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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 RIVERSIDE
 
 THE 
 
 ENTLEY BALLADS, 
 
 COMPRISING 
 
 THE TIPPERARY HALL BALLADS, 
 
 NOW FIRST REPUBLISHED FROM 
 
 <* 25 en tier's iHisceUang,'* 
 
 (1846). 
 
 WITH PREFACE AND NOTES BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN SHEEHAN, 
 
 BARRISTER-AT-LAW OF THE INNER TEMPLE; 
 AUTHOR OF "THE IRISH WHISKEY DRINKER PAPERS," "THE KNIGHT 
 
 OF INNISHOWEN." 
 
 ■an cntirelg "Ncto "EDition, 
 
 LONDON : 
 RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON. 
 
 1876. 
 A/i Kiclits Reserved.

 
 PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION. 
 
 " He beginneth not -witli obscure definitions, but he cometli to jou 
 with words set in delightful proportion, either accompanied with, or 
 prepared for, the well enchanting skill of music ; — and with a talc ; — 
 he Cometh to you with a tale, which holdeth children from play, and 
 old men from the chimney-corner." — SiE Philip Sxuney. 
 
 The English Ballad, whicli in old times was a tale or 
 story in verse of love, chivalry, or marvel, or even of 
 mirth and humour, has gradually assumed a less exclusive 
 application, until within about a century hack it at length 
 attained a generic character, and was understood to com- 
 prise several species of lyricaL composition. The title of 
 The Bentley Ballads consequently has been adopted as 
 the most suitable to the collection of poems, the choicest 
 of their respective kinds, which appeared in ' Bentley's Mis- 
 cellany' over a space of about fifteen years, during which 
 it was under the auspices of the New Burlington House. 
 
 In this new and much enlarged edition of those Ballads 
 the reader will be glad to recognize a selection from the 
 Golden Legends, it having been fairly considered ot length 
 that any an-ay of the lyrists of the Miscellany in its 
 palmy days which excluded one of its most brilliant con- 
 tributors — inter primos, if not the very first — were partial 
 and incomplete. Unfortunately, the length to which, almost 
 in every instance, the Ingoldsby Poems extend, rendered 
 a larger selection impossible ; but those chosen for the
 
 iv PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION. 
 
 present volume have always been considered the best. 
 
 . - The circumstance is moreover the less to be regretted, as 
 
 fj } f{ _ the whole of the witty and humourous Canon's metrical 
 contributions to the Bentley periodical have been repub- 
 lished by the old house in New Burlington Street, and form, 
 
 J with the ample and most agreeable biography appended by 
 
 his son, one of the most popular and pleasant works in 
 our language. 
 
 Another specimen of the rare humour and versatile 
 genius of the author, the Rev. Richard Harris Barhain, 
 not one of the Golden Legends, but an emerald set in 
 native gold of the old Lagenian mine, is also added 
 in 3Ir. Barney Maguire's Account of the Coronation, 
 which appeared first in the ' Miscellany,' and was after- 
 wards transferred to the columns of every newspaper in the 
 United Kingdom. It was the opinion of the best native 
 judges that a more perfect piece of genuine Irish fun was 
 never before thrown off, and very seldom equalled. That 
 an Englishman should have been the author was deemed 
 the more Avonderful, when the thousands of miserable 
 attempts at Irish song-writing made by the herd of public- 
 house poetasters throughout England for generations past 
 Avas taken into consideration, and it Avas acknoAvledged that 
 only one good Irish song had ever before been Avrittcn 
 by a Saxon, namely, Hudson's Barney Brallaghan, Avhich 
 also appeared in the ' Miscellany,' Avith a Latin metrical 
 translation by Prout, and Avliich holds an honoured j)lace 
 in all the editions of the ' Bentley Ballads.' 
 
 The next in merit, of the school of ' The Cjolden Legends,' 
 
 ^ is one wh ose incognito has been preserved to this day. 
 
 He display! d n.U' li of tlii- great master's savour, as Avell as 
 his quaint expression and metrical facihty. His ' Tempta- 
 tions of Saint Anthony' enjoyed a high reputation ; and it 
 was thought by many excellent judges that it only Avanted 
 
 i ^ 
 
 ^- 
 
 .0^ . y.\.
 
 PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION. y 
 
 the appendage of the Ingoklsby name to have entitled it to 
 rank amongst the happiest of the Golden Legends themselves. 
 Amongst the varions tales or stories of the passions 
 given in ballad style and metre in the present volume are 
 excellent specimens from that master of humour and pathos, 
 the author of 3Iuicl Marian and Headlong Hall; from 
 Thomas Haynes Bayley, one of the most popular in his day 
 of the song writers of England ; from Professor Longfellow, 
 whom Ave may call, with his truly English heart and ex- 
 pression, the Poet Laureate of Transatlantic England ; and 
 from other writers of high reputation in their day, some of 
 whom are still living, and others have passed away. They 
 form a sej)arate class, coming between the ' Ingoldsby Le- 
 gends' and the ' Inman Ballads,' totally distinct from the 
 former as regards the human sympathies to which they 
 appeal, and differing from the latter in their gentle thoughts 
 and easy-flowing numbers. 
 ■ The bold and exulting ballads of The Buccaneers, and 
 Haroun Alraschid, which display unquestionably great power 
 and originality, are the productions of a self-educated mind 
 and solitary spirit, which owed more to its own fine fiicul- 
 ties of observation and induction, than to book-learning or 
 literary refinement. 
 
 The lays and songs of the Tipperary Hall series, a selec- 
 tion from which is given in the present volume, might have 
 been republished in a collected form, but that they lacked 
 in quantity what they maintained in quality from the public 
 award of their day. The cadre, or framework of the proso 
 dialogue in which they were set, had scarcely more than a 
 current interest with the generation and times in whicli it 
 was written, being conversations from whicli, according to 
 a strict rule of the ' Miscellany,' everything like political 
 acerbity was excluded. The party pohtics of IHIG, wlieu 
 the alarm on the question of the people's food took posses-
 
 vl PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION. 
 
 sion of the public mind, and was the turning point of Sir 
 Robert Peel's commercial policy, are almost the only feature 
 of their home history during that ever-memorable year of 
 which Englishmen care to be reminded. If the piquancy 
 of the political allusions of the hour, and those of a most 
 uncompromising Conservatism, were eliminated from the 
 re-publication of the Nodes Aralrosiance, and the trenchant 
 personalities on various public characters from Father 
 Froufs Eellqiies, republished also a few years before Ma- 
 hony's death, their success in a literary or commercial 
 point of view would have been very doubtful ; and the 
 truth as to the evanescent value of the conversations of 
 the Tipperary Hall symposia, liowever popular they may 
 have been in their treatment of the lighter subjects of their 
 day, would be the more apparent. Had that festive atmo- 
 sphere been charged with party electricity, what bolts of 
 indignation in prose and verse would have been hurled 
 against the heads of our late Premier and the then noble 
 leader of the Protectionist party, Lord George Bentinck, 
 in the Commons for their bitter personal attacks on 
 Sir Robert Peel ! AVhat lurid flashes would have darted in 
 all directions, lighting up the darkness of the bucolic mind ! 
 "What a theme for a poet of the people, the great Free 
 Trade Minister fjxlling at the very moment, and in the very 
 arms of victory ! For this Avas the eventful moment, when 
 just as the Corn Importation and Customs Duties Bills had 
 received the Eoyal Assent, that Sir Robert, deserted by the 
 bulk of the Conservative party in Parliament on the Pro- 
 tection to Life in Ireland Bdl, placed his resignation in the 
 hands of Her Majesty. When the ' Morning Chronicle ' 
 was a pure Whig paper under the proprietorship of 
 Sir John Easthope, and the editorship of his son-in-law, 
 Mr. Andrew Doyle, and supported Lord Melbourne's admi- 
 nistration, the Everard Clive of Tipperary Hall had con-
 
 PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION. vii 
 
 tributed to it a series of political pasquinades in verse of 
 such exquisite flavour and fancy, that even in the highest 
 literary circles they were attributed to the gifted author of 
 the old Rhymes on the Eoacl and the Fables for the Holy Alli- 
 ance. It will be remembered that the ' Morning Chronicle ' 
 in Mr. Perry's time had been the vehicle of Moore's happi- 
 est efforts in this line ; and that it was not until a few 
 years after the retreat of the Melbourne Whigs from office 
 his brilliant intellect fell into that moral torpor from 
 which death at length released him in 1852. AVhat a noble 
 pcean on the great triumph of freedom, humanity, and 
 common sense, should we not have had in the July (1846) 
 number of the Tipperary Hall from the author of the Lay 
 of the Derby, who celebrated in June the triumph of Mr. 
 Gully's horse Pyrrhus, and in May the victory gained by 
 Cambridge (his own university) over Oxford in the great 
 annual boat race on the Thames, if the injunction respect- 
 ing political parties and men set forth at the opening of the 
 convivialities had not been rigidly observed : 
 
 Si quis Plebi faveat, faveat decenter ; 
 Si quis Optimatibus, faveat silenter : 
 Oinnibua Politicis nisi temperentur 
 Cor ei'uctat nimium, esuritque renter ! 
 
 The opinion broached in the last line, it may bo said, by 
 the way, had less reference to Tipperary Hall than to the 
 hungry, and too often, as in those very days, virulent side 
 of the House of Commons w^hich goes by the name of Her 
 Majesty's Opposition. 
 
 There was one great national contest, however, which 
 occupied the minds of all parties in the country earlier in 
 the year, before the great and final parliamentary light on 
 the Corn Laws had come on, and the glorious issue of 
 which was hailed with equal joy by all, namely, the Sikh 
 Avar in India. A triple victory conducted tiu! Ih'iti.sh forces 
 to the banks of tiie Sutlcj. The battle; of Soljraon scat-
 
 viii PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION. 
 
 tered to the wind an immense barbaric host, furnished with 
 all the material of European warfare, and guided by the 
 skill of European discipline. Within three months from 
 the encampment of our troops on the north bank of the 
 Indus the British flag floated on the ramparts of Lahore ; 
 and our eastern dominion was advanced to the confines of 
 Thibet. Enghsh, Irish, and Scottish soldiers fought with 
 equal bravery and the most generous rivalry in the truly 
 heroic campaign. They exhibited the same qualities which 
 shone in other days of our history, and proved that the 
 spirit which breathed in Olive's soldiers at Arcot and 
 Plassy had not vanished nor grown Aveak — that the same 
 l^luck which prevailed over fearful odds at Assaye and Delhi 
 still remained in unimpaired vigour, to confront the mur- 
 derous onslaught of a formidable artillery and the fierce 
 violence of savage horsemen ; and that to such men as 
 Hardinge, Gilbert, Gough, and the Hero of Alivval might 
 well have been delegated the consummation of a work be- 
 gun by Clive, Coote, Lake and Wellesley. As the glad 
 tidings of each successive victory over the Sikh forces 
 arrived in England, a Tipperary Hall ballad celebrated it in 
 strains which the victors themselves soon learned and re- 
 joiced to sing ; and it was of no ordinary significance at the 
 moment that the Whiskey Drinker's portion of those strains, 
 so peculiarly adapted to the sympathies of the Irish soldiers, 
 were most popular amongst them, whilst the Young Ireland 
 ballads Avere just at the highest point of their native popu- 
 larity, scattering the wildfire of an unavailing disaffection 
 amongst the Irish middle classes and peasantry at home. 
 
 Tipperary Hall, a series of conversational papers on lite- 
 rature, art, and social questions, extending over a period of 
 six months in ' Bentley's Miscellany,' 1846, was the joint 
 production of a couple of young barristers of the English 
 Home Cii'cuit, and a physician, also young at the time, v/ha
 
 PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION. be 
 
 Las since become one of our most distinguished pliilological 
 and ethnological writers. One of the barristers who wrote 
 for a long time in the ' Miscellany ' under the signature of 
 the ' Irish Whiskey Drinker,' having a few years after the 
 appearance of the Tipperary Hall papers married a lady of 
 sufficiently good fortune to enable him to indulge in the 
 more congenial pleasures of literary ease and foreign travel^ 
 lost sight for a long time of Messieurs the attornies, who, 
 if the truth must be known, never had their eyes much 
 upon him ; for in those days they fought very shy of undis- 
 guised literary members of the bar, and managed to do the 
 best part of their legal business without them. Talfourd 
 was the first to break the ice of this very vulgar prejudice ; 
 and the other young barrister of the Tipj^erary Hall party 
 having won his way not by political or family influence, 
 but by do'vvnright professional industry and ability, to high 
 judicial rank, sent it floating down the stream of time, never 
 again to chill with its hardened selfishness the genial aspi- 
 rations of a noble profession. And it is Avorthy of remark 
 that, so far from abandoning literature as he felt himself 
 rising to the highest position in the legal world, he devoted 
 his leisure hours to the composition of one of the most 
 popular Avorks on military history in our language — a work 
 Avhich the New Burlington House had the honour of pub- 
 lishing and Avhich has gone through several editions. His 
 Tipperary Hall nom de lolume in the morning of his profes- 
 sional career was Everard Clive. The young physician con- 
 tributed under the guise of the Travelling Bachelor, a sort of 
 peripatetic philosopher to Avhom (once every three years) 
 the University of Cambridge gives or used to give a hand- 
 some pecuniary viaticum, requiring in return a hoiif'i fide tour 
 of observation in foreign countries, and a report thereof 
 within a reasonable time. 
 
 The late gifted and lamented Edward Forbes, when at
 
 X PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION. 
 
 the head of the Government Geological Museum in Jermyn 
 Street, "wrote the song of The, Potato Commission, an ex- 
 •ceeding clever jeux d'esjmt, full of wit and humour, although 
 on a grave subject apparently. The ridicule, however, Avas 
 purely from a scientific point of view, showing how little 
 the commissioners were able to do, and the utter hopeless- 
 ness of ascertaining the prime causes of the terrible rot 
 itself, which is still reckoned amongst the mysterious visita- 
 tions of Providence. Sir Eobert Peel, it will be remem- 
 bered, appointed in 1846 a commission of scientific men, who 
 .laboured Avith great zeal and industry on the spot on the 
 question of the failure of the Irish root. The result of their 
 labours was that they told us, as regards the effects of the 
 disease, what we knew before ; whilst, as to its real origin, 
 they came back as wise as they went. Forbes was one of 
 the brilliant company Avhich Everard and the Dew-drinker, 
 who rented the place together, used to assemble now and 
 then to spend a pleasant evening at Tipperary Hall ; and sang 
 his song of The Potato Commission on one of those occasions 
 for the first time with great applause. It appeared shortly 
 .afterwards in the ' IMiscellany.' The author of the song 
 frequently afterwards favoured the ' Eed Lion Literary and 
 Scientific Society' after dinner Avith it, in presence of Pro- 
 fessor Playfair, the chief Potato Commissioner, Avho enjoyed 
 it as much as any one present. He died a fcAV years back 
 Eoyal Professor of Botany, at the University of Edinburgh, 
 in the j)rime of his years, much lamented by a numerous 
 <;ircle of fiiends, Avho all esteemed him for his manly princi- 
 ples and great abilities, and loved him Avith a Avarm love for 
 Ms gentle manners and most amiable disposition. Tippe- 
 rary Hall was not a poet's myth, but a comfortable and 
 someAvhat prosaic looking reality. It stood on no moun- 
 tain's broAv Avith magnificent sea and land vicAvs to elevate 
 the imagination. It did not command the entrance of rocky
 
 PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION. xi 
 
 •dell or flowery vale, -vvitli foaming cascade or sweet streamlefc 
 •in front of its Gotliic porch. It was not — 
 
 " a lodge in some vast wilderness, 
 Some boundless contiguity of shade." 
 
 Nothing so romantic, but a long, low, primitive-looking cot- 
 tage dwelling of several gables, Avitli one portion of the roof 
 thatched, another tiled, and another again slated, showing, 
 as the different geological strata show the Avorld to be a 
 good deal older than our grandfathers and grandmothers 
 took it to be, that the building had been put together in 
 detachments, as civilization crejjt on, and the funds or 
 families of former proprietors kept increasing. It stood a 
 short distance northward of the village of Highgate, on the 
 Finchley road, flanked on one side by a large dairy farm, 
 from which the celibates drew their supplies of milk for 
 their celebrated Tipperary Hall punch, and on the other by 
 a garden which had less fruits than flowers in it, the boys 
 of the neighbourhood being accustomed to look after the 
 former long before they were ripe, and the latter being of 
 the wildest description, in all respects like Goldsmith's 
 " blossomed furze, unprofitably gay." The excellent tap of 
 The, Wellington seemed opportunely placed for an oppo- 
 site neighbour. AVithin a half mile or so farther north, 
 was TJbe Bald-faced Stag, whose hanging sign had no 
 reference to a leading zoological feature of the famous rail- 
 way year, 184G, but had hung there from the old coacliing 
 times, and long before them, when Hogarth painted his 
 March to Fincldey. 
 
 The contributions to the ' Miscellany ' by Maginn and 
 Prout were of a prior date by some years to the Tipperary 
 Hall papers. Both of those celebrated litterateurs had in 
 fact contributed to its first number (January, 1837), the 
 Doctor giving the Opening Chaiint, and tlie Padro a goodly 
 number of liis classical comicalities. Tlic latt(!r was going
 
 xli PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION. 
 
 off as tlie Tipperaries were coming on, and the former had 
 gone off four years iDefore, leaving a blank in 'Frazer's. 
 Magazine' and ' Bentley's Miscellany/ which it was most 
 difficult to fill up. In 1842, that splendid Irish genius, at- 
 once vigorous and fine, and so eccentric and unfortunate 
 throughout a comparatively short career, passed away from 
 amongst us for ever. One of his best lyrical efforts in a. 
 serious vein was his Soldier Boy. It appeared first in the ' Mis- 
 cellany,' and is given in the present edition of the Ballads. 
 
 Prout contributed in verse much more largely than his 
 friend, the Doctor, to the ' Miscellany ;' and although he 
 first rose to literary fame "with the Prout papers in 
 ' Frazer's,' where his polyglot facetiae took the world of 
 scliolarship by surprise, so signally and so agreeably, it may 
 be fairly said that the gems of a similar description with 
 Avhich he enriched the ' Miscellany,' were equally brilliant 
 and of the first water. He also gave several original lays 
 and songs to the New Burlington Street periodical, such as 
 the Song of Saint Jamiarius, and the Redbreast of Aquitania, 
 which may be considered amongst his best. Prout's pure 
 and idiomatic Latinity and medioeval quaintness of 
 thought, displayed through the medium of his exquisite 
 monkish rhymes, were something extraordinary. It is ac- 
 counted for in this way, that having received the rudi- 
 ments of his classical education in his native city of Cork, 
 he pursued and completed it in more than one of the Col- 
 leges of the Jesuits abroad. During his boyhood, Cork, 
 whatever it may be now, Avas famous for its accurate train- 
 ing in what may be called the junior classics, and esj^ecially 
 as regards a philological, if not an otherwise deeply critical 
 knowledge of them. Indeed, throughout the province of 
 Munster you could scarcely find a village which had not at 
 the head of its school one of tliat class of teachers called 
 red-v:igs, — laborious and conscientious men in their line,
 
 PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION. xili 
 
 iind terrible disciplinarians, Avlio tanglit Latin and Greek, 
 and tiie elements of mathematics, up to the University 
 entrance requirements, and taught these branches of pri- 
 mary education well, for they spared no fains or penalties — 
 in the strictest sense of the terms — and would have the 
 business done. Those were the days, and Munster was the 
 country of the "poor scholars," who wandered about from 
 tutor to tutor, the charitable farmers of the neighbourhood 
 affording them in turn a week's board and lodging for God's 
 sake, just as the students of the Middle Ages, thirsting equally 
 after knowledge, and equally poor, were received through- 
 out the schools, not only of Ireland, but the Continent. 
 
 Front's career in Uteris humaniorihus on the Continent, 
 was a distinguished one. It was under foreign Jesuits that 
 lie learned to write Latin elegiacs, hexameters, alcaics, and 
 Sapphics, with ease and elegance, and it can be easily under- 
 stood that the curious felicity of expression to which he 
 afterwards attained in his published productions, was 
 greatly assisted by the copious Latinity he acquired in the 
 upper schools of philosophy and theology, in which it was 
 the language of thesis and disputation. He spoke it with 
 facility when a young man, on leaving the Jesuits, and when 
 he made his first appearance as a periodical writer. French 
 and Italian, he spoke nearly as well as his mother tongue. 
 
 These few observations on the most famous Latin verse 
 writer of his day, and the means by which he acquired his 
 truly classic elegance and facility, may not be uninteresting 
 to academic readers, especially at a time when change after 
 change is taking place in the educational course, not only 
 of our great public schools, but of our old Universities; when 
 we already begin to contemplate the ignoble picture of the 
 future in wliich our grandsons shall be seen turning away 
 from the ancient fountains from which even the humblest 
 drank the mystic waters, and felt a generous glow ; and
 
 XIV PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION. 
 
 when old and young worshippers ahke are beginning to 
 ask, are the voices and echoes of the haunted groves and 
 streams of old to be lost before long, as we go down " the 
 ringing grooves of change," amidst the roar of the steam- 
 engine and the iron way ? 
 
 Of myself and the space which I fill in the ' Bentley 
 Ballads,' I may not speak, more than to say that when far 
 away from England, after having lost sight of the New Bur- 
 lington House for years, it did me the honour of selecting 
 for the first and second editions of the ' Ballads,' some of 
 my contributions to the old ' Miscellany,' amongst these 
 my Latin rhymes {e,t ego in Arcadia), for I too before going 
 up to the Dublin University, and afterwards to Cambridge, 
 received my primary education at the Eton of Ireland, 
 Clongowes Wood, from the men who taught Prout how 
 to write Latin verses. For these or any other selections in 
 this volume I am not answerable. I cannot say with 
 Montaigne : — " I have here only made a bouquet of culled 
 flowers, and have brought nothing of my own but the 
 thread that tied them." 
 
 The flowers have been culled, the bouquet has been made 
 by other hands; nor is the thread which binds them 
 together mine, unless the thread of my discourse, the 
 qiiodam commune vinculum, be deemed such, which binds 
 me to the spirits who arc gone — the leading spirits of the 
 'Miscellany.' This publication was purchased by Mr. 
 William Harrison Ainsworth from the New Burlington 
 Street House in December, 1854. Mr. Bentley has recently 
 re-purchased it, with a view of consigning it to " the Tomb 
 of all the Capulets." 
 
 With this plain avowal, I will now say to the reader, 
 
 Ave et vale f — Hail and Fakewell ! 
 
 J. S.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 THE TIPPEEAEY HALL BALLADS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE LENGTHENED CHAIN. BY THE TKAVEILINGt BACHELOE 1 
 
 THE EICHMOND TIDE. BY ETEEAED CLIYE 2 
 
 TIPPEEAEY. BY THE lEISH WHISKEY DEINKER 3 
 
 THE POTATO COMMISSION. BY PEOFESSOE EDWAED E0EBE3 4 
 
 THE FIIET. BY ETEEAED CLIVE 5 
 
 THE sunbeam's COMPLAINT. BY THE TEATELLINa BACHELOK G 
 
 SIE EODEEICK MUECHISON. BY THE TEATELLINa BACHELOR 7 
 
 THE COLD WATEE CUEE. BY THE lEISH WHISKEY DEINKEE 8 
 
 JESSIE, (two YEESIONS) . BY ETEEAED CLITE 9 
 
 SOFT BE THY SLEEP. BY THE TEATELLINO- BACHELOE ib' 
 
 THE JATJNTINa CAE. BY THE lEISH WHISKEY DEINKEE 10 
 
 CUE NEXT MEEEY MEETING. BY ETEEAED CLITE 11 
 
 PHASCOLOTHEEION BEODEEIPI, BY THE TEATELXING BACHELOE .. . 13 
 
 THE CAMPAIGN OP THE SUTLEJ. BY THE lEISH WHISKEY DEINKEE id. 
 
 DEINK, BOYS, DEINK. BY ETEEAED CLITE 14 
 
 THE TOP OF THE GLASS. BY THE TEATELLING BACHELOR 15 
 
 THE BATTLE OF SOBEAON. BY THE lEISH WHISKEY DEINKEE 16 
 
 THE LAY OF THE DEEBY. BY ETEEAED CLITE 18 
 
 EEGULa; ATJL^ TIPPEEAEY. BY THE TEATELLING BACHELOE 19 
 
 THE OREGON SQTJATTEES. 1846. BY THE TEATELLING BACHELOE 20 
 WHAT MAKES THE WOELD GO BOUND. BY THE lEISH WHISKEY 
 
 DEINKEE 21 
 
 CAROLINE. BY ETEEAED CLITE i^J- 
 
 HOLD YOUE OWN. 1816. BY THE TEATELLING BACHELOE -'J: 
 
 THE QUEEN'S TISIT TO lEELAND. 1840. BY THE lEISH WJILSKEY 
 
 DEINKEE 23
 
 xvi CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 ALE. BY EVEEARD CLIVE 25 
 
 ANNEXATION. 18i6. BY THE TRAYELLING BACHELOR lb. 
 
 THE DESCENT OF ORPHEUS. BY THE IRISH WHISEEY DRINKER ... 27 
 
 BOAT SONG. BY EVEEAED CLIVE 28 
 
 CHILLIAN-WALL AH. BY THE IRISH WHISKEY DRINKER 29 
 
 GOOZERAT. BY EVERAED CLITE ,., 31 
 
 THE CLARET CUP. BY ETEEAED CLITE 33 
 
 ADELAIDE. BY THE TEATELLING BACHELOR ih. 
 
 IBEAHIM pacha's IRISH TRIP. 18i6. BY THE IRISH WHISKEY 
 
 DEINKER 3i 
 
 MAY MOENING. BY THE IRISH WHISKEY DEINKER 35 
 
 THE CAMBEIDGE AND OXFOED BOAT RACE FOR 1816. BY EVEEAKD 
 
 CLIVE 36 
 
 THE CHISWICK FLOWER FETE FOE 1846. BY THE TEAVELLING 
 
 BACHELOR • 40 
 
 A SAD CASE. BY EVERAED CLIVE 43 
 
 THE DEVIL'S RACE. BY THE IRISH WHISKEY DRINKER 4-1 
 
 GENEEAL BALLADS, 
 
 THE OPENING CIIAUNT. BY DR. MAGINN 52 
 
 THE WINE-BIBBEE'S GLOEY ' 
 
 }- 
 
 ■ BY DE. MAGINN 
 POTOEIS GLOEIA 
 
 THE BOTTLE OF ST. JANUABIUS. BY FATHER PEOUT 58 
 
 THE JACKDAW OF EHEIMS. BY THOMAS INGOLDSBY 61 
 
 OLD MORGAN AT PANAMA. BY G. E. INMAN 64 
 
 OLD AGE AND YOUTH. BY THOMAS HAINES BAYLE Y 73 
 
 THE SABINE FAEMEE'S SEEENADE. BY FATHER PEOUT ) 
 
 > oO 
 
 BARNEY BEALLAGHAN. BY TOM HUDSON" ) 
 
 THE LEGEND OF MANOR HALL, BY THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK 85 
 
 THE " original" DRAGON. BY 0. J. DAVIDS 90 
 
 SAPPHO. BY C. HARTLEY LANGHORNE v- ^2 
 
 THE TEMPTATIONS OF ST. ANTHONY ^,''\ ^ 
 
 A TALE OF GEAMMAEYE 102 
 
 THE EED-BEEAST OF AQUITANIA. BY FATHER PEOUT 107
 
 CONTENTS. xvli 
 
 TAfiE 
 
 THE MONKS OF OlD. BY WILLIAM JOXLS 116 
 
 THE PEOG. BY THE lEISH WHISKEY DKINKEE Il7 
 
 AD MOLLISSIMAM PUELLAM E GETICA CAEUAEUM: FAMILIA."\ 
 
 OTIDIUS NASO LAMENTATUE > US' 
 
 MOLLY CAEEW. BY SAM LOTEE ) 
 
 THE GEAND CHAM OF TARTAEY AXD THE HUMBLE-BEE. BY C. J. 
 
 DAVIDS 123 
 
 HAEOUN ALEASCHID. BY G. E. IXMAN 125 
 
 TO THE HOT WELLS OF CLIFTON. IN PEAISE OF EUM PUNCH. BY 
 
 PATHEE PEOUT 130 
 
 WHOAEEYOU? BY SAM LOVEE AND FATHEE PEOUT 131 
 
 SONG OF JANUARY. BY FATHEE PEOUT 133 
 
 THE OLD BELL 135 
 
 OLD MOUNTAIN DEW. BY CHAELES MACKAY 130 
 
 THE PHANTOM SHIP. BY ELLEN PICKEEING 137 
 
 A MEEEY DITTY ON THE MOUNTAIN DEW. BY JOSEPH O'LEAEY... N 
 
 AD EOEEM MONTANUM. DITHYEAMBUS. BY THE IRISH WHISKEY |> 140 
 
 DEINKEE ) 
 
 POETICAL EPISTLE TO BOZ. FROM FATHER PKOUT 141 
 
 SARD AN AP ALUS 115 
 
 ERINNA, BY C. HARTLEY lANGHOENE 150 
 
 FOE a' that. by ROBERT BURNS ) , ^ 
 
 lo2 
 
 QUOI ! PAUVRE HONNETE ! BY FATHER PROUT ) 
 
 THE VOICES OF THE NIGHT. BY H. W. LONGFELLOW 151 
 
 RICHELIEU 156 
 
 *' NOT A DRUM WAS HEARD." FRENCH TEANSLATION BY FATHER 
 
 PROUT 160 
 
 THE ABBESS AND THE DUCHESS, BY THOMAS HAYNES BAYLEY 161 
 
 DEAR WOMAN. BY THE OLD SAILOR 161 
 
 LOVE AND POVERTY 165 
 
 PHELIM O'TOOLE'S NINE MUSE-INGS ON HIS NATIVE COUNTRY ib. 
 
 INVITATION TO AN EVENING WALK. BY J. A. WADE 170 
 
 THE EVENING STAR. BY H. W. LONGFELLOW 171 
 
 THE FOREST TREB. BY J. B. T 172 
 
 KUBLAIKIIAN; OR, THE SIEGi: Or KINSAI 17i 
 
 fj
 
 xviii CONTENTS. 
 
 I'AGE 
 
 XINES TO MT DOUBLE-BAEEELIED GUN, BEOWN BESS. ET J. ST. L. 
 
 MC. C 18S 
 
 THE ASCEKTS OF MONT BLANC. ET ALBEET SMITH 190 
 
 A LETTER EEOM AN OLD COTJNTST HOUSE. BY ALBEET SMITH 192 
 
 THE MAN WITH A TUFT. BY THOMAS HATNES BAYLET 19i 
 
 A MODEEN ECLOGUE 19G 
 
 THE LASS OF ALBANY. BY EGBERT BUENS 199 
 
 HEAVY WET 200 
 
 THE SNAIL 207 
 
 TO A FOUNTAIN IN HYMETTUS. BY EDWAED EENEALY 209 
 
 COUNT CASKO' WHISKEY AND HIS THEEE HOUSES. A TEMPEEANCE 
 
 BALLAD 211 
 
 THE LOVEE'S LEAP. BY J. A. WADE 215 
 
 WEECK OF THE HESPEEUS. BY H. W. LONGFELLOW lb. 
 
 THE WINE GOD. BY C. HAETLEY LANGHOENE 218 
 
 A TEUE LOVE SONG. BY ALFEED CSOWQUILL 219 
 
 WHITE BAIT. BY WE3TM0NASTEEIENSIS 220 
 
 SAINT PATllICK. AUTHOE UNKNOWN 
 
 !- 
 
 . -21 
 
 SANCTUS PATEICIUS. IKISH WHISKEY DETNKEE , ' 
 
 THE FISHEEMAN'S DWELLING. FEOM THE GEEMAN OF HEINEICH 
 
 HEINE. BY MAEY HOWITT 224 
 
 THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. BY H. W. LONGFELLOW 225 
 
 CUPID IN LONDON. BY E. MOKE 226 
 
 THE MISLETOE. BY FATHEE PEOUT 228 
 
 THE GEEEK poet's DEEAM. BY EDWAED ZENEALY 231 
 
 MY SOLDIEE BOY. BY DE. MAGINN 233 
 
 ENDTMION. BY H. W. LONGFELLOW 234 
 
 THE WAE SONG OF THE GALLANT EIGHTY-EIGHTH. BY THE IRISH "j 
 
 WHISKEY DEINKEE > 235 
 
 PXAN MILITAEIS lEGIONIS LXXXVIII HIBEENIC^ j 
 
 TJIE EAINY DAY. BY H. W. LONGFELLOW 239 
 
 MY NORA ! BY T. J. OUSELEY ib. 
 
 EXCELSIOR. BY H. W. LONGFELLOW 240 
 
 HON. ME. SUCKLETHUMBKIN'S STORY. THE EXECUTION-. BY 
 
 THOMAS INGOLDSEY 241
 
 CONTENTS. xlx 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE EXPEDITION TO PONTAELIN. BY W. COOKE TATLOE 245 
 
 THE SIEGE OF HENSBUEGH. BY JOHN EYAN 247 
 
 3EYAN O'lTXN. BY THE IEISH WHISKEY DEINKEE ) 
 
 / A i 250 
 
 IE EOY D XYETOT. (BEEANGEE) ) 
 
 THEOCEITUS. BY C. H. lANGHOENE 251 
 
 SPEING. a EELIC of PEOVENCAl LITEEATTJEE. BY W. C. TAYLOE 253 
 
 OWED TO MY CEEDITOES. BY ALFEED CEOWQUIll 254 
 
 EAILWAY DACTYLS. BY G. D 255 
 
 THE NOEilAN PEASANT'S HYMN TO THE VIEGIN. BY WILLIAM JONES 256 
 
 WELLINGTON. BY H. W. LONGFELLOW 257 
 
 GATHEE THE EOSEBUDS WHILE YOU MAY ! BY GEOEGE DANIEL ... 259 
 
 THE ILLUMINATION. A TALE OF ALMA MATEE. BY A. E. W 260 
 
 THE MAEQUIS WELLESLEY'S ADDEESS TO ETON 262 
 
 ONE HOUE WITH DEATH 263 
 
 TO A LADY SINGING. BY J. A. WADE 265 
 
 JAEL EOLLO. BY G. E. INMAN 266 
 
 THE abbot's oak. A LEGEND OF MONEY-HUTCH LANE. BY E. 
 
 DALTON BAEHAM 2G9 
 
 SALLY IN OUE ALLEY. BY G. K. GILLESPIE 
 
 J 2S 
 
 ''SI 
 
 IN SAEAM. BY G. K. GILLESPIE 
 
 HOEACE TO LYDE. BY C. H. LANGHOENE 284 
 
 A DELECTABLE BALLAD OF THE JUDGE AND THE MASTEE. BY TOM 
 
 TAYLOE 2S5 
 
 THE COBBLEE OF TOLEDO. A LEGEND OF CASTILE 2SS 
 
 THE LOED PEOTECTOE'S GHOST. A BALLAD. BY CHAELES KENT . , . 303 
 
 ME. BAENEY MAGUIEE'S ACCOUNT OF THE COEONATION 307 
 
 ELEGIAC TEIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS HAYNE3 BAYLKY. 
 
 BY MfiS. C. BAEON WILSON 310 
 
 AS I LAYE A-XHYNKYNGE. THE LAST LINES OF THOMAS INGOLDf-BV 3H
 
 i
 
 THE 
 
 TIPPERAEY HALL EALLADS. 
 
 THE LENGTHEXED CHAIK. 
 
 T COULD have gone away, afar, 
 
 Xor cared where winds or waves might speed me ; 
 And looking on some distant star, 
 
 Let it mislead me. 
 I little recked for fatherland, 
 
 As little cared for home ; 
 And had been free for land and sea, 
 At choice to roam. 
 
 But when I roved the furthest, 
 I lengthened most the chain, 
 For one soft feeling ever 
 Could draw me back again. 
 
 A dimple on a fair, pale face. 
 
 With a sweet smile around it, 
 Had won my heart, both child and man. 
 
 And firmly bound it. 
 Else had I climbed the Andes, 
 
 AVhere ice gleams high and bold. 
 And found a home as distant there, 
 And not more cold. 
 
 So when I found that roving 
 
 But lengthened out the chain, 
 I turned my steps, but not my heart, 
 And hied me home again. 
 
 TllAVELLING BACnELOB. 
 1
 
 THE EICHMOXD TIDE. 
 
 uiir, " T/ie Liiieolnshire Fuachen" 
 
 'Tis very ■well 
 
 For a yachting swell 
 
 To talk about the sea, 
 His flowing sheet, 
 His hark so fleet, 
 
 And the breeze so fair and free. 
 You may call it dull 
 Oa the Thames to scull, 
 
 But 'twill do very well for mo. 
 Oh, I like to glide 
 On the Eichmond tide. 
 
 And my lady love with me. 
 
 ' Oh, come, my dear, 
 To the Temple pier ; 
 
 "We'll steam to Battersea ; 
 'Tis there my boat 
 Doth lie afloat 
 
 Expecting you and me. 
 "We'll go at our ease 
 As high as we please, 
 
 From the swell of the steamers freo. 
 Oh, I like to glide. 
 On the Bichmond tide, 
 
 And my lady love with me. 
 
 My skiff she's neat, 
 And quite completo. 
 
 To carry a fair ladye. 
 And I'm the man. 
 That manage her can. 
 
 As you, my dear, manage mo.. 
 By gentle skill 
 "We work our will. 
 
 And taking it easily. 
 Oh, I like to glide 
 On the llichmond tide, 
 
 And my lady love with mo^
 
 THE RICHMOND TIDE. 
 
 With my skulls so trim 
 I'll lightly skim 
 
 By lawn, and flower, and tree ; 
 And look up, and view 
 Tour eyes so blue, 
 
 Still looking down on me ; 
 And the music hear 
 Of your voice so clear, 
 
 In its soft and silver key. 
 Oh, I like to glide 
 On the Ptichmond tide, 
 
 And my lady love with me. 
 
 EViiRARD ClIVE. 
 
 TIPPERAEY! 
 
 ■Hon't talk of Horatius Flaccus, 
 
 And the suppers he gave at his farm ; 
 ^Neither whiskey's delight nor tobacco's 
 Had he got his old Ilomans to warm. 
 And Augustus, how he must have paltered 
 
 Amongst the few spirited chicks ; 
 Why, he owned he left Ptome mighty altered, 
 Having found it a city of bricks. 
 
 Away with such fine botheration. 
 
 And each classical son of a gun : 
 Tipper ary's the gem of the natio?i, 
 And we are the boys for the fun. 
 
 Sure they showed their ineligant manners, 
 
 When they carved with tlieir fingers their pvo[;-. 
 And they'd neither cheroots nor havannahs, 
 
 Nor sugar to sweeten their grog. 
 Then a bumper in gratitude filling 
 
 For the time of our birth, bless the stars, 
 'Twas delayed till the days of distilling, 
 And till llaleigh invented cigars. 
 
 Away with such fine botheration. 
 
 And eacli classical son of a gun ; 
 Tipperary's the gem of the nation. 
 And we are the boys for the fun. 
 
 Irish Whiskey Drimci:r. 
 1—2
 
 4 
 
 TEE POTATO COMMISSION. 
 
 IJave you heard the report — the last Edition — 
 
 Sent out by the great potato commission, 
 Who crossed the water to find some new 
 Materials for an Irish stew ? 
 For since 'twas vain to put the pot on, 
 "When every blessed root was rotten, 
 Sir Robert thought to improve the mess, sirs, 
 By a brace and a half of roast Professors ! 
 
 (Sich a row there's been of late, ! 
 
 All about a rotten potato !) 
 
 King Dan had said, " the horrid cracks on 
 The skin were the work of the hoof of the Saxon :" 
 Back'd by Prince John and Smith O'Brien, 
 His word Repealers all rely on ; 
 For when the Liberator takes a fancy, 
 Through the thickest mill-stone he will and can see. 
 " The rot," says he, " those fellows came fishin' here 
 Was fostered by the Times' Commissioner !" 
 (Who say in return that the great 0' 
 ConnelFs a rotten-hearted potato I) 
 
 The report is both a short and sweet one. 
 And if not profound, is at least a neat one ; 
 It states — " AU ways that we could guess 
 We tried of praties to make a mess, — 
 We tried them boiled — we tried them roasted, 
 We tried them fried, we tried them toasted. 
 All sorts and sizes, till, lieu vanum, 
 Nothing came out but smashed Solamim. 
 
 (And wasn't that a dreadful fate, ! 
 
 To come of taking a rotten potato !) 
 
 " Some say that grub is the cause of the rot ; 
 But we, my Lords, affirm it is not ; 
 For, isn't it plain, and there's the rub, 
 For such potatoes won't do for grub. 
 We've taken the matter feculaceous, 
 And tried to make it farinaceous.
 
 THE POTATO COMMISSION. 
 
 'Twon't do for dinner, tea, nor tiffin, 
 
 Tor if fed on starch, you'll certainly stiffen, 
 
 (And tliat ■would be a precious state, ! 
 
 Eesulting from a rotten potato !) 
 
 Some cock tlieir glasses up to their eye, 
 
 And muskrooms in the cells descry, 
 
 But we, my Lords, have looked as well, 
 
 And think such notions all a sell ; 
 
 Decaine in France, in Germany Kutzing, 
 
 Have sought the rot all manner of roots in. 
 
 And proved that those have looked with a loose eye 
 
 "Who said 'twas caused by fungi and fuci. 
 (Sure never since the days of Plato 
 "Was there sich a row 'bout a rotten potato !) 
 
 Now these, my Lords, are our opinions — 
 It's a bad look out for the British dominions. 
 We know as much as we did before. 
 And we don't think we shall know any more ! 
 As for Sulanum Tuberosum, 
 It's a very bad job for them as grows 'em. 
 Yv''e think the weather has made them scurfy. 
 And we've proved the same by consulting Murphy ! 
 (And if our report don't please debaters, 
 Tliey must get some other common-taters !) 
 
 PilOFESSOE. EDWAUD FORBES. 
 
 THE FLIRT. 
 
 T'ell her that her eye is blue, 
 
 And she'll tell you that she knows it 
 Ev'ry bit as well as you : 
 
 Ev'ry morn her mirror shows it. 
 
 Tell her that her voice is sweet. 
 That 'tis heaven to behold her : 
 
 And slie'U ask you, " Why repeat 
 
 What a thousand more have told her ?"
 
 THE FLIRT. 
 
 Either coin some awful lie. 
 
 That with novelty may strike her ; 
 Or in silence watching by, 
 
 Let her try to make you like her. 
 
 Let her speak her mind the first : 
 
 Then the game is most diverting. 
 "Women's vanity will burst 
 
 Ere it lose a chance of flirting. 
 
 EVEKARD ClIVE, 
 
 THE SUNBEAM'S COMPLAINT. 
 
 Vou'vE heard how Alexis electrified London, 
 And EUiotson doetor'd the Misses O'Key ; 
 How Wheatstone's expresses have time and space undone ; 
 Einally, Faraday's magnetized me. 
 
 Mercury, iodine, acids had all but 
 
 Made me as lank and as latent as Heat : 
 And I fondly imagined that Moser and Talbot 
 
 Had fix'd my conditions, and made me complete. 
 
 So I sped from the skies, in my radiance brightening, 
 As free as I moved on tlie morn of my birth ; 
 
 When, just as old Franklin maltreated the lightning, 
 Did Faraday lower and link me to earth. 
 
 Attracting, repelling, he went on and on, 'stead 
 
 Of passing me free to my regular goal, 
 Till at last I inclined, like the heiress of Wanstead, 
 
 With a qxiivering tremor, and turn'd to the Tole. 
 
 And now I'm converted — the Whitcchapel Sheenies 
 Who stick to their faith are far better than I : 
 
 I'm a sort of Sir Lopez Manasseh Ximenes, 
 A physical fiction whose day is gone by. 
 
 Dishonour'd in England, where never a ray shone 
 
 Except to be analyzed fifty times o'er ; 
 I'll fly to the clime of the right generation. 
 
 Where Magi revered me, and Gucbres adore.
 
 THE SUNBEAAfS COMPLAINT. 
 
 I'll go to the East, where I'll build a Kiosqiie, of which 
 All the high priests shall have nothing to do ; 
 
 So I'U be safe from Mosotti and Boscowitch, 
 Possibly safe against Faraday too. 
 
 Or else to old Ireland — for Eastern bloods run there — 
 And undulate free as the quavers of Hullah : 
 
 Since Science is more at a discount than fun there ; 
 And trust to the mercies of Lloyd and MaccuUagh. 
 
 So you my susceptible sisters in — iciiy, 
 
 And you my dear brothers galvanic in — ism^ 
 
 "Would you retain independent felicity, 
 
 Steer clear of the Doctor, and fly from his prism. 
 
 Else, sure as gun, he'U go off to assail ye, as 
 
 Convertible forces to change at his call ; 
 And Matter himself must look out for an aliasy 
 
 Or he'll end in becoming no matter at all. 
 
 Travelling Bachelor. 
 
 SIR RODERICK MURCHISOX. 
 
 Who first survey'd the Russian states ? 
 
 And made the great Azoic dates ? 
 And work'd the Scandinavian slates ? 
 
 Sir Roderick. 
 
 "Who calculated Nature's shocks ? 
 And proved the low Silurian rocks 
 Detritus of more ancient blocks ? 
 
 Sir Roderick. 
 
 Who knows of what all rocks consist ? 
 And sees his way where all is mist, 
 About the Metamorphic schist ? 
 
 Sir Roderick. 
 
 Who draws distinctions clear and nice 
 Between the old and the new Gneiss ? 
 And talks no nonsense about ice ? 
 
 Sir Roderick,
 
 S S/R RODERICK MURCHISON. 
 
 Let others, then, their stand maintain. 
 Work all for glory, nought for gain, 
 And each find faults, but none complain, 
 
 Sir Roderick : 
 
 Let Sedgwick say how things began, 
 
 Defend the old Creation plan. 
 
 And smash the new one, — if he can, — 
 
 Sir Iioderick : 
 
 Let Buckland set the land to rights, 
 Find meat in peas, and starch in blights, 
 And future food in coprolites. 
 
 Sir Roderick : 
 
 Let Agassiz appreciate tails. 
 And like the Virgin hold the scales, 
 , And Owen draw the teeth of whales. 
 
 Sir Roderick : 
 
 Take thou thy orders hard to spell. 
 And titles more than man can tell, — 
 I wish all such were earn'd as well, — 
 
 Sir Roderick. 
 Travelling Bachelor, 
 
 THE COLD WATER CURE. 
 _^ir — « Drops of Brandy." 
 
 f\B.y 'tis just since the days of Deucalion, 
 
 And my countryman, Misther O'Gyges, 
 "When Pyrrha came out as Pygmalion, 
 
 And the pebbles became Callipyges ;* 
 Since the days of Narcissus, who hung 
 
 O'er the flattering fount a divine eye, 
 And those of Arion, who sung 
 
 His sonnets in usum deljahiui. 
 
 To this the good year forty-six, 
 
 When the world's all mad with Hydropathy ; 
 
 And Priesnitz takes off with his tricks 
 The poor souls that escape Homeopathy : 
 
 * Tte false quantity is only the Whiskey Drinker's fun.
 
 THE COLD WATER CURE. 
 
 I ne'er knew a lass or a lad, 
 
 Son, father, or mother, or daughter, 
 That didn't go moping or mad, 
 
 As soon as they took to cowld water. 
 
 The element's precious indeed, 
 
 As Pindar assures us — to lave in ; 
 And the ocean may serve us at need, 
 
 As it served Polyphemus — to shave in. 
 But if you've regard for your life, 
 
 Oh keep it away from your pharynx : 
 'Tis as bad for the throat as a knife, 
 
 And worse than a rope for the larynx. 
 
 lEisn WnisKEY Dkinkek. 
 
 JESSIE. 
 
 Air — " One butnper at parfinf/." 
 'TwAS when you were ailing, dear Jessie, 
 
 Our hearts were as heavy as lead, 
 As for laughing or loving, why, bless ye, 
 
 They never came into one's head. 
 
 Now your roses return, you sweet cray tui'c, 
 And the physic is laid on the shelf. 
 
 There's a general rejoicing in Nature, 
 That Jessie again is herself. 
 
 EVKUARD CUVE. 
 
 'IE22H. 
 
 "Or' daOivug, 'liaaij, 
 "IvvaaQivova 'V.pMTig, 
 (pf.-ovS]) ixtv 'A(ppc8cr)}, 
 i>povSoi ytXwg, X^P'S ''f- 
 2ot 5' av9ig iviraQovaij, 
 "Or' iv KoKrj Trapiiq, 
 QdWti TO irpuaOtv dvOoQy 
 'E<piii)iTai TO. TTcivTa. 
 
 EVERARD CLIVE. 
 
 SOFT BE THY SLEEP. 
 
 CoFT be thy sleep, my lady love ! 
 
 And sweet thy dreams to-night. 
 No mortal watch is kept above 
 
 O'er one so pure and bright. 
 Eond angels flock to guard thy bed. 
 
 Throughout the night tlicy stay ; 
 And, as they hover o'er thy head, 
 
 Deem thee not formed of human claj', 
 
 i'or heavenly thou art aa they.
 
 lo SOFT BE THY SLEEP. 
 
 Soft be thy sleep, my lady love ! 
 
 My lay shall wake thee not; 
 No look entreat I now to prove 
 
 That I am not forgot ; 
 But here, till morning's early smile 
 
 Shall gild the eastern sea, 
 I linger on, and hope the while 
 
 One brighter still to have from thee, 
 
 In guerdon of my minstrelsy. 
 
 "Wake, softly wake, my lady love ! 
 
 The night is "well nigh o'er ; 
 May I not have one smile, dear love ? 
 
 I ask but one — no more ; 
 For that will be so sweet a one, 
 
 That I shall still delay. 
 Till morn shall own her smiles outdone, 
 
 And, all o'erclouded, pass away, 
 
 Or, blushing, redden into day. 
 
 Tkavelling Bachelok. 
 
 THE JAUNTING CAR. 
 
 Vou may pull away, scull away, 
 Boat away, float away. 
 Moisten your throat away, smoke your cigar, 
 
 'Tis all botheration. 
 
 Such slow navigation, 
 Compared with the rowl of the Jaunting Car. 
 
 'Tis sporting and spacious, 
 
 'Tis genteel and gracious. 
 Likewise efficacious 'gainst hail, rain and snow ; 
 
 To go any way hence. 
 
 From Dublin to Mayenee, 
 Take the Irish convej^ance wherever you go ! 
 
 Pelides, Tydides, 
 
 The great Alcibi'des, 
 Car-borne, each tried his proud foemen in war, 
 
 Likewise noble Hector, 
 
 Troy's valiant protector. 
 Of fleet steeds the rector, rode our on a car.
 
 THE JAUNTING CAR. ir 
 
 Cytherea and Pv-hea, 
 
 Queen Boadicea, 
 And that cliarmer Medea, when wandering afar, — 
 
 Old Ossian's great heroes, 
 
 Singing lillybulleros. 
 They all of them rattled away on a car. 
 
 Long life to car-driving, 
 
 And long be it thriving. 
 For courting or wiving, in peace, or in war. 
 
 If at elbows you're out, sir. 
 
 And in love are devout, sir. 
 Put your coat up the spout, sir, and hire a car. 
 
 To show the girls' faces. 
 
 And set off their graces, 
 At reviews and at races, wherever they are ; 
 
 And for soft conversation. 
 
 There's no situation 
 Comes up to the side of the Jaunting Car. 
 
 Irish Whiskey Drinker. 
 
 OUR NEXT MERRY MEETING. 
 
 The winds were made for blowing, boys. 
 
 The clouds were made for raining ; 
 The streams were made for flowing, boys, 
 
 And bowl§ were made for draining. 
 'Tis bad to try a speech or song, 
 
 And fail to give the whole out ; 
 Put 'tis a greater social wrong 
 To fail to drink your bowl out. 
 Fill, iill, my boys, once more, 
 
 Fill up before retreating, 
 One long last libation pour 
 To our next merry meeting. 
 
 There's not a gleam of life's delight, 
 
 Put's purcliased by a sorrow ; 
 The eye so bright that beams to-niglit 
 
 In grief may lour to-morrow.
 
 OUR NEXT MERRY MEETING. 
 
 Wealth, knowledge, power, are little wortli 
 
 Their price of toil and quarrel. 
 And oh, the deadliest leaf on earth 
 Is aye the leaf of laurel. 
 
 rill, fill, my boys, once more, 
 
 Fill np before retreating ; 
 One long last libation pour 
 To our next merry meeting. 
 
 Oh, where is he that does not know 
 
 The pang of loving blindly ; 
 The self-contempt, the jealous woe. 
 E'en when she meets you kindly. 
 And where is he that has not proved 
 
 The pang that still is stronger. 
 Of being by another loved. 
 Whom you can love no longer. 
 Fill, fill, my boys, once more. 
 
 Fill up before retreating ; 
 One long last libation pour 
 To our next merry meeting. 
 
 Since pleasure then by pain is bought, 
 
 At least life's lightest part take : 
 The head-ache from the bowl that's cauglit 
 
 Is better than the heart-ache. 
 He lives the best with open breast, 
 
 Yv^'lio welcomes joy the longest, 
 
 And 'gainst each ill with iron will 
 
 Collects himself the strongest. 
 
 Fill, fill, my boys, once more. 
 
 Fill up before retreating ; 
 One long last libation pour 
 To our next merry meeting. 
 
 EVERARD CLIVE.
 
 PHASCOLOTHERIOX BRODERIPL 
 
 "IT AIL to the patriarch Phascolotherion ! 
 
 Owen has had him to build a new era on : 
 Grant did the same to found many a query on. 
 
 Found about Stonesfield, where limestone so shelly is ; 
 There he's embedded, and keeping right well he is : 
 Look at his jaw, and you'll guess what his belly is. 
 
 "With him there dwelt by the primitive river a 
 Similar genus of small insectivora ; 
 Tree from the then uninvented carnivora. 
 
 ^Nothing appeared in the scale of creation 
 Higher than he through the TVealden formation — 
 Even the chalk could not show a cetacean. 
 
 Hail to the first of the British Mammalia ; 
 One of the order of Marsupialia ; 
 Nearly at present confined to Australia. 
 
 Travelling Bachelor. 
 
 THE CAMPAIGN OF THE SUTLEJ. 
 
 Air—'' Tadihj O'RafferUjr 
 
 TIave you not heard of the fighting in India, boys ? 
 Sure 'twas at Moodkee a beautiful shindy, boys. 
 Better than hunting the fox from his cozy shaw 
 The hunt of the Sikhs from their camp at Ferozcshah. 
 At Alival, too, we complately astonish'd 'em, 
 Over the water we coax'd and admonish'd 'em, 
 Though bullets fly fast as bad eggs in the pillorj', — 
 we are the boys that can spike their artillery ! 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Come to the Sutlej, where loud the guns roar, my boys! 
 Come ere the fun and the fighting's all o'er, my boys ! 
 Come where there's honour and plunder, galore, my boys I 
 ! who's for a shy at the siege of Lalioi e, my boys ?
 
 14 THE CAMPAIGN OF THE SUTLEJ. 
 
 II. 
 
 Hardinge's a hero ; bowld Gough is another, boys, 
 Don't they call Xapier " the divil's own brother," boys ? 
 I^e'er in the East such a gaUant commander was 
 Since on the Indus the great Alexander was. 
 Under Sir Harry Smith foes we could thump any : 
 Who'll serve the Queen and the East India Company ? 
 Shew them our soldiers, the right sort of men are all ; 
 right for the Crown and the Governor-General. 
 
 CIIOKUS. 
 
 Come to the Sutlej, &c. 
 
 III. 
 E.id the Ranee of her Punts and her Punches, boys 
 Serve them a mouthful of lead for their lunches, boys ! 
 Down at their river we will not stay long, my boys I 
 Smash into smith'reens their fine tete-du-pong., my boys. 
 If the powther is scarce, and the guns they won't play on it, 
 Try the eowld steel, and push on with the bayonet ! 
 Once we're safe over, we'll then have a slap at all 
 Comes in our way, their cash, camels, and capital. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Then come to the Sutlej, where loud the guns roar, my boys ! 
 Come ere the fun and the fighting's all o'er, my boys ! 
 Come where there's honour and plunder, galore, my boys ! 
 ! who's for a shy at the siege of Lahore, my boys ? 
 
 Irish Whiskey Drinker. 
 
 DPJNK, BOYS, DPJNK! 
 
 Air, " Take me when I'm in the huuvnir." 
 
 (julien's setting.) 
 
 ATI, what care I for wet or dry, 
 
 For the sun that shines, or the storm that lours ; 
 While thus we troll the flowing bowl, 
 
 And the smiles of those we love are oi:rs ? 
 Your fancied wise may search the skies 
 
 For fav'ring hours, with toil incessant ; 
 Eead ladies' eyes, and they^W advise 
 
 No time with them is like the present.
 
 DRINK, BOYS, DRINK! ij 
 
 Drink, boys, drink ! 
 Fill to the brink ; 
 Drink to those "we love the fondest 
 Drink, boys, drink ! 
 
 The stars may gleam o'er the crystal stream ; 
 Give me blue eyes o'er the red wine's glow ; 
 There's nought above like what we love, 
 
 And what's within our reach below. 
 Aurora's light is a lovely sight. 
 
 When she rises high the east adorning ; 
 But you, my dear, have a glance more clear. 
 And a rosier smile when you rise of a morning. 
 Drink, boys, drink ! 
 Fill to the brink ; 
 Drink to those we love the fondest ! 
 Drink, boys, drink ! 
 
 We're weary soon of the sunny noon, 
 But beauty's sunshine never tires ; 
 Though her eyes may gleam like the noontide beam, 
 
 And her soft lips thrill with all its fires. 
 And, oh ! 'tis sweet the fair to meet 
 
 At eve around the bowl we drink of, 
 When our spirits rise as the daylight dies, 
 And the less we see the more we think of. 
 Drink, boys, drink ! 
 Fill to the brink ; 
 Drink to those we love the fondest ! 
 Drink, boys, drink ! 
 
 EVERARD ClIVE. 
 
 THE TOP OF THE GLASS. 
 
 "What is the top of the glass for, man ? 
 
 I wish you would tell me why 
 The bottom must stand like a mill-pool, man, 
 And th' upper half bo dry: 
 
 'Tis the best part, and the broadest part, 
 
 And the part we lirst come to ; 
 And what do you think, if it isn't to drink. 
 The top of the glass has to do ?
 
 1 6 THE TOP OF THE GLASS. 
 
 There's nothing in Nature useless, man, 
 
 And not very much in art. 
 So crown your glass with the liquor, man, 
 For the top is the noblest part. 
 
 'Tis the best part, and the broadest part, 
 
 And the part wo first come to ; 
 And I'm wondering still, if it's not to fill, 
 "What the top of a glass has to do. 
 
 Now, if you're thinking of spilling, man. 
 
 And the tale of the cup and the lip ; 
 Steady your hand with a bumper, man, 
 And the deuce a bit will it slip. 
 
 Oh, the top's the best and the broadest part, 
 
 And the part we first come to ; 
 And I'd rather in all take no measure at all. 
 Than take a half measure with you. 
 
 Travelling Bachelor. 
 
 THE BATTLE OF SOBRAON. 
 
 "Drave boys, now the war is all ended, 
 
 The peace is come back from Lahore ; 
 But if e'er I saw fighting so splendid, 
 
 I wish I mayn't fight any more. 
 We've heard both by land and by water, 
 
 Of mighty great battles, I own ; 
 Sure they're all in regard to manslaughter 
 
 But cock-fights compared with Sobraon ! 
 A fig for their musketry flashes. 
 
 Their cannons and mortars and stuff, 
 'Tis the bay'nct that settles their hashes, 
 
 And lets the smoke out of their buff! 
 
 At the brink of the Sutlcj the Sirdar, 
 
 The Sikhs, and the Sings were drawn up ; 
 
 Sir Henry cries, " Boys, shove 'em in further. 
 Sure I'd like in their camp for to sup."
 
 THE BATTLE OF SOBRAON. 17 
 
 "It was rousing strong tay," says Sir Hugh, "boys, 
 
 Tliat we got, when we blew up Hongkong ; 
 But this morning for breakfast with you, boys, 
 
 I prefer the Ranee's Tay-du-pong." 
 A fig for their musketry flashes, &c. 
 
 The trumpets play'd up a bravura, 
 
 The great guns they open'd the ball, 
 And the Sikhs who were traia'd by Ventura, 
 
 They didn't object to the small. 
 They'd been drill'd too by ould Avitabile, 
 
 And, if the plain truth I must tell. 
 Faith he hadn't instructed them shabbily, 
 
 For they fii-ed most remarkably well. 
 A fig for their musketry flashes, &c. 
 
 Now what you call brisk cannonading 
 
 Our infantry thought mighty slow, 
 So 'twas after some little parading, 
 
 Faugh a hallagh, and at 'em we go ! 
 To the Tenth our brave General beckon'd, 
 
 " Twenty-Ninth," says he, " charge 'em in line I" 
 Lead the way there, my brave Sixty-Second, 
 
 And the Fifties won't loiter behind. 
 A fig for their infantry flashes, &c. 
 
 Not a shot we fired off in advancing. 
 
 Each man to his orders was true ; 
 But such howling, and growling, and dancing 
 
 Was inside, when the breach we dash'd through. 
 There was Lai Sing, and Fal Sing, and Hal Sing, 
 
 And ev'ry damn'd Sing of them all, 
 Crying out, "Oh, we never more shall shig, 
 
 Or we'll sing most confoundedly small." 
 A fig for their musketry flashes, &c. 
 
 Bould Thackwfll tlie batteries surmounted, 
 
 With the ould Third Dragoons, one by one. 
 Which for cavalry horsemen was counted 
 
 A feat mighty handily done.
 
 1 8 THE BA TTLE OF SOBRA ON. 
 
 Their fortifications we sHver'd, 
 
 Their pontoons we broke up and down, 
 
 And those who escaped being skiver' d, 
 Jump'd into the water to drown. 
 
 A fig for their musketry flashes, &o. 
 
 So, Sergeant, my boy, drop your halbert, 
 
 The powder we'll rinse from our throats ; 
 Let us drink to the Queen and Prince Albert^ 
 
 And the Houses of Parliament's votes. 
 Here's the Generals who took the surrender. 
 
 And the heroes of ev'ry brave corps, 
 Who march' d in the utmost of splendour. 
 
 All round the proiid walls of Lahore. 
 A fig for their musketry flashes, 
 
 Their cannons and mortars and stuff! 
 'Tis the bay'net that settles their hashes. 
 
 And lets the smoke out of their buff" ! 
 
 THE LAY OF THE DERBY. 
 
 The cloudless sun of May shone forth o'er the array, 
 
 Where joyous thousands cluster'd along the course's line. 
 And the fairest of the fair with sunny smUe beamed there ; 
 Oh ! brighter than the skies above, those eyes appear'd to shine. 
 
 The fated hour is near, the gallant steeds appear 
 
 In the lustre of their beauty, in their pride of strength and speed; 
 Oh ! many a heart beat high, gaz'd many an anxious eye, 
 
 And many a fortune lay upon each bonny, bonny steed. 
 
 They part with gentle bound, they have gained the destined ground, 
 They are forming into line for the desperate career. 
 
 And hark ! a gathering shout from the watching crowd breaks out, 
 "They are oft'! they're at the turn! they are coming, they are here I" 
 
 As the sea bursts o'er the dykes, rushes first Sir Tatton Sykes, 
 Close, close, the bold Epirote is thundering on his flank. 
 
 They are here — they rush past— swift, swiftest at the last 
 Springs Pyrrhus by the orange to the victor's vanward rank.
 
 THE LA V OF THE DERBY. 19 
 
 " Twenty-two, twenty-two," the conqneror's symbol view, 
 
 The talisman of triumph, or beacon of despair. 
 The race is lost and won ; the banq[iieting's begun. 
 
 Fill high the sparkling crystal, and the blithe repast prepare. 
 
 Aloft on circling wnng the feathered heralds spring, 
 
 O'er many a town and hamlet to waft the winner's fame, 
 
 How Mr. Gully takes as his own the Derby stakes. 
 And Pyrrhus is the Tirst in fact as well as name. 
 
 EVERARD ClIVE. 
 
 KEGUL^ AUL^ TIPPEEARY. 
 
 "HuLCE est desipere ; tajdet sine joeis : 
 
 Sed desipiendum est legibus et locis, 
 Sanciatur igitur Momus his in focis, 
 Si accedant suaviter seria jocosis. 
 
 IN'imia dicacitas torrens est veneni. 
 Pinge duos angues : exulent obsco^ni, 
 Migrat in insulsum si quid eget frseni : 
 Bacchus est quern sequimur, non asinus Sileni. 
 
 Si quis plebi faveat, faveat decenter ; 
 Si quis Optimatibus faveat silenter : 
 Omnibus Politicis, nisi temperentur. 
 Cor eructat nimium, esuritque venter. 
 
 Pauca pocla suppetunt ; modo bibas horum 
 Singulis nominibus singula nostrorum ; 
 Et amicis omnibus omnium amicorum, 
 Et amatis omnibus omnium amatorum. 
 
 Satis sunt facilibus, satis sunt formosis 
 Duo pleni canthari, si e generosis. 
 Dona sua Gratia> negant ebriosis ; 
 Et in bilem vertitur vappa crapulosis. 
 
 Mirpov tar aptarov — si sat metiaro — 
 Et "Apirrrov vSojn est cum vini parte pare : 
 Sic, si nostrum compares alio cum Lare, 
 Inter aulas emicat Aula Tipperary. 
 
 TllAVKIJJNG PACIIELOR. 
 2—2
 
 20 
 
 THE OEEGON SaUATTERS. 
 184G. 
 
 'Tis we that have left Alabama, 
 
 Each arrayed like a primitive palmer, 
 
 With hand on the rifle, 
 
 That is not a trifle, 
 And the bowie-knife — ain't it a charmer ? 
 
 We're gents as is come from Arkansas, 
 Pikers, and gunners, and lancers. 
 
 Each a democrat dog, 
 
 That will go the whole hog. 
 And stand for his own like a man, sirs. 
 
 We come from the old Indiana, 
 As hot as a lighted havannah. 
 
 The Britisher rout 
 
 Shall soon be kicked out, 
 As by Jackson from Louisiana. 
 
 And we're from the woods of Kentucky, 
 So gallant, and spicy, and plucky. 
 
 Let the Company's spies 
 
 Look out for their eyes, 
 Eor there's gougers agog from Kentucky. 
 
 We're pilgrims from fair Massachusetts. 
 
 Tou should worship the print that our shoe sets. 
 
 We'll take a firm stand 
 
 On our own promised land. 
 And wander no more like those Jew sets. 
 
 We're a mission sent here from Missouri, 
 To teach gospel and trial by jury. 
 
 We're come to patch holes 
 
 In the Indian souls, 
 And to send them upstairs, we assure ye. 
 
 And we've come a long way from Ohio, 
 Where our chalks have run up to the sky, oh ! 
 
 We'll wash out our smalls 
 
 In the Willamette falls, 
 And the Britisher's claim is my eye, oh ! 
 
 Travelling Bachelor.
 
 21 
 
 WHAT MAKES THE WORLD GO ROUND ? 
 
 TTpox my soul, it's the alcohol 
 
 That makes the world go round ; 
 And gravitation is botheration, — 
 
 Just when the liquors abound 
 On earth down here, each higher sphere 
 
 Sets to all spinning away ; 
 And toe and heel, keeps up the reel, 
 
 And rests nor night nor day. 
 
 If it were not so, 'tis the heads below 
 
 That would take up the fumes instead ; 
 And it's we that would spin, when the liquors were in, 
 
 Whilst they would be quiet in bed. 
 But now it's the sky, 'stead of you and I, 
 
 That reels when the wine mounts up. 
 When, instead of our ears, it sings in the spheres, 
 
 To the tune of the bowl and cup. 
 
 Irish Whiskey Drinker. 
 
 CAROLINE. 
 
 r|AROLiNE, tell me truly, 
 
 What mean those smiles on me ? 
 Come to the Spa at Beulah, 
 
 I'll treat you all to tea. 
 Send your little sisters 
 
 Out of sight to play. 
 Say your feet have blisters, 
 
 And sit by mc all day. 
 
 Omnibuses are leaving 
 
 The Elephant every hour, 
 Railroads are receiving 
 
 All who come in their power. 
 I've a gingham umbrella, 
 
 So never mind the rain ; 
 Call me your dearest fellow, 
 
 And come by an early train.
 
 22 CAROLINE. 
 
 Caroline, you're so handsome, 
 
 You've made me sigh all night ; 
 My chest requires expansion, 
 
 My waistcoat's grown too tight. 
 Surrey groves are shady, 
 
 And Norwood lawns are fair, 
 So, my adored young lady, 
 
 Let's go and take the air. 
 
 Then at eve returning, 
 
 As along the road we creep ; 
 Gaslights round us burning, 
 
 Half the party asleep ; 
 We'll sit next to each other. 
 
 And talk the long day o'er, 
 And hope your father and mother 
 
 Will ask me in at the door. 
 
 EvEnARD Clive. 
 
 HOLD YOUR OWN ! 
 1846. 
 A FEARLESS stand on ill-got land 
 
 Is what a rogue may make ; 
 And hands unjust may stoutly trust 
 
 The sword for glory's sake. 
 By brow of brass and heart of steel 
 
 Are grasping scoundrels known ; 
 The man that plays the noblest part 
 AVill simply hold his own. 
 
 To let your sway take headlong way. 
 
 Unchecked by shame or sin ; 
 To deem nought done till all is won 
 
 That force or fraud can win. 
 Are " shadows, not substantial things." 
 
 A better pride is shown 
 In being merely firm and fair ; 
 
 And holding just your own. 
 
 That often Might has vanquished Right, 
 
 Is now a thrice-told tale. 
 Lut there's a word above the sword 
 
 Shall make the Ptight prevail.
 
 HOLD YOUR OWN! 23 
 
 'Tis they who think before they strike, 
 
 And strike for Ptight alone, 
 Make good their claim to deathless fame, 
 
 And always hold their own. 
 
 Then let them think that we shall shrink, 
 
 Because we calmly stand. 
 If war must he, right soon will we 
 
 Unteacli them sword in hand. 
 Let Yankees boast their force for light — 
 
 That fight they can they've shown, — 
 But so can we, and so will we, 
 
 Before we yield our own. 
 
 Travelling Bachelor. 
 
 THE aUEEN'S VISIT TO IRELAND. 
 
 1846. 
 
 A II, who is on the say ? 
 
 Says the Shan Van Vaugh ; 
 Ah, who is on the say ? 
 
 Says the Shan Van Vaugh. 
 In the merry month of May, 
 She'll be here without delay. 
 And 'twill be in Dublin Bay, 
 Says the Shan Van Vaugh. 
 
 Who is on Dunleary's Sand ? 
 
 Says the Shan Van Vaugh ; 
 "Who is on Dunleary's Sand ? 
 
 Says tlie Shan Van Vaugh. 
 The Q,ueen is on the strand, 
 Willi Prince Albert in her hand, 
 And she'll bless our own green land, 
 
 Says the Shan Van Vaugh. 
 
 Ah ! who will meet her there ? 
 
 Says the Shan Van Vaugh : 
 Ah ! who will meet licr there ? 
 
 Says the Shan Van Vaugh.
 
 24 THE QUEEN'S VISIT TO IRELAND. 
 
 On the Curragh of Kildare, 
 'Tis the boys will meet her there, 
 And the girls in fine repair, 
 Says the Shan Van Vaugh. 
 
 And who will lead the van ? 
 
 Says the Shan Van Vaugh : 
 And who will lead the van ? 
 
 Says the Shan Van Vaugh. 
 If there's one before ould Dan, 
 Let him step out says the Shan, 
 Faith, I'd like to see the man, 
 
 Says the Shan Van Vaugh. 
 
 Won't she go to Tara's Hall ? 
 
 Says the Shan Van Vaugh : 
 Yes, she'll go to Tara's Hall, 
 
 Says the Shan Van Vaugh. 
 "We'll build up the ould wall ; 
 She and Dan will lead the ball, 
 And the Harp it won't sing small. 
 
 Says the Shan Van Vaugh. 
 
 Will she wear the Irish Crown ? 
 
 Says the Shan Van Vaugh : 
 Will she wear the Irish Crown ? 
 
 Says the Shan Van Vaugh. 
 Yes, 'twill be in limerick town. 
 Where Sarsfield gained renown. 
 And the Trayty was put down. 
 
 Says the Shan Van Vaugh. 
 
 WiU she call at Darrjmane ? 
 
 Says the Shan Van Vaugh : 
 Will she call at Darrynane ? 
 
 Says the Shan Van Vaugh. 
 Yes ; and to her health we'll drain. 
 The whiskey and champagne. 
 Sure she won't go home again, 
 
 Says the Shan Van Vaugh. 
 
 Ikish Wuisket Dhinker.
 
 25 
 
 ALE! 
 
 Air, — " Some, Sweet Home !" 
 A'ER cut -grass and chalices the eye may like to roam, 
 
 And our pewter may be humble, but 'tis ale that makes it foam, 
 The taste that you prize surely waits for you there. 
 Oh, the flavour of such malt and hops was never found elsewhere, 
 
 Ale, ale, double X ale. 
 There is no drink like ale ! — there is no drink like ale ! 
 
 Some tell me their small is good, but for me I do not heed it ; 
 And I don't like your fourpenny, nor yet your intermediate. 
 The gin it don't agree with me, the brandy makes me pale ; 
 But the reason. I'm so jolly is, I stick to drinking ale. 
 
 Ale, ale, double X ale ! 
 There is no drink like ale ! — there is no drink like ale ! 
 
 An exile from Knight's, liquors dazzle me in vain, 
 Oh give me my seat at the Christopher again ; 
 The jolly little pot-boy that came at my call ; 
 And give me my glass of ale, dearer than all. 
 
 Ale, ale, double X ale ! 
 There is no drink like ale ! — there is no drink like ale ! 
 
 Eyerard Clive. 
 
 ANXEXATIOK 
 
 1846. 
 
 Vankee Doodle wants a state, 
 
 Oregon or Texas, 
 Sends some squatters in it straight. 
 And quietly annexes, 
 
 Yankee Doodle, Doodle Do, 
 
 Yankee Doodle Dandy, 
 He can do the Britishers 
 And Mexicans so handy. 
 
 Canada's a pleasant place, 
 
 So is California ; 
 Yankee Doodle wants them all, 
 
 But first he cribs a corner.
 
 26 ANNEX A TION. 
 
 Yankee Doodle, Doodle Do, 
 Yankee Doodle Dandy, 
 
 He can do the Britishers 
 And Mexicans so handy. 
 
 Yankee Doodle went to sleep. 
 Among his bills of parcels, 
 President Polk he stirred him up, 
 And cocked his tail so martial. 
 Yankee Doodle, Doodle Do, 
 
 Yankee Doodle Dandy, 
 He can do the Britishers 
 And Mexicans so handy. 
 
 General Cass he made a speech, 
 
 Archer called it splutter. 
 He swore he'd tear the British Jack 
 And wipe it in the gutter. 
 Yankee Doodle, Doodle Do, 
 
 Yankee Doodle Dandy, 
 He can do the Britishers 
 And Mexicans so handy, 
 
 Jabez Honan took an oath, 
 
 By the living Jingo ! 
 Cuba soon shall be our own 
 And so shall Saint Domingo. 
 Yankee Doodle, Doodle Do, 
 
 Yankee Doodle Dandy, 
 He can do the Britishers 
 And Mexicans so handy. 
 
 Yankee has some public works, 
 
 AVell he may parade them, 
 English money paid for all, 
 And Irish labour made them. 
 Yankee Doodle, Doodle Do, 
 
 Yankee Doodle Dandy, 
 He can do the Britishers 
 And Mexicans so handy.
 
 ANNEXATION. 27 
 
 Then hey for Yankee Doodle's luck, 
 
 And for Annexation ; 
 Hey for Yankee Doodle's pluck, 
 And for Repudiation. 
 
 Yankee Doodle, Doodle Do, 
 
 Yankee Doodle Dandy, 
 And hey for Sherry Cobbler too, 
 Mint julep and peach brandy. 
 
 Travelling Bachelok. 
 
 THE DESCENT OF ORPHEUS. 
 
 "When Orpheus descended a long time ago. 
 
 To bring back his wife from the regions below. 
 The row he kicked up with his wild harp down there. 
 Turned the whole of the Shades into Donnybrook Fair : 
 Such jigs and such reels, and such going down the middle, 
 Q-ueen Proserpine joined in the high-diddle-diddle ; 
 Like a May boy the King twirled round on his stumps. 
 And leathered the boards till he wore out his pumps. 
 
 Ixion came down from his old spinning wheel, 
 
 And with Tityus and Theseus took share in a reel. 
 
 Poor Sisyphus jigged down the hill from his rock, 
 
 And set to with Charon — that hearty old cock. 
 
 The unfortunate colander-iilling Danaidcs 
 
 Found partners again, and with waltzing made gay Hades ; 
 
 And even old Tantalus growing quite frisky. 
 
 Groaned for water no more, and kept shouting for whiskey. 
 
 At last Pluto cried — "A blue blazing bowl mix. 
 The hottest, the strongest, e'er brewed by the Styx ; 
 If it won't suit this harper so newly to hell come, 
 Whate'cr he likes best ho may call for and welcome." 
 " Then give me," said Orpheus, " a draft of now life; 
 I'll call, with your Majesty's leave, for my wife." 
 " Take her off," cried the king, " but remember my order, 
 ITou must n<jt look hack till she's over t/te bonier."
 
 28 THE DESCENT OF ORPHEUS. 
 
 The lovers took leave of the king of the dead, 
 
 Nor once did Eurydice turn round her head ; 
 
 But when within touch of earth's boundary stone, 
 
 Orpheus peep'd o'er his left, — and his charmer was flown. 
 
 Stern Pluto's decree ! — and no power could shake it ; 
 
 " 'Twas a bargain," said he, " and I knew you would break it ; 
 
 I've done the most merciful deed of my life. 
 
 For you're too good a fellow to jjlague with a wife." 
 
 IrjsH Whiskey DRT^"KEK. 
 
 BOAT SOIs^G. 
 
 pULL away, pull away — pull, boys, pull, 
 
 The tide's on the fall, and the moon's at the full. 
 Oarsmen, row with a steady stroke, 
 Steersman, steer with a ready yoke. 
 Pull away, puU away, — row, boys, row, 
 Swiftly and steadily on we go, 
 Under the shade of tower and tree, 
 Out where the stream shines broad and free. 
 Our oars flash white, 
 In the pale moon's light, 
 And her rays they dance in our wake so bright, 
 As on we row through the silent night 
 
 Swiftly and steadily. 
 
 Swiftly and steadily. 
 
 Swiftly and steadily, oh ! 
 PuU away, pull away, — row, boys, row, 
 While the moon shines bright, and the night- winds blow, 
 Rippling the streams as fast they flow, 
 
 Eow, boys, row! 
 
 EVERAKD CLIVE.
 
 29 
 
 CHILLIANW ALLAH. 
 
 Air — "Xora Crciiia." 
 'TWAS near the famed Hydaspes' banks, 
 
 Where Alexander thrashed King Porus. 
 Lord Gough incensed the British ranks, 
 
 And the Sikh artillery spoke in chorus. 
 Our troops -were tired;— the Khalsas fired; 
 And they're the lads that seldom bungle : 
 Quoth Gough at the noise, " Screw bayonets, boys, 
 And drive those blackguards out of the jungle." 
 Sabres drawn, and bayonets fixt. 
 
 Fight where fought great Alexander, — 
 Paddy Gough's a cross betwixt 
 A bull-dog and a salamander. 
 
 On every side our luck we tried. 
 
 And found the showers of shot and shell come, 
 "Where'er we went to our sweet content, 
 
 The Sikhs they gave us blazing welcome. 
 The woods went crack, the rocks went smack, 
 The clouds were black o'er ChiUian wallah ; 
 But our General's Irish blood was up. 
 
 And our battle-cry was " Faugh-a-ballagh." 
 Sabres drawn, and bayonets fixt, 
 
 Fight where fought great Alexander, — 
 Paddy Gough's a cross betwixt 
 A bull-dog and a salamander. 
 
 The Third Dragoons, they cut right through. 
 
 And back again — 'twas mighty plucky — 
 But the Fifth Bengals disliked the balls, 
 And every one of them cut his lucky. 
 But 'twould have done ould Homer good 
 
 To see that charge of General Gilbert's ; 
 Bight and left his path he cleft, 
 
 And smashed their skulls like mouldy filberts. 
 Sabres drawn, and bayonets fixt, 
 
 Fight where fought great Alexander,— 
 Paddy Oougli's a cross betwixt 
 A bull-dog and a salamander.
 
 30 CHILLIANWALLAH. 
 
 Brigadier Dawes gained great applause — 
 
 His fighting lads were all in clover, 
 'Twas as good to be there, as at Donnybrook fair, 
 
 And no police till the fun was over. 
 At length the Sikhs they cut like bricks, 
 
 Shere Singh sheered off nor looked behind him 
 And the old chief Chutter did swear and splutter ; — 
 But nobody cared at all to mind him. 
 Sabres drawn, and bayonets fixt, 
 
 Fight where fought great Alexander, — 
 Paddy Gough's a cross betwixt 
 A bull-dog and a salamander. 
 
 And none shall scoff at brave ould Gough — 
 
 Oh ! he's the chief for a soldier's choosing : 
 AVe lads abroad will always applaud. 
 
 Though " Tlie Times" at home is always abusing. 
 By the Jhelum's side their might he tried, 
 
 And tamed the pride of the Khalsa gunners : 
 And he laid them flat at Goo-ze-rat, 
 
 "With his English-Irish dose of stunners. 
 Sabres drawn, and bayonets fixt. 
 
 Fight where fought great Alexander, — 
 Paddy Gough's a cross betwixt 
 A bull-dog and a salamander, 
 
 Horatius Flaccus sang, they say, 
 
 About " QucB loca falmlosus 
 Lamhit Eydaspes ;" and his lay 
 
 Our General's high renown discloses. 
 Sure with the utmost classic grace 
 
 He goes against these Punjaub caitiffs ; 
 Horace's river licks the place, 
 
 But Paddy Gough, he licks the natives. 
 Sabres drawn, and bayonets fixt. 
 
 Fight where fought great Alexander,— 
 Paddy Gough's a cross betwixt 
 A bull-dog and a salamander. 
 
 luisii Whiskey Drinker.
 
 31 
 
 GOOZERAT. 
 
 Av-—" The Pi-etfij Girl of Derby, oh I" 
 
 rjOME all you Anglo-Indians, in her Majesty's dominions, 
 
 Hear a fighting bard's opinions of the glorious day., 
 
 February twenty-first, when we saw the sunbeams burst 
 
 O'er the banners of the Affghan and the Sikhs' array. 
 
 From the Jhelum's rocky shore they had doiibled on Lahore, 
 But the British bayonet gleamed across the Chenab's ford. 
 
 Oh ! 'twas Whish that turned them back on their bold and bloody 
 track ; 
 And Gough was soon upon them with his vengeful sword. 
 
 AU fearlessly the foe turned to bay to bide the blow ; 
 
 Their thousands were three- score 'neath their famed Shere Singh, 
 Of his battle-ground the chooser, at the ancient town of Goozerat, 
 
 He stood resolved for life or death the dice to fling. 
 
 From false Afghanistan they had summoned Akrham Khan 
 To join their class of Singhs all so blithe and gay. 
 
 Like a singing class of Hullah's, they rehearsed between two nullahs, 
 And prepared a hailstone chorus with their guns to play. 
 
 Awhile in grim repose our General watched the foes, 
 Scarce four miles from their camp was his final halt ; 
 
 Till he called in from afar the scattered streams of war, 
 To swell one mighty torrent for the stern assault. 
 
 'Twould take of odes some volumes to describe Lord Gough's own 
 columns, 
 
 On the Jhelura that sought glory in the cannon's mouth. 
 AndWhish's gallant warriors, that had stormed Moulradj's barriers, 
 
 Came hurrying in by thousands from the East and South. 
 
 Oh, those lads who captured Mooltan, fear nor Sirdar, Khan, nor 
 Sultan, 
 
 Through all the sunny orient they shall have the sway ; 
 And to make our party snugger there came closing from Kamnuggcr 
 
 Dundas, and other heroes of the proud Bombay.
 
 32 GOOZERAT. 
 
 "With our guns in front arrayed we marched, as on parade, 
 To break the foeman's centre and bear down his right ; 
 
 We were scarce in range to kill, ere he unmasked his whole artillery; 
 And his cannon flashed all eager to announce the fight. 
 
 Then our guns moved forth and spoke, and the ranks were wreathed 
 with smoke ; 
 
 Oh, Alexander ! mighty son of Ammon, oh ! 
 In the East you did some wonders, but your fabled father's thunders, 
 
 Compared with eighteen pounders, were all gammon, oh ! 
 
 Three hours with deadly roar the iron storm did pour. 
 Till their batteries were all dumb and their hearts all low. 
 
 Then oiu- level bayonets glance and our scarlet lines advance 
 To plunge among the masses of the reeHng foe. 
 
 As the cold steel glitters nigh, the braggarts turn and fly : — 
 Spur forward, gallant cavalry, and hew them down — 
 
 Till night closed deep and black, red havoc marked our track, 
 Where we smote the routed rebels 'gainst the might of England's 
 crown. 
 
 Oh joyously that night did wo celebrate the fight. 
 
 In the foeman's captured camp when the sparkling wine was 
 poured ; 
 
 While around us lay the spoil of the day's victorious toil. 
 The cannon, and the banner, the buckler, and the sword. 
 
 For ever has the sway of the Khalsa passed away : 
 
 We'll crush the fierce fanatics, whom no mercy could subdue ; 
 
 And they, our rule who hate, shall tremble at the fate 
 
 Of Asia's best, with England who the struggle dared renew. 
 
 Bold Gilbert and his power have marched upon Peshawur ; 
 
 And soon its shattered tower shall confess our wrath ; 
 Without troubling spade or mattock, we'll assault and carry Attock ; 
 
 And woe to the false Aftghan that shall cross our path. 
 
 The annexing of the Punjaub you may reckon that a done job, 
 And Dost Mahommed in the dust we soon will lay ; 
 
 Then, just for a diversion, we'll polish off the Persian, 
 And conquer back to Europe our triumphant way.
 
 GOOZERA T. 33 
 
 Our renown shall live for ages, and 'twill shine in history's pages, 
 (When Radetski is forgotten, and pugnacious Bern), 
 
 How Shere Singh was the loser at the bloody game at Goozerat, 
 And Gough won for his coronet its brightest gem. 
 
 EVERARD ClIVE. 
 
 "THE CLARET CUP." 
 
 "Hrink of this cup. — Old Lovegrove sips 
 
 The same at Blackwall below ; 
 And this he gives to cool the lips 
 Of the guests who for white- bait go. 
 
 Drink of this cup. The ice within 
 
 Is fresh from Wenham's stream. 
 'Twill make the summer's dust and din, 
 Its tongue so parched, and fevered skin, 
 All melt away, as your draught you win, 
 
 Like a long-forgotten dream. 
 
 Then off! off! says the Drinker, 
 
 Off ! off ! and away ; 
 If we swallow more we shall sink her ; 
 
 So, Bachelor, bo\', give way. 
 
 EVERARD CLIVE. 
 
 ADELAIDE. 
 
 TJe, who loves thee, wanders lonely in the gardens of the spring, 
 'Mid the soft enchanted lustre that glimmers through the shade 
 Of the tremulous tree-branches, and the buds that on them swing — 
 Adelaide ! 
 
 In the snow-sheen of the Alps, in the sparkling of the streams, 
 In the golden hues of heaven when daylight has decayed. 
 
 In the starry fields of midnight thine image on me beams — 
 Adelaide ! 
 
 Small silver Maybells lisp along the grass, 
 
 Evening bree/es whisper in the green leaves of the glade, 
 Nightingales sing, and waves murmur as they pass — 
 
 " Adelaide !"
 
 34 
 
 ADELAIDE. 
 
 From this fond and faithful heart, when death hath stilled its grief.,. 
 
 Will spring a blooming flower, o'er the lover's grave displayed,. 
 And distinctly will there glimmer on each little purple leaf — 
 
 " Adelaide I" ^ 
 
 Travelling Bachelor. 
 
 IBRAHIM PACHA'S HUSH TRIP. 
 1846. 
 
 Ah, who has not heard of great Ibr'im Pacha, 
 
 How he came to old Erin across the blue wave, 
 "With his beard of the longest the world ever saw, 
 
 That 'twould take twenty barbers at least for to shave "t 
 
 To see him at morn, when just entering the bay 
 
 Of old Carrickfergus we spied him afar ; 
 O'er the black funnel smoke he blew up far away 
 
 The clouds of his royal Havanna cigar. 
 As nearer he came in the gallant Athlone, 
 At the old fighting-cock such bright glances were thrown,. 
 And many a soft bosom wished him her own. 
 
 Here the band of the 93rd Highlanders swells ; 
 
 Here Pat round his head his shilelah is swinging, 
 And here some wild bard, 'mid a chorus of yells. 
 
 The great Pharaoh Necho's high welcome is singing. 
 
 Or, to see him at eve, when he sat down to dine, 
 And gulp'd a whole flood of the infidel wine, 
 How his jokes flew about like a quick fall of stars, 
 And o'er cofiee and Cubas he talked of his wars ; 
 Till at last such slow work he no longer could brook, 
 And he call'd for Bush-Mills, and the Prophet's chibouke. 
 
 *' Oh, Allah is great, but," said he, " I am thinking 
 This juice of the barley is wonderful drinking. 
 In Egypt there's corn, and in France there is wine ; 
 But Erin has both in her whiskey divine 1" 
 
 His Highness and suite drank till midnight away ; 
 Till they set to at last, like young tigers at play ; 
 And he order'd ten puncheons for Cairo next day.
 
 IBRAHIM PACHA'S IRISH TRIP. 35 
 
 Next he walks round and talks round the town at his ease ; 
 And th' authorities show him whatever they please, — 
 Foundries, factories, warehouses, tall merchantmen ; 
 Such things he's oft seen, and he'll see them again, 
 So no longer his Highness's patience to tax, 
 They took him to see Mr. Richardson's flax. 
 
 On hoard, then, once more, he hade Erin to hope 
 
 That he'd see her again with his smoke-jack unfurl'd ; 
 
 The 93rd Highlanders played Johnny Cope, 
 
 And he sailed from the pleasantest isle in the world. 
 
 Irish Whiskey Drinker. 
 
 
 
 MAY MORNING. 
 
 H, the May-morn of yore was a hlithe one, I ween, 
 
 When they danced round the pole on the old village green ; 
 When the maids gathered dew at the break of the day. 
 And they wove a bright wreath for the Q,ueen of the May. 
 Though the good times be past, and the world has grown cold. 
 Still the dew and the flowers are as sweet as of old ; 
 Still the sky laughs with love, and the earth with good cheer. 
 And the birds sing their merriest song of the year. 
 
 Wake up, lady fair, come away, come away ! 
 
 'Tis Love's merry morn, 'tis the morn of the May ! 
 
 Our steeds but thy coming, fair lady, await ; 
 Hark ! the neigh of Black Gipsey below at the gate ! 
 Her bridle I've wreathed with the freshest of green, 
 And I've cull'd thee a rose that is fit for a queen. 
 The hedge-rows are sweet, and the meadows are fair, 
 But the breeze of the Downs is more racy and rare : 
 O'er their soft turf careering together we'll go, 
 As the sea-birds skim light o'er the waters below. 
 
 Wake up, lady fair, come away, come away ! 
 
 'lis Love's merry morn, 'tis the morn of the May ! 
 
 Irish Whiskey Drinker. 
 
 y— 2
 
 THE CAMBRIDGE AND OXFORD BOAT RACE 
 
 FOR 184G. 
 
 The morning breeze of early spring 
 Ripples the river with its wing ; 
 And men who roost in London, wake 
 A somewhat hurried meal to take : 
 
 Then up the Thames they speed. 
 For this is the appointed day 
 "When Oxford oars-men must essay 
 The laurel wreath to wrest away, 
 
 That now is Granta's meed. 
 Awake, arise — we must be boune 
 To see the gallant strife e'er noon ; 
 They start where Mortlake's waters flovr, 
 And down to Putney piers they row. 
 
 Oh well I call to mind the time 
 When I was in my boating prime, 
 When such a match as this to view 
 I used to join some eight-oars' crew; 
 Or, doomed in solitude to float. 
 Could sport at least a wager-boat. 
 Now, as the Queen in Hamlet saith, 
 I'm getting fat and scant of breath. 
 So at mine ease to watch the race, 
 I in a steamer take my place : 
 'Tis nine o'clock : we're all on board. 
 The bottled porter safe is stored, 
 Cigars are lit of various sizes 
 And cheerily their odour rises, 
 
 As high the thin smoke curls; 
 The engines champ, the M'heels begin 
 Their spattering, fizzing, seething din. 
 Merrily up the Thames we spin. 
 (" Childe Harold " is the boat we're in, 
 
 She's chartered by the Searles).
 
 THE CAMBRIDGE AND OXFORD BOAT RACE, 
 
 Flat Chelsea, on thj' ileach's tide 
 
 The racing shouts are heard no more, 
 No more contending cutters glide 
 
 Along thy dank and dismal shore. 
 Still, as we pass thy banks of dirt, 
 Full many a former desperate spirt 
 
 Comes back upon my mind. 
 No more, no more of reminiscence, 
 Our steamer's paddles swiftly hiss hence — 
 
 Soon Fulham's left behind. 
 The Crabtree's past, and Chiswick's bower, 
 And now we puft" near Mortlake's tower, 
 And as we gain the chosen scene 
 A merry sight it is I ween. 
 Steamers are there, with jovial freight, 
 K.owers of various skill and weight 
 In pair-oar, four-oar, six, and eight ; 
 And funnies small, and barges great 
 
 That almost stop the way. 
 And horsemen on the shore are there. 
 And carriages with ladies fair, — 
 'Twere worth a morning's snooze I swear, 
 
 One glance at their array. 
 
 And lo upon the glorious tide 
 
 A glorious shape appearing, 
 The Cambridge boat in all the pride 
 
 Of conscious swiftness steering. 
 As if the beauteous thing enjoyed 
 
 The racing strife and glee, 
 She putteth out her light-blue oars, 
 And glideth gracefully. 
 
 From Trinity her captain came, 
 Her number Seven did the same. 
 
 And Two, and Three, and Four ; 
 As How and Si.Y two Johnians strive ; 
 And Magdalen sends as number Five 
 
 A stout and stalwart oar.
 
 38 THE CAMBRIDGE AND OXFORD BOAT RACE. 
 
 Oh, proud was every Cambridge heart 
 
 Their sinewy frames to scan. 
 And blithe and hearty was the cheer, 
 That, as the starting-place they near, 
 
 Along the waters ran. 
 
 And gallant was that rival bark 
 "Whose hues of blue so deep and dark 
 
 The Oxford colours showed. 
 A manlier and an abler crew, 
 A bark more light and fair to view 
 
 Ne'er upon Isis rowed. 
 
 Now fairly marshalled for the strife 
 
 The eager rivals lie ; 
 Thrown back in row the light oars quiver 
 Over the surface of the river 
 
 In keen expectancy. 
 Each tongue is hushed ; with throbbing heart 
 Each watches for the sign to start : 
 'Tis given — the mooring lines are slipped, 
 "With light half-stroke the blades are dipped, 
 Like greyhounds from the leash set free, 
 The boats spring simultaneously, 
 
 And dash along the tide. 
 By wave and shore the shouting throng 
 Follows their fleet career alontr. 
 "While still with hope and courage strong 
 
 They struggle side by side. 
 
 And swift and swift, with rapid lightness 
 
 The flashing oars dip evenly, 
 Alternating their feathery brightness 
 
 "With sweeping strokes — By Chiswick, see, 
 "With unabated speed they glance ; 
 The light-blue bows are in advance. 
 
 And " Cambridge " is the cry. 
 Still pressing on with desperate burst 
 Through Hammersmith our men are first, 
 
 As if in Victory.
 
 THE CAMBRIDGE AND OXFORD BOAT RACE. 39 
 
 But no — again abreast vre view 
 The " darkly beautifully blue;" 
 
 The goal is full in sight ; 
 The Oxford holds her own once more. 
 Say ye who betted six to four, 
 
 If odds like these were right ? 
 
 Speed, Cambridge, speed. Thy champion's pride 
 
 In fiercer struggle ne'er was tried : 
 
 Q,uick ! quicker forward on the feather ! 
 
 Pull the good stroke out well together ! 
 
 One effort more for honour's meed, 
 
 The bridge is near — speed, Cambridge, speed ! 
 
 Again she claims her pride of place, 
 
 Again she heads the breathless race, 
 
 Close pressed by her unflinching foe, — 
 
 Gallantly to the end they go. 
 
 The arch is shot, the strife is o'er, 
 
 And Cambridge has one laurel more. 
 
 I rhyme not for the seedy elf, 
 
 "Who cannot fancy for himself 
 
 How pealed the cheering from the crowd, 
 
 And little cannons thundered loud — 
 
 IIow, as the crews the shores regain, 
 
 The corks popp'd high ; and bright champagno 
 
 (From which as long as oarsmen train 
 
 With other things they must refrain), 
 
 Refresh'd with its immortal rain 
 
 The thirsty soul that drinks amain, 
 
 Then gasps for breath, and drinks again — 
 
 How sweetly Mrs. Avis smiled. 
 
 How some rejoiced, and some were ryled, 
 
 And how we hope as good a crow 
 
 Will come next spring from either U- 
 
 niversity for us to view. 
 
 At Putney, Hammersmith, or Kew. 
 
 EvERARD Olive.
 
 w 
 
 40 
 
 THE CHISWICK FLOWER FETE 
 FOR 1846, 
 [o ! members, take your tickets, — 
 Ho ! maidens, choose your shawls!. 
 The son looks out his waistcoats, 
 
 The sire selects his smalls. 
 To-day is Flora's triumph, 
 
 To-day great sights you view, 
 Bo, cabmen, drive your cattle, 
 And drive your bargains too. 
 
 Green are the squares of London, 
 
 And some few lanes are green, 
 And trees of city foliage 
 
 Shade walks of stone between. 
 And green are certain gala days, 
 
 With places known to fame — 
 The inner circle of the park 
 
 That bears the Regent's name. 
 
 And green are those great glasses 
 
 That hold Germania's wine, 
 That they tell you suit the vintage 
 
 Of the clear Moselle and Rhine : 
 And green are those young freshmen, 
 
 Who, to earn a gentle name, 
 Take credit of a tailor, 
 
 Or give it to a dame. 
 
 But greener far than any 
 
 Is Chiswick's shaven sward ; 
 And gayer than all gala-days 
 
 Are the groups that swarm abroad. 
 See how they muster onwards, — 
 
 The car, the cab, the team ; 
 My dearest friends in carriages, 
 
 My dearer self by steam. 
 
 Bright is the first fresh show of Springs 
 
 When cucumbers are rare ; 
 And bright the show of hot July, 
 
 When Autumn's fruits are there :
 
 THE CHISWICK FLOWER FETE. 4^ 
 
 Autumn that's forced beforehand, 
 
 As children oversage, 
 When all forestalls its season, 
 
 Like minds before their age. 
 
 But the brightest day among them, 
 
 The grandest show of three, 
 Is that which brings the roses, 
 
 And draws down you and ms 
 So 'mid the great Triumvirs 
 
 Did greater Ca;sar sway ; 
 Bo 'mid the days of Epsom 
 
 Stands out the Derby day. 
 
 Gay are the grounds at Hackney, 
 
 And Cheam has beds in bloom ; 
 And Mr. Epps of Maidstone 
 
 Has flowers of faint perfume. 
 And Bromley's stocks at nightfall 
 
 Breathe sweetly through the air, 
 And a thousand tulips ornament 
 
 Each Lea Bridge Iload parterre. 
 
 And Ealing's glassy houses 
 
 Exclude each colder breeze ; 
 And the air is full of odours 
 
 Of exotic orchides. 
 And there hang the strangest blossoms 
 
 From the strangest sorts of trees ; 
 And Fahrenheit is standing at 
 
 A hundred hot denrrees. 
 
 o 
 
 o' 
 
 There steams the watery vapour ; 
 
 There reek the fumes of peat ; 
 Their Tropic heats surround your hcad^ 
 
 And damps strike up your feet; 
 There cacti stand like hedges, 
 
 A long and leafless row ; 
 Their climbers curl their trcssos, 
 
 And catch the heads below.
 
 42 THE CHISWICK FLOWER FETE. 
 
 Hot water apparatuses, 
 
 In iron pipes, transmit 
 Equable sorts of atmosphere, 
 
 For plant or fruit-tree fit. 
 But the youth that led the maiden 
 
 Through the sweets of that parterre, 
 Would find her faint upon his arm, 
 
 And call, like Brougham, for air. 
 
 Ked are the Twick'nam strawberries. 
 
 And Hampton boasts its vines ; 
 And melons thrive in Battersea ; 
 
 And Chelsea vaunts its pines. 
 St. George loves Sheen and Richmond 
 
 For his own immortal rose ; 
 And Eve might envy Putney 
 
 For the apples that it grows. 
 
 But now nor Cheam nor Maidstone 
 
 Shine bright, as once they shone ; 
 And all the stocks of Bromley, 
 
 With all their scents are gone. 
 Save for its maids and moonshine 
 
 Fair Bromley has no dew, 
 The Lea Bridge wind wafts dust enough, 
 
 But it wafts no odours too. 
 Their hues, their fruits, their odours 
 
 Are all on Chiswick showered. 
 And Bromley, Cheam, and Maidstone 
 
 Are lank and disembowered. 
 
 Here stand the golden products 
 
 Of every sun and clime. 
 And seem to live, like lover's vows, 
 
 In spite of space or time. 
 To bring each flower to Chiswick 
 
 Is Science sent to roam ; 
 But the flower itself lives easy, 
 
 And makes itself at home.
 
 THE cms WICK FLOWER FETE. 43 
 
 Where Suez joins the Continents, — 
 
 Where Afric joins the line, — 
 Where Texas joins the Union,— 
 
 And Indns joins the brine, 
 Come all the hues of Flora, — 
 
 The blues, the reds, the greens : 
 From beyond the lines of railways 
 
 And beyond the writs of queens. 
 
 But we only feel their odours, 
 
 And we only see their hues ; 
 They've esoteric meanings 
 
 That some know how to use. 
 And, perhaps, as Mr. Wordsworth says. 
 
 We transplant them to abuse. 
 
 Each orchis is an emblem 
 
 In its own exotic land. 
 And telle th tale of tenderness 
 
 That the natives understand, - 
 Sent by mulatto Mercuries 
 
 It may augur hope or fear ; 
 I wish I found the lady 
 
 That could feel its meaning here. 
 
 Travelling Bachelor. 
 
 A SAD CASE. 
 
 n^HEY say there is anguish in loving in vain ; 
 But, oh ! 'tis a deeper and gloomier pain 
 To be ardently loved by the fond and true-hearted, 
 When the power of returning that love is departed. 
 
 Our feelings once faded, return not at will. 
 
 We upbraid our own coldness, but cold are we still ; 
 
 While the heart whose young love we so long wore awaking. 
 
 With that love unrequited before us is breaking ! 
 
 EVERARD ClIVE.
 
 'Jiis 
 
 44 
 THE DEVIL'S RACE. 
 
 FYTTE THE FIRST. 
 
 of Lord Luttrell 
 Who once did dwell 
 By the banks of the gentle Itye : 
 The Hell-fire Club 
 They did him dub, 
 The king of their company. 
 
 On New Year's Eve 
 
 He was seen to grieve, 
 Amid the roaring cheer ; 
 
 And the reason he had 
 
 For being so sad, 
 You all straightway shall hear. 
 
 In the hour of need 
 
 A gallant steed, 
 He lost in the chace that day ; 
 
 And a strange black knight 
 
 Who sat at his right. 
 Had borne the brush away. 
 
 And the knight in black 
 Said " My lord, your pack, 
 
 Althougli they're of high degree, 
 And I fain must own 
 Fair sport have shown. 
 
 Don't go the right pace for me !" 
 
 The lord's lip curled, 
 And he swore, the world 
 
 Such hounds could not produce, 
 And a horse he'd find 
 Would leave behind 
 
 The devil himself let loose. 
 
 Now the knight in black 
 Would his dark mare back, 
 
 And darker none mote be ; 
 «'A Tartar," he said, 
 " She was born and bred, 
 
 And her name was Hecate.
 
 THE DEVinS RACE. 45 
 
 " Her beauty, breed, 
 
 And strength and speed, 
 "Were matchless," he'd declare ; 
 
 "And whenever tried, 
 
 She'd tame the pride 
 Of the hunters of Kildare." 
 
 " I scorn thy word," 
 
 Said the proud proud lord, 
 " And I'll wager down," quoth he, 
 
 " Ten thousand pounds, 
 
 With my Irish hounds 
 To ride once more with thee." 
 
 Oh, then looked at him 
 
 That stranger grim, 
 "With a dread, unearthly stare, — 
 
 "Ten thousand," said he, 
 
 " So let it be. 
 And double it if you dare I" 
 
 "Twice thousands ten. 
 
 We'll make it, then," 
 Said the Lord Luttrell, quite free, — 
 
 " And if I don't ride away 
 
 From the devil that day. 
 May the devil ride away with me !" 
 
 Then the stranger wrote 
 
 A red red note. 
 In a book as black as jet ; 
 
 " At your own word 
 
 I'll take you, my lord ; 
 Good faith ! 'tis a sporting bet!" 
 
 Then they went to bed. 
 
 And blue flames, 'tis said. 
 Flashed round tlie black knight's curtain ; 
 
 And no mortal dare 
 
 Go near the black mare, 
 Kicking all night, and snorting.
 
 46 THE DEVILS RACE. 
 
 FYTTE THE SECOXD. 
 
 Uprose the morn, 
 
 And the merry bugle horn 
 Rang thorough the woodlands clear ; 
 
 And merry rode out 
 
 The Hell-fire rout 
 That morn to hunt the deer. 
 
 Three score and ten 
 Down the forest glen, — 
 
 'Twas a glorious sight to see, 
 As they trotted in line, 
 With their coui'sers so fine. 
 
 And their scarlet toggery. 
 
 The lord that day 
 
 Rode an iron grey ; 
 Of all his steeds 'twas the best ; 
 
 And close by his side, 
 
 In gloomy pride, 
 Eode out the stranger guest. 
 
 At the Hell-fire array. 
 
 With a shrill, sharp neigh, 
 The black mare neighed in glee ; 
 
 And the stranger down low, 
 
 To his saddle bow, 
 Saluted them in courtesy. 
 
 Of his steed so proud 
 Their praise ran loud ; 
 
 Of horse-flesh she was the queen ; 
 Such paces, such points. 
 Such limbs and such joints, 
 
 They surely ne'er had seen. 
 
 The land, they said. 
 
 Such brave steeds that bred, 
 
 And riders brave as he, 
 
 Ee it mountain or plain, 
 Or far across the main, 
 
 A braye brave land must be.
 
 THE DEVWS RACE. \7 
 
 " 'Tis a far countree," 
 The black knight said he, 
 
 *' A low, dark, burning strand ; 
 You'll see it, I swear, 
 And feel it, I declare ; 
 
 And I'll meet you when you land." 
 
 Oh, did it lie east, 
 
 Or south, or west. 
 Or yet in the north far down ? 
 
 And they asked him whether 
 
 He should meet them together, 
 Or meet them there one by one ? 
 
 ** Oh, it lies not east, 
 
 Nor south, nor west, 
 Kor yet in the north far down," 
 
 The black knight said, 
 
 " And to none but the dead 
 Could that land be ever known." 
 
 Then trot, trot away, 
 And they trotted so gay. 
 
 All singing a hunting strain. 
 Till Leixlip they passed. 
 And Castletown at last, 
 
 Tom ConoUy's grand demesne. 
 
 There the Squire came out 
 
 To join the merry rout. 
 And the bottle and glass went round • 
 
 Then through the back gate, 
 
 With spirits elate, 
 And on to the hunting ground. 
 
 FYTTE THE THIRD. 
 
 Hark ! the huntsman's horn, 
 From the top of Eallygorn ! 
 
 Hark, away! 'tis Lord Luttrell'scryi 
 He cheers the brave pack 
 On the wild deer's track, 
 
 And waves his cap on high.
 
 48 THE DEVins RACE. 
 
 And the stranger is there, 
 
 On his bounding mare, 
 By the side of the lord and the gray. 
 
 Each holds down his hands, 
 
 And in his stirrups stands, — 
 They're off! a fair start, and away ! 
 
 " Sir Knight," cried Luttrell, 
 
 " This day shall tell 
 Of your boast so proud and vain !" 
 
 " My lord, ride your best," 
 
 Said the gloomy guest, 
 " You may never, never ride again." 
 
 Away ! away ! 
 
 'Neath the glad sun's ray ; 
 Away o'er the meadows so green ! 
 
 The black mare's away. 
 
 And the ii'on grey 
 Is on her flank, I ween. 
 
 Away ! away ! 
 
 The Hell-tires that day 
 Eode at a thundering pace ; 
 
 Though none could gain 
 
 The side of the twain, 
 In front of the Devil's race. 
 
 Through dewy copse, 
 
 Down the sunny slopes, 
 And they leave the vales behind ; 
 
 O'er ditch, wall, and briar, 
 
 Like furze on lire. 
 Or the rush of a roaring wind. 
 
 Like a hailstone shower 
 By the old Hound Tower 
 Of Taptoo, and the old fox cover, 
 They rattled amain 
 To Killadoon demesne 
 Where the stag popp'd the wall, and over.
 
 THE DEVins RACE. 49 
 
 Lord Leitrim's gate 
 
 May frown in state, 
 'Twill not that rout turn back, — 
 
 Crash ! the Knight bursts through, 
 
 With a wild halloo ; 
 And Luttrell's on his track. 
 
 Through Killadoon wood, 
 
 Down by the old flood. 
 There's nought the Hell-fires to stay ; 
 
 Then to clear the back bounds 
 
 For the open grounds. 
 Hark forward ! away ! away ! 
 
 Ardrass ! Ardrass ! 
 
 I swear by the mass, 
 'Twould old Nimrod cheer to see 
 
 That sight of pride 
 
 By thy heathery side, 
 Now bursting gloriously ! 
 
 They turned, you think, 
 
 By the Liftey's brink ; 
 But no, the high flood-tide 
 
 The brave stag bore 
 
 Down a mile or more, 
 E'er he reached the other side. 
 
 Lo ! that headlong dash 
 
 Of the hounds' splash, splash. 
 'Tis the bound of black Hecate : 
 
 The boiling spray. 
 
 As she cleaves her way, 
 Hisses most fearfully. 
 
 Of three score and ten. 
 
 All Hell-fire men 
 Who rode in chase that day, 
 
 Not one all round ^ 
 
 Took that dreadful bound 
 But the lord and hia bonny bonny grey.
 
 5© THE DEVins RACE. 
 
 "With hand on mane, 
 And a loose loose rein, 
 
 And the good steed's head let free, 
 He steered him o'er 
 To the shelving shore. 
 
 Like ship through a stormy sea. 
 
 Off! off! again 
 
 Are those coursers twain, 
 Refreshed by the wintry tide ; 
 
 First the knight in black, 
 
 Whilst the lord at his back 
 Some twenty lengths must ride. 
 
 'Tis all very well. 
 Thought Lord Luttrell, 
 
 His pace and racing skill ; 
 
 But the churchyard jump 
 Will somebody stump, 
 
 On the top of Lyon's hill. 
 
 Just then, they say, 
 
 The gallant grey. 
 In his wind looked put about. 
 
 Whilst the coal-black mare 
 
 Had as much to spare 
 As when she first set out. 
 
 Away! away! 
 
 For the old church grey, 
 Speeds the stag unerringly ; 
 
 At a glorious bound 
 
 Over wall and mound, 
 And he's saved in the sanctuary. 
 
 Like thunder-burst 
 
 Came the black knight first, 
 Bight at the stones went he ; 
 
 But made full stop 
 
 On the old wall top 
 And yelled most fearfully.
 
 THE DEVins RACE. 51 
 
 " Now my bonny bonny grey, 
 
 There's the devil to pay, 
 And let us pay him well ; 
 
 Clear the churchyard stone 
 
 And the day's our own — 
 Hie over !" cried Lord Luttrell. 
 
 Then Black Hecate 
 
 "Was a sight to see, 
 Rearing up higher and higher ; 
 
 Kicking the top stones 
 
 'Mongst the dead men's bones. 
 And her nostrils all on lire. 
 
 *' Sir knight ! sir knight ! 
 
 Though in strange plight, 
 Perched up on high you be ; 
 
 I little reck. 
 
 If you break your neck, 
 So you pay your bet to me. 
 
 " Beyond my bounds 
 
 Are these holy grounds, 
 In a hotter place to you 
 
 My debt I'll pay 
 
 Some other day, 
 Till then, my lo.d, adieu!" 
 
 As the Demon spoke 
 
 The thunder woke, 
 And flashed the lightning's flame, 
 
 With a brimstone scent 
 
 Through th' air as he went. 
 To the place from whence he came. 
 
 On Lyon's hill 
 
 Say the old men still. 
 On each New Year's Eve of grace, 
 
 A pack in full cry 
 
 Can be heard hard by, 
 And the noise of the Devil's Race. 
 
 4-2
 
 GENERAL BALLADS. 
 
 THE OPENIXa CHAUXT. 
 
 BY DR. MAGINN. 
 
 Written on the occasion of the First Publication of ' Bentlej's Miscellany.' 
 
 T. 
 /"'OME round and hear, my public dear, 
 Come hear, and judge it gently, — 
 The prose so terse, and Howing verse, 
 Of us, the -wits of Bentley. 
 
 II. 
 
 "We offer not intricate plot 
 
 To muse upon intently ; 
 'No tragic word, no bloody sword, 
 
 Shall staia the page of Bentley. 
 
 III. 
 
 The tender song which all day long 
 
 Eesounds so sentiment'ly, 
 Through wood and grove all full of love^ 
 
 Wni find no place in Bentley. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Nor yet the speech which fain would teach 
 
 All nations eloquently ; — 
 'Tis quite too grand for us the bland 
 
 And modest men of Bentley.
 
 THE OPENING C HAUNT. ^3 
 
 V. 
 
 For science deep no line we keep, 
 
 We speak it reverently ; — 
 Trom sign to sign the sun may shine, 
 
 Untelescoped by Bentley. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Tory and Whig, in accents big, 
 
 May wrangle violently : 
 Their party rage shan't stain the page— " 
 
 The neutral page of Bentley. 
 
 vn. 
 The scribe whose pen is mangling men 
 
 And women pestilently, 
 May take elsewhe'-e his wicked ware, — 
 
 He finds no mart in Bentley. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 It pains ns not to mark the spot 
 
 Where Dan may find his rent lie ; 
 The Gla-sgow chiel may shout for Peel, 
 
 We know them not in Bentley. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Those who admire a merry lyre, — • 
 
 Those who would hear attent'ly 
 A tale of wit, or fiashing hit, — 
 
 Are ask'd to come to Bentley. 
 
 X. 
 
 Our hnnt will be for grace and glee, 
 
 Where thickest may the scent lie ; 
 At slashing pace begins tlie chase — 
 
 Isow for the burst of Bentley. 
 
 TiiE famous periodical writer, Dr. Maginii, ivas bom about the 
 end of the last century, in Cork, where Iiis futlicr kept one of the most 
 respectable schoob in the 8outli of Ireland. The precocity of the 
 younger Magiun in the usual academic studies was such that bo was 
 enabled, at the early age of thirteen, to enter the Dublin University;
 
 54 DR. MAGINN. 
 
 and when he was scarcely twenty-one, an age at which only the minority 
 of university students attain their Bachelorship in Arts, he obtained 
 the highest degree, of Doctor of Laws. Altliough he distinguished 
 himself in Classics, and arrived at a highly critical and accurate know- 
 ledge of the ancient Greek and Latin authors of the University course, 
 under the careful tuition of his father, as well as from having taken his 
 share in the work of the school — he is reported to have " coached " the 
 head class when, he was no more than seventeen years of age, after 
 having taken his Bachelor's degree — his versatility in many otlier 
 branches of knowledge, to which men apply tliemselves later iu life, 
 was equally remarkable. From liis earliest boyhood the study of En- 
 ghsh literature, aud of the English poets especially, formed his chief 
 delight. Like Jerrold, he was a Sliakespearian from his childhood, a 
 fact which is proved beyond question in his Shakespeare papers conti-i- 
 buted to ' Bentley's Miscellany,' even at a time when his natm-ally 
 buoyant spirits had begun to feel a melancholy depression, and his fine 
 faculties might have been expected to be on the wane. Of many 
 others of our most eminent English authors in prose and verse, from 
 the Elizabethan age downwards, he could not only repeat leading pas- 
 sages, but whole pages by heart. Wlietlier it was that his repugnance 
 to scientific studies, although as regards these he passed creditably to 
 his Bachelor's degree, prevented him from trying for a Fellowship which 
 in any other Univei'sity his brilliant classical attainments would have 
 most assuredly won for him, and tliis too at a time when the nmnber 
 of Fellowships in the Dublin University was much more limited, and 
 a vacancy in consequence was of rarer occurrence than at present, or 
 that his genius, incapable of restraint or plodding, at once took wing, 
 and gloried in its early flight over flowery and congenial fields of 
 thought, cannot, at this distance of time, and in the absence of any 
 well authenticated account of his early days, be ascertained. Certain 
 it is, however, that, like the young Etonians of the Anti-Jacobin, he 
 too gave early and brilliant promise ; and the best things in prose and 
 verse of those days in 'Bolster's Cork Magazine,' were said to be from 
 the pen of the precocious young Doctor. ' Blackwood's Magazine ' 
 was commenced in 1817, when Maginn was about twenty-one years of 
 age, after having taken his degree of Doctor of Laws at the Dublin 
 University. Sympathising with its politics and its pluck, and anxious 
 to serve under Christoplier North, lie became connected with it in 
 about a couple of years after its coTimiencement, his first contribu- 
 tion to it being a metrical Latin version of the famous old English 
 ballad of the Chevy Chase. Shortly afterwards appeared in it to the 
 great amusement of the learned world, " The Wine-Bibber's Glory,"
 
 DR. MAG INN. 
 
 55 
 
 the English verses of which are remarkable for the easy, rhythmical, 
 natural expression, and never-flagging humour which characterise 
 Maginn's happiest eSbrts, and the Latin ones, a most marvellous per- 
 formance in their way, leave all competition, in modern times, at least, 
 behind. One can easily understand whence Prout derived the first 
 ideas of the classic comicalities which he developed in ' Frazer's Ma- 
 gazine,' about a dozen years, and followed up in ' Bentley's Miscel- 
 lany,' about a dozen and a half after the following had appeared in 
 ' Blactwood.' It is the prototype beyond all question in modem times 
 and in these countries at least, of this species of literary composition of 
 which the 'Bentley Ballads' contain so many specimens — the writer of 
 it himself, a Bentleian in his day — and forms a natural appendant to 
 Prout's polyglot lay upon the Hot Wells of Clifton, and the English 
 and Latin song, by O'Leary, and the Whiskey Drinker on ' Ireland's 
 Mountain Dew.' 
 
 THE WINE-BIBBEK S GLOUT. 
 
 POTOEIS GLOEIA. 
 
 Quo me Baeche rapis tui. 
 Plenum. HoK. 
 
 A melofly in English and Latin, to a tune 
 culaneum— being an ancient lioman 
 
 If Horatius Flaccus made jolly old 
 Baccbus 
 So often his favourite theme ; 
 If in him it was classic to praise his old 
 Miissic 
 And Falorninn to gulp in a stream; 
 If Fiilstafi's vagaries 'bout Sack and 
 Canaries 
 Have pleased us again and again ; 
 Shall we not make merry on Port, Claret, 
 or Sherry, 
 Madeira, and sparkling Champagne ? 
 
 for itself, lately discovered in Her- 
 air — or if not, quite as good. 
 
 Si Horatio Flacco de hilari Bac- 
 cho 
 
 Mos carmina esset cantare, 
 Si Miissica vina vocarct divina 
 
 Falernaque sciret potare. 
 
 Si nos juvat mire Falstaffium au- 
 di re 
 Laudentem Hispanicum raerum. 
 Cor nostrum sit lajtum ob Portum, 
 Claretum, 
 Xerensc, Campanum, Made- 
 rum. 
 
 First Port, that potation preferred by 
 our nation 
 To all the small drinks of the French; 
 'Tis the best standing liquor for layman 
 or vicar, 
 Th(? army, the navy, the benfh. 
 'Tis strong and substantial, believe me, 
 no man shall 
 Good Port from my dining-room send ; 
 In your soup, after cheese, every way it 
 will please. 
 But must icte-a-tete with a friend. 
 
 Est Portum potatio quam Anglica 
 initio 
 Vinis Gallia; prastulit laiitis 
 Sacerdote amatur, et laicis pota- 
 tur 
 Consultis, mililibua, nautis. 
 Si meum conclave hoc forte cfc 
 suave 
 Vilaverit essem iniquus, 
 Post easeum, in jure, placcbit se- 
 cure 
 Pra;scrlim cum adsit amicus.
 
 56 
 
 DR. MAGINN. 
 
 Fair Sherry, Port's sister, for years they 
 dismissed her, 
 To the Kitchen to flavour the jellies — 
 There long she was banished, and well- 
 nigh had vanished 
 To comfort the kitchen-maids' bellies; 
 Till his Majesty fixt, he thought Sherry 
 ■when sixty 
 Years old, like himself, quite the thing ; 
 So I think it but proper to fill a tip- 
 topper, 
 Of Sherry to drink to the king. 
 
 Huic quamvis cognatum, Xerense 
 damnatum, 
 Gelata culina tingcbat, 
 Viuum exul ibique dum coquo 
 cuique, 
 Generosum liquorem prajbebat. 
 Sed a rege probatum est valdeper- 
 gratum 
 Cum (ut ipse) sexagenarium 
 Large ergo implendum regique- 
 bibondum 
 Opinor est nunc neccssarium. 
 
 Though your delicate Claret by no means 
 goes far, it 
 Is famed for its exquisite flavour ; 
 'Tis a nice provocation to wise conversa- 
 tion 
 Queer blarney or harmless palaver ; 
 'Tis the bond of society, no inebriety 
 
 Follows a swig of the Blue ; 
 One may drink a whole ocean, but ne'er 
 feel commotion 
 Or head-ache from Chateaux Mar- 
 goux. 
 
 But though Claret is pleasant to taste 
 for the present. 
 On the stomach it sometimes feels 
 cold ; 
 So to keep it all clever and comfort your 
 liver. 
 Take a glass of Madeira that's old ; 
 "When 't has sailed for the Indies, a cure 
 for all wind 'tis, 
 And cholic 'twill put to the rout; 
 All doctors declare a good glass of Ma- 
 deira 
 The best of all things for the gout. 
 
 Then Champagne, dear Champagne, 
 ah ! how gladly I drain a 
 "Whole bottle of Oeil de perdrix ; 
 To the eye of my charmer, to make my 
 love warmer, 
 If cool that love ever could be. 
 I could toast her for ever ; but never, 
 oh, never 
 Would I her dear name so profane ; 
 So if e'er, when I'm tipsy, it slips to my 
 lips, I 
 Wash it back to my heart in Cham- 
 pagne ! 
 
 Claretum, oh ! quamvis baud forte 
 (deest nam vis) 
 Divina sapore notatur; 
 Hinc dulcia dicuntur, faceta nas- 
 cuntur, 
 Leniterque philosophizatur ! 
 Socialis potatio ■ te haud fregit 
 ratio. 
 Purpureo decoram colore ! 
 Tui maximum mare liceret potare 
 Sine mentis frontisve dolore ! 
 
 Etsi vero in pra[?senti Claretum bi- 
 benti 
 Videatur imprimis jucundum, 
 Cito venter frigescat, quod ut 
 statim decrescat, 
 Vetus vinum Maderum adeun- 
 dum. 
 Indos si navigirit, vento corpus 
 levarit 
 Coliccamque fugarit hoc merum ; 
 Podagra cruciate viuum optimum, 
 dato, 
 Clamant medici docti "Made- 
 rum !" 
 
 Campanum ! Campanum quo gau- 
 dio lagenam 
 Ocelli Perdi'icis sorberem ! 
 Ad dominas oculum exhauriam> 
 poculum 
 Tali philtro si unquam egerem. 
 Propinarem divinam — sed poream 
 si sinam 
 Nomen carum ut sic profanatur, 
 Et si cum Bacchus urget, ad labia, 
 surget 
 Campano ad cor revolvetur !
 
 DR. MAGINN. ST 
 
 Over a space of ten years from the time of his first connexion with 
 it, the Doctor was a constant contributor in prose and verse to ' Black- 
 ■wood's Magazine,' including his portions of the celebrated ' Nocte* 
 Ambrosianse,' to the earlier numbers of winch he contributed largely. 
 The ' Noctes' began in 1822, and ended in 1835, seven years after Maginn 
 had withdrawn from the publication. In 1823, he had given up his 
 schoolmaster's life at Cork, and thrown himself on the world of letters, 
 in London, where he became actively employed in political literature, 
 ■writing for the ' Eepresentative,' (old John Murray's unfortunate ven- 
 ture for which Mr. Disraeli wrote leaders and reviews), the ' John Bull,' 
 the ' Standard,' the ' Age,' and a short-lived Tory publication called the 
 'Torch.' In 1830, 'Eraser's Magazine' was commenced under the edi- 
 torship of the Doctor, and Mr. Hugh Fraser, a clever man about 
 town — not the publisher of the work, wliose name was James, and no. 
 relative whatever to the editor. To this periodical he contributed 
 amongst other remarkable papers his ' Homeric Ballads ;' and he had tho 
 merit in those days, as indeed the late Serjeant Murphy, another Cork 
 man and a ripe scholar, had, of contributing some portions of the Prout 
 papers. When ' Bentley's Miscellany' was commenced in 1837, Maginu 
 wrote the ' Opening Chaunt,' and became one of its leading contribu- 
 tors. As allusion has been made in our preface to these portions 
 of his literary labours, we may pass on to the sad and melancholy 
 close of a career which had opened with such extraordinary brightness 
 and exultation. Imprisonment for debt, an emaciated frame, con- 
 sumption, and a broken heart, the result of years of unrestrained con- 
 vivial enjoyment, and the most reckless improvidence, wound up at tho 
 early age of forty-six, one of the most brilliant and eccentric Irishmen 
 of the nineteenth century. He died in the August of 1842, atWalton- 
 on-Thames, in extremely straitened circumstances, which many of his 
 personal fi lends and admirers of his splendid genius and unselfish 
 heart would have been too hajipy to alleviate, had he not been too 
 proud to appeal to their benevolence. A day or two before his death, 
 a handsome remittance — one of the many tributes of sympathy afforded 
 by tlie same noble hearted friend of genius in distress — arrived at his 
 cottage from the late Sir Robert Peel, who had been applied to in his 
 behalf by a literary friend — arrived in time — to pay his funeral ex- 
 penses. Maginn was of singularly unad'ected and most engaging man- 
 ners, simple-hearted, with no reserve as to what was in him — and what 
 treasures of knowledge were his — and with no care for even tho mor- 
 row, much less tho distant future. Nothing could daiuit, or darken, 
 or depress him, and he retained his boyishness and elasticity of spirit 
 to the last. A friend of his, who gave a sketch of his life aud writing*
 
 58 DR. MAGINN. 
 
 in the Dublin University Magazine shortly after his decease, speaking 
 of his literary and social cliarticter says — " It would be hard to name 
 any other writer of his time, except Sydney Smith, wlio was at once so 
 witty, so philosophical, so elegant, and earnest in political discourses. 
 As a conversationalist he was known for the liveliness of his fancy, 
 the diversity of his anecdotes, the richness and felicity of his illustra- 
 tions, the depth and shrewdness of his trutli, the readiness of his re- 
 partee, and the utter absence of anything like dictation to those who 
 came to listen and to be instructed — ' idem latus et prcesens, jummdus eC 
 gravis, 1am cojnd, tarn brevitafe mtrabilis.^ Lastly, as a man, he pos- 
 sessed the most childlike gentleness and simplicity, the greatest mo- 
 desty, the warmest heart, the most benevolent hand, with the most 
 scanty means. From faults he was not free, from wild irregularities he 
 was not exempt. But great genius is seldom perfect ; its excesses 
 must be forgiven when they are counterbalanced by fine qualities. 
 ' Summi enim' says Quintilian, ' sunt homines tantum P The rock upon 
 which Steel and Burns split, the sole blot upon Addison, the only 
 stigma upon Charles Lamb, tliat which exiled Fox from the cabinet of 
 England, and reduced Slieridan to poverty and shame, was the ruiu 
 too of the late William Maginn." Whilst the veil of charity is let fall 
 over this sad feature of his memory, let the wisest and best of us all 
 remember that he was a man. 
 
 THE BOTTLE OF ST. JAXUARIUS. 
 
 BY FATHER, PROUT. 
 I. 
 
 N the land of the citron and myrtle, we're told 
 
 That the blood of a Martyr is kept in a phial, 
 "Which, though all the year round, it be torpid and cold, 
 
 Yet grasp but the crystal, 'twill wai^m the first trial. 
 Be it fiction or truth, with your favourite FACT, 
 
 0, profound Lazzaroxi ! I seek not to quarrel ; 
 But indulge an old priest who would simply extract 
 
 From your legend, a lay — from your martyr, a moral. 
 
 II. 
 Lo ! with, icicled beard Januarius comes ! 
 
 And the blood in his veins is all frozen and gelid, 
 And he beareth a bottle ; but Torpor benumbs 
 
 Every limb of the saint: — would ye wish, to dispel it?
 
 THE BOTTLE OF ST. JANUARIUS. 59 
 
 With the hand of good- fellowship grasp the hoar sage — 
 Soon his joints will relax and his pulse will beat quicker ; 
 
 Grasp the hottle he brings — 'twill grow warm, I'll engage, 
 Till the frost of each heart he's dissolved in. the liquor ! 
 
 PKOBATUM EST. 
 
 Father Peottt — wbose real raitie was Mahoxt, and wbo assumed as 
 his nom de plume the name of a wortliy Komau Catholic pastor, wlio 
 for many years had lived at Watergrass Hill, in the County of Cork, 
 renowned for his unostentatious piety, mediaeval lore, and patriarchal 
 hospitality, — was a native of the soutliei-u capital of Ireland, where 
 his family were respectable merchants for several generations back, 
 and their remote ancestors chiefs of their sept or clan during the civil 
 wars against the English Crown, or petty princes, previous to the inva- 
 sion, when the south of Ireland alone could boast of nearly as many 
 independent principalities as there are counties at present in the whole 
 of the island. One of his forefathers greatly distinguished himself at 
 the siege of Limerick, and was the Mahony afterwards ennobled by 
 the French monarch, in whose service he led a most brilliant charge 
 right tlu'ough a numerous and compact body of the enemy. On this 
 occasion being told by his lieutenant that the enemy liad reformed, and 
 asked what was to be done next, lie replied without hesitation, whilst he 
 clapped spurs to his horse, and waved his sword on high, " Ciiarge 
 
 them again, by J s !" The reverend father had all the fire, and 
 
 much of the untamed and untameable spirit of his race, features of 
 his character which the Jesuits, amongst whom (see Preface) he re- 
 ceived his education, too plainly perceived, when they declined recom- 
 mending him to orders ; and be must have applied himself to the study 
 of some other profession, if a friendly Italian prelate, who liatcd the 
 order of Ignatius most cordially, had not ordained him. From the 
 day, however, on whicli he entered the priesthood till his death, a pe- 
 riod of about thirty years, it may be safely said that he officiated little 
 more than a couple of years altogether. It was his fellow-townsmen, 
 Dr. Maginn and Serjeant Muri)liy, who, whilst he was attached to the 
 cliapel of the Bavarian Minister, introduced him to the literary 
 life of London. There he made his debut in the pages of ' Frazer's 
 Magazine.' The ' Prout Papers,' which were modelled on the ' Noctcs 
 Ambrosianae' of 'Blackwood's Magazine,' ajipeared in the earlier num- 
 bers of Frazer, and had a brilliant success. His next appearance was 
 in 'Bentley's Miscellany,' to which lie contributed the polyglot poems, 
 some of which liavc been seloeted for this volume. Ho afterwards be- 
 came connected with the ' Globe ' newspaper, to which ho contributed
 
 6o FATHER PROUT. 
 
 for several years as foreign correspondent fi'om Paris ; and lie was the 
 holder as well of some shares in the ' Globe ' property, which his 
 family sold out after his decease. He had a small private fortune of his 
 own, which raised him above the necessity of seeking employment in the 
 rigorous profession he had adopted, as was generally reported, to please 
 his family's pietistic notions much more than his own natural inclina- 
 tion. It also enabled him to follow at his ease the much more congenial 
 pursuit of literary fame, and to cultivate the intercourse of tlie leading 
 intellects of his time. He was a great traveller, and a most accom- 
 plished modern linguist, the facility and idiomatic perfection of his 
 Trench and Italian being something extraordinary, whether in con- 
 versation or in his more studied compositions for the press. Of his 
 eminent Latin scholarship, the reader niny form some idea on referring 
 to the remarks on that subject made in the preface to this edition of 
 tlie ' Bentley Ballads.' Mahony was a brilliant conversationalist, and 
 a most amusing, although not always, to some of his hearers, an agree- 
 able companion. There was a strong Johnsonian element in him of 
 consciousness, amounting at times to a contcmptvious superiority, which 
 would break into downright rudeness of discussion. He had an ungo- 
 vernable propensity to break flies upon the wheel, and to smash little 
 people who were presumptuous enough to doubt, even with the utmost 
 courtesy, the correctness of his opinions. In the society of ladies, 
 who petted and flattered him very much, his choleric temperament was 
 charmed and soothed down, and "the extraordinary creature" (the 
 name he went by amongst his fair friends), wlio would worry and toss 
 up a hundred small controversialists of his own sex, in tlie same time 
 that the famous dog Billy would have settled so many rats, became 
 tout a fait in " my ladye's bower," a tame and most agreeable lion. He 
 died in Paris in the year 1866, and was buried at Siiandon in his na- 
 tive county, now rendered famous by his exquisitely touching song 
 upon its church bells, which, if he never had written another, would 
 have entitled him to rank amongst our first lyric writers, and which 
 most likely will live as long not only in tlicse countrie3,but wherever the 
 English language is spoken, as even the happiest efforts of his country- 
 man Moore.
 
 6i 
 
 THE JACKDAW OF EHEIMS. 
 
 BY THOMAS INGOLDSBY. 
 
 " Tunc miser Corvus adeo conscientise stimulis compunctus fuit, et exe- 
 cratio cum tantopere excarneficavit, v.t exinde tabescere inciperet, maciem 
 contraheret, omnem cibuia aversaretur, nee amplius crocitaret : pennas 
 pi-ffiterea ei defluobant, et alis pendulis otnnes facetias interinisit, et tarn 
 macer apparuit ut omnes ejus miscrescent." * * * 
 
 "Tunc abbas sacerdotibus niandavit ut rursus furem absolverent; quo 
 facto, Corvus, omnibus mirantibus, propediem convaluit, et pristinam, et sani- 
 tatem recupcravit." De Illust. Ord. Cisterc, 
 
 rPHE Jackda-w sat on the Cardinal's cliair ! 
 ^ Bishop and abbot, and prior were there: 
 
 Many a monk, and many a friar, 
 
 Many a knight, and many a squire, 
 With a great many more of lesser degree, — 
 In sooth a goodly company ; 
 And they served the Lord Primate on bended knee. 
 
 Never, I ween, was a prouder seen. 
 Head of in boolcs, or dreamt of in dreams, 
 Than the Cardinal Lord Archbishop of Eheims ! 
 
 In and out through the motley rout, 
 That little Jackdaw kept hopping about ; 
 
 Here and tlicre like a dog in a fair, 
 
 Over comfits and cakes, and dishes and plates, 
 fowl and cope, and Ptoohet and pall, 
 Mitre and crosier I he hopp'd upon all ! 
 
 With saucy air, he perch'd on the chair 
 "NNTiere, in state, the great Lord Cardinal sat 
 In the great Lord Cardinal's great red hat ; 
 
 And he peer'd in the face of his Lordship's Grace, 
 With a satisfied look as if he would say. 
 *' We two are the greatest folks here to-day !"
 
 62 THE JACKDAW OF RHEIMS. 
 
 And the priests, with awe, as sucli freaks they saw, 
 Said, "the Devil must be in that little Jackdaw !" 
 
 The feast was over, the board was clear'd, 
 The flawns and the custards had all disappear'd, 
 And six little Singing-boys, — dear little souls ! 
 In nice clean faces, and nice white stoles, 
 
 Came, in order due, two by two, 
 Marching that grand refectory through ! 
 A nice little boy held a golden ewer, 
 Emboss'd and till'd with water, as pure 
 As any that flows between Ptheims and Namur, 
 Which a nice little boy stood ready to catch 
 In a fine golden hand-basin made to match. 
 Two nice little boys, rather more grown. 
 Carried lavender-water, and eau de Cologne ; 
 And a nice little boy had a nice cake of soap, 
 Worthy of washing the hands of the Pope. 
 
 One little boy more a napkin bore, 
 Of the best white diaper, fringed with pink, 
 And a Cardinal's Ilat, mark'd in " permanent ink." 
 
 The great Lord Cardinal turns at the sight 
 Of these nice little boys dress'd all in white : 
 
 From his finger ho draws his costly turquoise ; 
 And, not thinking at all about little Jackdaws, 
 
 Deposits it straight by the side of his plate, 
 "While the nice little boys on his Eminence wait ; 
 Till, when nobody's dreaming of any such thing, 
 That little Jackdaw hops ofi' with the ring ! 
 
 There's a cry and a shout, and a deuce of a rout, 
 And nobody seems to know what they're about, 
 liut the monks have their pockets all turn'd inside out ; 
 
 The friars are kneeling, and hunting, and feeling 
 The carpet, the floor, and the walls, and the ceiling. 
 
 The Cardinal drew off each plum-colour'd shoo, 
 And left his red stockings exposed to the view ; 
 
 He peeps, and he feels in the toes and the heels ;
 
 THE JACKDAW OF RHEIMS. 63 
 
 They turn up the dishes,— they turn up the plates, — 
 They take up the poker and poke out the grates, 
 
 — They turn up the rugs, they examine the mugs ; — 
 But, no ! — no such thing ; — they can't find the ring ! 
 And the Abbot declar'd that " when nobody twigg'd it, 
 Some rascal or other had popp'd in and prigg'd it !" 
 The Cardinal rose with a dignified look. 
 He called for his candle, his bell, and his book ! 
 
 In holy anger, and pious grief. 
 
 He solemnly cursed that rascally thief ! 
 
 He cursed him at board, he cursed him in bed ; 
 
 From the sole of his foot to the crown of his head ; 
 
 He cursed him in sleeping, that every night 
 
 He should dream of the devil, and wake in a fright ; 
 
 He cursed him in eating, he cursed him in drinking. 
 
 He cursed him in coughing, in sneezing, in winking ; 
 
 He cursed him in sitting, in standing, in lying; 
 
 He cursed him in walking, in riding, in flying, 
 
 He cursed him in living, he cursed him in dying ! — 
 Never was heard such a terrible curse ! 
 
 But what gave rise to no little surprise, 
 Nobody seem'd one penny the worse ! 
 
 The day was gone, the night came on, 
 The Monks and the Friars they search'd till dawn ; 
 
 When the Sacristan saw, on crumpled claw, 
 Come limping a poor little lame Jackdaw ! 
 
 No longer gay, as on yesterday ; 
 His feathers all seem'd to be turn'd the wrong way ; — 
 His pinions droop'd — he could hardly stand, — 
 His head was as bald as the palm of your hand ; 
 
 His eye so dim, so wasted each limb. 
 That, heedless of grammar, they all cried, "That's Him!— 
 That's the scamp that has done this scandalous thing ! 
 That's tlie thief that has got my Lord Cardinal's lling !" 
 
 The poor little Jackdaw, when the monks he saw 
 Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw ; 
 And turn'd his bald head, as much as to say ; 
 *' Pray be so good as to walk this way !"
 
 64 THE JACKDAW OF RHEIMS. 
 
 Slower and slower he limp'd on before. 
 Till they came to the back of the belfry door, 
 
 Where the first thing they saw, midst the sticks and straw, 
 "Was the KING in the nest of that little Jackdaw ! 
 
 Then the great Lord Cardinal call'd for his book. 
 And ofi" that terrible curse he took ; 
 
 The mute expression served in lieu of confession, 
 And, being thus coupled with full restitution, 
 The Jackdaw got plenary absolution ! 
 
 — When those words were heard, that poor little bird 
 Was so changed in a moment, 'twas really absurd. 
 
 He grew sleek, and fat ; in addition to that, 
 A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a mat ! 
 
 His tail waggled more even than before ; 
 But no longer it wagged with an impudent air, 
 No longer it perched on the Cardinal's chair. 
 
 He hopp'd now about with a gait devout ; 
 At Matins, at Vespers, he never was out ; 
 And, so far from any more pilfering deeds, 
 He always seem'd telling the confessor's beads. 
 If any one lied, or if any one swore. 
 Or slumber'd in prayer-time and happened to snore, 
 
 That good Jackdaw would give a great " caw !" 
 As much as to say, " don't do so any more !" 
 While many remark'd, as his manners they saw, 
 That they never had known such a pious Jackdaw ! 
 
 He long lived the pride of that country side, 
 And at last in the odour of sanctity died ; 
 
 When, as words were too faint, his merits to paint, 
 The conclave determined to make him a saint ; 
 And on newly-made saints and popes, as you know, 
 It's the custom, at Rome, new names to bestow, 
 So they canonized him by the name of Jim Crow !
 
 RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM. 65 
 
 EiCHAED Haeris Baeham was bora December the 6th, 1788, at 
 Canterbury. He inherited from a long Une of gentle ancestors reaching 
 back to the Conquest a moderate estate, a portion of which consisted 
 of the Manor of Tappington or Tapton Wood often alluded to in tlic 
 * Ingoldsby or Grolden Legends,' of which he was the author. The estate 
 when it came to him was somewhat curtailed and encumbered, as stated 
 by his sou in the entertaining biography he gives of his father appended 
 to the larger editions of the Legends. He met with an accident coming 
 up to London to enter at St. Paul's School, owing to the overturning 
 of a mail coach, which shattered one of his arms, rendering it weak for 
 life. Amongst the friendships which he formed at this famous public 
 school was that of Mr. Bentley, his connexion with whom in after hfe 
 was the means of giving to the world those wonderful talcs of mirth, 
 and marvel in verse, on which his brilliant literary reputation is 
 founded. He went up Captain of St. Paul's to Oxford, and entered 
 Brazenose as a gentleman commoner. A desultory reader from his 
 boyhood, an early scribbler of prose and verse, and a well prepared 
 classic when he mati-iculated at the age of nineteen, he seems to have 
 given himself no trouble to attain University honours and emoluments, 
 and was satisfied to come out second class, respectably, at the end of 
 his imdergi-aduate career. After going through the usual divinity 
 course, he was admitted to orders, and got appointed to the curacy of 
 Ashford in Kent. Li 1814, after his marriage to Caroline, daughter of 
 Captain Smart of the Royal Engineers, he was presented by the Arch- 
 bishop of Canterbury to the living of Snargate in Eomney Marsh, and 
 at the same time to the curacy of Warehorn, a couple of miles distant, 
 at which latter place he took up his residence. The principal bulk of 
 his parishioners were a wild smuggling race, but not bad Christians or 
 church goers, their fiscal irregularities notwithstanding, and parson 
 and flock too, were very good friends, and got on very harmoniously 
 together. In 1821, he was elected, somewhat unexpectedly, to a minor 
 canonry in Saint Paul's, which was the turning point of his literary 
 fate, as he came up shortly after the election to reside in London. In 
 1824, he received the appointment of a priest in ordinary of his Ma- 
 jesty's Chapel Eoyal, and was almost immediately afterwards presented 
 to the incumbency of St. Mary Magdalene, and St. Gregory by St. 
 Paul. About this time he contributed to ' Blackwood's Magazine,' and 
 the ' John Bull,' and was a conservative in politics, as may be inferred 
 from his connexion with those publications — a connexion wliich brought 
 about an intimate friendship between him and the celebrated wit and 
 light litterateur, Theodore Hook, which lasted for many years, and 
 

 
 66 RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM. 
 
 ■was only interrupted by the death, of the latter. In 1837, Mr. 
 Bentley having beat up for the most brilHant contributors he could 
 enlist for his new periodical, the ' Miscellany,' was fortunate enough 
 to seciu'e the invaluable aid of his old Pauline schoolfellow and friend ; 
 and Mr. Barham, hitherto an anonymous, and, vmless to a few in- 
 timate friends, an unknown contributor to the periodical press, com- 
 menced the ' Golden Legends' \mder the nom de plume of Ingoldsby. 
 This incognito however, as is generally the case where the production 
 takes the town by stoi"m, was soon pierced through, and he was hailed 
 by his assumed name in literary and fashionable circles as often as by 
 his own. Mr. Barham was a member of the Garrick, and for 
 many years previously to his death he was on the managing committee 
 of that famous club. He also took a great interest in the affairs of the 
 Literary Fund, and was ever attentive and kind in obtaining its assist- 
 ance for distressed authors. 
 
 The following brief summary, at once able and just, of the powers 
 displayed by the author of ' The Golden Legends,* is extracted from 
 the Biography by his son, to which allusion has been already made : — ■ 
 
 "As respects the pooms, remavkablo as they have been pronounced for the 
 wit and humour which they display, their distinguishing attraction lies in 
 the almost unparalleled flow and iaciHty of the versification. Popular phrases, 
 sentences, the most prosaic, even the cramped technicalities of legal diction, 
 and snatches from well nigh every language, are wrought in with an appa- 
 rent absence of all art and effort that surprises, pleases, and convulses the 
 reader at every turn ; the author triumphs with a master's hand over eveiy 
 variety of stanza, however complicate or exacting ; not a word seems out of 
 place, not an expression forced ; syllables the most intractable find the only 
 partners fitted for them throughout the range of language, and couple 
 together as naturally as those kindred spirits, which poets tell us were created 
 pairs, and dispersed in space to seek out their particular mates. A harmony 
 pervades the whole, a perfect modulation of numbers never perhaps sur- 
 passed, and rarely equalled in compositions of this class. This was iha forte 
 of Thomas Ingoldsby ; a harsh line or untrue rhyme grated like the Shaudten 
 hinge upon his ear ; no inviting point or alluring pun would induce him to 
 entertain either for an instant; sacrifice or circumlocution were the only 
 alternatives. At the same time, scarcely any vehicle could be better adapted 
 for the development of his peculiar powers, than that unshackled metre 
 ■which admits of no laws save those of rhyme and melody; but which also 
 from the very want of definite regulations, presents no landmark to guide 
 the poet, and demands a thorough knowledge of rhythm to prevent his be- 
 coming lost among a succession of confused and unconnected stanzas. 
 
 " Of the unflagging spirit of fun which animates these productions, there 
 can be but one opinion ; Mr. Barham was, unquestionably, an adept in the 
 mysteries of mirth, happy in his use of anachronism, and all the means and 
 appliances of burlesque ; he was skilled, moreover, to relieve his humour, 
 however broad, from any imputation of vulgarity by a judicious admixture of 
 pathos and antiquarian lore. There are, indeed, passages in his writings,. 
 ' The Execution' for example, and the battle field in ' The Black Mousque-
 
 RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM. 67 
 
 taire,' standing out in strong contrast from the ludicrous imagery wbich sur- 
 rounds them, and affording evidence of powers of a very opposite and far 
 higher order." 
 
 By every competent judge who reads but one or two of ' The Golden 
 Legends,' the above critique on their chief merits — for they have many 
 minor ones — will not be taken cum grano salis, as coming from a partial 
 and over affectionate source, the son praising the father, the pupil up- 
 holding the master, the painter of 'The Temptations of Saint Anthony' 
 descanting upon the beauties displayed in the tableaux of St. Dunstau, 
 St. Odille, St. Cuthbert, St. Nicholas, and St. Aloys, the models and 
 exemplars which he himself had studied and imitated so successfully. 
 The eulogium, however unqualified, is simply the verdict of the literary 
 world given five-and-twenty years back, and never since reversed or 
 questioned. 
 
 Mr. Barham was subject to a bronchial and lung affection for little 
 more than half a year before his decease, in consequence of a cold 
 which he caught in sitting too near an open window, through which 
 an autumnal east wind blew bitterly on him. It was on the occasion 
 of Her Majesty's visit to the City to open the Royal Exchange towards 
 the end of 1844. He seems, contrary to the injunctions of his medical 
 advisers, to have more or less neglected the malady, which at last be- 
 came so serious in the May of 1845, that he was obliged to remove with 
 Mrs. Barbara, then also a great invalid, to Clifton, for change of air 
 and scene, as well as to be removed for a season, effectually from the 
 wear and tear of body and mind, which is easily understood by those 
 who have had any experience of the never ending day work, and the 
 social evenings of a London literary lion. It was during the few weeks 
 of his sojourn at Clifton, where he seemed to derive some benefit, and 
 where, not improbably, he might have effectually bafllcd tlie attack 
 upon his constitution, had he remained the entire summer, that in a 
 moment of superior inspiration, he composed those prophetic lines— 
 the most exquisitely beautiful of all his productions, and bis last, — 
 'As I lay a-tliynkynge.' It was the memory of liis children wlio had 
 gone before wliicli came over him in that beautiful vision ; and the 
 spirit of filial piety in that bird of heaven soaring upwards beckoned 
 him to follow ! He died shortly after his return to London on the 
 17th, and his funeral took place on the 21st of June, 1845, in the fifty- 
 seventh year of his age. 
 
 " Conscious," says his biographer, " as his family could not fail to be, of 
 the yory high esteem in which hi; was liohl hy Ihos^ witli whom lu; liiul boon 
 prof'essuniully connected, they were not prepared fur the uiiaTiiinnus donion- 
 su-ation of respect which they thought gcjod to exhibit on this occasion. The 
 
 G— 2
 
 68 RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM. 
 
 ■windows of tlie streets situated in the parislies of St. Faith and St. Gregory, 
 through which the funeral procession passed, were closed. Both churches 
 ■were hung with black cloth, and the ofEcers of the latter one, in deep 
 mourning received his remains at the porch, and, together with many of his 
 old parishioners, witnessed their consignment to the rector's vault, beneath 
 that altar at which he had ministered so long." 
 
 A quarter of a century has passed aiivay since the ' Ingoldshy Bal- 
 lads or Golden Legends' stood in front of the foremost light literature 
 of their day ; and the fame ■which they enjoyed, so far from decreasing, 
 •would appear to be increasing ■with the demands of a ne-w generation 
 which cannot produce any ■woi'k of mirth and marvel- equal or even 
 second to it. Issues of the work which affords the most pure enjoy- 
 ment to every class of English readers, have just now been annoiinced, 
 of every size and price, from the edition de luxe at a guinea to the 
 half-crown railway volume, the latter the most beautiful thing of the 
 kind and for the money that can be well imagined ; and Mr. Bentley 
 has the satisfaction of feeling that the tribute wliich he thus pays to 
 the memory and merits of his old schoolfellow and friend is neither 
 uncalled for nor inopportune — a tribute which may be revived from 
 time to time, after he too shall have closed the evening of his days, 
 and for generations whilst tlie old name and publishing house shall 
 stand, an immortelle and golden garland, one of tlie fairest in all the 
 garden of our hterary dead, its native perfume as rich as of yore, and 
 its amaranthine leaves imfaded. 
 
 OLD MORGAN AT PANAMA. 
 
 BY G. E. INM.VN. 
 I. 
 
 Tn the hostel-room we were seated in gloom, old Morgan's trustiest 
 
 crew; 
 No mirthful sound, no jest went round, as it erst was wont to do. 
 Wine we had none, and our girls were gone, for the last of our 
 
 gold was spent ; 
 And some swore an oath, and all were wroth, and stern o'er the 
 
 table bent ; 
 Till our chief on the board hurl'd down his words, and spake with 
 
 his stormy shout, 
 ** Hell and the devil ! an' this be revel, we had better arm and out. 
 Let us go and pillage old Panama, 
 
 We, the mighty Buccaneers !"
 
 OLD MORGAN AT PANAMA. 69 
 
 II. 
 
 Straight at the "word each, girt on his sword, five hundred men and 
 more ; 
 
 And we clove the sea in our shallops free, till we reach'd the 
 mainland shore. 
 
 For many a day overland was our way, andour hearts grew weary 
 and low, 
 
 And many wouldback on their trodden track, rather than farther go ; 
 
 But the wish was quell'd, though our hearts retell'd, by old Mor- 
 gan's stormy roar, — 
 
 " The way ye have sped is farther to tread, than the way which 
 lies before." 
 
 So on we mareh'd upon Panama, 
 
 We, the mighty Buccaneers ! 
 
 III. 
 
 'Twas just sunset when our eyes first met the sight of the town of 
 
 gold ; 
 And down on the sod each knelt to his God, five hundred warriors 
 
 bold; 
 Each bared his blade, and we fervent pray'd (for it might be our 
 
 latest prayer), 
 "Ransom from hell, if in fight we fell, — if we lived, for a booty 
 
 rare!" 
 And each as he rose felt a deep repose, and a calm o'er aU within ; 
 For he knew right well, whatever befell, his soul was assoil'd 
 
 from sin. 
 
 Then down we mareh'd on old Panama, 
 We, the mighty Buccaneers ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 The town arose to meet us as foes, and in order beheld us come, — • 
 They were three to one, but warriors none, — traders, and such like 
 
 scum, 
 Unused to wield either sword or shield ; but they plied their new 
 
 trade well. 
 I am not told how they bought and sold, but they fought like 
 
 fiends of hell.
 
 70 OLD MORGAN AT PANAMA. 
 
 They fought in despair for their daughters fair, their wives, and 
 
 their wealth, God wot ! 
 And throughout the night made a gallant fight, — but it mattcr'd 
 not a jot. 
 
 For had we not sworn to take Panama, 
 We, the mighty Buccaneers ? 
 
 O'er dying and dead the morn rose red, and o'er streets of a redder 
 
 dye; 
 And in scatter' d spots stood men in knots, who would not yield 
 
 or fly. 
 "With souls of fire they bay'd our ire, and parried the hurl and 
 
 thrust ; 
 But ere the sun its noon had won they were mingled with the dust. 
 Half of our host in that night we lost, — but we little for that had 
 
 care ; 
 We knew right well that each that fell increased the survivor's share 
 Of the plunder we found in old Panama, 
 We, the mighty Buccaneers ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 We found bars of gold, and coin untold, and gems which to count 
 
 were vain ; 
 We had floods of wine, and girls divine, the dark-eyed girls of 
 
 Spain. 
 They at first were coy, and baulk'd our joy^ and seem'd with their 
 
 fate downcast, 
 And wept and groan'd, and shriek'd and swoon'd ; but 'twas all 
 
 the same at last. 
 Our wooing was short, of the warrior's sort, and they thought it 
 
 rough, no doubt ; 
 But, truth to tell, the end was as well as had it been longer about. 
 And so we revell'd in Panama, 
 
 We, the mighty Buccaneers ! 
 
 Til. 
 
 We lived in revel, sent care to the devil, for two or three weeks or so, 
 When a general thought within us wrought that 'twas getting 
 time to go.
 
 OLD MORGAN AT PANAMA. 7i 
 
 So we set to work with dagger and dirk to torture the burghers hoar, 
 And their gold conceal'd compell'd them to yield, and add to our 
 
 common store. 
 And whenever a fool of the miser school declared he had ne'er a 
 
 groat, 
 In charity due we melted a few, and pour'd them down his throat. 
 This drink we invented at Panama, 
 
 We, the mighty Buccaneers ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 "WTien the churls we eased, their bags well squeezed, we gave 
 them our blessing full fain. 
 
 And we kiss'd our girls with the glossy curls, the dark -eyed girls 
 of Spain; 
 
 Our booty we shared, and we all prepared for the way we had to 
 roam, 
 
 When there rose a dispute as to taking our route by land or by 
 water home. 
 
 So one half of the band chose to travel by land, the other to travel 
 by sea : 
 
 Old Morgan's voice gave the sea the choice, and I foUow'd his for- 
 tunes free, 
 
 And hasten'd our leaving old Panama, 
 We, the mighty Buccaneers ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 A bark we equipp'd, and our gold we shipp'd, and gat us ready 
 
 for sea ; 
 Seventy men, and a score and ton, mariners bold were we. 
 Our mates had took leave, on the y ester-eve, their way o'er the 
 
 hills to find, 
 When, as morning's light pierc'd through the night, we shook her 
 
 sails to the wind. 
 With a frcsh'ning breeze we walk'd the seas, and the land sunk 
 
 low and low'r ; 
 A dreary dread o'er our hearts there sped we never should see 
 
 land more — 
 
 And away we departed from Panama, 
 We, the mighty Buccaneers !
 
 72 OLD MORGAN A T PANAMA. 
 
 X. 
 
 For a day or two we were busy enow in setting ourselves to rights, 
 
 In fixing each, berth, our mess, and so forth, and the day's watch 
 and the night's ; 
 
 But when these were done, over every one came the lack of aught 
 to do, 
 
 "We listless talk'd, we listless walk'd, and we pined for excitement 
 new. 
 
 Oh ! how we did haU any shift in the gale, for it gave us a sail to 
 trim ! 
 
 We began to repent that we had not bent our steps with om' com- 
 rades grim. 
 
 And thus we sail'd on from old Panama, 
 We, the mighty Buccaneers ! 
 
 XI. 
 
 Day after day we had stagger'd away, with a steady breeze abeam ; 
 No shift in the gale ; no trimming a sail ; how dull we were, ye 
 
 may deem ! 
 We sung old songs till we wearied our lungs ; we push'd the 
 
 flagon about ; 
 And told and re-told tales ever so old, till they fairly tired iis out. 
 There was a shark in the wake of our bark took us three days to 
 
 hook ; 
 And when it was caught we wish'd it was not, for we miss'd the 
 
 trouble it took. 
 
 And thus we sail'd on from old Panama, 
 We, the mighty Buccaneers ! 
 
 XII. 
 
 At last it befell, some tempter of hell put gambling in some one's 
 head ; 
 
 The devil's device, the cards and the dice, broke the stagnant life 
 we led : 
 
 From morn till night, ay, till next morn's light, we plied the bones 
 right well ; 
 
 Day after day the rattle of play clatter'd through the caravel. 
 
 How the winners laugh' d, how the losers quafl^'d ! 'twas a mad- 
 ness, as it were. 
 
 It was a thing of shuddering to hark to the losers swear. 
 And thus we sail'd on from old Panama, 
 We, the mighty Buccaneers !
 
 OLD MORGAN A T PANAMA. 73, 
 
 XIII. 
 
 From morn till night, ay, till next morn's light, for weeks the 
 
 play kept on : 
 'Twas fearful to see the winners' glee, and the losers haggard and 
 
 wan ; 
 You well might tell, by their features fell, they would ill brook 
 
 to be crost ; 
 And one morn there was one, who all night had won, jeer'd some 
 
 who all night had lost. 
 He went to bed — at noon he was dead — I know not from what, 
 
 nor reck ; 
 But they spake pf a mark, livid and dark, about thedead man's neck ! 
 And thus we sail'd on from old Panama, 
 "We, the mighty Buccaneers ! 
 
 XIV. 
 
 This but begun : and those who had won lived a life of anxious 
 
 dread ; 
 Day after day there was bicker and fray ; and a man now and then 
 
 struck dead. 
 Old Morgan stern was laugh'd to scorn, and it worried his heart 
 
 I trow ; 
 Five days of care, and his iron-grey hair was as white as the 
 
 winter's snow : 
 The losers at last his patience o'erpast, for they drew their sword 
 
 each one. 
 And cried, with a shout, " Hell take you ! come out, and fight for 
 
 the gold ye have won — 
 
 The gold that our blood bought at Panama, 
 We, the mighty Buccaneers!" 
 
 XV. 
 
 "We never were slow at a word and a blow, so we cross' d our irons 
 
 full fain ; 
 And for death and life had begun the strife, when old Morgan 
 
 stopp'd it amain, 
 And thunder'd out with his stormy shout,—" Dogs, ye have had 
 
 your day ! 
 To your berths!" he roar'd. "Who slicaths not his sword,. 
 
 Heaven grant him its grace, I pray !
 
 ^4 OLD MORGAN A T PANAMA. 
 
 For I swear, by God, I will cleave him like wood !" There was 
 
 one made an angry sign ; 
 Old Morgan heard, and he kept his word ; for he clove him to the 
 chine. 
 
 So ended Ms exploits at Panama : 
 
 He, the mighty Buccaneer ! 
 
 XVI. 
 
 At this we qnail'd, and we henceforth sail'd, in a smouldering 
 
 sort of truce ; 
 But our dark brows gloom'd, and we inward fumed for a pretext 
 
 to give us loose : 
 When early one morn — "A strange sail astern!" we heard the 
 
 look-out man haU ; 
 And old Morgan shout, "Put the ship about, and crowd every 
 
 stitch of saU!" 
 And around went we, surging through the sea at our island wild 
 
 buck's pace ; 
 In wonderment what old Morgan meant, we near'd to the fated 
 
 chase — 
 
 We, the pillagers of old Panama, 
 
 We, the mighty Buccaneers ! 
 
 XVII. 
 
 •She went right fast, but we took her at last, 'Twas a little brig- 
 antine thing ; 
 
 With four men for crew, and a boy or two — a bark built for 
 trafficking ; 
 
 Besides this crew were three women, too : her freight was salt- 
 fish and oil : 
 
 For the men on board, they were put to the sword ; the women we 
 spared awhile. 
 
 And aU was surmise what to do with the prize, when old Morgan, 
 calling us aft, 
 
 iloar'd, "Ye who have fool'd youi'selves out of your gold take 
 possession of yonder craft. 
 
 And go pillage some other Panama, 
 
 Ye, the mighty Buccaneers I"
 
 OLD MORGAN AT PANAMA. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 "We were reckless and rude, we had been at feud till 'twas war to 
 
 the very knife ; 
 ^ut it clove each heart when we came to part from comrades in 
 
 many a strife : 
 Over one and all a gloom seem'd to fall, and in silence they pack'd 
 
 their gear, 
 Amid curses and sighs, and glistening eyes, and here and there 
 
 a tear. 
 Then each of each band shook each old mate's hand, and we 
 
 parted with hearts full sore ; 
 We all that day watch'd them lessen away. They were never 
 
 heard of more ! 
 
 We kept merrily on from old Panama, 
 "We, the mighty Buccaneers ! 
 
 XIX. 
 
 'Their sufferings none know, but ours, I trow, were very, oh ! very 
 
 sore; 
 We had storm and gale till our hearts 'gan fail, and then calins, 
 
 which harass'd us more ; 
 Then many fell sick ; and while all were weak, we rounded the 
 
 fiery cape ; 
 As I hope for bliss in the life after this, 'twas a miracle our escape ! 
 Then a leak we sprung, and to lighten us, ilung all our gold to the 
 
 element : 
 •Our perils are past, and we're here at last, but as penniless as wo 
 
 went. 
 
 And such was the pillage of Panama 
 By the mighty Buccaneers ! 
 
 THE BUCCANEERS. 
 
 Buccan was tlic name given to tlie primitive gridiron of tlio Cariliboo 
 Islands, or Lesi-or Antilles, lying between Puerto Rico and the Gulf 
 of Paria. It was made of the hard wood of the country, and was 
 placed high above the sacrificial fire by the natives, who smoked ns 
 well as roasted upon it the flesh of tlic prisoners wliom they took in 
 war. It was adopted from their earliest arrivid in those regions by 
 the European settlers in their hu)itii)g expedi(ii)iis 1hrouf;]i the islands,
 
 76 THE BUCCANEERS. 
 
 as well as ou the shores of the South American Continent, ■wliere also 
 the aboriginal Carib had flourished and hunted the bison before them. 
 ITrom the name of the cookmg apparatus, huccan, came that of the 
 cooking process luccaning, until in the course of natural derivation the 
 hunters themselves became better known as buccaneers than monteros, 
 the ancient name of the Spanish hunters. The cruelties exercised by 
 Spanish jealousy against the early adventurers from the various coun- 
 tries of Europe in quest of the treasures of the Eldorado, left numbers 
 of these latter no alternative but the chase and the buccan, with 
 pu'atical excursions in open boats, not capable of holding more than 
 twenty men, upon the waters of the Gulf, to supply their additional 
 wants, at the expense of Spanish traders. These earlier adventurers, 
 driven to this wild mode of life by land and sea, were the original 
 Buccaneers of the sixteenth century. Shortly after the first quarter 
 of the seventeenth century, however, had passed away, a universal 
 enthusiasm against the Spanish name began to spread throughout Eng- 
 land, France, the Low Countries, Denmark, &c., iu consequence of the 
 accounts which reached Europe of the cruelties practised upon the 
 emigrants from those counti-ies, who, in spite of all prohibitions and 
 threatened terrors, would still make their way to the land of the gold. 
 It appears to have mattered little what relations, whether of peace or 
 war, Spain was imder with the other European governments, these latter 
 would not, or could not, restrain their seafaring subjects from fitting 
 out privateering expeditions against her possessions in the New World- 
 This, the second, and by far the more formidable era of the buccaneers, 
 continued for considerably more than half a century, and belield 
 in its course not alone the plunder and destruction of their powerful 
 enemy's vessels upon the ocean, but of her richest and largest colonial 
 cities, and the massacre of myriads of her inhabitants. It was of this 
 class of freebooters, "the Mighty Buccaneers," as our poet calls them, 
 that Morgan, the son of a Welsh farmer, was one of the most re- 
 doubted captains. There were others who gained equal fame and 
 riches in the same desperate career, and who had equal influence over 
 their wild followers, such as Montbars, who had sucli a thirst for 
 Spanish blood as to have obtained the name of the Exterminator, 
 L'Olonais, Michael del Basco, Pointis, Van Horn, Peter of Dieppe, 
 called Peter the Great, Mansvelt, &c. ; and besides Henry Morgan, 
 we hear of the names of such English captains as Richard Sawkins, 
 John Watling, William Damper, and Lionel Wafer, the two last men- 
 tioned of whom wrote marvellous descriptions on their return home 
 to England of tlieir adventures as well as of the countries which had 
 been the scene of theu* depredations. At one time or other, and in
 
 THE BUCCANEERS. 77 
 
 some cases more than once, from the fourth to the last decade of the 
 seventeenth century, those freebooters, in different bodies, following one 
 or other of the aboye-mentioned leaders, took and plundered not only 
 such important cities on the Atlantic sea-board of the Spanish pos- 
 sessions as Maracaybo, Campeachy, Porto Bello, Carthagena, Vera 
 Cruz, but Guayaquill, Panama, and other places of equal consequence 
 on the coasts of the South ; and not satisfied with capturing them, and 
 taking possession of their wealth, they massacred their male, and out- 
 raged their female inhabitants. The stem and relentless brutality of 
 the Spaniards, who pursued the English and French like wild beasts, 
 murdering them wherever they could hunt them down in small par- 
 ties, disentitled them to mercy, according to the wild law of the time, 
 whenever it came to then- own turn to fall under the power of the sea- 
 robbers. The small island of Tortuga, one of the Lesser Antilles, which 
 they fortified very strongly, was the stronghold of the Buccaneers. Here 
 they organised and fitted out their expeditions, and revelled in all sorts 
 of licentiousness after the sale of their plunder, which was chiefly 
 effected at Jamaica and San Domingo. The Buccaneers attacked the 
 large Spanish merchantmen, who were all well armed, with their light, 
 sharp prows, coming down rapidly with a favouring wind upon their 
 gigantic opponents' broadsides, and then* marksmen picking off the 
 gunners at their portholes with the most extraordinary precision. 
 Tlien came the pitching of their network and boarding tackle, the rush 
 up the side, the brief massacre, and all was over. 
 
 The picture drawn by the poet so vividly in the third stanza of the 
 ballad, is far from an imaginary one. There are one or two line 
 paintings, by old masters, of Italian banditti praying before the altar of 
 the Madonna and ChUd. Cahir na Cappul, Freney, and others of tho 
 " Irish Hogues and Bappai-ecs " " who robbed the rich to give to the 
 poor," were careful to attend mass on the Sunday. Sawkii)s, one of 
 the Buccaneer captains ah'cady mentioned, threw the dice overboard 
 when he found his men throwing them on a Sunday ; and another of 
 those worthies, Watling, sternly impressed upon his followers the ne- 
 cessity of keeping holy tho Sabbath-day. 
 
 The free-booting chiefs looked upon themselves as petty potentates, 
 each making war upon his own hook against the Spaniard, considered 
 at tho time tho common enemy of mankind ; and his sea-warriora 
 thought they had as good a right to fight for his black flag, as tho free- 
 lances of tlic middle ages had to follow on shore tho most blazoned 
 banner in Christendom. 
 
 After their return from any signal success by land or sea, our heroes 
 invariably oITered up thanks to Heaven at Tortuga or tho first island
 
 78 THE BUCCANEERS. 
 
 at which they landed, in the old pietistic jai'gon, for having crowned 
 their arms with srictory, with as much pretensions, (the ragamufSns), 
 as if they were Christian emperors, ordering their archiepiscopal mmis- 
 ters to offer up Te Deums to the God of Christian Peace after 
 so many head of Christian game had been shot down, and so many 
 Christians' throats had been cut so victoriously. And to carry 
 out the matter logically (Locke's madman theory of wrong premises 
 and right conclusion) they gave a tenth of the spoUa opima to the 
 clergy with a modicum quid to be distributed amongst the poor, 
 and not unfrequently an additional sum towards the building of 
 churches and the endowment of religious institutions. Such is the 
 power of the supernatural even in the wildest and most desperate of 
 human careers, a power which is called superstition where small 
 robbers and cut-throats have tlie audacity beyond all conventional 
 rules to mix up Heaven with their quarrels, and orthodoxy where 
 the Alexanders and Napoleons of the world do the same thing as a 
 matter of coui'se. Another of the spiritualities of the Buccaneers 
 was equally singular ; namely, that they never went on an expedition 
 without having first implored Heaven to allow them to return home 
 again laden with booty, or to save them from the infernal fire of the 
 other world, which they were so conscious of having so richly deserved. 
 In the year 1668, eight years after the Restoration, when Morgan's 
 sovereign, Charles the Second, was at peace with Spain by the Treaty 
 of the Trijile Alliance, which Sir William Temple had concluded at the 
 opening of the year between England, Holland, and Sweden, to assist 
 Spain against the ambition of the French King, and when a general 
 peace reigned throughout Europe, Spain and Portugal having made up 
 their quarrel through the mediation of England, and France and Spain 
 having shaken hands by the Treaty of Aix la Chapelle, the great Eng- 
 lish freebooter, caring little about tlie relations between the Great 
 Powers of Europe, or whether his country was at peace or war with 
 any or all of them, made his celebrated attack upon Portobello. Here 
 he surprised the sentinels, and took the outworks in a rush. The small 
 garrison, however, defended the interior of the town for a short space 
 so weU that they were enabled, with the chief inhabitants, who took 
 with them their gold and silver, and the plate of the churches, to re- 
 treat to the citadel. Morgan having got a number of captive monks 
 and nuns together, ordered them to advance with scaling ladders, and 
 jjlace them against the walls of the fortress, thinking that the defenders, 
 from religious scruples, would not fire at them. He was mistaken, 
 however, for the governor ordered tlie garrison to fire at every living 
 thing that approached the walls. The chief of the Buccaneers then
 
 THE BUCCANEERS. 79 
 
 commanded, and headed the assault, which was successful. The place 
 was taken by storm, and all inside put to the sword, with the exception 
 of tlie women, who were subjected to the brutal law of the conquerors. 
 The bulhon alone taken by Morgan and his followers on this occasion 
 amounted to upwards of £100,000 sterling, and the rich merchandize 
 of variovxs kinds carried off by his sea robbers, was said to have sold 
 for half a million in Jamaica. His last and most daring deed was when 
 he marched across the Isthmus to the capture of Panama. Having 
 assembled at a small island opposite the Mosquito coast, one of the 
 largest flotillas and bodies of men ever commanded by a pirate chief iu. 
 those waters, he steered direct for Chagres, between wliicli and Panama 
 on the opposite side of the Isthmus, there was a good trade by means of 
 the river Chagres. The latter was navigable by large barges and sailing 
 vessels of light di-aught as far as the small town of Cruces, standing 
 about forty miles inland from the mouth, whence the goods were for- 
 warded on mules or men's backs. A small fortress at the entrance of 
 that river, which forms the port of Chagres, stopped the expedition for 
 some hours. An Indian of the garrison, who was a good archer, let 
 fly a shaft at Morgan as ho stood at some distance from the walls in 
 the centre of a small reconnoitring party, but not being as good a 
 marksman as Bertram de Gurdun, who killed our first Richard under 
 similar circumstances when besieging the fortress of Chaluz, he only 
 pierced the eye of one of the staff. Morgan, instantly plucking the 
 arrow from the wound, bound the head of it round with tow, and fired 
 it from his musket into the town, where it fell upon the roof of one of 
 tlie wooden houses and set that side in a blaze in a few minutes. Pro- 
 fiting by the terror and confusion which reigned inside for tiie moment, 
 the Buccaneers, headed by their redoubted chief, stormed and carried 
 tlie place, the governor and the garrison perishing sword in hand. 
 Proceeding up the river, they met witli equally stubborn resistance at 
 Cruces, which they took by a similar coup de main. After having 
 sacked those towns, and butchered and outraged their unfortunate in- 
 habitants, Morgan marclied his men, laden as they were with pUuidcr, 
 over-land to Panama. Numbers of them, like Alexander's followers 
 when sated with the conquest and plunder of India, thinking tliey had 
 gone quite far enough, and expressing tlieir wishes prctfy loudly along 
 tlie lino of march to retrace their steps, Morgan's voice, more powerful 
 than the Macedonian's, stilled the incipient mutiny. As the ballad 
 truly has it, ho told them witli his stormy roar, at wliicli all wlio ever 
 heard it trembled, " Tlio way ye have sped is farther to tread than tha 
 way which lies before !" 
 
 Panama was taken after a day and a half's desperate fighting oa
 
 THE BUCCANEERS. 
 
 both sides, and when the freebooters got in, the inhabitants ■who did 
 not escape by flight on board the vessels in the harbour, or to tho 
 mountains, were all put to the sword, the conquerors only reserving, as 
 was their wont in such cases, the women. The amount of the plunder 
 of this most flourishing mart of the Pacific can be well imagined when 
 Morgan received for his own share, after the pi'oceeds of the entire had 
 been reahzed at Jamaica, no less a sum than £100,000 sterling. It was 
 after the capture of the place, and when the female captives had been 
 disposed of, the most beautiful of them all falling to the lot of the com- 
 mander, that one of the most singular and interesting events of his life 
 occurred to him, and one which it may be well su^Dosed had not been 
 noticed in the account of this passage of his adventures, from which the 
 author of the Bentley Ballad drew his inspiration, or he would have 
 celebrated it. Morgan, it appears, did not feel inclined to show the 
 same delicate consideration to the Spanish lady who had fallen into his 
 power, which Scipio had shewn to her beautiful countrywoman under 
 similar circumstances upwards of two thousand years before, either as 
 regarded her fortune or her lionoui*. Having taken possession of the 
 one, he proceeded to depi'ive her forcibly of the other. His captive, 
 however, being more of the Maid of Saragossa, than the Donna Inez type, 
 burst from his arms, exclaiming, " Kuflian, forbear to ravish from me 
 my honour, as thou hast wrested from me my fortune and my liberty ! 
 No, be assui'ed that my soul shall sooner be separated from my body, 
 than you shall carry out your nefarious purpose !" She then, with the 
 bound of a tigress, sprung at him, poniard in hand, and would have 
 reached his heart, if he had not jumped aside from the blow, and 
 dexterously seizing her, before she could recover herself, held her down 
 till slie became exhausted. He did not mm-der her on the spot, but 
 had her thrown into the darkest and most loathsome dungeon in 
 Panama, determined to subdue her proud spirit by severities. His fol- 
 lowers, however, became clamourous, after a day or two, at his detain- 
 ing them for nothing more important than a hopeless love affair, after 
 the great work had been done which they came to accompUsh. The 
 idea, moreover, that they might be made to pay dearly for any un- 
 necessary delay, if a force from Portobello were allowed time to come 
 down vipon them, was not distant from the thoughts of even the most 
 reckless and abandoned amongst them at the moment, when it behoved 
 them for the sake of their lives as well as their booty to retreat by land 
 or water as speedily as possible. They took their departure, therefore, 
 from Panama, as narrated in Inman's ballad, the great majority by 
 land to Chagres, where they had left their flotilla in charge of a picked 
 number of their comrades, and a small number by sea, to sail round
 
 THE BUCCANEERS. 8r 
 
 Cape Honi before they could reach the rendezvous on the Atlantic side, 
 ■wliere the general distribution of the proceeds of the expedition was to 
 take place. The poor lady, who had so nobly combated the most un- 
 mitigated and formidable ruffian of his day, was liberated from her 
 perilous position by her returning countrymen, and lived, it was said, 
 to an age at which, if she could no longer inspire romance, she could at 
 least challenge respect, when she told the story of how the terriblo 
 English freebooter chief stormed the bravely defended works of 
 Panama, but failed in carrying the citadel of her virtue. 
 
 We next hear of Morgan's return to England with his enormous 
 wealth, where he easily managed to get presented at the Coiu-t of the 
 Mci-ry Monarch. It was not from pure admiration of his exploits, 
 tliat Charles the Second, whose expensive private pleasures compelled 
 him to be a pensioner, to the amount of a couple of hundred thou- 
 sand pounds sterling a year, of the Grande Monarque, bestowed upon 
 Morgan the dignity of knighthood, and appointed him Governor of 
 Jamaica. All was fish, from whatever quarter, that fell into the royal 
 net, and the gold fish was the most precious of any. And so long as 
 it was good coin of the realm, he thought, with the wise Roman 
 Emperor of old, that no money could have a bad smell about it. As 
 tlie chief wealth of the capital of the West of England was once derived 
 from the slave trade, so that of the commercial entrepots of the chief 
 West India islands arose from the trafllc carried on, and the enormous 
 sums recklessly spent therein by the plunderers of the Spanish Main. 
 Indeed, as was once said of Bristol, so it might have been said of those 
 places, that the walls of their houses were cemented with human blood. 
 It was the infamous tralTic of the Buccaneers of the seventeenth cen- 
 tuiy which formed beyond doubt the foundation of the wealth not only 
 of the English but of the Erench possessions in the West Indies. The 
 close of that century saw the last of the most extraordinary associa- 
 tion of pirates since the days of the Northern Sea-Xings, when, after 
 tlic peace of Ryswick, the maritime powers of Europe agreed to put 
 them down. As an earnest of their determination, an English and 
 Dutch fleet meeting a flotilla of the Buccaneers, under the leadership 
 of Pointis, on its return to Tortuga, from the sacking of Carthagcna, 
 laden with booty, dealt with it in tlie most summary manner, sinking 
 it, vessels and crews, with a few exceptions, consisting of some half 
 dozen of tlie smallest and swiftest vessels, which escaped out of tlie 
 affair to Jamaica. 
 
 Sir Ilenry Morgan died at the scat of his government, full of years 
 and honours, another instance in the liistory of worldly success of tJ.o 
 mysterious ways of Providence to tiicii.
 
 82 THE BUCCANEERS. 
 
 Mr. Iriman, the writer of the ballad to which the above observations 
 have reference, was little known in the litei'ary world of London. 
 'The Buccaneers,' and a couple of other poems of similar rough 
 power, contributed to 'Bentley's Miscellany,' were the only productions 
 of his we ever heard of. He was a wine merchant in the City of 
 London, and came to a melancholy and vmtimely end. Returning late 
 one night through Hyde Park from a convivial party, he fell into the 
 Serpentine, and was drowned. 
 
 OLD AGE AND YOUTH. 
 
 BY THOMAS HAYNES BAYLEY, 
 
 Ald Age sits bent on his iron-grey steed ; 
 
 Youth rides erect on his courser black ; 
 And little he thinks in his reckless speed 
 Old Age comes on, in the very same trade. 
 
 And on Youth goes, with his cheek like the rose- 
 And his radiant eyes, and his raven hair ; 
 
 And his laugh betrays how little he knows, 
 Of Age and his sure companion Caee. 
 
 The courser black is put to his speed. 
 And Age plods on, in a quieter way, 
 
 And little youth thinks that the iron-grey steed 
 Approaches him nearer, every day ! 
 
 Though one seems strong as the forest tree, 
 The other infirm, and wanting breath; 
 
 If ever Youth baffles Old Age, 'twill be 
 By rushing into the arms of Death ! 
 
 On his courser black, away Youth goes^ 
 The prosing sage may rest at home ; 
 
 He'll laugh and quaff, for well he knows 
 That years must pass ere Age can come. 
 
 And since too brief are the daylight hours 
 For those who would laugh their lives away p 
 
 With beaming lamps, and mimic flowers, 
 He'll teach the night to mock the day !
 
 OLD AGE AND YOUTH. ^l 
 
 Again he'll laugh, again he'll feast, 
 His lagging foe he'll still deride, 
 
 Until — when he expects him the least- 
 Old Age and he stand side by side I 
 
 He then looks into his toilet-glass, 
 
 And sees Old Age reflected there ! 
 He cries, " Alas ! how quickly pass 
 
 Bright eyes, and bloom, and raven hair !" 
 
 The lord of the courser black must ride, 
 On the iron-grey steed, sedate and slow ! 
 
 And thiis to him who his power defied. 
 Old Age must come like a conquering foe. 
 
 Had the prosing sage not preach' d in vain. 
 Had Youth not written his words on sand, 
 
 Had he early paused, and given the rein 
 Of his courser black to a steadier hand : 
 
 Oh ! just as gay might his days have been, 
 
 Though mirth with graver thoughts might blend ; 
 
 And when at his side Old Age was seen, 
 He had been hail'd as a timely friend. 
 
 THOMAS HAY2s^ES BAYLEY 
 
 Was born at Bath, 13th of October, 1797, and died at Boulogne-sur- 
 Mer, 22nd of April, 1839. He was the son of Nathaniel Baylcy, Esq., 
 of Mount Beacon House, near Bath. He began his poetic career very 
 early, and like Ovid almost lisped in numbers. lie i-eceived lii3 
 primary education at Winchester Sehool, went thence to Leyden, and 
 later in life to St. Mary's Hall, Oxford. He first fancied theology, 
 then law ; read for both ; gave them up, before reaching the high altar 
 of the one, or entering the vestibide of the other; took unto himself a 
 wife, (Miss Hayes, the belle of Bath), at a very early age; and gave 
 himself up to love and the Muses. His numerous comediettas, farces, 
 and pieces of all kinds, which were produced on the stage over twenty 
 years of bis life, have gone out of fashion long since, and almost out of 
 the memory of those who enjoyed them in their younger days; but 
 some of his beautiful ballads, — ' Oh no ! wo never mention her !' 
 ' I'd bo a butterfly,' ' Gaily tiio Troubadour,' ' Bound my own 
 pretty rose,' 'Oh leave me to my sorrow,' &c., &c., so light and 
 rhytlimieal, and with such charms of grace and sentiment about them, 
 will long remain popidar amo.igst our English upper classes. 
 
 0—2
 
 8- 
 
 THE SABINE FARMER'S 
 
 SERENADE. 
 
 BY FATHER PEOUT. 
 I. 
 
 Prat tiirbida nox 
 
 Hora secunda mane 
 (iuando proruit vox 
 
 Carmen in hoc inane ; 
 Viri misera mens 
 
 Meditabatur laymen, 
 Hinc puelke liens 
 
 Stabat obsidens limen ; 
 
 Semel tantum die 
 Eris nostra Lalage ; 
 
 Ne recuses sic 
 Vulcis Julia Callage, 
 
 II. 
 
 Planctibus aurem far, 
 
 Venere tu formosior ; 
 Die, lios muros per, 
 
 Tuo favore potior ! 
 Voce beatiim fac ; 
 
 En, dum dermis, vigUo, 
 Nocte obambulans liac 
 
 Domum planctu stridulo. 
 
 Senel tantum die 
 JEris nostra Lalage ; 
 
 iVe recuses sic, 
 Dulcis Julia Callage. 
 
 III. 
 
 Est milii prrcgnans sus, 
 Et porcellis stabnlum ; 
 
 Villixla, grex, et rns* 
 Ad vaccarum pabulum ; 
 
 BARNEY BRALLAGHAN. 
 
 BY TOM HUDSON. 
 I. 
 
 'Twas on a windy night. 
 
 At two o'clock in the morning, 
 An Irish lad so tight. 
 
 All wind and weather scorning. 
 At Judy Callaghan's door. 
 
 Sitting upon the palings. 
 His love tale he did pouj. 
 
 And this was part of his wail- 
 ings: — 
 
 Only say 
 You'' II he Mrs. Brallaghan ; 
 
 DonH say nay, 
 Charming Judy Callaghan. 
 
 II, 
 Oh ! list to what I say, 
 
 Charms you've got like Venus ; 
 Own your love you may, 
 
 There's but the wall between us. 
 You lie fast asleep 
 
 Snug in bed and snoring ; 
 Round the house I creep, 
 
 Y''our hard heart imploring. 
 
 Only say 
 You 11 have Mr. Brallaghan ; 
 
 DonH say nay, 
 Charming Judy Callaghan. 
 
 III.. 
 
 I've got a pig and a sow, 
 I've got a sty to sleep 'em ; 
 
 A calf and a brindled cow, 
 And a cabin too, to keep 'cm ; 
 
 * 1° in voce rus. Nonne potius legendum/KS, scilicet, ad vaccarum palu- 
 lum ? De \ioajure apud Sabinos agricolas consulc Scriptores de re rusticd 
 passim. Ita Bentleius.
 
 THE SABINE FARMER'S SERENADE. 
 
 Ss 
 
 Feriis cerneres me 
 
 Splendido vestimento, 
 Tunc, heus ! qitam bene te 
 
 Veherem in jumento !* 
 
 Semel taniuni die 
 Eris nostra Lalage 
 
 Ne recuses sic, 
 Dulcis Julia Callage, 
 
 IV. 
 
 Yis poma terrsG ? sum 
 
 Uno (lives jugere ; 
 Yis lac et mella,t cum 
 
 Bacchi sueco,J sugore ? 
 Tis aqu8e-vita3 vim r§ 
 
 Plumoso somnum saccule r 
 Yis ut paratus sim 
 
 Ycl annulo vel baculo ?f[ 
 
 Sunday hat and coat, 
 
 An old grey mare to ride on. 
 Saddle and bridle to boot, 
 "Which, you may ride astride on. 
 
 Oiil^ say 
 You'll be 3Irs. Brallaghan ; 
 
 Don't say nay, 
 Charming Judy Callaglian. 
 
 IV. 
 I've got an acre of ground, 
 
 I've got it set with praties ; 
 I've got of 'baccy a pound, 
 
 I've got some tea for the ladies ; 
 I've got the ring to wed, 
 
 Some whisky to make us gaUy ; 
 I've got a feather-bed 
 
 And a handsome new shilelagh. 
 
 Jus imo antiquissimum, at displicet vox sequivoca; jus etenim a mess of 
 2>ottage aliquaudo audit, ex. g\: 
 
 Omne suum fratri 3acoh jiis vcndidit Esau, 
 Et Jacob iva.tv\ jus dedit omne suum. 
 Itaque, pace Bentleii, stet lectio prior. — Frout. 
 
 * Veherem in jumento. Curriculo-ne ? an pone sedentem in equi dorso ? 
 dorsaliter plane. Quid enira dicit Iloratius de uxore sic vecla? Konno 
 " JBost equitem sedet atra cura ?" — Porsoii. 
 
 ■f Lac et mella. Metapborice pro tea : muliebris est compotatio Grfficis 
 non ignota, teste Anacrconte, — 
 
 BLHN, Oeav 6eiMvr\v, 
 
 Oc\w \^1biv £Ta(pa(, K. T. X. 
 
 Brougham. 
 X Bacchi succo. Duplex apud poetas antiquiores liabcbatur Iiujusco no- 
 minis numcD. Vineam regebat prius; posterius cuidam herba; exotica) 
 prajerat quaj tobacco audit. Succus utrique optimus. — Coleridge. 
 
 § Aquce-vitcB vim, Anglo-IIybernice, " a potver of whisky" laxv: scilicet, 
 vox i)ergra3ca. — Parr. 
 
 II Plumoso sacco. Plumarum congeries ccrlc ad somnos invitandos satis 
 apta; at milii per multos annos lancus isto saccus, Ang. tcoolsack, iu\t np- 
 prime ad dormicndura idoncus. Litcs ctiam de land ul aiunt riipriuil, sopo- 
 riferas per annos xxx. exercui. Quot ct quam prajclnra sumnia \~Eldon. 
 
 '^ In^esiiixaa, " per annulum et haculum" %Vi\.'\& \wU\. A'iilc 1'. Marca do
 
 86 
 
 THE SABINE FARMER'S SERENADE. 
 
 Semel tantum die 
 JEris nostra Lalage 
 
 iVe recuses sic, 
 Dulcis Julia Callage. 
 
 V. 
 
 Litteris operam das ; 
 
 Liicido fulges ocixlo ; 
 Dotes insuper quas 
 
 Nummi sunt in loculo, 
 Novi quod apta sis* 
 
 Ad procreandam sobolcm ! 
 Possides (nesciat quis ?) 
 
 Linguam satis mobilcm.f 
 
 Semel factum die 
 Eris nostra Lalage ; 
 
 life recuses sic, 
 Dulcis Julia Callage. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Conjux utinam tu 
 
 Fieres, lepidum cor, mi ! 
 Halitum perdimus, lieu, 
 
 Te sopor urget. Dormi ! 
 Tngruit imber trux — 
 
 Jam sub tecto pellitur 
 Is quern crastina lux| 
 
 Referet hue fideliter. 
 
 OnJi/ saij 
 YouHl have Mr. JSrallaghan ; 
 
 Dont say nay, 
 Chai^ming Judy Callaghan. 
 
 V. 
 
 You've got a charming eye, 
 
 You've got some spelling and 
 reading ; 
 You've got, and so have I, 
 
 A taste for genteel breeding ; 
 You're rich, and fair, and young, 
 
 As everybody's knowing ; 
 You've got a decent tongue 
 
 "Whene'er 'tis set a-going. 
 
 Only say 
 YotCll he Mrs. BrallagJian ; 
 
 Don't say nay, 
 Charming Judy CallagJian. 
 
 VI. 
 
 For a wife till death 
 
 I am willing to take ye ; 
 But, och ! I waste my breath, 
 
 The devil himself can't wake yo. 
 'Tis just beginning to rain. 
 
 So I'll get under cover ; 
 To-morrow I'U come again. 
 
 And be your constant lover. 
 
 Concord. Sacerdotii et Imperii : et Hildebrandi Pont. Mas. bullarium. — 
 Front. 
 
 Baculo certe diguissim. pontif. — Mag'mn. 
 
 * Apta sis. Quomodo noverit ? Vide Proverb. Solomonis cap. xxx. v. 19. 
 Nisi forsan tales fuerint puclla? Sabinorum quales impudens iste balatro Cuu- 
 nelius mentitur esse nostrates. — Hlomfield. 
 
 •\ Xiinguam mohilem. Prius cnumerat futurce conjugis bona immohilia, 
 postea transit ad mohilia, Anglice, cliattel property. Praeclarus ordo 
 sententiarum ! — Car. Wetherall. 
 
 % Allusio ad disticbon Maronianum, "Xocto pluit ioia., redeunt spectacula 
 mane." — JProiU. 
 
 K. T. \.
 
 THE SABINE FARMER'S SERENADE. 87 
 
 Semel tandem die Only say 
 
 Eris nostra Lalage ; YouHl he Mrs. Brallaghan ; 
 
 Ne recuses sic, DoiiH say nay, 
 
 Diilcis Julia Callage. Charming Judy Callaghan. 
 
 Ton HrDSON (Hibernicis Hibernior) was born -within the classic 
 precincts of Saint Giles, where his father kept a public house to which 
 he succeeded. He was one of the best singers of Irish and English 
 drolleries of his day ; and was professionally engaged for many yeai's 
 at the ' Coal Hole' and ' Cider Cellar.' He also used to sing " for 
 love" on special occasions, at ' The Peacock' in Maiden Lane, a fa- 
 vourite resort, like 'Oifley's' and 'The Eccentrics,' of the wits of 
 town, to oblige his friend, Ben Morgan, the landlord, who was himself 
 the best Irish suiger of the same pre-eminently convivial period. Tom 
 drank in his incomparable Irish fun with his mother's milk, althouglt 
 on the wroLg side of the Irish Channel, and in his ' Barney Brallaghan' 
 succeeded in producing tlie most perfect Irish love ditty of the hu- 
 mourous class perhaps ever written, with the exception of Lover's 
 'Molly Carew.' Prout, no bad judge of such matters, selected both songs 
 for metrical translation into the language of the learned of all nations. 
 
 THE LEGEND OF MAXOR HALL. 
 
 BY TH05IAS LOVE PEACOCK. 
 
 rjLD Farmer "Wall, of Manor Hall, 
 
 To market drove Ms wain : 
 Along the road it went well stowed 
 "With sacks of golden grain. 
 
 His station he took, but in vain, did he look 
 
 For a customer all the morn ; 
 Thougli the farmers all, save Farmer Wall, 
 
 They sold off all their corn. 
 
 Then home he went, sore discontent. 
 
 And many an oath he swore, 
 And he kicked up rows with his children and spouse. 
 
 When they met him at the door. 
 
 Next market-day he drove away 
 
 To the town his loaded wain : 
 The farmers all, save Farmer ^yall, 
 
 They sold ofi" all their grain.
 
 88 THE LEGEND OF MANOR HALL. 
 
 No bidder he found, and he stood astound 
 
 At the close of the market-day, 
 "When the market was done, and the chapmen ■were gone 
 
 Each man his several way. 
 
 He stalked by his load along the road ; 
 
 His face with wrath was red ; 
 His arms he tossed, like a good man crossed 
 
 In seeking his daily bread. 
 
 His face was red, and fierce was his tread, 
 
 And with lusty voice cried he, 
 «' My corn I'll sell to the devil of hell, 
 
 If he'U my chapman be." 
 
 These words he spoke just under an oak 
 
 Seven hundred winters old ; 
 And he straight was aware of a man sitting there 
 
 On the roots and grassy mould. 
 
 The roots rose high, o'er the grecn-sward dry, 
 
 And the grass around was green. 
 Save just the space of the stranger's place, 
 
 Where it seemed as hre had been. 
 
 All scorched was the spot, as gipsy -pot 
 
 Had swung and bubbled there : 
 The grass was marred, the roots were charred, 
 
 And the ivy stems were bare. 
 
 The stranger up-sprung : to the farmer he flung 
 
 A loud and friendly hail. 
 And he said, " I see well, thou hast corn to sell, 
 
 And I'll buy it on the nail." 
 
 The twain in a trice agreed on the price ; 
 
 The stranger his earnest paid, 
 And with horses and wain to come for the grain 
 
 His own appointment made. 
 
 The farmer cracked his whip, and tracked 
 
 His way right merrily on ; 
 He struck up a song as he trudged along, 
 
 Por joy that his job was done.
 
 THE LEGEND OF MANOR HALL. 89 
 
 His children fair he danced in the air ; 
 
 nis heart with joy was big ; 
 He kissed his wife ; he seized a knife, 
 
 He slew a sucking pig. 
 
 The faggots burned, the porkling turned 
 
 And crackled before the fire ; 
 And an odour arose that was sweet in the nose 
 
 Of a passing ghostly friar. 
 
 He twirled at the pin, he entered in, 
 
 He sate down at the board ; 
 The pig he blessed, when he saw it well dressed. 
 
 And the humming ale out-poured. 
 
 The friar laughed, the friar quaffed, 
 
 He chii-ped like a bird in May ; 
 The farmer told how his corn he had sold 
 
 As he journeyed home that day. 
 
 The friar he quaffed, but no longer he laughed. 
 
 He changed from red to pale : 
 "Oh, helpless elf ! 'tis the fiend himself 
 
 To whom thou hast made thy sale !" 
 
 The friar he quaffed, he took a deep draught ; 
 
 He crossed himself amain : 
 " Oh, slave of pelf I 'tis the devil himself 
 
 To whom thou hast sold thy grain ! 
 
 *' And sure as the day, he'll fetch thee away, 
 
 With the corn which thou hast sold, 
 If thou let him pay o'er one tester more 
 
 Than thy settled price in gold." 
 
 The farmer gave vent to a loud lament. 
 
 The wife to a long outcry ; 
 Their relish for pig and ale was flown ; 
 The friar alone picked every bone, 
 
 And drained the flagon dry. 
 
 The friar was gone ; the morning dawn 
 
 Appeared, and the stranger's wain 
 Came to the hour, with six-horse power. 
 
 To fetch the purchased grain.
 
 THE LEGEND OF MANOR HALL. 
 
 The horses were black : on their dewy track 
 Light steam from the ground up -curled ; 
 
 Long wreaths of smoke from their nostrils broke, 
 And their tails lilve torches whirled. 
 
 More dark and grim, in face and limb, 
 
 Seemed the stranger than before, 
 As his empty wain, with steeds thrice twain, 
 
 Drew up to the farmer's door. 
 
 On the stranger's face was a sly grimace, 
 
 As he seized the sacks of grain ; 
 And, one by one, till left were none. 
 
 He tossed them on the wain. 
 
 And slily he leered as his hand up-reared 
 
 A purse of costly mould, 
 Where, bright and fresh, throiigh a silver mcsli. 
 
 Shone forth the glistering gold. 
 
 The farmer held out his right hand stout, 
 
 And drew it back with dread ; 
 For in fancy he heard each warning word 
 
 The supping friar had said. 
 
 His eye was set on the silver net ; 
 
 His thoughts were in fearful strife ; 
 "When, sudden as fate, the glittering bait 
 
 "Was snatched by his loving wife. 
 
 And, swift as thought, the stranger cauglit 
 
 The farmer his waist around. 
 And at once the twain and the loaded wain 
 
 Sank through the rifted ground. 
 
 The gable-end wall of Manor Hall 
 
 Fell in ruins on the place : 
 That stone-heap old the tale has told 
 
 To each succeeding race. 
 
 The wife gave a cry that rent the sky 
 At her goodman's downward flight : 
 
 But she held the purse fast, and a glance she cast 
 To see that all was right.
 
 THE LEGEND OF MANOR HALL. 91 
 
 'Twas the fiend's full pay for her goodman gray, 
 
 And the gold was good and true ; 
 "Which made her declare, that " his dealings were fair, 
 
 To give the devil his due." 
 
 She wore the black pall for Farmer Wall, 
 
 From her fond embraces riven : 
 But she won the vows of a younger spouse 
 
 With the gold which the fiend had given. 
 
 Now, farmers, beware what oaths you swear 
 
 "When you cannot sell your corn ; 
 Lest, to bid and buy, a stranger be nigh, 
 
 "With hidden tail and horn. 
 
 And with good heed, the moral a-read, 
 
 "Which is of this tale the pith, — 
 If your corn you sell to the fiend of hell. 
 
 You may sell yourself therewith. 
 
 And if by mishap you fall in the trap, 
 
 "Would you bring the fiend to shame, 
 Lest the tempting prize should dazzle her eyes, 
 
 Lock up your frugal dame. 
 
 Thomas Love Peacock was a vigorous and scholarly writer of prose 
 and verse, one of a brilliant class for the last few years gradually passing 
 away, and little appreciated or understood by the bulk of the presciifc 
 generation. He was a refined and far-seeing philosopher, who did not 
 allow his keen relish for the ridiculous to outstrip his good natui'O — 
 
 " Wliose humoui", as gay as the firefly's ligUt, 
 
 Played round every object, and shone as it played ; 
 Whose wit in the combat, as gentle as bright, 
 IS'e'er carried a heart-stain away on its blade." 
 
 He was born at Weymouth, in 1785, and died in ISGG, at his retreat 
 ■on the banks of his favourite Thames, near London, in the eighty-first 
 year of his age. Having lost his father, a London merchant, when yefc 
 41 child, our autlior's education fell to the care of his mother, who sent 
 him to one of the best private schools in England in those days, Mr. 
 Dix's Academy, at Englefield Gi-een. He never went up to either 
 University, but such was the enthusiastic; love and assiduity whicli lio 
 evinced in the study of classical literature, not only during liis seliool 
 ■career, but throughout the course of his long liCi;, that ho lived to hu
 
 9- THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK. 
 
 considered even in academic circles one of the ripest scholai's of hi» 
 age and coimtry. His novels were written during liis more maturo 
 niauliood, with one exception, published when he was past seventy, 
 and considered by many of the best judges as his chef d'ceuvre. llis 
 first production, published in 180G, when he was twenty-one years of 
 age, and received most favourably by the literary world, was a poem, 
 the subject of which was ' Palmyra.' In 1812 he brought out 
 another, entitled ' The Genius of the Thames.' Slielley, who became 
 acquainted with him soon after the piiblication of the latter, although 
 differing from its main principles that " commerce is prosperity," or 
 tliat " the glory of the British flag is the happiness of the British peo- 
 ple," expressed his admiration of the genius, power, and information 
 in both of the poems, whilst with respect to the conclusion of ' Pal- 
 myra,' he considered it " the finest piece of poetry he had ever read." 
 In the early part of 1816 came out ' Headlong Hall,' the first in order 
 of time and the smallest of his prose fictions. Then appeared ' Night- 
 mare Abbey' in 1818, 'Maid Marian' in 1822, 'Crotchet Castle' 
 tlie same year, and 'Melincourt' some half-dozen years afterwards. 
 ' Gryll Grange' was first published towards the close of his life in 
 ' Frazer's Magazine,' and subsequently in a collected form. As pic- 
 tures of the humours and follies of English society fifty years ago, 
 those works are unrivalled. Tlicy have little of plot, less of counter- 
 plot, and nothing whatever of the sensational in their composition. 
 Their literary charms are of a much higher order. Carried along by 
 llis descriptive powers, and the brilliancy of his dialogue, you foi-gct 
 all about his fiction, and now and then a song comes in, which you 
 find a most agreeable distraction. Those songs were in Thacke- 
 ray's opinion among the best of their age. One of the happiest of them, 
 is the Three Times Three, given at the banquet in ' Headlong Hall.' 
 
 " In his last binn Sir Peter lies, 
 
 Who knew not what it was tn frown; 
 Death took him mellow by surprise, 
 
 And in his cellar stopped liim down. 
 Through all our land we could not boast 
 
 A knight more gay, moiv prompt than he. 
 To rise and till a bumper toast, 
 
 And pass it round with Tueee Times Theee. 
 
 " None better knew the feast to sway 
 
 Or keep mirth's boat in better trim ; 
 For nature had but little clay 
 
 Like that of which she inouldod liira. 
 The meanest guest that graced his board 
 
 Was there the freest of the free; 
 His bumper toast when Peter poured 
 
 And passed it round with Tueee Times Turee.
 
 THOMA S LO VE PEA COCK. 9.] 
 
 " lie kept at true good humour's mark, 
 
 The social flow of pleasure's tide ; 
 He never made a brow look dark, 
 
 Nor caused a tear but when he died. 
 No sorrow round his tomb should dwell : 
 
 More pleased his gny old ghost would bo. 
 For funeral song, and passing bell, 
 
 To hear no sound but TnEEE TiiiES Theee." 
 
 Tlie exquisitely tender idea of not having "caused a tear but -when 
 he died," occurs in Beranger's celebrated Roi cPYvetot, the song •which 
 fli'st made him famous. It may well be doubted, however, if Peacock 
 had seen it before he composed Sir Peter ; although the French Em- 
 peror laughed heartily at it when it was first repeated to him by liis 
 Minister, De Fontaines, in whose department of the public service the 
 poet held an humble position : " En voyant," as M. Mirecourt in his 
 'Life of Beranger' has it, " cette douce ct joyeuse critique de ses cou- 
 quetes et de son regne," it scarcely enjoyed general circulation, and 
 was not regularly published during Napoleon's time. The gentle satire 
 amused him, and he used to hum the refrain " eutre ses dents" of — 
 
 " Oh ! oh ! oh ! oh ! ah ! ah ! ah ! ah ! 
 Quel bon petit roi c'etait la ! 
 Ah ! ah !" 
 
 Xevertheless he did not choose that all France should lau"h at it. It 
 
 was published in the first edition of ' Beranger's Songs ' fChansons 
 
 morales et autresj a few months after the final restoration of tlio 
 
 Bom'bon dynasty. 'Headlong Hall,' as already stated, came out about 
 
 the same time, early in 1816. 
 
 Peacock was appointed to a lucrative situation in the Examiners' 
 Office in the old India House, in his thirty-fifth year, which he held 
 till the end of his life. He contributed to the ' Examiner' in its best 
 days, during the editorship of Albany Fonblanque, and to the ' West- 
 minster Keview ' in the most brilliant period of its career. He was 
 also an occasional contributor to ' Bcntley's Miscellany' when that 
 ])eriodical was worthy of his pen, and before it had passed out of tlie 
 hands of the New Burlington Street hoiisc. 'The Legend of Manor 
 Hall,' one of the best of our English diablerie ballads, is an ndmirablo 
 specimen of his narrative style : simple, straightforward, and complete, 
 wl)ilst the rhythmical flow of his verse, and his quaint, although not 
 over-strained old English expression stamps him at once a master of 
 tliis class of metrical composition, the seeming simplicity of which 
 makes its aeliicvcmcnt so rare, and constitutes its chief difficulty. 
 
 The following graceful remarks at the close of an excellent review 
 of his life and writings, in the ' North British,' for September, ISGC, 
 may not inappropriai.ely conclude our own brief notice of one of tho 
 most brilliant humourists of our age and country : —
 
 94 THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK. 
 
 "After what has been quoted and said about Peacock, the reader will 
 readily believe that he was an old-fashioned scholar and gentleman of the 
 old school to the last. Such was indeed the case. lie told Mr. Tliackeray, 
 to whom we are indebted for the anecdote, that he now read nothing but 
 Greek. He was heretical on the subject of Tennyson and living poets gene- 
 rally. His favourite wine was iladeira. He consorted chiefly, out of his 
 own private circle, with men of the past, — dining, we believe, nowhere, ex- 
 cept now and then at Lord Broughton's. He lived near the Thames, and 
 delighted in going on its waters, and he cherished an intention — never, un- 
 fortunately, carried out — of editing ' Sophocles.' In these simple, old-world 
 ])ursuits he passed a vigorous old age, and his portrait, by Wallis, shows us 
 ji veteran with a fine massive brov/, crowned with white hair, strong, regu- 
 lar features, and a rather large mouth, instinct with character, the whole 
 tinged with the reddish tints of a lusty, English autumn. Ho died at 
 Shcpperton, near his favourite river, early iu 1806, having reached his 
 eighty-first year." 
 
 THE "ORIGINAL" DRAGON. 
 
 A LEGEND OF THE CELESTIAL E5IPIEE. 
 
 Prccly translated from an imdeciphered MS. of Con-fuso-us,* and dedicated 
 to Colonel Bolsover, of the Horse Marines. 
 
 BY C. J. DAVIDS. 
 I. 
 
 A DESPERATE dragon, of singiilav size, — 
 
 (His name was Wing-Fang-Scratch-Clmv-Fum,) — 
 Flew up one day to the top of the skies, 
 
 While all the spectators with terror were dumb. 
 The vagabond vow'd as he sported his tail, 
 
 He'd have a slcij lark, and some glorious fun : 
 For he'd nonplus the natives that day without fail, 
 
 By causing a total eclipse of the stm !f 
 He collected a crowd by his impudent boast, 
 
 (Some decently dress'd — some with hardly a rag on,) 
 "Who said that the country was ruin'd and lost, 
 
 Unless they could compass the death of the dragon. 
 
 * " Better known to illiterate people as Confacius.'" — Washington Ie- 
 
 VI NG. 
 
 f In China (whatever European astronomers may assert to the contrary) 
 an eclipse is caused by a. great dragon eating iip the sun. 
 
 To avert so shocking an outrage, the natives frighteu away the monster 
 from his intended /io^ dinner, by giving a morniuix concert, aZ y^esco / con- 
 fiisting of drums, trumpets, cymbals, gongs, tin-kettles, &e.
 
 THE '' ORIGINAL'' DRAGON. 95 
 
 II. 
 
 The emperor came witli the whole of his court, — 
 
 (Tlis Majesty's name was Ding-Doncj-Junh) — 
 And he said — to delight in such profligate sport, 
 
 The monster was mad, or disgracefully drunk. 
 He eall'd on the army : the troops to a man 
 
 Declared — though they didn't feel frighten'd the least — 
 They never could think it a sensible plan 
 
 To go within reach of so ugly a beast. 
 So he offer'd his daughter, the lovely Nan-Keen, 
 
 And a painted pavilion, with many a flag on. 
 To any brave knight who could step in between 
 
 The solar eclipse and the dare-devil dragon. 
 
 III. 
 Presently came a reverend bonze.— 
 
 (His name, I'm told, was Long-CJiin Joss,) — 
 With a phiz very like the complexion of bronze ; 
 
 And for suitable words he was quite at a loss. 
 But, he humbly submitted, the orthodox way 
 
 To succour the sun, and to bother the foe, 
 Was to malce a new church-rate without more delay,, 
 
 As the clerical funds were deplorably low. 
 Though he coveted nothing at all for himself, 
 
 (A virtue he always delighted to brag on,) 
 He thought, if the priesthood could pocket some pelf. 
 
 It might hasten the doom of this impious drag on. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The next that spoke was the court buffoon, — 
 
 (The name of this bufl'er was IF/iini-W/iam-Fun,)^- 
 Who carried a salt-box and large wooden spoon. 
 
 With which, he suggested, the job might be done. 
 Said the jester, " I'll wager my rattle and bells, 
 
 Your pride, my fine fellow, shall soon have a fall : 
 If you make many more of your horrible yells, 
 
 I know a good method to make you sing small !" 
 And wlion he had set all the place in a roar, 
 
 As his merry conceits led the whimsical wag on, 
 He hinted a plan to get rid of the bore, 
 
 l>y putting some sail on the iail of the dragon .'
 
 96 THE '' ORIGINAL" DRAGON. 
 
 V. 
 
 At length appear'd a brisk young knight, — 
 
 (The far-famed warrior, JBam-Boo-Gong,) — 
 Who threaten'd to burke the big blackguard outright, 
 
 And have the deed blazon'd in story and song. 
 "With an excellent shot from a very long hoio 
 
 He damaged the dragon by cracking his crown ; 
 When he fell to the ground (as my documents show) 
 
 With a smash that was heard many miles out of town. 
 His death was the signal for frolic and spree — 
 
 They carried the corpse, in a common stage-waggon ; 
 And the hero was crown'd with the leaves of green tea, 
 
 For saving the sun from the jaws of the dragon. 
 
 VI. 
 
 A poet, whose works were all the rage, — ■ 
 
 (This gentleman's name was Sing- Song-Strum,) — 
 Told the terrible tale on his popular page : 
 
 (Compared with his verses, my rhymes are but rum I) 
 The Ptoyal Society claim'd as their right 
 
 The spoils of the vanquish' d — his wings, tail, and claws ; 
 And a brilliant bravura, describing the fight. 
 
 Was sung on the stage with unbounded applause. 
 ^' The valiant Bam-Boo" was a favourite toast, 
 
 And a topic for future historians to fag on, 
 Which, when it had reach'd to the Middlesex coast, 
 
 Gave rise to the legend of " George and the Dragon?^ 
 
 SAPPHO. 
 
 BY C. HARTLEY LANGHORNE. 
 
 "If she could sleep, she says, she should do well." — 'Faithful ShejpJierdess. 
 
 Q'he sat upon Himerte's shore. 
 
 Upon a glowing height ; 
 The thyme that grew beneath her feet 
 
 Was bath'd in living light ; 
 Was never seen in western clime 
 
 So beautiful a sight !
 
 SAPPHO. 97 
 
 She look'd upon a beauteous land, 
 
 A witching land, I ween ; 
 Below, the happy swains and girls 
 
 "Were tripping o'er the green ; 
 Their laughter was as clear and loud 
 
 As care had never been. 
 
 To that fair cheek and snowy arm. 
 E'en Yenus' self might bow ; 
 
 Her laughing locks of sunny hair 
 Flow o'er her marble brow ; 
 
 She lifts her hazel eye and smiles— 
 She is a goddess now ! 
 
 But evanescent is that smile ; 
 She sighs adown the breeze ; 
 She slowly stoops. 
 And humbly droops 
 Her head iqion her knees, 
 And thrilling sobs upheave her breast ; 
 Sure she is ill at ease. 
 
 She breathes her plaint in bitter words, 
 
 "With many a bitter groan ; 
 A sea-nymph heard it in her cave, 
 
 That melancholy moan ; 
 She travell'd on a dolphin's back. 
 
 And told it me alone, 
 
 ■" Ah ! Phaon, whither hast thou fled 
 
 Across the ocean brine ? 
 The happy heart of other days 
 
 Can never more be mine ; 
 Pihodopis has Charaxus' love, — 
 
 Why should her mistress pine ? 
 
 *' I ever spoke but of thy name, 
 
 I would not be denied ; 
 And when they said thy lance was good, 
 
 I wept with joy and pride ; 
 But when they spoke of broken vows, 
 
 I thought I should have died.
 
 9S SAPPHO. 
 
 " My violet locks and honey 'd smile 
 
 You once could fondly praise ; 
 You used to think no other maid 
 
 Could trill such pleasant lays, 
 Or strike the harp with such a hand 
 
 To witch the woodland fays. 
 
 " There was a lily grew within 
 
 My plane-tree shaded bower, 
 And when my head was on your breast, 
 
 As oft at moonlit hour. 
 You ever said that I was like 
 
 That gentle lily flower. 
 
 *' The scorching sun has scath'd my plant. 
 
 The genial dews have fled. 
 And wither' d stem and drooping flower • 
 
 Show it is sore bested ; 
 Yes ! I am like that lily now, 
 
 That hangs its broken head!" 
 
 Her plaint was echoed overhead, 
 
 And echoed underground ; 
 The dryads heard it in their glades. 
 
 And murmur' d it around ; 
 And every leaf on every tree 
 
 Took up the dreary sound. 
 
 A sea-nymph heard it in her cave, 
 
 That melancholy moan, — 
 She travell'd on a dolphin's back. 
 
 And told it me alone. 
 
 Chaeles Haetlet Langhoexe was born at Berwick-upon-Tweed, 
 on the 20th of Jime, 1818, and was the second son of John Lang- 
 horne, Esq., banker, of that place, and his wife, Mary Susan, only 
 daughter of John Bailey, Esq., of Chillingham and Hazelrigg, in the 
 county of Northumberland. Ho was educated at the New Academy, 
 Edinburgh, where he was six years head of his class, and ultimately of 
 the whole school. Erom there he went to Glasgow University, where 
 he carried off its chief classical distinction — Lord Jeffery's gold medal 
 as the best Grecian — and he finally graduated at Exeter College, Ox-
 
 CHARLES HARTLEY LANGHORNE. 99 
 
 ford. Wben at the latter University, lie was most distinguished for 
 his classical attainments, which were of a description now rarely met 
 with. He was a most mdefatigable reader, and few indeed were the 
 Greek or Eoman authors with whose works he was not intimately ac- 
 quainted. He loved English poetry with equal enthusiasm ; but for 
 logic and mathematics he cared so little, that, in consequence of defi- 
 ciency in this respect, to the disappointment of his friends and him- 
 self, he only obtained a second class, instead of the anticipated first. 
 
 On leaving Oxford, he entered himself at Lincoln's Inn, and was 
 pursuing his studies for the Bar, when his career was cut short by an 
 attack of inflammation of the lungs, caused by getting wet in the 
 hunting field, when on a visit to a friend. He died at his chambers, 
 on the 26th, and was interred at Highgate Cemetery on the 29th of 
 April, 1845. 
 
 THE TEMPTATIONS OF ST. ANTHONY. 
 
 BY R. II. DALTON BARHAM. 
 
 " He would have passed a pleasant life of it, in despite of the devil and all 
 liis works, if his path had not been crossed by a being that causes more per- 
 plexity to mortal man than ghosts, goblins, and the whole race of witches 
 put together, and that was — a woman." — Sketch-ljook, 
 
 Qt. Anthoxy sat on a lowly stool, 
 
 And a book was in his hand ; 
 Never his eye from its page he took, 
 Either to right or left to look. 
 But -with steadfast soul, as was his rule, 
 The holy page he scanned. 
 
 " We will woo," said the imp, " St. Anthony's eyes 
 
 Off from his holy book : 
 "We wOl go to him all in strange disguise, 
 And tease him with laughter, whoops, and cries. 
 
 That he upon us may look." 
 
 The devil was in the hest humour that day 
 
 That ever his highness was in : 
 And that's why he sent out his imps to play. 
 And he furnished them torches to light their waj', 
 Nor stinted them incense to burn as they may, — 
 
 Sulphur, and pitch, and rosin. ^
 
 loo THE TEMPTATIONS OF ST. ANTHONY. 
 
 So they came to the Saint in a motley crew, 
 
 A heterogeneous rout : 
 There were imps of every shape and hue, 
 And some looked black, and some looked blue, 
 And they passed and varied before the view, 
 
 And twisted themselves about : 
 And had they exhibited thus to you, 
 I think you'd have felt in a bit of a stew, — 
 
 Or so should myself, I doubt. 
 There were some with feathers, and some with scales. 
 
 And some with warty skins ; 
 Some had not heads, and some had tails, 
 And some had claws like iron nails ; 
 And some had combs and beaks like birds, 
 And yet, like jays, could utter words ; 
 
 And some had gills and fins. 
 Some rode on skeleton beasts, arrayed 
 
 In gold and velvet stuff, 
 "With rich tiaras on the head. 
 Like kings and queens among the dead ; 
 While face and bridle-hand, displayed. 
 In hue and substance seemed to cope 
 With maggots in a microscope, 
 And their thin lips, as white as soap, 
 
 AVere colder than enough. 
 And spiders big from the ceiling hung. 
 
 From every creek and nook : 
 They had a crafty, ugly guise, 
 And looked at the Saint with their eight eyes ; 
 And aU that malice could devise 
 Of e\dl to the good and wise 
 
 Seemed welling from their look. 
 Beetles and slow-worms crawled about, 
 
 And toads did squat demure ; 
 From holes in the wainscoting mice peeped out. 
 Or a sly old rat with his whiskered snout ; 
 And forty-feet, a full span long, 
 Danced in and out in an endless throng : 
 There ne'er has been seen such extravagant rout 
 From that time to this, I'm sure.
 
 THE TEMPTATIONS OF ST. ANTHONY. loi 
 
 But the good St. Anthony kept his eyes 
 
 Fixed on the holy hook ; — 
 From it they did not sinlc nor rise ; 
 Kor sights nor laughter, shouts nor cries 
 
 Could win away his look. 
 
 A quaint imp sat in an earthen pot, 
 
 In a big-hellied earthen pot sat he : 
 Through holes in the bottom his legs outshot, 
 And holes in the sides his arms had got, 
 And his head came out through the mouth, God wot I 
 
 A comical sight to see. 
 
 And he drummed on his belly so fair and round, 
 
 On his belly so round and fair ; 
 And it gave forth a rumbling, mingled sound, 
 'Twixt a muffled bell and a growling hound, 
 
 A comical sound to liear : 
 And he sat on the edge of a table-desk. 
 
 And drummed it with his heels ; 
 And he looked as strange and as picturesque 
 As the figures we see in an arabes([uo, 
 Half hidden in flowers, all painted in fresquc, 
 
 In Grothic vaulted ceils. 
 
 Then he whooped and hawed, and winked and grinned. 
 
 And his eyes stood out with glee ; 
 And he said these words, and he sung this song, 
 And his legs and his arms, with their double prong. 
 Keeping time with liis tune as it galloped along, 
 Still on the pot and the table dinned 
 
 As birth to his song gave he. 
 
 " Old Tony, my boy I shut up j'our book. 
 
 And learn to be merry and gay. 
 You sit like a bat in his cloistered nook, 
 Like a round-shoulder'd fool of an owl you look ; 
 IJut straigliten your back from its booby crook, 
 
 And more sociable be, I pray. 
 
 " Lot us see you laugh, let us hoar you sing ; 
 Take a Ic.-ison from me, old boy !
 
 I02 THE TEMPTATIONS OF ST. ANTHONY 
 
 Ptemem'ber that life has a fleeting wing, 
 And then comes Death, that stern old king, 
 So we'd better make sure of joy." 
 
 But the good St. Anthony bent his eyes 
 
 Upon the holy book : 
 He heard that song with a laugh arise, 
 ISut he knew that tlie imp had a naughty guicc, 
 And he did not care to look. 
 
 Another imp came in a masquerade, 
 
 Most like to a monk's attire : 
 But of living bats his cowl was made, 
 Their wings stitched together with spider thread : 
 And round and about him they fluttered and plaj-ed ; 
 And his eyes shot out from their misty shade 
 
 Long parallel bars of fire. 
 
 And his loose teeth chattered like clanking bones, 
 
 When the gibbet- tree sways in the blast : 
 And with gurgling shakes, and stifled groans, 
 He mocked the good St. Anthony's tones 
 As he muttered his prayer full fast. 
 
 A rosary of beads was hung by his side, — 
 
 Oh, gaunt-looking beads were they ! 
 And stni, when the good Saint dropped a bead, 
 He dropped a tooth, and he took good heed 
 To rattle his string, and the bones replied, 
 
 Like a rattle-snake's tail at play. 
 
 But the good St. Anthony bent his eyes 
 
 Upon the holy book ; 
 He heard that mock of groans and sighs, 
 And he knew that the thing had an evil guise. 
 
 And he did not dare to look. 
 
 Another imp came with a trumpet-snout, 
 
 That was mouth and nose in one : 
 It had stops like a flute, as you never may doubt, 
 Where his long lean fingers capered about, 
 As he twanged his nasal melodies out. 
 
 In quaver, and shake, and run.
 
 THE TEMPTATIONS OF ST. ANTHONY. 103 
 
 A.nd his head moved forward and backward still 
 
 On his long and snaky neck ; 
 As he bent his energies all to liU 
 His nosey tube with wind and skill, 
 And he sneezed his octaves out, nntil 
 
 'Twas weU-nigh ready to break. 
 
 And close to St. Anthony's ear he came, 
 
 And piped his music in : 
 And the shriU sound went through the good Saint's frame, 
 With a smart and a sting, like a shred of iiame, 
 Or a bee in the ear, — which is much the same, — 
 
 And he shivered with the din. 
 
 But the good St. Anthony bent his eyes 
 
 Upon the holy book ; 
 He heard that snout with its gimlet cries, 
 And he knew that the imp had an evil guise, 
 
 And he did not dare to look. 
 
 A thing with horny eyes was there, 
 
 With horny eyes like the dead ; 
 And its long sharp nose was all of horn. 
 And its bony cheeks of flesh were shorn, 
 And its ears were like thin cases torn 
 From feet of kine, and its jaws were bare ; 
 And fish-bones grew, instead of hair, 
 
 Upon its skinless head. 
 
 Its body was of thin birdy bones, 
 
 Bound round with a pai climent skin ; 
 And when 'twas struck, the liollow tones 
 That circled round like drum-dull groans. 
 
 Bespoke a void within. 
 
 Its arm was like a peacock's leg. 
 
 And the claws were like a bird's : 
 But the creep that went, like a blast of plague, 
 To loose the live flesh from the bones, 
 And wake the good Saint's inward groans. 
 As it clawed his check, and pulled his hair, 
 And pressed on his eyes in their beating lair, 
 
 Cannot be told in words.
 
 104 THE TEMPTATIONS OF ST. ANTHONY. 
 
 But the good St. Anthony kept Ixis eyes 
 
 Still on the holy book ; 
 He felt the clam on his brow arise, 
 And he knew that the thing had a horrid guise, 
 
 And he did not dare to look. 
 
 An imp came then like a skeleton form 
 
 Out of a charnel vault : 
 Some clingings of meat had been left by the •u'oim, 
 Some tendons and strings on his legs and arm, 
 And his jaws with gristle were black and deform,. 
 
 But his teeth were as white as salt. 
 
 And he grinned full many a lifeless grin, 
 
 And he rattled his bony tail ; 
 His skull was decked with gill and fin, 
 And a spike of bone was on his chin. 
 And his bat-like ears were large and thin, 
 
 And his eyes were the eyes of a snail. 
 
 He took his stand at the good Saint's back, 
 
 And on tiptoe stood a space : 
 Forward he bent, all rotten-black, 
 And he sunk again on his heel, good lack ! 
 And the good Saint uttered some ghostly groans, 
 For the head was caged in the gaunt rib-bones,- - 
 
 A horrible embrace ! 
 And the skull hung o'er with an elvish pry. 
 And cocked down its India-rubber eye 
 
 To gaze upon his face. 
 
 Yet the good St. Anthony sunk his eyes 
 
 Deep in the holy book : 
 He felt the bones, and so was wise 
 To know that the thing had a ghastly guise, 
 
 And he did not dare to look. 
 
 Last came an imp, — how unlike the rest ! 
 
 A beautiful female form : 
 And her voice was like music, that sleep-oppicss'd 
 Sinks on some cradling zephyr's breast ;
 
 THE TEMPTATIONS OF ST. ANTHONY. los 
 
 And whilst with a whisper his cheek she press' d, 
 Ilcr cheek felt soft and warm. 
 
 "When over his shoulder she bent the light 
 
 Of her soft eyes on to his page, 
 It came like a moonbeam silver bright, 
 And relieved him then with a mild delight, 
 For the yellow lamp-lustre scorched his sight, 
 
 That was weak with the mists of age. 
 
 Hey ! the good St. Anthony boggled his eyes 
 
 Over the holy book : 
 Ho ho ! at the corners they 'gan to rise, 
 For he knew that the thing had a lovely guise, 
 
 And he could not choose but look. 
 
 There are many devils that walk this world, — 
 
 Devils large, and devils small ; 
 Devils so meagre, and devils so stout ; 
 Devils with horns, and devils without ; 
 Sly devils that go with their tails upcurled, 
 Bold devils that carry them quite unfurled. 
 
 Meek devils, and devils that brawl ; 
 Serious devils, and laughing devils ; 
 Imps for churches, and imps for revels ;■ 
 Devils uncootli, and devils polite ; 
 Devils black, and devils white ; 
 Devils foolish, and devils wise ; 
 But a laughing woman, with two bright eyes, 
 
 Is the worsest devil of all. 
 
 A TALE OF ORAMMARYE. 
 
 BY K. H. DALTON BAKIIAIVL 
 
 The Baron came home in his fury and rage, 
 
 He blew up his Henchman, he blew up his Page ; 
 The Seneschal trembled, the Cook looked pale. 
 As he ordered for supper grilled kidneys and ale. 
 Vain thought! that grill'd kidneys can give relief, 
 "When one's own are inflamed by anger and grief. 
 
 What was the cause of the Baron's distress ? 
 "Why sank his spirits so low 'i —
 
 -rou A TALE OF GRAMMARYE. 
 
 The fair Isabel, when she should have said "Yes," 
 Had given the Baron a " K"©." 
 He ate, and he drank, and he grumbled between : 
 First on the viands he vented his spleen, — 
 The ale was sour, — the kidneys were tough. 
 And tasted of nothing but pepper and snufF! 
 — The longer he ate, the worse grew affairs, 
 Till he ended by kicking the butler downstairs. 
 
 All was hushed — 'twas the dead of the night— 
 
 The tapers were dying away. 
 And the armour bright 
 Grlanced in the liijht 
 
 Of the pale moon's trembling ray ; 
 Yet his Lordship sat still, digesting his ire, 
 With his nose on his knees, and his knees in the fire,- 
 All at once he jump'd up, resolved to consult his 
 Cornelius Agrijapa de rebus occultis. 
 
 He seized by the handle 
 
 A bed-room flat candle, 
 And went to a secret nook. 
 
 Where a chest lay hid 
 
 With so massive a lid, 
 His knees, as he raised it, shook. 
 Partly, perhaps, from the wine he had drunk. 
 Partly from fury, and partly from funk ; 
 For never before had he vertured to look 
 In his Great-Great-Grandfather's conjuring -book. 
 
 Now Lord Eanulph Fitz-Hugh, 
 
 As lords frequently do. 
 Thought reading a bore,— but his case is quite new ; 
 
 So he quickly ran through 
 
 A chapter or two. 
 
 For without Satan's aid he knew not what to do, 
 
 When poking the fire, as the evening grew colder. 
 
 He saw with alarm, 
 
 As he raised up his arm, 
 An odd -looking countenance over his shoulder. 
 Firmest rock will sometimes quake. 
 Trustiest blades will sometimes break,
 
 A TALE OF GRAMMARYE. 107 
 
 Sturdiest hearts will sometimes fail, 
 Proudest eye will sometimes quail ; — 
 Ko wonder Fitz-Hugh felt uncommonly queer 
 Upon suddenly seeing the Devil so near, 
 Leaning over his chair, peeping into his ear. 
 
 The stranger first 
 The silence burst, 
 And replied to the Baron's look : — 
 *' I would not intrude, 
 But don't think me rude 
 If I sniff at that musty old book. 
 
 Charms were all very well 
 Ere Reform came to Hell ; 
 But now not an imp cares a fig for a spell. 
 Still I see what you want, 
 And am willing to grant 
 The person and purse of the fair Isabel. 
 Upon certain conditions the maiden is won; — 
 You may have her at once, if you choose to say * Done !' 
 
 " The lady so rare. 
 Her manors so fair, 
 Lord Baron I give to thee : 
 But when once the sun 
 Five years has run, 
 Lord Baron, thy soul's my fee !" 
 Oh ! where wert thou, ethereal Sprite ? 
 
 Protecting Angel, where ? 
 Sure never before had noble or knight 
 
 Such need of thy guardian care ! 
 No aid is nigh — 'twas so decreed ; — 
 The recreant Baron at once agreed. 
 And prepared with his blood to sign the deed. 
 
 "With the point of his sword 
 His arm he scored. 
 And mended his pen with his Miscricorde ; 
 From his black silk breeches 
 The stranger reaches 
 A lawyer's leathern case,
 
 io8 A TALE OF GRAMMARYE. 
 
 Selects a paper, 
 
 And snuffing the taper, 
 The Baron these words mote trace : — 
 " Five years after date, I promise to pay 
 My soul to old Nick, without let or delay, 
 For value received." — " There, my Lord, on my life, 
 Put your name to the bill, and the lady's your wife." 
 
 AU look'd bright in earth and heaven, 
 
 And far through the morning skies 
 Had Sol his iiery coursers di'iven, — 
 That is, it was striking half-past eleven. 
 
 As Isabel opened her eyes. 
 
 All wondered what made the lady so late, 
 
 For she came not down till noon, 
 Though she usually rose at a quarter to eight. 
 
 And went to bed equally soon. 
 But her rest had been broken by troublesome dreams : — 
 She had thought that, in spite of her cries and her screams^ 
 Old xsick had borne off, in a chariot of flame, 
 The gallant young Howard of Effinghame. 
 Her eye was so dim, and her cheek so chill, 
 The family doctor declared she was ill, 
 And muttered dark hints of a draught and a pill. 
 
 All during breakfast to brood doth she seem 
 
 O'er some secret woes or wrongs ; 
 For she empties the salt-cellar into the cream, 
 
 And stirs up her tea with the tongs. 
 But scarce hath she finished her third round of toast. 
 
 When a knocking is heard by all — 
 '* What may that be ? — 'tis too late for the post, — 
 Too soon for a morning call." 
 
 After a moment of silence and dread. 
 The court-yard rang 
 With the joyful clang 
 Of an armed warrior's tread. 
 Kow away and away with fears and alarms, — 
 The lady lies clasped in young Effinghame's arms.
 
 A TALE OF GRAMMARYE. 109 
 
 She hangs on his neck, and she tells him true, 
 How that troublesome creature, Lord Ranulph Fitz-Hugh, 
 Hath vowed and hath sworn with a terrible curse, 
 That, unless she will take him for better for worse, 
 He will work her mickle rue ! 
 
 ■♦' Now, lady love, dismiss thy fear, 
 
 Should that grim old Baron presume to come here, 
 
 ■We'll soon send him home with a flea in his ear \— 
 
 And, to cut short the strife. 
 
 My love ! my life ! 
 Let me send for a parson, and make you my wife !" 
 
 Jifo banns did they need, no licence require, — 
 They were married that day before dark : 
 
 The Clergyman came, — a fat little friar, 
 The doctor acted as Clerk. 
 
 But the nuptial rites were hardly o'er, 
 Scarce had they reached the vestry door, 
 When a knight rushed headlong in ; 
 From his shoes to his shirt 
 He was all over dirt, 
 From his toes to the tip of his chin ; 
 But high on his travel-stained helmet tower'd 
 The lion -crest of the noble Howard. 
 
 By horrible doubts and fears possest. 
 
 The bride turned and gaz'd on the bridegroom's breast — ■ 
 
 No Argent Bend was there ; 
 No Lion bright 
 Of her own true knight, 
 
 But his rival's Sable Bear I 
 The Lady Isabel instantly knew 
 'Twas a regular hoax of the false Fitz-Hugh ; 
 And loudly the Baron exultingly cried, 
 " Thou art wooed, thou art won, my bonny gay bride I 
 Nor heaven nor hell can our loves divide !" 
 
 This pithy remark was scarcely made, 
 When tlic i'>aron beheld, upon turning his head, 
 His Friend in black close by ;
 
 no A TALE OF GRAMiMARYE. 
 
 He advanced with a smile all placid and bland, 
 Popp'd a small piece of parchment into his hand, 
 And knowingly winked his eye. 
 
 As the Bajon perused, 
 His cheek was sufiused 
 "With a flush between brick-dust and brown 3 
 While the fair Isabel 
 Fainted, and fell 
 In a still and death-like swoon. 
 Lord Howard roar'd out, till the chapel and vaults 
 Hang with cries for burnt feathers and volatile salts. 
 
 " Look at the date 1" quoth the queer-looking man, 
 
 In his own peculiar tone ; 
 *' My word hath been kept, — deny it who can, — 
 
 And now I am come for my own." 
 Might he trust his eyes ? — Alas ! and alack ! 
 'Twas a bill ante-dated full five years back ! 
 'Twas aU too true — 
 It was over due — 
 The term had expired! — ho wouldn't "renew," — 
 And the Devil looked black as the Baron looked blue. 
 
 The Lord Fitz-Hugh 
 
 Made a great to-do. 
 And especially blew up Old Nick, — ■ 
 
 " 'Twas a stain," he swore, 
 
 " On the name he bore 
 To play such a rascally trick !" — 
 " A trick ?" quoth Nick, in a tone rather quick, 
 " It's one often played upon people who ' tick.' " 
 
 Blue flames now broke 
 
 From his mouth as he spoke, 
 They went out, and left an uncommon thick smoke, 
 
 Which enveloping quite 
 
 Himself and the Knight, 
 The pair in a moment were clean out of sight. 
 
 When it wafted away. 
 
 Where the dickens were they ? 
 Oh ! no one might guess — Oh ! no one might say, —
 
 A TALE OF GRAMMARYE. irr 
 
 But never, I wis, 
 
 From that time to this, 
 In hall or in bower, on mountain or plain, 
 Has the Baron been seen, or been heard of again. 
 
 As for fair Isabel, after two or three sighs, 
 She finally opened her beautiful eyes. 
 
 She coughed, and she sneezed 
 
 And was very well pleased. 
 After being so rumpled, and towzled, and teased, 
 To find when restored from her panic and pain, 
 My Lord Howard had married her over again. 
 
 MORAL. 
 
 Be warned by our story, ye Nobles and Knights, 
 
 Who'rc so much in the habit of " flying of kites ;" 
 
 And beware how ye meddle again with such Flights : 
 
 At least, if your energies Creditors cramp, 
 
 Remember a Usurer's always a Scamp, 
 
 And look well at the Bill, and the Date, and the Stamp 
 
 Don't Sign in a hurry, whatever you do. 
 
 Or you'll go to the Devil, like Baron Fitz-Hugh. 
 
 THE llED-BREAST OF AaUITANIA. 
 
 AN HUMBLE BALLAD. 
 
 BY FATHEE, TROUT. 
 
 " Are not two sparrows sold for a farthhig 1 yet not one of them sliaW 
 fall to the ground without your ITather." — St. Matthew, x. 29. 
 
 " Gallos ab Aquitanis Gaeumna Ilumcn dividit." — Julius Cjssae. 
 
 " ScrmDns in stones, and good in everything." — Siiakspeake. 
 
 " Genius, left to shiver 
 On the bank, 'tis said, 
 Died of that cold river." — Tom Mooke. 
 
 I. 
 River trip An, 'twas bitter cold 
 
 from Thou. v/ . . t ^ lu i 
 
 louse to As our steam-boat roll a 
 
 Biurdeaux. p^.^^ ^.j^e pathway old
 
 112 
 
 THE RED-BREAST OF AQUITANIA. 
 
 Tlierniome- 
 ter at 0. 
 Snow li foot 
 . deep. Use of 
 wooden slioes. 
 
 Of the deep Garonne, — 
 And the peasant lank, 
 While his sabot sank 
 In the snow-clad bank, 
 
 Saw it roll on, on. 
 
 Y' Gascnn 
 farmei- hieth 
 to his cot- 
 tage, and 
 tlrinkctli a 
 flaggouue. 
 
 He warmeth 
 his cold 
 shins at a 
 ■wooden tiio. 
 Good h'ye to 
 
 II. 
 
 And he hied him home 
 To his toit de chatime ; 
 And for those who roam 
 
 On the broad bleak flood 
 Cared he ? Not a thought ; 
 For his beldame brought 
 His wine-flask fraught 
 
 With the grape's red blood. 
 
 III. 
 
 And the wood-block blaze 
 Fed his vacant gaze 
 As we trod the maze 
 
 Of the river down. 
 Soon we left behind 
 On the frozen wind 
 All farther mind 
 
 Of that vacant clown. 
 
 Y' Father 
 meetetli a 
 Btra}' ac- 
 .quaintiuice 
 in a small 
 'l>ird. 
 
 "Not y. 
 'famons alba- 
 tross of tliat 
 ancient laa- 
 
 lY. 
 
 But there came anon, 
 As we journey'd on 
 Down the deep Garonne, 
 
 An acquaintancj, 
 Which we deem'd, I count, 
 Of more high amoimt, 
 For it oped the fount 
 
 Of sweet sympatli}'. 
 
 V. 
 
 'Twas a stranger drcst 
 
 In a downy vest, 
 
 'Twas a wee Red-erf,ast,
 
 THE RED-BREAST OF AQUITANIA. 
 
 113 
 
 (Xotan ''Albatross^") 
 But a -wanderer meek, 
 "Who fain would seek 
 O'er the bosom bleak 
 
 Of that flood to cross. 
 
 liner olde 
 Coleridge, 
 but a poore 
 robin. 
 
 TI. 
 
 And we watch' d him oft 
 As he soar'd aloft 
 On his pinions soft, 
 
 Poor wee weak thing, 
 And we soon could mark 
 That he sought our bark 
 As a resting ark 
 
 For his weary wing. 
 
 T« sparro-w 
 
 crossing y« 
 river mak- 
 eth hys half- 
 Tray house 
 of the fire- 
 ship. 
 
 vn. 
 
 But the bark, fire -fed, 
 On her pathway sped, 
 And shot far a-head 
 
 Of the tiny bird, 
 And quicker in the van 
 Her swift wheels ran, 
 As the quickening fan 
 
 Of his winglets stirr'd. 
 
 Delusive 
 liope. Y« 
 fire-ship 
 runneth 10 
 knots an 
 hour: 'tis 
 no go for y* 
 sparrow. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Tain, vain pursuit ! 
 Toil without fruit ! 
 For his forked foot 
 
 Shall not anchor there, 
 Tho' the boat meanwhile 
 Down the stream beguile 
 For a bootless mile 
 
 The j)oor child of air ! 
 
 Y« hyrilft is 
 led a wilde 
 poose. chace 
 adown y" 
 river. 
 
 IX. 
 
 And 'twas plain at last 
 He was flagging fast, 
 That his hour had past 
 
 Symptomes 
 fif I'atincie. 
 "Via imdan- 
 cholio to lull
 
 114 
 
 THE RED-BREAST OF AQUITANIA. 
 
 between 
 
 2 StOOltL 
 
 In that effort vain ; 
 Far from either bank, 
 Sans a saving plank. 
 Slow, slow he sank, 
 
 Nor uprose again. 
 
 Mnrt of yo 
 biriie. 
 
 X. 
 
 And the cheerless wave 
 Just one ripple gave 
 As it oped him a grave 
 
 In its bosom cold, 
 And he sank alone, 
 With a feeble moan, 
 In that deep Gakoxxe, 
 
 And then all was told. 
 
 V« oM man 
 at y» helm 
 weepeth for 
 a Sonne lost 
 in y« bay of 
 Biscaye. 
 
 XI. 
 
 But our pilot grey 
 Wiped a tear away ; 
 In the broad BiscAYE 
 
 He had lost his boy ! 
 And that sight brought back 
 On its furrow' d track 
 The remember'd wreck 
 
 Of long perish' d joy ! 
 
 Crmdoleanpe 
 of y« ladies ; 
 eke of 1 
 
 cJiasseur 
 
 d'infanterie 
 
 legire. 
 
 XII. 
 
 iVnd the tear half hid 
 In soft Beauty's lid 
 Stole forth unbid 
 
 For that red-breast bird ;- 
 And the feeling crept, — 
 For a Warrior wept ; 
 And the silence kept 
 
 Found no fitting word. 
 
 Olde Father 
 Prontte 
 sadly 
 moializeth. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 But J mused alone, 
 For I thought of one 
 Whom I well had known
 
 THE RED-BREAST OF AQUITANIA. 
 
 115 
 
 lu my earlier days, 
 Of a gentle mind, 
 Of a soiil refined, 
 Of deserts design'd 
 
 For the Palm of Praise. 
 
 anent y" 
 birde. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 And weU would it seem 
 That o'er Life's dark stream, 
 Easy task for Him 
 
 In his flight of Fame, 
 Was the Skyward Path, 
 O'er the hiUow's wrath, 
 That for Genius hath 
 
 Ever been the same. 
 
 Y« streame 
 of Lyfe. A 
 younge man 
 of fay re 
 promise. 
 
 XV. 
 
 And I saw him soar 
 From tjhe morning shore, 
 While his fresh wings bore 
 
 Him athwart the tide, 
 Soon with powers unspent 
 As he forward went. 
 His wings he had bent 
 
 On the sought-for side. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 But while thus he flew, 
 Lo ! a vision new 
 Caught his wayward view 
 
 With a semblance fair. 
 And that new-found wooer 
 Could, alas! allure 
 From his pathway sure 
 
 The bright child of air. 
 
 Hys earlie 
 
 flyght across 
 y« streame. 
 
 A newe ob- 
 ject caUetli 
 his eye from 
 y" mains 
 chaunce. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 For he turn'd aside, 
 And adown the tide 
 For a brief hour plied 
 
 Tnstabilitle 
 of purpoHO a 
 fiitall evyl 
 in lyfe. 
 
 8—2
 
 ii6 
 
 THE RED-BREAST OF A QUI TA NT A. 
 
 This is y« 
 
 morall of 
 
 Father 
 
 Prout's 
 
 humble 
 
 ballade. 
 
 His yet unspent force, 
 And to gain that goal 
 Gave tlie powers of soiil, 
 "Wliicli, imwasted, whole, 
 
 Had achieved his course. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 A bright Spirit, young, 
 Unwept, unsung. 
 Sank thus among 
 
 The drifts of the stream ; 
 Not a record left, — 
 Of renown bereft. 
 By thy cruel theft, 
 
 DELUSIVE DREAM ! 
 
 THE MONKS OF OLD. 
 
 BY WILLIAM JONES. 
 
 Many have told of the monks of old, 
 
 What a saintly race they were ; 
 But 'tis more true that a merrier crew 
 Could scarce be found elsewhere ; 
 Por they sung and laugh'd, 
 And the rich wine quaff 'd, 
 And lived on the daintiest cheer. 
 
 And some they would say, that throughout the day 
 
 O'er the missal alone they would pore ; 
 But 'twas only, I ween, whilst the flock were seen 
 They thought of their ghostly lore ; 
 For they sung and laugh'd. 
 And the rich wine quaff' d 
 When the rules of their faith were o'er. 
 
 And then they would jest at the love confess'd 
 
 By many an artless maid ; 
 •And what hopes and fears they have pour'd iu the ears. 
 Of those who sought their aid. 
 And they sung and laugh'd, 
 And the rich wine quaff' d 
 As they told of each love-sick jade.
 
 THE MONKS OF OLD. 117 
 
 And the Abbot meek, witli his form so sleek, 
 
 "Was the heartiest of them all. 
 And would take his place with a smiling face 
 When refection bell would call ; 
 And they sung and laugh'd, 
 And the rich wine quaff'd, 
 Till they shook the olden wall. 
 
 In their green retreat, when the drum would beat, 
 
 And warriors flew to arm, 
 The monks they would stay in their convent grey, 
 In the midst of dangers calm, 
 
 "Where they sung and laugh'd, 
 And the rich wine quaff'd. 
 For none would the good men harm. 
 
 Then say what they will, we'll drink to them still, 
 
 For a jovial band they were ; 
 And 'tis most true that a merrier crew 
 Could not be foimd elsewhere ; 
 For they sung and laugh'd, 
 And the rich wine quaff'd. 
 And lived on the daintiest cheer. 
 
 THE FROa. 
 
 BY THE IRISH WHISKEY DEIXKEK. 
 
 THINK the frog* 
 A jolly dog, 
 He drinks through the live-long day ; 
 
 He never need think 
 
 "Where to go for his drink. 
 And he's never a chalk to pay. 
 
 The summer night long 
 
 He sings his hoarse song,t 
 By the side of the streamlet blue. 
 
 And he pipes his bassoon 
 
 To the ladyc moon, 
 And he drinks her health in dew ! 
 
 I 
 
 TllKOCUITUB, Icl^H X. 
 BpeKSKenef Kouf Kouf. —Abibtophanf.s, Itance.
 
 Ii8 
 
 THE FROG. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Drink to the frog, 
 
 He's a jolly dog ; 
 He drinks through the live-long day ; 
 
 He never need think 
 
 Where to go for his drink, 
 And he's never a chalk to pay. 
 
 The fish may smm, 
 
 And the wild bird skim 
 The earth, the sea, and the air ; 
 
 And the hound pursue, 
 
 So swift and true. 
 The game to the forest lair. 
 
 Toil, prey, and strife ! 
 
 "What boots such life ? 
 I like the frog's the best ; 
 
 The blithe summer through 
 
 He has nothing to do, 
 And in winter he takes his rest. 
 
 Drink to the frog, &c. 
 
 IfXvL 
 
 AD MOLLISSIMAM PUEL- 
 
 LAM E GETICA CARU- 
 
 AEUM FAMILIA. 
 
 OVIDIUS NASO LAMENTATUR. 
 I. 
 
 IJeu! heu! 
 
 Me tgedet, me piget o ! 
 Cor mihi riget o ! 
 Ut flos sub frigido. . . 
 
 Et nox ipsa mi, turn 
 Cam vado dormitum, 
 Infausta, insomnis, 
 Transcurritur omnis. . . 
 
 MOLLY CAREW. 
 
 BY SAM LOVER. 
 
 t 
 
 I. 
 
 AcH hone ! 
 
 Oh! what Willi do? 
 Sure my love is all crost. 
 Like a bud in the frost. . . 
 
 And there's no use at all 
 In my going to bed ; 
 For 'tis dhrames, and not sleep. 
 That comes into my head. . .
 
 MOLLY CAREW. 
 
 119 
 
 Hoc culpa fit tua 
 Mi, mollis Cariia, 
 Sic mihi illudens, 
 Nee pudens. — 
 
 Prodigium tu, re 
 Es, vera, naturaj, 
 Candidior lacte ; — 
 Plus fronte ciun hiic to, 
 Cum istis oceUis, 
 Plus omnibus stellis 
 Mehercule vellem. — 
 Sed heu, me imbellem ! 
 A me, qui sum fidus, 
 Tel ultimum sidus 
 Non distat te magis. . . 
 Quid agis ! 
 
 Heu ! lieu ! nisi tu 
 Me ames, 
 Perec ! pillaleu ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Heu ! heu ! 
 
 Sed cur sequar laude 
 OceUos aut frontem 
 Si NASI, ciun fraude, 
 Prastereo pontem ?. . . 
 
 Ast hie ego minus 
 Quam ipse Longinus 
 In verbis exprimem 
 Himc nasum sublimem. . 
 
 De florida gena 
 Vulgaris camo^na 
 Cantaret in vanum 
 Per annum. — 
 
 Turn, tibi puella! 
 Sic tument labella 
 Ut nil plus jucundum 
 Sit, aut rubicundum ; 
 Si primitus homo 
 OoUapsus est pomo, 
 
 And 'tis all about you, 
 My sweet Molly Carew, 
 And indeed 'tis a sin 
 And a shame. — 
 
 You're complater than nature 
 In every feature ; 
 The snow can't compare 
 With your forehead so fair : 
 And I rather would spy 
 Just one blink of your eye 
 Than the purtiest star 
 That shines out of the sky ; 
 Tho' — by this and by that ! 
 For the matter o' that — 
 You're more distant by far 
 Than that same. 
 
 Och hone, wierasthrew! 
 I am alone 
 In this world without you ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Och hone ! 
 
 But why should I speak 
 Of your forehead and eyes, 
 When your nose it defies 
 Paddy Blake the schoolmaster 
 
 To put it in rhyme ? — 
 Though there's one Burkk, 
 He says. 
 Who would call it SnuhYwivQ. . . 
 
 And then for your cheek, 
 Throuth 'twould take him a week 
 Its beauties to tell 
 As he'd rather : — 
 
 Then your lips, machrce ! 
 In their beautiful glow 
 They a pattern might bo 
 Yov the cherries to grow. — 
 'Twas an apple that tempted 
 Our mother, we know ;
 
 I20 
 
 MOLLY CAREW. 
 
 Si dolor et luctus 
 Venemnt per fructus, 
 ■ Proli ! a;tas nunc serior 
 Xe cadat, vereor, 
 Icta tarn bello 
 Labello : 
 
 Heu ! lieu ! nisi tu 
 Me ames, 
 Perec ! pillaleu ! 
 
 III. 
 Heu! Heu! 
 
 Per cornua lunse 
 Perpetuo tu ne 
 Me vexes impune ? . . . 
 
 I nunc choro salta 
 (Mac-ghius nam tecum) 
 Plauta magis alta 
 Quam svieveris meciim ! . 
 
 Tibicinem quando 
 Cogo fustigando 
 ^e falsum det melus, 
 Anhelus. — 
 
 A te in sacello 
 Yix mentem revello, 
 Heu ! misere scissam 
 Te inter et Missam ; 
 Tu latitas vero 
 Tam stricto galero 
 Ut cernere vultum 
 Desiderem multum. 
 Et dubites jam, niim 
 (Ob animce damnum) 
 Sit fas hunc deberi 
 Auferri ? 
 
 Heu ! heu ! nisi tu 
 Coram sis, 
 Ccecus sim : eleleu I 
 
 IV. 
 
 Heu ! heu ! 
 Non me provocate, 
 
 For apples were scarce 
 I suppose long ago : 
 But at this time o' day, 
 'Pen my conscience I'll say,, 
 Such cherries might tempt 
 A man's father ! 
 
 Och hone, wierasthre'^' I 
 I'm alone 
 In this world without you \ 
 
 III. 
 Och hone ! 
 
 By the man in the moon I 
 Tou teaze me all ways 
 That a woman can plaze ; 
 
 For yovi dance twice as high 
 With that thief Pat Maghee 
 As when you take share 
 In a jig, dear, with me ; 
 
 Tliough the piper I bate, 
 For fear the ould chate 
 Wouldn't play you your 
 Favourite tune. 
 
 And when you're at Mass 
 My devotion you crass. 
 For 'tis thinking of you 
 I am, Molly Carew ; 
 "While you wear on purpose 
 A bonnet so deep. 
 That I can't at your sweet 
 Pretty face get a peep. 
 Oh ! lave off that bonnet. 
 Or else I'll lave on it 
 The loss of my wandering 
 Sowl! 
 
 Och hone, like a howl, 
 Day is night. 
 Dear, to me without you ! 
 
 IV. 
 Och hone ! 
 
 Don't provoke me to do it ,.
 
 MOLLY CAREW 
 
 lit 
 
 JSTam virginum sat, o ! 
 Stant mihi amato . . . 
 
 Et stupcres plane 
 Si aliquo mane 
 Me sponsnm videres ; 
 Hoc qnomodo ferres ? 
 
 Quid dieeres, si cum 
 Triumph per Ticum, 
 Maritus it ibi, 
 Non tibi ! 
 
 Et pol ! Catberina) 
 Cui vacca, (tu, sine) 
 Si proferem hymen 
 Grande asset discrimen ; 
 Tu quamvis, hie aio, 
 Sis blandior Maio, 
 Et ha;c calet rarius 
 Q,uam Januarius ; 
 Si non mutas brevi, 
 Hanc mibi decrevi 
 (Ut sic ultus forem) 
 Uxorem ; 
 
 Turn postbac diu 
 Me spectrum 
 Verebere tu . . . eleleu ! 
 
 Eor there's girls by the score 
 That loves me, and more. 
 
 And you'd look very queer, 
 If some morning you'd meet 
 My wedding all marching 
 In pride down the street. 
 
 Throth you'd open your eyes,. 
 And you'd die of surprise 
 To think 'twasn't you 
 "Was come to it. 
 
 And 'faith ! Katty Naile 
 And her cow, I go bail, 
 "Would jump if I'd say, 
 "Ivatty Is'aile, name the day." 
 And though you're fair and fresh. 
 As the blossoms in May, 
 And she's short and dark 
 Like a cold winter's day, 
 Yet if you don't repent 
 Before Easter, — when Lent 
 Is over — I'll marry 
 Eor spite. 
 
 Och hone ; and when I 
 Die for you, 
 
 'Tis my ghost that you'll sec every 
 night ! 
 
 LoVEE was bom in 1707 in Dublin, and died in Jersey in the summci" 
 of this year, 1868. He was the son of a stock-broker and insuvauco 
 agent in that city, and receiving a plain, mercantile education, he was 
 transferred to a desk in his father's office at a very early age. His leisure 
 hours would seem to liave been employed in tlio study of painting and 
 music, for ho was enabled to resign his original occupation, and givo 
 himself up to miniature painting, from which ho derived a competent 
 income, and married before he reached liis thirtieth year. IIo became 
 popular about this time in Dublin society by the publication of somo 
 exceedingly pretty drawing-room songs, of which ' Tiio dark-haired 
 Girl,' and 'Under the Rose,' were tlie chief, and a volume of very Ini- 
 mourous tales and sketches of humble Irish life. His lyrics ho set 
 very cleverly to his own music ; and ho illustrated liis prose works witli 
 liis own etchings, which were in some instances wortliy of Leech or
 
 122 SAM LOVER. 
 
 Cniikshank. Ee moreover sang liis songs -with a tiny, but tuneful 
 voice, by no means unlike Tom Moore's, and like him, to his own 
 pianoforte accompaniment. He recited also his prose tales and sketches 
 at evening parties with such success, that his volume went through 
 several editions. He came to London as he was api>roaching his 
 fortieth year, when his reputation as a olever writer of Irish songs, 
 and humourous Irish prose fiction had ti'avelled before him. He had 
 then commenced the publication of his very beautiful lays of the Irish 
 peasant superstitions, 'The Angel's Whisper,' * The Fairy Boy,' 'The 
 Four-leaved Shamrock,' &c., and had become equally celebrated for 
 another class of Irish songs, in which his essentially humourous genius 
 was equally at home : amongst these were ' Molly Carew,' ' Kory 
 O'Moore,' ' The Birth of St. Patrick,' and ' Molly Bawn.* Lover pub- 
 lished at one time or other, after his arrival in London, some prose 
 works of fiction, novels, and dramas, which had not by any means the 
 •same success as his lyrics, with the single exception of ' The White 
 Horse of the Peppers,' which owed not the least portion of its popu- 
 larity to the xmrivalled acting of Tyrone Power. His chief contribu- 
 tion to 'Bentley's Miscellany' was tlie Irish story of 'Handy Andy,* 
 which spread over several months of the periodical, and was afterwards 
 republished in a collected form. The cleverest of Lover's intellectual 
 performances was achieved a few years before lie left Ireland, when ho 
 illustrated the famous and most formidable ' Parson's Horn Book,' the 
 letter-press portion of which, in prose and verse, was contributed by a 
 number of clever anti-tithe agitators, with Mr. Thomas Browne, a 
 miller and farmer of the Queen's County, at their head, who subse- 
 quently published the 'Comet' newspaper in Dublin. This weekly 
 journal after a two years' desperate fight with the Anglesey and Stanley 
 administration, was crushed by Crown prosecutions, but not before the 
 writings and caricatures of ' Comet and Horn Book' had produced sucli 
 a state of feeling throughout Ireland, as compelled the Whig govern- 
 ment of the day to abolish the collection of tithe at the j)oint of the 
 bayonet, from the occupier of the land, and transferred it into a rent 
 charge upon the landlord. Lover kept the fact of his having carica- 
 tured the Irish tithe system in his younger days, from his English 
 friends, to the last day of his life ; and it is probable if he had not 
 done so, that his name would not have been placed on the pension 
 list for a hundred a year, which he enjoyed for a few years before his 
 death, and which has been very considerately continued to his widow. 
 
 The exceedingly clever and witty Latin version of his comic chef 
 ■d'ceuvre is from the master hand of Father Prout.
 
 123 
 
 THE GRAND CHAM OF TARTART, 
 
 AND 
 
 THE HUMBLE-BEE. 
 
 Abridged from tlie voluminous Epic Poem by Beg-beg, formerly a mendi- 
 cant ballad-singer, afterwards Principal Lord Rector of the University of 
 Samarcand, and subsequently Historiographer and Poet Laureate to tlio 
 Court of Balk. 
 
 BY C. J. DAA'IDS. 
 
 I. 
 
 'The great Tartar chief, on a festival day, 
 
 Gave a spread to his court, and resolved to he gay ; 
 But, just in the midst of their music and glee, 
 The mii'th was upset by a humble-bee — 
 
 A humble-bee — 
 They were bored by a rascally humhle-hee I 
 
 II. 
 This riotous bee was so wanting in sense 
 As to fly at the Cham with malice prepense ; 
 (Said his highness, "My fate will he felo-de-se, 
 If I'm thus to be teas'd by a humble-bee — 
 
 A humble-bee — 
 How sJiall I get rid of the humble-bee!" 
 
 III. 
 The troops in attendance, with sabre and spear, 
 Were order'd to harass the enemy's rear : 
 But the brave body-guards were forced to flee — 
 They wore aU so afraid of the humble-bee — 
 
 The humble-bee — 
 The soldiers were scar'd by the humble-bee. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The solicitor-general thought there was reason 
 
 For indicting the scamp on a charge of high-treason ; 
 
 AVhile the clianccUor douhtcd if any decree 
 
 From the woolsack would fri^liten the humble-bee — 
 
 The Inunblc'-bee — 
 So the la^n-yers fought shy of the humble-bee.
 
 124 THE GRAND CHAM OF TARTAR Y. 
 
 V. 
 
 The Cham fi'om his throne in an agony rose, 
 "While the insect was buzzing right under his nose : — 
 " Was ever a potentate plagued like me, 
 Or worried to death by a humble-bee ! 
 
 A humble-bee — 
 Don't let me be stung by the humble-bee !" 
 
 VI. 
 
 He said to a page, nearly choking with grief, 
 " Bring hither my valiant commander-in-chief: 
 And say that I'll give him a liberal fee, 
 To out the throat of this humble-bee — 
 
 This humble-bee — 
 This turbulent, Jacobin, humble-bee 1" 
 
 VII. 
 
 His generalissimo came at the summons. 
 And, cursing the courtiers for cowardly rum-uns, 
 " My liege," said he, " it's all fiddle-de-dee 
 To make such a fuss for a humble-bee — 
 
 A humble-bee — 
 I don't care a d — n for the humble-bee !" 
 
 Till. 
 
 The veteran rush'd sword in hand on the foe, 
 And cut him in two with a desperate blow. 
 His master exclaim'd, " I'm delighted to see 
 How neatly you've settled the humble-bee !" 
 
 The humble-bee — 
 So there was an end of the humble-bee. 
 
 IX. 
 
 By the doctor's advice (which was prudent and right) 
 His highness retired very early that night : 
 For they got hira to bed soon after his tea, 
 And he dream' d all night of the humble-bee — 
 
 The humble-bee — 
 He saw the grim ghost of the humble-bee.
 
 vrfvo.. 
 
 1.^ 
 THE GRAND CHAM OF TARTARY. 125 
 
 MOKAL. 
 
 Seditious disturbers, mind -well what you're arter — 
 Lest, humming a prince, you by chance catch a Tartar. 
 Consider, when planning an impudent spree, 
 Tou may get the same luck as the humble-bee — 
 
 The humble-bee — 
 Remember the doom of the humble-bee I 
 
 HAP.OUX ALEASCHID. 
 
 BY G. E. INMAN. 
 
 A'er the gorgeous room a luxurious gloom. 
 Like the glow of a summer's eve, hung : 
 Prom its basin of stone, with rose-leaves bestrown 
 
 The fountain its coolness flung ; 
 Perfumes wondrously rare fill'd the eunuch-fann'd air, 
 
 And on gem-studded carpets around 
 The poets sung forth tales of glory or mirth 
 
 To their instruments' eloquent sound ; 
 On a throne framed of gold sat their monarch the bold, 
 
 With cofi'ers of coin by his side, 
 And to each, as he sung, lavish handfuls he flung, 
 
 Till each in his gratitude cried, 
 "Long, long live great Haroun Alraschid, the Caliph of Babylon 
 old !" 
 
 Disturbing the feast, from the Rome of the East 
 
 An embassage audience craves ; 
 And Haroun, smiling bland, cries, dismissing the band, 
 
 " We will look on the face of our slaves !" 
 Then tlie eunuchs who wait on their Caliph in state 
 
 Lead the messenger Lords of the Greek. 
 Proud and martial their mien, proud and martial their sheen, 
 
 But they bow to the Arab right meek ; 
 And with heads bending down, though their brows wear a frown, 
 
 They ask if he audience bestow. 
 " Yea, dogs of the Greek, we await ye, so speak ! — 
 
 Have ye brought us the tribute you owe ? 
 Or what lack ye of Haroun Ah'aschid, the Caliph of Babylon old ?"
 
 1 26 HARO UN ALRA SCHID. 
 
 Then the Greek spake loud, " To Alraschid the Proud 
 
 This message our monarch doth send : 
 While ye play'd 'gainst a Queen, ye could mate her, I ween — 
 
 She could ill with thy pieces contend ; 
 But Irene is dead, and a Pawn in her stead 
 
 Holds her power and place on the board : 
 By Nicephorus stern is the purple now worn, 
 
 And no longer he owns thee for lord. 
 If tribute ye claim, I am bade in his name 
 
 This to tell thee, King of the World, 
 "With these, not with gold, pays Nicephorus bold !" — 
 
 And a bundle of sword-blades he hurl'd 
 At the feet of stern Haroun Alraschid, the Caliph of Babylon old. 
 
 Dark as death was his look, and his every limb shook. 
 
 As the Caliph glared round on the foe — 
 *' View my answer!" he roar'd, and unsheathing his sword, 
 
 Clove the bundle of falchions right through. 
 " Tell my slave, the Greek hound, that Haroun the Eenown'd, 
 
 Ere the sun that now sets rise again. 
 Will be far on the road to his wretched abode, 
 
 With many a myriad of men. 
 No reply will he send, either spoken or penn'd ; 
 
 But by Allah, and Abram our sire, 
 He shall read a reply on the earth, in the sky. 
 
 Writ in bloodshed, and famine, and fire ! 
 Now begone !" thundered Haroun Alraschid, the Caliph of Baby- 
 lon old. 
 
 As the sun dropt in night by the murky torchlight. 
 
 There was gathering of horse and of man ; 
 Tartar, Courd, Bishareen, Persian, swart Bedoween, 
 
 And the mighty of far Khorasan — 
 Of all tongues, of all lands, and in numberless bands, 
 
 Ptound the Prophet's green banner they crowd. 
 They are form'd in array, they are up and away. 
 
 Like the locusts' calamitous cloud ; 
 But rapine or spoil, till they reach the Greek soil. 
 
 Is forbidden, however assail'd. 
 A poor widow, whose fold a Courd robb'd, her tale told, 
 
 And he was that instant impaled 
 By the stern wrath of Haroun Alraschid, the Caliph of Babylon old I
 
 HAROUN ALRASCHID. 127 
 
 On o'er valley and hill, river, plain, onwards still, 
 
 Fleet and fell as the desert- wind, on I 
 TVhere was green grass before, when that host had pass'd o'er,, 
 
 Every vestige of verdure was gone ! 
 On o'er valley and hill, desert, river, on stUl, 
 
 With the speed of the wild ass or deer, 
 The dust of their tread, o'er the atmosphere spread, 
 
 Hung for miles like a cloud in their rear. 
 On o'er valley and hill, desert, river, on still, 
 
 Till afar booms the ocean's hoarse roar. 
 And amid the night's gloom, o'er tower, temple, and tomb, 
 
 Heraclea, that sits by the shore ! 
 Doom'd city of Haroun Alraschid, the Caliph of Babylon old. 
 
 There was mirth at its height in thy mansions that night, 
 
 Heraclea, that sits by the sea ! 
 Thy damsels' soft smiles breathed their loveliest wileSjv 
 
 And the banquet was wild in its glee ! 
 For Zee the fair, proud Nicephorus' heir, 
 
 That night was betrothed to her mate, 
 To Theseus the Bold, of Illyria old, 
 
 And the blood of the Island-kings great. 
 When lo ! wild and lorn, and with robes travel-torn. 
 
 And with features that pallidly glared, 
 They the Arab had spurn'd from Damascus return'd, 
 
 Bush'd in, and the coming declared 
 Of the armies of Haroun Alraschid, the Caliph of Babylon old. 
 
 A faint tumult afar, the first breathing of war, 
 
 Multitudinous floats on the gale : 
 The lelie shout shrill, and the toss'd cymbals pcal, 
 
 And the trumpet's long desolate wail. 
 The horse-tramp of swarms, and the clangour of arms, 
 
 And the murmur of nations of men. 
 Oh woe, woe, and woe, Heraclea shall know — 
 
 Slie shall fall, and shall rise not again ; 
 The spiders' dusk looms shall alone hang her rooms, 
 
 The green grass shall grow in her ways, 
 Ilor daughters shall wail, and her warriors shall quail. 
 
 And herself be a sign of amaze, 
 Through the vengeance of Haroun Alraschid, the Caliph of 
 Babvlon old.
 
 1 28 HARO UN ALRASCHID. 
 
 'Tis the dawn of the sun, and the morn-prayer is done, 
 
 And the murderous onset is made ; 
 The Christian and foe they are at it, I trow, 
 
 Fearfully plying the blade. 
 Each after each rolls on to the breach, 
 
 Like the slumberless roll of the sea. 
 Rank rolling on rank rush the foe on the Frank, 
 
 Breathless, in desperate glee ; 
 The Greek's quenchless fire, the Mussulman's ire 
 
 Has hurled over rampart and wall. 
 And 'tis all one wild hell of blades slaughtering fell. 
 
 Where fiercest and fellest o'er all 
 "Work'd the falchion of Haroun Alraschid, the Caliph of Babylon old. 
 
 Bat day rose on day, yet Nicephorus grey, 
 
 And Theseus, his daughter's betrothed. 
 With warrior-like sleight kept the town in despite. 
 
 Of the Moslem insulted and loathed. 
 Morn rose after morn on the leaguers outworn. 
 
 Till the Caliph with rage tore his beard ; 
 And, terribly wroth, sware a terrible oath — 
 
 An oath which the boldest ev'n fear'd. 
 So his mighty Emirs gat around their compeers. 
 
 And picked for the onslaught a few. 
 <3h ! that onslaught was dread, — every Moslem struck dead ! 
 
 But, however, young Theseus they slew. 
 And that gladdened fierce Haroun Alraschid, the Caliph of 
 Babylon old. 
 
 Heraclea, that night in thy palaces bright 
 
 There was anguish and bitterest grief. 
 " He is gone ! he is dead !" were the words that tliey said. 
 
 Though the stunn'd heart refused its belief: 
 Wild and far spreads the moan, from the hut, from the throne. 
 
 Striking every one breathless with fear. 
 " Oh! Theseus the bold, thou art stark, — thou art cold, — 
 
 Thou art young to be laid on the bier." 
 One alone makes no moan, but with features like stone, 
 
 In an ecstacy haggard of woe. 
 Sits tearless and lorn, with dry eyeballs that burn. 
 
 And fitful her lips mutter low 
 Dread threatenings against Haroun Alraschid, the Caliph of 
 Babylon old.
 
 HAROUN ALRASCHID. 129 
 
 The next morn on the wall, iirst and fiercest of all, 
 
 The distraction of grief cast aside, 
 In her lord's arms arrayed, Zoe plied the death-blade, — 
 
 Ay, and, marry, right terribly plied. 
 Her lovely arm fair, to the shoulder is bare, 
 
 And nerved with a giant-like power 
 Where her deadly sword sweeps fall the mighty in heaps ; 
 
 Where she does but appear the foe cower. 
 Rank on rank they rush on, — rank on rank are struck down, 
 
 Till the ditch is choked up with the dead. 
 The vulture and crow, and the wild dog, I trow, 
 
 Made a dreadful repast that night as they fed 
 On the liegemen of Haroun Alraschid, the Caliph of Babylon old. 
 
 This was not to last.— The stern Moslem, downcast, 
 
 Retrieved the next morning their might ; 
 For Alraschid the bold, and the Barmecide old, 
 
 Had proclaimed through the camp in the night, 
 That whoso should win the first footing withia 
 
 The city that bearded their power. 
 Should have for his piize the fierce girl with black eyes. 
 
 And ten thousand zecchines as her dower. 
 It spurred them right well ; and they battled and fell, 
 
 Like lions, with long hunger wild. 
 Ere that day's set of sun Heraclea was won, 
 
 And Nicephorus bold, and his child. 
 Were captives to Haroun Alraschid, the Caliph of Babylon old. 
 
 To his slave, the Greek hound, roared Haroun the Renowned, 
 
 When before him Nicephorus came, 
 " Though the pawn went to queen, 'tis checkmated, I ween. 
 
 Thou'rt as bold as unskilled in the game. 
 Now, Infidel, say, wherefore should 1 not slay 
 
 The wretch that my vengeance hath sought ?" — 
 " I am faint,— I am weak— and I thirst," quoth the Greek, 
 
 " Give me drink." At his bidding 'tis brought ; 
 He took it ; but shrank, lest 'twere poison he drank. 
 
 «' Thou art safe till the goblet be quafled !" 
 Cried Haroun. The Greek heard, took the foe at his word. 
 
 Dashed down on the pavement the draught. 
 And claimed mercy of Haroun Alraschid, the Caliph of Babylon old. 
 
 9
 
 130 
 
 HAROUN ALRASCHID. 
 
 Haroun never broke word or oath that he spoke, 
 
 So he granted the captive his life, 
 And then bade his slaves bear stately Zoe the fair, 
 
 To the warrior who won her in strife ; 
 But the royal maid cried in the wrath of her pride, 
 
 She would die ere her hand should be given, 
 Or the nuptial caress should be lavished to bless 
 
 Such a foe to her house and to Heaven. 
 Her entreaties they spurned, and her menace they scorned ; 
 
 But, resolute, spite of their power, 
 All food she denied, and by self- famine died ; 
 
 And her father went mad from that hour. 
 Thus triumph'd stern Haroun Alraschid, the Caliph of Babylon old ! 
 
 TO THE HOT WELLS OF CLIFTON. 
 
 IN PEAISE OF RUM-PUNCIL 
 
 A TRIGLOT ODE, VIZ. 
 
 2° Horatii in foiitein Bristolii carmen. 
 
 3° % BtUck (unpublisljctj) of tl)c " unfoitunatc eCIjattcrfon.' 
 
 EY FATHER PEOUT. 
 
 PINDAE. 
 
 a. 
 
 Uriyri (ipiffroXiag 
 JVIaXXoi' €v vaXoj 
 Kafinova avdtai avv 
 'StKTapoq a^tij 
 2' avrXa 
 VtvfiaTi voWtj) 
 Mi(jyti)v 
 
 Kvi)o Kav TiQ (pav 
 liov\(rca t] fiaxr]v 
 '2ot liaK)^ov KaOapov 
 — oj cia\pMvvvaii 
 
 HORACE. 
 
 I. 
 
 O fons Bi'istolii 
 Hoc raagis in vitro 
 Dulci dii,'ne moro 
 Non sine floribus 
 Viis impleveris 
 Unda, 
 
 Mel solvente 
 Caloribiis. 
 
 CHATTEETON'. 
 1. 
 
 31 feen Bour toonf) 
 
 " l^ot iBclIs " of Bristol, 
 
 irj)at bubble fon^ 
 
 ■as cltar as crystal ; 
 
 Iln parlour snug 
 
 3:'l) toisl; no i;ottcr 
 
 CTo mil a jug 
 
 ®l 3Rum ann estatcr. 
 
 IL 2. 
 
 Si quis vel venerpra iDotli Tobe, roung tljiel- 
 
 Aut prtelia cogitat, (June's bosom ruffle 
 
 Is iiacclii caliuus CilFloulD any feci 
 
 Inficiet tibi l^ipc fot a SCufHe ?
 
 TO THE HOT WELLS OF CLIFTON. 
 
 131 
 
 6' atfiaTi vafia' 
 TlpoQvfioq Tt 
 
 25 ^Xfy/i' aiSaXoiv 
 Jleipiov offrfpof 
 
 2u Kpvog t]Svv tv 
 
 'St](Toig 
 
 AvTiXerraiat 
 
 UouiQ 
 
 K' aiQt07T0)v <j)vKtii. 
 
 ^. 
 
 Kptjvatr (V rt Ka\atg 
 
 Eaniai ayXai] 
 
 2' tv KoiXii) Kv\aKi 
 
 Aa\ov i^ o'j 
 
 Hubro sanguine 
 
 Eivos, 
 
 Piet protiinis 
 
 Impiger ! 
 
 III. 
 
 Te flagrante bibax 
 Ore caiiicula 
 Surgit navita : tu 
 Frigus aniahile 
 Fessis vouiere 
 Mauris 
 Prajbt'S ac 
 Ilomiui nigro. 
 
 ?II)c simplest plan 
 Is just to tafee a 
 aJl^cll stifftncli tan 
 ©f olli Jamaica. 
 
 3. 
 
 IScncati^ t^e ^one 
 CUrog in a pall or 
 ISum - best alone — 
 IBdigljts tf)e sailoi. 
 ?If)E can Ije stuills 
 "aione gibes btgour 
 In il)e Antilles 
 STo tol;ite or nigger. 
 
 IV. 4. 
 
 Fies nobilium Vh) claims, (© founf, 
 
 Tu quoque fontium BcsciDe aitcntion : 
 
 Me dicente ; caviiin l^cnccfoitDarU count 
 
 Dum caliceiu reples ®n classic mcniion- 
 
 Umamque 5il;gl)t pleasant Stuff 
 
 XJude loquaces 5"l)tne to tlje lip is ; 
 
 LympluTB 82Rt'tic IjatJ cnougf) 
 
 '2,0V cc piv/xa KaOaWtrat. Desiliuut tuso. 
 
 ©t Aganippe's. 
 
 WFIO AIIE YOU? 
 
 EY SAM LOVER AND FATUER PROUT. 
 
 Who are you ? — Who are you ? 
 
 Little boy that's running after 
 Ev'ry one up and down, 
 
 Mingling sighs amidst your laughter?" 
 "I am Cupid, lady belle, 
 
 I am Cupid, and no other." 
 " Little boy, then pr'ythee tell 
 
 How is Venus ? How's your mother ? 
 
 Little boy, little boy, 
 
 I desire you tell me true : 
 Cupid, oh ! you're altered so, 
 
 No wonder I cry W/io are you 1 
 
 9—2
 
 132 
 
 WHO ARE YOU? 
 
 II. 
 
 *' Who are you ? — Who are you ? 
 
 Little boy, where is your bow ? 
 You had a bow, my little boy." 
 
 " So had you, m 'am, long ago." 
 " Little boy, where is your torch ?" 
 
 *' Madam, I have given it up : 
 Torches are no use at all ; 
 
 Hearts will never n.ovf flare up." 
 "Naughty boy, naughty boy, 
 
 Words like these I never knew ; 
 Cupid, oh, you're altered so, 
 
 No wonder I cry Who are you?" 
 
 METASTASIO 
 I. 
 La Signora. 
 Chi sei tu ? Chi sei tu ? 
 Dlmi piccolo fanciullo 
 Sempr' andante su et giu 
 Sospirando fra '1 trastullo. 
 Cupido, 
 Son Cupido in veriti 
 Ee de' burle leggiadre. 
 La Sig. 
 Dunque dl per carita, 
 
 Come stia, tua madre ? 
 Senj' arco cosJ, perche ? 
 Dove sono le saiette ? 
 la faretra poi dov' 6 ? 
 Seiubianze son sospette — 
 Cei sex iu t* 
 
 AJSJ) rONTENELLE. 
 
 I. 
 La Dame. 
 Qui es tu ? Qui es tu ? 
 
 Bel enfant aux gais sourires, 
 Tui qui cours tout devetu, 
 
 Et ris pai-fois, parfois soupires ? 
 Cuj)klon. 
 Dame, je suis Cupidon, 
 
 Dieu d' amour, fils k Citheee. 
 La Dame. 
 Bel enfant, eh, dis moi done 
 
 Comment va, Venus, ta mere? 
 Cette fois, sans carquois 
 
 Je te vois, avec surprise, 
 Cupidon, est il done 
 Etunnant que Ton te dise. 
 Qui es tu? 
 
 II. 
 
 La Sig. 
 Chi sei tu ? Chi sei tu ? 
 Arme c'eran altre volte. 
 Cupido. 
 Giovan' ella non e piu 
 Mi furon' allora tolte. 
 La Sig. 
 E la torcia, percb^ dl, 
 Hai voluio tu lasciare ? 
 
 II. 
 
 La Dame. 
 Qui es tu ? Qui es tu ? 
 
 Qu'a tu done fait de tes armes, 
 De tes traits de fer pointu . . . ? 
 
 Cupidon. 
 De vos traits . . oil sont les charmes ? 
 
 La Dame. 
 Vous votre beau, moi mon flambeau 
 Ensemble nous lachames :
 
 WHO ARE YOU? 133 
 
 Cupido. Ctipidon, 
 
 Cuori signor' oggidi Or, plus d'espoir helas ! de voir 
 
 Piu non vogliono bruciare. Pour nous les coeura en flammes ! 
 
 La Siff. La Dame. 
 
 Tu rispondermi cosi Petit enfant, e'est peu galant 
 
 Panciulletto ! che vergogna ! D'user pareil langage ;t 
 
 O ! sei cambiato, si, Pas etonnant que maintenant 
 
 Ate dunque dir' bisogna Cliacun dise au village 
 
 "Chi SEI TU?" "Qui us tu?" 
 
 SOXa OF JANUARY. 
 
 BY FATHER PROUT. 
 'Ille ego qui quondam," &e., &c. — ^neid. 
 
 I. 
 Tn the month of Janus, 
 
 When Boz* to gain us, 
 Quite "Miscellaneous," 
 
 Flashed his wit so keen, 
 One, (Prout they call him,) 
 In style most solemn, 
 Led off the volume 
 Of his magazine. 
 
 II. 
 Though Maca, 'mongst her 
 Blight set of youngsters, 
 Had many songsters 
 
 For her opening tome ; 
 Yet she would rather 
 Invite " the Father," 
 And an indulgence gather 
 
 From the Pope of Home. 
 
 III. 
 And such a beauty 
 From head to shoe-tie, 
 "Without dispute wo 
 Found her first boy, 
 
 * Alluding to Dickens's appoaranco in tlio opening number of the ' Bent- 
 ley's Miscellany,' January, 1837.
 
 134 SONG OF JANUARY. 
 
 That she detarmined, 
 There's such a charm in't. 
 The Father's sarmint 
 She'd again employ. 
 
 IV. 
 
 While other children 
 Are quite bewilderin', 
 'Tis joy that fill'd her in 
 
 This bantling ; 'cause 
 "What eye but glistens, 
 And what ear but listens, 
 "When the clargy christens 
 
 A babe of Boz ? 
 
 V. 
 
 I've got a scruple 
 That this young pupil 
 Surprised its parent 
 
 Ere her time was sped ; 
 Else I'm unwary, 
 Or, 'tis she's a fairy, 
 For in January 
 
 She was brought to bed. 
 
 VI. 
 
 This infant may be 
 A six months' baby. 
 But may his cradle 
 
 Be blest ! say I ; 
 And luck defend him ! 
 And joy attend him ! 
 Since we can't mend him, 
 
 Bom in July. 
 
 VII. 
 
 He's no abortion, 
 But born to fortune. 
 And most opportune. 
 Though before his time ;
 
 SONG OF JANUARY. 13; 
 
 Him, Muse, ! nourish, 
 And make him flourish 
 Quite Tommy Moorish 
 Both in prose and rhyme ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 I remember, also, 
 
 That this month they call so, 
 
 From Roman Julius 
 
 The " Ccesaria7i^^ styled ; 
 Who was no gosling, 
 But, like this Boz-ling, 
 From birth a dazzling 
 
 And precocious child ! 
 
 GOD SAVE THE QUEEN. 
 
 THE OLD BELL. 
 
 "In an old village, amid older hills,, 
 That close around their verdant walls to guard 
 Its tottering age from wintry winds, I dwell 
 Lonely, and still, save when the clamorous rooks 
 Or my own fickle changes wound the ear 
 Of Silence in my tower." — Anon. 
 
 PoR full five hundred years I've swung 
 
 In my old grey turret high. 
 And many a different theme I've sung 
 
 As the time went stealing by ! 
 I've peal'd the chaunt of a wedding morn ; 
 
 Ere night I have sadly toll'd, 
 To say that the bride was coming, love-lorn, 
 To sleep in the church-yard mould ! 
 Ding dong. 
 
 My careless song ; 
 Merry and sad, 
 
 But neither long ! 
 
 For full five hundred years I've swung 
 
 In my ancient turret high, 
 And many a dlfi'crent theme I've sung 
 
 As the time went stealing by !
 
 136 THE OLD BELL. 
 
 I've swell'd the joy of a country's pride 
 
 For a victory far off won, 
 Then changed to grief for the brave that died 
 Ere my mirth had well begun ! 
 Ding-dong, 
 
 My careless song, 
 Merry or sad, 
 
 But neither long! 
 For full five hundred years I've swung 
 
 In my breezy turret high, 
 And many a different theme I've sung 
 
 As the time went stealing by ! 
 I have chimed the dirge of a nation's grief 
 
 On the death of a dear-loved king, 
 Then merrily rung for the next young chief ; 
 As told, I can weep or sing ! 
 Ding-dong, 
 
 My careless song ; 
 Merry or sad, 
 
 But neither long ! 
 
 For full five hundred years I've swung 
 
 In my crumbling turret high ; 
 'Tis time my own death- song were sung. 
 
 And with truth before I die ! 
 I never could love the themes they gave 
 
 My tj'rannized tongue to tell : 
 One moment for cradle the next for grave — 
 They've worn out the old church bell I 
 Ding-dong, 
 
 My changeful song ; 
 Farewell now. 
 
 And farewell long ! 
 
 OLD MOUNTAIN DEW. 
 
 BY CHARLES MACKAY. 
 
 A WAY with your port and j'our fine-llavour'd sherry, 
 
 And fill up with toddy as high as you please ; 
 "We men of the Northland should know ourselves better 
 Than pledge her in liquors so paltry as these !
 
 OLD MO UNTAIN DE IV. 1 37 
 
 In whiskey, perfumed by the peat of the heather, 
 We'll drink to the land of the kind and the true, — 
 Unsullied in honour, 
 Our blessings upon her! 
 Scotland for ever ! and old mountain dew ! 
 
 Neish ! neish ! neish ! hurra 1 
 
 Mountain dew ! clear as a Scot's understanding, 
 
 Pure as his conscience wherever he goes, 
 Warm as his heart to the friend he has chosen. 
 
 Strong as his arm when he fights with his foes ! 
 In liquor like this should old Scotland be toasted ; 
 So fill up again, and the pledge we'll renew — 
 Long flourish the honour 
 Her children have won her — 
 Scotland for ever! and old mountain dew! 
 
 Neish ! neish ! neish ! hurrah ! 
 
 May her worth, like her lowland streams, roll on unceasing,- 
 
 Her fame, like her highland hills, last evermore, — 
 And the cold of her glens be confined to the climate. 
 
 Nor enter the heart, though it creep through the door. 
 
 And never may we, while we love and revere her. 
 
 As long as we're brave, and warm-hearted, and true, 
 
 Want reason to boast her. 
 
 Or whiskey to toast her — 
 
 Scotland for ever ! and old mountain dew ! 
 
 Neish ! neish ! neish ! hurra ! 
 
 THE PHANTOM SHIP. 
 
 BY ELLKX l"ICKi:UIN(;. 
 
 li 
 
 My child ! my child ! come down to rest 
 
 The day has long been past : 
 Sleep in thy mother's blessing blest. 
 The night is waning fast." 
 
 *' Dear mother, let us linger here, 
 The moon shines forth so bright ; 
 The starry sky is all so clear. 
 It does not look like night ;
 
 138 THE PHANTOM SHIP. 
 
 *' And all around the waveless sea 
 In glassy smoothness lies, 
 And on it flows so silently. 
 It bids no murmur rise. 
 
 *' And as I bend me o'er the side, 
 Methinks I trace below 
 The ocean's depths, their jewel'd pride, 
 A fair and goodly show ; 
 
 '* The beauties that the Mighty One 
 Hath lavish'd there from old ; 
 The treasures that from earth have gone. 
 The diamond and the gold ; 
 
 " The glitt'ring and the sighed-for things 
 Man seeks 'mid care and strife, 
 And ocean from him hardly wrings 
 "With wreck or loss of life ; 
 
 " The silver fish that gently glide, 
 Or glance in gladsome play, 
 Filling with life the crj-stal tide, 
 How fair and bright are they I 
 
 " And see ! and see ! approaching now, 
 A ship of pride and cost ; 
 The weary crew asleep below. 
 The helmsman at his post. 
 
 " No rushing wind compels her course, 
 No tempest raves around ; 
 She moves as by some unseen force, 
 "Whilst all is still around. 
 
 " She ruffles not the glassy tide. 
 Bends not her stately mast, 
 No fretful billows chafe her side, 
 No foam is round her cast. 
 
 " She leaves no track upon the sea, 
 No furrow in her wake ; 
 But on, and on unerringly 
 Her silent way doth take."
 
 THE PHANTOM SHIP. 139 
 
 " Come down to rest, mv gentle cliild ! 
 Thou dost not see aright : 
 Thy words are as a sleeper's wild ; 
 There is no ship in sight." 
 
 " Yes, yes, the stately ship is near. 
 And all my words are true : 
 A child looks on her mother dear, 
 As I look up at you. 
 
 " And now I hear the soften'd tone, 
 And gentle words of love ; 
 And now they sound as though mine own. 
 And now as thine they move." 
 
 " Hush ! hush, my child ! no ship is nigh, 
 No voices canst thou hear : 
 A shadowy cloud is in thine eye, 
 The breeze is in thine ear." 
 
 "No shadowy cloud is in mine eye ; 
 No breeze is in mine ear ; 
 The stately ship is passing by. 
 And gentle tones I hear. 
 
 " One walks the deck with weary pace, 
 As though he sighed for sleep ; 
 The steersman turns an anxious face 
 Across the waveless deep. 
 
 " And two beside the steersman stand, 
 A mother and her child : 
 One holds, as now I hold your hand, 
 One smiles as late you smiled." 
 
 " My child ! my child ! it cannot be !" 
 Thus forth the mother broke ; 
 And yet she answer'd shudd'ringly. 
 And trembled as she spoke. 
 
 " My child ! my child ! it cannot be I 
 Vessel save ours is none. 
 Look ! o'er the still unbounded sea 
 We take our way alone."
 
 I40 THE PHANTOM SHIP. 
 
 " Her words are true," the steersman said, 
 To youth it has been given 
 To speak, without deceit or dread, 
 The changeless will of Eeav'n. 
 
 " Your child the phantom ship hath seen I 
 Ere set to-morrow's sun, 
 iXo trace will rest where we have been, 
 Our mortal course be run." 
 
 Before the morrow's sun went down, 
 There was nor trace nor mark, 
 
 To show where o'er the sea had gone 
 That strong and gallant bark. 
 
 !No shatter'd spars, no riven mast 
 Were floating o'er the waves : 
 
 Kone knew when those from life had past, 
 Who slept in wat'ry graves. 
 
 Tet all she bore across the waves 
 Had passed from human sight, 
 
 With none to weep above their graves, 
 Or read the funeral rite. 
 
 A MERRY DITTY ON THE AD ROREM ilONTANUM. 
 
 MOUNTAIN DEW. DITHYRAMBUS. 
 
 BY JOSEPH o'lEART. BY THE IRISH WHISKEY DRINKER. 
 
 Whiskey — drink divine ! Vit.e Ros divine ! 
 
 Why should driv'llers bore us Vinum quis laudaret 
 
 With the praise of wine, Te prresente— quis 
 
 Whilst we've thee before us ? Palmam Vino daret ? 
 
 Were it not a shame, Proh pudor ! immemores 
 
 Whilst we gaily fling thee Tui, dum te libamus. 
 
 To our lips of flame. Ore flammato tuos 
 
 If we would not sing thee ! Honores non canamus ? 
 
 CHORUS. chorus. 
 
 Whiskey — drink divine ! Vitae Ros divine ! 
 
 Why should drivellers bore us Viaum quis laudaret 
 
 With the praise of wine, Te proesente — quis 
 
 Whilst we've thee before us ? Palmam vino daret ?
 
 THE MOUNTAIN DEW. 
 
 141 
 
 Greek and Roman sung 
 
 Chian and Falernian ; 
 Shall no harp be strung 
 
 To thy praise Hibernian ? 
 Yes ; let Erin's sons, 
 
 Generous, brave, and frisky, 
 Tell the world at once 
 
 They owe it to their whiskey ! 
 "Whiskey — drink divine ! &c. 
 
 Yeteres Falernum 
 
 Chiumque laudavere ; 
 De te nefas filios 
 
 Hibernice silere ! 
 K'am fortes et protervi 
 
 Hibernici habentur ; 
 Tibique has virtutes 
 
 Debere confitentur. 
 Yitte Eos divine ! &c. 
 
 If Anacreon, who 
 
 Was the grapes' best poet, 
 Drank the Mountain Dew, 
 
 How his verse would show it ! 
 As the best then known, 
 
 He to wine was civil ; 
 Had he Innishowen, 
 
 He'd pitch wine to the devil ! 
 
 Whiskey — drink divine ! &c. 
 
 Bright as Beauty's eye 
 
 When no sorrow veils it ; 
 Sweet as Beauty's sigh 
 
 When Young Love inhales it ; 
 Come thou, to my lip ! 
 
 Come, oh, rich in blisses ! 
 Every drop I sip 
 
 Seems a shower of kisses ! 
 
 Whiskey — drink divine ! &c. 
 
 Teius Lyoei 
 
 Cecinit honorem ; 
 Cecinisset dulcius 
 
 Montanum ille Eorem I 
 
 HORDEARIUM si 
 
 Forte libavisset ! 
 Ad inferos Lyajum 
 Anacreon misisset ! 
 Yita3 Ros divine ! &c. 
 
 Clarior ocello 
 
 Yeneris ridente ; 
 Suavior suspirio 
 
 Cupidine prsesente ! 
 Liceat beatis 
 
 Te labris applicare, 
 Imbrem et basiorum 
 
 Guttatim delibare! 
 Yita) Ros divine ! &c. 
 
 Could my feeble lays 
 
 Half thy virtues number, 
 A whole grove of bays 
 
 Should my brows encumber. 
 Be his name adored 
 
 Who summed up thy merits 
 In one little word. 
 
 When he caUod thee " sperrits!" 
 Whiskey — drink divine ! &c. 
 
 Yersibus pusillis 
 
 Si satis te laudarem, 
 Lauro Apollinari 
 
 Ha3c tempera cclarem. 
 Faustus ille semper 
 
 Sit, et honoratus, 
 A quo "SPIRITUS" tu 
 
 Mcrito vocatus ! 
 
 Yita) Ros divine ! &c.
 
 142 THE MOUNTAIN DEW. 
 
 Send it gaily round ; Ordine potemus 
 
 Life would be no pleasure Festive recumbentes, 
 
 If we had not found Cur vivere optemus 
 
 This immortal treasure. Hoc munere egentes ? 
 
 And when tyrant Death's Cum te Libitina 
 
 Arrows shall transfix you, Telo vulnerabit, 
 
 Let your latest breaths •' Nectar! nectar !" spiritus 
 
 Be " "Whiskey ! whiskey ! whiskey I ! !" Deficiens clamabit ! 
 
 CHORUS. CHORUS. 
 
 Whiskey — drink divine ! Vitse Eos divine ! 
 
 Why should driv'llers bore us Yinum quis laudaret 
 
 With the praise of wine, Te prsesente — quis 
 
 Whilst we've thee before us ? Palmam vino daret ? 
 
 Joseph O'Leaet, the author of the English portion of this song, one 
 of the best ever written in praise of Ireland's ' Mountain Dew', was a 
 native of Cork, and a Parliamentary reporter on the staff of tlie ' Morn- 
 ing Herald.* In his latter days he was "told off" to the easier duty of an 
 occasional visit to one or other of tlie metropolitan police ofSces, where 
 his racy sketches, when the subject was worthy of his pen, equalled if 
 not surpassed those of the once celebrated ' Mornings in Bow Street,' the 
 production of another Irislnnan of a former generation. O'Leary was 
 the type of a clever class of young Ii-islimen who came up to London 
 about thirty years ago, afler they had had a little training on one or 
 other of the Irish newspapers for wlii h they had reported and scribbled 
 in various ways. By far the greater number of tliem were Roman Catho- 
 lics, who, being poor and warmly attached to the faith of their fatliers, 
 were completely shut out from the s zarships, scholarships, and other 
 emoluments of the exclusively Protcs ant University of Dublin. 
 
 The same class of men born in Eu land within the pale of tlie na- 
 tional religion, that is the religion of the majority, would have gone 
 up with exhibitions and scholarships from one or other of the nume- 
 rous endowed schools of their country to Oxford and Cambridge, there 
 to win additional scholarsliips during their under-graduate course, and 
 in the ordinary rim of probabilities to rise to their share of the nume- 
 rous fellowships, professorsliips, mastersliips, &c., of those two ancient 
 universities which hold forth of all our glorious institutions the nobk-sfc 
 and richest prizes of life to tlie sons of the English middle classes. 
 To say nothing of the vast opening presented by the Cliurch with its 
 rich rewards for successful scliolarsliip, one of tliose fellowsliips held 
 by a layman for seven years enables him to devote himself during that 
 time to one or other of the lay professions without being obliged to
 
 JOSEPH CLEARY. 143 
 
 have recourse to desultory literary efFoits to help him in his finance, 
 •whilst enticing him too often from the straight and steady course 
 which leads to the professional goal. This most unfair and most un- 
 natural state of things was long felt in Ireland before tlie establisliment 
 of (he Queen's Colleges by tice class from which O'Leary and the 
 Irish reporters of the Parliamentary gallery sprung, and was often 
 spoken of as a leading gricvam-e amongst themselves, without a 
 hope being entertained by any of those whom it galled and pressed of 
 a Parliamentary remedy for it. Tlie Roman Catholic prelates at all 
 times and under all circumstances had set their faces against opening 
 Trinity College, Dubhn, which they called "a den of iniquity," to 
 Soman Catholics, preferring an exclusive university of their own as at 
 present ; and Mr. O'Connell would not move in the matter at any time 
 subsequent to the Emancipation Act, being afraid, for obvious reasons, 
 to offend the heads of his churt-h, and indeed sympathising very little 
 in the matter, as with all his unquestionably brilliant genius and com- 
 manding talents he had not an academic instinct in his composition. 
 If after the great victory of Civil and Religious liberty of 1829 lie had 
 addressed himself to practical reforms, including this very question of 
 middle-class education, and thrown the weight of his great powers and 
 popularity into the scale for the material benefit of Ireland and lier 
 people, how many more victories miglit he not have added to the only 
 great one with which his name will be associated by the calm and un- 
 prejudiced verdict of after times! If he had retired to enjoy the 
 emoluments and honours of his pi'ofession which were waiting to be 
 showered on him, and left the practical questions of his country's 
 material improvement to men more accurately trained to and better ac- 
 quainted with them in all their details and bearings, what a happier 
 history would Ireland's have been, what a nobler fate would have been 
 his own, since that day of patriotic hope which was destined before 
 many years — years of broken ])romiscand wasted energy — to end in the 
 sorrow of the old and the middle-aged, the indignation of the young, 
 and the lost confidence of all, followed up by the melancholy Young 
 Ireland outbreak, and afterwards by the far more lamentable outspread 
 of Fenianism over an unhappy and distracted country! If even, after 
 having been drawn in triumph through the streets of Dublin, on liis 
 return to it, covered with political glory, he had descended from that 
 magnificent car fabricated for him by the united Trades' Union of that 
 city, and followed by myriads of willing captives — if ho had descended 
 from it but to pass away shortly and for ever, who of Ireland's proud- 
 est sons, lier Grattans, her Currans, her Floods, Iier Charlenionls, who 
 had nobly contended in the same gi-eat cause of civil and religious 
 Lberty, could have been compared with him ?
 
 144 JOSEPH CLEARY. 
 
 " Quid illo cive tulisset 
 Natui'a in terris, quid lloma beatius uiiquam, 
 Si, circiimducto captivorum asjtnitje et omni 
 Belloium pompa, animam exiialassat opimam, 
 Quum de Teutonico vellet desceudere curru ?' 
 
 If some of those reforms, ■which, appeared but paltry and common- 
 place to Mr. O'Connell and the Irisli patriotic school of his latter 
 days had been carried out, a career ■would liave been opened to tlie 
 sons of the poorer rants of the Irish Roman Catliolic middle-class, 
 whose education entitled tliem to aspire bcjoiid the counter and the 
 ■worksliop, far more profitable and far worthier of their deserts than 
 that of being the hewers of wood and drawers of water, in a literary 
 sense, to the English newspapers. Sootli to say, their connexion with 
 these latter scarcely aiforded them a decent bagman's allowance to 
 support wives and families in the great metropolis, with little re- 
 source left but to drown their disappointment, pottle-deep, in such 
 taverns as the Cider Cellar, the Coal Hole, and the Codger's Hall, where 
 good, easy, and prosperous citizens used to drop in at night, after they 
 had counted their gains and sent wives and children to bed, to hear 
 those cjever and most amusing poor fellows flash about their wit and 
 humour, and to enjoy their quaint stories and capital songs, many of 
 which they composed themselves, like the famous Whiskey Song of 
 Joseph O'Leary. 
 
 POETICAL EPISTLE TO BOZ. 
 
 TKOM FATHER TROUT. 
 I. 
 
 A RHYMK ! a rhyme I from a distant clime, — from the gulph of 
 
 the Genoese : 
 O'er the rugged scalps of the Julian Alps, dear Boz ! I send you 
 
 these, 
 To light the WicTc j-Qur candlestick holds up, or, should you list, 
 To usher in the yarn you spin concerning Oliver Twist. 
 
 II. 
 Immense applause you've gained, oh, Boz ! through, continental 
 
 Europe : 
 You'll make Pick^w^ick ojeumenick ; of fame you have a sure hope : 
 For here your books are found, gadzooks ! in greater luxe than any 
 That have issued yet, hotpress'd or wet, fi'om the types of Galig- 
 
 N.INI.
 
 POETICAL EPISTLE TO BOZ. 145 
 
 III. 
 But neither when you sport your pen, oh, potent mirth-compeller ! 
 "Winning our hearts "in monthly parts," can Pickwick or Sam 
 
 Weller 
 Cause us to weep with pathos deep, or shake with laugh spasmodical, 
 As when you drain your copious vein for Bentley's periodical. 
 
 IV. 
 Folks all enjoy your Parish Boy, — so truly you depict him ; 
 But I, alack ! while thus you track your stinted poor-law's victim, 
 Must think of some poor nearer home, poor who, unheeded perish, 
 By squires despoiled, hy " patriots" gulled, — I mean the starving 
 Irish. 
 
 V. 
 
 Yet there's no dearth of Irish mirth, which to a mind of feeling, 
 Seemeth to be the Helot's glee before the Spartan reeling ; 
 Such gloomy thought o'ercometh not the glee of England's humour, 
 Thrice happy isle ! long may the smile of genuine joy illume her ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 Write on, young sage ! stUl o'er the page pour forth the flood of 
 
 fancy ; 
 "Wax stiU more droll, wave o'er the soul Wit's wand of necromancy. 
 Behold ! e'en now around your brow th' immortal laurel thickens ; 
 Yea, Swift or Sterne might gladly learn a thing or two from 
 
 Dickens. 
 
 VII. 
 
 A rhyme ! a rhyme ! from a distant clime, — a song from the sxmny 
 
 south ! 
 A goodly theme, so Boz but deem the measure not uncouth. 
 Would, for thy sake, that " PiiouT " could make his bow in 
 
 fashion finer, 
 " Fartant" (fiom thee) "pour la SyriCf^ for Greece and Asia 
 
 Minor. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 ^ARDANAPALUS was Ninevoh's king ; 
 
 And, if all be quite true tliat the chroniclers sing, 
 Loved his song and his glass. 
 And was given, alas ! 
 
 10
 
 146 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Not only to bigamy, 
 
 Kor even to trigamy, 
 But (I shudder to think on't) to rankest polygamy: 
 For his sweethearts and ■wives were so vast in amount, 
 They'd take you a week or two only to count ! 
 
 One morning his Majesty jumped out of bed, 
 And hitting his valet a rap on the head, 
 By way of a joke, " Salamenes," he said, 
 
 " Go, proclaim to the court, 
 
 'Tis our will to resort. 
 
 By way of a lark, 
 
 To our palace and park 
 On the banks of Euphrates, and there, with our wives, 
 Sing, dance, and get fuddled, for once in our lives ; 
 So, bid our state-rulers and nobles, d'ye see. 
 Hie all to our banquet not later than three, 
 And prepare for a long night of jollity." 
 " Very good," said the valet ; then eager and hot 
 On his errand, ducked thrice, and was off like a shot. 
 
 "When the court heard these orders, with rapture elate, 
 They adjourn'd all the business of chui'ch and of state, 
 
 And hurried off, drest 
 
 Each man in his best ; 
 
 While the women, sweet souls. 
 
 Went with them by shoals. 
 Some in gigs, some in cabs, some on horseback so gay, 
 And some in an omnibus hired for the day. — 
 (If busses in those days were not to be seen. 
 All I can say is, they (jiifjht to have been.)^ 
 
 Like a torrent, the throng 
 
 HoU'd briskly along. 
 Cheering the way with jest, laughter, and song. 
 To the Bauquetting Hall, where the last of the group 
 Arrived, by good luck, just in time for the soup. 
 
 The guests set to work in superlative style, 
 And his Majesty, equally busy the while, 
 Encouraged their efforts with many a smile. 
 
 The High Priest was the first, 
 
 Who seemed ready to burst ;
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 147 
 
 (For the ladies so shy, 
 
 They swigged on the sly !) 
 But, proud of his prowess, he scorn'd to give o'er, 
 'Till at length with a hiccup he fell on the floor, 
 
 Shouting out, 'mid his qualms, 
 
 That verse in the Psalms, 
 Which saith (but it surely can't mean a wliole can !) 
 That " Wine maketh meriy the heart of a man," 
 
 While thus they sate tippling, peers, prelates, and all. 
 And music's' sweet voice echoed light through the Hall; 
 
 His Majesty rose, 
 
 Blew his eloquent nose, 
 And exclaiming, by way of exordium, ** Here goes!" 
 Made a speech which produced a prodigious sensation, 
 ■Greatly, of course, to the King's delectation ; 
 One courtier, o'erpower'd by its humour and wit, 
 Held both his fat sides, as if fearing a fit ! 
 While another kept crying, " Oh, God, I shall split 1" 
 (So when a great publisher cracks a small joke. 
 His authors at table are ready to choke.) 
 And all, with the lungs of a hurricane, swore 
 They had ne'er heard so droll an oration before, 
 With the single exception of one silly fellow, 
 Who not being, doubtless, sufficiently mellow, 
 Refused to applaud, or to join in the laughter. 
 And was hang'd for a traitor just ten minutes after. 
 
 By this time Dan Phojbus in ocean had sunk, 
 And the guests were all getting exceedingly drunk. 
 
 When, behold ! at the door 
 
 There was heard a loud roar, 
 And in rush'd a messenger covered with gore. 
 Who bawl'd out, addressing the Head of the State, 
 *' If your Majesty pleases, the Foe's at the gate, 
 And threaten to kick up the Devil's own din. 
 If you do not surrender, and bid them come in ; 
 
 The mob, too, has risen, 
 
 And let out of prison. 
 With the jailor's own keys (but it's no fault of Jds'n), 
 
 10—2
 
 14.8 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Some hund.^ds of burglars, and fences, and prigs, 
 Who are playing all sorts of queer antics and rigs ; 
 Already they've fir'd up one church for a beacon,— 
 Hocussed a bishop, and burked an archdeacon, 
 And swear, if you don't give them plenty of grog, 
 They'll all become Chartists, and go the whole hog !" 
 
 Scarce had he ended, when hark ! with a squall, 
 A second grim Herald pops into the Hall, 
 
 And, " Woe upon woe ! 
 
 The desperate foe," 
 Q,uoth he, " Have forced open the gates of the town, 
 And are knocking by scores the rich citizens down ; 
 
 As I pass'd with bent brow, 
 
 By the Law Courts just now, 
 Lo, sixty attorneys lay smash' d in a row, 
 Having just taken wing for the regions below, 
 (When lawyers are dead, none can doubt where they go,) 
 'Mid the cheers of each snob, who sung out, as he past, 
 • So, the scamps have gone home to their father at last !' " 
 
 Oh ! long grew the face of each guest at this tale. 
 The men they turn'd red, and the women turn'd pale ; 
 But redder and paler they turn'd when they heard 
 The more terrible tidings of herald the third! — 
 In he bounced with a visage as black as a crow's, 
 And a mulberry tinge on the tip of his nose ; 
 
 He'd a rent in his breeches, 
 
 A tergo, the which is 
 (As Smollett has taught us long since to believe*) 
 Not the pleasantest sight for the daughters of Eve ; 
 And he shook like a leaf, as thus hoarsely he spake 
 In the gruff and cacophonous tones of a drake — 
 
 The town's all on fire, 
 
 Hut, palace and spire 
 Are blazing as fast as the foe can desire : 
 
 Such crashing and smashing. 
 
 And sparkling and darkling ! 
 Such squalling, and bawling, and sprawling, 
 And jobbing, and robbing, and mobbing! 
 
 * Vide Miss Tabitlia Bramble, in Smollett's ' Humphrey Choker.'
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 149 
 
 Such kicking and licking, and racing and chasing, 
 Blood- spilling and killing, and slaughtering and quartering! 
 You'd swear that old Nick, with Belphegor his clerk, 
 And Moloch his cad, were abroad on a lark !" 
 
 *' Here's a go!" said the King, staring wild like a bogle 
 At these tidings, and wiping his eyes with his fogle ; 
 
 " 'Tis vain now to run for 
 
 Our lives, for we're done for ; 
 So, away with base thoughts of submission or flight, 
 Let's all, my brave boys, die like heroes to-night ; 
 Eaise high in this Hall a grand funeral pile, 
 Then fire it, and meet our death-doom with a smile !" 
 He ceased, when a courtier replied in low tone, 
 "If your Majesty pleases, I'd rather live on; 
 For, although you may think me as dull as a post, 
 Yet I can't say I've any great taste for a roast ; 
 'Tis apt to disorder one's system ; and so, 
 Good-night to your Majesty — D.I.O. !" 
 So saying, he made for the door and rushed out, 
 While quick at his heels rushed the rest of the rout, 
 
 Leaving all alone. 
 
 The King on his throne. 
 With a torch in one hand which he waved all abroad, 
 And a glass in the other, as drunk as a Lord ! 
 
 That night, from the Hall, late so joyous, there broke, 
 Spreading wide in 'mid air, a vast column of smoke ; 
 
 While, higher and higher, 
 
 Blazed up the red fire. 
 As it blazed from (iueen Dido's funeral pyre! — 
 Hark to the crash, as roof, pillar, and wall 
 Bend — rock— and down in thunder fall ! 
 Hark to the roar of the flames, as they show 
 Heaven and earth alike in a glow ! 
 
 The hollow wind sobs through the ruins, as though ^ 
 
 'Twere hymning his dirge, who, an hour ago. 
 Was a Xing in all a King's array ; 
 But now lies, a blackened clod of clay. 
 In that Hall whoso splendours have past away, 
 Save in old tradition, for ever and aye !
 
 ISO 
 
 ERINNA.* 
 
 BY C. HARTLEY LANGIIORNE. 
 r^ENTLE Erinna! 
 
 Sweet primrose, appear I 
 Gentle Erinna ! 
 
 Be here ; oh, he here ! 
 
 Come, when sweet twilight 
 Steals over the earth ; 
 
 Come, when the fairest 
 Of visions have birth ; 
 
 Come, when soft silence 
 Enthrals the wrapt mind, 
 
 When the chains of the world 
 Lose their power to bind. 
 
 Come, when the glow-worms 
 Glance gay in the lane ; 
 
 Come, when the village-maid, 
 Lists to her swain. 
 
 Come, when the night stock 
 Flings odours around ; 
 
 Come, when the balmy dews 
 Kiss the glad ground. 
 
 Come, when Selene 
 Sheds mildly her rays, 
 
 When the meadows are veiled 
 In a dim silver haze. 
 
 Come, when the nightingale 
 
 Sings to her fere ; 
 Gentle Erinna ! 
 
 Be here ! oh, be here ! 
 
 * Erinna was a Greek poetess, the contemporary and countrywoman of 
 Sappho. Meleager, in his Garland, assigns to ber the crocus as her emblem, 
 on account of its maiden paleness, as in Cjmbeline, — 
 
 " The flower that's like thy face, — pale primrose." 
 When but sweet seventeen, Erinna — 
 
 " Left this world of sorrow and pain. 
 And retui-ned to the land of thought again."
 
 ERINNA. I? I 
 
 Tell me how Sappho 
 
 And you walked of yore, 
 
 To list to the ripple 
 On Lesbos' old shore. 
 
 Tell how yon lay 
 
 'Neath the green myrtle bonghs ; 
 Tell how you whispered 
 
 Each other your vows. 
 
 Tell of the loved one, 
 
 The auburn-haired youth ; 
 
 Tell of Abrocomas, — 
 Tell me the truth. 
 
 How Eros saw you, 
 
 And bent his swift bow ; 
 
 Tell me the whispers 
 Of long, long ago. 
 
 Sing me the songs 
 
 That you then iised to trill, 
 Murm'ring as soft 
 
 As some reed-haunted rill ; 
 
 Strains that charmed silence, 
 
 Enthrilling the ear, 
 "While the Lesbian maidens 
 
 Hung round you to hear. 
 
 Tell how your marriage song' 
 
 Welcomed the day ; 
 Tell how it changed 
 
 To the sad well-a-way ! 
 
 Brightest ! you fled 
 
 From this dark world of pain, 
 To the " marled seas" above 
 
 You have mounted again. 
 
 Yet stoop, sweet Erinna, 
 Oh ! stoop from thy sphere I 
 
 Gentle Erinna! 
 
 Ue here ! oh, be here !
 
 152 
 
 FOR A' THAT. 
 
 BY ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 aUOI ! PAUYRE HONNETE ! 
 
 BY FATHER PROUT. 
 
 Ts there, 
 
 For honest poverty, 
 That hangs his head 
 
 And a' that ? 
 The coward slave 
 We pass him by, 
 
 We dare be poor for a' that : 
 
 For a' that, and a' that, 
 Our toils obscure. 
 
 And a' that ; 
 The rank is but 
 The guinea's stamp, 
 
 The man's the gowd for a' that. 
 
 II. 
 What! though 
 On homely fare we dine, 
 Wear hodden grey, 
 
 And a' that ; 
 Give fools their silks, 
 And knaves their wine, 
 
 A man's a man for a' that : 
 
 For a' that, for a' that, 
 Their tinsel show, 
 
 And a' that ; 
 The honest man, 
 Though e'er so poor. 
 
 Is king o' men for a' that. 
 
 III. 
 
 Te see 
 
 Yon birkie, ca'd a lord, 
 Wha struts and stares. 
 And a' that ; 
 
 Auoi ! Pauvre honnete 
 
 ^ Baisser la tete ? 
 Q,uoi ! rougir de la sorte ? 
 
 Q,ue I'ame basse 
 
 S'eloigne et passe 
 Xous — soyons gueux ! n'importe 
 
 Travail obscur — 
 N'mporte ! 
 
 Quand I'or est pur 
 N'importe ! 
 
 Q.u'il ne soit point 
 
 Marque au coin 
 D'un noble rang — qu'importe ! 
 
 II. 
 Quoiqu'on dut faire 
 Bien maigre chere 
 Et vetir pauvre vetement ; 
 Aux sots leur sole, 
 Leur vin, leur joie ; 
 Ca fait-il l'homme? eh, nulle- 
 ment ! 
 Luxe et grandeur — 
 
 (iu'importe ! 
 Train et splendeur — 
 
 Ou'importe ! 
 Coeurs vils et creux ! 
 Un noble gueux 
 Taut toute la cohorte ! 
 
 Ill, 
 
 Voyez ce fat — 
 Un vain eclat 
 L'entoure, et on I'encense, 
 Mais apres tout
 
 BURNS AND PROUT. 
 
 153 
 
 Though hundreds worship 
 At his word, 
 
 He's but a coof for a' that : 
 
 For a' that, for a' that, 
 His riband, star, 
 
 And a' that ; 
 The man of 
 Independent mind 
 
 Can look and laugh at a' that. 
 
 IV. 
 
 A king 
 
 Can make a belted knight, 
 
 A marquis, duke, 
 
 And a' that ; 
 But an HONEST max 
 's aboon his might, 
 
 Guid faith he manna fa' that. 
 
 For a' that, for a' that, 
 Their dignities, 
 
 And a' that ; 
 The pith 0' sens^ 
 And pride 0' warth 
 
 Are higher ranks than a' that. 
 
 V. 
 
 Then let us pray 
 That come it may — 
 As come it will 
 
 For a' that — 
 That sense and warth, 
 O'er all the earth, 
 
 May bear tlie gree, and a' that I 
 
 For a' that, and a' that, 
 It's coming yet, 
 
 For a' that, 
 That man to man. 
 The warld a' o'er, 
 Shall brothers be, for a' that. 
 
 Ce n'est qu'un fou, — 
 Uu sot, quoiqu'il en pense : 
 Terre et maison, 
 Ciu'il pense — 
 Titre et blazon, 
 Qu'il pense— 
 Or et ducats, 
 Non ! ne font pas 
 La vraie independence ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Un roi pent faire 
 Due, dignitaire, 
 Co m te et marquis, joumellement; 
 Mais ce qu'on nomme 
 Un IIONNETE HOMME, 
 
 Le peut-il faire ? eh, nullement ! 
 Tristes faveurs ! 
 
 Reellement ; 
 Pauvres honneurs ! 
 
 Reellement ; 
 Le fier maintien 
 Des gens de bien 
 Leur manque essentiellement. 
 
 V. 
 
 Or faisons vceu 
 Qu'a tous, sous peu, 
 Arrive un jour de jugement;— 
 Amis, ce jour 
 Aura son tour, 
 .T'en prends, j'cn prends, I'en- 
 gagement. 
 Espoir et en- 
 couragement, 
 Aux pauvres gens 
 
 Souhigement ; 
 'Lors sur la terre 
 Vivrons en frercs, 
 Et libremcnt, et sagementi
 
 154 
 THE VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 
 
 BY H. W. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 When the hours of day are numher'd, 
 
 And the voices of the night 
 Wake the better soul, that slumber'd, 
 To a holy calm delight. 
 
 Ere the evening lamps are lighted, 
 And, like phantoms grim and tall, 
 
 Shadows from the fitful fire-light 
 Dance upon the parlour wall, 
 
 Then the forms of the departed 
 
 Enter at the open door ! 
 The beloved ones, the true-hearted, 
 
 Come to visit me once more. 
 
 He, the young and strong, who cherish'd 
 Noble longings for the strife ! 
 
 By the road-side fell, and perish'd, 
 Weary with the march of life ! 
 
 They, the holy ones, and weakly, 
 Who the cross of suffering wore. 
 
 Folded their pale hands so meekly. 
 Spake with us on earth no more ! 
 
 And with them the being beauteous, 
 Who \xnto my youth was given, 
 
 More than all things else to love me, 
 And is now a saint in heaven. 
 
 With a slow and noiseless footstep 
 Comes that messenger divine, 
 
 Takes the vacant chair beside me, 
 Lays her gentle hand in mine. 
 
 And she sits and gazes at me, 
 With those deep and tender eyes, 
 
 Like the stars, so still and saint like, 
 Looking downward from the skies.
 
 THE VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 15s 
 
 Utter'd not, yet comprehended, 
 
 Is the spirit's voiceless prayer ; 
 Soft rebukes, in blessings ended, 
 
 Breathing from those lips of air. 
 
 Oh ! though oft depress'd and lonely, 
 
 All my fears are laid aside, 
 If I but remember only 
 
 Such as they have lived and died. 
 
 Longfellow was born in 1807, at Portland in Maine, U. S. He 
 took liis degree ■with high honours, at B wdoin College, in 1825. He 
 studied law under his father, the Hon. Stephen Longfellow, one of 
 the most eminent of the American lawyers. Not taking earnestly to 
 the profession marked out for him, he travelled for three years through 
 the cliief countries of Europe, to qualify liimself for tlie Professorship 
 of Modern Languages, which had been offered him by his Alma Mater, 
 and which he took on his return home. In 1835 he was offered the 
 same chair, with higher emoluments attached to it, in Harvard Col- 
 lege, Cambridge, Massachusetts, wliieh he accepted, on condition of 
 being allowed to travel a year through Germany and Scandinavia, in 
 order to perfect himself in the languages and literature of northern 
 Europe. This being agreed to by the Harvard autliorities, Professor 
 Longfellow performed his professional tour, and returned in 1836 to 
 assume the duties of the professorship of modern languages, which 
 he fulfilled with the most distinguished ability and success during the 
 space of eighteen years, after which he retired into private life, taking 
 up his residence at a short distance from the scene of his professional 
 labours. He may be said, with Tennyson and the Brownings, to bo at 
 the head of our new school of poetry, so strongly distinguished by its 
 irregularity and confusion of metres and extreme metaphysical tenden- 
 cies from the Georgian school voted out of fashion with Byron, Moore, 
 Scott, Campbell, and other masters of the English lyre who had 
 formed themselves on the classic models of tlio reign of Queen Anno. 
 Certainly of all the living poets of the United States none is so 
 popular in his own country, in England, and wlicrevcr our language 
 is read and spoken, as Longfellow. lie has published over a number 
 of years a great many short lyrics, lays, and ballads, which have been 
 all received with more or less favour on both sides of the Atlantic ; 
 but his longer ones, such as 'Evangeline,' 'The Golden Legend,' 
 * Hiawatlia,' and 'The Tales of a Wayside Inn,' have won him bis 
 chief laurels, and are more likely to insure him a permanent reputation
 
 156 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 •with the present and future generations. Some of the best of hia 
 minor poems he sent originally to ' Bentley's Miscellany.' In addition 
 to his poetic productions, he has contributed many valuable prose 
 papers to ' The United States Literary Gazette,' and ' The North 
 American Review,' and has written a couple of small novels or ro- 
 mances, 'Hyperion,' and 'Kavanagh,' which are very easy and 
 agreeable reading, if not very startling or sensational. 
 
 EICHELIEU., 
 
 r^AP.DiNAL E.ICHELIEU was Premier of France ; 
 
 He was keen as a fox, and you read at a glance, 
 In his phiz so expressive of malice and trick, 
 That he'd much of the nature ascribed to Old Nick ; 
 If a noble e'er dared to oppose him, instead 
 Of confuting his lordship, he whipped off his head: 
 
 He fixed his grim paw 
 
 Upon church, state, and law, 
 With as much cool assurance as ever you saw ; 
 
 With his satire's sharp sting 
 
 -He badgered the King, 
 Bullied his brother, 
 Transported his mother. 
 And (what is a far more astonishing case) 
 Not only pronounced him an ass to his face. 
 But made love to his Q,ueen, and because she declined 
 His advances, gave out she was wrong in her mind ! 
 
 Now the nobles of France, and still more the poor King, 
 Disliked, as was natural, this sort of thing ; 
 The former felt shocked that plebeian beholders 
 Should see a peer's head fly so oft from his shoulders, 
 And the latter was constantly kept upon thorns 
 By the Cardinal's wish to endow him with horns ; 
 
 Thus rankling with spite, 
 
 A party one night 
 Of noblemen met, and determined outright 
 
 (So enraged were the crew) 
 
 First, to murder Richelieu, 
 And, if needful, despatch all his partizans too :
 
 RICHELIEU. 157 
 
 Next to league with the foes 
 
 Of the King, and depose 
 The fat-pated monarch himself, for a fool 
 Rebellion ne'er uses, except as a tool. 
 
 On the night that Richelieu was thus marked out for slaughter^ 
 
 He chanced to be tippling cold brandy and water 
 
 With one Joseph, a Capuchin priest— a sly dog, 
 
 And by no means averse to the comforts of grog, 
 
 As you saw by his paunch, which seemed proud to reveal 
 
 How exactly it looked like a fillet of veal. 
 
 They laughed and they quaffed, 'till the Capuchin's nose 
 
 ('T was a thorough-bred snub) grew as red as a rose ; 
 
 And, whenever it chanced that his patron, Richelieu, 
 
 Cracked a joke, even though it was not very new, 
 
 And pointed his smart conversational squibs, 
 
 By a slap on Joe's back, or a peg in his ribs ; 
 
 The priest, who was wonderfully shrewd as a schemer, 
 
 "Would beUow with ecstacy, " 'Gad, that's a screamer C^ 
 
 Thus they chatted away, a rare couple well met, 
 
 And were just turning up for a pious duet, 
 
 AVhen in rushed a spy. 
 
 With his wig all awry. 
 And a very equivocal drop in his eye, 
 
 Who cried (looking blue 
 
 As he turned to Richelieu) 
 
 *' Oh, my lord, lack-a-day ! 
 
 Here's the devil to pay, 
 For a dozen fierce nobles are coming this way ; 
 One of whom, an old stager, as sharp as a lizard. 
 Has threatened to stick a long knife in your gizzard ; 
 While the rest of the traitors, I say it with pain, 
 Have already sent off a despatch to Spain, 
 To state that his Majesty's ceased to reign. 
 And order the troops aU home again." 
 
 When his Eminence heard these tidings, " Go," 
 He said, in the blandest of tones, to Joe, 
 
 *' And if you can catch 
 
 The traitors' despatch,
 
 i;S RICHELIEU. 
 
 I swear — no matter how rich it be — 
 You shall have, dear Joe, the very next see !" — 
 {Nota bene, whenever Old Nick is wishing 
 To enjoy the prime sport of parson-fishing, 
 He always, like Richelieu, cunning and quick, 
 Baits with a good fat bishoprick !) 
 
 No sooner had Joe turned his sanctified back — 
 
 I hardly need add he was ofi" in a crack — 
 
 Than up the grand stairs rushed the murderous pack, 
 
 Whereon the sly Cardinal, tipping the wink 
 
 To the spy, who was helping himself to some drink 
 
 At a side-table, said, 
 
 ''Tell'em I'm dead!" 
 Then flew to his chamber, and popped into bed. 
 *' What, dead ?" roared the traitors. " I stuck him myself. 
 With a knife which I snatched from the back-kitchen shelf," 
 
 Was the ready reply 
 
 Of the quick-witted spy, — 
 Who in matters of business ne'er stuck at a lie. 
 ■" Huzza, then, for ofiice !" cried one, and cried all, 
 "" The government's ours by the Cardinal's fall," 
 
 And, so saying, the crew 
 
 Cut a caper or two, 
 ■Gave the spy a new four-penny piece and withdrew. 
 
 Next day all the papers were full of the news, 
 
 Little dreaming the Cardinal's death was a ruse ; 
 
 In parliament, too, lots of speeches were made. 
 
 And poetical tropes by the bushel displayed ; 
 
 The deceased was compared to Ulysses and Plato, 
 
 To a star, to a cherub, an eagle, and Cato ; 
 
 And 't was gravely proposed by some gents in committee 
 
 To erect him a statue of gold in the city ; 
 
 But when an economist, caustic and witty, 
 
 Asked, " Gentlemen, pray. 
 
 Who is to pay ?" 
 The committee, as if by galvanic shock jolted, 
 Looked horrified, put on their castors, and bolted! 
 Meanwhile the shrewd traitors repaired in a bevy, 
 All buoyant with hope, to his Majesty's levee,
 
 RICHELIEU. 159 
 
 When, lo ! as the King with anxiety feigned, 
 Was beginning to speak of the loss he'd sustained, 
 
 In strutted Richelieu, 
 
 And the Capuchin too, 
 Which made each conspirator shake in his shoe j 
 One whispered a by-stander, looking him through, 
 *' By Jove, I can scarcely believe it ! can you ?" 
 Another cried, " Dam'nie, I thought 't was a do /" 
 And a third muttered faintly, o'ercome by his fear, 
 ■" Talk of the devil, and he's sure to appear ?" 
 
 When the King, who at first hardly trusted his eyes, 
 Had somewhat recovered the shock of surprise, 
 
 He shook his thick head 
 
 At the Cardinal, and said. 
 In tones in which something of anger still lurked, 
 " How's this ? Why, God bless me, I thought you were burked!" 
 " Had such been my fate," quickly answered Richelieu, 
 " Had they made me a suhject, the rascally crew, 
 My liege, they'd have soon made another of you. 
 Look here!" and he pulled out the nobles' despatch. 
 Who felt that for once they had met their match, 
 
 And exclaiming, " 'Od rot 'em, 
 
 The scoundrels, I've got 'em !" 
 E-ead it out to the King from the top to the bottom. 
 
 Next morning twelve scaffolds, with axes of steel, 
 Adorned the fore-court of the sprightly Bastille ; 
 And at midnight twelve nobles, by way of a bed, 
 Lay snug in twelve coffins, each minus a head — 
 A thing not uncommon with nobles, 'tis said. 
 
 Priest Joe got his see. 
 
 And delighted was he, 
 For the bishoprick suited his taste to a T ; 
 And Richelieu, the stern, unforgiving, and clever. 
 Bullied king, church, and people, more fiercely than ever ! 
 And the moral is this — if, conspiring in flocks, 
 Silly gccse will presume to play tricks with a fox, 
 And strive by iinesse to get rid of tlie pest, 
 They must always expect to come olf second best !
 
 i6o 
 
 "NOT A DllUM WAS HEARD." 
 
 FRENCH TRANSLATION BY FATHER PROUT. 
 I. 
 
 "W"! le son du tambour . . . ni la marche funebre . . . 
 "^ Ni le feu des soldats . . . ne marqua son depart. — 
 Mais du Brave, a la hate, a travers les tenebres, 
 Mornes . . . nous portames le cadayre au rempart ! 
 
 ir. 
 
 De Miniiit c'etait I'heure, et solitaire et sombre — 
 La lune a peine ofFrait un debile rayon ; 
 
 La lanterne luisait peniblement dans I'ombre, 
 Q,uand de la bayonette on creusa le gazon. 
 
 III. 
 
 D'inutile cercueil ni de drap funeraire 
 
 Nous ne daignames point entourer le Heros ; 
 
 II gisait dans les plis du manteau militaire, 
 
 Comme un guerrier qui dort son beure de repos. 
 
 IV. 
 
 La priere qu'on fit fut de coiirte duree : 
 
 Nul ne parla de deuil, bien que le coeur fut plein I 
 
 Mais on fixait du Mort la figure adoree . . . 
 Mais avec amertume on songeait au domain. 
 
 V. 
 
 Au domain ! quand ici ou sa fosse s'apprete, 
 Ou son humide lit on dresse avec sanglots, 
 
 L'ennemi orgueUleux marcbera sur sa tete, 
 Et nous, ses veterans, serous loin sur les flots ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 lis terniront sa gloire ... on pourra les entendre, 
 Nommer I'illustre Mort d'un ton amer . . . ou fol ;— 
 
 II les laissera dire. — Eh ! qu'importe a sa cendre, 
 Que la main d'un Breton a confiee au sol ?
 
 ''NOT A DRUM WAS HEARD:' i6r 
 
 VII. 
 
 L'oeTivre durait encor, quand retentit la eloclie, 
 Au sommet du Befroi : — et le canon, lointain, 
 
 Tire par intervalle, en annonoant I'approclie, 
 Signalait la fierte de I'ennemi hautain. 
 
 YIII. 
 
 Et dans sa fosse alors le mimes lentement . . . 
 
 Pres du champ ou sa gloire a ete consommee : 
 Ife mimes a I'endroit piene ni monument, 
 
 Le laissant seul a seul avec sa Renommee ! 
 
 THE ABBESS AKD THE DUCHESS. 
 
 BY THOMAS HATNES BATLET. 
 
 ABBESS. 
 
 Who is knocking for admission 
 
 At the convent's outer gate ? 
 Is it possible a lady 
 
 Can be wandering here so late ? 
 Let me see her through the lattice, 
 
 And her story let me hear ; 
 — Oh ! your most obedient, madam ; 
 
 May I ask what brings you here ? 
 
 DUCHESS. 
 
 You will- very much applaud me, 
 When you hear what I have done ; 
 
 I've been naughty,— I'm a peni- 
 tent, and want to be a nun. 
 
 I've been treated most unfairly, 
 Though, 'tis said I am most fair ; 
 
 I am ricli, ma'am, and a duchess, 
 And my name's La VaUiere. 
 
 ABBESS. 
 
 Oct along, you naughty woman, 
 
 You'll contaminate us all ; 
 "When you touch'd the gate, I wonder 
 
 That the convent did not full ! 
 
 11
 
 i62 THE ABBESS AND THE DUCHESS. 
 
 Stop ! I think you mention'd money, — 
 That is — penitence, I mean : 
 
 Let her in, — I'm too indulgent ; — 
 Pray how are the King and Q,ucen ? 
 
 DL'CnESS. 
 
 Lady Abbess, you delight me, — 
 
 Oh ! had Louis been as kind ! 
 But he used me ungenteelly,' 
 
 To my fondness deaf and blind. 
 Oh ! methinks that now I view him, 
 
 With his feathers in his hat. 
 Hem ! beg pardon — I'm aware, ma'am^ 
 
 That I mustn't speak of that. 
 
 ABBESS. 
 
 liot by no means, madam, never ;' 
 
 No — you mustn't even iliinlc ; 
 (Put your feet upon the fender, 
 
 And here's something warm to drink 
 Is it strong enough ? pray stir it :) 
 
 What on earth could make you go 
 From a palace to a convent ? 
 
 Come, — I'm curious to know? 
 
 DUCHESS. 
 
 Can you wonder. Lady Abbess ? 
 
 At the change /should rejoice, — 
 I of vanities was weary. 
 
 And a convent was my choice. 
 I have had a troubled conscience, 
 
 And court manners did condemn, 
 Ever since I saw King Louis 
 
 Hakiug eyes at Madame M. 
 
 ABBESS. 
 
 Oh ! I think I comprehend you : 
 But take care what you're about j 
 
 Though 'tis easy to get in here, 
 'Taint so easy to get out :
 
 THE ABBESS AND THE DUCHESS. 163 
 
 You'll for beads resign your jewels, 
 
 And your robes for garments plain ; 
 Ere you cut tbe world, remember 
 
 'Tis not cut and come again ! 
 
 DUCHESS. 
 
 I am willing in a cloister, 
 
 That my days and nights should pass ; 
 — (This is very nice indeed, ma'am ; 
 
 If you please, another glass) — 
 As for courtiers, I'll hereafter 
 
 Lay the odious topic by ; 
 Oh ! their crooked ways enough arc, 
 
 For to turn a nun awry ! 
 
 ABBESS. 
 
 Very proper : to the sisters 
 
 'Twould be wrong to chatter thus ; 
 Now and then, when snug and cosy, 
 
 'Twill do very well for us. 
 It is strange how tittle-tattle 
 
 All about the convent spreads, 
 "When the barber from the village 
 
 Comes to shave the sisters' heads. 
 
 DUCHESS. 
 
 Do you really mean to tell me 
 
 I must lose my raven locks ? 
 Then I'll tie 'em up with ribbon, 
 
 And I'D. keep 'em in my box : 
 Oh ! how Louis used to praise 'em ! 
 
 Hem !— I think I'll go to bed.— 
 Not another drop, I thank you, — 
 
 It would get into my head. 
 
 ABBESS. 
 
 Benedieite ! my daughter, 
 
 You'll be soon used to the place ; 
 Though at meals our only duchess. 
 
 You will have to say your grace: 
 
 n-2
 
 1 64 THE ABBESS AND THE DUCHESS. 
 
 And when none can interrupt ns, 
 You of courtly scenes shall tell, 
 
 "When I bring a drop of comfort 
 Trom my cellar to my cell ! 
 
 DEAR WOMAN. 
 
 BY THE OLD SAILOR. 
 
 T\iiink:, drink to dear woman, whose beautiful eye, 
 
 Like the diamond's rich lustre, or gem in the sky, 
 Is beaming with rapture, full, sparkling and bright — 
 Here's woman, the soul of man's choicest delight. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Then fill up a bumper, dear woman's our toast. 
 Our comfort in sorrows — in pleasure our boast. 
 
 Drink, drinlc to dear woman, and gaze on her smile ; 
 Love hides in those dimples his innocent guUe : 
 'Tis a signal for joy, 'tis a balm for all woe ; 
 Here's woman, dear woman, man's heaven below. 
 
 Then fill up a bumper, &c. 
 
 Drink, drink to dear woman, and look on her tear ; — 
 Is it pain ? is it grief ? is it hope ? is it fear ? 
 Oh ! kiss it away, and believe whilst you press, 
 Here's woman, dear woman ! man's fi-iend in distress. 
 
 Then fill up a bumper, &c. 
 
 Drink, drink to dear woman, whose exquisite form 
 "Was never design'd to encounter the storm, 
 Tet should sickness assail us, or trouble o'ercast. 
 Here's woman, dear woman ! man's friend to the last. 
 
 Then fill up a bumper, <Sic.
 
 i65 
 
 LOVE AND POYEETY. 
 
 T ITTLE Cupid, one day, being wearied with play, 
 
 Or weary of nothing to do, 
 Exclaimed with a sigh, " Now why should not I 
 
 Go shoot for a minute or two ?" 
 Then snatching his bow, though Yenus cried "No," 
 
 (Oh ! Loye is a mischievous boy I) 
 He set up a mark, in the midst of a park, 
 
 And began his nice sport to enjoy. 
 Each arrow he shot — I cannot tell what* 
 
 "Was the reason — fell short by a yard, 
 Save one with gold head, which far better sped, 
 
 And pierced through the heart of the card. 
 
 MORAL. 
 
 My story discovers this lesson to lovers : 
 
 They will meet a reception but cold. 
 And endeavour in vain Beauty's smiles to obtain, 
 
 Unless Love tip his arrows with gold. 
 
 PHELIM O'TOOLE'S NINE MUSE-INGS ON HIS NATIVE 
 
 COUNTllY. 
 
 Tune — " CncisJcccn Laicn." 
 
 I. 
 T ET others spend their time, 
 
 In roaming foreign climo. 
 To furnish them with rhyme 
 
 For books : 
 They'll never find a scene 
 Like Wicklow's valleys green, 
 "Wet-nursed, the hills between, 
 
 "With brooks, 
 
 Brooks, brooks, 
 "Wet-niirsed, the hills between. 
 
 With brooks !
 
 1 66 PHELIM O' TOOLE'S MUSINGS. 
 
 Oh ! if I had a station 
 
 £n that part of creation, 
 
 I'd study the first CAWS like roolcs — 
 
 Soaks, rooks — 
 I'd study the first caws like rooks ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Oh ! how the morning loves 
 To climb the Sugar-Loaves,* 
 And purple their dwarf groves 
 
 Of heath ! 
 "While cottage smoke below 
 Heflects the bloomy glow, 
 .As up it winds, and slow. 
 
 Its wreath — , 
 
 "Wreath, wreath — 
 As up it winds, and slow, 
 
 Its wreath ! 
 Oh ! hoio a man does toonder him, 
 When he has the big CONE-UNDER-IIIM, 
 And asked to guess his home beneath — 
 
 ''Neath, ''neath — 
 And asked to guess his home beneath I 
 
 III. 
 
 And there's the Dargle deep, 
 "Where breezeless waters sleep. 
 Or down their windings creep 
 
 "With fear ; 
 Lest, by their pebbly tread. 
 They shake some lily's head. 
 And cause, untimely shed, 
 
 A tear — 
 
 Tear, tear — 
 And cause, untimely shed, 
 
 A tear. 
 
 * Two hills in the county of Wicklow, so called from their conical shape.
 
 PHELIM a TOOLE'S MUSINGS. 167 
 
 Oh ! my native Dargle, 
 
 Long may you rinse and gargle 
 
 Your rocky throat with stream so clear — 
 
 Clear, clear — 
 Your rocTcy throat toith stream so clear 1 
 
 TV. 
 
 And there is Luggelaw, 
 
 A gem without a flaw, 
 
 With lake, and glen, and straw, 
 
 So still ; 
 The new moon loves to sip 
 Its dew with her young lip. 
 Then takes a ling'ring trip 
 
 O'er hill— 
 
 HiU, hill- 
 Then takes a ling'ring trip 
 
 O'er hill ! 
 Oh ! hungry hards might dally, 
 For ever in this valley. 
 And always get their fancy's Jill — 
 
 Fill, fill, 
 And always get their fancy'' s fill I 
 
 V. 
 And there's the *' DiviPs Glin,''^ 
 The Devil ne'er was in, 
 Nor anything like sin, 
 
 To blight : 
 The morning hurries there 
 
 To scent the myrtle air ; . ^ 
 
 She'd stop if she might dare, 
 
 Till night— 
 
 Night, night — 
 She'd stop if she might dare. 
 
 Till night ! 
 Oh I ye glassy sireamlels, 
 That bore the rocJcs like gimlets, 
 Therms nothing like your crystal bright, ■ ■ 
 
 Uright, bright, 
 There's nothing like your crystal bright 1
 
 i68 PHELIM a TOOLE'S MUSINGS. 
 
 TI. 
 
 And there's Ovoea's vale, 
 
 And classic Annadale, 
 
 "Where Psyche's gentle tale 
 Was told : 
 
 Where Moore's fam'd waters meet, 
 
 And mix a draught more sweet 
 
 Than flow'd at Pindus' feet 
 Of old- 
 Old, old,— 
 
 Than flow'd at Pindus' feet 
 Of old ! 
 
 Oh ! all it wants is wliislcey^ 
 
 To malce it taste more frisky ; 
 
 Then ev'ry drop would he tuortJi gold, — 
 Gold, gold,^ 
 
 Then ev'ry drojp would he loorth gold I 
 
 TII. 
 
 And there's the Waterfall, 
 That lulls its summer hall 
 To sleep with voice as small 
 
 As bee's : 
 But when the winter rills 
 Burst from the inward hills, 
 A rock-rent thunder fills 
 
 The breeze, — 
 
 Breeze, breeze, — 
 A roek-rent thunder fills 
 
 The breeze ! 
 Oh ! if the LAND icas taught her 
 To FALL as loell as "WATER, 
 Moio much it tvould poor tenants please,— 
 
 Please, please, — 
 How much it would poor tenants please ! 
 
 * The residence of the late Mrs. Henry Tighe, the charming authoress 
 of " Psyche."
 
 PHELIM a TOOLE S MUSINGS. 169, 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And if you have a mind 
 
 For sweet, sad thoughts inclined, 
 
 In Glendalough you'll find 
 
 Them nigh : 
 Kathleen and Kevin's tale 
 So sorrows that deep yale, 
 That birds all songless sail 
 
 Its sky, — 
 
 Sky, sky,— 
 That birds all songless saQ 
 
 Its sky ! 
 Oh ! cruel Saint teas Kevin 
 To shun her eyes' blue heaven, 
 Then drown her in the lake hard by, — 
 
 Would I have sarved her so ? — not 1 1 
 
 IX. 
 
 And there's — But what's the ufo 
 Of praising Scalp or Douce ?* — 
 The wide world can't produce 
 
 Such sights : 
 So I will sing adieu 
 To Wicklow's hills so blue, 
 And green vales glittering through 
 
 Dim lights, — 
 
 Lights, lights,— 
 And green vales glittering through 
 
 Dim lights ! 
 Oh! I could from December 
 Until the next November 
 Muse on this loay both days and nijjhlx, — 
 
 Nicjhts, nights, — 
 Muse on this way both days and nights ! 
 
 * Famous features of the mountain scenery of Wickluw.
 
 I70 
 INVITATION TO AN EYENINQ WALK. 
 
 BY J. A. WADE. 
 
 " There is hardly anything gives me a more sensible delight than the en- 
 joyment of a cool still evening, after the uneasiness of a hot sultry day." — 
 Spectaioe. 
 
 r^OME up the hill, to meet the moon — 
 
 She'll leave her daylight slumber soon, 
 And over mountain, over dale, 
 Weep her dewy lustre pale ! 
 
 Come up the hill, and hear the flowers 
 Ptustling in their heathy bowers ; 
 Closing some, with close of day. 
 Waking more to moonlight ray ! 
 
 Come up the hill, and list the breeze. 
 Full of mingled melodies. 
 Rising from the glens below, 
 Faintly sweet, as up we go ! 
 
 "Come up the hill, and smell the breath 
 Of the purple mountain-heath. 
 Sweeter than the painted flowers 
 Eear'd in artificial bowers !' j 
 
 Come up the hill, and joy with me, 
 In the mazy scenery 
 That below is sleeping calm. 
 Smiling beauty, breathing balm ! 
 
 Come up the hill, and gaze with me 
 On the moon-besilver'd sea. 
 That so gently rocking moves 
 To cradle the young light it loves ! 
 
 Come up the hill, — 'tis nearer to 
 The fields of Heav'n, azure blue, 
 Where the spheral minstrels play 
 Music wild and sweet, for aye !
 
 INVITATION TO AN EVENING WALK. 171 
 
 Come up the hill, — 't -will give to thee 
 A view of deep eternity, 
 That in the valley's shorten'd ken 
 Is never known to minds of men I 
 
 Come up the hiU — the waterfall 
 
 Is emblem, true to thee, of aU : 
 
 'T is tranquil where it flows near Heaven — 
 
 'T is down, with Man, — its peace is riven ! 
 
 Wade was an Irisliman, well known at the time he contributed to 
 ' Bentley's Miscellany ' as the aixtlior of the words and music of the 
 celebrated drawing-room song of ' Meet me by Moonlight,' and joint 
 author with Doctor Crotch, of Oxford, of an elaborate historical and 
 critical work on English Music, published by Chappie, of Eond Street. 
 He has been dead about twenty years. 
 
 THE EVENING STAPw 
 
 BY n. W. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 The night is come, hut not too soon ; 
 
 And sinking silently, — 
 All silently, — the little Moon 
 Drops down behind the sky. 
 
 There is no light in earth or heaven 
 But the pale light of stars ; 
 
 And the first watch of night is given 
 To the red planet Mars. 
 
 Is it the tender star of love ? 
 
 The star of love and dreams ? 
 Oh no ! from that blue tent above 
 
 A hero's armour gleams. 
 
 And earnest thoughts witliin me rise 
 
 When I behold afar, 
 Suspended in the evening skies, 
 
 The shield of that red star.
 
 172 THE EVENING STAR. 
 
 star of strength ! I see thee stand 
 And smile upon my pain ; 
 
 Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand, 
 And I am strong again. 
 
 "Within my soul there shines no light 
 But the pale light of stars ; 
 
 1 give the first watch of the night 
 To the red planet Mars ! 
 
 The star of the uneonquer'd will, 
 He rises in my breast, — 
 
 Serene and resolute, and still. 
 And calm, and self-possess' d. 
 
 And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art, 
 That readest this brief psalm, 
 
 As one by one thy hopes depart, 
 Be resolute and calm. 
 
 ! fear not in a world like this, 
 And thou shalt know ere long, 
 
 Know how sublime a thing it is 
 To suffer and be strong ! 
 
 THE FOREST TREE. 
 
 BY J, B, T, 
 
 XTail to the lone old forest tree. 
 
 Though past his leafy prime ! 
 A type of England's past is he, — 
 
 A tale of her olden time. 
 He has seen her sons, for a thousand years. 
 
 Around him rise and faU ; 
 But well his green old age he wears, 
 And still survives them all. 
 
 Then long may his safeguard the pride and care 
 
 Of our children's children be ; 
 And long may the axe and tempest spare 
 The lone old forest tree !
 
 THE FOREST TREE. 173 
 
 The Norman baron his steed has rein'd, 
 
 And the pilgrim his journey stay'd, 
 And the toil-worn serf brief respite gain'd 
 
 In his broad and pleasant shade : 
 The friar and forester loved it well ; 
 
 And hither the jocund horn, 
 And the solemn tone of the vesper bell, 
 
 On the evening breeze were borne. 
 
 Friar and forester, lord and slave. 
 
 Lie mouldering, side by side. 
 In the dreamless sleep of a nameless grave. 
 
 Where revelling earthworms hide : 
 And Echo no longer wakes at the sound 
 
 Of bugle or vesper chime ; 
 For castle and convent are ivy-bound 
 
 By the ruthless hand of Time. 
 
 But gentle and few, with the stout old tree, 
 
 Have the spoiler's dealings been ; 
 And the brook, as of old, is clear and free, 
 
 And the turf beneath as green. 
 Thus Nature has scatter'd on every hand 
 
 Her lessons, since earth began, 
 And long may her sylvan teacher stand, 
 A check to the pride of man. 
 
 And long may his safeguard the pride and care 
 
 Of our children's children be ; 
 Long, long may the axe and tempest spare 
 The lone old forest tree !
 
 174 
 EUBLAI KHAN ; OR, THE SIEGE OF KINSAI. 
 
 CANTO I 
 
 Vou'vE heard, no doubt, of Kublai Khan, 
 That terrible man, 
 Who overran 
 The Eastern world in days of yore, 
 With steps of steel, in paths of gore ? 
 Could there be brought together but all 
 
 The bones of those his armies slew. 
 They would vie in bulk with the China wall, 
 Or fill up the great canal of Yu. 
 
 II. 
 He swore the Chinese realm should fall, 
 
 So he came at the head of his Tartar hordes. 
 
 Who all carried besoms as well as their swords ; 
 And he pitched his tents before the wall. 
 As soon as the following morn had birth, 
 
 He led them along in their war array ; 
 A part of the wall was formed of earth, 
 
 So they plied their besoms and swept it away. 
 Then Kublai Khan gave the word of command, 
 And they all poured into the Central Land. 
 
 III. 
 What deeds were done, is it need I say, 
 
 As on their course they wound ? 
 What roofs were fired, what fields laid waste. 
 What armies slain, what hearths disgraced, 
 What lovely dames were borne away, 
 
 What plainer dames were drowned ? 
 Oh ! woe in the rear, and death in the van. 
 Were ever attendant on Kublai Khan. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Fierce Kublai came to great Kinsai, 
 
 Where the Emperor dwelt, and his wives and kin, 
 In a beautiful palace, with rich inlay 
 
 Of gold without and of pearls within ;
 
 KUBLAI KHAN. I7S 
 
 And Avith terrible groups of his Tartar troops 
 He blackened the hiUs and the plains aronnd; 
 
 And he vowed a vow, that its towers should bow 
 And its walls be scattered along the ground. 
 
 V. 
 
 Eut when the Emperor saw 
 
 Proud Kublai's banners flaunting, 
 He was struck with amaze and awe, 
 
 And felt that his heart was wanting ; 
 And slipping his ribs, so august and imperial, 
 Into a jacket of common material, 
 That none might suppose him a person of note, 
 He got from the city by night in a boat. 
 But he left his queen and wives behind. 
 
 And bade them take good care 
 That the insolent Tartar hordes should find 
 
 A warm reception there. 
 
 TI. 
 
 ISTow it's fit you be told, that this Emperor bold, 
 
 Besides his Empress fair. 
 Had twenty wives, of properest lives, 
 As blithe and busy as bees in hives. 
 Endeavouring still. 
 His hours to fill 
 "With frolic and merriment fit to kill 
 The hollow-eyed phantom Care. 
 There were An, and Xan, and Fan, 
 And Jin, and Din, and Sin, too, 
 With names that I neither can, 
 Nor would wish to enter into. 
 And again, and besides these beautiful brides. 
 Who sat in duo order at both of his sides, 
 Furthermore he possessed, 
 So might count himself blessed, 
 More than any that dwelt in the East or the West ; 
 A regiment of ladies, all chosen and pick'd, 
 Whose hearts were brave, whose discipline strict;
 
 176 KUBLAI KHAN. 
 
 All mounted on steeds of superior breeds, 
 
 And furnished with tows and brass-pointed reeds, 
 
 And swords ever ready for martial deeds. 
 
 VII. 
 The Empress was colonel of this gallant troop, 
 And the wives were the majors, the captains, lieutenants, 
 And ensigns that bore the invincible pennants, 
 To which every foe. 
 It seemed to be so, — 
 "Was in gallantry bound to stoop. 
 So Sergeant Shug called over the names, 
 And the Empress harangued her regiment of dames ; 
 Set out before them, in learned display. 
 The danger that threatened the city Kiusai; 
 The myriads of Tartars 
 Prepared to be martyrs, 
 Eather than yield 
 An inch of the field. 
 Or move from the wall 
 Till the town should fall. 
 
 VIII. 
 " So you see, my girls," said the beautiful colonel, 
 
 * ' We go forth in strong quest 
 
 Of difficult conquest : 
 Should they beat women the shame is infernal, 
 But, if they be beaten, our glory eternal. 
 
 So let us be drest 
 
 In our holiday best, 
 "With silks of bright hues. 
 
 All embroidered, for mails, 
 "With the smallest of shoes. 
 
 And the longest of nails ; 
 With patches of pink 
 
 On our lips and our cheeks, 
 And eye-brows of ink 
 
 Laid in delicate streaks ; 
 These charms as I think, 
 
 And the swords we shall hold. 
 Will make the foe shi-iuk. 
 
 Be they never so bold."
 
 KUBLAI KHAN. 177 
 
 IX. 
 
 " Xow Major Slo, as your charger is fleet, 
 
 Tou shall lead the advance when we go forth to meet 
 
 The foe in the field, and Major Van 
 
 Shall bring up the rear as well as she can. 
 
 There is work for you, fair Captain Slae, 
 And for Captain Shi, so forward still ; 
 "We have many to capture, and many to kiU ; 
 
 But let not numbers our hearts dismay." 
 
 s. 
 
 Thus the Empress spoke to her female bands, 
 And the male troops also received her commands ; 
 The male bands answered with warlike whoops, 
 But the hope of the town was the female troops. 
 
 CiNTO II. 
 
 I. 
 
 I do not say how the siege begun, 
 
 "What works were tried, what deeds were done, 
 
 What engines used, what flags upborne, 
 
 What breaches made, what trousers torn, 
 
 What throats were cut, what limbs were hack'd. 
 
 What bodies were crushed, what skuUs were crack'd, 
 
 Because I don't know, and that's the fact. 
 
 But deeds of hand, and deeds of heart, 
 
 Valorous deeds upon cither part, 
 
 Countless losses of lords and wives ; 
 
 Walls in ruins, and silks in rags, 
 
 Terrible engines, flouting flags. 
 
 And all that belongs to a fearful fray, 
 
 You may understand without my say. 
 
 The walls though battered, were not thrown down ; 
 
 And the Empress yet retained the town. 
 
 II, 
 Oh, ne'er had a general yet been seen 
 In all the Central Land, 
 
 Who in skill or in luck. 
 Or in plenty of pluck, 
 
 12
 
 178 KUBLAI KHAN. 
 
 "Was at all to compare 
 With that Empress so fair. 
 Nor there, as I ween, had a troop ever been, 
 
 That might vie with her beautiful band. 
 She gallantly held the great Kinsai, 
 And harassed the foe both night and day ; 
 They scarce could remain in the neighbouring plain, 
 
 Nor were safe in the hills and the valleys ; 
 "For in her defence there was so much of sense^ 
 
 And so much keen wit in her sallies. 
 
 III. 
 Let us declare it if nobody knows, 
 Ladies are not such contemptible foes : 
 A thousand at once, and all of them chattering, 
 'Mid horses' hoofs clattering, pattering, spattering^ 
 Like tilters of Eglintown all running at a ring, 
 
 Killing and scattering, 
 
 Bruising and battering, 
 
 Maiming and shattering — < 
 
 Not to be flattering, 
 Of primal confusion they teach you a smattering. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Daily were prisoners brought into the city, 
 
 Tied by their pigtails together in pairs ; 
 The handsome ones won on the empress's pity. 
 
 The plain ones were hung in the crescents and squares. 
 She offered rewards for the heads of the lords. 
 And the commoners, too, of the Tartar hordes. 
 And her soldiers oft brought them by twos and by twos 
 Slung over their shoulders thus tied by their queues ; 
 Or, sometimes a lady, with little remorse. 
 Arranged them in pairs o'er the neck of her horse. 
 
 V. 
 
 Now months had passed on in storming and sallying, 
 Eancy-phlebotomy, running, and rallying ; 
 In hurling stones. 
 
 And in throwing darts ; 
 In breaking bones. 
 And in piercing hearts :
 
 KUBLAI KHAN. 179 
 
 The troops of the Timour, 
 By hands and by knees, 
 Endeavouring to climb o'er 
 The walls of the Chinese ! 
 And the brave Chinese band, 
 
 Ensconced in snug quarters, 
 Hurling hot pitch and sand 
 On the heads ox the Tartars : 
 Till the Tartars confessed, at least there in the thick of it, 
 That the siege of Kinsai they were heartily sick of it ; 
 And it made Kublai Khan very fierce and splenetic, 
 To find it thus act as a Tartar emetic. 
 
 VI. 
 
 So the terrible Kublai swore 
 
 That by storm he would take the city ; 
 And wash the streets with the inmates' gore 
 
 Without remorse or pity. 
 That lord nor page, that youth nor age 
 
 Should meet with a moment's quarter : 
 And that proud Kinsai should be all laid low, 
 
 And the share of the plough should over it go, 
 To bury its bricks, 
 Its stones and sticks, 
 
 Its marble, mud, and mortar. 
 
 YII. 
 
 As Kublai pronounced his decree so proudly, 
 
 His blood-hungry Tartars applauded him loiidly ; 
 
 They clattered their swords, they struck their gongs, 
 
 The air was griped with the crudest songs ; 
 
 It was beaten with shouts, and shattered with laughter, 
 
 And the echoes were ill for a month thereafter ! 
 
 The broad river quaked as it rolled on its way, 
 
 And the red fiags were wind-shaken over Kinsai. 
 
 VIII. 
 The Empress heard the clatter and jar. 
 As 'twas borne by the breath of the breeze from afar, 
 Like a peal of tipsy thunder ; 
 
 12—2
 
 i8o KUBLAI KHAN. 
 
 So, knowing that somettiing must be in the wind, 
 With her beautiful lips she most wrathfully grinned ; 
 She seized her silk buckler, her breastplate she pinned, 
 
 With a china-crape shawl doubled under ; 
 In an elegant bow tied the string of her helmet, 
 And swore when the Tartars came they should be well met: 
 Then with eloquent speech to her ladies appealed, 
 And rode at the head of them forth to the field. 
 
 IX. 
 
 So on went the ladies, tUl, meeting the Tartars, 
 
 They poured forth upon them a volley of arrows, 
 As thick as small shot on a regiment of sparrows r 
 And then they turned round, and made back to their quarters. 
 The Khan greatly marvelled ; 
 *' Oh, none of them are veiled," 
 Cried he, " and what beauties they are every soul of them! 
 Draw not a bow — 
 Lay not one of them low ; 
 For the moon and the sun, 
 I would not part with one ; 
 But forward, my Tartars, and capture the whole of them. 
 Seize me alive every dear little beauty ; 
 Yours is Kinsai if you do me this duty ; 
 These shall alone be my share of the booty." 
 
 Then onward they all hurried, (0 for quick metre !) 
 The Tartars were fleet, but the ladies were fleeter ; 
 If those seemed to fly along, these seemed to shoot, 
 And they got to the city in spite of pursuit. 
 
 XI. 
 
 ifTow first in the chase was the amorous Khan ; 
 No thoughts from the moment the flight began 
 
 Had entered his brain, 
 
 Except to obtain 
 The prize upon which he had fixed his mind. 
 His passion and eagerness made him so blind 
 That he did not perceive how his troops fell behind.
 
 KUBLAI KHAN. i8i 
 
 And being well mounted, 
 He rode quite alone ; 
 
 And recklessly counted ''^ 
 
 The quarry his own, 
 
 As he daslied through the gate 
 
 Yery proud and elate. 
 But he found his mistake in another half minute, 
 When the guards shut the portal, and closed him within it. 
 Then the ladies came back very joj-ous and gay. 
 And the Khan, was their prisoner there in Kinsai. 
 
 CANTO III. 
 
 I. 
 
 The Empress sat on the Emperor's throne, 
 
 And the Emperor's sceptre swayed : 
 She had slipped on his trousers, too, over her own, 
 And she gave her commands in the despot's tone ; 
 And every vassal 
 Within the castle 
 Her delegate voice obeyed. 
 Oh ! a delicate voice was her delegate voice, 
 And every one made it a matter of choice 
 To do her behest as soon as 'twas spoken, 
 With an eagerness owing 
 In part to his knowing 
 That else every one of his bones would be broken, 
 Say naught of his being llaycd. 
 
 II. 
 The Empress sat on the Emperor's throne, 
 
 And sent six ladies the Khan to call ; 
 •* For, toll him," said she, " I've a bit of a bone 
 
 1 would pick with him here in my audience luill." 
 The Khan was pleased when lie heard that say. 
 For he'd tasted nothing since break of day. 
 And he went to the chamber to Und the bone ; 
 Eut when he came there 
 The table was bare. 
 And so the poor Khan liad none.
 
 1 82 KUBLAI KHAN. 
 
 III. 
 He strode through the room nowise forlorn, 
 
 His step was bold and free ; 
 Although he was not in America born, 
 
 Yet a-merry-Khan was he. 
 Eound his ankles, and waist, and neck he bore 
 Chain-cable enough for a seventy-foui- ; 
 
 Yet proudly he paced along : 
 And as all such Eastern heroes do 
 When they find themselves in a bit of a stew. 
 To keep up his pluck 
 In spite of ill luck. 
 Consoled himself with a song. 
 
 IV. 
 
 But whilst the Khan in his fetters, 
 
 Marched xip the hall with pride, 
 "Where the ladies, who proved his betters. 
 
 Were ranged upon either side ; 
 If his little red eyes stood out from his head, 
 It was not with rage, it was not with dread. 
 It was not with hate, it was not with scorn. 
 
 It was only with joy and a large surprise 
 At the beautiful sight, such as since he was born 
 
 Had never before met his little red eyes ; 
 And he smiled as he glanced, with his eyes full of flames. 
 At beautiful Empress and beautiful dames. 
 
 V. 
 
 The Empress so bold, and her ladies so fair. 
 Were exceedingly taken with Kublai Khan ; 
 
 They liked his person, they liked his air. 
 And, to tell it in brief, they liked the man. 
 
 His jaws were wide, his forehead narrow. 
 
 He seemed a person of pith and marrow ; 
 
 And with eyes so red, and beard so yellow. 
 
 They thought him a very delectable fellow. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Yet the Empress thought it fit and right 
 To look very grave at the Tartar knight,
 
 KUBLAI KHAN. 
 
 Because, by-and-by, by way of a finis, 
 She pui-posed to bang bis Tartar bigbness. 
 Sbe meant be sbould bang, bis neck reposing 
 In a silken twist of ber own composing ; 
 And so sbe considered tbe way to bebave 
 "Would be, for tbe present, to loolc very grave. 
 
 VII. 
 
 " Kublai Kban," tbe Empress said, 
 In a very impressive and solemn manner, 
 
 " Over our fertile land you've sped, 
 Witb bloody sword and flouting banner : 
 You bave seized our maidens, you've slaugbter'd our youth. 
 
 You bave cut off tbe beads of our aged sires. 
 
 You've spoiled our cities and fields with fires ; 
 Nor infants in arms could move ye to ruth : 
 
 You bave poisoned our rivers, and drained our vats, 
 
 And made short work of our rice and rats. 
 
 Tbe punishment, then, the law requires, 
 
 Is burning to death with red-hot wires ; 
 
 But since you are brave, we all agree 
 
 Only to hang you on yonder tree. 
 
 Is there anything, Khan, you can urge, of force 
 
 To hinder the law in its simple course ?" 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Kublai Klian he stroked bis beard. 
 And said, very quietly, " "Who's afeard ?" 
 He swelled up bis cheek before be could speak, 
 And scratched his nose, so knowing and sleek ; 
 To seem at his ease be made an endeavour, 
 
 But felt Kinsai was a comical place ; 
 His eyes looked redder and harder than ever, 
 
 And stood rather further out from his face. 
 His case was queer ; however 'twas good 
 To put tbe best face on it he could ; 
 Nor had he just then a better at band 
 
 Tlian that with bis two little bard red eyes, 
 And a thick, long beard, so yellow and grand, 
 
 "Which gave him a look very fierce and wise.
 
 1 84 KUBLAI KHAN. 
 
 IX. 
 
 " Dear lady," at last he thus began, 
 
 And seemed by his smile to be free from fear, — 
 " We oftentimes put the beer in a can, 
 
 But I see you're for putting the Khan in a bier. 
 You must do as you please, most lovely flower, 
 For Eublai Khan is in your power. 
 
 It was rather unwise 
 
 To be caught by those eyes. 
 So green in their hue, and so small in their size ; 
 
 No doubt on't : — but there, — 
 
 I fell into the snare. 
 And it's often our lot to be killed by the fair ; 
 
 So — thus in Kinsai — 
 
 I have only to say 
 That if you adjudge me death my due, 
 I am proiid, dear lady, to die for you ; 
 But an' if you had not so fierce a will, 
 To live for you I'd be prouder still. 
 
 X, 
 
 " That I've wasted your fields and towns wdth fires^ 
 And filled your streams with a sanguine dye, 
 
 That I've cut the throats of your youths and sires, 
 And eaten your rats, I can't deny : 
 
 But never, believe it, most beautiful elf, 
 
 Would Kublai Khan hurt such as yourself." 
 
 XI. 
 
 Now how could it be but the Empress fair, 
 Now how could it be but her ladies bright. 
 
 Now how could it be but each one there, 
 
 Should be touched at these words of the Tartar knight ? 
 So they talked for awhile in an under breath, 
 And to do what they could 
 Tor his comfort and good, 
 Agreed to accord him his choice of a death. 
 Whether to die by maiming and mangling, 
 Drowning, burning, or choking and dangling.
 
 KUBLAI KHAN. 185 
 
 And wlieii the Khan bold answer made, 
 
 And honestly owned that, if he might, 
 (Since fighting e'er had been his trade,) 
 
 He'd rather prefer to fall in fight. 
 The ladies acceded to this proposition. 
 And choosing three heroes of noble condition, 
 To slaughter Khan Kublai they gave them commission. 
 
 XII. 
 These heroes were tall and terrible chaps, 
 
 Of warlike fame untarnished ; 
 Two peacock's feathers in each of their caps. 
 
 And their helms were of pasteboard varnished ; 
 Their shoulder-guards and breast-plates fair 
 Were made of cotton, and stuffed with hair ; 
 Their steps were fleet, and their arms were strong, 
 Their eyes were fierce, and tlieir beards were long ; 
 And each, besides a bow and a mace, 
 
 Carried a terrible silken shield, 
 Pictured whereon was a hideous face, 
 
 To fright the foeman out of the field. 
 Each at his back a banneret bore ; 
 
 Through a hollow bamboo its staff was thrust ; 
 And of two placards, behind and before. 
 
 That called him "Brave," and this "Robust." 
 
 XIII. 
 
 The chosen ground was the palace lawn ; 
 The fence was framed, and the swords were drawn : 
 The three from the East, the Khan from the West, 
 To meet in the middle their steps addressed. 
 
 Side by side advanced the three, 
 All heroes of one stamp ; 
 
 Side by side, and knee by knee, 
 With very deliberate tramp. 
 When they almost met their Tartar foe, 
 
 WIio towards them came at swifter pace, 
 They stopped at once in a fearful row, 
 
 And held their shields out towards his face ; 
 Then, working secret wii-es within, 
 
 Made the terrible faces s(j[uiut and grin ;
 
 386 KUBLAI KHAN. 
 
 And they trusted by this decisive plan 
 To frighten away the Tartar Ehan, 
 
 XIY. 
 
 But lo ! and behold ! the Tartar Ehan 
 
 Was not prepared to take the hint ; 
 He looked at the shields, that fearless man ! 
 
 And " Ho !" said he, " you may grin and squint !" 
 Then in both his hands his sword raised he, 
 To shatter the shields of the warlike three. 
 This showed a heart on the Tartar's part. 
 
 For which the three were not prepared : 
 They stepped in a crack some paces back. 
 
 And opened their mouths and eyes, and stared. 
 ^' Why stay we here ?" cried valiant Fli, 
 
 •' Oh, fly we hence !" cried dauntless Flee, 
 And in mighty dismay 
 Shun-Fo ran away ; 
 I know not which might soonest hie, 
 
 Or which was the fleetest of all the three. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Their flags were all to ribbons torn, 
 
 By the current of air, so fast their flight ; 
 The peacock plumes from their caps were borne, 
 
 And they showed no feather except the white. 
 And as they ran, the bold placard 
 
 That proclaimed them " brave" was their shield and guard. 
 Their flight had turned it towards the Khan, 
 "Who never perceived they were brave till they ran. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 The Tartar bold pursued their flight, 
 
 And cleft them down from crown to heel ; 
 And his eyes gleamed bright with his grim delight, 
 
 As then on his queue he wiped his steel. 
 He bowed to the Queen and her ladies fair ; 
 
 His face was flecked with spirts of gore : 
 ■*' We'll leave these three to the doctor's care. 
 
 And now, sweet Uueeu, I am ready for more I"
 
 KUBLAI KHAN. 187 
 
 XYII, 
 
 Three more ■were brought, and he slaughtered them, 
 
 And then came five, and those he slew ; 
 As you with a knife cut a floweret's stem, 
 
 As easily he chopped men in two. 
 Then seven, and nine, came against him all ; 
 
 He hack'd the whole of them limb from limb : 
 And dwarfs so strong, and giants so tall ; 
 
 But giants and dwarfs were alike to him. 
 The blood of his foes dripped down from his nose, 
 
 And made his beard in a gory trim ; 
 And at every blow as he killed a foe, 
 
 He bowed to the ladies, and smiled so grim. 
 
 XYII. 
 
 Then the sons and sires, the brothers and cousins 
 Of those sweet ladies came into the lists. 
 
 And he slaughtered them all by tens and dozens ; 
 
 You'd think that the work would have sprained his wrists. 
 
 But Kublai Khan was stout and willing. 
 
 And not to be easily tired of killing : 
 
 He cut off their heads, spare time to amuse, 
 
 And roped them, like onions, up by their queues. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 "When the Queen and her troop of China-roses 
 
 Beheld the fate of the lords and masters. 
 
 Those stars of fight, those China-asters, 
 Thus snipped by the Khan, and bound in posies, 
 They were filled with a measureless admiration, 
 Of the terrible chief of the Tartar nation. 
 And the Empress spoke, and said, " Khan, 
 Since you've shown yourself such a valorous man, 
 And slain the prime of our warriors thus, 
 You mil not be afraid of a match with us. 
 So wliet you your sword on the edge of your shield. 
 Till I and mj' ladies come into the field."
 
 i88 KUBLAI KHAN. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Kublai bowed with infinite grace, 
 
 Smiled in a very bewitching way, 
 Wiped the blood from off his face, 
 
 And made reply to the Empress gay : 
 " lady bold, lady bright. 
 
 To slaughter men I have little care ; 
 Send more of such if you think it right : 
 
 But I draw not sword on dames so fair. 
 A match with you and your ladies sweet, 
 Is wliat would make my bliss complete ; 
 Lut that which thus would sweeten life 
 Is a match in love, and not in strife." 
 
 XXI. 
 
 The Queen and her beautiful ladies laughed ; 
 
 Should the Khan be killed, they would all be sorrier : 
 They ever had loved the warrior-craft. 
 
 And it made them love the crafty warrior. 
 They whispered some blame of the Emperor's flight, 
 And declared that that ought to have kindled their spite ;. 
 So the Empress bowed low, with most ladylike ease. 
 And answered, " Brave Khan, be it just as you please." 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Then he danced them by fours, by tens, and by scores, 
 Over charcoal pots that were set at the doors ; 
 The town of Kinsai was full of delight ; 
 
 Oh ! a wonderful man 
 
 "Was the Tartar Khan, 
 And he conquered in love when he couldn't in fight. 
 
 LIXES TO MY DOUBLE-BARRELLED GU^S", BROW^T BESS. 
 
 T HAVE a sweet friend, and her name is Brown Bess ! 
 
 Who often in raptures I ardently press, 
 And as on my shoulder she'll rest or recline, 
 I glory to think that I can call her mine.
 
 BROIVN BESS. 189 
 
 Her voice how it eclioes through, valley and grove, 
 When I make her repeat the fond fire of her love, 
 It comes from her bosom in one noble strain, 
 "Where, save to please me, it would ever remain. 
 
 She's tall, and she's slender, with scarce any waist. 
 And, what is most curious, she hath hut one breast ; 
 If there I should touch her in play or in sport. 
 It is strange, she's the first one to spread the report. 
 
 And, oddly enough, she is not flesh and blood ! 
 How could she r for sulphur and nitre's her food! 
 Her body is iron, her head it is wood ! 
 But she does as I bid her, she's true and she's good. 
 
 If she's well-directed, how lofty's her aim. 
 
 Objects most exalted she will for yoii claim, 
 
 "Whatever you wish for she'll bring down with death, 
 
 Though she wastes all her strength, onA. gives up her last breath. 
 
 Her soul is for pleasure, dull life's her disgust, 
 If idle she's kept she will spoil and will rust, 
 She seeks not the banquet, or mirth-swelling hall, 
 Still — therms none more adapted, or fit for a hall. 
 
 She's most temperate, too, e'en to a moral. 
 Although she doth keep both ^ flash and a barrel. 
 Ay, barrels ; but she, like the publican knaves. 
 Keeps these for the pigeons, that come for their graves. 
 
 Miss Steam has an appetite always so large, 
 Whilst each meal for Bessy, is but a small charge ; 
 Then drink costs her nothing, she loves to be dry, 
 Whilst steam must hdiWQ pipes, and a constant supply. 
 
 Then Steam is %o flighty, and Bess so docile. 
 With Sieam you caiHt travel in surety one mile ; 
 With Bess you may go through the land, far and wide, 
 With her under your arm, the same as a bride. 
 
 Again, as a bride, should you movingly press 
 My Bess — the soft pressure — will sioiftly confess 
 The warmth of her feelings ; her sensitive frame 
 Will quickly evince in the strength of her flame.
 
 igo BROWN BESS. 
 
 The young lordliug's plaything, the gamekeeper's pride ! 
 The night-watcher's friend, and the freebooter's bride ! 
 The smuggler's chere amie, the bushranger's wife, 
 "Who would part with her only on parting with life. 
 
 Sweet nymph! she would coax the "birds off the bushes," 
 As oft she hath done both blackbirds and thrushes. 
 Then why should you wonder at my tender love, 
 When a coc/c or a cap-on, she also can move ? 
 
 Forgive this long story, but I had my cue, 
 In laying down all her perfections — for you. 
 There's two I forgot, she's allied to famed Lock{e), 
 And doth really belong to an excellent stock. 
 
 Good reader ! I bow, and exhausted retire, 
 And hope you will think that I have not missed fire, 
 But brought down my game, and each time hit the marli. 
 And handled my gun well — albeit on a lark. 
 
 J, ST. L. JIC. C. 
 
 THE ASCENTS OF MONT BLANC. 
 
 BY ALBERT SMITH. 
 
 "WriEX Jacques Balmat from his party was thrown, 
 He found out the summit untaught and alone, 
 And when he returned to his doctor with glee, 
 He said, " For your care you shall go up with me," 
 
 With your haton so sharp, tra la! 
 
 The next who tried was De Saussure, we're told. 
 Who climbed in a full suit of scarlet and gold : 
 Whilst poor M. Bourrit, four times driven back, 
 In dudgeon returned to Geneva — good lack ! 
 
 IViih his baton so sharp, tra la! 
 
 Woodley, Clissold, and Beaufoy, each thought it no lark, 
 Aud were followed by Jackson, and Sherwell and Clarke. 
 Then Fellowes and Hawes by a new passage went, 
 And avoided the dangers of Ilamel's ascent, 
 
 Jrith their batons so sharp, tra la!
 
 THE ASCENTS OF MONT BLANC. 191 
 
 Brave Auldjo next was pulled over a bridge 
 Of ice -poles laid on the glacier's ridge ; 
 You will see all his wonderful feats, if you look 
 At the views di'awn by Harding, and placed in his book, 
 
 And his baton so sharp, tra la! 
 
 Full forty gentlemen, wealthy and bold. 
 Have climbed up in spite of the labour and cold ; 
 But of all that number there lives not one 
 Who speaks of the journey as very good fun. 
 
 With their batons so sharp, tra la! 
 
 Albert Smith, one of the most famous light litterateurs of his time, 
 was born on the 24th May, 1816, and died 23rd May, 1860. He was 
 buried at Brompton Cemetery. He was originally brought up to the 
 medical profession, and took a regular London degree. In prepara- 
 tion for the latter he studied a couple of years in Paris, lived in the 
 Quartier Latin, and became acquainted with all the peculiarities of the 
 French student life, and perfected himself in the French language. He 
 was one of the original contributors to Punch, liis first paper in that suc- 
 cessful publication having been the ' Physiology of the Medical Student.' 
 His first dramatic venture was ' Aladdin,' a burlesque or extravaganza, 
 in conjunction with Mr. Charles Kenny. In his next piece of the 
 same description, he bad for his collaborateiu-s Mr. T. Taylor and Mr. 
 C. Kenny. His third, ' The Endianted Horse,' was his joint produc- 
 tion with Mr. Taylor. He was also the author, or associated author, 
 of ' Puss in Boots,' ' Whittington and his Cat,' ' Novelty Fair,' ' Esme- 
 ralda,' ' Cinderella,' and other siuuiar dramatic extravaganzas, all of 
 wbicli, without exception, had a great run hi their day. He wrote Cvo 
 novels, the chief of whicli appeared first in ' Bcntley'e Miscellany,'— 
 'The Adventures of Mr. Ledbury,' 'The Scattcrgood Family,' 'Chris- 
 topher Tadpole,' 'The Pottletou Legacy,' and 'The Mareliioncss of 
 BrinvilHers.' Besides his ' Physiology of the Medical Student,' which 
 was considered one of the best things in the early numbers of Punch, 
 lie wrote brief physiologies of ' Tjomlon Evening Parties,' ' The Gent,' 
 'The Ballet Girl,' 'The Flirt,' &c., which amused the town as much 
 as any of his more elaborate productions. The greatest successes, 
 however, of his rapid and versatile genius and most indefatigable in- 
 dustry, were his 'Ascent of Mont Blanc,' his 'Overland Mail,' and his 
 'Chinese Exhibition,' which entertainments ho brouglit out success- 
 ively at tho Egyptian Hall, sustaining them himself, solo author and
 
 192 ALBERT SMITH. 
 
 actor of their -wonderfully Immourous medleys of prose and verse, and 
 realizing by them a large fortune. He had previously seen every- 
 thing -which he described, having ascended Mont Blanc, and made 
 rapid journeys to Cairo, Alexandria, Constantinople, and the Celestial 
 Empire. He married a short time before his death, the beautiful and 
 talented Miss Keeley, eldest daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Eeeley, tlie 
 celebrated comic actor and actress, by -whom he had no issue. The 
 marriage took place in August, 1859, nine months before his decease, 
 •whicli latter occurred but one day before the forty-fourth anniversary 
 of his birthday. 
 
 A LETTER FEOM AN OLD COUNTPtY HOUSE. 
 
 "Hear Authur, 
 
 'Tis so very slew, 
 
 I can't tell what to do, 
 And so I've got a pen and ink. 
 
 And mean to -write to you 1 
 You know how intervening space 
 
 I reckon'd, bit by bit, 
 Until this time arrived : and now 
 
 It has not proved a hit ! 
 
 'Tis very well. The house is old, 
 
 With an enormous hall ; 
 I think what learned architects 
 
 Elizabethan call. 
 "With mullion'd windows, shutters vast, 
 
 And mystic double floors, 
 And hollow wainscots, creaking stairs, 
 
 And four-horse-power dooi-s. 
 
 And authors who could write a book 
 
 Might subjects find in hosts — 
 Of civil wars, and wrongful heirs. 
 
 And murders, bones, and ghosts. 
 And this you know 's all very well 
 
 'J^eath a bright noontide sun ; 
 But when the dismal nightfall comes, 
 
 'Tis anything but fun.
 
 A LETTER FROM AN OLD CO UNTR V HO USE. 193 
 
 I'll own, — but this is entre, nous, — 
 
 I was in. such a fright 
 At my gaunt bed-room, that my eyes 
 
 I never closed all night 
 When first I lay there : for each thing 
 
 Associations brought 
 Of bygone crimes, and mouldy deeds, 
 
 With frightful interest fraught. 
 
 'Twas like the room where Tennyson 
 
 Made Mariana stay — 
 A chamber odorous with time, 
 
 And damp, and chill decay. 
 The moon look'd in with ghastly stare 
 
 On those who haply slept : 
 And 'gainst the easement all night long 
 
 Some cypress branches swept. 
 
 And tapestry was on the walls — 
 
 Dull work that did engage 
 Fair fingers, fleshless long ago, — 
 
 Now dim and black with age. 
 And when I trod upon the floor, 
 
 It groan'd and wheezed and ereak'd, 
 And made such awful noises that 
 
 One's very temples rcek'd. 
 
 And in the middle of the night. 
 
 Half dozing in my bed. 
 Although beneath the counterpane 
 
 I buried deep my head, 
 I saw most ghastly phantom forms 
 
 Of mildew'd men and girls ; 
 With axe-lopp'd heads, and steel- pierced breasts, 
 
 And long gore-dabbled curls. 
 
 I was so glad when morning came, 
 
 For then all fear was o'er. 
 I slept 'till Fox had three times changed 
 
 The water at my door. 
 
 13
 
 194 A LETTER FROM AN OLD COUNTRY HOUSE. 
 
 And when I reach' d the hreakfast-room, 
 
 The eggs and game were gone, 
 And I was tied to marmalade 
 
 And haddock all alone. 
 
 Now nothing can make up for this, 
 
 Nor horse, nor game, nor gun ; 
 Nor yet charades, night after nighty 
 
 Until they lose their fun. 
 Nor Emily's contralto voice. 
 
 And dark and floating eyes : 
 Nor that young Countess — helle de 7iuU ? 
 
 Nor Julia's smart replies. 
 
 I long to he in town again, 
 
 For all the word recalls 
 The raptures of a private box, 
 
 Or comfort of the stalls. 
 Those cozy dinners at the club ; 
 
 Those rich Regalia fumes ; 
 A whirl at Weippert's ; or perchance 
 
 A supper at our rooms. 
 
 So tell the boys I'm coming back. 
 
 No more this year to roam, 
 (Don't send the birds to Collingwood ; 
 
 He never dines at home). 
 The second dinner-bell has rung, 
 
 I'll finish then forthwith, 
 And so 
 
 Believe me to remain. 
 
 Yours always, 
 
 Albert Smith. 
 
 THE MAN WITH A TUFT. 
 
 BY THOMAS HATXES BAYLEY. 
 I. 
 
 T EVER at coUege 
 
 From commoners shrank. 
 Still craving the knowledge 
 Of people of rank :
 
 THE MAN WITH A TUFT. I95 
 
 In my glass my lord's ticket 
 
 I eagerly stuffed ; 
 And all called me " Riquet," 
 
 The man with the Tuft. 
 
 II. 
 
 My patron ! most noble ! 
 
 Of highest degree ! 
 Thou never canst probe all 
 
 My homage for thee ! 
 Thyhand-oh! I'd Uck it, 
 
 Though often rebuff'd ; 
 And stm I am " Riquet," 
 
 The man with the Tuft ! 
 
 HI. 
 
 Too oft the great, shutting 
 
 Their doors on the bold, 
 Do deeds that are cutting, 
 
 Say words that are cold ! 
 Through flattery's wicket 
 
 My body I've stuiF'd 
 And so I am " Riquet," 
 
 The man with the Tuft ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 His lordship's a poet, 
 
 Enraptured I sit ; 
 He's dull — (and I know it) — 
 
 / caU him a wit ! 
 His fancy, I nick it, 
 
 r>y me he is puff'd, 
 And still I am " Riquet," 
 
 The man with the Tuft ! 
 
 13-2
 
 
 
 196 
 
 A MODERN ECLOGUE. 
 
 " Tfon tu in triviis, indocte, solebas, 
 
 Stridenti miseruin stipula dispendere carmen ?" 
 
 ViEG., Eel. 3. 
 
 N a stont bench that faced " The Pig and Friar," 
 Sat Jemmy Doubletouch and Pat Maguii-e : 
 Long tubes of clay, with dark Virginian weed. 
 Crowned the rude board to serve their present need ; 
 While, placed by Tapps, the host, between each man 
 Best double stout o'erflowed the polish'd can. 
 And who were Pat and Jemmy ? some will cry : 
 " Arcades ambo," is our sage reply, — 
 " Cantare pares," and if not too weary, 
 Or else too drunk, " parati respondere." 
 In fact they both were chaunters — up and down — 
 Highways and byways — country and in town — 
 Traversed the land while loud their ditties rung, 
 And oft composed the sonnets which they sung ; 
 And now by chance had met beneath the shade 
 That Thomas Tapps' wide-spreading beech tree made. 
 What glees were troll'd, how many clouds were blown, 
 What cans were fiUed and emptied is not known, 
 (Save by the host,) until, as time flew past, 
 Though friends at first, they had a tiff at last. 
 And on this point in anger took their stand — 
 Who in his craft was deemed the better hand, 
 " I'U bet," quoth Doubletouch, " four quarts of stout, 
 To one of pixnch (but stiff,) I'll serve you out. 
 But, hark ! my daisy, nothing old won't do ; 
 So mind your stops, and strike up summat new." 
 <' Agreed !" said Paddy ; " Done !" cries Jem, "that's flat ! 
 But for a judge? — here's Tapps— now go it, Pat!" 
 
 PAT. 
 
 Och ! whiskey's the life and the sowl of a man, 
 So I'll sing its praise first, and as long as I can : 
 If the says were made of it — good luck to the sight I 
 It's myself 'ud be swimmin' from mornin' till night.
 
 A MODERN ECLOGUE. 197 
 
 JEMMY. 
 
 Oh ! ale is the stuff that will make a dog joUy, 
 What cures them is sick and is got melancholy : 
 It runs through our gammut than quicksilver quicker — 
 I'm bless'd if it ain't the most primest of licker ! 
 
 PAT. 
 
 St. Patrick's the boy that could turn topsy-turvy 
 Great Britain and Scotland — so says Father Murphy ; 
 He bothers the world with his divil-may-care, ! 
 St. Patrick for ivir, the comical hayro ! 
 
 JEMMY. 
 
 And where is the chap for St. George that won't cheer 
 Nor swig in his honour a gallon of beer ? 
 St. Georgy's the one as a body may brag on ; 
 Hurrah for the feUor as walloped the dragon ! 
 
 TAT. 
 
 I'll sing next of praytees, the boast of ould Erin, 
 What dainty compared wid 'em 's worth a red herrin', 
 You may walk from Coleraine to that place they call Hayti, 
 Bad luck to the thing you wiLL lind like a praty, 
 
 JEMMY. 
 
 Let the Mounseer go boast of his soup made of herbs— 
 Of his garlic the Don, vich some stomachs disturbs ; 
 I knows vot is vot, and I'm wastly mistaken, 
 If they're equal to cabbage, when biled with good bacon. 
 
 PAT. 
 Was there iver a boy on the 'arth or the air 
 Who's not danced a jig at great Uonnybrook Fair? 
 The blissed remimbrancc e'en now makes me frisky, 
 Such, crackin' of heads, and such lashin's of whiskey ! 
 
 JEMMY. 
 
 Yot a sight as is Bartlo'my ! — not any part in 
 Of England collected sich wonders for sartin'. 
 Here's the man as will swallmv a sword, if lie's let ; 
 Vot a hungry old cove, and uncommon sharp-set !
 
 igS A MODERN ECLOGUE. 
 
 PAT. 
 In love I'm all over wid Katty OTlanaghan, 
 For a glance of whose eye often back have I ran again. ; 
 Aisy death to me then, but she hates human uatur, 
 The sweet little, nate little, Uigant cratur I 
 
 JEMMY. 
 
 Oh ! dear Molly Muggins, vot love is between us ! 
 You're a regular, no-mistake, out-and-out Wenus ! 
 Sich beauty to pieces would lather the world. 
 When your hair's out of paper and dapperly curled. 
 
 PAT. 
 Och, musha ! then sure it's myself that must pity 
 The spalpleen that never saw dear Dublin city. 
 They may talk of their Constantinople — shoot aisy ! — 
 Whooo ! we could bate them with BaUinacrasy. 
 
 JEMMY. 
 
 Faix ! Lunnon's a town vot is desperate fine. 
 And from all other cities will take out the shine. 
 There's the great Leaden Ilall, and an acre vot's long, 
 And the Parliament House, where they chaffs it so strong. 
 
 PAT. 
 
 By this and by that, but a wager I'd howld. 
 No plant's like the Shamrouge, so purty and bowld. 
 Which, stuck in our hats, on our Saints' daj- is seen, — 
 But we steep it, your sowl ! aU the night in potteen. 
 
 JEMMY. 
 
 Your Sawney may chatter and boast of his Thistle, 
 Taffy talk of his Leek — but I care not a whistle, — 
 Odd rat it ! what fellor in country or town 
 As would not give a cheer for the Hose— and the Crown? 
 
 '* Hold, hold, my masters !" Tapps exclaim'd, " have done ! 
 
 I thinks as how both bets are fairly won ; 
 
 For both have chaunted prime and come it strong, 
 
 Jemmy the punch is your'n for that 'ere song : 
 
 To you I judges, Pat, four quarts of stout. 
 
 And, if you please, will help to drink it out ; 
 
 So now to your work : — but ere you goes away, 
 
 Gemmen, I hopes you won't forget to pay."
 
 199 
 THE LASS OF ALBANY * 
 
 BY ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 1\ Ty heart is wae, and unco wae, 
 
 To think upon the raging sea, 
 That roars between her gardens green, 
 And the bonnie lass of Albany. 
 
 This lovely maid's of royal blood, \ 
 
 That ruled Albion's kingdoms three ; \ 
 
 But oh ! alas ! for her bonnie face ! 
 They've wrang'd the lass of Albany. 
 
 In the rolling tide of spreading Clyde 
 
 There sits an isle of high degree ; 
 And a town of fame, whose princely name 
 
 Should grace the lass of Albany. 
 
 But there's a youth, a witless youth. 
 
 That fills the place where she should be : 
 "We'll send him o'er to his native shore, 
 
 And bring our ain sweet Albany. 
 
 Alas the day, and woe the day, 
 A false usurper wan the gree ; 
 
 "Who now commands the tower and lands, 
 The royal right of Albany. 
 
 "We'll daily pray, we'll nightly pra}-. 
 On bended knees most fervently, 
 
 The time may come, with fife and drum 
 We'll welcome home fair Albany.- 
 
 \ 
 
 * Ilitherto unpublislicd and contiibiiU'J to the 'Miscellany' fm- the \cur 
 1837.
 
 whereof he enu- Let otlier Britisli bacchanals 
 
 tuerateth the 
 
 ciiiefest in esti- IniDibe the luseous sti'eam, 
 
 200 
 
 EEAYY WET. 
 
 FYTTE THE TIKST. 
 
 The Poet assert- f\ HeaVTJ Wet ! thine excellence* 
 
 eth the surpass- \J ttt j. t 
 
 ins excellence of 1 smg, O Heavy Wet ! 
 
 "rerTofir '" Nectar of man,t who, haying beer, 
 
 drinks cjusdcm Need cnvj not Olympian cheer — 
 
 ' On thee my soul is set ! 
 
 enu- Lc 
 
 e 
 sti- 
 
 SulresI'l^'tout, Which Guinness from Elbana sendsf 
 To Christendom's remotest ends, 
 Turban'd with mantling cream ; 
 
 * O Heavy Wet ! tliy excellence^ An apostrophe far more spirited and 
 soul-sprung than that Trherewith Byron opens his celebrated lyric, " The 
 isles of Greece ! the isles of Greece," inasmuch as the object is in the one 
 case addressed dh-ectly in the second person singular; in the other indirectly 
 in the third plural. 
 
 f Nectar of man.'] As nectar is the beverage of the supernal gods, so is 
 porter the drink of those mortals who seek to approximate the felicity of the 
 Olympians, " to make of earth a heaven." Who ever heard of a man me- 
 tamorpbosed into a fiend by potations of porter, whereas (not to mention 
 the daily frightful effects of spirituous liquor), the savage Saxons, and those 
 ferocious pirates, the Danes, considered it the height of enjoyment to swill 
 deep and frequent potations of ale. 
 
 J Which Guinness from JSlbana sends."] Guinness, the famous brewer of 
 Dublin, (Elbana), whose stout is to be met with among every civilized people 
 thi'oughout the globe. 
 
 The poet frequently, when upholding the superiority of porter in convivial 
 circles, used to quote the following lines from ' An Idyl on the Battle,' as 
 affording a comprehensive catalogue of beverages much La vogue, but all of 
 which he maintained hid their diminished heads when placed in juxta-posi- 
 tion with his idolized drink. The versification being unfamiliar to many, I 
 shall take the Uberty of facilitating its scansion by making each verso into- 
 its several feet. 
 
 "Ales from the ] famous | towns of | Barton, j Marlboro', | Taunton; 
 Porter from | lordly | Thajnes, anil | beer of | various descriptions : 
 Brandy of | Gallic | growth, and | rum from the | isle of Ja | maica; 
 Deadly, and | heavy | wet, blue | ruin, | wax, and Ge | neva ; 
 Hollands that | ne'er saw | IloUaud, rum, | brown-stout, j perry, and | 
 
 cyder ; 
 Spirit in all | ways pre ] pared, stark | naked, | hot or cold | water'd ; 
 IJegus, or I godlike | grog, flip, | lamb's-wool, | syllabub, | rumbo, 
 Toddy, or | punch, or | shrub, or the | much snug | stingo of | gin-twist."'
 
 HEA VY WET. 
 
 201 
 
 Or, fraught with Oriental floods, 
 
 Of Hodgson's bitter brewin'. 
 Of Burton, Edinbro', or Grew, 
 Consign dull care and devils blue 
 To utter rout and ruin ; 
 
 The fittest drink I stout maintain, 
 
 For coppers cool or hot, 
 Is porter — by the Thames's side 
 From Barclay's vasty vats supplied, 
 
 Pull'd fi'om a pewter-pot ! 
 
 FYTTE THE SECOND. 
 
 "When noontide Phoebus* from my coucli 
 
 Invites me to arouse, 
 liecruited by the balmy charms 
 Of genial Somnes' downy arms 
 
 From yesternight's carouse, 
 
 No vile infusion of Cathay,f 
 
 I femininely sip, 
 "With muflin, or if toast a bite, — 
 Ko gas-and-water bottled tight, 
 
 Pollutes my v/aking lip ; 
 
 Hodgson's pale 
 Indian ale, the 
 ales of Biutoa 
 and Edinbro', 
 and the Cum- 
 brian Crew, 
 
 the most perfect 
 of all bein;? Bar- 
 clay's porter, 
 especially when 
 quaffed from 
 ' the native 
 pewter.' 
 
 Getting'ont of 
 bed at 12 o'clock, 
 nothing the 
 worse for the 
 jollities of the 
 past uight. 
 
 he eschcwcth 
 matutinal 
 quackeries, such 
 as tea and tonst, 
 or suda-water ; 
 
 * When noontide Fhcelus-I In tlie opening stanza, tlie "regular irre- 
 gularity" of bis daily life is set forth in terms of mythological embcllisbment, 
 ■uhicli invest the subject with a singular poetic grace. Two facts regarding 
 Lis habits are clearly deducible ; the one that he indulged without fail in a 
 iioclurnal carousal, the other, that he never rose earlier than twelve o'clock. 
 As it takes eight, or at least seven hours sleep to " recruit" a person pro- 
 perly, wo may likewise conchide tliat his couch-seeking hour was not later 
 than five, or earlier than four in the morning. 
 
 •J- Cdthai/.'] China. The patriotism of the poet is hero manifest in his 
 denunciation of that unnatural beverage, tea, for which so many millions aro 
 annually abstracted from our pockets to fill those of the pig-eyed and pig- 
 headed, rat-eating, and rat- tailed Chinese. Were the money so thrown away 
 expended at home in the consumption of porter; and, taking il, for granted 
 that, even as it is one Englishman is a match for any three i'ruuchmen, how 
 mar.'y frog-fed Mounscers could we not then dispose of? 
 
 A similar spirit of contempt for the effeminacy of tea-drinking is evinced 
 by O'Diiglicrty m his ninety-seventh maxim. " Of tea I have on various 
 occasions hinted my total scorn. It is a weak, nervous affair, adopted f(U' 
 the digestion of boarding-school misses, whoso occupation is j)ainting rosea
 
 202 HEAVY WET. 
 
 but breakfasts gxit rasher from the brawny thigh 
 
 Bubstaiitially on _„ , , p. i p • i 
 
 slices of York- Of porker, deitly tried, 
 
 ^"r "'i ^nf '^'' Which Yorkshire unexceeded yields, 
 
 plialia iiam, •' ' 
 
 fried, Or acorn-fed from forest-fields 
 
 Of Westphaly supplied ; 
 
 whose passage Whose savoury catahasis* 
 
 downward lie ^ ,111 
 
 faciiitateth with I momentai'ly cheer 
 
 d1a\il;'i'i'ts of Bar- With fresh'ning streams, (as summer rains 
 
 clay's porter. Invigorate the sitient plains) 
 Of Barclay's blessed beer. 
 
 from tlie life, practising quadrilles, strumming on the instrument, and so 
 forth." 
 
 On the use of soda-water here condemned, as on that of bacon lauded in 
 the following stanza, I allow that many opinions exist. I have more than 
 once heard the father of the Irish bar boast his utter innocence of two acts, 
 which he hold in deepest abhorrence, viz., drinking soda-water, or tasting 
 swine's flesh. And I fully appreciate the soundness of his self-gratulation ; 
 for the first I have ever regarded as an abominable compost, ever since the 
 day that some of it being spilled on one of my boots, speedily burned a hole 
 through the leather; and, as to hog's-flesh, with the exception of Westpha- 
 lian ham, it is lit food only for the great unwashed. On soda-water, as it has 
 its patrons, one word more. Its use is disapproved of by the ladies. If you 
 must have some gaseous waking-drink, let it be ginger-beer, qualified with 
 rum or brandy, the former {credo exjpcrto) is the better. 
 
 * Whose savoury catahasis.'] For the benefit of such readers as do not 
 profess an acquaintance with the Greek tongue, I beg to maintain that the 
 word catahasis signifies descent, in the same manner as rtJiabasis does oscent. 
 The derivation of these words is curious, and was, I confess, unknown to me, 
 imtil lately communicated by an eminent philologist. There lived at Athens, 
 in the time of Pisistratus, a wealthy and powerful man of Scythian ex- 
 traction, whose name was Abasis. lie had two daughters of singular beauty 
 and accomplishments, the objects of universal admiration, and on his death 
 he bequeathed to them immense fortunes. The one, by a virtuous and pru- 
 dent bearing, rose higher and higher every year in the estimation of the 
 Athenians till she finally attained to unexampled influence in the city. But 
 the other, through extravagancies and improprieties, retrograded in a like 
 proportion, till she sunk into the depths of indigence and ignominy. Hence 
 their names became " household words ;" that of Ann Abasis, the elder and 
 discreeter of the two, being used to personify a progressive exaltation in 
 good ; and that of the other sister, Catherine, or Cat Abasis, a fall into the 
 abyss of evil. The words, in course of time, came to be employed in a moro 
 unrestricted sense, e.g., Xenophon's Anabasis, Ac. &c.
 
 HEAVY WET. 
 
 203 
 
 FYTTE THE THIRD. 
 
 There's many a worthy customer, 
 
 Who, ■when he sits to smoke 
 (To counteract aridity), 
 Betimes his physiognomy 
 Doth in a measure poke 
 
 JIany sirifj Iters 
 of tail- repute 
 are wont to 
 moisten tlieir 
 lips frcm time 
 to time 
 
 Of whiskey, rum, or shrub -baptiz'd 
 
 Schiedam, or eau-de-vie ; 
 Whilst Mocha's slop by some is prized, 
 And soda'd sherry not despis'd, 
 
 Sherbet, or sangaree. 
 
 with brandy-and- 
 
 WHtlT, lloUilluls- 
 
 ai)d-co., slierry- 
 aiRl-soiIii, coffee, 
 &c., itc, iV:c. i 
 
 But I my snowy yard of clay 
 
 Fill'd skilfully, and fired. 
 With longing thirst, as vain to tell 
 As pilgrims for the desert well, 
 For Porter am inspired. 
 
 Imt lip, havinp; 
 lit his cliiy liipe, 
 is seized witli 
 iTie.\]ireKsi))le 
 longing for por- 
 ter : 
 
 The j'ard of clay I calmly draw, 
 The pewter-pot I drain, 
 
 Whilst visions beatifical, 
 
 In reverie extatical. 
 
 Scud ripe athwart my brain. 
 
 and to tlie pipo 
 and pot coii- 
 Ki;.'ne(l, giving 
 full scope to 
 tlie flights of 
 reverie, 
 
 FYTTE THE FOURTH. 
 
 Anathema maranatha 
 
 Be every French ragout, 
 Hors d^atuvre, entremets, houilU, 
 Potage of griping herb, rati, 
 And witch-concocted stew. 
 
 he execratfith 
 the ninltifii] ions 
 aboniiniitioiis 
 of otithuulisli 
 cooltery, 
 
 Where founder'd, broken-down old liacks, 
 
 As sav'ry meat are prized, 
 And victims of the feline horde 
 Are oft presented on the board 
 
 liight conrijningly disguised. 
 
 wlinrnin flm 
 HeHJi of horses 
 and cats is oit- 
 tinies snhllcly 
 euipluyed ;
 
 204 HEAVY WET. 
 
 ^f *i ""j^"'"^.''^ When summon'd to the table by* 
 hour, repasteth " The tocsin of the soul," 
 
 (."aki^re'speci'S ^ cutlet, rump, or fowl with gammon, 
 
 mention of cer- Preceded by a cut of salmon, 
 
 tain fishes, and /~> ^ i y /.-it 
 
 concluding with Or turbot, or Iried sole, 
 
 cheese,) 
 
 ,., , , .,^ AVith Stilton's crumbling mass wound up, 
 
 diluted with _ ,., ., ^' 
 
 lluods of porter. iu guileless, solid pride, 
 
 Adown mine unsuspecting throat 
 
 In brotherhood congenial float 
 
 With porter's mellow tide. 
 
 * When summoned to the table, ^c] 
 
 " That tocsin of the soul, the dinner-bell. " — Bteoit. 
 
 Among a host of excellences it is difScult to make a selection ; but per- 
 haps of the entire poem this and the succeeding stanza are more pregnant 
 with exquisite matter than any other. While the poet, led away by the 
 ■warmth of his feelings, enters into a wide and varied field, replete with the 
 choicest flowers and sweetest thoughts, it is to be remarked how beautifully 
 he has preserved the harmony of design by making them all subservient to 
 his great object, the praise of porter, without which all the excellences he 
 has introduced would be shorn of their effect. This, as Horace tells us, is 
 the true art of poetry. What a throng of moving images appear in a small 
 space ! rising in rapid succession like the apparitions in Macbeth, a scene 
 which the poet must have had in mind ; for, like them, they are seven in 
 number, and, like them, each overpowering, in a separate and peculiar way, 
 the senses of the beholder. ' Cutlet,' ' rump,' ' fowl,' ' gammon,' ' salmon,' 
 ' turbot,' 'sole.' Here he stops for a moment, as if fearful of the effects he 
 might produce on the excited imagiuaticm of the reader, did he not, by 
 bringing the stanza to a close at this peculiar spot, give breathing-time to 
 observe how gracefully he descends from his circling height in the ensuing 
 line: — 
 
 " With Stilton's crumbling mass wound up." 
 
 And then the finishing of the fjtte with the glorious picture of all things 
 floathig Ln harmony upon the mellow tide. What is there in 13yron's ajius- 
 trophe to the ocean that equals this ? Nothing. 
 
 N.B. " Never take lobster-sauce to salmon ; it is mere ' painting of the 
 lily.' The only true sauce for salmon is vinegar, mustard, cayenne pepper, 
 and parsley." — O'Dogheett's Twenty-Sixth Maxim.
 
 HEAVY WET. 205 
 
 FTTTE THE FIFTH. 
 
 Oh, Toby Mathew, wondrous -wifflit I He nfldrps'ietii 
 
 ' -^ I ,. • . Father MatluMT 
 
 Ihou very reverend mar ! i,, a somewiiat 
 
 Despite the fame Ulumes thy path, ^""^'^ '^"•'^'"' 
 
 My sonl against thy watery wi'ath, 
 
 Is fill'd with righteous ire. 
 
 For though great good thou hast aehiev'd conceding. inst 
 
 'Mongst men who mock'd the law, Bnppression 
 
 But now are turn'd to peaceful mood, ddnkl'.fi'^' 
 From tongue of flame and hand of blood, 
 By scouting Usquebaugh, — 
 
 It needed not to interdict biu complaining 
 
 All reasonable cheer, _ "^^^^.y.,^ 
 
 And leave the shamrock to expire labitionof 
 
 Of xitter drought, in land of Ire,* ^"^ ^'' 
 Denouncing wholesome Beer ! 
 
 * JjanA of Ire.'] Poeticd for Ireland. Hannibal is now proved to have 
 understood the use of gunpowder, and the ancient Egyptians that of steam- 
 engines, and the art of brewing. It is also beyond doubt that brewing was 
 ■well known to the Scythians, with a colony of whom, the ancient Irish, 
 perished the knowledge of one of the sublimest mysteries ever known to 
 man — the art of making heath-beer from the blossoms of the heath-plant. 
 And this was the manner of its loss. — The Danes, on their invasion, found 
 (to use the words of the chronicler) "amonge the famylys of the chiefctuynes 
 a most sweete-savoured and cunnynge drinke." The secret of its manufac- 
 ture was so highly prized, that it was kept strictly confined to the chief of 
 one particular tribe and his eldest son, the persons employed in making it 
 being invariably put to death on the completion of their task, like the slaves 
 •who performed the office of sextons for Alaric. Phelim Olladh Oge, who 
 was the possessor of the secret shortly before llic reign of Brian Boru, was 
 one of tlie most warlike and strenuous adversaries of the Danes, but was at 
 length defeated in a bloody battle, and taken prisoner, together with his only 
 son. On being brought before the Danish leader, they were offered their 
 lives on condition of revealing the mystery of the heath-beer. For many 
 days they stedfastly refused to do so ; but at lengtli, as narrated by Dalton 
 in his records, " the saydc Phelim did fayno to conscnto unto thcyre wishes, 
 on condition that they wolde fyrste putto hys sonno to dethc before hys eyes, 
 whiche beying presently done, he clapped bys handis witli delile, and moekiO 
 them grately, saying, 'Doe unto me as yc listo; lo, the yutlio is deildo, and 
 tlierc is none that remayns to tell;' whercatto (he kynge, cliokeyngo with 
 rage, did slaye hym stratcly with bys own hande."
 
 2o6 
 
 HEAV\ WET. 
 
 lie laptiirously 
 apostrophize til 
 porter, the 
 true source 
 of Paradisaical 
 felicity ; 
 
 its virtuous 
 influences are 
 more potent 
 than the Ely- 
 sian spells of tne 
 Kuchautiess, 
 
 conferring the 
 blessin;; of 
 robust health 
 on the body. 
 
 FYTTE THE SIXTH. 
 
 Oh, Porter ! stream of Paradise ! 
 
 By thee to man is given 
 Delight more rare than bearded Turk, 
 When rushing to the deathful work, 
 
 Aspires to taste in Heaven. 
 
 Thy virtues on the moral frame, 
 
 And physical alike, 
 "With influence beyond the power 
 Of fam'd Armida's fairy bower, 
 
 Do magically strike ; 
 
 For whilst on pious votaries 
 
 They bounteously bestow 
 A prize far 'bove rouleaus of wealth. 
 Of muscular and lusty health 
 
 The ripe and ruddy giow,^ 
 
 That the ancient Germans also knew how to produce this liquor is proved 
 by Tacitus. " Potui humor ex hordeo aut frumento in quamdam similitu- 
 dinem vivi corruptus." — De morihus Germanorum, sec. xxiii. See also 
 Pliny, lib. xiv. c. 22. 
 
 The Egyptians (of whose acquaintance with the art of brewing mention 
 has been made above) ascribed the invention of beer to Osiris, whom they 
 venerated nearly as much as Bacchus. They called it ' zethum,' and con- 
 sidered it little inferior to wine. See Diodorus, Ub. i. pp. 17 and 31 j Hero- 
 dotus, lib. ii. c. 77. 
 
 The classical reader will recollect the passage in the Anabasis, in which 
 Xenophon encounters a race of beer-drinkers in Armenia. " Their houses 
 were underground, the entrance like the mouth of a well, but spacious below. 
 The inhabitants entered by means of ladders ; but the way for their cattle 
 ■was dug down, so as to enable them to walk in as on an inclined plane. In 
 these abodes were goats, oxen, birds, and their young. The cattle were fed 
 on fodder ; and we found among them wheat, and barley, and pulse, and a 
 wine made from harJey, which is kept in jars ; and there were reeds at hand, 
 large and small, and when they would drink they applied the reeds to the 
 jars and sucked up the liquor, which was of great strength, unless when 
 mixed with water. We found it a most delightful drink. Their tables were 
 covered with lamb, pork, kid, and veal, with great plenty of wheaten bread ; 
 and when the heallh of a friend was to be drunk they rep.iired to a jar, and 
 applying their mouths to the reeds, sucked in a bending posture like as tho 
 ox driuketh, and thus satisfied their desire."
 
 HEAVY WET. 
 
 207 
 
 "With like beneficence they shed 
 
 On th' elevated mind, 
 From all anxiety secure, 
 •' Making assurance doubly sure," 
 
 Felicity refined. 
 
 Then let us sing God save the Queen ! 
 
 And Barclay — Perkins eke, 
 And may we never know regret 
 For lack of pots of hea\'y wet 
 
 One day throughout the week. 
 
 and raising tlia 
 
 mind to the 
 purest felicity. 
 
 TTe cnrclndeth in 
 the pious spirit 
 of loyalty and 
 nniv«rsal philan- 
 thropy. 
 
 THE SXAIL. 
 
 *' Travelling by tardy staa:es. 
 
 Carrying tliy house with ease. 
 Like the wisest of the sages. 
 
 Excellent Diogenes ! 
 Snail, I greet thee, — why so gloomy ? 
 
 Tell me where thy sorrow lies ; 
 Thou hast mansion snug and roomy, 
 
 That a naked slug would prize. 
 Dost thou creep to herbage shady, 
 
 Badger'd by a scolding spouse ? 
 Art thou jealous that thy lady 
 
 Occupies another house ?" — 
 
 *' Stranger, I have cause to cavil, 
 
 lleason good to grieve, alack ! 
 I am doomed for life to travel 
 
 "With a load upon my back. 
 0\r my journey slowly creeping, 
 
 (Watch mo as I wander near,) 
 It is water'd by my weeping, 
 
 Moisten' d by a slimy tear ! 
 Even Sinbad, on vay credit, 
 
 SufTer'd less than hapless me ; 
 Ills adventure, — have you read it ? — 
 
 With the ' Old Man of the Sea.'
 
 -oS THE SNAIL. 
 
 After making efibrts many, 
 
 Vainly toiling night and day, 
 Sinbad made him drunk, and then ha 
 Shook him ofi', and — walk'd away. 
 Gladly would I burthens barter 
 
 With thee, Sinbad, — honest Jack ! 
 Tho' thy rider proved ' a Tartar,' 
 
 Wondrous fond of ' pick-a-back.' 
 Marvel not at my depression — 
 
 I can never respite have, 
 Yictim to mj' indiscretion. 
 
 Sadly sinking to the grave. 
 This abode has dwindled greatly ; 
 
 Yes, believe it, if you can, 
 It was once a mansion stately, 
 
 I was once a handsome man. 
 Mothers in a thousand quarters 
 
 Calculated on my pelf. 
 While their less designing daughters 
 
 Loved me for my humble self. 
 Flatter'd by their kind advances, 
 
 I was giddy with delight ; 
 Going out to balls and dances. 
 
 Turning morning into night. 
 Early hours thus despising, 
 
 You may well suppose that I 
 Never slept, till, Phosbus rising, 
 
 Warn'd me in the Eastern sky. 
 All the morning friends unnumbcr'd 
 
 To my dwelling used to come. 
 And my servant (whilst I slumber'd) 
 
 Told them I was not at home. 
 Conscience sometimes made me suffer, 
 
 But that quickly pass'd away ; 
 It became a great deal tougher, 
 
 And I lied from day to day. 
 Anger'd by this conduct shocking. 
 
 Death advanced with hasty stride : 
 At my habitation knocking, 
 
 And he would not be denied.
 
 THE SNAIL. 209 
 
 "Warning take and wisely ponder — 
 Ponder for the time to come ; 
 
 I (for ever doom'd to wander) 
 Now am always found, * at home'. 
 
 1 )> 
 
 TO A FOUNTAIN IN HTMETTUS. 
 
 BY EDWARD KENEALY. 
 
 ' These infantine beginnings gently bear, 
 Whose best desert and hope must be your bearing.''' 
 
 Phineas Fletchee. 
 
 C\ PURE and limpid fountain, 
 
 What snow on Alpine mountain, 
 
 Sparkles like thee ? 
 "While on thy turf reclining, 
 Our features soft and shining 
 
 In thee we see. 
 The zephyrs flitting o'er thee, 
 fount, methinks adore thee. 
 
 And linger still, 
 "With winglets light and tender 
 O'er thine eyes of splendour, 
 
 And drink their fill. 
 
 A thousand sunny flowers 
 Their fragrance, like rich dowers, 
 
 Around thee shed ; 
 And through the woodbine branches 
 No breeze its coldness launches 
 
 On thy calm bed. 
 Sunshine upon thee slumbers, 
 As if thy rills' sweet numbers 
 
 Lull'd it to rest ; 
 The stars of niglit and morning 
 
 I'or ever are adorning 
 Thy crystal breast. 
 
 14
 
 2IO TO A FOUNTAIN IN HYMETTUS. 
 
 Aboiit thy banks so fragrant, 
 That little rose- winged vagrant, 
 
 Cupid, is seen ; 
 And in thy silv'ry waters 
 Bathe the mild Goddess-daughters, 
 
 In Beauty's sheen. 
 The Dryads rob'd in brightness, 
 "With feet of fawn-like lightness, 
 
 The Graces Three, 
 Beneath the golden glances 
 Of Hesper weave their dances, 
 
 fount ! round thee. 
 
 Pan leaves his rosy valleys, 
 And by thy brightness dallies 
 
 All day, — and wakes 
 Echo — the forest haunting — 
 Tip with the notes enchanting 
 
 His wild pipe makes. 
 Here, too, at times resorted, 
 Fair Yenus, when she sported 
 
 With am' reus Mars. 
 Their hearts with passion beating, 
 And none to \'iew their meeting, 
 
 But the lone stars. 
 
 Play on, thou limpid fountain 
 Eternal as yon mountain 
 
 Olympus- crown' d : 
 Gush on — in light Elysian, 
 As Poet's shape-fiU'd vision. 
 
 Or Apollo's round. 
 The smiles of Heaven above thee, 
 And the stars to love thee, 
 
 Fount, thou shalt glide 
 Prom thy crystal portal. 
 Strong, beauteous, and immortal, 
 
 Whate'er betide.
 
 21 I 
 
 COUNT CASKO' WHISKY AND HIS THREE HOUSES. 
 
 A TEMPEEANCE BALLAD. 
 
 npHERE is a demon in the land, 
 A demon fierce and frisky, 
 Who steals the souls of mortal men, 
 His name is Casko' "Whisky. 
 
 Lo ! mounted on a fiery steed. 
 
 He rides through town and village, 
 
 And calls the workman from his shop, 
 The farmer from his tillage. 
 
 Clutched in his lanky red right hand 
 
 He holds a mighty hicker, 
 Whose polished sides run daily o'er, 
 
 With floods of burning liquor. 
 
 Around him press the clamorous crowds, 
 
 To taste his liquor greedy ; 
 But chiefly come the poor and sad— 
 
 The sufiering and the needy. 
 
 All those oppressed by grief and debts 
 
 The dissolute, the lazy, 
 Draggle-tail'd sluts, and shirtless men. 
 
 And young girls lewd and crazy. 
 
 " Give ! give !" they cry, " give, give us drink! 
 
 Give us your burning liquor, 
 We'll empty fast as you can fill, 
 
 Your fine capacious bicker. 
 
 ** Give, give us drink to drown our care, 
 
 And make us light and frisky. 
 Give ! give ! and we will bless thy name, 
 
 Thou good Count Casko' Whisky !" 
 
 And when the demon hears them cry, 
 
 Jlight merrily ho laughetli, 
 And holds his bicker out to all. 
 
 And each poor idiot quafl'cth. 
 
 14—2
 
 212 COUNT CASKO' WHISKY. 
 
 The first drop -warms their shivering skins, 
 
 And drives away their sadness, 
 The second lights their sunken eyes 
 
 And fills their souls with gladness. 
 
 The third drop makes them shout and roar. 
 
 And play each furious antic. 
 The fourth drop boUs their very blood, 
 
 The fifth drop drives them frantic ! 
 
 .And still they drink the burning draught, 
 
 TiU old Count Casko' Whisky 
 Holds his bluff sides with laughter fierce, 
 
 To see them all so frisky. 
 
 'More ! more!" they cry, "come, give us more! 
 More of that right good liquor ! 
 Fill up, old boy, that we may draia 
 Down to the dregs your bicker !" 
 
 The demon spurs his fiery steed, 
 
 And laughs a laugh so hollow, 
 Then waves his bicker in the air. 
 
 And beckons them to foUow. 
 
 On ! on ! he rides, and onwards rush 
 
 The heedless thousands after, 
 "While over hiU and valley wide 
 
 Resounds his fiend-like laughter. 
 
 On ! on ! they rush through mud and mire. 
 
 On ! on ! they rush, exclaiming; 
 " Casko' Whisky, give us more. 
 
 More of thy liquor fiamtng !" 
 
 At last he stops his foaming steed, 
 
 Beside a rushing river. 
 Whose waters to the palate sweet, 
 
 Are poison to the liver. 
 
 *' There!" says the demon, " drink your fill — 
 
 Drink of these waters mellow, 
 They'll make your bright eyes blear and dull, 
 
 And turn your white skins yellow.
 
 COUNT CASKO' WHISKY. 213 
 
 " They'll cause the little sense you have 
 
 By inches to forsake you, 
 They'll cause your limbs to faint and faU, 
 
 And palsies dire to shake you ! 
 
 ** They'll fill your homes with care and grief, 
 
 And clothe your back with tatters, 
 They'll fiU your hearts with evil thoughts, 
 
 But never mind ! what matters ? 
 
 ** Though virtue sink, and reason fail, 
 
 And social ties dissever, 
 I'll be your friend in hour of need, 
 
 And find you homes for ever ! 
 
 " For I have built three mansions high. 
 
 Three strong and goodly houses, 
 To lodge at last each goodly soul 
 
 Who all his life carouses I 
 
 *' The first it is a goodly house, 
 
 Black are its walls, and high. 
 And full of dungeons deep and fast. 
 
 Where death-doomed felons lie. 
 
 " The second is a lazar-house, 
 
 Hank, fojtid, and unholy ; 
 Where, fettered by diseases foul, 
 
 And hopeless melancholy, 
 
 " The victims of potations deep 
 
 Pine on their couch of sadness ; 
 Some calling death to end their pain, 
 
 And some imploring madness. 
 
 " The third house is a spacious house, 
 
 To all but sots appalling ; 
 Where by the parish bounty fed, 
 
 VUe in the sunshine crawling, 
 
 " The worn-out drunkard ends his days, 
 
 And eats the dole of otlicrs, 
 A plague and burden to himself, 
 
 An eye-sore to his brothers !
 
 214 COUNT CASKO' WHISKY. 
 
 •' So drink the waters of tMs stream, 
 
 Drink deep the cup of ruin ! 
 Drink, and, like heroes, madly rush 
 
 Each man to his undoing ! 
 
 *' One of my mansions high and strong, 
 
 One of my goodly houses. 
 Is sure to lodge each joUy soul 
 
 "Who to the dregs carouses !" 
 
 Into the stream his courser plunged, 
 
 And all the crowd plunged after 
 "While over hill and valley wide 
 
 Resounded peals of laughter. 
 
 For well he knew this demon old. 
 
 How vain was aU his preaching ; 
 The ragged crew that round him flocked 
 
 Were too far gone for teaching. 
 
 Even as they wallow in the stream, 
 
 They cry aloud quite frisky, 
 " Here's to thy health, thou best of friends ! 
 
 Kind generous Casko' "Whisky. 
 
 ""We care not for thy houses three, 
 
 "We live but for the present. 
 And merry will we make it yet, 
 
 And quaff these waters pleasant !" 
 
 Loud laughs the fiend to hear them speak, 
 
 And lifts his brimming bicker, 
 «< Drink, fools !" quoth he, " you'll pay your scot; 
 
 I'll have your souls for liquor."
 
 215 
 
 THE LOVEE'S LEAP.* 
 
 BY J. A. WADE. 
 
 Qn ! have you not heard of that dark woody glen, 
 
 Where the oak-leaves are richest and rarest, 
 Where Conxal, the chief and the foremost of men, 
 
 Lov'd EiLT, of maidens the faii'est ? 
 She plighted her faith, but as quickly withdrew, 
 
 At a story that slander' d her lover : — 
 She left him in wrath, but how little she knew 
 
 That her peace at their parting was over ! 
 
 He met her in vale, and he met her in grove, — 
 
 At midnight he roam'd by her dwelling ; 
 But he said not a word of the truth of his love. 
 
 For his cheek the sad story was telling ! 
 He found her one eve, by the rock in the glen. 
 
 Where she once vow'd to love him for ever, — 
 He gaz'd, till she murmur'd " Dear Connal," and then 
 
 He leap'd from the rock to the river ! 
 
 The summer pass'd on, and the chief was forgot, 
 
 But one night, when the oak leaves were dying. 
 There came a sad form to that desolate spot, 
 
 'Neath which the brave Connal was lying. 
 She gaz'd on the brown swelling stream 'mid the rocks, 
 
 As she lean'd the wild precipice over : 
 She look'd a farewell to the glen of the oaks, 
 
 And Eily was soon with her lover ! 
 
 WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 
 
 BY II. W. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Jt was the schooner Hesperus 
 That saii'd the wintry sea ; 
 'And the skipper had ta'en his little daughter 
 To bear him company. 
 
 * A romantic spot in the Dargle, County Wicklow, so named from nume- 
 rous traditions rcscmblinfj the present subject.
 
 2i6 WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 
 
 Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, 
 Her cheeks like the dawn of day, 
 
 And her bosom sweet as the hawthorn buds 
 That ope in the month of May. 
 
 The skipper he stood beside the helm, 
 
 With his pipe in his mouth, 
 And watch'd how t e veering flaw did blow 
 
 The smoke now wjst, now south. 
 
 Then up and spake in old sailor, 
 
 Had sail'd the Sp uish Main, 
 " I pray thee put in o yonder port. 
 
 For I fear a hurricane. 
 
 " Last night the moon had a golden ring, 
 
 And to-night no n oon we see !" 
 The skipper he blew a whifF from his pipe,. 
 
 And a scornful la gh laugh'd he. 
 
 Colder and louder b ew the wind, 
 
 A gale from the noith-east ; 
 The snow fell hissing in the brine, 
 
 And the billows f oth'd like yeast. 
 
 Down came the storm, and smote amain 
 
 The vessel in its strength ; 
 She shudder'd and aused, like a frighted steed. 
 
 Then leap'd her cable's length. 
 
 " Come hither ! com« hither ! my little daughter^ 
 
 And do not treml le so : 
 For I can weather the roughest gale 
 
 That ever wind did blow." 
 
 He wrapp'd her warm in his seaman's coat 
 
 Against the stin ing blast ; 
 He cut a rope from a broken spar, 
 
 And bound her to the mast. 
 
 " father ! I hear the church-bells ring — 
 
 Oh ! say, what may it be ?" 
 ** 'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast !" 
 
 And he steer' d for the open sea.
 
 WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 217 
 
 *' Oh father ! I hear the sound of guns — 
 
 Oh ! say, what may it be ?" 
 " Some ship in distress, that cannot live 
 
 In such an angry sea !" 
 
 " father ! I see a gleaming light— 
 
 Oh ! say, Avhat may it be ?" 
 But the father ansTver'd never a word, 
 
 A frozen corpse was he. 
 
 Lash'd to the helm, all stiff and stark, 
 
 With his face to the skies, 
 The lantern gleam'd through the gleaming snow 
 
 On his fix'd and glassy eyes. 
 
 Then the maiden clasp'd her hands, and pray'd 
 
 That saved she might be ; 
 And she thought of Christ, who still'd the wave 
 
 On the lake of Galilee. 
 
 And fast through the midnight dark and drear, 
 
 Through the whistling sleet and snow, 
 Like a sheeted ghost the vessel swept 
 
 Toward the reef of Xorman's Woe. 
 
 And ever the fitful gusts between 
 
 A sound came from the land ; 
 It was the sound of the trampling surf 
 
 On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. 
 
 The breakers were ri ht beneath her bows, 
 
 She drifted a dreary wreck, 
 And a whooping bilhnv swept the crew 
 
 Like icicles from h r deck. 
 
 She struck where the white and fleecy waves 
 
 Look'd soft as card d wool ; 
 But the cruel rocks they gored her side 
 
 Like the horns of an angry bull. 
 
 Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice. 
 
 With the masts we t by the board, 
 Like a vessel of glass she stove and sank, 
 
 llo ! ho ! the breakers roar'd !
 
 21 8 WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 
 
 At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, 
 
 A fisherman stood aghast 
 To see the form of a maiden fair 
 
 Lash'd close to a drifting mast. 
 
 The salt sea was frozen on her breast, 
 
 The salt tears in her eyes ; 
 And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, 
 
 On the billows fall and rise. 
 
 Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, 
 In the midnight and the snow ! 
 
 Christ save us all from a death like this 
 On the reef of Korman's Woe ! 
 
 THE WINE GOD. 
 
 BY C. HARTLEY LANGHOENE. 
 
 rjOME along, come along, to the voice of our song, 
 And list to our carol the vintage-night long ! 
 
 The maid will be there with her bright sunny hair, 
 
 And the pard and the lion will soon quit their lair ; 
 
 And the tiger as well will bow to thy spell, 
 
 And couch at our feet in our violet dell ; 
 
 And all that is beauteous, and brilliant, and gay, 
 
 Will greet thee, Psilas ! Come away ! come away ! 
 Then fiU, fiU, fill to him still, 
 By the lentisk copse, and the vine-cover'd hill. 
 The sweet lily beds, and the dancing rill, — 
 Fill, fill! 
 
 Let the smiles of thy face, with their wild lovely grace. 
 Cast joy and contentment on all in the place ; 
 Let the vineyard be blest where thou takest thy rest. 
 And the corn-field and garden thy foot may have prest ; 
 Come, Grod of the Wine, with the aspect divine. 
 And Helios himself will forget how to shine ; 
 Come, sport with us here 'neath the welkin so clear, 
 And Selene will soon jilt her Latinian fere, 
 And fly to us here, and fly to us hei-e.
 
 THE WINE GOD. 219 
 
 Then fill, fill, fill to him still, 
 By the lentisk copse, and the vine-eover'd hill, 
 The sweet lily beds, and the dancing rill, — 
 Fill, fill ! 
 
 Greatest, omnipotent, mightiest power ! 
 
 This is the moment, this is the hour, — 
 
 Visit thy son in his own Chian bower, 
 
 Where, crown'd with the myrtle, and ivy, and vine, 
 
 He holdeth high rites to the God of the ^Mne ; 
 
 Revel, and song, and proud festive glee. 
 
 Such as is meet for a god like thee. 
 
 Then leave the clifi"s on the Noxian stand, 
 
 And bless with thy presence Oenoplon's land ! 
 Then fill, fill, fill to him still. 
 By the lentisk copse, and the vine-cover' d hill, 
 The sweet lily beds, and the dancing rill, — 
 Fill, fill! 
 
 A TRUE LOVE SONG. 
 
 BY ALI-'KED CROWQUILL. 
 
 ^Tell me, charmer, tell me, pray. 
 Have you sisters many, say ? 
 One sweet word, ay, yet another. 
 Have you got a single brother ? 
 Have you got an aunt or two, 
 Very much attached to you ? 
 Or some uncles very old, 
 "Willing you their lands and gold ? 
 
 Have you money in your right 
 That in case we take to fiight, 
 And your ma and pa bo cross, 
 We should never feel the loss ? 
 Gold indeed 's a fleeting thing, 
 But when in a wedding-ring, 
 Tliere 'tis endless round and round 
 Settlements should thus be lound.
 
 220 A TRUE LOVE SONG. 
 
 Are your parents young or not ; 
 Have they indej^endence got ? 
 Believe me, as your love true, 
 'Tis alone my care for you 
 Makes me thus particular, 
 As regards your pa and ma. 
 Sisters, love, are very well. 
 But the truth I'U frankly tell. 
 
 When a man intends to fix, 
 He doesn't like to marry six ! 
 Brothers, too, are very well 
 To escort a sister belle ; 
 But they stand much in the way 
 "When the dowry is to pay : 
 Then, sweet, I freely own, 
 You I love, and you alone. 
 
 At your feet I humbly kneel, 
 I have nothing — to reveal, 
 Fortune's been unkind to me 
 'Till she kindly proffered thee. 
 Speak ! and let me know my fate ; 
 Speak ! and alter your estate ; 
 If you are, what I suppose, 
 I'll take a cab, love, and propose. 
 
 WHITE BAIT.* 
 
 " Inest sua gratia parvis." 
 
 A SPICE qua juxta Thamesim regalia surgunt 
 
 Moenia, et Hospitii nobilis aula patet ; 
 Scilicet emeritis hie nautis otia fecit 
 
 Securam prtebes Anglia grata domum. 
 Stat vicina domus, minus baud celebranda, Trafalgar, 
 Ad quam convivas atria celsa vocant. 
 
 * The above verses are the production of one of Westminster's most gifted 
 sons.
 
 WHITE BAIT. 
 
 221 
 
 Hue longos cupiens urbis vitare labores 
 
 Turba ruit variis luxuriosa modis. 
 Nunc Aldermannos, pisces consumere natos, 
 
 Per fluviuni lente civica pompa trahit. 
 Nunc regni proceres, ferro via strata, senatus 
 
 Elapsos strepitu fert, populique duces 
 Qualescunque sint, omnes coquuntur eodem, 
 
 Omnes quippe gulas suscitat unus amor. 
 !Nec mora, quin dubiam videas apponere csenani 
 
 Servos, et lauto pondere mensa gemit. 
 Hie pinguis Salnio, et boreali ex sequore Rhombus, 
 
 Hie Soleoe et Mulli, luscius atque vorax. 
 Attamen baud Salis est, frustra fluviique marisque 
 
 Thesauros, babiles apposuere coqui : 
 Convivse quiddam proprium notumque requirant, 
 
 Isempe sua est albis gratia pisciculis. 
 
 Westmonasteriensis. 
 
 SAINT PATEICK. 
 
 (author unknown.) 
 
 Q A.INT Patrick was a gentleman, 
 
 And came of decent people ; 
 He built a church in Dublin town, 
 
 And on it put a steeple. 
 His father was a Hoolagan, 
 
 His sister an O' Grady, 
 His mother was a Mulligan, 
 
 And his wife the Widow Brady. 
 
 CHOEUS. 
 
 Success attend St. Patrick's fist, 
 
 He was a saint so clever ; 
 He gave tlie snakes and toads a twist, 
 
 And bothered them for ever ! 
 
 The Wicklow liills arc very high, 
 And so's the hill of Howth, sir; 
 
 But there's a hill tliat's In'glier still 
 And bigger than them both, sir. 
 
 SANCTUS PATRICIUS. 
 
 (lEISH WHISKEY DEINKEE.) 
 
 T\E gente natus inclytl, 
 Pateicius, lerne, 
 Urbem donavit cathedr4, 
 
 Pyramide superne. 
 Cui pater erat Hoolagan, 
 
 Et Boror erat Grcda, 
 Et pia mater Mulhgan 
 
 Viduaquo conjux Breda. 
 
 CHOEUS. 
 Sic faustus sit Patricius 
 
 Dextram in angues jecit ; 
 Torsit bufones fortiter, 
 
 In saiclaquo confccit ! 
 
 Dant oscula sidcribus 
 Hotha Glucklovioquo ; 
 
 Assurgit collis alibi, 
 X'ra,'cel3ior utroquc.
 
 SAINT PA TRICK, 
 
 Twas from the top of that same hill, 
 Saint Patrick preached the sarmint 
 
 That drove the frogs into the bogs, 
 And banished all the varmint ! 
 
 Patricius e vertice 
 Dulci sermone rudes 
 
 Deraersit vermes Tartaro, 
 Banasque in paludes. 
 
 Success attend St. Patrick's fist, &c. Sic faustus sit Patricius, &c. 
 
 Nine hundred thousand vipers blue. 
 
 He charmed with his sweet discourses, 
 And sawed them up at Killaloo 
 
 In soups and second courses. 
 The blind worms crawling on the grass, 
 
 Disgusted all the nation, 
 Till he opened their eyes and theb.' 
 hearts likewise, 
 
 To a sense of their situation ! 
 
 Angues blanditos vocibus 
 
 Q,uas edidit jucundis, 
 In jusculum dccoquit ut 
 
 Mensas ornent secundas. 
 Dolere mitte Killalu, 
 
 Yiretis iuquinatis, 
 Qua viperis aperuit; 
 
 Ocellos occsecatia ! 
 
 Success attend St. Patrick's fist, &c. Sic faustus sit Patricius, &c. 
 
 There's not a mile, througli Ireland's 
 Isle, 
 
 "Where the dirty creatures musters ! 
 But there he put his dear fore foot. 
 
 And murdered them in clusters. 
 The toads went pop, the frogs went slop, 
 
 Slap dash into the water, 
 And the snakes committed suicide 
 
 To save themselves from slaughter ! 
 
 Quacunque in Apostolum 
 
 Catervas explicaret 
 Calcatur Pestis ungula 
 
 Dilecta ubi staret. 
 Heus Bufo ! Heus Eanuncule , 
 
 Dum licet, denatato ! 
 Quo caudam serves. Coluber, 
 
 Te ipsum jugulato ! 
 
 Success attend St. Patrick's fist, &c. Sic faustus sit Patricius, &c. 
 
 Ko wonder that the Irish boys 
 
 Are all so brave and frisky, 
 Por sure Saint Pat he taught them that, 
 
 And the way of making whiskey. 
 Ifo wonder that the Saint himself 
 
 Was handy at distilling, 
 Por his mother kept a shebeen house 
 
 In the town of Enniskillen ! 
 
 Success attend St. Patrick's fist, 
 
 He was a saint so clever ; 
 He gave the toads and snakes a twist, 
 
 And banished them for ever ! 
 
 Ut fortis sis, Hibernice, 
 
 Ut semper sis in flore, 
 Patriciorum Pater te 
 
 Conspersit Yitm Eoee ! 
 Espvessit Hordearium 
 
 Manu Beatus bona, 
 Vendeditque pia genetrix 
 
 Cyathatim in caupona ! 
 
 Sic faustus sit Patricius ! 
 
 Dextram in angues jecit ; 
 Torsit bufones fortiter. 
 
 In sseclaque confecit !
 
 SAINT PATRICK. 223 
 
 Ceoftok Ceokee asserts, and Lover seems to haye been of the 
 same opinion, that this famous Irish song was a mosaic work put 
 together at different times by different hands, the first portion of it 
 having been snng a great many years ago at a masquerade in Cort, by 
 a couple of gentlemen in the character of ballad singers, each taking 
 most probably (I should think) the alternate lines, which would have 
 given it a much droller effect tlian if both had sung it in first and 
 second parts, as a regular duet, or in luiison. In some parts of Ire- 
 land — and of England as well — this mode of ballad singing, especially 
 where a married couple are the performers, is still adopted. Mr. 
 Croker, speaking only from tradition, may be mistaken, and in the 
 absence of more positive proof, I should be more inclined to think 
 that the 'Praises of St. Patrick' emanated from one poetic source, tlie 
 once famous Dick Milligan, of Cork, tlie acknowledged author of the 
 ' Grroves of Blarney,' who, according to some accounts, had at least a 
 hand in the production. As in the praises of Venus, Diana, Mi- 
 nerva, Hercules, Bacchus, Theseus, &c., by one or other of the an- 
 cient poets, we have in the Irish hymn the birth, genealogy, and 
 achievements of the Patron Saint of Ireland, all heroic in their way, 
 as became a demigod, wiiether he wielded club or crosier, and super- 
 natural to the highest point of the sublime, whether man or woman 
 performed them. We have also, as an appropriate finale, a delicate 
 touch about the chief virtues of his descendants, whose valour and 
 vivacity are derived from the sacred fount of inspiration which ho 
 opened for their especial comfort and civilization, and which has ever 
 since enjoyed a classic reputation equal at least to the waters of Heli- 
 con themselves, and superior to those of any other fountain of ancient 
 or modern times, from Arethusa or Ammon to Blandiisium or Vau- 
 cluse. Tliere is an unmistakable homogenicty about the song of 'St. 
 Patrick,' with a beginning, a middle, and an end, conceived by the one 
 mind, and executed by the one hand, a characteristic more observable 
 in the lyrics of the old school than in tliosc of the new. In trans- 
 ferring its native beauties to tlie language of tlie educated of all na- 
 tions, I have adopted the metre of the original, and without sacrificing 
 the spirit to the letter, have adlicred in all other aspects as closely as 
 possible to tlie poet's conceptions. The air, for tlie information of 
 the English reader, is nearly alike to the popular one on both sides of 
 St. George's Channel, of Miss Bayley, with tlio exception of the 
 chorus, which in the Irish song is a da capo, or repetition of the first 
 part of the air itself.
 
 224 
 
 THE FISHERMAN'S DWELLING. 
 
 TEOM THE GERMAN OF HENKICH HEINE, 
 
 BY MARY HO WITT. 
 
 We sate by the fisher's dwelling, 
 
 And looked upon the sea ; 
 The evening mists were gathering, 
 And rising up silently. 
 
 Forth from the lofty lighthouse 
 
 Streamed softly light by light, 
 And in the farthest distance 
 
 A ship hove into sight. 
 
 We spoke of storm and shipwreck ; 
 
 Of seamen, and how they lay 
 Unsafe 'twixt heaven and water, 
 
 'Twixt joy and fear each day. 
 
 We spoke of lands far distant ; 
 
 We took a world-wide range, 
 We spoke of wondrous nations, 
 
 And manners new and strange. 
 
 Of the fragrant, glittering Ganges, 
 
 Where giant trees uptower. 
 And handsome, quiet people,, 
 
 Eneel to the lotus flower. 
 
 Of Lapland's filthy people. 
 
 Flat-headed, wide-mouthed, we spake ; 
 How they squat round their fires and jabber. 
 
 And shriek o'er the fish they bake. 
 
 The maidens listened so gravely ; 
 
 At length no more was said ; 
 The ship was in sight no longer. 
 
 And night over all was spread.
 
 225 
 
 THE TILLAGE BLACKSMITH. 
 
 BY H. W. LONGFELLOW, 
 
 TTnder a spreading chestnut tree 
 
 The village smithy stands ; 
 The smith a mighty man is he, 
 
 With large and sinewy hands, 
 And the muscles of his brawny arms 
 
 Are strong as iron bands. 
 
 His hair is crisp, and black, and long, 
 
 His face is lilce the tan. 
 His brow is wet with honest sweat, 
 
 He earns whate'er he can. 
 And looks the whole world in the face, 
 
 Por he owcS not any man. 
 
 Week out, week ia. from morn till night. 
 You can hear his bellows blow. 
 
 You can hear him swing his heavy sledgo 
 With measured beat and slow,-- 
 
 Like a sexton ringing the old kirk-chimes. 
 When the evening sun is low. 
 
 And children coming home from school 
 
 Look in at the open door ; 
 They love to see the flaming forge. 
 
 And hear the bellows roar. 
 And catch the burning sparks that fly 
 
 Like chaff from a threshing-floor. 
 
 •o 
 
 He goes on Sunday to the church. 
 
 And sits among his boys ; 
 He hears the parson pray and preach, 
 
 He hears his daughter's voice, 
 Singing in the village choir, 
 
 And it makes his heart rejoice. 
 
 It sounds to him like her mother's voice. 
 
 Singing in Paradise ! 
 He ueeds must think of her once more, 
 
 How in her grave she lies, 
 
 15
 
 126 THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. 
 
 And with his hard, rough haud he wipes 
 A tear from out his eyes. 
 
 Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing, 
 Onward through life he goes ; 
 
 Each morning sees some task begin, 
 Each evening sees it close ; 
 
 Something attempted, something done, 
 Has earned a night's repose. 
 
 Thanks ! thanks to thee my worthy friend 
 For the lesson thou hast taught ! 
 
 Thus at the sounding foi'ge of Life 
 Our fortunes must be wrought. 
 
 Thus on its sounding anvil shaped, 
 Each burning deed and thought. 
 
 CUPID IX LONDOI^. 
 
 BY R. MORE, 
 
 VouNG Cupid, grown tired of his wild single life 
 
 And the pranks ho had long been pursuing. 
 Determined to marry a sweet little wife. 
 So in earnest he set out a- wooing. 
 
 But disdaining to win her by magic or art, 1 
 
 Or aught save his beauty and merit, 1 
 
 Away with contempt threw his bow and his dart, ' 
 !No longer their pow'r to inherit. 
 
 Then to London he came one fine morning in May, 
 
 When the full tide of fashion was iiowing ; 
 His purse was brim-full, his heart light and gay, 
 
 And his cheeks with fresh roses were glowing. 
 
 As a fine handsome youth he was soon known in town, — 
 
 All the ladies his manner delighted ; 
 Isot a ball or a rout with the world would go down 
 
 Unless Mr. Love were invited. 
 
 H
 
 CUPID IN LONDON. 27.7 
 
 His cab was *^ perfection,^'' his horse " quite a love,'' 
 
 And his Tiger " the least of the little ; 
 No one else ever wore such a hat or a glove, 
 
 And his Stullz was a fit to a tittle. 
 
 The bride that he sought for was easy to find 
 
 In the midst of such dazzling attraction ; 
 And soon a fair maiden he met to his mind, 
 
 Whom he loved at first sight to distraction. 
 
 'Twas at AlmacFs he met with the dear lovely girl, 
 She was called " the prize flower of the season;" 
 
 And her exquisite form in the waltz to entwirl 
 Was enough to deprive him of reason. 
 
 So he told her his love, and she whispered " Oh fie !" 
 As she blushed and looked round for her mother ; 
 
 And Cupid inquired, with a tremulous sigh, 
 If her heart ever beat for another. 
 
 But her mind was as pure as her beauty was bright : 
 
 And she told him no one e'er could win her 
 Who in frivolous pastime alone took delight— 
 
 The leau of a ball or a dinner. 
 
 Ashamed and dejected, poor Cupid retired. 
 
 Resolving to rut — cutting capers, — 
 And chambers next day in the Temple he hired. 
 
 And filled them with law-books and papers. 
 
 Then to studj' the Law, like a man he went down, 
 
 No scholar could ever be apter, 
 For he bought an arm-chair, with a wig and a gown, 
 
 And in Blackstone he read a whule chapter. 
 
 At the end of a fortnight he grew thin and pale. 
 And he thought he should die without jesting ; 
 
 So he dressed all in black, which lie tiiought must prevail, 
 For it made him look quite interesting. 
 
 In a cavalry reg'raent to battle he went, 
 And he said not a word of his going ; 
 But resolved that in action his life should "bo spent. 
 
 Or at least tliat his blood should be ilowiiig. 
 
 lo-
 
 -28 CUPID IN LONDON. 
 
 And soon in a charge which he gallantly led 
 
 At the enemy's troops in platoon, 
 He got a sad cut (while defending his head) 
 
 In the arm from a heavy dragoon. 
 
 Disabled from duty, he homeward returned, 
 
 The news of a victory bringing ; 
 And now with affection his loved maiden burned, 
 
 And the town with his praises was ringing. 
 
 One morning he called with his arm in a sling, 
 And attired as a dashing young lancer ; 
 
 To refuse him this time was a difficult thing. 
 For she loved him, indeed, — when a dancer. 
 
 When he talked of his passion, she listened with pride. 
 And her heart by assault was soon carried ; 
 
 And she shortly appeared as the young soldier's bride, 
 For in less than a month Ihey ivere married. 
 
 THE MISLETOE. 
 
 BY FATUER. TROUT. 
 I. 
 
 A PROPHET sat in the Temple gate, 
 
 And he spoke each passer by 
 In thrilling tones— with words of weight- 
 And fire in his rolling eye. 
 
 " Pause thee, lelieving Jew ! 
 ^'^ Nor make one step beyond 
 ** Until thy heart hath conned 
 *' The mystery of this wand." 
 
 And a rod from his robe he drew ; — 
 
 'Twas a withered bough 
 
 Torn long ago 
 From the trunk on which it grew. 
 
 But the branch long torn 
 
 Showed a bud new born. 
 That had blossomed there anew .—
 
 THE MISLETOE. 229 
 
 That wand was "Jesse's rod," 
 
 Symbol, 'tis said, 
 
 Of Her, the Maid- 
 Yet mother of our God ! 
 
 II. 
 
 A priest of Egypt sat meanwhile 
 
 Beneath his palm tree hid, 
 On the sacred brink of the flowing Nile, 
 
 And there saw mirror'd, 'mid 
 Tall obelisk and shadowy pile 
 
 Of ponderous pyramid, 
 One lowly, lovely, Lotus plant, 
 
 Pale orphan of the flood ; 
 And long did that aged hierophant 
 
 Gaze on that beauteous bud ; 
 For well he thought, as he saw it float 
 
 O'er the waste of waters wild. 
 On the long-remember'd cradle boat, 
 
 Of the wond'rous Hebrew child : — 
 Nor was that lowly lotus dumb 
 Of a mightier Infant still, to come, 
 If mystic skiff" 
 And hieroglyph 
 Speak aught in Luxor's catacomb. 
 
 III. 
 A Greek sat on Colonna's cape, 
 
 In his lofty thoughts alone. 
 And a volume lay on Plato's lap, 
 For he was that lonely one ; 
 And oft as the sage 
 Gaz'd o'er tlic page 
 His forehead radiant grew, 
 For in Wisdom's womb 
 Of the Word to come 
 A vision blest his view. — 
 He broached that theme in the ACADEME 
 
 Of the toaelifiil olive grove — 
 And a chosen few that secret knew 
 In the Porch's dim alcovp.
 
 230 THE MISLETOE. 
 
 IV. 
 
 A Sybil sat in Cumas's cave 
 
 In the hour of infant Rome, 
 And her vigil kept and her warning gave 
 
 Of the Holy One to come. 
 'Twas she who culled the hallowed branch 
 
 And silent took the helm 
 "When he the Founder-Sire would launch. 
 
 His bark o'er Hades' realm : 
 But chief she poured her vestal soul 
 Thro' many a bright illumined scroll, 
 By priest and sage, 
 Of an after age, 
 Conned in the lofty Capitol. 
 
 V. 
 
 A Druid stood in the dark oak wood 
 
 Of a distant northern land, 
 And he seem'd to hold a sickle of gold 
 
 In the grasp of his withered hand, 
 And he moved him slowly round the girth. 
 
 Of an aged oak, to see 
 If an orphan plant of wondrous birth 
 
 Had clung to the old oak tree. 
 And anon he knelt and from his belt 
 
 Unloosened his golden blade, 
 Then rose and culled the Misletoe 
 Under the woodland shade. 
 
 VI. 
 
 blessed bough ! meet emblem thou 
 
 Of all dark Egypt knew. 
 Of all foretold to the wise of old, 
 
 To Roman, Greek, and Jew. 
 And long, God grant, time-honor'd plant, 
 
 Live we to see thee hung 
 In cottage small as in baron's hall 
 ^ Banner and shield among ! 
 
 Thus fitly rule the mirth of Yule 
 
 Aloft in thy place of pride, 
 Still usher forth in each land of the North' 
 
 The solemn Christmas Tide!
 
 I 
 
 THE GREEK POET'S DREAM. 
 
 BY EDWARD KENEALY. 
 
 Siate present! .... 
 Tu tnadre d'Amor col tuo gioeondo 
 E lieto aspctto, e '1 tuo figliol veloee 
 Co' dardi sol possente k tutto '1 mondo, 
 
 Bocciccio. 
 dream'd a dream 
 As fair — as bright 
 As the star's soft gleam, 
 
 Or eyes of light. 
 
 At the midnight hour 
 
 The Queen of Love, 
 
 From her fairy bower 
 
 Of smiles above, 
 
 With Cupid came, 
 And, with grace Elysian, 
 Yielded the god 
 
 To the bard's tuition. 
 " This child hath come 
 
 To learn from thee, 
 In thine own dear home 
 
 Thy minstrelsy : 
 Teach him to sing 
 
 The strains thou hast sung ; 
 Like a bird of spring 
 
 O'er its callow j-oung." 
 She vanish'd in light, — 
 
 That witching one. 
 Like a meteor of night. 
 
 That shines, and is gone. 
 The Sprite of the skies 
 
 Remain'd by me, 
 Ilis deep-blue eyes 
 
 Radiant with glee. 
 His looks were briglit 
 As roses wreathed. 
 A wild delight 
 
 From his features breathed.
 
 THE CREEK POETS DREAM. 
 
 Legends I taught him 
 
 Of nymph and swain ; 
 Of hearts entangled 
 
 In Love's sweet chain. 
 Fables that charm 
 
 The soul from sadness ; 
 Stories that warm 
 
 The coldest to gladness : 
 Songs all glowing 
 
 With passion and mirth, 
 Like music flowing 
 
 From heaven to earth. 
 Such were the treasures 
 
 Of wit and thought 
 I gave : yet dream'd not 
 
 My task was nought. 
 Cupid listened, 
 
 And clapp'd his hands, 
 And his wild eyes glistened 
 
 Like burning brands. 
 Fanning the air 
 
 With snow-white wings, 
 lie seized my lyre, 
 
 He swept the strings : 
 lie look'd— he glitter'd 
 
 Like golden morn, 
 As he chanted the loves 
 
 Of the Heaven-born. 
 His voice was sweet 
 
 And perfume -laden. 
 And light as the feet 
 
 Of dancing maiden. 
 " Hearts there are 
 
 In Heaven above 
 Of wild desires. 
 
 Of passionate love. 
 Hearts there are 
 
 Divinest of mould. 
 Which love hath among 
 
 His slaves enroU'd ; —
 
 THE GREEK POETS DREAM. 233 
 
 Love hath been, 
 
 And ever will be : 
 The might of Heaven 
 
 Shall fade ere he." 
 Then the Boy, — 
 
 Nearer advancing, 
 The Spirit of Joy 
 
 In his blue eyes dancing-. 
 Told me such secrets 
 
 Of Heaven as ne'er 
 Were before reveal'd 
 
 But to poet's ear, 
 Revealings of beauty 
 
 That make the soul 
 Like the stars, that on wings 
 
 Of diamond roll. 
 In song — in splendour 
 
 The god departed ; 
 The spell was o'er, 
 
 From sleep I started. 
 Thoughts like sunbeams 
 
 Around me hung, 
 And my heart still echoed 
 
 What Love had sung. 
 Oh ! what could Heaven 
 
 Deny to us, 
 To whom it hath given 
 
 Its secrets thus ? 
 
 MY SOLDIER BOY. 
 
 BY DR. MAGINN. 
 
 J GIVE my soldier-hoy a hlade, 
 
 In fair Damascus fashioned well ; 
 Who ihst the glittering falchion swayed, 
 
 Who lirst beneath its fury fell, 
 I know not, ])ut I hope to know, 
 
 Tluit for no mean or liireliug trade. 
 To guard no feeling base or low, 
 
 I give my soldier-hoy a hlade.
 
 234 ^^y SOLDIER BOY. 
 
 Cool, calm, and clear, the lucid flood, 
 
 In which its tempering work was done. 
 As calm, as clear, as cool of mood, 
 
 Be thou whene'er it sees the sun. 
 For country's claim, at honour's call, 
 
 For outraged friend, insulted maid, 
 At mercy's voice to bid it fall, 
 
 1 give my soldier-hoy a Made. 
 
 The eye which marked its peerless edge, 
 
 The hand that weighed its balanced poise, 
 Anvil and pincers, forge and wedge. 
 
 Are gone, with all their flame and noise — ■ 
 And still the gleaming sword remains. 
 
 So when in dust I low am laid. 
 Remember by these heart-felt strains 
 
 I gave my soldier-boy a blade. 
 
 EXDYMIOX. 
 
 BY II. "W. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 The rising moon has hid the stars ; 
 Her level rays, like golden bais, 
 Lie on the landscape green, 
 With shadows brown between. 
 
 And silver-white the river gleams, 
 As if Diana, in her dreams, 
 
 Had dropt her silver bow 
 
 Upon the meadows low. 
 
 On such a tranquil night as this. 
 
 She woke Endymion with a kiss, 
 
 "When, sleeping in the grove, 
 
 He dreamed not of her love. 
 
 Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought, 
 Love gives itself, but is not bought ; 
 Nor voice nor sound betrays 
 Its deep, impassioned gaze.
 
 END YM I ON. 
 
 It comes,— the beautiful, the free, — 
 ' The crown of all humanity, — 
 
 In silence and alone, 
 
 To seek the elected one. 
 
 It lifts the boughs, ■whose shadows deep 
 Are life's oblivion, — the soul's sleep, — 
 
 And kisses the closed eyes 
 
 Of him who slumbering lies. 
 
 0, weary hearts ! 0, slumbering eyes ! 
 0, drooping souls, whose destinies 
 
 Are fraught with fear and pain ! 
 
 Ye shall be loved again ! 
 
 Ko one is so accursed by fate, 
 No one so wholly desolate, 
 
 But some heart, though unknown, 
 
 Responds unto his own. 
 
 Responds, as if with unseen wings 
 
 A breath from heaven had touched its strings ; 
 And whispers in its song, 
 *' Where hast thou stay'd so long 'f" 
 
 TIIE WAE SONG OF THE GALLANT P^AN MILITAEIS 
 
 EIGlITY-EIGHTn. LEGIONIS 
 
 BY THE lEISn WIIISKET DEINKEU. LXXXVIII IIIBEENIC.E. 
 
 rioME now, brave boys, we're on for Tuvekk^ (locus et tutameu ! 
 
 marchiiifj, ^ No3 Patria vocut in ccrlii- 
 
 For Irelanil's glory and divarsion ; men ! 
 
 Where cannons roar, and men are dyinj^, Gemitus qui trist6 sonant ! 
 
 March, brave boy.s, there's no denyiug ! Qui tormenta soeva tonaut ! 
 
 Love, farewell ! Vale carissima ! 
 
 Hark ! 'tis the Colonel gaily crying', Audin ! ait Dux jocose 
 
 " March, brave boys, there's no denying, " Signa vocant bellicos6 
 
 Colours (lying, drums arc bayting, TymimnuuKiuc ! Corda sursum !' 
 
 March, brave boys, there's no retray ting !" N ullu via est retrorsum !" 
 
 Love, farewell ! Vale carissima ! 
 
 The major cries, " Boys, are you ready ?" " An parati ?" (Sic Lcgatus) 
 
 "Yes, your honour, lirm and steady ; Nullus, ccce, non ])aratus \
 
 LOVE, FAREWELL. 
 
 Give every man his flask of powdher, Suum cuique en scloppetiim ! 
 
 And his firelock on his sliouldher !" Sacculisque pulvis detur ! 
 
 Love, farewell ! Vale earissima ! 
 
 The mother cries, "Boys, do not wrong me, jNIater inde " O tenellis, 
 
 Do not take my daughtei-s from me ! PrEccor, parcite puellis ! 
 
 If you do, I will tormint you ! Vos viva usque objurgabo. 
 
 After death my ghost will haunt you !" Umbra poenas flagitabo !" 
 Love, farewell ! Vale earissima ! 
 
 "Oh, Molly,dear,you'reyoungand tinder, O Maria, mei lepores. 
 
 And when I'm gone you won't surrindcr, Dum revertar, scortatores 
 
 Ilowld out like an auncient Roman, Polle, sen vivas, sen relicta, 
 
 And live and die an honest woman." Eomana fide sis invieta! 
 Love, farewell ! Vale earissima ! 
 
 " Oh, Molly, darling, grieve no more, I Quid fles — quid trepidas dolore ? 
 
 'M going to fight for Ireland's glory ; En Patrias vocor amore ! 
 
 If I come back, I'll come victorious; Victor, si redeam, redibo; 
 
 If I die, my sowl in glory is !" Ad astra moriturus ibo ! 
 Love, farewell ! Vale earissima ! 
 
 Many popular song wi-iters from time to time, ■when fortunate enough 
 to light upon a lyrical idea, or stray fragment of some primitive song, 
 banded down from generation to generation, until it had all but passed 
 away, have happily adopted, added to, and remodelled it, without being 
 in any way open to the charge of plagiarism. The air to which the 
 quaint Anglo-Irish words of 'Love, Farewell,' are sung, is one of the 
 most perfect of its kind, at once wild and beautiful, and much better 
 suited for the Highland bagpipe, or the fife and drum, than the regular 
 band of a regiment. The fond and sad adieu at the end of each qua- 
 train, like the Ochone-a-ree of the Scotcli coronach or the Wirrasthrein 
 of the Irish funeral keen, lias no rhytliiiiical connexion, strictly speak- 
 ing, with the melody, forming as it docs a ninth irregular bar to the 
 eight regular ones, of which the air is composed. 
 
 Shortly after the battle of Culloden, and tlie breaking up of the 
 Scottish clans, some thousands of the Highland peasants were thrown 
 on the world by the utter defeat of the Stuart cause, and the ruin of 
 their chiefs. Unlike King James's Irish soldiers, after the siege of 
 Limerick, whose simple notions of honour and fealty to an unfortu- 
 nate dynasty led them to bid an eternal farewell to their native coun- 
 try, and seek an asylum in foreign armies, Charles Edward's followers, 
 entertaining less political scrupulosity, made the most of the situation, 
 and took service under the actual English government of the day. The 
 Dalgety provertant was all and everything to men whose only alterna-
 
 LOVE, FAREWELL. 237 
 
 five Tras to die of honour and starvation in their native hills. For it 
 must not be forgotten that •whilst Louis the Fourteenth was ready to 
 receive the unfortunate Irish Jacobites with open arms, and incorporate 
 them into his army as a distinct and privileged brigade, his successor was 
 not disposed to go the same fiiendly length with the Scotch who sur- 
 vived the battle of Culloden. The latter he thouglit, most probably, more 
 decisive of the fate of the Stuarts than his great-grandfather did the 
 battle of the Boyne. A proof of how little Louis the Fifteenth cared 
 for the utterly fallen house, may be seen in the short and unceremo- 
 nious notice served on the Pretender whilst at the theatre, in obedience 
 to which he was obliged to leave France to satisfy the demand of the 
 British Ambassador. 
 
 Agreeing to serve the House of Hanover, the delris of the Scottish 
 clans were formed into four regiments, each of which went by the 
 name of the Highland Watch — first, second, third, and fourth, ac- 
 cording to the date of its formation. — One of these regiments was sent 
 to Canada, one to Virginia, one to Gibraltar, and one to Ireland. 
 They proved thoroughly loyal to their adopted colours, and better 
 soldiers never served the British Crown. It is to the pipers of the 
 Highland regiment which was thus introduced to garrison duty in 
 ditferent parts of Ireland about the middle of the last century that 
 she is indebted for the origin at least of this popular chant de depart, 
 in the same way as she is said to be under a similar obligation to some 
 early En gUsh regiment for the renowned fife-and-drum air of 'The 
 Girl I left behind me.' This latter is the old English air of ' Brighton 
 Camp,' the words of which are also English, most unquestionably 
 ("I'm lonesome since I crossed the hill," &c.), the only Irish associa- 
 tion to which it could lay claim, as far as I could ever see, being that 
 Julian gave it amongst his Irish Quadrilles on the strength of Mooro's 
 having put to it his beautiful words — 
 
 " As slow our ship linr foamy track 
 Against the wiud was cleaving — " 
 
 The Irish often accuse the Scotch of borrowing their airs wifliout 
 actnowledgment. They would not bo accused of knowingly doing the 
 same thing themselves to tlie English, who have an ancient school of 
 native melody, of rare and exquisite beauty, better known and appre- 
 ciated — strange to say — in Ireland tlian amongst themselves, or at 
 least amongst their own fasliionable circles. 
 
 The oldest inhabitant of the other side of St. George's Channel can 
 only remember two stanzas of ' Love, farewell !' as it was sung about 
 fifty years ago by an old regiment called The Black Bells, " marching
 
 23S LOVE, FAREWELL. 
 
 to death with miHtary glee, ' along the Dublin Quay, where they em- 
 barked at the Pigeon House for England, to join the unfortunate 
 Walcheren expedition. Tliese were the first and fourth of the present 
 version. The second line of the first ran — 
 
 " First for France and then for Holland." 
 
 The other stanza, in which tlie mother appeals to the Tirtuons 
 feelings {quantum valeant) as well as to tlie fears of the retiring troops 
 on behalf of the family honour, remains unchanged — happily so, we 
 may still be permitted to think, as a type of simple manners, bearing 
 the antique stamp of a bold, broad faith, in the supernatural, even to 
 the extent of divine justice permitting an outraged parent to return 
 from beyond the tomb and wreak vengeance upon the perpetrator of 
 the wrono;. 
 
 The fifth stanza contemplates a higher morale and more satisfactory 
 arrangement for all parties concerned, than the melancholy and dis- 
 reputable order of things so feelirgly and fearfully deprecated by the 
 old lady in the fourth. Dibdin's naval heroes absent, or on the point 
 of being so, took a broader view of the situation, their implorations to 
 Nan and Sue to be constant and true being of a more conventional 
 character — the constancy and truth of the winds and waves, according 
 to sailors' notions, in general. 
 
 Paddy's alternative, the apotlieosis of his " sowl in glory," in case 
 that his body should be laid low, is superior to any picture which our 
 great naval poet has given us of the British tar soaring aloft. Poor 
 Jack's spirit, emancipated from its mortal coil, and rising above the 
 sulphurous clouds and din of battle, would be satisfied with getting in 
 anyliow and anywhere in the upper regions, of which, sooth to say, he 
 has ever entertained ratlier mystic notions. Any quiet little nook or 
 corner in the skies would be hailed as a post of refuge and rest by the 
 brave and honest fellow, who felt he had simply done his duty. Pat's 
 idea of the glory which awaited the soul of the Irish warrior soaring 
 upwards from the arms of victory, is eminently Celtic, and in all 
 respects a much higher conception — 
 
 " Ille deum vitam accipiet, divisque virlebit 
 Permixtos lieroas, et ipse videbitur illis."
 
 239 
 THE EAINY DAT. 
 
 BY II. -W. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 The day is cold, and dark and dreary ; 
 
 It rains, and the wind is never weary ; 
 The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, 
 But at every gust the dead leaves fall, 
 And the day is dark and dreary. 
 
 My life is cold, and dark, and dreary ; 
 It rains, and the wind is never weary ; 
 Memory clings to the mouldering past. 
 But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, 
 And the days are dark and dreary. 
 
 Be still, sad heart, and cease repining ; 
 Above the dark clouds is the sun still shining: : 
 Thy fate is the common fate of all ; 
 Into each life some rain must fall, 
 
 Some days must be dark and dreary. 
 
 MY NORA ! 
 
 BY T. J. OUSELKY. 
 
 My Noka — dear Nora, is dreaming. 
 
 The moon on her fair cheek is gleaming; 
 
 "Whilst tlie fairies unseen, 
 
 Kiss her forehead serene. 
 As her eyes — through their lashes are beaming. 
 
 ]\Ty Nora — sweet Nora is weeping. 
 
 The pearls tlirough those lashes are peeping ; 
 
 Oh, the fairies, I fear. 
 
 Have just breath'd in her car 
 That my love from her bosom is creeping. 
 
 My Nora — loved Nora is waking, 
 ller heart with its anguish is breaking ; 
 
 Nora, come to thy rest 
 
 On my fond, faithful breast — 
 Of thy soul's grief, love, mine is partaking.
 
 240 
 
 EXCELSIOR 
 
 BY H. AV. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 fPHE shades of niglit were falling fast, 
 
 As throiigli an Alpine village passed 
 A youth, who bore, 'midst snow and ice, 
 A banner with the strange deyioQ—UJccelsior ! 
 
 His brow was sad ; his eye beneath 
 
 Flashed like a falchion from its sheath, 
 
 And like a silver clarion rung 
 
 The accents of that unknown tongue — Excelsior 1 
 
 In happy homes he saw the light 
 
 Of household tires gleam clear and bright ; 
 
 Above the spectral glaciers shone. 
 
 And from his lips escaped a groan — Excelsior ! 
 
 ** Try not the pass !" the old man said ; 
 
 ** Dark lowers the tempest overhead ; 
 
 The roaring torrent is deep and wide !" 
 
 And loud that clarion voice replied — Excelsior J 
 
 *' stay," the maiden said, " and rest 
 
 Thy weary head upon this breast !" 
 
 A tear stood in his bright blue eye, 
 
 But still he answered with a sigh — Excelsior ! 
 
 ** Beware the pine-tree's wither'd branch ! 
 
 Beware the awful avalanche !" 
 
 This was the peavsant's last good-night ; 
 
 A voice replied, far up the height — Excelsior ! 
 
 At break of day, as heavenward 
 
 The pious monks of Saint Bernard 
 
 Uttered the oft repeated prayer, 
 
 A voice cried through the fi'osty air — Excelsior / 
 
 A traveller, by the faithful hound. 
 
 Half buried in the snow was found, 
 
 Still grasping in his hand of ice 
 
 That banner with the strange device — Excelsior ! 
 
 \
 
 EXCELSIOR ! 24 r 
 
 There, in the twilight cold and grey, 
 
 Lifeless, but beautiful, be lay, 
 
 And from the sky, serene and far, 
 
 A voice fell, like a falling star — Excelsior ! 
 
 nOK MR, SUCKLETHUMBKIN'S STOIIY. 
 THE EXECUTION 
 
 A SPOETING ANECDOTE. 
 BT THOMAS INGOLDSBT, 
 
 TITy Lord Tomnoddy got up one day ; 
 
 It was half after two, he had nothing to do, 
 ^0 bis lordsbip rang for his cabriolet. 
 
 Tiger Tim was clean of limb, 
 His boots were polish'd, bis jacket was trim ; 
 "Witb a very smart tie in his smart cravat. 
 And a smart cockade on the top of bis bat ; 
 Tallest of boys, or shortest of men. 
 He stood in bis stockings just four foot ten ; 
 And be ask'd, as he held the door on the swing, 
 •* Pray, did your Lordship please to ring ?' 
 
 My Lord Tomnoddy be raised bis bead, 
 And thus to Tiger Tim he said, 
 
 ' Malibran's dead, Duvernay's fled, 
 Taglioni has not yet arrived in ber stead ; 
 Tiger Tim, come tell me true, 
 AVhat may a nobleman find to do ?' 
 
 Tim look'd up, and Tim look'd down, 
 
 He paus'd, and be put on a thoughtful frown. 
 
 And he held up bis bat, and he peep'd in tbe crown ; 
 
 He bit bis lip, and be scratcb'd bis bead. 
 
 He let go tbe handle, and thus lie said, 
 
 As the door, released, behind him bang'd ; 
 
 ' An't please you, my Lord, there's a man to be bang'd.' 
 
 My Lord Tomnoddy jump'd up at tlie news, 
 
 ' Run to M'Fuze, and Lieutenant Treegooze, 
 And run to Sir Carnaby Jenks, of tlie Dlues. 
 
 IG
 
 242 THE EXECUTION. 
 
 Rope-dancers a score I've seen before — 
 Madame Sacchi, Antonio, and Master Black -more ; 
 
 But to see a man swing at the end of a string, 
 "With his neck in a noose, will be q^uite a new thing.' 
 
 My Lord Tomnoddy stcpt into his cab — 
 Dark rifle-green, with a lining of drab ; 
 
 Through street and through square, 
 
 His high-trotting mare, 
 Like one of Ducrow's, goes pawing the air. 
 Adown Piccadilly and Waterloo Place 
 Went the high-trotting mare at a very qiiick pace ; 
 
 She produced some alarm, but did no great harm, 
 Save frightening a nurse with a child on her arm, 
 
 Spattering with clay two urchins at i^lay, 
 Knocking down — very much to the sweeper's dismay — 
 An old woman who wouldn't get out of the way, 
 
 And iipsetting a stall near Eleter Hall, 
 Which made all the pious Church-Mission folks squall. 
 
 But eastward afar through Temple Bar, 
 My Lord Tomnoddy directs his oar ; 
 
 Never heeding their squalls, 
 
 Or their calls or their bawls, 
 He passes by Waithman's Emporium for shawls, 
 And, merely just catching a gKmpse of St. Paul's, 
 
 Turns down the Old Bailey, 
 
 Where in front of the gaol, he 
 Pulls up at the door of the gin-shop, and gaily 
 Cries, ' What must I fork out to-night, my trump, 
 For the whole first-floor of the Magpie and Stump ? 
 
 The clock strikes Twelve — it is dark midnight — 
 Yet the Magpie and Stump is one blaze of light. 
 
 The parties are met ; the tables are set ; 
 There is ' punch,' * cold without^ ' hot tvith^ heavy wet. 
 
 Ale-glasses and jugs, and rummers and mugs, 
 And sand on the floor, without carpets or rugs, 
 
 Cold fowl and cigars, pickled onions in jars, 
 Welsh rabbits and kidneys — rare work for the jaws : — 
 And very large lobsters, with very large claws ;
 
 THE EXECUTION. 243 
 
 And there is M'Fuze, and Lieutenant Tregooze ; 
 And there is Sir Carnaby Jenks, of the Blues, 
 All come to see a man 'die in his shoes !' 
 
 The clock strikes One ! supper is done, 
 And Sir Carnaby Jenks is full of his fun, 
 Singing 'Jolly companions every one !' 
 
 My Lord Tomnoddy is drinking gin toddy, 
 And laughing at ev'ry thing, and ev'ry body. — 
 
 The clock strikes Two I and the clock strikes Three I 
 — ' Who so merry, so merry as we ?' 
 
 Save Captain M'Fuze, who is taking a snooze, 
 While Sir Carnaby Jenks is busy at work, 
 Blacking his nose with a piece of burnt cork. 
 
 The clock strikes Four ! — round the debtors' door 
 Are gather' d a couple of thousand or more ; 
 
 As many await at the press-yard gate, 
 Till slowly its folding doors open, and straight 
 The mob divides, and between their ranks 
 A waggon comes loaded with posts and with planks. 
 
 The clock strikes Five ! the Sheriffs arrive, 
 And the crowd is so great that the street seems alive ; 
 
 But Sir Carnaby Jenks blinks and winks, 
 A candle burns down in the socket, and stinks. 
 
 Lie i. tenant Tregooze is dreaming of Jews, 
 And acceptances all the bill-brokers refuse ; 
 
 My Lord Tomnoddy has drunk all his toddy, 
 And just as the dawn is beginning to peep, 
 The whole of the party are fast asleep. 
 
 Sweetly, oh ! sweetly, the morning breaks,- 
 
 With roseate streaks. 
 Like the iirst faint blush on a maiden's clieeks ; 
 Seem'd as that mild and clear blue sky 
 Smiled upon all things far and high. 
 On all— save the wretch condomu'd to die ! 
 Alack ! that ever so fair a Sun, 
 As that which its course has now begun, 
 
 IG— 2
 
 244 THE EXECUTION. 
 
 Should rise on such a scene of misery ! — 
 Should gild with rays so light and free 
 That dismal, dark-frowning Gallows-tree ! 
 
 And hark ! — a sound comes, big with fate ; 
 
 The clock from St. Sepulchre's tower strikes — Eight \- 
 
 List to that low funereal bell : 
 
 It is tolling, alaB ! a living man's knell ! — 
 
 And see ! — from forth that opening door 
 
 They come — He steps that threshold o'er 
 
 Who never shall tread upon threshold more ! 
 
 • — God ! 'tis a fearsome thing to see 
 
 That pale wan man's mute agony, — 
 
 The glare of that wild, despairing eye, 
 
 Now bent on the crowd, now turn'd to the sky 
 
 As though 'twere scanning, in doubt and in fear, 
 
 The path of the Spirit's unknown career. 
 
 Those pinion'd arms, those hands that ne'er 
 
 Shall be lifted again, — not even in prayer ; 
 
 That heaving chest ! — enough — 'tis done ! 
 
 The bolt has fallen ! — the spirit is gone — 
 
 For weal or for woe is known but to One ! — 
 
 — Oh ! 'twas a fearsome sight ! — Ah me ! 
 
 A deed to shudder at, — not to see. 
 
 Again that clock ! 'tis time, 'tis time ! 
 The hour is past : with its earliest cliime 
 The chord is severed, the lifeless clay 
 By ' dungeon villains' is born away : 
 Nine ! — 'twas the last concluding stroke ! 
 And then — my Lord Tomnoddy awoke ! 
 And Tregooze and Sir Carnaby Jenks arose. 
 And Captain M'Fuze, with the black on his nose. 
 And they stared at each other, as much as to say 
 
 ' Hollo ! hollo ! here's a rum go ! 
 Why, Captain ! — my Lord ! — here's the devil to pay ! 
 The fellow's been cut down and taken away ! 
 
 What's to be done ? we've miss'd all the fun ! — 
 Why, they'll laugh at and quiz us all over the town, 
 AVe are all of us done so uncommonly brown.
 
 THE EXECUTION. 24;, 
 
 What was to be done ? — 'twas perfectly plain 
 That they could not well hang the man over again : 
 What loas to be done ? — the man was dead ! 
 Xought could be done — nonght could be said ; 
 So — my Lord Tomnoddy went home to bed ! 
 
 THE EXPEDITION TO PONTARLIK. 
 
 BY "W, COOKE TAYLOR. 
 
 An long) very long Winter lengthens his day ; 
 
 We hear not the song of the birds from the spray ; 
 They are silent and sad in the groves and the bowers, 
 Awaiting the coming of spring-time and flowers ! 
 
 But when the first birds on the branches were seen, 
 And the hedge changed its brown for a mantle of green, 
 The trumpet of war blew its blast o'er the land, 
 And summon' d the brave to the patriot band! 
 
 There was arming and bustling, confusion and haste. 
 Ere battalions were form'd, and line-of-march traccl ; 
 But when once in the field, the proud duke wo delied : — • 
 At peasants no longer he laugh'd in his pride. 
 
 We came on so proudly through Burgundy's states, 
 Tliat we soon forced Pontarlin to open its gates ; 
 And the women, at morn dress'd in colours so bright, 
 Were making the dark weeds of widows ere night. 
 
 The foreigners, frantic, came forward in force ; 
 
 They number'd twelve thousand of foot and of horse : 
 
 They assaulted us fiercely to gain back the town. 
 
 But their vaunts and their boastings were soon cloven down ! 
 
 Our Swiss sprung upon them with blow upon blow, 
 Till never was seen such a wide overthrow ; 
 From the ramparts their banners and pennons were tlu-ust, 
 And lay all unheeded, defiled in the dust ! 
 
 The Wild Bear of Berne put forth Jiis sharp flaws, 
 And bristled his mane up, and grinded his jaws ; 
 He came with his cubs, who of thousands were four, 
 And the foreigners trcmbkd on lieariug his mar!
 
 246 THE EXPEDITION TO PONTARLIN. 
 
 Be warn'd, duke of Burgundy ! timely beware, 
 Nor venture to mate thee with Berne's fierce Bear ; 
 See his teeth, see his claws, his cubs eager for prey ; 
 Haste ! haste ! save your lives, and get out of his waj*. 
 
 They would not take warning ; the Bear rose in wi'ath, 
 And soon through their ranks forc'd a terrible path, 
 And, though the Burgundians were full four to one, 
 The Bear and his cubs soon compell'd them to run ! 
 
 And still the Bear roar'd, until, borne on the gale. 
 Its echo had reach'd the brave burghers of Basle ; 
 And they said, since the Bear is come out of his den, 
 "We must go and assist him with all of our men. 
 
 Then prais'd be the warriors of Basle and of Berne, 
 Nor pass we in silence Soleure and Lucerne ! 
 They came without summons our dangers to share, 
 And bravely they fought by the side of the Bear ! 
 
 Thus strengthen'd, to Grandson our armies were led, 
 As the knights and the nobles of Burgundy lied. 
 We girdled the town, and our musketry's din 
 Never ceas'd night or day, the proud fortress to win ! 
 
 On the morning of Sunday the place we assail'd ; 
 Its gates were forced open, its ramparts were scal'd ; 
 The banner of freedom soon stream'd from its towers, 
 And announc'd to the dulce that proud Grandson was ours ! 
 
 WiLiiAM Cooke Tatloe, a native of Ireland, and LL.D. of tlie 
 University of Dublin, was well known in the political and literary 
 circles of the metropolis about twenty years ago, when such notabilities 
 as Cobden, Pelham Villiers, Forbes, Owen, Latham, Lankester, Carter 
 Hall, Lover, &c., used to meet at liis hospitable table in Arlington 
 Street, Camden Town. He was for a long period amongst the leading 
 contributors of the ' Athenseum,' and was tbe author of ' Romantic 
 Biographies of the Age of Elizabeth,' ' The Revolutions and Conspira- 
 cies of Europe,' and ' Memoirs of the House of Orleans.' He brought 
 out through the publisliing house of John William Parker, in the 
 Strand, a host of useful manuals on educational and other subjects; 
 and was for some years a contributor of prose and verse to * Beutley's
 
 WILLIAM COOKE TA YLOR. 247 
 
 Miscellany.' During the stormy year of the Young Ireland troubles, 
 he acted as private secretary to Lord Clarendon, and was carried off 
 the year following, (1849) at his residence in Dublin, by an attack of 
 cholera. His talents were of a versatile character. Besides being a 
 good classic, he knew most European and some of the Oriental lan- 
 guages ; and in some of the leading branches of science his attainments 
 were respectable. He was a member of the Athenffium Club for many 
 years ; and was one of the sixty savans who, discontented with the 
 invidious arrangements made by the dinner committee of the British 
 Association the year they met at Birmingham, left the banqueting 
 hall in a body, and dining at ' Tlie Eed Lion,' a tavern in the immediate 
 neighbourhood, established then and there the famous ' Eed Lion 
 dinins club of literary and scientific men, who met montlilv ior several 
 years afterwards at Auder ton's in Fleet Street, London. 
 
 THE SIEGE OF HEXSBUnCH. 
 
 BY JOnX KT.\N. 
 
 T>UAVE news ! brave news ! the Emperor 
 
 Hath girded on his sword, 
 And swears by the rood, in an angry mood, 
 
 And eke by his knightly word, 
 That humbled Hensburgh's towers shall be, 
 With all her boasted chivalry. 
 
 The brazen clarion's battle note 
 
 Hath sounded through the land ; 
 And brave squire and knight, in their armour di^ilit, 
 
 Ay, many a gallant baud, 
 Have heard the summons far and near, 
 And come with falchion and with spear. 
 
 *' Ho ! to the rebel city, ho ! 
 
 Let vengeance lead tlie way !" 
 And anon the sheen of their spears was seen, 
 
 As they rushed upon the prey. 
 Beneath where Hensburgh's turrets frown'd, 
 Great Conrade chose his vantage ground.
 
 248 THE SIEGE OF HENSBURGH. 
 
 Far stretching o'er tlio fertile plain 
 
 His snow-white tents were spread ; 
 And the sweet night air, as it lingcr'd there, 
 
 Caught the watchful sentry's tread. 
 Then o'er the city's hattlement 
 The tell-tale breeze its echo sent. 
 
 Day after day the leaguer sat 
 
 Before that city's wall, 
 And yet, day by day, the proud Guolph cried " IVav/," 
 
 To the herald's warning call ; 
 Heedless, from morn to even-tide, 
 How many a famish'd mother died. 
 
 "Weak childhood, and the aged man, 
 
 "Wept — sorely wept for bread ; 
 And pale Hunger seem'd, as his wild eye gleam'd 
 
 On the yet unburied dead, 
 As if he longed, alas ! to share 
 The night dog's cold, unliallow'd fare. 
 
 No longer Hensburgh's banner floats ; 
 
 Hush'd is her battle-cry. 
 For a victor waits at her shatter'd gates, 
 
 And her sons are doom'd to die. 
 Eut Hensburgh's daughters yet shall prove 
 The saviours of the homes they love ! 
 
 All glory to the Emperor, 
 
 The merciful and brave ; 
 Sound, clarions, sound, tell the news around^ 
 
 And ye drooping banners wave ! 
 Hensburgh's fair daughters, ye are free; 
 Go forth, with all your " hraverie T
 
 THE SIEGE OF HENSBURGH. 2.19. 
 
 *' Bid them go forth, " the Emperor cried, 
 
 " Far from the scene of strife, 
 "Whether matron staid, or the blushing maid, 
 
 Or the daughter, or the ■wife ; 
 For ere yon sun hath left the sky, 
 Each rebel-male shall sui-ely die. 
 
 " Bid them go forth," the Emperor said, 
 
 " "We wage not war with them ; 
 Bid them aU go free, with their ' hvaxeric^ 
 
 And each richly valued gem ; 
 Let each iipon her person bear 
 That which she deemed her chiefest care." 
 
 The city's gates are open'd wide ; 
 
 The leaguer stands amaz'd ; 
 'Twas a glorious deed, and shall have its meed, 
 
 .And by minstrel shall be praised, 
 For each had left her jewelVd tire ; 
 To bear a hushand or a sire. 
 
 "With faltering step each laden'd ono 
 
 At Conrade's feet appears ; 
 In amaze he stood, but his thirst for blood 
 
 AYas quench' d by his falling tears ; 
 The victor wept aloud to see 
 Devoted woman's constancy. 
 
 All glory to the Emperor, — 
 
 All glory and renown ! 
 He hath shcath'd his sword, and his royal word 
 
 I lath gone forth to save the town ; 
 Fnr woman's love is mighlier far 
 Than all the strategies of war.
 
 
 <::> 
 
 -:)^ 
 
 BRYA^vr O'LYNX. 
 
 BT THE IRISH T7HISKET DEINKEE. 
 
 Tn Dalkcy a king of groat weight, 
 
 Though his deeds are not hlarney\l iu 
 story, 
 Tor he rose, and he roioVd to bed late, 
 
 Lived Bryau O'Lynn in his glory. 
 AYith a nato spanchel'd* cawbeenf so gay, 
 lie was crowu'd by Queen Sheelah each 
 day 
 
 They say. 
 Bryan's praise let us sing ! 
 "What a jolly good king 
 "Was rattling bowld Bryan O'Lynn ! 
 Ilurroo ! ! 
 
 His palace was thatched with straw; 
 
 There he took all his meals and his glass ; 
 And all his dominions he saw. 
 
 When ho sauntered along on his ass ; 
 Hearty, simple, and free, to confide, 
 With no guard but "Dog Tray" would 
 he ride 
 
 By his side. 
 Bryan's praise let us sing, &c. 
 
 The nation ne'er groan'd for his table. 
 
 Though he drank rather fast, it is true ; 
 -Saj-s Bryan, " If my people are able 
 
 To drink, sure I'll drink whiskey, too. 
 An income-tax, then, at each door, 
 A pint to each keg he would score, 
 No more. 
 Bryan's praise let us sing, &c. 
 
 LE r.OI D'YVETOT. 
 
 (beeaxgek.) 
 
 L etait un roi d'Yvetot, 
 Peu C'ounu dans I'histoire, 
 Se levant tard, so couchant tot. 
 
 Dormant fort bien sans gloire j 
 Et couronn^ par Jeanneton 
 D'un simple bonnet de cotton, 
 Dit on. 
 Oh, oh, oh, oh ! 
 Ah, ah, all, ah ! 
 Quel bon petit roi c'etait la! 
 La, la 1 
 
 II faisait ses quatre repas 
 
 Dans sou palais de chaume, 
 Et sur un ane, pas a pas, 
 
 Parcourrait son royaume. 
 Joyeux, simple, et croyant le 
 
 bien. 
 Pour tout guarde il n'avait ricn 
 Quun chien. 
 Oh, oh, oh, oh, &c. 
 
 II n'avait de gout oncreux, 
 Qu'une soif un peu vive; 
 Mais en rendant son peuple heu- 
 reux, 
 II faut bien qu'un roi vive. 
 Lui mCme a table et sans suppot, 
 Sur chnquo muid levait un pot 
 D'impot. 
 Oh, oh, oh, oh! &c. 
 
 'Mongst the darlings of gentle degree Aux Cllos de bonnes maisons 
 
 He was mighty polite ; and 'twas rather Conime il avait su plaire. 
 
 Suspected his subjects could see Ses sujets avaient cent raisons 
 
 Many reasons to call him their father. De le nommer leiu" pere : 
 
 ^ <i. 
 
 * Spanchel, noun substantive, — a hay or straw rope, chiefly used for tying 
 tl'.elegs together of cows or pigs, to hinder them, not from trespassing on 
 their neighbour's property, but from roaming too far from home. S^anchcl, 
 verb, — to tie or fasten willi a hay or straw rojie. 
 
 f A felt hat of no particular shape.
 
 BRYAN O'LYNN. 
 
 25£ 
 
 Four days in tlie year, sometimes six, 
 To manCEUvre tlio boys, he ■would fix, 
 And their sticks. 
 Bryan's praise let us sing, &c. 
 
 "With the neighbours most friendly lived 
 he, 
 
 And sighed not his power to increase ; 
 If with Bryan all our kings would agree. 
 
 The world would have comfort and 
 
 peace 
 
 "^Then on high he was called to appear, 
 Sad DaLkey then shed its first tear 
 On his bier. 
 For his death let us cry, 
 Let us cry, '•' Arrah, why, 
 Bryney, jewel, och ! why did you die ? 
 Wirrastbi-ew ! ! !" 
 
 D'ailleurs il no levait de ban, 
 Que pour tiror quatre fois Fan, 
 Au blauc. 
 Oh, oh, oh, oh ! &c. 
 
 II n'aggvandit point ses dtats. 
 
 Put un Toisin commode, 
 Et modele des potentats, 
 
 Prit le plalsir pour code. 
 Ce n'est que lorsqu'il espira 
 Que le peuple qui reiitcrra. 
 Pleura. 
 Ob, oil, oh, oh ! &c. 
 
 Bryan's phiz is prcserTod to this day. 
 
 Hung out o'er a sbeebeen-shop door, 
 "Where those that are able to pay 
 
 May drink of good whiskey galore. 
 The house is in Tandragee, 
 And it 's kept by one Widow Magee,— 
 D' ye see ? 
 Bryan's praise let us sing, 
 "What a jolly good king 
 "Was rattling ould Bryan O'Lynn ! 
 UuiToo ! 
 
 On conserve encor le portrait 
 Bo ce digne et bon prince; 
 C'cst I'enseigne d'un cabaret 
 Fameux dans la province. 
 Les jours do fete bieu souvcnt 
 Le foule s'ecrie en buvaut, 
 Bevant : 
 Oh, oh, oh, oh ! 
 Ah, ah, nh, ah ! 
 Quel bon petit roi c'etait li ! 
 La, la! 
 
 THEOCRITUS. 
 
 EY C. II. L.\NGIIORNE. 
 
 "And with a tale, forsooth ho Cometh to you — wilii a talo which lioldoth 
 ■ children from play, and old men from the chimney corner." 
 
 SIU rjIII.IP BIDNKY. 
 
 Theocritus! Theocritus! ah! thou hadst pleasant dreams, 
 
 Of the crj'stal spring Burinna, and llic llalcus' luiuin'i iny 
 streams ; 
 Of rhyscus, and Ncacthus, and fair Arcthusa's fount, 
 Of Lacinion's beetling crag, and Latymnus' -woody mount ;
 
 252 THEOCRITUS. 
 
 Of the fretted rocks and antres hoar that overhang the sea, 
 And the sapphire sky and thymy plains of thy own sweet Sicily ; 
 And of the nymphs of Sicily, that dwelt in oak and pine — 
 Theocritus ! Theocritus ! what pleasant dreams were thine 1 
 
 And of the merry rustics who tend the goats and sheep. 
 
 And the maids who trip to milk the cows at morning's dewy peep^. 
 
 Of Clearista with her locks of brightest sunny hair, 
 
 And the saucy girl Eunica, and sweet Chloe kind and fair ; 
 
 And of those highly favoured ones, Endymion and Adonis, 
 
 Loved by Selena the divine, and the beauteous Dionis ; 
 
 Of the silky-haired caprella, and the gentle lowing kine — 
 
 Theocritus ! Theocritus ! what pleasant dreams were thine ! 
 
 Of the spring time, and the summer, and the zephyr's balmy breeze;. 
 Of the dainty flowers, and waving elms, and the yellow humming 
 
 bees; 
 Of the rustling poplar and the oak, the tamarisk and the beech, 
 The dog-rose and anemone, — thou had'st a dream of each ! 
 Of the galingale and hyacinth, and the lily's snowy hue. 
 The couch-grass, and green maiden -hair, and celandine pale blue,. 
 The gold-bedropt cassidony, the fern, and sweet woodbine- 
 Theocritus ! Theocritus ! what pleasant dreams were thine ! 
 
 Of the merry harvest-home, all beneath the good green tree. 
 The poppies and the spikes of corn, the shouting and the glee 
 Of the lads so blithe and healthy, and the girls so gay and neat. 
 And the dance they lead around the tree withever twinkling feet; 
 And the bushy piles of lentisk to rest the aching brow. 
 And reach and pluck the damson down from the overladen bough, 
 And munch the roasted bean at ease, and quaff the Ptelean wine — • 
 Theocritus ! Theocritus ! what pleasant dreams were thine ! 
 
 And higher dreams were thine to dream— of Heracles the brave, 
 And Polydenkes good at need, and Castor strong to save ; 
 Of Dionysus and the woe he wrought the Theban king ; 
 And of Zeus the mighty centre of Olympas' glittering ring ; 
 Of Tiresias, the blind old man, the famed Aonian seer ; 
 Of Hecate, and Cthonian Dis, whom all mankind revere ; 
 And of Daphnis lying down to die beneath the leafy vine — 
 Theocritus ! Theocritus ! what pleasant dreams were thine !
 
 THEOCRITUS. 253 
 
 But mostly sweet and soft thy dreams — of Cypris' loving kiss, 
 
 Of the dark-haired maids of Corinth, and the feasts of Sybaris ; 
 
 Of alabaster vases of Assyrian perfume. 
 
 Of ebony, and gold, and pomp, and softly-curtained room ; 
 
 Of Taunus piping in the woods to the Satyrs' noisy rout, 
 
 And the saucy Panisks mocking him with many a jeer and flout; 
 
 And of the tender-footed Hours, and Pieria's tuneful Xine — 
 
 Theocritus ! Theocritus ! what pleasant dreams were thine ! 
 
 SPPvIXG. 
 A EELIC OF PEOVEXCAL LITEEATUEE. 
 BY W. C. TAYLOR. 
 A NGELIC choirs in upper air chaunt with their golden tongues 
 The praises of that mighty king to whom the world belongs ; 
 
 "Who bade the stars to shine in heaven ; who severed land from sea ; 
 
 Who gave the fishes to the deep, the cattle to the lea. 
 
 The beauteous Spring begins its reign; the woods are in their 
 bloom ; 
 
 The verdant trees put forth their leaves, the fiow'rets shed perfume; 
 
 The birds commence their twittering songs, and of the feathcr'd 
 crowd, 
 
 The smallest has the notes that are the sweetest and most loud. 
 
 'Tis Philomel, who in the grove has sought the highest spray. 
 
 And thence pours forth sweet melody from eve to dawn of day. 
 
 All, gentle bird ! incessantly why dost thou thus bewail ? 
 
 Wouldst quell the sounds of lyre and harp by thy more plain- 
 tive tale ? 
 
 The maid who strikes the timbrel stops to lend a willing ear. 
 
 And princes in attention stand thy thrilling song to hear. 
 
 Cease, gentle bird, to strain thy throat with notes so wild and 
 deep, 
 
 And let the weary world at last resign itself to sleep. 
 
 Ah ! wretched bird, thou wilt not cease, but tlirough the livelong 
 night, 
 
 Neglecting food, wilt persevere the listeners to delight. 
 
 All hear with joy, but in return none succour will allord, 
 
 Save he who gave the power of song, the all-preserving Lord. 
 
 But summer comes, tlie bird is hush'd, by ])arent's care engross'd, 
 
 Forgotten then, unknown he dies by chill of winter's frost.
 
 =54 
 
 OWED TO MY CREDITOr.S. 
 
 BY ALFRED CTvOWQUILL. 
 
 Tx vain I lament what is past, 
 
 And pity their woe-begone looks ; 
 Though they grin at the credit they gare, 
 
 I know I am in their best books. 
 To my tailor my breaches of faith, 
 
 On my conscience but now lightly sit, 
 For such lengths in his measures he's gune, 
 
 He has given me many a Jit. 
 My bootmaker finding at last, 
 
 That my soul was too stubborn to suit, 
 Waxed wroth when he found he had got 
 
 Anything but the lenrjtli of my foot. 
 My hatmaker cunningly felt 
 
 He'd seen many like me before, 
 So hrimfid of insolence vowed 
 
 On credit he'd crown me no more. 
 My baker was crusty, and burnt, 
 
 When he found himself quite overdone 
 By a, ftnry-hred chap like myself — 
 
 Ay, as cross as a Good Friday's hnn. 
 Next my laundress, who wash'd pretty clean, 
 
 In behaviour was dirty and bad ; 
 For into hot tcater she popp'd 
 
 All the shirts and the dickies I had. 
 Then my butcher who'd little at stake. 
 
 Most surlily opened his chops, 
 And swore my aifairs out oi joint, 
 
 So on to my carcase he pops. 
 In ray lodgings exceedingly high, 
 
 Though loio in the rent to be sure, 
 Without warning my landlady seized. 
 
 Took my things, and the key of the door. 
 Thus cruelly used by the world, 
 
 In the Bench I can smile at its hate ; 
 For a time I must alter my stile. 
 For I cannot get out of the gale.
 
 255 
 EAILWAY DACTYLS. 
 
 BY G. D. 
 
 IJere vre ^o off on tlie " London and Birmingliam," 
 
 Bidding adieu to the foggy metropolis ! 
 Staying at home with the dumps, is confirming 'em; — 
 
 Motion and mirth are a fillip to life. 
 Let lis look out ! Is there aught tliat is see-able ? 
 
 Presto ! — away ! — what a vanishing spectacle ! 
 ■Well ! on the whole, it is vastly agreeable — 
 
 "Why, sir, perhaps it is all very well," — 
 Tricketty, tracketty, tricketty, tracketty ! 
 
 *' Barring the noise, and the smoke, and the smell. "~ 
 
 Now, with the company pack'd in the carriages, 
 
 Strange is the medley of voluble utterings, — 
 Comings and goings, deceases and marriages, — 
 
 Oh, what a clatter of matters is there I 
 History, politics, letters, morality, 
 
 Heraldry, botany, chemistry, cookery, 
 Poetry, physic, the stars, and legality, — 
 
 All in a loud opposition of tongues ! 
 
 Tricketty, tracketty, tricketty, tracketty ! 
 
 Never mind that—\t is good for the lungs. 
 
 " All that 's remarkable, now, we may stir and sec ;. 
 
 Free circulation — how huge are its benefits !" — 
 " Tet, sir, with all the improvement in currenrij. 
 
 Great is the dread of a run on the banks." — 
 " F'fjht with America ! Do but the folly see I 
 
 Since unto both, sir, belongs the same origin.''^ — 
 " What's your opinion of Peel and his policy ?" — 
 
 " What of the weather ?— and how is the wind?" 
 Tricketty, tracketty, tricketty, tracketty ! 
 
 «' Oh! that that whistle were far ofi' as lud!" 
 
 On, like a hurricane ! on, like a water-fall ! 
 
 Steam away! scream away! hissing and splutterin?!' 
 " Madam, beware lest your out-leaning dauj^liter fall 1"' 
 
 "Yes, sir, I will; but her life is insured." —
 
 236 RAIL IV A Y DA CTVLS. 
 
 *' Cobden's a-coming to mob and to rabble us !" — 
 
 " Zounds ! sir, my corn ! Do you think I'm of adamant ?"• 
 
 *' Oh, what an appetite ! Heliogabalus ! 
 That little fellow will eat himself ill /" 
 
 Tricketty, tracketty, tricketty, tracketty ! 
 " When you're at home again, give him a pill." 
 
 Oh, Mr, Hudson ! Macadam's extinguisher I 
 
 Men are as boys in the grasp of thy sclwolery ■' 
 Those who love England can no better thinrf wish her 
 
 Than to have tliee for her Ruler of Lines .' 
 Praised as thy course is, to heighten the fame of it, 
 
 I'll give you a hint, without fee or expectancy : — 
 Write us a hook — and let tiiis be the name of it, 
 
 " i?a«7-ways and Snail-Vfiijs ; or, Eoads New and Old." 
 Tricketty, tracketty, tricketty, tracketty ! 
 
 WonH such a volume in thousands be sold ? 
 
 Uere we go on again, everj' link of us ! 
 
 Oh, what a chain ! what a fly-away miracle ! 
 Birds o' the firmament ! what do ye think of us ? 
 
 Minutes ! be steady, as marhers of miles ■' 
 Well ! of new greatness we now have the germ in us I 
 
 But the collector, I see, coming hither is. 
 ^' Ladies and gentlemen — this is the terminus — 
 
 Ticket, sir ! ticket, sir! — end of the line !" 
 Ricketty, racketty, ricketty, racketty ! 
 
 •' Friends of velocity ! now let us dine .'" 
 
 THE NORMAN PEASANT'S HYMN TO THE VIRGIN. 
 
 BY WILLIAM JONES. 
 
 IJOPE of the faithful ! behold us now bending, 
 
 Submissive, contrite, at thy footstool of love ; 
 The tears of thy children repentant are blending. 
 Oh ! plead for their help in thy kingdom above .' 
 Thou canst each bosom see. 
 May it more sinless be, 
 Ave Maria, 
 To glorify thee !
 
 THE NORMAN PEASANTS HYMN. 257 
 
 We are defenceless without thy protection, 
 
 To watch o'er our night, and to shield us by day ; 
 And 'tis to the warmth of thy care and affection 
 
 Our thoughts are more hallow'd, our feet less astray. 
 Thou canst each bosom see, 
 May it more sinless be, 
 Ave Maria, 
 To glorify thee ! 
 
 Be thoTi our comfort, when shaded by sorrow, 
 
 For weak are the tendrils we cling to below ; 
 As night is subdued in the dawn of a morrow. 
 
 Illume with thy brightness the depths of our woe ! 
 Thou canst each bosom see, 
 May it more sinless be, 
 Ave Maria, 
 To glorify thee ! 
 
 Through the dim valley our vespers are pealing, 
 
 Borne on the winds to a sunnier sphere ; 
 "While yon star that lonely the skies are revealing 
 Doth tell in its beaming thou hearest our prayer. 
 Thou canst each bosom see. 
 May it more sinless be, 
 Ave Maria, 
 To glorify thee ! 
 
 WELLINGTON, 
 
 BY H. W. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 ft MIST was driving down the British Channel, 
 
 The day was just begun. 
 And through the window-panes, on floor and panel, 
 
 Streamed the red Autumn sun. 
 
 It glanced on flowing flag and rippling pennon, 
 
 And the white sails of ships ; 
 And, from the frowning rampart, the black cannon 
 
 Hailed it with feverish lips. 
 
 n
 
 258 WELLINGTON. 
 
 Sandwich and Ptomney, Hastings, Hythe, and Dover 
 
 Were all alert that day, 
 To see the French war-steamers speeding over, 
 
 When the fog cleared away. 
 
 Sullen and silent, and like conchant lions, 
 
 Their cannon, through the night, 
 Holding their breath, had watched in grim defiance 
 
 The sea-coast opposite. 
 
 And now they roared at drum-beat from their stations 
 
 On every citadel ; 
 Each answering each, with morning salutations, 
 
 That all was well ! 
 
 And down the coast, all taking up the burden, 
 
 Replied the distant forts, 
 As if to summon from his sleep the Warden 
 
 And Lord of the Cinque Ports. 
 
 Him shall no sunshine from the fields of azure, 
 
 No drum-beat from the wall, 
 No morning gun from the black fort's embrazure 
 
 Awaken with their call ! 
 
 No more surveying with an eye impartial 
 
 The long line of the coast, 
 Shall the gaunt figure of the old Field-Marshal 
 
 Be seen upon his post ! 
 
 For in the night, unseen, a single warrior, 
 
 In sombre harness mailed. 
 Dreaded of man, and surnamed the destroyer^ 
 
 The rampart waU has sealed. 
 
 He passed into the chamber of the sleeper, 
 
 The dark and silent room ; 
 And as he entered, darker grew and deeper 
 
 The silence and the gloom. 
 
 He did not pause to parley or dissemble, 
 
 But smote the Warden hoar ; 
 Ah ! what a blow ! that made all England tremble 
 
 And groan from shore to shore.
 
 WELLINGTON. 259 
 
 Meanwhile, without the surly cannon waited, 
 The sun rose bright o'erhead ; 
 
 Nothing in J^Tature's aspect intimated 
 That a great man was dead ! 
 
 GATHER THE ROSE-BUDS WHILE YOU MAY ! 
 
 BY GEORGE DANIEL. 
 
 T IFE is short, the wings of time 
 Bear away our early prime, 
 Swift with them our spirits fly. 
 The heart grows chill, and dim the eye. 
 Seize the moment ! snatch the treasure ! 
 Sober haste is wisdom's leisure. 
 Summer blossoms soon decay ; 
 " Gather the ruse-huds while you may T' 
 
 Barter not for sordid store 
 
 Health and peace ; nor covet more 
 
 Than may serve for frugal fare 
 
 With some chosen friend to share ! 
 
 Not for others toil and heap, 
 
 But yourself i\\Q harvest reap ; 
 
 Nature smUing, seems to say, 
 
 " Gather the rose-buds while you may /" 
 
 Learning, science, truth sublime, 
 
 Fairy fancies, lofty rhyme, 
 
 Flowers of exijuisitc perfume ! 
 
 Blossoms of immortal bloom ! 
 
 AV'ith the gentle virtues twin'd, 
 
 In a beauteous garland bind 
 
 For your youthful brow to-day, — 
 
 " Gather the rose-buds while you may /" 
 
 Life is short — but not to those 
 AVho early, wisely pluck the rose. 
 Time he flies — to us 'tis given, 
 On his wings to fly to Heaven. 
 
 17—2
 
 26o ROSE-BULS. 
 
 Ah ! to reacli those realms of light, 
 Nothing must impede our flight ; 
 Cast we all but Hope away ! 
 *' Gather the rose-buds while we may /" 
 
 THE ILLUMINATION. 
 
 A TALE OF ALMA MATER. 
 BY A. 11, W. 
 " Pulsatus rogat, et pugnis concisus adorat, 
 Ut liceat paucis cum dentibus inde reverti." 
 
 Juvenal, iii., Sat. 300 v. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 The suhjeet of the following tale is matter now of history, 
 
 But shrouded, to avoid olFence, in due poetic mystery ; 
 And I assure my readers all, in cottage, hall, or palace, sirs. 
 That, though I "nought exterminate,'' I "nought set down in 
 
 malice,'' sirs. 
 
 Air — " Grty Faux." 
 A tragi-comedy I sing ; three " grave and Beverend signers," 
 Who sallied forth one luckless night, with dignified demeanours, 
 To send home all their college men, on pain of rustication, 
 "Whom they found joining in the row at last Illumination ! 
 
 For sundry graceless undergrads, with wine somewhat ^^promis- 
 cuous," 
 
 From flooring bumpers to " the Queen," (such power good port 
 or whisky has !) 
 
 A Gown-and-town roio had got up to testify their loyalty ! 
 
 By ^'milling" well aU Bads and Cads and other foes to royalty ! 
 
 At length the streets, "at noon of night," had grown a little 
 
 quieter. 
 For one by one had dropped off home each capless, gownless rioter, 
 On which our heroes, satisfied with this consoling knowledge, sirs, 
 And thinking all their labours o'er, were hastening back to col- 
 lege, sirs! 
 
 When, just as they had turned into the lane of classic* " Simmary," 
 They fell among a mob of cads, assembled there in grim array. 
 
 * St. Mary Hall.
 
 THE ILLUMINATION. 261 
 
 Who set upon them, blacked their eyes, and mauled them so 
 
 confoundedly. 
 That one of them, " intirelt/ kilt" and bleeding on the ground did 
 
 lie! 
 
 As lie lay groaning o'er his wounds, in sad and doleful harytnnes^ 
 There chanced to be among the crowd some modern ^^ good Sa~ 
 
 mctritans," 
 "Who pitying saw his hapless plight, Vf ithloYe quite Demiurgical,* 
 Conveyed him home, where he was forced to send for aid chirurgical ! 
 
 The " Sawbones" came, with visage long, and shook his head 
 
 mysteriously. 
 Says he, " The patient has, I fear, been damaged very seriously, 
 Hut trust my skill — (on frailer hopes doth oft the life of man 
 
 turn, sirs,) — 
 They haven't quite put out the light, though they've sorely 
 
 smashed the lantern, sirs !" 
 
 Some drugs were sent instanter by this son of iEsculapius ; 
 "Hanc lotiunem applices, et huncce haustuyn capias!" 
 But, through his stupid scouts mistake, being addled most infer- 
 nally, 
 He swallowed up the lotion and applied the draught externally ! ! 
 
 By gnawing pains, ere long, was rack'd his stomach 77iagisterial, 
 Which made him dread his latter end and inquest coronerial ; 
 " Quick, fetch a stomach-pump !" he groan'd, " Avith strong eme- 
 tics cram me well ! 
 I've heen and done it — 'tis a case of — pison yourself, Samiwcl !" 
 
 A stomach-pump was quickly brought, and all hands set to work 
 at it. 
 
 And speedily they clean d him out ! — let no one smile or smirk at it ! 
 
 His life was saved ; but to this day, (of that night's row the last 
 trophy), 
 
 That stomach-pump sticks in Ms throat ! Thus ended this catas- 
 trophe ! 
 
 * For tlic cnlightonrnnnt of my unlearnnd roaders, I have llio Iionour to 
 infonn them that tlio Demiurt/us was tho deity of the Platonists, and by 
 them regarded as a beiug of pure love and benevolence.
 
 262 THE ILLUMINATION. 
 
 MORAL. 
 
 Be warned, ye Dons, for Gown-totcn ivies, like matrimonial 
 quarrels, sirs, 
 
 Produce for those who interfere more broken heads than laurels, 
 sirs, 
 
 But if you will thus waste the health, which was to cool your por- 
 ridge meant, 
 
 You'll meet with many a heavy How, and very sad discoiwaqe- 
 ment ! 
 
 Sage counsel would I likewise give to each hold under-graduate — 
 " Experto crede" — brothers all, when in a row a cad you hit, 
 The chances are, that, though you win, you'll find it bad economy 
 To carry home a tattered gown and battered physiognomy ! 
 
 Oxford, 19th of February, 1840. 
 
 THE MARaUIS "WELLESLEY'S ADDRESS TO ETOX. 
 
 Me, when thy shade and Thames's meads and flowers, 
 
 Invite to soothe the cares of waning age. 
 May memory bring to me my long-past hours. 
 To calm my soul, and troubled thoughts assuage. 
 
 Come, parent Eton ! turn the stream of time 
 Back to thy sacred fountain crown'd with bays. 
 
 Recall my brightest, sweetest days of prime. 
 When all was hope and triumph, joy and praise. 
 
 Guided by thee, I raised my youthful sight 
 To the steep solid heights of lasting fame. 
 
 And haU'd the beams of clear ethereal light 
 
 That brighten round the Greek and Roman name. 
 
 blest Instruction ! friend to generous youth ! 
 
 Source of all good ! you taught me to intwiue 
 The Muse's laurel with eternal truth. 
 
 And woke her lyre to strains of faith divine.
 
 ONE HOUR WITH DEATH. 
 
 SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE BY SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS IN THE 
 DULWICH GALLERY. 
 
 The sun has gone in from this world of sin, 
 
 The gaunt wolf roams the fell — 
 "Now whither dost speed on thy tall white steed! 
 Strange rider, pause and tell." 
 
 " Mount, mount with me, and thou shalt see 
 
 A boon to thee I give : 
 The terrible power for a single hour, 
 
 To ride with me— and live!" 
 
 " By the thrilling tone, and the eye of stone. 
 
 And the blue and vapouring breath, 
 By the hard, cold brow, I know thee now, — 
 
 Dread rider ! thou art Death ! 
 
 "Oh! might I refuse — but I dare not choose — 
 
 My spirit is not free ; 
 Thy gift is a doom, and, though not to the tomb, 
 
 I feel I must go with thee !" 
 
 Away ! away I through mire and clay. 
 
 The riders two are sped, 
 Death first drew rein on a battle plain, 
 
 'Mid heaps of festering dead. 
 
 He gazed all around, and no longer he frown'd. 
 
 But he laugh'd with fiend-like glee— 
 •' The fires of hell burn wondrous well 
 
 "When man does my work for me !" 
 
 And on and on, o'er clod and. stone, 
 
 Arc sped those riders twain. 
 Towards a glimmering light through the darksome night, 
 
 Which beam'd from a cottage pane. 
 
 And a lovely sight did that glimmering light 
 
 Show to the gazers there ; 
 In the twilight gloom of a lonely room 
 
 Sat a lady pale and fair.
 
 264 ONE HOUR WITH DEATH. 
 
 In heavy unrest, on her gentle breast, 
 
 Its young brow knit "with pain. 
 Lay the fever'd cheek of an infant weak, 
 
 Too feeble to complain. 
 
 The tear-drop was dry in the mother's eye, 
 
 Her cold lips spoke no word : 
 Her will she had given to the will of Heaven — 
 
 She was waiting on the Lord ! 
 
 Tet ever a glance she cast askance 
 
 Of strange distrust and fear, 
 Through the doubtful gloom of that silent room^ 
 
 As she felt that Death was near. 
 
 He has passed the door, he treads the floor, 
 
 His arm is raised to slay, 
 But a bright form was seen to rush between^ 
 
 And a stern voice cried, " Away ! 
 
 " Destroyer, flee ! oh, not to thee, 
 
 Through many a peaceful year, 
 Is it given to split the bonds which knit, 
 
 That fond and faithful pair. 
 
 " And in thy brief hour of impotent power, 
 
 When I may not bid thee fly ; 
 Not to them shalt thou bring or terror or sting, 
 
 Nor to thee shall be victory ! 
 
 "Back, wretch!" o'erpowered the grim shape cowered. 
 
 And winced like a chidden boy. 
 Then again on its course he urged his pale horse, 
 
 StiU eager to destroy. 
 
 At a lordly hall was his next stern call. 
 
 Where 'neath silken canopy. 
 Afraid to pray, a rich man lay, 
 
 Who knew that he must die. 
 
 His failing ear, it could not hear 
 
 One blessing from the poor ; 
 But he knew whose steed had slaek'd its speed. 
 
 Whose hand was on the door.
 
 ONE HOUR WITH DEATH. 265 
 
 His straining eye could nouglit descry 
 
 O'er his couch of sculptured gold, 
 Save the gloating stare of some eager heir, 
 
 Or the glance of some menial cold. 
 
 Oh ! he would have given for one hope of Heaven, 
 
 And one of Love's true tears, 
 All his wealth and his lands, and have toiled with his hands 
 
 Forward through a thousand years. 
 
 But he turned his face from the Spirit of Grace, 
 
 He scoffed at the orphan's cry ; 
 His god it was pelf, his love it was self ; 
 
 He must godless, loveless, die ! 
 
 TO A LADY SINGINa. 
 
 BY J. A WADE. 
 
 There is a light about those eyes. 
 
 Warm, rich, but tender, like the hue 
 That's left upon the vesper skies 
 
 When day has turn'd to misty blue: 
 A mild repose, as if the sun 
 
 Of joy had not been long departed ; 
 And twilight thoughts had just begun 
 Half blissfully, half broken-hearted! 
 Oh ! lady look but thus, 
 And I could gaze for over ! 
 
 Within thy voice there is a tone, 
 
 Soft, sweet, and trembling, like the sighs 
 That night-birds through the valleys mouu, 
 
 Thinking they sing gay melodies ! 
 A tranquil sound, as if the tide. 
 
 The noisy tide of mirth and laughter. 
 Had fall'n adown youth's green hill-side, 
 
 To flow in quiet ever after ! 
 Oh ! lady sing but tlius, 
 And I could hear for ever !
 
 266 
 JARL PtOLLO. 
 
 EY G. E. INMAN. 
 
 'Phe winds are in motion to favour the brave, 
 
 And the steeds of the ocean ai'e cleaving the wave ; 
 Of a thousand wild warriors, the mighty, the free, 
 Those steeds are the carriers across the dark sea: 
 The Berserkers, howling, stand ranged on each prow, 
 And their frantic eyes, scowling, gleam death to the foe ; 
 I^ow, this was the host of Jarl EoUo, the Northman. 
 
 Loud shouted the heroes, and bared was each brand, 
 As forth from the sea rose the cloud of the land ; 
 And wild was the wrestle, each fierce to be first, 
 As down from each vessel the ravagers burst ; 
 And fierce was the onset, and fiercely repell'd ; 
 But, ere it was sunset the landsmen were quell'd ; 
 And the Jarl burnt the town for a light to march on by ! 
 
 To Houen, with ravage, the sea-monarch goeSj 
 With merriment savage, destroying the foes ; 
 Church, city, and village, they all fared the same, 
 First given to pillage, then given to fiame ; 
 The monks by the halter or cross were all kill'd. 
 And even on the altar the nuns they defiled, — 
 All but two or three old ones, whose good saints preserved them. 
 
 To Charles, the French monarch, his nobles in rule 
 Told the march of this anarch : — now Charles was a fool, 
 Ptecked nought what was doing, folks did as they please, 
 Nor whatever was brewing while he had his ease. 
 So sitting in quiet, he heard them right through, 
 Then said, " For this riot, to-morrow will do," 
 And very composedly sat down to drinking. 
 
 He was next day at dinner, lords, ladies, and all, 
 When Jarl Rollo, the sinner, stalk' d into the hall, 
 And seating him coolly, sans fashion or form, 
 Koar'd hoarsely out, " Truly your climate is warm,
 
 JARL ROLLO. 267 
 
 So I'll taste of your liquor before I begin !" 
 And lie snatched up a beaker, and drank to the King, — 
 " "Who the devil art thou?" quoth King Charles, rather bluntly. 
 
 " Thou shalt find me the devil, — in manners at least, — 
 An' ye be not more civil to welcome a guest ! ' 
 They call me Jarl Rollo, the King of the Sea, 
 And a thousand men follow my raven so free ! 
 We have paid ye a -visit on hearing your fame. 
 To ask how is it with you and your dame !" 
 JS^ow King Charles was a churl, for he thank'd not Jarl Rollo. 
 
 " Beyond the dark water," quoth Rollo the Eold, 
 ' ' They boast your fair daughter and treasures of gold ; 
 Having plenty of leisure, we came here to see — 
 For my men is thy treasure ! thy daughter for me ! — 
 Ye are time-worn and listless, with foes cannot wage. 
 And my power resistless shall shield thy old age." — 
 ^' Grammercy !" quoth the King, " Don't you wish 'twas a bar- 
 gain i 
 
 " What ho !" the Jarl thundered, " my merry men all !" 
 And some four or five hundred burst into the hall ; 
 Some with young infants pitching from spear unto spear. 
 The half-dead things screeching, oh ! fearful to hear ! 
 And all sat down laughing, wild, reckless, and rude ; 
 Some the merry wine quafiing, some gorging the food. 
 And others the delicate women caressing. 
 
 -'D- 
 
 Then, out roar'd the Sea-king, "My warriors behold! 
 Yield the treasures I'm seeking, thy daughter, thy gold ! 
 At my name thou hast shook not, nay, bearded my might ! 
 Now, mark me, I brook not such insult and slight ! 
 When I cross the dark water no child's play is mine. 
 Thy gold and thy daughter, or this fate is thine !" — 
 And he struck out the brains of a page that stood near him. 
 
 As the ghastly mass, shivering, dropt dead and inert, 
 A grey-goose shaft, quivering, struck Hollo's mail shirt, 
 And a voice was heard shrieking, " Unhand me, ye knaves !" 
 And a boy to the Sea-king was dragged by his slaves.
 
 268 JARL ROLLO. 
 
 Then the Jarl roar'd out, chuckling, "By Woden! ho! ho! 
 Why the babe and the suckling wiU next come as foe ! 
 Did ye think, boy, a Northman's coat thin as a heron's?" — 
 
 "A curse on its thickness !" the bold boy replied, 
 " And a curse on the weakness and youth ye deride ! 
 Had my arm back'd my spirit, foul hend that thou art, 
 The fate that ye merit had flown on my dart. — • 
 Thou to wed my loved sister, Gisella the fair ! 
 Thou ! — Ev'n God would assist her ere such marriage were ! 
 Take our treasures, and go— but our bright one — oh, never !" 
 
 Quoth the Jarl, " Mighty pretty, my Dauphin of France ! 
 Now you've finish'd your ditty, let's see how ye dance. 
 Fling a rope round yon rafter, and hang him thereto : 
 He'll be taller, men, after, an odd inch or two." — 
 'Mid the Northmen's fierce laughter, their pallid foe's moan, 
 A rope round the rafter is hastily thrown. 
 And the noose round the neck of the bold boy placed read \ 
 
 Like the moaning blood- chilling of sleeping despair 
 Eose the wild wail, heart-thrilling, of GiseUa the fair, 
 And rushing forth madly, she clasp'd the Jarl's knee, — 
 "Oh! take all— all gladly — take treasure — take me — 
 Only spare my loved brother, our darling, our joy ! 
 By thine own fond dear mother, oh, spare my bright boy !"— 
 *' Ha ! ha !" roared the Jarl, " have you come to youi- senses ?" 
 
 Then the boy cried, " No, never, dark demon of pride. 
 My life to deliver shall she be thy bride !" 
 His words were unheeded, for Charles (call'd the fool) 
 Had already conceded— child, treasure, and rule- 
 One claim ere the bridal's permission premised, 
 " That the Jarl left his idols, and gat him baptized !" 
 Then the Northmen all laugh'd, and their leader roar'd fiercely— 
 
 " I've been christen'd already some ten times before ; 
 But, to pleasure the lady, I'll wash me once more- 
 Nay, her station to alter more quick tlian is wont, 
 Be her spouse at the altar, her son at the font." 
 So they went and were wedded, the fair to the stern ; 
 And a sight none had dreaded they found on return : 
 The Northmen had hung the bold boy in their absence !
 
 JARL ROLLO. 2O9 
 
 Then tlie fair girl, lieart-riven, look'd up in despair, 
 And the vengeance of Heaven forgot not her prayer ! 
 Though the Jarl got the dukedom of Normandy wide, 
 Great Heaven rebuked him by means of his bride. 
 Though he'd lands, castles, treasure, serfs many a one, 
 He lack'd heart-peace and pleasure, for liL-ir had he none; 
 And for many a year did Duke Eollo live childless ; 
 
 Till a wizard right evil, by magic's black art, 
 Gave the Duke, through the devil, the wish of his heart. 
 Loud and long the Duke's mirth rose when a glad son there came, 
 Though then died in the birth-throes Gisella his dame. 
 But that son, born of evil, God's vengeance fulfill'd — 
 He was Robert the Devil, and RoUo he kill'd, 
 And his son was the Norman that conquer'd broad England ! 
 
 THE ABBOT'S OAK. 
 
 A LEGEND OP MONEY-HUTCH LANE. 
 
 BY R. DALTON BAKHAM. 
 
 " In the pai-isli of Eerlgrave, skirting tlie Park, is a manor bye-road, wLich 
 Las from time immemorial borne the name of Money-Hutch Lane. Tradi- 
 tion says that it derived its appellation from a treasure buried in its imme- 
 diate neighbourhood, at the time of the suppression of the monasteries, one 
 of which, a small ofl'shoot from the great parent stem of St. Edmondsbury, 
 stood in its vicinity. It is added, that though deposited under the guardian- 
 ship of spell and sigil, it may yet bo recovered by any one who bides I ho 
 happy minute." — Collect, from Sist. of SvJJ'olk. 
 
 The Abbot sat by his glimmering lamp. 
 
 His brow was wrinkled with care. 
 And his anxious look was fix'd on his book, 
 "With a sad and a mournful air ; 
 And ever anon, 
 As the night wore on, 
 He would slowly sink back in his oaken chair, 
 While his visage betray'd from the aspect it bore, 
 That his studies perplex'd him more and more.
 
 270 THE ABBOT'S OAK. 
 
 On that Abbot's brow the furrows were deep, 
 
 His hair was scant and white, 
 And his glassy eyes had known no sleep 
 
 For many a live-long night. 
 His lips so thin had let nothing in, 
 Save brown bread and water untemper'd by gin, 
 During his sojourn there ; 
 His hopes of succeeding at all with his reading 
 Seem'd to rest on his Urmly abstaining from feeding, 
 
 And sticking like wax to his chair. 
 One would think, from the pains which he took with his diet, he 
 Meant to establish a Temperance Society. 
 His fasting, in short, equall'd that of those mighties, 
 St. Eonald, Dun Scotus, and Simon Stylites — 
 No wonder his look 
 On that black-letter book, 
 Had a sad and a mom-nful air. 
 
 But oh ! what pleasure now gleams from his eyes. 
 
 As he gazes around his cell ! 
 The Abbot springs up in delight and surprise, 
 "I have it! I have it! I have it!" he cries, 
 " I have found out the mystic spell !" — 
 'Twas a wonderful thing for so aged a man 
 To hop, skip, and jump, and to run as he ran, 
 But something had tickled him sore. 
 He just stay'd to sing 
 Out for some one to bring 
 His best suit of robes, and his crosier and ring ; 
 "While his mitre, which hung by a peg on the door, 
 In his hurry he popp'd on tlie hind side before. 
 And then — though 'twas barely dawn of day, 
 He summon'd a council without delay. 
 With a hint that he'd something important to say. 
 And commenced his address in the following way : — 
 
 *' Unaceustom'd, my brethren, as I am to speaking. 
 To keep you long waiting is not my intention ; 
 
 I'll merely observe, that the charm I've been seeking 
 I've found out at length in a book I won't mention.
 
 THE ABBOTS OAK. 271 
 
 Yes, my bretliren, I have found 
 Where to hide our riches vast, 
 Buried deep in holy ground, 
 
 I've found the spell that binds them fast. 
 The proud, the profane, 
 "Will search all in vain. 
 If they hunt for them over and over again. 
 One day in the year 
 "Was banished, I fear. 
 By some txM&Sxi^faux pas in our Patron's career ; 
 That's the time, and that's the hour. 
 When fails our Saint's protecting power ; 
 Gallant hearts and steady hands. 
 Then, and then only, may burst the bands, 
 Our treasures may win, if their patience but lets them ; 
 As for Harry the Eighth, I'm" — he cough' d — " if he gets them-. 
 
 " And now my brethren, all to bed, 
 We'll consider our early matins as said ; 
 And if, by good luck, into any one's head 
 A better device or more feasible plan 
 To bother that corpulent, horrid old man, 
 And that rascally renegade Cromwell, than this come ; 
 The morning will show it, 
 Then let me know it. 
 I'm sleepy just now — so good-night — Pax vohiscum /" 
 
 It's pretty well known in what way the Eighth Harry,. 
 When wearied of Catherine, he wanted to marry 
 Miss Boleyn, — he'd other points also to carry, — 
 Applied to the Pope for his aid ; 
 
 Which not being granted 
 
 As soon as he wanted. 
 The hot-headed monarch right solemnly said^ 
 For bulls and anathemas feeling no dread, 
 
 That the Pope might go 
 
 To Jericho, — 
 And instead of saluting his Holiness' toes, 
 He'd pull, without scruple, his Holiness' nose; — 
 That way he brought the aiiUir to a close. 
 
 Things being thus, 
 
 Without any fuss,
 
 THE ABBOTS OAK. 
 
 He kicks out tlie monks from their pleasant locations ; 
 
 To their broad lands he sends 
 
 His most intimate friends, 
 And bestows their domains on his needy relations ; 
 
 And sad to relate, 
 As we are bound to confess it is, 
 
 Pockets their plate 
 For his private necessities ; 
 And whenever his Majesty finds a fresh dun arise, 
 Gives him a cheque on the abbeys and nunneries. 
 So you'll not be surprised that the very next morning. 
 As the Abbot his person was gravely adorning, 
 
 A note by express 
 
 Put all notions of dress 
 Instanter to flight by its terrible warning. 
 
 I say by express. 
 
 Though you'll probably guess 
 That no gentleman deck'd in gold, scarlet, and blue, 
 Wallced round in those days, as at present they do, 
 Charging eight-pence for billets which shouldn't cost two — 
 (The reason, they say, for folks writing so few). 
 13 ut a change, we are told, will be made in a trice, 
 And epistles of all sorts be brought to one price, 
 Despite the predictions of Mr. Spring Pace. 
 
 We shall not for any 
 
 Pay more than a penny, 
 iN'o matter how great the dimensions or distance. 
 
 An excellent plan for the public ; for then 'tis his 
 Own fault if any one spurns such assistance 
 Is or writes every day to his fellow apprentices ! 
 
 AU laud to Hill 
 
 For this levelling bill, 
 "Which will make, by the aid of the Whigs, its abettors, 
 The General Post a Eepublic of Letters. 
 As it's everywhere voted remarkably rude 
 Into other folks' secrets to peep and intrude, 
 My Muse, for the present, shall so play the prude, 
 
 As not to let out 
 
 What this note was about, 
 Or what it was stagger'd an Abbot so stout.
 
 THE ABBOTS OAK. 273 
 
 The result 's all we care to make public in this story, 
 And to that we've a right, as mere matter of history. 
 
 Ou the night of that ill-omen'd day 
 A band of Monks pursued their way 
 From the postern-gate of that abbey grey, 
 To the churchyard damp and drear. 
 They bore three " hutches," — 
 In Suffolk such is 
 The word they use, as lately I've read 
 In Johnson, for boxes in which folks make bread. 
 The aged men totter'd with toil and with pain. 
 As to carry their burthen they strove might and main. 
 The Abbot march' d first in that slow-going train. 
 The Sexton brought up the rear. 
 Near a newly-made vault 
 They came to a halt, 
 "With no unequivocal symptoms of pleasure, 
 Then each ponderous box, 
 "With its three patent locks. 
 They buried, and filled up the hole at their leisure. 
 They planted above, in a magical figure, 
 rive acorns as big as five walnuts, or bigger. 
 Then the torches' fitful glare 
 Fell on the Abbot's silvery hair, 
 (I allude to his beard — his head was bare,) 
 As he read from a book, what perhaps was a prayer ; 
 But whether 'twas Sanscrit, Chinese, or Hindoo, 
 I believe not a soul of his auditors knew, 
 And it matters but little to me or to you ; 
 But you'll find in swarms, 
 Similar forms. 
 If you read Sandivogis', 
 A Icarn'd old Fogic's 
 Dissertation "De Gobliuis, Ghostis, et Bogis." 
 " 'Tis done — 'tis done," 
 Cried the Abbot ; " now run — 
 "We need some refection. And, hark ! it strikes me ! 
 Our treasure here placed beyond all human reach is, 
 And safe as if stored in St. Benedict's breeches. 
 
 IB
 
 274 THE ABBOTS OAK, 
 
 King Harry may come ; but he'll ne'er, in good sooth, pick 
 Up enough x^late for a decent sized toothpick." 
 
 ***** 
 'Tis said the course of true love never 
 Yet ran smooth ; in fact, if ever 
 It does so run, 
 It's very soon done ; 
 Like ladies^ they say, 
 •Who have their own way. 
 It dwindles as snow on a very warm day ; 
 And, although unromantic may seem the admission, 
 lUes from the want of well-timed opposition. 
 
 But so mournful a fate 
 Seems not to await 
 The lovers whose griefs I'm about to relate. 
 A noble pair. 
 One wondrous fair, 
 One manly, tall, and debonair. 
 Are whispering their vows in the evening air. 
 Yain, vain, 
 Hapless twain ! 
 The Lady of Bottesdale ne'er may be 
 Mate to a squire of low degree ! 
 Ralph of Ptedgrave is stout and true, 
 Ealph of Redgrave is six feet two. 
 As he stands in his stocking without his shoe ; 
 But, like Tully, his family's rather new, — 
 And, what is far worse, 
 Ralph's private purse 
 By no means is heavy, but quite the reverse, — 
 Two failings which make an indifferent catch 
 For a lady of title in want of a match. 
 That lady's papa is stingy and close ; 
 As for his features — one look is a dose 
 He is ugly and old. 
 Unfeeling and cold, 
 "With a penchant for nothing but bank-notes or gold. 
 His estates, too, are mortgaged or sold ; for the fact is, bis 
 Youth had been spent in most dissolute practices.
 
 THE ABBOTS OAK. 275 
 
 Gaming, and drinking, 
 
 Cock-fighting, and winking 
 At ladies, "without ever dreaming or thinking 
 His means were all gone, and his credit fast sinking ; 
 "While he'd now to " come down" with a pretty smart fine 
 For sundry exploits in the Jacobite line ! — 
 A mode by which Tories in those days were pepper'd, 
 As you find if you read Mr. Ainsworth's "Jack Sheppeid :' 
 All these things induced him to aid the advances 
 (Not being the person to throw away chances) 
 Of a wealthy old lord to his fair daughter Frances, 
 Which he thought no bad spec to recruit his finances. 
 
 Slowly and sadly the lovers were walking, 
 
 On their hardships, and some other odd matters talking ; 
 
 The lady had said 
 
 That rather than wed 
 An old noodle just ready to take to his bed, 
 
 She'd perish outright, 
 
 Were it only to spite 
 Her father for taking such things in his head. 
 
 Ralph then swore he 
 
 Would die before he 
 Allowed any man, baron, viscount, or earl, 
 To walk oil' to church with his own darling girl. 
 But, meanwhile, as dying was rather a bore, ho 
 Would first tell the lady a singular story. 
 
 He said, — "At Preston's bloody fray, 
 As night closed o'er the well-fought day, 
 An aged man sore wounded lay, 
 And j ust as two troopers were ready to twist. 
 The old gentleman's neck, with one blow of his fist, 
 He, Ralph, strongly hinted they'd better desist. 
 Then the old man smiled a remarkable smUe, 
 And clasping tliat same stout fist the while, 
 Acknowledged his kindness, and swore, too, that dem if, he 
 Would serve liira in turn at his direst extremity. 
 Tliat, last niglit, which must still more remarkable seem. 
 That remarkable man had a])peared in a dream, 
 
 lS-2
 
 276 THE ABBOTS OAK. 
 
 And had bid him, without any nonsense or joke, 
 Wrap himself up snug and warm in his cloak, 
 And meet him at twelve by the " Abbot's old oak." 
 
 Meanwhile the clouds were collecting on high, 
 
 Darker and darker grew the sky, 
 
 And a rain-drop moistened that lady's eye 
 
 As big as a half-crown piece. 
 The lady she sighed, perchance for a coach, 
 Threw on her lover one glance of reproach, 
 
 And one on her satin pelisse. 
 At this moment, when what to do neither could tell, a 
 Page appeared, bearing a brown silk lunbrella. 
 I don't mean a page 
 Of this civilized age, 
 In a very tight jacket, with very short tails, 
 Studded all over with brass-headed nails ; 
 But an orthodox page, who, on bended knee. 
 Said, " Miss, be so good as to come and make tea." 
 
 Ralph instantly rose ; 
 
 One kiss ere he goes — 
 The page most discreetly is blowing his nose, — 
 And, before you can thrice on John Robinson call, 
 Ralph has cleared with a bound that garden wall. 
 With no less speed 
 He has mounted his steed, — 
 A noble beast of bone and breed, 
 
 Of sinewy limb. 
 
 Compact, yet slim, 
 *' Warranted free from vice and from whim." 
 Meanwhile the rain was beginning to soak 
 Through a very bad shift for a Macintosh clcak, 
 
 Which — a regular do^ — 
 
 When only half new, 
 Ralph had bought some time back from a parrot-nosed Jew, 
 Trusting his word, with no further thought or proof, 
 For it's being a patent- wove, London-made waterproof, — 
 A fact, by the way, which most forcibly shows men 
 How sharp they must look when they deal with old clothesmen.
 
 THE ABBOTS OAK. 277 
 
 Little reek'd Ralph of the wind and the rain, 
 
 On his inmost heart was preying that pain 
 
 Which man may know once, hut can ne'er know again : 
 
 That bitterest throe 
 
 Of deepest woe, 
 To feel he was loved, and was loved in vain. 
 
 Now fiercer grew the tempest's force, 
 And the whirlwind eddied round rider and horso 
 As onward they urged their headlong course. 
 O'er bank, brook, and briar, 
 O'er streamlet and brake. 
 By the red lightning's fire 
 Their wild way they take. 
 A country so awkward to go such a pace on, 
 Might have posed Captain Beecher, Dan Seffert, or Mason. 
 
 At once a flash, livid and clear. 
 
 Shows a moss-grown r;iin mouldering near ; 
 
 The horseman stays his steed's career, 
 
 And slowly breasts the steep. 
 As slowly climbs that ancient mound. 
 His courser spurns the holy ground, 
 "Where the dead of other days around 
 
 Lie clasped in stony sleep. 
 And mark against the lurid sky 
 An oak uprears its form on high. 
 
 And flings its branches free ; 
 A thousand storms have o'er it broke. 
 But well hath it stood the tempest stroke, — 
 It is, it is the Abbot's oak, 
 
 It is the trysting-trcc. 
 An hour hath passed, an hour hath flown, 
 llalph stands by the tree, but he stands alone. 
 Till, surmising his dream is a regular lioax, 
 He " confounds," with much energy, " Abbots and oaks, 
 And old gentlemen dying from Highlanders' strokes," 
 Then enters a shed, which, thougli rather a cool house. 
 Might serve at less need 
 To hold him and his steed, — 
 As it formerly served the old monks for a tool house.
 
 278 THE ABBOTS OAK, 
 
 Another hour was past and gone, 
 Another day was stealing on, 
 When Ralph, who was shaking 
 With cold, thought of taking 
 A nap, and was just between sleeping and waking, 
 Was roused by his horse, who stood trembling and shaking. 
 He opens his eyes, 
 To raise himself tries, 
 But a weight seems to press on his arms, chest, and thighs ; 
 Like a lifeless log he helplessly lies — 
 Then, conceive his amazement, alarm, and surprise, 
 When on every side, 
 In its ancient pride, 
 He sees an old monastery slowly arise ; 
 Chapel and hall, 
 Buttress and wall, 
 Ivied spire, and turret tall. 
 Grow on his vision one and all. 
 Airy and thin, 
 At first they begin, 
 To fall into outline, and slowly fill in ; 
 At length in their proper proportions they fix, 
 And assume an appearance exactly " like bricks." 
 
 From the postern-gate of that abbey grey, 
 A band of monks pursue their way, 
 Till they came to the Abbot's oak. 
 Ralph sees an eye he before has known — 
 'Tis the eye of their leader — fixed on his own ! 
 It is, it is, 
 The identical phiz, 
 Of his friend, or one precisely like his ! 
 These words from his thin lips broke :— 
 <' This the time and this the hour. 
 Fails the saints' protecting power, 
 Gallant heart and steady hand, 
 Jfow may burst the charmed band — • 
 I!sow — " Here the knell 
 Of an abbey bell 
 On the ear of the wondering listener fell ;
 
 THE ABBOTS OAK. 279 
 
 As if the sound 
 His limbs unbound, 
 His strength, so strangely lost, is found. 
 
 Howling, fled the wild nightmare, 
 As Ralph leaped forth fi'om his secret lair. 
 And gained at a bound the open air ; — 
 He gazed around, but nothing was there ! 
 Nothing save the roofless aisle, 
 Nothing save the mouldering pile, 
 ■Which look'd, in the deepening shade, half hid. 
 As old and as ugly as ever it did. 
 
 The storm had passed by, 
 
 And the moon on high 
 Beamed steadily forth from the deep blue sky. 
 One single ray through the branches broke. 
 It fell at the loot of the "Abbot's old oak." 
 
 StiU in Ralph's ear the words were ringing. 
 
 The words he had heard the old gentleman singing, 
 
 " This the time, and this the hour." 
 He felt that the tide at last was come, now or 
 Never to lead him to fortune and power. 
 
 Of his trusty blade 
 
 He very soon made 
 An apology — poor one I grant — for a spade. 
 And proceeded to work, though new at the trade, 
 AVith hearty good will, where the roots seemed decayed. 
 
 With labour and toil 
 
 He turned up the soil, 
 
 While he thought — 
 
 As he ought — 
 On that adage which taught 
 *' Perseverance, and patience, and plenty of oil !" 
 
 Till, wearied grown, 
 
 Muscle and bone, 
 His sword broke short on a broad flag stone.
 
 28o THE ABBOTS OAK. 
 
 In Redgrave church the bells are ringing ; 
 To RedgraTe church a youth is bringing 
 His bride, preceded by little boys singing, — 
 A custom considered the regular thing in 
 Times past, but gone out in these latter days, 
 When a pair may get married in fifty queer ways. 
 
 In Redgrave church blush bridesmaids seven. 
 One had turned faint, or they -would have blushed even j 
 In Redgrave church a bride is given 
 In face of man, in face of Heaven. 
 In her sunshine of youth, in her beauty's pride. 
 The Lady of Bottesdale stands that bride ; 
 And Ralph of Redgrave stands by her side ; 
 But no longer drest 
 In homely vest, 
 Coat, waistcoat, and breeches were all of the best j 
 His look so noble, his air so free, 
 Proclaim him a squire of high degree ; 
 The lace on his garments is richly gilt, 
 His elegant sword has a golden hilt. 
 His *' tile " in the very last fashion is buUt, 
 His Ramillie wig 
 Is burh' and big, 
 And a ring with a sparkling diamond his hand is on, 
 Exactly as Richardson paints Sii- Charles Grandison. 
 
 Nobody knows 
 
 Or can ever suppose, 
 How Ralph of Redgrave got such fine clothes ; 
 For little I^ed Snip the tailor's boy, said, — 
 And a 'cuter blade was not in the trade, — 
 That his master's bill had been long ago paid. 
 Ah ! little, I ween, deem those simple folks, 
 TTho on Ralph's appearance are cracking their jokes. 
 How much may be gained by a person who pokes, 
 At the right hour, under the right sort of oaks.
 
 2Sl 
 
 SALLY IN OUR ALLEY. 
 
 BY G. K. GILLESPIE. 
 I. 
 
 Af all the giii3 that are so 
 smart, 
 
 There's none like pretty Sally, 
 She is the dai-ling of my heart, 
 
 And she lives iu Our Alley. 
 There's not a lady in the land, 
 
 That's half so sweet as Sally, 
 She is the darling of my heart, 
 
 And she lives in Our Alley. 
 
 rr. 
 Her father, he makes cabbage- 
 nets. 
 And through the streets does 
 cry 'em, 
 Her mother, she sells laces long. 
 To such as please to buy 'em. 
 But sure, such folks could ne'er 
 begot 
 So sweet a girl as Sally ; 
 She is the darling of my lieart, 
 And she lives in Our Alley. 
 
 iir. 
 
 When she is by, I leave my 
 work, 
 
 I love her so sincerely : 
 My master comes like any Turk, 
 
 And bangs me most severely. 
 
 IN SARAM. 
 
 EX G. K. GILLESPIE, M.A. 
 I. 
 
 A NTE alias splendet specie pulclior- 
 rima Sara, 
 Tormosas superans cffigie egregia. 
 Urget amore mihi pectus mentemque 
 puella, et 
 Angusta in NostrcL vivit honesta 
 Via. 
 Virgineo in ccetu nullas dulcedine 
 Sarse, 
 Nobilibus natas, invenias similes. 
 Implet amore mihi mentempectusque 
 puella, et 
 Angusta in Nostra vivit honesta 
 Via. 
 
 u. 
 Institor huic pater est, portans qui 
 caulibus apta 
 Eetia per vicos clamitat assidue 
 Digna viro est uxor, merces cui fim- 
 bria longa est 
 Vendita, siqua velit foemina compta 
 emere. 
 At tales talem quam dulcis numina 
 Sara 
 (Nobilis est certe !) non generSsse 
 sinunt. 
 Est mihi deliciao cordi mentiquo 
 puella, et 
 Angusta in Nostra vivit honesta 
 Via. 
 
 III. 
 Adveniento ilia fabi'icam inceptosquo 
 laborcs 
 Dcscro continued, victus amore meo: 
 Tunc iri fcrvens improvisusquo ma- 
 gistcr, 
 Ut Saraccnus, adit, mo baculo 
 feriens.
 
 282 
 
 SALLY IN OUR ALLEY. 
 
 But let liiin bang liis bellyful, 
 I'll bear it all for Sally ; 
 
 Slie is the darling of my heart, 
 And she lives in Our Alley. 
 
 At quamvis feriat donee satiabitur 
 iste, 
 Omnia pro Sara perfero, sic peramo. 
 Firmat amore mihi pectus mentemque 
 puella, et 
 Augusta in Nostra vivit honesta 
 Via. 
 
 TV. 
 
 Of all the days that's in the 
 week, 
 I dearly love but one day, 
 And that's the day that comes 
 between 
 A Saturday and Monday. 
 Tor then I'm dress'd in all my 
 best, 
 To walk abroad with Sally ; 
 She is the darling of my heart, 
 And she lives in Oui* Alley. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Hebdornadfe ex omni spatio serieque 
 dicrum 
 Solera unum expecto, suavis et est 
 milii lux. 
 Isque dies Lunoe imperium ac Sa- 
 turnia regna 
 Disjungit, veniens lumine propitio. 
 Tunc etenim spatior Sara comitatus 
 amic^, 
 Vestituque nitens, splendidius so- 
 lito. 
 Fert mihi lenimen curse dulcissima 
 Sara, et 
 Angusti in Nostra, vivit honesta 
 Via. 
 
 My master carries me to church, 
 
 And often am I blamed, 
 Because I leave him in the lurch 
 
 As soon as Test is named. 
 I leave the chmxh in sermon- 
 time, 
 
 And slink away to Sally ; 
 She is the darling of my heart, 
 
 And she lives in Our Alley. 
 
 Ad templum Domini me ducit ssepe 
 magister, 
 Ssepe at nequitiam corripit ille 
 meam : 
 Scilicet aufugio furtim falloque ma- 
 gistrum, 
 Sacro argumento vix bene pro- 
 posito. 
 Dum monet Orator populum liorta- 
 turque discrtus. 
 Ad Saram efTugio, dulceque collo- 
 quium. 
 Implet amore mihi mentem pectusque 
 puella, et 
 Augusta, in Nostra vivit honesta 
 Via.
 
 SALLY IN OUR ALLEY. 
 
 283 
 
 TI. 
 
 When Christmas comes about 
 again, 
 Oh! then I shall have 
 money, — 
 I'H hoard it up, and — box and 
 aU— 
 I'll give it to my honey. 
 And would it were ten thou- 
 sand pounds, 
 I'd give it all to Sally ; 
 She is the darling of my heart, 
 And she lives in Our AUey. 
 
 TI. 
 
 Quum volvente anno Christi Katali- 
 tia orta 
 Sint, nummilm mild erunt in loculo 
 cumidi. 
 Omnes servabo, atque ipsa cum 
 pyxide Sarse, 
 Tempora quum veuiant, mclligense 
 tribuam. 
 Atque utinam innumeras mihi opes 
 fortuna dedisset ! 
 Sara suo totas exciperct gremio. 
 Est mihi dehcise cordi mentiquo 
 puclla, et 
 August i in Nostr^ vivit honesta, 
 Vii.. 
 
 TII. 
 My master, and the neighbours 
 all 
 Make game of me and Sally, 
 And, but for her, I'd better be 
 
 A slave, and row a galley. 
 But when my seven long years 
 are out, 
 Oh ! then, I'll many Sally, 
 Oh ! then we'll wed, and then 
 we'll bed, 
 But not in Our Alley. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Irrident flammam vicini atque ipse 
 magister 
 Quae me illamque lu-it, luditl- 
 cantque facem. 
 Sed, sine amore tuo, prsestaret, Salli, 
 rcvinctum 
 Servi me vitam remigio trahere. 
 Quum tamen elabens lente confecerifc 
 annus 
 Septimus orbiculum, Sara milii 
 uxor crit. 
 Turn vero tlialamum celebrabimus 
 atque hyinena;o8, 
 At in-ocul Augusta ibimus usque 
 Via.
 
 284 
 nOEACE TO LYDE. 
 
 BY C. H. LANGHORNE. 
 
 All come, Lyde, come to my own Sabine hill, 
 
 And we'll list to the fall of the dancing rill ; 
 The privet and wind-flower our couch shall be ; 
 Oh haste, Lyde, haste from the city to me ! 
 
 Lucullus's gardens are rich and rare, 
 Every shrub of the East grows there ; 
 Balsam and nard, and cassia sweet. 
 And Syrian palm in his gardens meet. 
 
 The psittacus whistles among the trees, 
 And the monkey swings to the westland breeze. 
 And the mighty elephant wantons at will. 
 And the river-horse frisks and drinks his fiU. 
 
 But, though rich and rare his gardens be, 
 Mine, though poor, is more meet for thee ; 
 'Tis a turfy bank on Lucretili's slope, 
 Where the latest violets their eyelids ope. 
 
 Digentia's ripple is sweet to hear, 
 And Philomel charms the tranced ear, 
 And Phyllis is waiting to crown our board 
 "With apples and nuts from the autumn hoard. 
 
 Such is our fare — we ask not for more ; 
 The mighty haunch of Laurenian boar. 
 Or surmullet large as large can be, 
 Let them go to Apicius, but not to ihee. 
 
 Phyllis shall cool the Ealernian wino 
 In the running stream, while our brows we twine 
 "With the glossy bay-leaf, and the chaste orange flower j, 
 And I'll sing to my love in my chestnut bower. 
 
 Lyde, love, Lyde ; I long for thee, 
 Eaunus has hastened over the sea ; 
 Majnalus knows his foot again ! 
 I am left alone in my wild domain.
 
 HORACE TO LYDE. 285 
 
 Come, and I'll touch my Latian lyre, 
 With, somewhat of old Anacreon's fire ; 
 Thy beautifiil eyes my theme shall be. 
 How can I fail when I sing of thee ? 
 
 I'll show thee where Sylvan sports by day, 
 And the Naiads glide on their watery way. 
 And Patula tends the corn with a smile, 
 And poppy-crowned Ceres looks on the while. 
 
 Come, Lyde, leave the haunts of men, 
 Thou must never quit thy Flaccus agen ; 
 My hyacinth blossoms a spell shall be. 
 They will charm my Lyde to live with me. 
 
 Care was not made for charms like thine ; ' 
 It has dulled the glance of thy sparkling eyne ; 
 It has dimmed thy roses in haggard Eome ; 
 Come and look bright in my Sabine home. 
 
 A DELECTABLE BALLAD OF THE JUDGE AND THE 
 
 MASTER. 
 
 BY TOM TAYLOR. 
 
 HE stout Master of Trinitie 
 A vow to God did make, 
 Ne Judge, ne Sheriff, through his back door 
 Their way from court should take. 
 
 T 
 
 And syne he hath closed his big, big book, 
 
 And syne laid down his pen. 
 And dour and grimly was his look. 
 
 As ho called his servinj? men : — 
 
 -"D 
 
 " Come hither, come hither, my porter, "Watts! 
 Come hither. Moonshine, to me ! 
 If he bo Judge in the Justice Hall, 
 
 I'll be Judge in Trinitie.
 
 286 THE JUDGE AND MASTER. 
 
 " And Sheriff Green is a lordly man 
 In his coat of the velvet fine ; 
 But he'll riie the day that he took liis "way 
 Throiigh back-gate of mine ! 
 
 " iS[ow bolt and bar, my flunkies true, 
 Good need is ours, I ween ; 
 By the trumpet so clear, the Judge is near, 
 And eke bold Sheriff Green." 
 
 Oh, a proud, proud man was the Master to see, 
 
 With his serving men behind, 
 As he strode down the stair with his nose in the air, 
 
 Like a pig that scents the wind. 
 
 And they have barr'd the bigger gate, 
 
 And they have barr'd the small, 
 And soon tliey espy the Sheriff's coach. 
 
 And the Sheriff so comely and tall. 
 
 And the Sheriff straight has knock'd at the gate, 
 
 And tirled at the pin ; 
 " !Now open, open, thou proud porter, 
 
 And let my Lord Judge in !" 
 
 "Nay, Sheriff Green," quoth the proud porter, 
 " For this thing may not be ; 
 The Judge is Lord in the Justice Hall, 
 But the Master in Trinitie." 
 
 Then the Master smiled on Porter "Watts, 
 
 And gave him a silver joe ; 
 And, as he came there with his nose in the air, 
 
 So back to the lodge did go. 
 
 *o^ 
 
 Then outspoke the grave Lord Justice, — " Ho! 
 
 Sheriff Green, what aileth thee ? 
 Bid the trumpets blow, that the folk may know. 
 
 And the gate be opened free." 
 
 But a troubled man was the Sheriff Green, 
 
 And he sweated as he did stand ; 
 And in silken stock each knee did knock. 
 
 And the white wand shook in his hand.
 
 THE JUDGE AND MASTER. 287 
 
 Then Hack grew the brow of the Judge, I trow. 
 
 And his voice was stern to hear, 
 As he almost swore at Sheriff Green, 
 
 Who wrun": his hands in fear. 
 
 ■"o 
 
 " Now, out and alas, my Lord High Judge, 
 
 That I this day should see ! 
 When I did knock from behind the lock, 
 
 The porter thus answered me : 
 * That thou wert Lord in the Justice Hal], 
 
 But the Master in Trinitie.' 
 
 " And the Master hath bid them bar the gate 
 'Gainst Kaisar or 'gainst King." 
 " Now, by my wig !" quoth the Judge in wrath, 
 ** Such answer is not the thing. 
 
 " Break down the gate and tell the knave 
 That would stop my way so free. 
 That the wood of his skull is as thick to the full, 
 As the wood of the gate may be !" 
 
 That voice so clear when the porter did hear, 
 
 He trembled exceedingly ; 
 Then soon and straight he flung open the gate. 
 
 And the Judge and his train rode by. 
 
 Tom Taylor is one of the most scholarly and accomplished wi-iters 
 on all sorts of Bubjects of tho present day. The story told, in this ad- 
 mirable old English ballad of his, is strictly true in every particular, 
 Lord Denman, one of the judges of Assize for the Norfolk Circuit, and 
 the celebrated Doctor Whewell, tho Master of Trinity College, Cam- 
 bridge, being the chief characters in the little drama, which was very 
 interesting whilst it lasted. Tho Master's Lodge at Trinity has been, 
 since Ilenry the Eighth's time, tho home of the judges of the Cambridgo 
 Assizes. Lord Denrnan, on this celebrated occasion, thought that lio 
 had as good a right to return from court to his lodgings through tho 
 back or front gate of Trinity, as he might think proper, and took it into 
 ]iis head to choose tho former. Doctor Whewell, tho greatest man in tho 
 world within the precincts of his own domain, and certainly anytliing
 
 2S8 TOM TA YLOR. 
 
 but tlie smallest beyond them, issued his orders that the judges were to 
 enter by the front gate ; and, in order that his mandate should not be 
 misunderstood, he went himself and saw that the porter secured the 
 back gate. Lord Denman, however, made his way in by the mere 
 force of will, as Gloucester did through the Tower gates against the 
 Bishop of Winchester, in Shakespeare's Henry the Sixth. Porters 
 Watts and Moonshine were living entities, and Grreen was ELigh 
 Sheriff of Cambridgeshire at the time. 
 
 Mr. Taylor, the author of the ballad, was then in his undergraduate 
 career. He was elected a Fellow of Trinity shortly after he took his 
 B.A. degree with high honour, having been bracketed first with Mr. 
 Goodwin, head of the first class of the Classical Tripos. He was 
 afterwards called to the bar in the Inner Temple, and went the Northern 
 Circuit for a few years, where he gave promise of future eminence in 
 the legal profession, although his literary tastes led him to devote no 
 small portion of his time to one or other of the leading publications of 
 the day. He was one of the chief contributors to 'Punch' when Jer- 
 rold and Thackeray wrote their best things for it ; and has written, 
 taking quantity and quality together, for the stage more successfully 
 than any living dramatic author. He is Secretary of the Board of 
 Health, a branch of the public service attached to the Home Oflice, 
 and is at present in the prime of his intellect and manhood, after 
 having already realized a handsome fortune by his rare and versatile 
 genius and marvellous industry. 
 
 THE COBBLER OF TOLEDO. 
 
 A LEGEKD OF CASTILE. 
 
 Vou'vE all of you heard, or you've all of you read, 
 
 Of a little old cobbler whose dwelling is said 
 To have been nothing more than a stall or a shed, 
 Where he couldn't stand up without bumping his head. 
 But which stiU, as the choicest authorities say, 
 Both served him for kitchen and salle a manger. 
 This same little cobbler — so fickle is Fame — 
 Has never yet figured in rhyme with a name; 
 And even the place of his birth or location, 
 His life, death and actions, his language and nation, 
 Are all alike left to our imagination.
 
 JHE COBBLER OF TOLEDO. 2S9 
 
 Tet he lived and lie died ; 
 He'd a language beside, 
 And a mother of whom, he was haply the pride. 
 
 I've traced them all out with much trouble and pain, 
 
 And I've taken a journey expressly to Spain 
 
 To search all the archives — I hope not in vain, — 
 
 As I found that this maker of shoes for " the million," 
 
 Was born at Toledo — a thorough Castilian. 
 
 Toledo's a city renowned through aU ages. 
 
 In clerical tomes and historical pages. 
 
 For bishops and warriors, princes and sages, 
 
 And sword-blades, which even in these modern days 
 
 ("When we're giving up fighting and choleric ways) 
 
 Are confess'd to be matchless in "temper" — a raritv 
 
 Scarcely more known to our peace-men than charitj'. 
 
 In one of the streets of this city of steel — 
 
 This ShefReld and Birmingham store of Castile — 
 
 Stood a gloomy old mansion, with windows so few, 
 
 And so closely barred up, how the light could get through 
 
 Was a puzzle to all who beheld them the more, 
 
 As the street was so narrow and dismal before, 
 
 That no ray of the simlight had ever been known 
 
 To wriggle its way duwn and burnish one stone. 
 
 Like a little excrescence below this great hall 
 Projected a queer little, black-looking, stall, 
 Whence the sound of a hammer assail'd you, together 
 With odours of beeswax and blacking and leather. 
 
 And if you look'd in^ 
 
 In the midst of the din, 
 
 And the gloom and the smell — ■ 
 
 And the dirt, too, as well — 
 
 You might see a small body, a very big head. 
 Two eyes very bright, and one nose very red, 
 Two hands veiy largo and as grimy as soot. 
 
 And not the least sign of a leg or a foot. 
 
 19
 
 290 THE COBBLER OF TOLEDO. 
 
 Don't fancy, I beg, 
 
 That there wasnH a leg — 
 But merely their owner, a cobbler at work, 
 Tuek'd them quite out of sight as he sat a la Turk. 
 And this is " the cobbler who lived in the stall 
 "Which served him for kitchen and parlour and all :" 
 And this is the cobbler — Pedrillo by name — 
 Whosj wonderful story my verses proclaim. 
 
 One day, as Pedrillo sat mending the sole 
 
 Of a shoe that its owner had worn to a hole, 
 
 And stitching, and waxing, and pegging, and thumping. 
 
 And filing, and smoothing, and ' clicking,' and ' clumping,' 
 
 He somehow got thinking on all sorts of things 
 
 And all sorts of persons, from cobblers to kings. 
 
 Pedrillo was not a philosopher, nor 
 
 Had he ever much practised at thinking before ; 
 
 Or, at least, I much doubt till that moment if ever he 
 
 Had made the remotest approach to a reverie. 
 
 Yet, how charming a reverie is 
 
 AVhen the mind and the heart are at rest, 
 
 "When we shake off the clay of the world 
 And we dream of some land of the blest I 
 
 How pleasant to loll at one's ease — 
 Arms a-kimbo and eyes on the ceiling — 
 
 And shut out, in au opium trance, 
 
 (If we can) ev'ry earthly-born feeling I 
 
 But we're apt to do just the reverse — 
 
 Begin thinking of every evil — 
 Our pains, and our debts, and our sins, 
 
 Our long balance sheet with the devil. 
 
 "Ah, Life thou'rt at best but a dream !" 
 Is a saying each dreamer well knows — 
 
 And oh, what a deuce of a nightmare 
 Doth trouble some mortals' repose I
 
 THE COBBLER OF TOLEDO. 291 
 
 How we fret, and we fume, and we snore, 
 
 How we kick oft' the clothes, how we quake — 
 
 How we fight with the phantoms we raise : 
 And how stupid we look when we wake ! 
 
 Yes — we've taken a great deal of trouble 
 
 To suffer a great deal of pain ; 
 And when we awake to our folly, 
 
 "We turn round and act it again. 
 
 It's needless to point out our madness, 
 
 We see it and feel it toitJiin — 
 But the spendthrift goes deepest in debt when 
 
 The least he's encumber'd with " tin." 
 
 I don't mean to say 
 
 'Twas at all in this way 
 The thoughts of Pedrillo attempted to stray. 
 
 He thought of his life 
 
 Of struggle and strife 
 'Gainst the pangs of necessity, sharp as his knife. 
 
 He thought how much fate 
 
 Had bless' d all the great 
 "Who roll'd by his stall in their coaches of state. 
 
 He thought of his soul — 
 
 What a dark little hole 
 It was shut in, in this world — as blind as a mole. 
 
 He wished he was rich — 
 
 How quickly he'd pitch 
 This shoe to the dcv' here he made a false stitch. 
 
 He thought he could spend 
 
 Heaps of gold without end 
 And wear more new boots than he e'er got to mend. 
 
 He thought how he'd dine 
 
 And what oceans of wine 
 He'd swallow of Spain, and of France, and the Rhine. 
 
 Till the very idea of extensive potation 
 Produced on his brain an uncommon sensation. 
 And made him feel dreamy and vicious ; — at least 
 He fancied he'd like to try thrai^hiug a priest ! 
 
 19—2
 
 292 THE COBBLER OF TOLEDO. 
 
 And this terrible notion so tickled liis brain 
 
 That he burst into laughter again and again, 
 
 As he thought of his reverence dancing with pain. 
 
 "When a wicked idea gets into the head 
 
 There's no guessing the lengths into which it may spread ; 
 
 It expands ev'ry moment and gets more defined, 
 
 Till it seems to fill up ev'ry nook of the mind, 
 
 And leaves not a square inch of virtue behind. 
 
 And so with Pedrillo : each moment there fled 
 Some good little thought that remained in his hcaa, 
 And its place was supplied by a bad one instead ; 
 Till at length, quite o'erwhelmed in the vortex of evil. 
 He cried, in the midst of his fanciful revel — 
 " I should like to have one little peep at the devil !" 
 
 Eat-tat-tat-tat— a whole shower of knocks 
 
 Come pattering down on his dark little box, 
 
 And he starts from his day-dream and sees with amaze 
 
 A very tall man with a sinister gaze, 
 
 "Who stands at his window, and lifting his foot 
 
 Shoves it in as he utters — " tliere — make me a boot." 
 
 Pedrillo feels sick — he's half ready to faint, 
 His horror no language of mine could e'er paint 
 As he grasps — not a foot — but a hoof hard and thick, 
 Just such as tradition assigns to Old Nick ! 
 "While the owner cries, "Now then, you booby, be quick- 
 Take the measure at once, sir — what makes you so slow ? 
 Hang the fellow, my dinner's all spoiling, I know — 
 I've got a roast heretic waiting below." 
 
 Half dead with the fright which he's trying to smother, 
 
 Pedrillo contrives in some manner or other, 
 
 To measure the hoof with his tape ; while the "gent" 
 
 Casts on him a glance of such evil intent 
 
 That cold perspiration commences to ooze 
 
 From the top of his head to the soles of his shoes. 
 
 " Now make tliat boot well, or you'll be in a mess. 
 
 And bring it home quickly, sir — there's my address .•"
 
 THE COBBLER OF TOLEDO. 293 
 
 And he throws down a card with a snlphurous smell, 
 And one word of four letters — I'd rather not tell 
 "What it was, but the reader will guess pretty well. 
 
 'Tis now the merry month of May 
 And all Toledo's streets are gay. 
 The hells peal forth a merry chime 
 In honour of the joyful time : 
 From steeple tow'r and mansion-top 
 In graceful folds bright banners drop, 
 Shallop, and barge, and tiny boat, 
 Across the glittering Tagus float, 
 Bearing their smiling freights along 
 To mingle in the gladsome throng 
 That revel in each street. The song, 
 The joyous laugh, the pleasant jest, 
 The strains of music — all attest, 
 Mid sighs of mirth and sounds of glee, 
 The noisy reign of revelry. 
 
 Let's follow in the motley train, 
 And listen to the blithesome strain 
 Yon maiden sings : how rich and clear 
 Each cadence strikes the listener's ear I 
 
 I. 
 
 Y(' nobles and gentles come near, 
 And list to the glee-maiden's lay ; 
 
 Pair ladies, approach ye, and hear 
 The words from my lips as they stray : 
 
 'Tis love is the theme of my song, 
 Love's praises my verses proclaim, 
 
 And to you all his honours belong — 
 ^ i'or without you he is but a name. 
 
 II. 
 
 Say, is there a jewel on earth 
 So brilliant, so priceless as this ? 
 
 Uoes one hour of a lifetime give birth 
 To a joy like the lover's pure bliss ?
 
 294 THE COBBLER OF TOLEDO. 
 
 It glows like a furnace in youth ; 
 
 In manhood more constant its flame ; 
 In age its companion is Truth — 
 
 In each — 'tis Love only — the same ! 
 
 III. 
 
 'Tis a gleam from some Angel-built sphere, 
 
 The dowry our maker hath given, 
 To prove, while we're sojourning here, 
 
 That we still have a portion of Heaven. 
 It knows not the leav'n of despond ; 
 
 It fears not the clouds that impend, 
 But sees the bright vista beyond. 
 
 And vanquishes Fate in the end. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Let "Wealth be your mistress alone — 
 
 Let Glory allure you awhile — 
 Yet Love shall still claim you his own, 
 
 You shall turn from all else for his smile. 
 You shall taste all the pleasures that fall 
 
 From the bounty of Heaven above, 
 And confess you would barter them all 
 
 For one moment of exquisite Love ! 
 
 Now look to the right and you see a great crowd, 
 
 "With a man in the centre who's bawling aloud 
 
 Some speech, or some verses, or songs, which appear 
 
 To please the rude folks who're collected to hear. 
 
 The language, you'll notice, is not over choice, 
 
 Nor sung in a very melodious voice ; 
 
 And therefore, good reader, I strongly advise 
 
 That we move t'other way. Up you narrow street lies 
 
 The Cathedral : — I fancy we'd better go there. 
 
 Because we're in Spain, and of course you're aware, 
 
 "Whenever a " rumpus " takes place in that land. 
 
 For fun or for fighting, the Church bears a hand, 
 
 To help in the " scrimmage :" and mightily grand 
 
 Are the shows she gets up, though 'twould puzzle to say 
 
 Where the deuce she can raise all the money to pay
 
 THE COBBLER OF TOLEDO. 295 
 
 For such costl J' affairs : but the utmost that I know 
 About it, is simply — she does get the " rhino," 
 
 And now I remember — I very much doubt 
 
 If I've told what these holiday scenes are about. 
 
 It's simply his Catholic Highness of Spain, 
 
 "Who had buried one wife, has just married again; 
 
 And so all his people go mad for a day, 
 
 And rejoice at the deed in an orthodox way. 
 
 "We stand within the sacred pile — 
 
 The long, broad nave, the narrow aisle, 
 
 E'en to the very altar's stone. 
 
 Scarcely one spot untrodden own. 
 
 Yet solemn silence reigns around, 
 
 Save when the silver bells' light sound 
 
 Proclaims the Host : — then bows each knee 
 
 Before the symbol'd Majesty 
 
 Of Christ Incarnate : each one there 
 
 Mutters his penitence and pray'r ; 
 
 "While pealing forth, the organ's note 
 
 Seems through the vaulted roof to float, , 
 
 Hearing aloft its solemn tone 
 
 To bear its praise to God's high throne. 
 
 The hymns are sung, the mass is said; 
 The crowd of worshippers has fled. 
 Deserted e'en by monk and priest 
 
 The lofty temple's aisles are bare : 
 The gorgeous altar in the east — 
 
 No suppliant form is kneeling there ! 
 
 Tlie motley crowd that whilomo trod. 
 With silent step, the house of God, 
 Now dance the gay-deck'd streets along. 
 Or shouting join the ribald song. 
 
 And such is man ! thus vain his mind 
 And fickle, as the veerin;^: wind : 
 Now Pleasure, and now Ileav'n his text — 
 This hour a Saint — a Satyr next I
 
 296 THE COBBLER OF TOLEDO. 
 
 In a dark little street is a " liullah-ba-loo," 
 And shouting, and yelling, a precious "to-do;" 
 
 What hustling and rushing 
 
 And running and crushing, 
 
 And pulling and tearing. 
 
 And laughing and swearing ! 
 "What masses of people all crowding to see 
 The fun or the fight, or whate'er it may be ! 
 "While each asks the other as fast as they run, 
 *' Holloa — what's the row there ? do tell us the fun : 
 What the deuce are they doing ? do yoit know, or you ? 
 Are they baiting a badger, or shaving a Jev/^ '?"■ 
 
 In that dark little street is the dark little stall, 
 
 Where our poor little cobbler's at work with liis awl — 
 
 At work when the rest of the city's at play — 
 
 At Avork on this glorious festival day ! 
 
 The crowd are astounded — they can't make it out — 
 
 So they yell to the cobbler, and holloa and shout. 
 
 And they bid him come forth and partake of the revel, 
 
 And pitch all his leather and tools to the devil. 
 
 "That's just itr cried Pedrillo, as soon as he heard 
 
 The multitude utter that last naughty word. 
 
 " Just it, my old beeswax ? just what ? my old Turk ?" 
 
 " Why — it's just for Ms worship, I mean, I'm at work." 
 
 " His worship — what worship ? hang me if I know 
 
 What you mean." " Whj- — his worship that lives down heloio.''^ 
 
 And here poor PedriUo turned awfully white, 
 
 And even his nose grew pale with affright. 
 
 " He's mad," cried the mob — "pull him out of his hole." 
 
 " Oh mercy ! not yet — I've not finished the sole I" 
 
 In spite of his cries poor Pedrillo is seized. 
 
 And dragg'd from his hole, and most ruthlessly squeezed, 
 
 And carried in triumph, still grasping a shoe 
 
 Half finished — not fit for a Christian or Jew ; 
 
 But a queer looking thing, made I scarcely know how, 
 
 And exactly the shape of the hoof of a cow ! 
 
 Away thej' all run 
 
 lu the height of their fun.
 
 THE COBBLER OF TOLEDO. 297 
 
 And bear off" their prize 
 
 Amid laughter and cries, 
 And huzzahs for the cobbler, who, first of his trade, 
 A shoe for his OYil-named Majesty made. 
 
 In the midst of their running they suddenly stop, 
 And cease from hurrahing ; and quietly drop 
 The load that they carry : then hasten away— 
 And, before the poor cobbler could manage to say 
 One word to his captors, they'd left him alone, 
 With his comical shoe, sitting squat on a stone. 
 
 But, absorbed in one notion, he falls to his work 
 (Still seated, of course, as before — a la Turk) 
 And marks not the place where he's left in the lurch- 
 Alas ! 'tis the porch of Saint Anthony's church ! 
 
 "With stately step and solemn mien 
 A black-rob' d priest is sliortly seen 
 Emerging from the door tliat lies 
 Behind Pedrillo : and his eyes 
 llest on the cobbler in surprise ! 
 
 The latter stitches as before, 
 
 Unconscious of his visitor, 
 
 And heeding not the open'd door, 
 
 Tlie priest stands still in dumb amaze 
 
 At the strange sight that meets his giizo — 
 
 The cobbler with liis absent air. 
 
 And the queer shoe he's making there. 
 
 At length his holy indignation, 
 
 At such an act of profanation. 
 
 Burst forth in words—" Holloa ! you hound. 
 
 How dare you work on holy grouud!" 
 
 Pfdrillo slowly raised his head, 
 Xot heeding wliat the priest had said, 
 But sliglitly startled by the sound: 
 And then he turn'd himself half round.
 
 298 THE COBBLER OE TOLEDO. 
 
 And saw, with supernatural fear, 
 A black-rob'd priest standing? near. 
 In fact, he thought the figui'e must be 
 His most Satanic Majesty ! 
 
 And so he cried — " What sliall I do ? 
 I've not quite done your worship's shoe ; 
 I'm hard at work, sir — this is it — 
 Perhaps you'll try how it will fit 
 Your worship's hoof — that is— I mean — 
 Your worship's foot — I'd never seen 
 One like it till your worship came — 
 So, if I've fail'd, you mustn't blame !" 
 
 Thus saying, he held out the cloven-hoof'd boot. 
 And gravely laid hold of his reverence's foot. 
 
 Then — oh for the pen of old Homer to trace 
 
 The passion that darken'd the holy man's face ! 
 
 His eyes were half-red and his cheeks were half-black. 
 
 And he rush'd at the cobbler, and caught him a whack 
 
 "With his toe on the nethermost point of his back. 
 
 That sent him a summerset, tumbling and sprawling, 
 
 Into the street, and with agony bawling. 
 
 And before he could rise, 
 
 Or had finished his cries. 
 Before the whole truth could have enter'd his mind, 
 Before he could rub where he smarted behind — 
 He was seiz'd on the spot, and with smart expedition, 
 Clapp'd into the jail of the fell Inquisition ! 
 
 Fair Spain, sweet Spain, the brightest gem 
 In all Europa's diadem ! 
 Land of the sun, the flow'r, the vine — 
 Land of a race once half-divine : 
 Land of fair scenes, and fairer ladies, 
 "Whose forms, from Pyrenees to Cadiz, 
 May match with all the world can boast, 
 From Ind to Ptussia's ice-bound coast I 
 Land of romance — the rich, deep, store 
 Of poet's lay and monkish lore !
 
 THE COBBLER OF TOLEDO. 299 
 
 Birtli-place of men whose ev'ry name, 
 "Writ in the muster-roll of Fame, 
 To ev'ry age, 'neath ev'ry zone. 
 Attest their glory and thine own ! 
 
 How art thou favor'd, glorious land ! 
 TVhat gifts thou hast at Nature's hand — 
 Cliruate and soil, and hills and vales, 
 And flowing streams — all that avails 
 To charm the eye or glad the heart, 
 Or sense of gratitude impart 
 To God above, whose hand benign 
 Hath bless'd thee thus — all, all are thine ! 
 
 And yet, what art thou ? — lost, debased — 
 Thine annals past in glory traced — 
 Thy present but a wretched blank. 
 Or viler stain ! "Where shalt thou rank 
 Among the nations of the earth ? Ay, thou. 
 Once crown' d with honour — sunken now 
 Below the meanest state enslaved 
 Where once thy flag victorious waved ! 
 
 And why is this ? what spell hath wrought 
 
 A change so fatal to thy fame ? 
 "What sad reverse, with ruin fraught. 
 
 Hath swept away thine ancient fame ? 
 
 Alas ! within thy bosom cherish'd. 
 
 The deadly canker-worm hath grown. 
 And day by day thy weal hath perish'd 
 
 'K^cath his corroding sting alone. 
 
 Yes ! History's impartial page, 
 
 Thy glory and thy fall that tells, 
 Shall point to ev'ry future age — 
 
 " The land is cursed where Priestcraft dwells." 
 
 In a dark, dismal dungeon, where never a ray 
 
 ■("if sunlight has ever been tempted to stray ; 
 
 "VVliere the walls are all damp and all mildew'd, and where 
 
 An uncommonly scanty supply of fresh air
 
 300 THE COBBLER OF TOLEDO. 
 
 Is deem'd quite enough to supply the yitality 
 
 Of any imprison'd remains of mortality ; 
 
 "Where a heap of foul straw is to serve as a bed, 
 
 While the rats, by the dozen, run over your head, 
 
 And tickle your visage with tail and with claw, 
 
 Or vary the pleasure by taking a gnaw 
 
 At your toes, when they're hungry ; where lizards and toads. 
 
 Crawl out from the chinks of the pavement by loads — 
 
 In this highly-delectable tenement, all 
 
 That remains of Pedrillo lies chain'd to the wall. 
 
 Poor fellow ! a visage so hollow and wan, 
 Scarce ever belonged to the form of a man. 
 His eyeballs so glazed, and his eyelids so blue. 
 And his skin of a greenish and yellowish hue ; 
 His hands were so bony, so long and so thin, 
 So grizzled the beard that hung down from his cliin ; 
 So wasted his limbs, and his round little nose 
 So completely deprived of its couleur de rose — 
 That no eye could have ever detected, at all. 
 The poor little cobbler who lived in the stall. 
 Except that one hand, to its "cunning" yet true. 
 Still grasp'd the remains of an odd-looking shoe. 
 
 Pedrillo 'd been tried for the wicked pretence 
 
 Of mistaking a priest for Old Xick — an offence 
 
 Pronounced, with veracity, quite " diabolical" 
 
 By the holy Inquisitors — meek Apostolical 
 
 Lambs, who've been famed, in all countries and ages, 
 
 As patterns of Christians and virtuous sages. 
 
 The verdict was " Guilty," of course — 't wouldn't " pay'* 
 
 To let a man off when they'd bagg'd him — to say 
 
 That they'd made a mistake : and besides, just of late 
 
 They'd been scarce of offenders in Church or in State, 
 
 And wanted a Jew or a heretic sadly — 
 
 And so poor PedriUo was pounced upon gladly. 
 
 A little discussion between them took place, 
 llegarding the punishment diie to his case. 
 Some voted for roasting — some hinted at Haying — 
 Which others declared to be trifling and playing.
 
 THE COBBLER OF TOLEDO. 301 
 
 The President -woiildn't agree to the roasting, 
 And seized the occasion for modestly boasting 
 How mild and how gentle his sentiments were. 
 The fact is, his house stood just facing the square 
 Where the stake was erected when sinners were burnt, 
 And from many a past sad example he'd learnt 
 That the smell of a roast was so highly unpleasant — 
 He'd the strongest objection to try one at present. 
 
 And so, in the end, they decided on " mercy" — 
 Or, rather, what Z should call just vice versa — 
 That is — " out of care for his poor sinful soul," 
 They left him to die, like a rat, in a hole. 
 
 And thus our poor Pedrillo lay, 
 "Wasting his wretched life away : 
 Dying by inches — dying slowly — 
 Condemn'd by wretches self-styled "holy." 
 
 Oh, God ! and can thy lightnings spare 
 
 The impious creatures who profane 
 The sacred livery they wear, 
 
 And take Thy holy name in vain, 
 To sanctify a deed of blood. 
 And name that deed " lleligious, good !" 
 
 How vain the question ! look, weak man, 
 Beyond thy frail life's little span — 
 See E,etribution's work begun— 
 God's name avenged — and Justice done ! 
 
 In a dark little street is a dark little stall. 
 
 And a plump little cobbler at work with his awl. 
 
 "Who is it ? Pedrillo ? by Jove it's the same ! 
 
 How on earth did lie get there ? What inlluence came 
 
 To set him at liberty 'r sec him at work, 
 
 Sitting just as before on his board a La Turk ! 
 
 And he's stitching with vigour, he's making a boot — 
 
 Isot a cloven hoof'd thing, but one lit for a foot. 
 
 And how happy he looks ! and liow plump and how rod 1 
 
 How punchy his body, how :,hiny his head !
 
 t 
 
 # 
 
 302 Z//i: COBBLER OF TOLEDO. 
 
 And lie sticks to his trade like an honest Castilian — 
 Making highlov/s and mending the soles of the millioa. 
 
 ISTow touching his freedom : — it chanced one fine day 
 That some two dozen Jews were all sentenced to pay 
 A very large sum for some very bad deed, 
 Regarding some matter of conscience and creed ; 
 And finding the prison was rather too small 
 (In addition to those it coutain'd) for them all, 
 A "weeding" took place— and 'mongst others, Pedrillo 
 To a Hebrew in trouble relinquish'd his pilluvv". 
 
 And such — without varnish, invention, or mystery — 
 Is the true, undeniable, record and history 
 Of the " little old cobbler who liv'd in a stall 
 "Which served him for kitthen and parlour and all." 
 
 MORAL. 
 
 There's a saying so stale that it's grown to an epigram — 
 
 Of course you all know it well — "iVe sutor cre^idam 
 
 Tlltra ;" And some sleepy folks may opine 
 
 That such is the moral of this tale of mine. 
 
 They're mistaken : such "morals" belong to the past — 
 
 They won't do for these days — we're a great deal too fast 
 
 For such slow- coach old maxims. What ! ' ' stick to our last ?" 
 
 Nail the doctor to physic, the lawyer to law, 
 
 The parson to preaching ! — a pretty fine saw 
 
 For this age of progression ! — when ev'ry man's head 
 
 Is so full of the things he has heard, seen, and read — 
 
 It 's not easy to say where our knowledge can stop 
 
 "When oui' brain is as full as a pawnbroker's shop. 
 
 No, no — I've got something much better — much truer — 
 
 Much more to the purpose— and certainly newer 
 
 To tell you. It 's this : — if you ever give way 
 
 To an evil-born thought — if you let your mind stray 
 
 In a naughty direction, don't think me uncivil 
 
 If I say that you 're making a boot for the devil. 
 
 And that very same boot — when your virtue's clean gone — 
 
 You'll see him some day when he 's " trying it on."
 
 THE LORD PPtOTECTOR'S GHOST, 
 
 A. BALIAD, 
 
 BY CHARLES KENT, 
 
 *#* Very stortly after the Restoration the dead body of Cromwell was 
 removed from its place of burial in Westminster Abbey, and having been 
 drawn upon a hurdle to Tyburn, was there dragged out of its coflin and 
 suspended, with fiendish exultation, upon the gallows by the hands of the- 
 public executioner. 
 
 i^ArxTERiXG o'er the moorland lonely — 
 
 Darkness dappling into day — 
 Lo ! one courtly gallant only, 
 Humming a blithe roundelay. 
 
 Kinglets trailing on his shoulders ; 
 
 Tufted lip and tufted chin ; 
 Eyes that seem to seek beholders — 
 
 Love for handsome looks to win. 
 
 Less than love •were niggard payment, 
 
 Music as each footfall stirs, 
 Eustling in that broidcred raiment, 
 
 Jingling in those burnished spurs. 
 
 'Tis a thing of silken splendour, 
 
 Perfumed lace and velvet gear. 
 Flourished with the gauds that render 
 
 Gay the roystering cavalier. 
 
 'Tis a pampered lord of revels 
 
 Loitering from a banquet home, 
 Fearing neither God nor devils 
 
 Where his wayward pathway roam. 
 
 Drinking deep from flagons brimming, 
 AVine has flushed his check and brain ; 
 
 Yet with heated senses swimming, 
 Calm he lounges o'er the plain. 
 
 "Whim-inspired, his slock roan scorning, 
 
 And his gaily liveried groom, 
 Q.iaffs he here afoot the morning, 
 
 Brushing through the llowery broom—
 
 304 THE LORD PROTECTOR'S GHOST. 
 
 Brushing through the dewy brambles 
 
 Leisurely as o'er a lawn, 
 ISTot yon dismal scene of rambles 
 
 Darkling at the glint of dawn. 
 
 Sudden sounds of doleful anguish, 
 
 Ghastly gleams of lurid light — 
 Gleams that fitful rise and languish — 
 
 Glimmer through the gloom of night. 
 
 Startled, pale, aghast, affrighted, 
 
 Lo ! the gallant plain doth see. 
 By the ghostlike radiance lighted, 
 
 Grim and gaunt — the Tyburn tree. 
 
 And beneath the gibbet standing — 
 
 Horror in its lifeless eyes — 
 On each lineament the branding 
 
 Token of a form that dies — 
 
 Rotting, moiddercd, blue, abhorred, 
 
 Yet with aspect calm and grand. 
 He who though uncrowned his forehead 
 
 Pteigncd — the Iluler of the land. 
 
 Hark ! the Awful Phantom uttering 
 
 Yt^oeful words and dire to hear, 
 "Words that breathed through black lips muttering, 
 
 Chill the reveller's bones with fear. 
 
 "Minion!" cries the dreadful Spectre, 
 
 "I am he who once did wield 
 Mighty England's glorious sceptre ; 
 
 Led her armies to the field ; 
 
 "Scattered all her ills and terrors, 
 
 As the winnow drives the chaff; 
 And for all her tyrant's errors 
 
 Gave her right with scorn to laugh. 
 
 " Traitorous knaves with plots designing 
 
 Trembled at my sheathless sword, 
 Knowing that its splendrous shining 
 
 Was the clory of the Lord !
 
 THE LORD PROTECTOR'S GHOST. 305 
 
 " Xations awed before my power, 
 
 Monarclis shrinking from my blow, 
 At my coming, cursed the hour 
 
 Britain first became their foe. 
 
 " Arbiter of peace and battle, 
 
 In my grasp the bolts of war 
 Iloiited warrior-hosts like cattle. 
 
 Hurled the victor from his car. 
 
 " Holland, with her navies scattered, 
 
 Saw our banners sweep the main, 
 Saw them ilout where low lay shattered 
 
 In the dust the pride of Spain. 
 
 " Scotland's ancient brand fell broken 
 
 When it crossed my iron rod ; 
 Erin knew her doom was spoken 
 
 When my foot was on her sod. 
 
 " Distance, impotent to sever 
 
 Britons from my sheltering fame. 
 Found them guarded, wheresoever, 
 
 By the terror of my name. 
 
 "We were scatheless, free, defiant — 
 
 Bent to none but God the knee, 
 On His holy aid reliant. 
 
 Perilous though the path might be. 
 
 " Now ! with tarnished standards lowered. 
 
 Draggling at the heels of France : 
 Fallen— not with fate untoward. 
 
 Cloven helm and splintered lance : 
 
 " Shameless — stripped of pride and splendour, 
 
 Like a craven knight who yields — 
 England to chicane doth render 
 
 Glory won on foughten fields. 
 
 ♦* Harlots throng tlio Ccesars' palace ; 
 
 ]»iistards drain the realm of gold ; 
 
 Panders drug the royal clialice ; 
 
 Hank and place are bought and suM. 
 
 20
 
 3o6 THE LORD PROTECTORS GHOST. 
 
 " Puniest state of meanest power 
 Britain's stingless wi'ath contemns, 
 
 Now wlien by old Julius' Tower 
 Dutch ships ride upon the Thames. 
 
 " Yet with dastard shields scarce dinted, 
 Plumes tincropped though hlurred and torn, 
 
 Te, whose recreant brows were printed 
 With a villain brand of scorn — 
 
 ' ' Palterers with kingly vigour, 
 Lords in form, at heart but slaves. 
 
 Human ghouls, with coward rigour, 
 Dragging dead men from their graves : 
 
 " Ye who, while this shape was breathing, 
 Trembled from my glance away, 
 
 "When my soul had left its sheathing 
 Basely spurned the crumbling clay— 
 
 " One whose guards were freemen serried, 
 One before whom millions bowed — 
 
 Spurned me powerless, lifeless, buried. 
 Haled me from my mouldering shroud : 
 
 " On a murderous hurdle drew me — 
 Lord of earth from sea to sea! — 
 
 Through my corpse in mockery slew me, 
 Hung me on the felon's tree. 
 
 "Viler vengeance never mortal 
 
 Dreamt of out of Hell's black womb, 
 
 Bursting ev'n Death's sacred portal, 
 RiHing ev'n the awful tomb. 
 
 " Hence, the princely race ye cherish — 
 
 Tawdry trifle of a day — 
 Q,uickly from the throne shall perish, 
 
 Swiftly from the world decay !" 
 
 Dismal sounds, the soul appalling, 
 Ring the gallant's brain around, 
 
 Horrid gleams about him falling, 
 Swooned upon the dewy ground.
 
 THE LORD PROTECTOR'S GHOST. 307 
 
 Grimly looms the gallows o'er him: 
 Kot a living thing doth stir, 
 
 Where no longer frowns before him 
 Ghost of kingly Oliver. 
 
 Mil. BARNEY MAGUIRE'S ACCOUNT OF TEE CORONA- 
 TION. 
 
 Air — " Tlio Graven of Jilarnoj." 
 
 rjCH ! the Coronation ! what celebration 
 For emulation can with it compare ? 
 When to Westminster the Royal Spinster 
 
 And the Duke of Leinster, all in order did repair ! 
 'Twas there you'd see the New Polishemen 
 
 Making a skrimmage at half after four, 
 And the Lords and Ladies, and the Miss O'Gradys 
 
 All standing round before the Abbey door. 
 
 Their pillows scorning, that self- same morning 
 
 Themselves adorning all bj' the caudle-light, 
 With roses and lilies, and dally-down-dillies, 
 
 And gould and jewels, and rich di'monds bright. 
 And then approaches five hundred coaches. 
 
 With General Dullbcak; — Och! 'twas mighty fine 
 To see how asy bould Corporal Casey, 
 
 With his sword drawn, prancing made them kape the line. 
 
 Then the Guns' alarums, and the King of Arums, 
 
 All in his Garters and his Clarence shoes, 
 Opening the massy doors to the bould Ambassydors, 
 
 The Prince of Potboys, and great liaythcn Jews ; 
 'Twould have made you crazy to see Esterhazy 
 
 All jools from his jasey to his di'moud boots, 
 With Alderman Harmer, and that swate charmer, 
 
 The famale heiress, Miss Anja-ly Coutts. 
 
 And Wellington, walking with his swoord drawn, talking 
 To Hill and llardinge, haroe.s of groat fame : 
 
 And Sir De Lacoy, and the Duke Dalmasey, 
 
 (They call'd him Sowlt afore ho changed his name,) 
 
 20—2
 
 3o8 ACCOUNT OF THE CORONATION. 
 
 Themselves presading Lord Melbourne, lading 
 The (ineen, the darling, to her royal chair, 
 
 And that fine ould fellow, the Duke of Pell-Mello, 
 The Q,ueen of Portingal's Chargy-de-fair. 
 
 Then the Noble Prussians, likewise the Russians, 
 
 In fine laced jackets, with their golden cuft's, 
 And the Bavarians, and the proud Hungarians, 
 
 And Everythingarians, all in furs and muft's. 
 Then Misthur Spaker, with Misthur Pays, the Quaker, 
 
 All in the Gallery you might persave ; 
 But Lord Brougham was missing, and gone a-fishing, 
 
 Ounly crass Lord Essex would not give him lave. 
 
 There was Baron Alten himself exalting. 
 
 And Prince Von Schwartzenberg, and many more, 
 Och ! I'd be bother'd and entirely smother'd 
 
 To tell the half of 'em was to the fore ; 
 "With the swate Peeresses, in their crowns and dresses, 
 
 And Aldermanesses, and the Boord of "Works ; 
 But Mehemet Ali said, quite gintalj% 
 
 *' I'd be proud to see the likes among the Turks !" 
 
 Then the Queen, Heaven bless her ! och ! they did dress her 
 
 In her purple garments and her goulden Crown ; 
 Like Venus or Hebe, or the Queen of Sheby, 
 
 With eight young ladies houlding up her gown. 
 Sure 'twas grand to see her, also for to he-ar 
 
 The big drums bating, and the trumpets blow, 
 And Sir George Smart ! Oh ! he play'd a Consarto, 
 
 With his four-and-twenty fiddlers all in a row ! 
 
 Then the Lord Archbishop held a golden dish up, 
 
 For to resave her bounty and great wealth. 
 Saying, " Plase your Glory, great Queen Vic-tory ! 
 
 Ye'll give the Clargy lave to dhrink your health !" 
 Then his Riverence retrating, discoorsed the mating; 
 
 " Boys ! Here's your Queen! deny it if you can ! 
 And if any bould traitour, or infarior craythur, 
 
 Sneezes at that, I'd like to see the man!"
 
 ACCOUNT OF THE CORONATION. 309 
 
 Then tlie Nobles kneeling to the Pow'rs appealing, 
 
 " Heaven send yonr Majesty a glorious reign!" 
 And Sir Claudius Hunter he did confront her, 
 
 AU in his scarlet gown and goulden chain ; 
 The great Lord May'r, too, sat in his chair, too 
 
 But mighty sarious, looking tit to cry, 
 For the Earl of Surrey, all in his hurry. 
 
 Throwing the thirteens, hit him in his eye. 
 
 Then there was preaching, and good store of speeching, 
 
 With Uukes and Marquises on bended knee : 
 And they did splash her with real Macasshur, 
 
 And the Q,ueen said, " Ah ! then thank ye all for me !" 
 Then the trumpets braying, and the organ playing. 
 
 And sweet trombones, with their silver tones ; 
 But Lord Rolle was rolling ;— 'twas mighty consoling 
 
 To think his Lordship did not break his bones ! 
 
 Then the crames and custard, and the beef and mustard, 
 
 All on the tombstones, like a poultherer's shop : 
 With lobsters and white-bait, and other swate-meats, 
 
 And wine and nagus, and Imperial Pop ! 
 There was cakes and apples in all the Chapels, 
 
 With fine polonies, and rich mellow pears, — 
 Och ! the Count Von Strogonoff, sure he got prog enough, 
 
 The sly ould Divil, undernathe the stairs. 
 
 Then the cannons thunder'd, and the people wonder'J, 
 
 Crying, " God save Victoria, our Royal Queen!" — 
 Och ! if myself should live to be a hundred, 
 
 Sure it's the proudest day that I'll have seen! 
 And now I've ended what I pretended, 
 
 This narration splendid in swate poe-thry, 
 Te dear bewitcher, just hand the pitcher, 
 
 Faitli, it's myself that's getting mighty dhry.
 
 ;io 
 
 ELEGIAC TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS 
 HAYNES BAYLEY, ESQ. 
 
 BY MKS. C. BAROX WILSON. 
 
 Parewell to thee, sweet melodist ! thy minstrel lay is o'er, 
 
 Thy lyric harp shall tune its string to music's voice no more ; 
 But like the rose-leaves, when they fall, though scatter'd on the 
 
 ground. 
 The sweetness of the poet's song still hreathes a fragrance round : 
 And thus thy minstrel memory is still embalm'd by death, 
 And holds a spell o'er feeling hearts, that fleets not with the 
 
 breath. 
 
 Oft in the gay and crowded scene, where Pleasure's votaries meet, 
 Thy songs from woman's syren voice shall flow in accents sweet : 
 Oft shall the listening lover steal, from music's tuneful strings, 
 A hope that she who breathes the strain may feel the words she 
 
 sings : 
 And though beneath the willow's shade thy broken lute is hung, 
 In memory still is treasured deep the strains that lute has sung, 
 
 I well remember when thy lute first woke its dulcet lay 
 
 In years long past, when life for me was one bright summer day ; 
 
 Thy songs are twined with memories I never can forget, 
 
 That 'mid the wither'd waste of life my heart keeps verdant yet : 
 
 And when I think the hand is cold, those tuneful chords that 
 
 pressed. 
 Mine eye a pensive tear wiU dim, a sigh escape my breast. 
 
 Alas! each hour but shows me more the poet's fatal doom. 
 Writ in misfortune's clouded page ! though radiance may illume 
 The chequer'd path he treads awhile, sorrow and cankering care^ 
 Coiled like the worm within the bud, are ever hidden there ! 
 And such a fate, alas ! was thine, oh ! sweetly gifted bard, 
 And such will be to thousands more, the child of song's reward l 
 
 A flame too delicate for earth, his spirit feels the chill 
 Of worldly woes, with keener sense, and a more sickening thrill ; 
 He cannot wrestle with the throng, or struggle 'mid the crowd 
 Like other minds, but sinks o'erpowered, his strength too quickly 
 bow'd :
 
 THOMA S HA YNES BA YLE Y. 311 
 
 And many a wasted frame can shew, and broken spirits tell, 
 How sad a doom is his who owns the poet's gifted spell ' 
 
 Farewell ! and may the verdant turf lie lightly on thy breast, 
 And tlow'rets blossom from the sod where thy cold ashes rest ; 
 May pity's tear bedew the spot, and lovers' accents breathe 
 A fond regret for him who sleeps, that flowery turf beneath : 
 And many a kindred spirit come, in spring's returning bloom, 
 To hang a wreath of tribute-flowers upon the poet's tomb I 
 
 AS I LATE A-THYNKYNGE. 
 
 THE LAST LINES OF THOMAS INGOLDSBY. 
 
 A s I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, 
 Merrie sang the Birde as she sat upon the spraye ; 
 There came a noble Knyghte, 
 With his hauberke shynynge brighte, 
 And his gallant heart was lyghte, 
 Free and gaye ; 
 As I laye a-thynkynge, he rode upon his waye. 
 
 As I laye a-thynkjTigc, a-thynkynge, a-thynkyuge. 
 Sadly sang the Birde as she sat upon the tree ! 
 There seem'd a crimson plain, 
 Where a gallant Knyghte lay slayne, 
 And a steed with broken rein 
 Han free, 
 As I laye a-thynkynge, most pitiful to see ! 
 
 As I laye a-thynkyngo, a-thynkyngo, a-thinkyngO;, 
 ilerrie sang the Birde as she sat upon the boughe ; 
 
 A lovely Mayde came bj-e, 
 
 And a gentle youth was nyghe, 
 
 And he breathed many a sighc 
 And a vowe ; 
 As I laye a-thynkynge, her hearte was gladsome noWr
 
 AS I LA YE A-THYNKYNGE. 
 
 As I lay a-thynkynge, a-tliynkynge, a-thynkynge, 
 Sadly sang the Birde as she sat upon the thorne ; 
 
 No more a youth was there, 
 
 But a maiden rent her haire, 
 
 And cried in sad despaire, 
 ' That I was born !' 
 As I laye a-thinkynge, she perished forlorne. 
 
 As I lay a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, 
 Sweetly sang the Birde as she sat iipon the briar ; 
 
 There came a lovely Childe, 
 
 And his face was meek and mild, 
 
 Tet joyously he smiled 
 On his sire ; 
 As I laye a-thynkynge, a Cherub mote admire. 
 
 But I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge. 
 And sadly sang the Birde as it perch'd upon a bier : 
 That joyous smile was gone. 
 And the face was white and wan, 
 As the downe upon the Swan 
 Doth appear. 
 As I lay a-thynkynge— oh ! bitter flow'd the tear ! 
 
 As I laye a-thynkynge, the golden sun was sinking, 
 merrie sang that Birde as it glitter'd on her breast 
 "With a thousand gorgeous dyes, 
 "While soaring to the skies, 
 'Mid the stars she seem'd to rise, 
 As to her nest ; 
 As I lay a-thynkynge, her meaning was exprest :— 
 * Follow, follow me away. 
 It boots not to delay,' — 
 'Twas so she seem'd to saye 
 ' Heke is rest !' 
 
 THE END, 
 
 BILT,INa AND SONS, PKINTERS, GUILDFORD, SURREY.
 
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 Onrl " Tr%llTinTf T t^^A^r
 
 Each Work can be had separately of all BooksellerSy price 6j. 
 
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 Guizot's Life cf Oliver CromwelL In crown 8vo, with 
 
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 Sir Edward Creasy's Fifteen Decisive Battles of the 
 
 WORLD ; from Marathon to Waterloo. Containing the Battles of 
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 The Lives of Statesmen : Burke and Chatham. By 
 
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 The Great Tone Poets : Being Short Memoirs of the Greater 
 
 Musical Composers, Bach, Handel, Cluck, Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, 
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 Adam and the Adamite. By the late Dr. McCausland, Q.C. 
 
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 South Sea Bubbles. By the Earl and the Doctor. In 
 
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 Sermons in Stones, By the late Dr. McCausland, Q.C. A 
 
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 Bejitleys BurlingtoJt Library, continued. 
 
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 Besant and Palmer's History of Jerusalem, Ancient, 
 
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 The Sun. By Amedee Guillemin, Author of " The Heavens." 
 Translated by Dr. Phipson. With P'lfty Illustrations, in crown Svo, 
 price 6s. 
 
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 Timbs' Lives of Painters. Hogarth, Sir Joshua Reynolds, 
 
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 Earl Dundonald's Autobiography of a Seaman. Popular 
 
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 " Full of brilliant adventures, described with a dash that well befits the 
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 The Day After Death ; or, the Future Life, as Revealed 
 
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 The Builders of Babel ; or, the Confusion of Languages. 
 
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 Rambles Beyond Railways ; or. Notes taken Afoot in 
 
 CORNWALL. To which is added, "A Visit to the Scilly Isles." By 
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 RICHARD BENTLEY & SON, New Burlingtox-street, Publishers 
 IN Ordinary to PIer Majesty.
 
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