him as he reads (She can repeat the Psalter through at will) : " He feeds me in green pastures, and He leads, He leads me forth beside the waters still. " Yea, through death's shadowy valley though I tread, I will not fear, for Thou dost show the way ; Thy holy oil is poured upon my head, Thy loving-kindness follows me for aye." The reading's done, and now the prayer is said ; He bids farewell, and leaves her to her pain ; But grace and blessing on his soul are shed — He goes forth comforted and strong again. He takes his way, on divers errands bound. Abler to plead, and warn, and comfort woes ; That is the darkest house on all his round. And yet, be sure, the happiest house he knows. Will it not ease, poor soul, thy restless bed, And make thee more content, if that can be. To know that from thy suffering balm is shed That comforts him who comes to comfort thee ? THE BALLAD OF THE BLIND BEGGAR. A BLIND man sat for alms one day, Amid the city's roar ; And none of them that passed that way Had seen his face before. He did not sue with clamorous cries, Nor stretch abroad his palms ; Only the darkness of his eyes Did crave good Christians' alms. The schoolboy passed with noisy laugh, The sempstress hummed a lay ; The old man crept upon his staff, And did not look that way. The miser mused upon his gold, The spendthrift on his lust ; The dame drew close her vesture's fold, In delicate disgust. The city magnate ambled by, With reverend paunch and round ; And as he met the rayless eye. He pursed his lips and frowned. THE BALLAD OF THE BLIND BEGGAR. The deep projector formed his schenies ; The clerk must keep his time ; The peevish poet nursed his dreams, Or struggled for a rh)'me. Nor far from where the blind man sate A solemn mansion stood — A soHd house, with brazen plate. And palings tall and good ; And anxious men, with formal coats, The door swung to and fro : You heard the rustling of the notes In hands that let it go. The doctor drove at formal pace, His arms across his chest, To welcome in a baby-face, Or speed a parting guest. Along the pavement creaked the wain, With all the day to spare ; The cabman whipped to catch the train, And earn an extra fare. The lady cantered, gay and fast. Her footman somewhere near ; The actress whipped her ponies past, With bells that jingled clear. On road and path were crush and roar, And tramp of horse and man ; — The tide had reached the full at four. And now the ebb began. THE BALLAD OF THE BLIND BEGGAR. 103 And still the blind man kept his place, While life throbbed hot and loud, One patient, mute, unchanging face, Amid the changing crowd. Anon a child would stop to stare, A grim policeman frown ; But few had time or pence to spare, Of all the bustlinjr town. A wretched girl was rustling by. In faded splendours dressed, That told to every casual eye What calling she professed. She paused, a pitying word to speak. And while she lingered there The tear-drops smeared her painted cheek, Her poor lips moved in pray'r. With gaunt white face and footsore tread, A tramp was limping past. And he had bought a slice of bread To break his long day's fast. At that same place he slacked his pace. To eat his sorry meal, And felt a gaze upon his face In sightless mute appeal. " Poor friend," he said, " I have to spare, And thou shalt dine with me ; And thou, my lass, shalt have thy share — The bread will serve for three." 104 THE BALLAD OF THE BLIND BEGGAR. While idlers stopped, their sport to make, Those outcasts took their seat. The blind man blessed the bread and brake,- And so they three did eat. And while he blessed the slice of bread, Lo, all men grew aware, A halo spread around His Head, His vesture glittered fair. He passed— there fell a moment's hush Upon the city's roar, Then waxed again the whirl and rush, And all was as before. CHRIST IN THE CITY.i God had come to His earth to bless it, Wrapt in a clod of the clay of men ; — Where was the human heart to guess it, Smitten with wonder and worship then ? Angels must carol it, stars must shine it, Breezes must waft it, and waves must roll ; Might no spirit of man divine it ? Only one marvelling mother's soul. Christ was born ! — the eternal ages Treasure like that had none to keep ; Christ was born ! — and of swains and sages Never a sleeper turned in sleep. Dreams, perchance, through their slumbers drifted, But dreams of lucre or dreams of love — Dreams of aught but the dark veil lifted, Angels bending the stall above. Years have melted, as snowflakes soundless Falling by night in a river wide ; Twenty centuries swell the boundless Mystical, merging, ghostly tide. ^ The leading idea of this poem will be found elaborated in the author's story, " Her Beautiful Dream." (Eyre and Spottiswoode.) io6 CHRIST IN THE CITY. Empires have risen — o'er empires perished Booms the bittern, or scores the plough ; The seed, downtrod, and by no man cherished, Hath leaves for the health of the nations now. He, thrust forth to the stall and manger, Son of the carpenter, Nazarene, Friend of publicans, lifelong stranger, Yielding His spirit the thieves between — Lo ! His Cross on our brow is printed ; It fashions the shrines wherein we pray ; But what if the snow by His feet were dinted — Christ's come back to His earth to-day. Lo, He is come ! yea, come ! behold Him, One of the suffering millions here ; Vulgar and worn are the weeds that fold Him, Seamed is His face with toil and tear. Token is none the Christ to show me — Hands nail-printed, or haloed brow ; " Once," He murmurs, " they did not know Me- Blood-bought souls, will ye know Me now?" Hark ! with a jubilant crash and golden Break the bells into Christmas peals ; Blent with the worshippers, unbeholden. Into the Church that lone One steals. Pulpit and arch and pillars hoary Emblem and quaint device adorn ; Royally scrolled is the Christmas story, " Lo, unto us a Child is born." CHRIST IN THE CITY. 107 Now with a resonant long vibration Swells the organ, and, robed in white. Choristers chant with exultation The song of the shepherds on Christmas night. " Soon," saith the preacher, " is Christ's returning, Throned in Majesty, robed in cloud !" Doth any take heed of the wistful yearning Of one lone Stranger amid the crowd ? Clattering boots and tongues a-going, The workhouse-children file down the street, The tidings of joy in each young face glowing — Once of pudding and twice of meat. Eyes that with lingering gaze behold them Soften, yet deepen, their Christmas glee ; Words come back that their mothers told them — *' Suffer the children to come to me." Crouched in a lethargy dull and weary, Spreading out suppliant trembling palms. Motionless, mute, 'mid the passers cheery, A blind man sits by the road for alms. One and no more in that dense-lived city, Stoppeth a moment to gaze and mark ; His look is a look of love and pity — The blind man's soul is no longer dark. Over a bed is a mourner kneeling, Kissing a heedless brow and cheek. Touching a heart that hath no more feeling. Praying a sealed lip to speak ; io8 CHRIST IN THE CITY. Lo, a hand that her own is pressing Wakens no terror and no surprise ; Loosed at length are the founts of blessing, A star shines out in the inky skies. Fadeth the glow where the sun hath sunken ; Gin-palace doors stand open wide ; Bestial revel and uproar drunken Rise from the roystering crew inside. Glare the mirrors and flare the gases — Enter — the palace hath royal cheer ; "What shall it be, lads?" — chink the glasses, Christmas cometh but once a year. Palsied age against boyhood crushes ; Women are there, with glances bold, Piteous women, with painted blushes And laughter curdling the heart-blood cold, Lo, with a sorrowful gaze and tender, Standeth that One in the din and glare ; Magdalen, flaunting her tawdry splendour. Thinks of her mother, and breathes a prayer. * * -x- ■«• Hearken, O men ! rejoicers, mourners. Toilers and triflers, and men of fame. Ye that lurk in the darksome corners. Maidens fenced from a breath of shame ; Christ is walking the thronged city, High-street and square and reeking lane. Yearning, pleading, with eyes of pity — Must it be written, "And still in vain".? JOB SANDERSON'S MIND: A BIT OF IT. When I was a tiny toddler, A poor little six-years' tot, And said each night, in my bedgown white, The bit of a prayer I'd got ; I was just as sure that Our Father then Took in each word to "ever Amen," As I was that my mother did — hearing the pray'r, And helping me out with it here and there. " God bless dear father and mother. And brothers and sisters too ; And give me a mind to be good and kind. And to do what I ought to do." Full often as I was kneeling there There was fingers a-stroking my curly hair ; For anything I could understand. It was likely enough Our Father's hand. He lived in them great blue heavens. Most terrible far and high — - More higher a deal, I could see and feel. Than ever a kite could fly. JOB SANDERSON'S MIND. But He warn't a bit too far away To know whatever we'd do or say ; And when we was good, He was proud and fain, And when we was naughty, it gave Him pain. He hved in them great blue heavens, The night was His curtains drawn ; He called the sun when the dark was done, And the cock as crowed at dawn. 'Twas Our Father's hand, when the nights was fine, As twinkled the stars, and made 'em shine ; At sunset — Lord ! I could almost swear I'd peeped into heaven, and seen Him there. He lived in them great far heavens. But (mother had told me so) His arm came through from the shining blue, And planted the flow'rs below. The good little birds by Him was fed With berries, and grubs, and crumbs of bread ; Cock Robin it was as He loved the best. And He hated the boys as stole his nest. Of course He'd a deal to manage, With sunshine, and snow, and spring, And the cherry-bim as looked to Him For every mortial thing. But all the same, oh ! just the same. He had time for me, and my book and game ; And He couldn't abide to see me fight, And it did Him good when my sums come right. JOB SANDERSON'S MIND. We'd one little blue-eyed sister As never was fain nor strong ; From the hour of her birth she was not for earth, And we couldn't detain her long. She closed her eyes, and she went to rest, All waxy-white on our mother's breast. A great black tail on my hat was wound. And I watched them lower her underground. But it wasn't our little sister As slept in the churchyard mould. As slumbered there when the days was fair, And when they grew dark and cold. I cried at first, and was sorely pained. Till I went to mother, and she explained ; It was only her body as lay in the loam — Our sister had g:one to Our Father's home. Our sister was there, in Heaven, So happy, and good, and gay. With a crown on her brow, and a harp somehow She'd managed to learn to play. So all in the dark I didn't cry, For dear little sister was somewhere by ; — Being borne, like a bird, on her shining wings. She took no notice of doors and things. Our Father, I say, and Heaven, And dear little sister there. Was as real to me as yourself, I see A-sitting in yonder chair. JOB SANDERSON'S MIND. I might enquire with a puzzled frown, Was there really a Queen and a London town ? But Heaven and God — it's a sing'lar lad That'll ax — has he ever a home and dad ? And now there are folks as tells you — They'se nothing but old wives' lore — That, whenever I die, I shall rot and lie. And never come up no more ; That there ain't no Heaven for folks to go, There's nothing but " forces " and " laws " to show And, instead of a God, with a father's glance, There's^summat or other, as comes to chance. It's a gospel of Dirt and Nothing They preach in these thinking days ; But the lessons I got as a tiny tot — Well, somehow, they sticks and stays. To me them skies (whatever they tells) Is still the home where Our Father dwells. And still, when I kneels and says my prayers, I think as Our Father hears and cares. I couldn't— I won't believe it ! Old feller, my soul would bust — ■ What, hold in my heart, as my friends depart, That they ends in the churchyard dust ? Believe that the one as in yearning love First taught me to pray to the God above, Instead of watching from yonder skies, Is gone into gases ! — Get out ! it's lies. JOB SANDERSON'S MIND. 113 When I looks on this Wale of Weeping (It's David as calls it so), With its heads that ache, and its hearts that break, Its hopes as is all no go ; W^here one to the primest cuts is born. And one to the 'tater-peels and scorn ; Where youngsters thieve for their daily crust, And women go wrong because they must ; — If there isn't no great Hereafter, Unrav'ling the tangled thread, No Trumpet blown, and no Great White Throne, No Judge of the quick and dead ; — If there isn't a Hand as holds the clue. And runs His purpose the jumble through ; — If it isn't God's world (and He'll see things square) Why, it is the Devil's, and that I'll swear. A CHRISTMAS QUARREL. Hark to 'em ! yonder they goes, ding-dong, Lusty and fain and stout. Ringing in tune with the angels' song, RoUing the Tidings out ! Pull with a will, my lads ! give it us strong ! Don't be a-feared, I say ! My heart's in tune with the angels' song — There's peace in my heart to-day. Old chap, it was only a year ago I hated their joyful peal ; Each beat of the bell was a stunning blow As reggerler made me reel. They was filling the earth with the message glad. Of mercy and pardon blest ; And they drove me mad, for I'd quarrelled, I had. With her as I loved the best. 'Twas the stoopidest thing as ever you heard — In telling the story now I'd blush like a girl, you may take my word, If I well remembered how. A CHRISTMAS QUARREL. 115 'Twas over the rights of the Christmas cheer, The pair on us come to grief; For Jenny was on for a goose, you hear, And I for a joint of beef " It's a goose," says she, "as I means to buy," A-hargeying on the road ; " Get out with your rubbishing goose," says I, " You and your goose be blowed." "Nice words," says she, "from you to me !" And pitches the money down ; And home she turns, with a cheek as burns. And I steps off to the Crown. So I takes a pint with the tap-room throng, And another when that was done ; And we sings a song — with the chorus strong— " And so says every one." But, you go bail, in spite of the ale, I didn't feel right inside. For I thought of my Jenny, lone and pale, A-crying in wounded pride. So I collars my hat, and I nods my head. And I wishes the coves good-night. " I'd better go back to the wench," I said ; " I warrant her'll soon come right." So I makes a stop at a poulterer's shop, And orders the pearl of geese. And some beautiful pies I gets likewise As the holly-branch of peace. ii6 A CHRISTMAS QUARREL. I thought as I'd say to her, "Jenny, my dear ! Jenny, old girl," I'd say ; '* Of all the days in the blessed year We mustn't fall out to-day. One goose, you see, you'd got in me, And I thought as one would do. But you wants another — and here it be ! I lifts the latch, and I enters the room — There wasn't no Jenny there ! Never a sound — but silence and gloom. And the missus's empty chair ! My heart stood still with a sickening dread, But I laughs the fear away, " Her's only gone out for a turn," I said ; " Her never was one to stay." I mended the fire with a coal or two — For the gleeds was well-nigh dead — Then up to the hearth my chair I drew, And listened for Jenny's tread. I sat in my chair and listened there, Nervous and queer and glum. For a step as was music anywhere — For a step as never come. The house was still, with never a sound But the clock a-ticking loud ; But I hears the din in the streets around Of the rollicking Christmas crowd. A CHRISTMAS QUARREL. 117 And the bells rang on as they never would cease Of the peace that Christmas sends : But I felt as I'd nothing to do with peace Till Jenny and me was friends. How long I sat, for the matter of that, I haven't no kind of guess ; May be you'll think as I had a wink. And nodded more or less. But, sitting like that the fire before I heard a voice as said, "Jenny will never be friends no more — Jenny your wife is dead !" " Jenny is dead," the whisper said ; And then in some ghost-like way I seemed to tread by the side of the bed Where Jenny my darling lay. Quiet and cold, with an awful grace. There on the bed she lay ; But there lingered a look on her waxy face As never would pass away. A look of reproach, and a look of pain, A look as of hurt surprise, A look as of tears forced back again That wanted to flood the eyes ! An awful look on a face in life, If a dear one's face it be. But oh ! on the face of your own dead wife, A maddening look to see. it8 A CHRISTMAS QUARREL. Jenny was gone, and beyond my reach — Gone to the unknown place — Gone, with my angry and cruel speech Frozen into her face. Jenny was dead, my girl was dead. Dead, with her dear heart broke, And never could feel the tears I shed, Nor hearken the words I spoke. They tell you in books of the raven hair Turned grey in a summer's night ; If grief could do it, the moments there Had blanched mine snowy-white. " Jenny," I cried, " make room at your side ; Make room for me to rest !" And, flinging my arms in anguish wide, I fell upon Jenny's breast. I fell with a cry on my Jenny's breast — But it wasn't not dead nor cold ; There was lips as kissed, thei'e was arms as pressed With a tender and clinging hold. There was tears as over my cheek and brow In blessedest raindrops fell, And the Jenny I strained to my bosom now Was Jenny alive and well. A dream ! a dream of horror and fright. As I trusts to dream no more ! My girl had gone wandering into the night. Troubled, and hurt, and sore. A CHRISTMAS QUARREL. 119 Returning at last, her stood at my side, A-fearing to break my rest, And — scaring the dream with the voice I cried — I fell upon Jenny's breast. And since that day, if, once in a way, A bit of a tiffs occurred. And my heart has burned with a word to say, A cutting and cruel word, I've thought of my own little loving pet A-lying all cold and dead. With the look on her face as I can't forget — And the word has not been said. So here's the advice as to all I'll fling, Whenever their tempers rise ; There are words as sting, there are words as bring Salt tears to the heart and eyes. Oh, close your lips though your soul may crack, Bite hard ere the words is sped ! What wouldn't you give to call 'em back. With the dear one lying dead ! Hark to 'em ! yonder they goes, ding-dong, Lusty and fain and stout. Ringing in tune with the angels' song, Rolling the Tidings out ! Pull with a will, my lads ! give it us strong ! Don't be a-feared, I say ! My heart's in tune with the angels' song— There's peace in my heart to-day. DOCTOR DAN'S SECRET.^ A HEARTY old man is Doctor Dan As any in Romford Town, With his cheery grin, and his threefold chin, And his jolly old shining crown. And friends who have proved what his quarters are Right willingly stay to dine ; They have faith in his cook and his fat cigar And his bottle of vintage wine. " It's a queer little crib," says Doctor Dan, " But cosy enough for a single man." As they lounge at ease, and toast their knees, The host, with a laugh, will say, " My kingdom's small, but over it all I reign with a despot's sway. No serious dame may freeze my joke With a glance of her awful eye, Nor cough rebuke from a cloud of smoke. Nor put the decanter by. I feel in my heart," says Doctor Dan, " For that poor white slave, the married man." ^ Set to music by Samuel AIoss, and published by Conrad Herzog and Co, DOCTOR DAN'S SECRET. But as soon as the last good-bye is said, And he fears not ring or knock, He walks to his desk, with a solemn tread, And quietly turns the lock. The tear-mists rise in his brave blue eyes. As he stands and gazes there ; It is gold — bright gold — in his hand that lies — But the gold of a lost love's hair. "It was only a dream," says Doctor Dan, " But the waking has left me a lonely man." THE ROSES KNOW.i The roses o'er my window grow, An arch of fragrant bloom. I make a bunch at night, you know, To bless my little room. I hardly know — I never care — What idle folk may pause to stare ; But why refuse a gentle soul A little bud for button-hole ? Blush rose, blush rose. Why that burnhig red ? White rose, white rose, Never hang your head! One night — the last sweet night of May — My basket in my hand, I heard a footstep cross the way, I saw a stranger stand. He leaned his arms the palings o'er, And begged a rosebud — one — no more ; I gave it, with a smile and word. And, really, nothing else occurred. ^ Set to music by Samuel Moss, and published by Conrad Herzog and Co. THE ROSES KNOW. 123 Blush rose, blush rose, Why that burning red ? White rose, white rose. Never hang your head/ But oh ! the roses bloom to-day With tenderer, deeper glows ; They whisper me from every spray, Because my heart's a rose. For yester eve— O pearl of eves ! — Above the rustling of their leaves, He said — no matter what — but oh ! The roses know — the roses know ! Blush rose, blush rose, Oh, the tale you heard/ White rose, white rose. Never say a word/ A DAISY CHAIN.^ Pealing and stealing Over downs and dells, Rhyming and chiming, Hark, the Sunday bells ! Many a maiden soft and bright Looks to see her hair is right, Then with lightsome step and gay Trips along the turnpike way. Rosy and cosj'. Sweet from toes to curls. Neatly and featly Trip the country girls. Many a winsome lass I see None so dear as Daisy Lee : Would she smile or would she chide If I dared to join her side ? Pealing and stealing Over downs and dells, Rhyming and chiming, Hark, the bridal bells ! Through the porch and up the aisle, (How the neighbours nod and smile !) . On we go the knot to tie, Darling Daisy Lee and 1. 1 Set to music by Charles Marshall, and published by Messrs. Robert Cocks and Co., New Burlins^ton Street, WALTER'S CHOICE.i When Walter's mother took a trip To buy her Winter gown, Dear ! how she made the shopmen skip, And haul the bundles down ! " Now there's a red," the master said, "To make the neighbours stare !" " Why, that," said she, '•' perhaps may be. But, look you, will it wear ? It's very neat, and very sweet ; But pounds with me are rare ; It's well enough — but feel the stufif ! I want a gown to wear." When Walter stood before the glass, And aired his Sunday clo'es, " Now that," she muttered, " means a lass — He's courting, goodness knows ! My boy," she said, and shook her head, " I pray you have a care ; Young men, to thrive what time they wive, Must choose a wife to wear. 1 Set to music by Cotsford Dick, and published by Messrs. Robert Cocks and Co., New Burlington Street. 126 WALTER'S CHOICE, You must not wed for white and red, Or bonny eyes and hair ; You choose a wife to last j'our life — So choose a wife to wear." When Walter led to church his bride, The town was all astir, And, " Bless my heart !" the neighbours cried, "What could he see in her? There's girls around with fifty pound — There's bouncing girls to spare !" " He's wisely wed," his mother said, " He chose a wife to wear. Sure thrift and health are more than wealth. 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