SONGS OF THE CAVALIERS AND ROUNDHEADS, JACOBITE BALLADS, &c. &c. BY GEORGE W. THORNBURY, AUTHOR or 'ART AND NATURE AT HOME AND ABROAD," " THE MONARCHS OF THE MAIN," "SHAKSPERE'S ENGLAND." &c. ' I love a ballad in print, a'-life ; for then we are sure they are true." The Winter's Tai.e. WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY H. S. MARKS. LONDON: HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, SUCCESSORS TO HENRY COLBURN, 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET 1857, CHARLES BEVAN AND SON, PRINTERS, CHAPEL STREET, GROSVENOR SQUARE. PR rs 5^ "^i^ll^XJlL, I^IBU, TO DOUGLAS JERROLD, THE DRAMATIST, SATIRIST, AND NOVELIST, THESE VERSES ARE DEDICATED BY THE AUTHOR. FROM ONE WHO IS STRUGGLING, AND HOPES TO WIN, TO ONE WHO HAS STRUGGLED, AND HAS WON. CONTENTS. SONGS OF THE CAVALIERS AND ROUNDHEADS. PAGE Rupert's March ... ... ... ... ... ... 3 The Tilt-yard 10 The Cavahers' Muster 12 The Fountam Beauheu ... ... ... ... 14 Wigan's Retreat ... ... ... ,.. ... ... 19 The Trooper's Ride 22 The Sally fi'om Coventry ... ... ... ... ... 24 Raising the TowTi 27 The Trumpeter's Song 29 Entering Dundee ... ... ... ... ... 31 The Three Scars 32 The Night of the Sally 34 Leaving Chester ... ... ... ., ... ... 36 Meltmg the Earl's Plate 38 Searching the Manor-house ... ... ... .. 40 How Sh- Richard Died... ... ... ... ... 41 VI CONTENTS. The King is coming to London The Entry into London The Bonfire at Temple Bar Up the Thames JACOBITE BALLADS. The starved Poet The Old Park Gates The Tliree Troopers The Dance Eound the Plague-pit . . . Tom of Ten Thousand The Orangeman's Castle ... The Fight at the Jlill-bridge ... The Pops at the Boync The Jacobites' Club The Calves' Head aub The White Kose over the Water The Fight in the Hawking-field . . . The Gentleman in Black Old Sir Walter The Jacobite on ToTrer Hill . . . The N'ight Siu-prise Tlie Death of Marlborough The Jacobite's Rising The Wliite Eose Culloden ... PAGE 43 46 55 62 67 69 74 77 86 89 92 94 96 99 102 105 110 113 118 120 122 124 127 129 DRAILITIC MONOLOGUES. The Witch's Champion... The Convent Drudge The Suicide in Druiy Lane 141 145 148 CONTENTS. VU PAGE IIow the Pasty Tivas Poisoned ... ... ... ... 150 The Succory Water 152 Saved! 154 The Unjust Steward 157 MISCELLANEOUS. Dick o' the Diamond ... ... ... ... ... 163 The Town-Gate 169 The King of Champagne ... ... ... ... ... 173 Scenes at a Fountain ... ... ... ... ... 177 The Jester's Sermon ... ... ... ... ... 180 The Riding to the Toiimament ... ... ... 184 An October Finiit Piece 192 The "Weaver and his Shadow ... ... ... ... 193 Autumn Jingles ... ... ... ... ... ... 195 A Ballad from Froissart 197 The Dances of the Leaves ... ... ... ... ... 206 The Mill-stream 211 The Monks of Ely 216 The Jockey's Song 220 I and Thee 227 Wellaway! 228 Winter Moonlight 230 The Angels in the Garret 236 The Belfry Tower 242 The Old Fisherman's Lament 244 The Fountaiu Spirit 246 La Tricoteuse 248 The Masked BaU 252 The Whisper in the Market-Place 255 The Ilom of Ulphua 263 CONTENTS. The Deil amang the Leshes The Old Grenadier's Story The Cathedral Builder Harvest Ehymes The Smith's Chorus The Two Musicians after the Opera Hogarth's Notes on his Thumb-Nail . . . October Dusk The Ride to the Shrine The Shadow Himt Gone! ... The Dead King's Toilette The City of the Clouds The Mad Pilgrim's Dream... The Baby King What I saw through a Tudor Window . The Lecture Theatre at Padua... How the Colonel took it ! . . . Three Tears The ad's Stirrvip Cup Night-mares A Year ago ; or, the Dead Tw-elvemonth Mcrcutio's Love Lines Kegrets Place Pour les Grenadiers The Family Concert PAGE 268 273 277 281 283 284 288 289 291 296 299 300 302 304 310 311 312 315 319 320 322 323 324 325 326 328 SONGS OF THE CATALIERS AND ROUNDHEADS. EUPERT'S MARCH. Carabine slung, stirrup well tung, Flagon at saddle-bow merrily swung ; Toss up the ale, for our flag, like a sail. Struggles and swells in the hot July gale. Colours fling out, and then give them a shout — We are the gallants to put them to rout. Flash all your swords, like Tartarian hordes. And scare the prim ladies of Puritan lords ; Our steel caps shaE. blaze thi-ough the long sum- mer days. As we, galloping, sing our mad Cavalier lays. Then banners advance ! By the lilies of France, We are the trallants to lead them a dance. 4 KUPERTS MARCH. Ring the bells back, tbough the sexton look black, Defiance to knaves who are hot on our track. " Murder and fire !" shout louder and higher ; Remember Edge-hill and the red-dabbled mire. When our steeds we shall stall in the Parhament hall. And shake the old nest till the roof-tree shall fall. Froth it up, girl, till it splash every curl, October's the liquor for trooper and earl ; Bubble it up, merry gold in the cup, We never may taste of to-morrow night's sup. (Those red ribbons glow on thy bosom below Like apple-tree bloom on a hillock of snow.) No, by my word, there never shook sword Better than this in the clutch of a lord ; The blue streaks that run are as bright in the sun As the veins on the brow of that loveliest one ; No deep light of the sky, when the twilight is nigh, Ghtters more bright than this blade to the eye. * « « « « Well, whatever may hap, this rusty steel-cap Will keep out full many a pestilent rap ; This buff, though it's old and not larded with gold, Will guard me from rapier as well as from cold ; RUPERT S MARCH. 5 This scarf, rent and torn, though its colour is worn. Shone gay as a page's but yesterday morn. Here is a dint from the jagg of a flint, Thrown by a Puritan just as a hint ; But this stab thiouorh the buff was a warninir more rough. When Coventry city arose in a huff; And I met with this gash, as we rode with a crash Into Noll's pikes on the banks of the Ash. No jockey or groom wears so draggled a plume As this that's just drenched in the swift-flowing Froom. Red grew the tide ere we reached the steep side. And steaming the hair of old Barbary's hide ; But for branch of that oak that saved me a stroke, I had sunk there like herring in pickle to soak. Pistolet crack flashed bright on our track, And even the foam of the water tm-ned black. They were twenty to one, our poor rapier to gun, But we charged up the bank, and we lost only one ; Sol saved the old flanf, thouo-h it was but a raj;, And the sword in my hand was snapped off to a jagg- b RUPERT S MARCH. The water was churned as we wheeled and we turned, And the dry brake to scare out the vermin we burned. We gave our halloo, and our trumpet we blew ; Of all their stout fifty we left them but two ; With a mock and a laugh, won theu' banner and staff. And trod down the comets as thrashers do chaff. Saddle my roan, liis back is a throne, Better than velvet or gold, you will own. Look to your match, or some harm you may catch. For treason has always some mischief to hatch ; And OHver's out with all Haslerigg's rout, So I'm told by this shivering, white-livered scout. We came over the downs, tlu'ourrh \dllao;e and towns. In spite of the sneers, and the curses and frowns ; Drowning their psalms, and stilhng theii" qualms. With a clatter and rattle of scabbards and arms. Down, the long street, with a trample of feet, For the echo of hoofs to a cavalier's sweet. See black on each roof, at the sound of our hoof, The Puritans gather, but keep them aloof; RUPERT S MARCH. 7 Their muskets are long, and they aim at a throng, But woe to the weak when they challenge the strong ! Butt-end to the door, one hammer more, Our pike-men rush in and the struggle is o'er. Storm tlixough the gate, batter the plate. Cram the red crucible into the grate ; Saddle-bags fill. Bob, Jenkin, and Will, And spice the staved wine that runs out like a rill. That maiden shall ride all to-day by my side, Those ribbons are fitting a cavaher's bride. Does Baxter say right, that a bodice laced tight, Should never be seen by the sun or the Hght ? Like stars fi:om a wood, shine under that hood. Eyes that are sparkling, though pious and good. Surely tliis waist was by Providence placed. By a true lover's arm to be often embraced. Down on your knees, you villains in fiieze, A draught to Kincr Charles, or a swing fi:om those trees ; Blow off tliis stiff lock, for 'tis useless to knock. The ladies will pardon the noise and the shock. From this bright dewy cheek, might I venture to speak, I could kiss off the tears though she wept for a week. » KUPERT S MARCH. Now loop me this scarf round the broken pike-staiF, 'Twill do for a flag, though the Crop Heads may laugh. Who was it blew ? Give an halloo, And hang out the pennon of crimson and blue ; A volley of shot is a welcoming hot ; — It cannot be troop of the murdering Scot ? Fire the old mill on the brow of the hill. Break down the plank that runs over the rill, Bar the town gate ; if the burghers debate, Shoot some to death, for the villains must wait ; Rip up the lead from the roofing o'er head. And melt it for bullets or we shall be sped. Now look to your buff, for steel is the stuff To slash your brown jerkins with crimson enough ; There burst a flash — I heard their drums crash ; To horse ! now for race over moorland and plash ; Ere the stars glimmer out, we will wake with a shout The true men of York, who will welcome our rout. We'll shake their red roofs with our echoing hoofs. And flutter the dust from their tapestry woofs ; Rupert's march. 9 Their old Minster shall ring with our " God save the king," And our horses shall drink at St. Cliristopher's spring ; We shall welcome the meat, O the wine will taste sweet, When our boots we fling off, and as brothers we meet. 10 THE TILT-YARD. Noisy ran the blue and orange, Noisy ran the red, Like a flight of crimson birds. With their broad wings spread. Lusty, all in scarlet. Ran the sturdy grooms — And, oh! wherever broke the spears. The tossing of the plumes ! Fii'st the black and silver. Then the blue and brown ; But John of the Beard, in yellow, Carried away the crown. He rode, and quick the sloivers Flew up — in ran the grooms — And, oh ! whoever rose or fell. The tossing of the plumes ! THE TILT-YARD. 11 Then came the black and yellow, The russet and the blue ; Never met in tilting-yard, Such a merry crew. The ladies laughed, a rippling wave, Mirth spread to all the grooms — And, oh ! whenever snapped a spear, The tossing of the plumes ! 12 THE CAVALIERS' MUSTER. Here is Sir Reginald, gentle and true, Courtly and bright in his silver and blue ; There is old Philip behind him as gruff, Sturdy and giim in his orange and buiF. Here is Bob Darcy still smoothing his haii". For the frost dew has silvered his love-lock so fair ; And there is the blackamoor close at his back, Laughing and patting a pottle of sack. See how old Oliver (fie on liis name) Opens the flag that blows out like a flame ; Up fly the swords of a dozen or two, — Were gentlemen ever so trusty and true ? THE cavaliers' MUSTER. 13 How the brave lad with the feather of white, Struggles and strains, yet with looks of delight. At the huffe sable charcrer his father has lent, His red coat still drips from the flood of the Trent. With careful set faces the trumpeters pufF, The drummer works hard at the drum-skin so tough. As the sheriff rides up, with a parchment pulled out. And reads as he can through the cheer and the shout. Now a pull at their bridles, a word and a cry, A frown at the earth and a smile at the sky, A setting of cloaks, a low curse (half in play), And the sixty brave gentlemen gallop away. 14 THE FOUNTAIN BEAULIEU. The silver plume of the fountain Shakes in the summer wind, Bright spray drops slowly trickle Down the beech's glossy rind ; Untiring sweet, as woman's tongue, Those waters do appear. That fill the Fountain Beaulieu In the spring time of the year. The fountain's ghttering banner The wind blows struggling out, Sprinkling, like showers of April, The young flowers aU about ; With lavish hand the sea-god flings The sih'er far and near. Gaily at Fountain Beaulieu, In the spring time of the year. THE FOUNTAIN BEAULIEU. 15 Through a veil of crystal drippings A marble form appears : It might, indeed, be Niobe, Melting away in tears ; Gay in the granite basin The bubbles swim and veer Round the palace fount at Beaulieu, In the spring time of the year. And when the sun looks smihng out, Bright rainbow mists arise. As glorious as if Jimo Had sent the peacock's dyes To veil her marble image. And worshippers to cheer, Such pleasures are at Beaulieu, In the sprmg time of the year. Gold paves the stately terrace. The sun of an April morn, And far beyond the gardens Rings out the lusty horn ; The dogs are hoarsely baying, To wake the sleepers near. Rousing thy echoes, Beaulieu, In the spring time of the year. 16 THE FOUNTAIN BEAULIEU. In the court-yard stands a dial, With the motto " Man's a shade," The peacock, Hke a sviltan, His glory has displayed ; Through emeraldine lustre Flushes of gold appear Beside the Fountain Beavilieu, In the spring time of the year. The cock, that stately monarch. Leads out his chattering wives, The lime trees all in blossom Are grown to mountain hives, The pigeons on the gables Are cooing without fear Above thy fountain, Beaulieu, In the spring time of the year. The spray from the music water Drives off the cruizing bees, Its babble drowns the thrushes' song Among the dewy tree's; Against the sky of azure The dove's white wings appear Beside the Fountain Beauheu, In the spring time of the year. THE FOUNTAIN BEAULIEU. 17 Soft shone the sun of April Upon the swarded grass, Pale gleams fi'om amber cloudings Over the green turf pass ; The blackbird piped and fluted, The tlirostle chanted clear Beside the Fountain Beaulieu, In the spring time of the year. So stately down the river, Between the sloping lawns. Floated the swan and cygnets, Scaring; the drinkino- fawns: Their white breasts scarcely ruffled, The water crystal clear — O ! the pleasant fount of Beaulieu, In the spring time of the year. The noisy rooks were building In the tops of the lofty elms, That shook in the breeze of April Like plumes in a thousand helms ; For mom had come to the weeping earth, And kissed away each tear, O ! pleasant home of Beaulieu, In the spring time of the year. 18 THE FOUNTAIN BEAULIEU. The sun on blazoned windows Shone with a lustre rare, The mole came up from his winter grave, The snake from his silent lair ; The swallow tired with travel, The young birds' carols cheer. O the noisy woods of Beauheu, In the spring time of the year ! Bright bursts of sun so laughter-like With fitful joy broke out ; The lark, blue heaven's hermit, Sprang up from the fields without ; White in the happy sunlight. The rooks' black wings appear, — 'Twas at the Foimtain Beaulieu, In the spring tune of the year. The clock in the great court turret Was ghstening in the sun, But Time, with shadowy finger, Athwart the disc began To point to noon and evening, Alas ! to morn too near, O ! pleasant Fountain Beaulieu, In the spring time of the year. 19 WIGAN'S RETREAT. Hurrah ! for the trumpeter blowing his best — Blood on his feather, and blood on liis crest ; Here was old Warrener, trusty as steel, Fitting a crimson spur fast to his heel. There rode the banner-man — Lord ! how his flag- Blew all about with its patch and its rag — But he shook it, and made the old tawny and blue Flutter its welcome words, " Tender and true." Robinson's helmet had tokens of work ; Jenkin was powder-scorched, black as a Tiu'k ; There were notches inch deep in young Bellamy's sword. He had shed his best blood at the Yellow-stone ford. C 2 20 wigan's retreat. Powder-black, bleeding lads, hungry and torn ; Brown faces, wan faces, haggard and worn, Laughing to think of the ups and the downs. Riding rouo'h-shod o'er the Puritan clo^vns. Steady and slow, with a thought for the dead. Some with a bandage on arm and on head Scarcely awake, till the rap at a flint Showed them good coin, sirs, sound from the mint. When the gun spoke and long barrels looked out, From window and loop-hole, and gable and spout, Then they struck spm's, and the trumpeter. Jack, Blew till his yellow face clouded with black. Like a swift lightning flame, through the ripe corn Ran the loud welcome of anger and scorn ; Up went the sabres — a flashing of light Spread fi'om the cheering left on to the right. A staggering blinding of shot and of flame. Struck do-wn the scarfs and the feathers that came, But when the black thunder-cloud biu-st with a roar, Out broke the Wiganers — thirty-two score. Have you seen the sea leap when a dyke has broke in? Or a swollen Scotch torrent leap down in a linn ? wigan's retreat. 21 Then you've seen the hot charge that swept Bolsover through, When Wigan rode first of the "tender and true." Wigan was bloody, and dusty and worn. His buiF torn with pike-head and bramble and thorn, His scarf all awry, and his feather in twain, His saddle-cloth purple with blood of the slain. His collar of point-lace, aE. mudded and red, A gash on his forehead, a rag round his head ; Yet still bowing low to the townsmen, who scowl. And callinfT for sack at the " Flao-on and Bowl." The host by the sleeve, and the maid by the hand. He praised her — the beauty of Bolsover land ; Then with strong shouting of hurry and force. Crying with pistol shot — " Gallants to horse !' 22 THE TEOOPEES' EIDE. Good men and trusty men. Riding together, Shoulder to shoulder, Minding no weather ; Splash through the marshes, Tramp o'er the mountains, Close by the gable-ends. Under the fountains. Stopping to bait and eat, Hand to the flagon. Hungry as good St. George, Fresh from the dragon ; Cheering Sir Robert, Lord of the manor, When he rode up to us, Shaking his banner. THE trooper's RIDE. 23 Firing a pelt of shot, Fierce at Sir Roger's, Coward ! he's turning red, Seeing the sogers, Firing a lond salute ; As was our duty, When we passed Deveril, Casket of beauty. 24 THE SALLY FROM COVENTRY. " Passion o' me !" cried Sir Richard Tp-one, Spurning the sparks from the broad paving-stone, " Better turn niirse and rock children to sleep, Than 3deld to a rebel old Coventry Keep. No, by my halidom, no one shall say, Sir Richard Tyrone gave a city away." Passion o' me,! how he pulled at his beard. Fretting and chafing if any one sneered, Clapping his breastplate and shaking his fist, Giving his grizzly moustachios a twist, Running the protocol through with his steel, Grinding the letter to mud with his heel. THE SALLY FROM COVENTRY. 25 Then he roared out for a pottle of sack, Clapped the old trumpeter twice on the back, Leaped on his bay with a dash and a swing. Bade all the bells in the city to ring. And when the red flag from the steeple went down. Open they flung every gate in the town. To boot ! and to horse ! and away like a flood, A fire in their eyes, and a sting in their blood ; Hiu'rying out with a flash and a flare, A roar of hot guns, a loud trumpeter's blare. And first, sitting proud as a king on his throne. At the head of them all dashed Sir Richard Tyrone. Crimson and yellow, and purple and dun, Fluttering scarf, flowing bright in the sun. Steel like a mirror on brow and on breast, Scarlet and white on their feather and crest. Banner that blew in a torrent of red. Borne by Sir Richard, who rode at their head. The 'trumpet' went down — with a gash on his poll. Struck by the parters of body and soul. Forty saddles were empty ; the horses ran red With foul Puritan blood from the slashes that bled. 26 . THE SALLY FROM COVENTRY. Curses and cries and a gnashing of teeth, A grapple and stab on the slippery heath, And Sir Richard leaped up on the fool that went down, Proud as a conqueror donning his crown. They broke them a way through a flooding of fire. Trampling the best blood of London to mire, Wlien suddenly rising a smoke and a blaze, Made all "the dragon's sons " stare in amaze : " O ho !" quoth Sir Richard, "my city grows hot, I've left it rent paid to the villanous Scot." 27 RAISING THE TOWN. Set the big bell rocking, you sexton sot, And rouse the biu'o-hers ajjainst the Scot. Hang to the rope, the bell must have scope, Pull with a will, and pull with a hope, And then give the villains a shot — Why not ? And rouse the city against the Scot. Cling to the clapper, and hammer and clash, From Peter's to Andrew's, the 'prentices rash Will leap to their swords, and leaving their boards, Scurry like wild deer over the fords. Now drag at the old fuzzed rope, No Pope, Or Knox shall rule us, while gibbet has rope. Beat the old brass, till its hunying roar Rouse the towns-people score by score. 28 RAISING THE TOWN. Hammer and beat, till they scurry and meet Up on the postern and doAvn in the street, Beat, beat ! We've need of them all in the street. Ram out the gun, from the top of the tower, There goes the beU, 'tis twelve by the hour, Cram it with shot, we'll give it them hot. Thief and pedlar and beggarly Scot. Oh, we can't bate a bullet or shot, 'Odrot! Blaze till it burst at the Scot. Swinging and swaying, the ponderous chime Shakes the steeple from time to time ; The torches they run, and one after one The city is rousing, they jostle and run. The game is started, the scrimmage begun. The gun ! Comes like thunder to deafen and stun. Lights are spreading from pane to pane. There was a flash, and another again From Michael's tower, with a flurry of shot. Quick and steady, and fierce and hot, Let the coward go shiver and rot, Why not? Rake the van of the stac'e^ering Scot. 29 THE TKUMPETER. Of golden silk and crimson, My trumpet flag was made, I rode as in a forest Of pike and gun and blade ; And I blew, blew, blew. For I liked the merry crew. And rap, rap, the kettle-drmnmers played. We saw them barricading, They met us with a laugh, But closing up we charged them grim. As the colonel shook his staff; And I blew, blew, blew, For I liked the merry crew, And we drove the Barebones as the wind drives chaff 30 THE TRUMPETEK. Through lanes we swished our sabres, Swam rivers, ramparts leaped, We ride through snow and tempest, When watch and sentry sleep ; And I blew, blew, blew, For I liked the merry crew, And I led them with a shout and with a leap. 31 ENTERING DUNDEE. Shouting " Goring !" slashing, roaring, Singing, swearing, musket flaring, colours blow- ing free. On a day in pleasant May, never minding right of way, Never stopping shot to pay. Merry rode the troopers into fair Dimdee. Sparrow-shooting, crying, hooting. Tossing, prancing, pennon dancing, through the window see — Clashing scabbard, not a laggard, spurring fast from lea and haggard. Shaking every noisy scabbard. Merry rode the troopers into fair Dundee. 32 THE THKEE SCARS. This I got on the day that Goring Fought through York, like a wild beast roaring — The roofs were black, and the streets were full. The doors built up with the packs of wool ; But our pikes made way through a storm of shot, Barrel to barrel till locks grew hot ; Frere fell dead, and Lucas was gone, But the di'um still beat and the flag went on. This I caught from a swinging sabre, All I had from a long night's labour ; When Chester flamed, and the streets were red. In splashing shower feU the molten lead, The fire sprang up, and the old roof split, The fii"e-ball bui'st in the middle of it ; With a clash and a clang the troopers they ran. For the siege was over ere well began. THE THREE SCARS. 33 This I got from a pistol butt (Lucky my head's not a hazel nut ;) The horse they raced, and scudded and swore ; There were Leicestershire gentlemen, seventy score; Up came the " Lobsters," covered with steel — Down we went with a stagger and reel ; Smash at the flag, I tore it to rag. And carried it off in my foraging bag. 34 THE NIGHT OF THE SALLY. The wind plays with the tight strings of the fiddle, The chaplain's fiddle hanging on the wall, And shakes the hawk-bells where they hang, And the feathers, red and tall. Of the Baron and his three and forty troopers, Singing the loud hunting chorus in the hall. They join hands, clashing flagons, shouting, drink- ing' Lifting their red Venice glasses to the light, Shaking their corslets, laughing, flouting, Their fierce eyes sad but bright ; For the Baron and his three and forty troopers Are all sworn to die together on this night. THE NIGHT OF THE SALLY. 35 One strokes the staghounds leaping from their couples, One pulls the jester screaming by the ear, A third says a quick prayer with the chaplain, A fourth breaks out into a cheer ; For the Baron and his three and forty troopers Are stout men who never know a fear. D 2 36 LEAVING CHESTER. Caistnox bom, bom — cannon bom, bom. Trumpeters sounding, away I away ! " Five kisses to you, pretty maiden in blue, And a gold ring, but not just to-day, to-day." Fifers tweet, tweet — fifers tweet, tweet, Trumpeters sounding, away ! away ! " Here's the bill and tbe score, twenty bottles or more ;" "O we'll settle, but not just to-day, to-day." Cannon bom, bom — cannon bom, bom. Trumpeters sounding, away ! away ! " Here's tbe charter and seal — do you think we would steal ?" *-'And the town plate?" "O not just to-day, to-day." LEAVING CHESTER. 37 Fifei's tweet, tweet — fifers tweet, tweet. Trumpeters sounding, away ! away ! " Quick, the chalice and cup — here's that priest coming up," "And the paten !" " O not just to-day, to-day." Trumpeter sound — ^tnunpeter sound, The troopers are riding away ! away ! " Here's the sheriff and mayor — how they noddle and stare !" " And the town plate ?" " Well, not just to-day, to-day." 38 MELTING OF THE EAEL'S PLATE. Here's the gold cup all bossy with satyrs and saints, And my race-bowl (now, women, no whining and plaints !) From the paltriest spoon to the costliest thing, We'll melt it all down for the use of the king. Here's the chalice stamped over with sigil and cross. Some day we'll make up to the chapel the loss. Now bring me my father's great emerald ring. For I'll melt down the gold for the good of the kiag. And bring me the casket my mother has got, And the jewels that fall to my Barbara's lot ; Then dry up your eyes and do nothing but sing, For we're helping to coin the gold for the king. 4m k>. ^^•g^ MELTING THE EAEL'S PLATE. MELTING OP THE EARL S PLATE. 39 This dross we'll transmute into weapons of steel, Tempered blades for the hand, sharpest spurs for the heel ; And when Charles, with a shout, into London we bring, We'll be Mad to remember this deed for the kincr. Bring the hawk's silver bells, and the nursery spoon, The crucible's ready — we're nothing too soon ; For I hear the horse neigh that shall carry the thing That'll bring up a smile in the eyes of the king. There go my old spm-s, and the old silver jug, — 'Twas just for a moment a pang and a tug ; But now I am ready to dance and to sing. To think I've thrown gold in the chest of my king. The earrings lose shape, and the coronet too, I feel my eyes dim with a sort of a dew. Hurrah for the posset dish ! — Everytliing Shall run into bars for the use of the king. That spoon is a sword, and this thimble a pike ; It's but a week's garret in London belike — Then a dash at Whitehall, and the city shall ring With the shouts of the multitude bringing the king. 40 SEARCHING THE MANOR-HOUSE. Flutter, feather, flutter, Flutter, feather, flutter, From head to heel, an't we covered with steel ? Why, then, let the mad fools mutter; Our colours shall flap and flutter. Banner, struggle, banner, The parliament claims this manor ; Are we not tough, in our iron and buff ? Tough as the oaks of the manor ? Up, then, lads, with the banner. A pottle of sack — a pottle — And give us the merriest bottle ; Great judges of wine, are these lads of mine ; The oldest wine in your bottle, You butler, there, a pottle. Rattle, drummers, rattle, I see the fools will battle ; And trumpeters blow, till your eye-balls show ; Sornid for the instant battle — Fire ! when the drum-sticks rattle. 41 HOW SIR EICHARD DIED. Stately as bridegroom to a feast, Sir Richard trod tlie scaffold stair, And, bowing to the crowd, mitied The love-locks from his sable hair ; Took off his watch, " Give that to Ned, I've done with time," he proudly said. 'Twas bitter cold — it made him shake — Said one, " Ah ! see the villain's look ?" Sir Richard, with a scornful frown, Cried — " Frost not fear my body shook !" Giving a gold piece to the slave, He laughed — " Now praise me master knave !" 42 HOW SIR RICHAED DIED. They pointed, witli a sneering smile, Unto a black box, long and grim ; But no white shroud, or badge of death, Had power to draw a tear from him ; "It needs no lock," he said, in jest, " This chamber, where to-night I rest." Then crying out — " God save the king !" In spite of hiss and shout and frown ; He stripped his doublet, dropped his cloak. And gave the headsman's man a crown ; Then, " Oh ! for heaven !" proudly cried. And bowed his head — and so he died. 43 THE KING IS COMING TO LONDON. (A Song of the Restoration.) Let bonfires sMne in every place And redden many a laughing face, O pray that God may give His grace, To Charles, who's coming to London. And sing and ring the bells apace. But let no Roundhead lean and base, Dare of his crop ears show a trace, When the King is coming to London. At every window hang a flag, Thousrh it be torn and rent to a rao; And shout till tongue refuse to wag, The Kino- is coming; to London. Let not one trooper dare to lag His old slashed coat to button and tag, But sling on his horn and his bullet bag, For the Kins: is cominjr to London. 44 THE KING IS COMING TO LONDON. And in the face of scented lords, Point to the notches upon your swords, And cry like the drunken gipsy hordes, The King is comiag to London. Instead of a plunie wear oaken boughs, And open the door of every house. Then make every passer-by carouse. For the King is coining to London. Jewel the hair of daughter and spouse. Even the dying must carouse, Crawl to the window and drink and bouse, For the King is coming to London. Pale madmen wake with cry and stare, And run to taste the fresh blue air. Then gibber to see the splendour there, For the Eang is coming to London. The beggar shall rouse from his fever lair, The butcher leave the bleeding bear, And even gaolers forget their care. For the Kino- is coming to London. Tear up benches, and rip up boards, To build up fires sell brooches, and gauds. And when you sing remember the chords. The King is coming to London. THE KING IS COMING TO LONDON. 45 Grim felons free from fetter and bond, Wliisper at golden chain and wand, And eye tlie gems with ogling fond, When the Kino; is comino; to London. The scrivener leaves the half-forged bond, Forgets the wretched man he wrongfed, And hurries where his clients thronged, When the I\jno; is comino; to London. o o Debtors whose blood's grown cold and thin, Warm with the laughter and the din, That thaws the half froze heart within. When the Kino- is comino- to London. The poorest tinker with kith and kin. Must now forget his solder and tin, For labour to-day is a sort of a sin, When the Kino; is comino; to London. Old men rub their palsied palm. And sing with tremulous voice a psalm Of Simeon blest now tempests calm. For the Eang; is comino^ to London. The plague-smit man shall feel a balm, And his sickness pass, as if by a charm, When he waves for joy his bandaged arm. For the King is coming to London. 46 THE ENTEY INTO LONDON. Swing it out from tower and steeple, now the dark crowds of the people Press and throng as if deep gladness ruled them, as the moon the flood ; How they scream and sway about, sing and swear, and laugh and flout. As if madness universal fevered the whole nation's blood. Drowsy watchers on the tower start to hear the sudden hour Shouted out from pier and jetty, o'er the river's mimic waves ; When the bells, with clash and clang, into life and motion sprang, As to rouse the dead and buried, peaceful sleeping in their graves. THE ENTRY INTO LONDON. 47 Flags from every turret hung, thousands to the chimneys clung, Shining pennons, gay and veering, from the belfry chamber float ; Weary poets ceased to rhyme, and the student at the chime Closed his books and joined the rabble, and with shouting strained his throat ; Every cooper left his vat — there was sympathy in that ; All the shops of 'Cheap and Ludgate were fast barred upon that day ; The red wine, that bubbled up, left the toper in his cup ; And his crutch and staff the cripple, in his gladness, threw away ; Then the bully left his dice, tailors leapt up in a trice. The smith's fire upon the forges died and smouldered slowly out; The Protector, in his tomb, slumbering till the crack of doom, Might have frowned, and slowly waken'd at the thunder of that shout ; 48 THE ENTKY INTO LONDON. The hot brazier hushed his clamour, and threw by his ponderous hammer ; The shipwi'ight his arm upraising, the dogshores to knock away, Let them stand just as they were, and ran out and left his care, Then the sailors, flocking after, helped to swell the crowd that day. Some are watching for the gim, some hold ale up to the sun, And the bona-robas' eyes, love-sparkling, gather lustre from the wine ; Thames is all alive with barges, gilded prows and blazoned targes ; And the matrons' hoods of satin in the sunlight glow and shine. There were bulHes, thieves and churls, from the peasant up to earls, Noisy crowds of fluttering varlets, and lace-cover'd serving-men ; And the children, held on high, laugh to see the clear blue sky, Shouting;, as their fathers told them, "Our good kinoj is come ao;ain ! " THE ENTRY INTO LONDON. 49 Still tHe tramp of many feet echoes through each lane and street, Like the heaving undulation of the tempest-driven tide; And the belfries reel and rock, with the joy-beU's sudden shock, Pulsing out fresh roars of welcome ere the last glad sounds subside. How the 'prentices they mustered, round each door and casement cluster'd ; At the merchant's latticed windows hung rich ro- bings of brocade. Cloth of gold, and Indian stuff, and in ample folds enough All the princes of the world to have gorgeously ar- rayed. And by every window stood, maidens veiled in silken hood. Half-retreating, coy and modest, half-delighting to be seen ; Many a wild-rose you may seek, ere you match that blusliing cheek ; Every 'prentice thinks his mistress beautiful as any queen. 50 THE ENTRY INTO LONDON. Dark crowds, down each winding street, hurry, while the tramp of feet Rises louder than the pealing of the massy can- nons near ; Like an overflowing tide, press the people on each side. With a din so deep and murmurous it is terrible to hear. How the sword-blades in the sun glitter as the signal-gun Flashes tlirough the flags and pennons, and the masts that Hne the shore ; And, slow swinging from each steeple, far above the shouting people. The joy -bells, o'er roof and gable, do their thunder- music pour. Oh ! the horns blow long and loudly, and the kettle-drums throb proudly, Like the lark's voice 'mid the thunder, comes the shrill cry of the flute ; And the stormy acclamation of a new-deliver'd nation, Fills the air with endless echoes, ere the Abbey bells grow mute. THE ENTRY INTO LONDON. 51 As the dull throb of the drum pulses o'er the din and hum, Slow the pike-heads gleam and glitter past the Palace and the Park ; And the Crop-heads frown and mutter, as the dis- tant banners flutter ; While the crowd are bonfires piling, ready to light up the dark. And the black and heaving crowds roll like tempest- driven clouds, As from out that thunderous silence breaks the sudden sliout and cbeer From the turrets and the roofs — for the sound of coming hoofs Each one listens like a hunter waiting silent for the deer. For indeed one common soul seems to animate the whole ; Louder than the bells or cannon give the multitude a shout ; From the Thames, alive with boats, all the rowers strain their throats ; From amid the striped awnings and the Hags the . wind does flout. E 2 52 THE ENTRY INTO LONDON. You should hear the thunder-claps as the royal banner flaps, And the streams of lords and ladies file m slow procession by, Lilve the clamour of a storm, when the dark clouds, without form. Drift, in whirlwind, headlong, wildly 'cross the chasm of the sky. And he bowed to left and right, and the sunbeam's holy light Lit his brow, and, like a circlet, or a glory, seem'd to bum : Graciously he bent him low, down unto his saddle- bow, iVnd a smile lit all his features, usually so sad and stern. And he gazed with regal pride on the crowds on either side. While his hat and sweeping feathers held he in his bridle-hand ; Bow'd him to his white steed's mane, where his dark locks' glossy rain Mingled, then rose smiling, with a look of proud command. THE ENTRY INTO LONDON, 53 But he shudder'd as before him rose a fountain. arching o'er him ; Dark as blood it rose, empurpled with the juice of flashing wine. As he passed the Banquet-room came a sudden cloud of gloom, Li his eyes no longer gladness seem'd with radiance, to shine. Then, responsive to the people, swung the joy-bells in the steeple, And the welcome of glad thousands drove all sor- row from his mind; And the sweet spring-gather'd flowers fall before his feet in showers. As the sky were raining blossoms, and their perfume fill'd the wind. From old flag-staffs, black and shatter'd, himg red standards, rent and tatter'd, Scorch'd -svith fire of Cromwell's cannon, hack'd by sword, and torn with shot ; Almost lost when stately Basing, with old Fairfax' fire was blazing ; Slu'edded in the struggle long 'tween brave Wigan and the Scott. 54 THE ENTRY INTO LONDON. And their crimson shadows fell on old faces he knew well : Faces scarr'd, and grim, and swarthy, worn with suffering and with care ; Men who from the dungeon dim had burst forth to welcome him ; But their brows were grown more wrinkled, and their silver locks more bare. Some deep-notch'd and broken brands waved in their feeble hands ; Others fill'd the echoing welkin with remember'd battle-cries ; Some fired off their musketoons as the pleasantest of tunes ; Others pulled their hats' broad flaps deeper o'er their moistening eyes. 55 THE BONFIRE AT TEMPLE-BAR. Sung hy a ^arty of merry fellows, dressed in greasy crimson and yellow satin, as they leaned out of the windoio of a Fleet-street tavern, May 29, 1660. With a flagon in each hand, And a bowl before us, While the barrel's running gold, Cavaliers, the chorus ! Lest misfortune enter here. Let us now debar her, Tossing off Canary cups, With a Sassarara ! Through the lattice see the west, Like a bvu-ning ruby ; Who to-night goes sober hence Shall be dubbed a booby. Redder than that core of fire Flash the gathered torches. Blaze the bonfires in the streets Round a thousand porches. 56 THE BONFIRE AT TEMPLE-BAR. Full cups round, my hearts of steel, Lads of trusty mettle ; Split the chair and break the form, Chop in two the settle ; So the bonfire, roof-tree high, Leap up to the steeple, While with waving hats and swords We addi'ess the people. Burn the books of crop-eared Prynn, Make the Roundheads shiver ; Give a shout to scare the rogues Right across the river. Blow the organ trumpet-loud. Set the mad bells clashing, Redden all the stones of Cheap With the wine-cup's splashing. Traitors who to-night retire Cheek unflushed and sober, I'll di'ench with this metal can Of the brown October. Drain the tun, yes, every drop, Then split up the barrel, Beat the pewter till it's flat, Chorus to the carol. THE BONFIRE AT TEMPLE-BAR. 57 Cavaliers, upon your knees, Here's a health to heroes ; Jenkin, when I give the sign, Fire the patarreros. Blow the trumpets till they burst, Welcome to the Stuart, Slit his weasand who will dare To say he's not a true heart. Lift the stone up, tear Noll out, Lop his head and swing it From the triple Tyburn tree, Where with groans we bring it. Shake old Whitehall with the roar Till the windows clatter, Then the bones of Oliver On the diuighill scatter. Open throw the prison doors, Free the wounded troopers — When the Brewer's sword is snapt. Shall the brave be droopers ? Lead them out into the sun, Let them feel the breezes ; Crowd around them with the cup, For their life-blood freezes. 58 THE BONFIRE AT TEMPLE-BAR. Even let the crosses red Be for once forgotten ; Let the dying hear us shout Ere he's black and rotten ; Round the plague-pit cry and sing, Let the wine elate us ; Wine's the balm for blain and boil, The real Mithridates. Now they grind the Tyburn axe, Sing the song of Wigan, So it pierce the prison bars While the graves are digging. Vane turns pale to hear the hiss Of a thousand-headed adder, While his sour face, black and calm. Makes the rabble madder. Fire the muskets all at once. Snap off every pistol, Wave the glasses in the sun. And then smash the crystal ; Drag the dusty maypole out. Ring it round with blossom ; Throw your caps into the air. As for banners toss 'em. THE BONFIRE AT TEMPLE-BAR. 59 Rear the pole, and let us dance Hand-in-hand in chorus ; Bid the piper blow his best, Strutting on before us. Bang the cans upon the board, Cadence to the roaring Of the crowds who with the Rumps Down Fleet-street are pouring. Swing me in my sword-belt up If I do not clamour Louder than the merry din Of the pewterer's hammer. Thin-cheeked debtors from the Fleet, Red-eyed, himgry-hearted. Cry for very joy to think Red-nosed Noll departed. Wave the flag imtil it split, Break up all the benches, Round the fires that roast the Rumps Kiss the laughing wenches. Fling broad pieces to the crowd, Let them fight and trample, Every starving caitiiF soon Will have " counters " ample. 60 THE BONFIRE AT TEMPLE-BAR, Tories ! hearts of steel and gold, Flash your swords to heaven, Now the Brewer's dead and gone With his bitter leaven. Shout until the steeples shake, And the bells are swinging, Every bell in every house Should be set a-ringing. Ring from Cheapside unto Paul's, Right to Piccadilly ; Wave the flags from Temple-bar To where Holborn's hiUy ; From the Barbican to Bow, Up the Strand to Charing, All along the Svirrey side Are the bonfires flaring. Gracious-street to Crooked-lane, Eastcheap to Old Jewry, Whitefriars, too, is all alive, Ram-alley shouts in friry ; At the Compter window see All the rogues are staring, The very gaoler's wakened up By the torches flaring. THE BONFIRE AT TEMPLE-BAR. 61 Right from Stratford to the Thames, Then away to Clapham, Bang the war-drums, strain them tight. Then with cudgel rap 'em ; Clash the brass and raise a din, Maddening the Quakers, Leave beside the grave the dead. All ye undertakers. Let the baker's cheek grow red. And the butcher's redder, Make the blacksmith leave his forge, Smithfield hind his wedder ; Carpenters the coffin leave. Half made do for traitors. If a Crophead dare to frown, Hang him in his gaiters. Now then drink till we grow blind. And om* voices fail us. When the spirits of the wine All at once assail us. Then let jug and table fall, Pile the cups who love us ; Let the topers sober left Sing a du'ge above us. 62 UP THE THAMES. (Twenty-ninth of May.) Up the Thames with flashing oar, Let the Tower guns flame and roar, Belcliing fire fi'om every bore. All the water ripples red, Fiery shines the river bed With the bonfires over head. See the old bridge, black as jet, Casting shadows, like a net, Lights upon the parapet. Pipe and drum in every boat ; All the Templars sing and float To the merry bugle note. UP THE THAMES. 63 See the fellows' corslets flash ; How the bright oars drip and splash, As beneath the arch we dash. Now from every roof and wall, Shop and garret, yard and stall, You can hear the cannon call. Varlet, yeoman, knight and lord. Wave their hat, and wig, and sword ; Every thief forgot his fraud. Banners waved from London Bridge ; Pennons shook from roof and ridge, Thick as wino-s of summer midge. Ploughing water, dyed with flame ; Fast the royal galley came ; Blushed the river, as with shame. Then again the cannon spoke ; And the clouds, as with a stroke, Seemed in fragments to be broke. Beating the black tide to froth. Fell a thousand oars in wrath ; Cheers burst forth from south and north. 64 UP THE THAMES. From the steeples rose a blaze ; Flvery casement in amaze Shone with red and sparkling rays. Bells swung madly thro' the mist ; Like a frown, the fog was kiss'd Quite away to amethyst. From the gardens came the cheers Of a milHon cavaliers, Some could scarcely shout for tears. 67 THE STARVED POET. " Dead, dead !" So the old nurse careless said, Letting fall his lifeless head ; Many shadows round the bed, But not one moui'ner for the dead. Dead, dead. Fame, fame ! The old clock's ticking just the same. The ceiling reddens with the flame. The wind sinks back from whence it came, Moaning as if in very shame, Fame, fame. " Gone to rest !" Said the nurse, and crossed her breast, Groping in the dusty chest. Where the rat squealed from its nest, " Nothing but a threadbare vest. Verses, verses — all the rest." F 2 68 THE STARVED POET. *' Write, write ! He would scribble all the night, Was it wonder he grew white ? Crazed his brain, and dim his sight, Scarcely knowing day from night. Write, write !" " Lord, lord ! Last week came Sir Richard Ford, Playing with his silver sword, Tapping on the empty board, How at every jest he roared, Lord, lord!" " Bread, bread !" Moaned the master who is dead, " Though my pen is heavy lead. And my lungs this morning bled, I have children must be fed. Bread, bread." " Debt, debt ! Half a gmnea owing yet, Many nights of wind and wet, Many weary vigils set, This is all I ever get. Debt, debt !" 69 THE OLD PARK GATES. (Mansion, temp. Charles II.) There are two statues of cold grey stone, Mossy and black with years, Creatures that never feel love nor joy, Nor ever shed human tears ; Shine sun, beat wind, blow hot, blow cold, They stand stern looking on, Taking no 'count of the days or hours, Nor the ages past and gone. Ruthless creatures of hard grey stone, Guarding the old park-gates, Firm on yoiu- tlu'one-like pedestals, Gazing calm-eyed as Fates ; Wliether a bridal train laughs thro', Or a coffin pass within. Never a word and never a smile At the silence or the din. 70 THE OLD PARK GATES. The gates stained red with iron rust, Are twined with love-knots true, Quaint winding cyphers mystical, Still streaked with gold and blue. There proudly round ramp herald beasts, And round hang fruit and flowers ; But gapped and warped with lightning-stroke, And the damp of cold night showers. On the slabs the figures trample. Grow long dry nodding weeds. And there the starling loves to build, And there the robin feeds ; While, like blood-gouts, the rust-stains drip Foul, on the pillar's base. And night and day try sun and rain The cypher to deface. No longer rolls the gilded coach Down the long avenue, Lit by the smoking torches' light That glistens in the dew ; No longer through the massy gate. Sweep banished cavaliers, Stern men who kneel to kiss the ground, Shedding some bitter tears. THE OLD PAKK GATES. The house is down, the deer are dead — The park's a lonely place. The timid rabbits careless feed, Unscared by human face : But all day singing to himself. As happy as a child, The blackbird sits and prunes his wing, — The spot has grown so wild. God's curses on the drunkard's hand That flung the spotted die ! Did he not hear the groan that shook The vault where his fathers lie ? Blue lightning pierce the shiivelled heart That never beat with pride. To tread the cedar chamber where His father's fathers died. The die was thrown ; the manor-house Shook from the roof to base, The sallow portraits in the hall Gazed with reproachful face : Without, the old ancestral trees Groaned loud as lightning-smit ; The herald's -window sparkled out, The moon shone full on it. 72 THE OLD PARK GATES, The fool ! — a beggar through the gate Creeps out with head hung down, Not seeing how the guardian gods, Upon their pillars frown. He hears the winner's mocking laugh Come ringing through the tree, — One side the gate lies heaven, One side flows misery. * * * * But had I time sufficient, I could for hours relate How Tory, Whig, and Jacobite Have passed tlu'ough yonder gate. The lord with orange-ribbon Bright at his button-hole, Proud of the vote by which he sold For a star — his body and soul. The gallant, bound for Derby, With a white rose at his breast, Returning pale and wounded, The lace torn from his vest : Or chaired the conquering Member Born high above his peers. With noisy acclamations. And loud election cheers. THE OLD PARK GATES. 73 Now on the iron crown that caps The centre of the gate, A robin comes, and in the sun. Sings early and sings late. It is the spirit of the place Still wrung by a regret, — Well may the stranger lingering by Confess a sorrow yet. Decay, and sin, and ruin, Stare through the twilight grate, Sad as the entrance of a vault, With all its faded state ; The stains of tarnished gilding, Its love-knot still untied, And the silent st tues standing fixed, Asserting changeless pride. And 'tis for this we toil and sweat, And ply the sword and pen, — Only to pass away at eve, And be forgot of men. Fools that we are, to gather flowers That in our hands decay, — To heap up mole-hills — to rear eirth Immortal, — for a day. 74 THE THREE TROOPERS. During the Protectorate. Into tKe Devil tavern Tliree booted troopers strode, From spiu" to feather spotted and splashed With the mud of a winter road. In each of their cups they droped a crust, And stared at the guests with a frown ; Then drew their swords, and roared for a toast. " God send this Crum-well-down !" A blue smoke rose from their pistol locks, Their sword blades were still wet ; There were long red smears on their jerkins of buff. As the table they overset. Then into their cups they stirred the crusts. And cursed old London town ; Then waved their swords, and drank with a stamp, '• God send this Crum-well-down !" THE THREE TROOPERS. 75 The 'prentice dropped his can of beer, The host turned pale as a clout ; The ruby nose of the toping squires Grew white at the wild men's shout. Then into their cups they flung the crusts, And showed their teeth with a frown ; They flashed their swords as they gave the toast, " God send this Crum-well-down !" The gambler dropped his dog's-ear'd cards, The waiting-women screamed, As the light of the fire, like stains of blood, On the wild men's sabres gleamed. Then into their cups they splashed the crusts, And cm'sed the fool of a town. And leapt on the table, and roared a toast, " God send this Crum-well-down !" Till on a sudden fire-bells rang. And the troopers sprang to horse ; The eldest muttered between his teeth. Hot curses — deep and coarse. In then- stirrup cups they flung the crusts, And cried as they spmTed through town, With their keen swords drawn and their pistols cocked, " God send this Crum-well-down !" 76 THE THREE TROOPERS. Away they dashed through Temple Bar, Theh' red cloaks floAving free, Their scabbards clashed, each back-piece shone- None liked to touch the three. The silver cups that held the crusts They flung to the startled towu, Shouting again, with a blaze of swords, " God send this Crum-well-down !" THE DANCE ROUND THE PLAGUE PIT, 77 THE DANCE EOUND THE PLAGUE-PIT. 'TwAS when the plague was mowing God's creatures down in heaps, That five good men of the Temple Awoke from their drunken sleeps, And flask in hand, and arm in arm, Went over the fields together, To see the plague-pit at Mary-la-bonne, In the bright and golden weather. They strolled along, and at every stile Drank to some beauty's health ; And on their knees (good Lord, to see Such uses made of wealth !) They pledged the king, and toasted the duke. And hailed the Muses nine ; At every death-bell tolling Held up to the sun the wine. 78 THE DANCE ROUND TDE PLAGUE-PIT. On the green grass and the co'svslip flowers The sad, calm sunshine slept; Then one laughed out, and another sighed, And a third man fairly wept : For one had lost his wife and child, And one his younger brother ; A third had fled but yesterday From the black corse of his mother. And when the milk-girls singing passed, They kissed them one and all : '* We are Death's five good brothers, Very good men and tall." They flom'ished their swords and capered, And such mad antics played : Thinking them madmen broke away. Fast flew each milking-maid. 'Twas very quiet in the old churchyard ; The bees in the nettle flowers Moved not ; the swallows flew Silent between the showers. But the chasm, black and gaping. No cloud or sunshine lit : It struck them cold to the heart and bone To see the path to it. THE DANCE ROUND THE PLAGUE-PIT. 79 Trodden like any highway Over the meadow grass, Wliere the dead-cart wheels by night and day, Creak rumbling as they pass. Through subiu'b road and village street, Where playing boys stand still, Where ploughmen stop to hear the bell, And the white face stares from the mill. Oh, how they laugh to see the pit So black and deep below ! Yet above the sky was blue and clear. And the clouds were all of a glow. And the sunrise, bright and rosy, Turned the distant roofs to flame ; And one looked long, with pallid cheeks, And called the rest by name. One of the band was grey and wan, Another was fresh and fair. And on his comely shoulders fell A flood of dark brown hair. A third was sour and sneering. Thin lip, and cold grey eye ; The last were fat-cheeked gluttons, Who dreaded much to die. 80 THE DANCE ROUND THE PLAGCE-PIT. "I see the old curmudgeon," Cried one, with a drunken scream, And flung his glass at the mocking eyes Of the dead, that glisten and gleam. " My father turned me over To beg or rob on the road ; Good-day, old lad, with the drooping jaw, D'ye like your new abode ? " " I swear it moves," cried one, aghast. And let his full glass fall : " Oh, God ! if my gentle brother Will Should be there at the bottom of all ! They writhe — egad, they struggle — Like fish in a bellying net ; I'd rather than forty shillings We never here had met." " There's Chloe yonder, sleeping. Her arms round a dead man's neck ; I call her twice, and kiss my hand, But she comes not at my beck, Her cheeks are still warm crimson, The rouge is not washed oiF, But her cui'ls are lost, and the bald-pate hag Is fit for a sexton's scoff." THE DAXCE ROCXD THE PLAGUE-PIT. 81 The sun in the old church window Glistened vrith waverino; grold, Calm praying figures carved in stone You may through the panes behold. The poplar slowly wavered, And stately bent its head, As if in homage to the wind, Or reverence to the dead. " Sink me !"' cried one, " Canary Will wash our dull eyes clear. And brace our hearts. You quakers, I can see nothing here But a hole in the groimd, and faces pale, That seem to grin and stare. Let lis awav — I feel a qualm — There's death in the hot tliick air." " Rot me '. " a third voice bellows, And flimg down a shower of wine ; " This rain'll wake the fools to life, And make their white Hps shine. There, in a snug nook crouching, I see my mother sits, She's rather warped and shrunken, She was alwavs whining in fits.' 82 THE DANCE ROUND THE PLAGUE-PIT. " Born devil," cried another, " My little Will lies there, His blue eyes cold and faded. Red wonus in his golden hair ; Crushed by those black heaps livid, Without a coffin or shroud. Thrown in, dog-like, -without a prayer.'" The strong man wept aloud. " Excuse me now proposing, My gallant friends, a toast : Here's a health to good old Rowley — Long may he rule the roast — To Nell and Mall, the pretty Whig, The queen of Hearts and all ! " The sneerer knelt, and " In a grove " Began to shout and bawl : " We all go mad together, If once we dare to think " — He dashed out the wine with a shaking hand And staring eyeballs — " Drink — Drink till the brain grows fiery. Till the veins run o'er with joy ; When I'm drunk, lads, then tAvist my nock. And let me join my boy." THE DANCE ROUND THE PLAGUE-PIT. 83 Then one pulled out the loaded dice, And threw them on a tomb ; And another flung some greasy cards Filched from a tavern room. And all the while the lark rose up, Gay singhig overhead, As if the earth were newly made, And Adam were not dead. " Room, room for a dance ! — the sexton With a dead-cart comes not yet — A saraband or a minuet : Well are we five lads met ! Come, pass the flask, and fill the cup. Quick send the bumper round. And drink a health to our fiiendsand foes, So snugly under ground." Then round the plague-pit footing A measure one or two. With scarf and spangled feather, Roses on every shoe, All hand-in-hand, in circles, With many a mad grimace, Rotmd the hole, thick black with bodies, The drunken dancers race. G 2 84 THE DANCE ROUND THE PLAGUE-PIT. Round and round in madness The noisy dancers flew, Shaking off hat and feather, Kicking off stocking and shoe ; But a quicker reel flung one man in, Swift as a stone from a sHng ; Down — down — down ! In the loathsome pit They hear the fellow sing. He holds his glass to a dead maid's mouth. And pledges the plague-struck men ; He shouts to his fellows far above To fill the bowl again. But a sudden shiver seizes him, And he leaps at the side of the grave, Then weeps and screams for life and help, But none of them care to save. They lie down flat at the brink of the pit, And hold the red glass up, They drink his health, and fling in his eyes The dregs of the empty cup. He draws his sword in madness, Hews at the dead around, And tries to carve out steps to climb In the crumbling, reeking ground. THE DANCE ROUND THE PLAGUE-PIT. 85 The dance renews with frantic speed, Thej leap round the open pit, Till another reels, with a cry of "iosi /" Far in the womb of it. Then at him, like a panther, The first who lay there leaps : They roll and fight, and ciu'se and stab, Tossing the dead in heaps. Now, looking down, the dancers laugh, And clap their hands, and sing, Just as they'd goad a bull and dog In the Paris Garden ring. A groan — then perfect silence — Both wretches are struck dead — One smitten by the vapour, The other with cloven head. The dead cart comes in the heat of noon, The dancers were all dead. And each had sunk Hke men asleep, The earth-heap for a bed. " Kind gentlemen," the sexton said, " To save me trouble sure, Food'U be all the cheaper For so many mouths the fewer." 86 TOM OF TEN THOUSAND. TllERE is hard-riding Dickey, The Lord of Mount Surrey, Gallants in blue and gold, Purple and murrey. There are Jacobites, scores of 'em, Whigs twice as many ; But Tom of Ten Thousand is Gayest of any. He is so tall and lithe. Lightsome and limber, Ready to face the gate, Breasting the timber, Rusliing tlirough bullfinches Dreaded by many, Tom of Ten Thousand is Boldest of any. TOM OF TEN THOUSAND. 87 Over the liedge and stile, Over the paling, Over the double fence, Bank, brook, or railing. Switching the rasper, sir, Though the ground's fenny, Tom of Ten Thousand is Bravest of any. Oh, but to see him, boys. In the wood groping, Then breaking through the bush, Start for the open. Over the plough and clay. Checking so many, Tom of Ten Thousand is Staunchest of any. Fording the river deep, Swollen and rapid, All other riding, boys, Seeming but vapid. Making the short cut. That's sighed for by many, Tom of Ten Thousand is Fleetest of any. 88 TOM OF TEN THOUSAND. Swift as a swallow, Black Sloven's gelding, Bred in the Grafton mews Out of old Belding. Light on the back of him, Envied by many Tom of Ten Thousand is Swiftest of any. After the music. No one more willing. Though the wood's fen, and swamp. And the pace killing. Cursing and spurring, sirs, Swifter than any, Tom of Ten Thousand is Surest of any. He'll be brought home at last. With his feet foremost, Though the heart-blood of him Now rims the warmest. No ! coming to grief Is the fortune of many. But Tom of Ten Thousand is Safest of any. 89 THE ORANGEMAN'S CASTLE. The bright flag of orange Blew over the town, Shone over the houses Its " Bible and CroAvn." On the third of November, There was beating of drum. And moving of bayonets, Round the Castle of Crum. In splints flew the rampart, The casements fell in ; There were screaming and groans, And confessions of sin ; The moat splashed with shot, But we plied at the drum, And the orange blew proud On the Castle of Crum. 90 THE Orangeman's castle. Hedged round with the cannon, In a cu'cle of fire, Only the hotter Grew Protestant ire. We shot fiercely and fast, As we beat on the drum, At the forest of tents. Round the Castle of Crum. We fired; and a flame Rose from hovel and tent ; The castle wall fell, And the flag-staff was rent. Their battery burst At the sound of our drum But the orange flew still On the Castle of Crum. The red shot at night Fell on roof and on head ; We built up the loops With the dying and dead. Though all wounded and weak, We still beat on the drum, And looked at the orange On the turrets of Crum. THE Orangeman's castle. 91 We were weary and weak, And our food was all gone ; Still we knelt down to fire At the thick of the throng. When far in the distance, They beat on the drum, And the siege it was raised. Of the Castle of Crum. 92 THE FIGHT AT THE MILL-BRIDGE. Bull-dogs we were ! down our long hair Fell on oiu' lace collars, costly and fair ; Swords in our sheatli, we tore over the heath, And swam the deep river, boys, blades in our teeth ; Rode with a mil to the fire-flashing mill, Full of black Orangemen, shouting for Will, Twenty a-breast, and all gallantly dress'd, Feather of red on the top of each crest. " Give them the steel," cried fighting O'Neal, *' Ply them with shot till they break or they reel ; " Here are the Blues, too, just as they use. Kilts in platoons, and the lads with the trews : The bridge of Tyrone heard many a groan Of dying and stabbed o'er the parapet thrown, As twenty a-breast, we were gallantly dress'd, Feather of red on each beaver and crest. THE FIGHT AT THE MILL-CKIDGE. 93 We fought up the road, and wherever we trode Our hoof-prints were red, as we slash'd and we rode We split up the door, burned to ashes the floor, Fired till their saddles grew sloppy with gore. Can a Jacobite lao- when the Orangeman's flag Waves in his eyes ? We filled foraging bag, Then twenty a breast, rode gallantly dress'd, Feather of red on our beaver and crest. 94 THE FOPS AT THE BOYNE. Down went hat and feather, On pom'ed red and blue, The scented wigs were heading The banner, though it flew : Bright shone the purple pennon All the squadrons through. Gay as in the ring in London, Laughing as the shot Tore the ribbons, blue and orange. When the fire grew hot ; " Salamanders !" cried the trooper, " All the merry lot." " Fire-drakes ford the Irish river," Panting cried Mackay ; Then the splashing and the gurgle As the waters fly : Some were wading to the ankle, Some to full mid-thigh. THE FOPS AT THE BOYNE. 95 Such a flood of blades and feathers, Splashed into the tide ; Walled with fire-flames, shone the river, Red on either side ; A crash and blaze, and bragging France Fled fast with all her pride. Out the lace cravats were blowing, Spotted wet with red ; Black the wigs that swept the hot steel, On the broad chest spread : Red the stars and red the ribbons Flaunting on the dead. Combino; wigs and brushing velvet, Rubbing spots from steel, Wiping saddles, knotting bridles, Still they led the reel. As the gunners, laughing by, Strain the cannon wheel. There, amid the pale and dying. Foamed the King's champagne ; " A toast, ' the Queen of Diamonds,' And may she rule and reign :" Some that are propp'd with dead men, sit Screaming with stabs of pain. 96 THE JACOBITES' CLUB. One threw an orange in the air, And caught it on his sword ; Another crunched the yellow peel, With his red heel on the board ; A third man cried, "When Jackson comes Into his large estate, I'll pave the old hall down in Kent, With golden bits of eight." One tiiming with a meaning wink, Fast double locked the door, Then held a letter to the fire — It was all blank before, But now it's ruled with crimson lines. And cyphers odd and quaint ; They cluster round, and nod, and laugh, As one invokes a saint. THE JACOBITES' CLUB. 97 He pulls a black wig from his head ; He's shaven like a priest ; He holds his finger to his nose, And smiles, " The wind blows east, The Dutch canals are frozen, shs ; I don't say anything. But when you play at ombre next, Mind that I lead a king." " Last night at Kensington I spent, 'Twas gay as any fair ; Lord ! how they stared to find that bill Stuck on the royal chair. SomefiDols cried 'Treason!' — some, 'A plot!' I slipped behind a screen. And when the guards come ftissing in, Sat chatting with the Queen." "I," cried a thu-d, "was printing songs, Li a garret in St. Giles', When I heard the watchman at the door, And flew up on the tiles. The press was lowered into the vault, The types into a drain : I think you'll own, my trusty sirs, I have a ready brain." 98 THE JACOBITES' CLUB. A frightened whisper at the door, A bell rings — then a shot : "Shift, boys, the Grangers are come; Pity ! the punch is hot." A clash of swords — a shout — a scream, And all abreast in force ; The Jacobites, some twenty strong. Break through and take to horse. 99 THE CALVES'-HEAD CLUB. (Charles the Second's reign.) With calf's head on a stately dish The landlord hiuTied in, A bitter smile crept round the board, But never shout nor din ; Then wine from the cobwebb'd cellar, Came in the wattled flask, And the man who sat at the table end Looked grim in a velvet mask. With cautious step the chairman rose, Slipp'd softly over the floor ; With a silver nail that hung from his neck He clamp'd the oaken door. But first they brought a roasted pike, With a gudgeon in his jaw — Type of the way that nations lie, Torn in a tyrant's maw. H 2 100 THE CALVES'-HEAD CLUB. Then a second door they siu'ely locked, Threw the key in the red-hot fire. But they spoke in murmui's soft and low, Scarce than a whisper higher. 'Twas the tliirtieth of the month, at night, In a tavern near Whitehall, That a man in a mask, on a pale calf's head, A red wine-stream let fall. The man of the mask, with a solemn air. As an augur would have done, Hewed in parts, with a strong broad knife, The head, and gave each one. They had scarcely drank tliree cups of wine When open burst the door : There was fighting at the table end. And stabbing on the floor. Loud cries of " Zion ! sword of God ! Now hew tliis Baal down ! " With " Sink me ! use your pistols ! And fire the cuckold town ! " The man in the mask flung down a bench Set back unto the wall. Flung a heavy flask at the foremost men. And blew a silver call. THE CALVES -HEAD CLUB. 101 There were blood-pools mingled witli the wine, Red broken glass and swords, Gay feathers wet, in brave men's gore, Flapping upon the boards. And that day week, at Tyburn tree, Ten " calves' heads " drain'd a flask ; But they never touch'd, with -vdllain rope, The neck of the man in the mask. For him they built a scaffold On the old blood-mantled hill : He stepped up bold, as a marriage guest To a marriage banquet will ; — Bowed three times to the hissing crowd, Bid the headsman do his task ; And, flinging some gold to the rolhng mob, So died the man in the mask. UNIVER.SITY OF CALIFOT?NT\ SANTA DAUBARA COLLEGE L16RAR 102 TPIE WHITE ROSE OVER THE WATER. {Edinburgh. 1744.) The old men sat with hats pulled down, Their claret cups before them : Broad shadows hid their sullen eyes, The tavern lamps shone o'er them. As a brimming bowl, with crystal fiU'd, Came borne by the landlord's daughter. Who wore in her bosom the fair white rose, That grew best over the water. Then all leap'd up, and join'd their hands With hearty clasp and greeting. The brimming cups, outstretched by all. Over the wide bowl meeting. "A health," they cried, "to the witching eyes Of Kate, the landlord's daughter ! But don't forget the white, white rose That grows best over the water." THE WHITE ROSE OVER THE WATER. 103 Each others' cups they touch'd all round, The last red drop outpouring ; Then with a cry that warin'd the blood, One heart-born chorus roaring — "Let the glass go round, to pretty Kate, The landlord's black-eyed daughter. But never forget the white, white rose That grows best over the water." Then hats flew up and swords sprang out, And lusty rang the chorus — "Never," they cried, "while Scots are Scots, And the broad Frith's before us." A ruby ring the glasses shine As they toast the landlord's daughter. Because she wore the white, white rose That grew best over the water. A poet cried, " Our thistle's brave, With all its stings and prickles ; The shamrock with its holy leaf Is spar'd by Irish sickles. But bumpers round, for what are these To Kate, the landlord's daughter, Who wears at her bosom the rose as white. That grows best over the water ?" 104 THE WHITE ROSE OVER THE "WATER. They dash'd the glasses at the wall, No lip might touch them after ; The toast had sanctified the cups That smashed against the rafter ; Then chairs tlu'own back, they up again, To toast the landlord's daughter. But never forgot the white, white rose That grew best over the water. 105 THE FIGHT IN THE HAWKING FIELD. Pipes blowing, dnims beating, colours flying, cries and laughter. Ribbons driving, bells jingling, merry cheering fore and after, Mad spurring, hot whipping, and all because Su- William Ray Has matched his dun mare Sorel against Sir Robert's bay. Hawks whistling, scarves blowing, horns blasting, hither, thither. Horses neigliing, kicking, fretting, at the gall upon their wither. Strap-pulling, stirrup-lowering, eyes looking at the sky, When, with a blast of trumpets, they let the falcon 106 THE FIGHT IN THE HAAYKING FIELD. Cloud-piercing, wind-scorning, lightning-pinioned, flew the falcon. High soaring, proud of plumage, keen-talon'd for the hawking. There was whooping, yelling, shouting, because Sir Robert swore, A braver bird, from gentle wrist, flew never up before. White against the dark sky, all a-smother with grey clouds. When the sullen mists of autumn hung upon the woods in shrouds ; — Rose the falcon piercing heaven, arrow-swift, and fiery eyed, High above the swelling vapom'S and the sunset's burning tide. Drums beating, pipes blowing, trumpet-banners, how they fluttered. Pages gambolled, ladies whispered, falconers looked black and muttered ; And all because Sir Robert Grey drew off his fal- con's hood, And flung him up to catch his mate, above the Castle wood. THE FIGHT IN THE HAWKING FIELD. 107 Now above the tallest poplar, now above the last red cloud — " Ah ! should not any gentleman of such a bird be proud ? " Now on his towering prey he falls, a smiting thunder-bolt. And struck him in a bloody leap, stone dead upon the holt. "Ill-doing!" cruel!" '"knavish!" "foul-playing!" cry a dozen, "Fall upon them!" "this a wager?" "draw!" " don't let the villains cozen !" "Scurvy practice !" " hear me !" " fell him!" " Usten !" " tap the cuckold's blood !" So cried the rabble, undulating, like a spring-tide at the flood. Then flew out in face of heaven, scarcely less than thirty swords In a cii'cle round Sir Robert, who grew angry at these frauds. Horns blowing, drums beating, horsemen hrn'ried in and out. Calm hands were laid on hasty weapons, as the murmur grew a shout. 108 THE FIGHT IN THE HAWKING FIELD. There was pawing and curvetting, snatches at the hehnet laces ; There was slashing off of feathers, long gloves flung in troopers' faces. Pulling strong men from their saddles, gashes bleeding at their breast — Groans and screaming, cries and clamours, running east and running west. In among the press and struggle rode Sir Robert on his sable, He had hand on every gullet, and he swore down all the Babel. When he struck, flew out the crimson, on the' satin and the lace ; When he firown'd, a coward pallor spread on every brawler's face. Tearing trumpet from a villain puffing out his swollen cheek. Striking down a dozen weapons, stopping one who would fain speak. Spurring, pushing, till ciurvettings bore him to Sir WilHam's side ; Then he smote him on the jaw-bone in his anger and his pride. THE FIGHT IN THE HAWKING FIELD. 109 Bridle-cutting, there is stabbing, rapiers flashing keen and deadly, Arrows flying, bullets ringing, swords dripping, bright and redly. Beaver-chopping, wound- making, steel-crossing, dishing, clashing. Gun-loading, match-lighting, yellow light of sul- phur flashing. When the melee broke and scatter' d, pages dragg'd away the dead ; There were feathers wet and crimson, there were trappings burnt and red. On a bier of boughs and hurdles they bore Sir WilKam Ray, As night came down, a dreary pall, and closed the hunting day. 110 THE GENTLEMAN IN BLACK. [King William the Third's death was occasioned by the horse he was riding stumbling at a mole-hill. This mole became afterwards famous as a Jacobite toast, by the name of ' The Little Gentleman in Black Velvet.'] The club had met, the cups stood full, The chairman stirr'd the bowl ; The bottle, as it circling flew. Gave wings to every soul. " 'Tis Orange Boven." that they cried, When a voice at the chairman's back Said, " I pray you drink with three times tlu-ee ' The Gentleman in Black.' " The chairman filled his glass again, And each one chink'd his spoon ; The fiddlers in the corner sat, Stopp'd half way in their tune ; The Boven, and the Kentish fire, The wainscot echoed back ; When silence came, the voice replied, " The Gentleman in Black." THE GENTLEMAN IN BLACK. Ill Then every eye was turned to see What the intruder meant. He was a man with shaggy brows, And long nose hook'd and bent — " Death, devil, or a doctor !" cried The shrewdest of the pack ; The stranger merely smil'd, and said, " The Gentleman in Black." " An honest man, who digs as well, As sexton, sand or clay. And throws up heaps — a miner good By night as well as day ; He's not a friend to Dutch or Whigs, And Holland would let pack : Still, drink a glass, my gallant sirs, To the ' Little Man in Black.' " Sallow and grim the speaker stood, A stranger to them all, He had a muffler round his mouth, And never let it fall. They drank the toast to humour him. He laiigh'd at the chairman's back, Then glided out, as twenty roared, " The Gentleman in Black." 112 THE GENTLEMAN IN BLACK. He coldly smiled as he passed out, His lips moved with a sneer ; The wrinkles crept about his brow, When they began to cheer. The chairman said, " A riddle this, I'm not upon the track. But ne'ertheless, here's wishing well To the Gentleman in Black." An hour had gone : a pale-faced man Ran in, not greeting any, Said, " Friends, I bring but sorry news, And what will stagger many : The king at noon was thrown and hurt As Hampton Park he crossed. He is just dead." "What, dead! " they screamed ; " Om* cause and England's lost !" " What lam'd the horse ?" a dozen cry — " A mole-hill in the way — It sttmabled, and the king was thrown — He's now six foot of clay." " A mole, I see !" the chairman foamed, " I'm on the villain's track ; And this is why he made us toast The Gentleman in Black." 113 OLD SIR WALTEE. A Story of 1734. Stout Sir Walter was old but hearty : A velvet cap on his long grey hair, A foil white rose at his gold-laced button : Many were laughing, but none looked gayer. Such a beast was his jet black hunter, Silver-spotted with foam and froth. Brawny in flank and fiery-blooded, Stung by the spur to a curbless wrath ! Gaily blowing his horn, he scrambled Over the stone wall four feet two ; See saw over the old park railing. Shaking the thistle-head rich with dew. 114 OLD SIR WALTER. A long black face the sovir Whig huntsman Pulled, when he saw Sir Walter come Trotting up gay by the oak wood cover. Why when he cheered did they all sit dumb ? Why when he flung up his hat and shouted, " God save Bang George !" they bawling cried, As a Justice, drawing a long-sealed parchment, Rode up grim to Sir Walter's side. " In King George's name, arrest him, lieges ! This is the villain who fought at Boyne : He sHced the feather from oiF my beaver, And ran his sword twice into my groin." Then out whipp'd blades : the horns they sounded. The field came flocking in thick and fast, But Su- Walter flogged at the barking rabble, And through them all like a whirlwind pass'd. " A hundred guineas to seize the traitor !" Cried the Justice, purple and white with rage, Then such a spurring, whipping, and flogging. Was never seen in the strangest age. The hunter whipped off Spot and Fowler, Viper and Fury, and all the pack. And set them fast, with their red tongues lolling And white teeth fix'd, on Su- Walter's track. OLD SIR WALTER. 115 Loud on the wind came blast of bugle, All together the hounds gave tong-ue, They swept like a hail-storm down by the gibbet, Where the black rags still in the cold storm hung. The rain cut faces like long whip lashes, The wind blew strong in its wayward will, And powdering fast, the men and horses Thundering swept down Frampton Hill. There half the grooms at last pull'd bridle, Swearincj 'twould ruin their bits of blood ; Three ^Vhig rogues flew out of the saddle, And two were plumped in the river mud. Three men stuck to the leading rebel ; The first was a Whig lord, fat and red, The next a yellow-faced lean attorney, And the last a Justice, as some one said. Slap at the fence went old Sir Walter, Slap at the ditch by the pollard-tree, Crash through the hazels, over the water. And wherever he went, there went the three. Into the hiU-fence broke Sir Walter, Rio-ht throuo-h the tangle of branch and thorns, O O c Swish'd the rasper up by the windmiU, In spite of the cries and blowing of horns. 116 OLD SIR WALTER. Lines of flames trailed all the scarlet Streaming, the dogs half a mile before, Whoop ! with a cry all after Sir AYalter, Driving wildly along the shore. Over the timber flew old Sir Walter, Light as a swallow, sure and swift, For his sturdy arm and his " pull and hustle " Could help a nag at the deadest lift. Oif went his o-old-laced hat and buijle, His scarlet cloak he then let fall, And into the river spurr'd old Sir Walter, Boldly there, in the sight of all. There was many a sore on back and wither, Many a spur that ran -with red. But none of them caught the stout Sir Walter, Though they counted of horses sixty head. There was many a fetlock cut and wounded, Many a hock deep lam'd with thorns, Many a man that two years after Shuddered to hear the sound of horns. But on the fallow, the long clay fallow. Foundered his black mare, Lilly Lee, And Sir Walter sat on the toucrh old saddle, Waitinof the comino- of all the three. OLD SIR WALTER. 117 Never such chase of stag or vermin, Along the park pale, in and out ; On they thundered, fast over the railing, Driving the fence in splints about. The first he shot with his long steel pistol, The second he slew with his Irish sword, The third he threw in the brook, and mounted Quick on the steed of the fat Whig lord. Then off to the ship at the nearest harbour, Gallop'd Sir Walter, sure and fleet. He died, 'tis true, in an old French garret, But his heart went true to the latest beat. ***** A white rose, stifled and very sickly. Pined for air at the window-sill. But the last fond look of the brave old trooper Was fixed on the dying emblem — still. All alone in the dusky garret, He turn'd to the flower with a father's pride, " God save King James!" the old man murmured, "God — save — the — King!" bemoaned and died. 118 THE JACOBITE ON TOWER HILL. He tripp'd up the steps with a bow and a smile, Offering snnff to the chaplain the while, A rose at his button-hole that afternoon — 'Twas the tenth of the month, and the month it was June. Then shrugging his shoulders he look'd at the man With the mask and the axe, and a murmuring ran Through the crowd, who, below, were all pushing to see The gaoler kneel down, and receiving his fee. He look'd at the mob, as they roared, with a stare, Ajid took snuff again with a cynical air. " I'm happy to give but a moment's delight To the flower of my country agog for a sight." THE JACOBITE ON TOWER HILL. THE JACOBITE ON TOWER HILL. 119 Then he look'd at the block, and with seented cravat Dusted room for his neck, gaily doffing his hat, Kiss'd his hand to a lady, bent low to the crowd, Then smiling, tum'd round to the headsman and bow'd. " God save King James !" he cried bravely and shrill, And the cry reach'd the houses at foot of the hill, "My friend, with the axe, a voti'e service" he said ; And ran his white thumb 'long the edge of the blade. When the multitude hissed he stood firm as a rock ; Then kneeling, laid down his gay head on the block. He kiss'd a white rose, in a moment 'twas red With the life of the bravest of any that bled. 120 THE NIGHT SURPRISE. In the drift and pother of scud and hail, When the wind drove strong at our rain-drenched back, I and some seventy more stout lads Picked from Newcastle's mad-cap pack, I and some seventy devil-may-cares Rode to Bristol — and then rode back. Through the sleet and darkness, and wind and hail, Such storm as follows a devil behind, Our fellows all backed and breasted with steel, Our swords new ground — the way of the wind Bore down on Bristol, seeing a light Wave three times clear at the steeple blind. THE NIGHT SUEPRISE. 121 Through wind and struggle, and blast and blow. Through river that brimmed with a winter's rain. We spurred post haste with our carbines cocked. DoAvn the avenue, up the lane, Over the moor, and round by the mill, — Never a thought of shot or slain. "Dark, dark, dark, and the watch all drunk : Caught in a trap, the sots are nicked Off with the lock — the widows may weep. The postern is open. What ! tricked, boys, tricked ? Look to your matches, I smell a rat ; Hammer. the town gate, fast, fast, fast, And take the white rose out of your hat." "Run like devils, the city is up. You clink that fellow over the head ; Fire the houses round by the bridge, And give the rascals a dose of lead ; Spur, or we're lost — a plunge — a leap Over the river — the fools look black :" And this is the way my seventy lads Rode to Bristol, and then rode back. 122 THE DEATH OF MARLBOROUGH. The sun slimes on the chamber wall, The sun shines tlirough the tree, Now, though imshaken by the wind, The leaves fall ceaselessly ; The bells from Woodstock's steeple Shake Blenheim's fading bough. " This day you won Malplaquet," — " Aye, something then, but now !" They lead the old man to a chair. Wandering, pale and weak ; His thin Kps move — so faint the sound You scarce can hear him speak. They lift a picture from the wall, Bold eyes and swelling brow ; " The day you won Malplaquet," — " Aye, something then, but now !" THE DEATH OF MARLBOROUGH. 123 They reach him down a rusty sword, In faded velvet sheath : The old man drops the heavy blade, And mutters 'tween his teeth ; There's sorrow in his fading eye, And pain upon his brow ; " With this you won Malplaquet," — " Aye, something then, but now !" Another year, a stream of Kghts Flows down the avenue ; A mile of mourners, sable clad, Walk weeping two by two : The steward looks into the grave With sad and downcast brow ; " This day he won Malplaquet, Aye, something then, but now ! " 124 THE JACOBINS' RISING. There's a light in Rooknest tm-ret, And a flame on the Beacon Hill ; Look ! there went up the signal fire From the tower at Wetherby mill ; From the steeple on Vivian Moor, Hurrah ! for the spirt of red. If I guess right, no Jacobin Will spend to-night in bed. Look ! that's on the cliff at Fowy. Answering one at sea : Did you hear that gun-shot, Willy ? If I were not eighty-three, I'd burn our ricks to spread it Round all the Devon coast. Bring me my old bufp jerkin ; — These Dutchmen rule the roost. THE jacobins" RISING. 125 Was that a horn ? a gnat could hum As loud mdeed as that. Wake Jack, and Ned, and Harry, With gun, and sword, and bajt. Leave me to feed the falcons, And every man to horse ; For twenty thousand Jacobins To-night must meet in force. " All ! here is Severn riding lightly, Redfern, gay, and arch, and sprightly. Rough old Wilcox, stern and knightly, With the Cornish men in blue ; Dallasy, the proud and trusty ; Willoughby, the young and lusty ! Gifford "with his corslet rusty, All in groups of two and two. See the yeomen, lords, and vassals, Noblemen from grey old castles : Grey and Fosbrook, Hale and Lascelles. Thirty barons fi-om the Trent — Duffield, Thornton, Hull, and Russel — Iron champions in a jostle. With their gilded trains, who hustle Every man that Devon sent. 126 THE JACOBINS RISING. Only here and there a cripple, Red-nosed sot who loved liis tipple, Or an angler watching ripple, Lingered when the cry went up. Every farmer left his \Tillage, Every ploughman left his tillage, Every bird-boy, keen for piUage, Drained the ready stirrup cup. Then thi'ough old Cornwall's duchy The cry ran " Lads to horse," And twenty thousand Jacobins Rose all at once in force. 127 THE WHITE ROSE. At the " Lobster," in Southwark, Ten orange cloaks met ; The chairman, a marquis, At head of them sat. The Dutch nobles stared With a coldness that froze All but the gentleman Wearing the rose. He sat with his claret, And never spoke word ; He smiled at the threats And oaths that he heard, Till one, flinging his glove, Asked what weapons he chose : Then up leaped the gentleman Wearing the rose. 128 THE WHITE KOSE. Down went the feather That headed the swords, Down went the white wigs Of bhie-ribbon'd lords. The red heels in terror Of bujEfets and blows, Fled from that gentleman Wearing the rose. 129 CULLODEN. Bright both in sun and shade, Shone the brave white cockade — White as the snow that laid On dark CuUoden. How the Macgregors came, Faster than running flame, Putting the Grants to shame, Though so down-trodden. to Looking along the line, I saw the fiery eyne Of the Macdonalds shine At the clan Frasers. They pulled their bonnets down. With a black, cruel frown. Firm on their matted crown (Swords sharp as razors). 130 CULLODEN. Each one his claymore-sheath Threw on the purple heath, And with dirk 'tween his teeth Glared at the cannon, Reapers at early da^vn, Standing beside the corn. With our keen sickles drawn, That day we ran on. As the wind reaps the pines, So through the Saxon lines, Where the -^bright bayonet shines. Burst we in ano-er, Spite of the fiery hail, All our grim faces pale. With a loud pibroch wail, Drove our mad clangoiu*. Loud rang the war pipes then, Cheering the Cameron men Thinking of lake and glen 'Mid the fire fountains, Waved the white ribbons all, Round the king's colours tall. Answered the bugle call. Horns of the mountains. CULLODEN. 131 Athol-men, tall and lithe, Each with a sweeping scythe ; Yet they were but a tithe Of the brave rebels. Waded knee deep in blood Through the hot, burning flood, On tlirough a flaming wood, As their strength trebles. Barehead in wind and sun, We prayed to only one. Low the deep murmurs run Of the Dhun Wassels, Felled in great swathes, like grain Layed by the flooding rain : Tide after tide in vain. Drove on the vassals. As from grey Catdicham, Swoops on the sportive lamb, Spite of its bleating dam. Eagle-dark pinions, Scaring the shepherd's child With its glance keen and wild. Then soaring blood-defil'd To its dominions. K 2 1 1\'2 n I I (M>|i:n, As wlirn llic lliMxIrd iiIIn INmic (low II ln-l wriMi tlu' lull.s, Anil iho liMio Viillrv lill.'t W itli ii\\«' iiiul womlci'. W'luMi on lu'loir llu'iu lilMl Klirs llto rr*l lijj^lilniit^' Must, 'riir(Mi}j>» llio llf p'mu'm iipliiist I lnw l:i llir iK'i-|i lluiliili-r. Storm V I 111' |ii|iiM s Mew , Siuiw wliilr llic iililmiis llrw, 1 ^-I'luM llir I'lirv yH'W, Mlldllol' lllllll lU"li Ih'miI ;iiuI luiiin Ivrnl \\\'\ lilv(> lfm|>f';| i iiiii. I )|(ivi' I lu' I'cil liiirnrjiiio ()■.•!• .lark Ciillo.K-ii. W'r .li.l all ihal mcrr ;;(i>('l loiiM tl.i. AjJiiiiiMt n Sa soil crrw, Arm'il w il li I 111" \\n- dial llcw ; LltjIllllllljL.', I(» hlllNl UM, SwiMcf jliiiM cnj-'los' win^, l''i'nm llic tiark lork \' M|ir'iiiJL>', W'lii'iT I he wiM l"ii\;'l(>vt>M t'l'mp;, Alliol iiK-ii |iaal UM. (MU/)UVM. I ?,',', O/jc, IJix; wftM «W"5)jt iiway, Htil) f/> thut Tatul fiay, i>iiu//}ii»i^ )ikjiin<',rowH, itn'l jkiIi- Am H'iuntiui wIk* wtcH a Hall (Sjdil. in (,li(! Mii'l'lcn galocJ< Haw tlicin lly, 'IVmu'm lilli'd Ii!h linrning <'y<^ — '* Soiin III' III y Inlx'," IiIh cry, " A III I liirniikcn ?" I<'ii,rtl, on iIk' |)iiy(jn NAVARKE.from numerous original sources, including M.S. Documents m f the Bibliotlifque Imperiale and the Archives Espasnoles de Simancas. By \ MISS FREER. 2 vols, with Portraits, 21s. bound. 6 HURST AND BLACKETT's NEW PUBLICATIONS. KEVELATIONS OF PEISON LIFE; WITH AN EN- rFOPrrT.v^r^ Discipline and Secondakv Punishments. Byi GEORGE LAVAL CHESTERTON, Twenty-five Tears Governor of the^ House of Correction at Cold-Bath Fields. Third Edition, Revised. 1 vol 10s. 6d. " ^ll Chesterton has had a rare experience of human frailty. He haa lived with the felon the forger, the lorette, the vagabond, the murderer, has looked into the darkest sepulchres of the heart, without finding reason to despair of n^ankind. „ hi eltf the worst o men have stil, some of the angel left. Such a testimony from such a quar ^u, Of novehy as .t ,s of interest. As a curious bit of human histor^ these volume's are remark J be n. din l"d"7 'T' 'T''' '^^"''" "''''°"' exaggeration, philosophic without^ be ng dull In deahng with a subject so peculiar as prison life, Mr. Chesterton was wise in 1 making h.s treatment personal and incidental. General descriptions, however ac'rlte -AtHZl^ ' '"' ''°"" °' "'"'' anecdotes of criminals' may attract all readers^ ^ afford'' J"*"'!!'"! '""''' " '"'' °' '"'"^ '""^'rations as the narrative of striking cases in?tn,.; H " ■": I " "'•' "'™'''''* '" ^"^""'^'" '"^'•^ ^-'^-^ ^- amusement as to I .nstruct and assist those who are studying the great questions of social reform."-^>„^,„er ^ ofPri:^;^^:;,:!^r;^rr '""''^' •^^^^P^-^'^esterton. entitled .Kevelatioo; ? THE OLD COUHT SUBURB; OR, MEMORIALS OF) KENSINGTON ; Regal, Critical, and Anecdotical. By LEIGH HLNT. Second Edition. 2 vols, post 8vo. 21s. elegantly bound. full rf^/"'^,'"^H ^?°^' "^ ""^'"^ *•"" "''"™ '^^S'"^ "' ^^' the first line on the first page for Ve y fu?i t'o"o ZToTT' T^^'T " '"'^ "'"''^^ '''^' '^ ''^ title-' The Old Courl Suburb.' ^ Very full, too, both of quaint and pleasant memories is the line that designates the author the mo t"'r?H T°'' """■"'"' °' 'Chroniclers, the best of remembrancers of good thngs he mo polished and entertaining of educated gossips. ' The Old Court Suburb Ms rwork ■ s;^oi^tST-r;■:.'^^^^• ^-'^ -' ^-'-- - ^^-^ --<> ^- ^ '°- vi:.zz '• Under the quaint title of ' The Old Court Suburb.' Mr. Leigh Hunt gossips uleasantlv ub" « I hi;' ul'T'e^'r V''''- '' °' '"'^^^^^ '" ^^"^'"^^°" -"^ ''^ neiSbou^htd Th'e fntPrP^Vn '^'^ ^ K ■ Kensington comprises in it more of antiquarian and literary • he s'e'a iroTfi,: ,'" '"';' '" ';°°'''"- '^ " ^''"'"'^ '''' ^'"^ "' ^"^^ '° "e pored over by of Mr Hunt to h ' '"''""" l^'l "^'^'' '^" ''^'''^°'' '^""^'^'f • ^^^'^'ed by the poetic fancy <*1 recomm^nH tV ! """"'"'^ °^ '''^ "^"^ ''"^ '^^^""^^ "f P=^^' generations. We very warmly recommend these pleasant volumes to the attention of our readers."-CAr„,«w/ ^ his ^iZ:^?:;;;^^ ^:!SS::' ''' "" ""- ^"'^"^''^'' ^'-^ ^--•' ■'-•^--'^ ' ^ ^^^irSF^^^^^^ ^-™ ROMANCE OF NORTHERN ^ LUROPE ; constituting a complete History of the Literature of Sweden ^ ?rar,'R't •'■"■'•I; '"^ I'^eland, with copious Specimens of the most cele- 1 brated H^tones, Romances. Popular Legends and Tales, Chivalrous Ballads ^ HISTORY AND BIOGRAPHY. THE LIFE OF MARIE DE MEDICIS, QUEEN OF FRANCE, Consort of Henry IV., and Regent under Louis XIII. By MISS PARDOE, Author of " Louis XIV, and the Court of France, iu the 1 7th Century," &c. Second Edition. 3 large vols. 8vo. with tine Portraits. MEMOIRS OF THE BAEONESS B^OBEEXIKCH, Illustrative of the Secret History of the Courts of France, Russia, and Germany. Written by HERSELF, and Edited bv Her Grandson, the COUNT DE MONTBRISON. 3 vols, post 8vo. 15s.' The Baroness d'Oberkirch being the intimate friend of the Empress of Russia, wife of Paul I., and the confidential companion of the Duchess of Bourbon, her facilities for obtaining information respecting the most private affairs of the principal Courts of Europe, render her Memoirs unrivalled as a book of interest- ing anecdotes of the royal, noble and other celebrated individuals who flourished on the continent during the latter part of the last century. Among the royal per- sonages introduced to the reader in this work, are Louis XVI., Marie Antoinette, Philip Egalite, and all the Princes of France then living — Peter the Great, the Empress Catherine, the Emperor Paul, and his sons Constautiue and Alexander, of Russia — Frederick the Great and Prince Henry of Prussia — the Emperor Joseph II. of Austria — Gustavus III, of Sweden — Princess Christina of Saxony — Sobieski, and Czartoriski of Poland — and the Princes of Brunswick and Wurtemburg. Among the most remarkable persons are the Princes and Princesses de Lamballe, de Ligne and Galitzin — the Dukes and Duchesses de Choiseul, de Mazarin, de Boufflers, de la Valliere, de Guiche, de Penthievre, and de Polignac — Cardinal de Rohan, Marshals Biron and d'Harcourt, Count de Staremberg, Baroness de Rrudener, Madame Geoffrin, Talleyrand, Mirabeau, and Necker — with Count Cagliostrc, Mesiner, Vestris, and Madame Mara ; and the work also includes such literary celebrities as Voltaire, Condorcet, de la Harpe, de Beaumarchais, Rousseau, Lavater, BernouiJli, Raynal, de I'Epee, Huber, Gothe, Wieland, Malesherbes, Marmontel, de Stael and de Genlis ; with some singular disclosures respecting those celebrated Englishwomen, Elizabeth Chud- leigh. Duchess of Kingston, and Lady Craven, Margravine of Anspach. PAINTING AND CELEBRATED PAINTERS, AN- CIENT and MODERN ; including Historical and Critical Notices of the Schools of Italy, Spain, France, Germany, and the Netherlands. Edited by LADY JERVIS. 2 vols, post 8vo. 12s. bound. " This book is designed to give to the general public a popular knowledge of the History of Painting and the characters of Painters, with especial reference to the most prominent among those of their works which are to be seen in English galleries. It is pleasantly w-ritten with the intention of serving a useful purpose. It succeeds in its design, and will be of real use to the multitude of picture seers. As a piece of agreeable reading also, it is unex- ceptionable." — Examiner. " This useful and well-arranged compendium will be found of value to the amateur, and pleasing as well as instructive to the general reader ; and, to give it still further praise, the collector will find abundance of most useful information, and many an artist will rise from the perusal of the work with a much clearer idea of his art than he had before. We sum up its merits by recommending it as an acceptable handbook to the principal galleries, and a trustworthy guide to a knowledge of the celebrated paintings in England, and that this information is valuable and much required by many thousauds is a well-proven fact." — Sunday Times. HURST AND BLACKETT*S NEW PUBLICATIONS. MY EXILE. BY ALEXANDER HERZEN. 2 Vols. post 8vo. 21s. bound. " From these admirable memoirs the reader may derive a clear idea of Russian political society. Mr. Herzen's narrative, ably and unaffectedly written, and undoubtedly authentic, is i udeed superior in Interest to nine-tenths of the existing works on Russia." — Athenesum. "The author of these memoirs is one of the most distinguished writers of his nation. A politician and historian, he scarcely reached manhood before the Emperor Nicholas feared and persecuted him as an enemy. He was twice arrested, twice exiled. In this English version of his memoirs, he presents a highly characteristic view of Russian official society, interspersed with sketches of rural life, episodes of picturesque adventures, and fragments of serious speculation. We gain from this narrative of persecution and exile a better idea of the governing system in Russia, than from any previous work. It is rich in curious and authentic detail." — The Leader. THE MOSLEM AND THE CHRISTIAN; OR, ADVEN- TURES IN THE EAST. By SADYK PASHA. Revised with original Notes, by COLONEL LACH SZYRMA, Editor of "Revelations op Siberia." 3 vols, post 8vo. 15s. bonnd. " Sadyk Pasha, the author of this work, is a Pole of noble birth. He is now commander of the Turkish Cossacks, a corps organised by himself. The volumes on the Moslem and the Christian, partly fact and partly fiction, written by him, and translated by Colonel Szyrma, display very well the literary spirit of the soldier. They are full of the adventures and emotions that belong to love and war; they treat of the present time, they introduce many existing people, and have the Danubian principalities for scene of action. Here are sources of popularity which the book fairly claims." — Examiner. HOME LIFE IN RUSSIA. REVISED BY COL. LACH SZYRMA, Editor of " Revelations OF Siberia." 2 vols. postSvo. 12s. "This work gives a very interesting and graphic account of the manners and customs of the Russian people. The most interesting and amusing parts of the work will be found to be those interior scenes in the houses of the wealthy and middle classes of Russia upon which we have but scanty information, although they are some of the most striking and truthful indications of the progress and civilization of a country. As such we recommend them to the study of our readers." — Observer. REVELATIONS OF SIBERIA. BY A BANISHED LADY. Third and cheaper Edition. 2 vols, post 8vo. 16s. " A thoroughly good book. It cannot be read by too many people." — Household Words. " The authoress of these volumes was a lady of quality, who, having incurred the displeasure of the Russian Government for a political offence, was exiled to Siberia. The place of her exile was Uerezov, the most northern part of this northern penal settlement ; and in it she spent about two years, not unprofitably, as the reader will find by her interesting work, containing a lively and graphic picture of the country, the people, their manners and customs, &c. The book gives a most important and valuable insight into the economy of what has been hitherto the terra incognita of Russian despotism." — Daily News. " Since the publication of the famous romance the ' Exiles of Siberia,' we have had no account of these desolate lands more attractive than the present work." — Globe. HISTORY AND BIOGRAPHY. THE JOURNALS AND CORRESPONDENCE OF GENERAL SIR HARRY CALVERT, Bart., G.C.B. and G.C.H., Ad- jutant-Ge.veral of the forces under H.R.II. the Duke of York, comprising the Campaigns in Flanders and Holland in 1793-94; wilh an Appendix containing His Plans for the Defence of the Country in case of Invasion. Edited by His Son, SIR HARRY VERNEY, Bart. 1 vol, royal 8vo., with large maps, 14s. bound. " Both the journals and letters of Capt. Calvert are full of interest. Sir Harry Verney has performed his duties of editor very well. The book is creditable to all parlies concerned In its production." — Athenceum. RECOLLECTIONS OF MY MILITARY LIFE. BY COLONEL LANDMANN, Late of the Corps of Royal Engineers, Author of "Adventures and Recollections." 2 vols, post 8vo. 12s. bound. " Much as has been written of late years about war and Wellington, we know of nothing that contains so striking a picture of the march and the battle as seen by an individual, or so close and homely a sketch of the Great Captain in the outset of the European career of Sir Arthur Wellesley." — Spectator, " The deserved popularity with which the previous volumes of Colonel Landmann's adventures were received will be increased by the present portion of these interesting and amusing records of a long life passed in active and arduous service. The Colonel's shrewdness of observation renders his sketches of character highly amusing." — Britannia, COLONEL LANDMANN'S ADVENTURES AND Re- collections. 2 vols, post 8vo. 12s. bound. " Among the anecdotes in this work will be found notices of King George III., the Duke of Kent, Cumberland, Cambridge, Clarence, and Richmond, the Princess Augusta, General Garth, Sir Harry Rlildmay, Lord Charles Somerset, Lord Edward Fitzgerald, Lord Heath- field, Captain Grose, &c. The volumes abound in interesting matter. The anecdotes arc one and all amusing." — Observer. ADVENTURES OF THE CONNAUGHT RANGERS. Second Series. By WILLIAM GRATTAN, Esa., late Lieutenant CoNNAUGHT Rangers. 2 vols. 21s. bound. " In this second series of the adventures of this famous regiment, the author extends his narrative from the first formation of the gallant 88th up to the occupation of Paris. All the battles, sieges, and skirmishes, in which the regiment took part, are described. The volumes are interwoven with original anecdotes that give a freshness and spirit to the whole. The stories, and the sketches of society and manners, with the anecdotes of the celebrities of the time, are told in an agreeable and unaffected manner. The work bears all the character- istics of a soldier's straightforward and entertaining narrative." — Sunday Times. NARRATIVE OF A RESIDENCE AT NEPAUL. BY CAPTAIN THOMAS SMITH, late Assistant Political-Resident at Nepaul. 2 vols, post Svo. 12s. bound. "No man could be better qualified to describe Nepaul than Captain Smith; and his concise, hut clear and graphic account of its history, its natural productions, its laws imd customs, and the character of its warlike inhabitants, is very agreeable and instructive reading. A separate clrapter, not the least entertaining in the book, is devoted to anecdotes of the Nepaulese mission, of whom, and of their visit to Europe, many remarkable stories are told." — Post, 10 HURST AND BLaCKETt's NEW PUBLICATIONS. ART AND NATURE, AT HOME AND ABROAD. BY G. W. THORNBURY. Esa. 2 vols, post 8vo. 21s. bound. "This is the best book Mr. Thornbury has written. Being an artist, he writes about art; as a Londoner, with quick eyes and a cultivated taste, he writes of London 5 as an artist who has travelled he tells anecdotes and dwells on scenes of his past life abroad. All this he does in a frank, genuine way." — Examiner. "This is a book belonging to the tribe of which Geoffrey Crayon is patriarch. Mr. Thornbury's drawing may be less accurate than crayon drawing, but it is richer in colour, and wider and more versatile in the choice of subjects. As a whole, Mr. Thornbury's volumes are lively, pictorial, and varioua." —AthencEum. " We have not met with so original a work for many a day as these two volumes by Mr. Thornbury. They have the freedom and freshness of genius. Acute observation is com- bined with great research ; yet the style is so dashing, that the last thing we think of is the variety and the extent of knowledge which these sketches evince. Mr. Thornbury's volumes contain matter to please all tastes. He is grave and gay, picturesque and reflective ; and in all moods and on all subjects he is vivacious and amusing." — The Press. " Of all Mr. Thornbury's contributions to the literature of the day, his Sketches entitled ' Art and Nature ' are the best." — Morning Post. CLASSIC AND HISTORIC PORTRAITS. BY JAMES BRUCE. 2 vols, post 8vo. 12s. bouud. This work comprises Biographies of the following Classic and Historic Per- sonages : — Sappho, jEsop, Pythagoras, Aspasia, Milto, Agesilaus, Socrates, Plato, Alcibiades, Helen of Troy, Alexander the Great, Demetrius Poliorcetes, Scipio Africanus, Sylla, Cleopatra, Julius Caesar, Augustus, Tiberius, Germanicus, Caligula, LoUia Paulina, Ccesonia, Boadicea, Agrippiiia, Poppsea, Otho, Conimodus, Caracalla, Heliogabalus, Zenobia, Julian the Apostate, Eudocia, Theodora, Charlemagne, Abelard and Heloise, Elizabeth of Hungary, Dante, Robert Bruce, Ignez de Castro, Agnes Sorrel, Jane Shore, Lucrezia Borgia, Anne BuUen, Diana of Poitiers, Catherine de Medicis, Queen Elizabeth, Mary Queen of Scots, Cervantes, Sir Kenelm Digby, John Sobieski, Anne of Austria, Ninon del'Enclos, Mile, de Montpensier, the Duchess of Orleans, Madame de Maintenon, Catherine of Russia, and Madame de Stael. " We find in these piquant volumes the liberal outpourings of a ripe scholarship, the results of wide and various reading, given in a style and manner at once pleasant and pictu- resque." — AtkencEwn, SCOTTISH HEROES IN THE DAYS OF WALLACE AND BRUCE. By the Rev. A. LOW, A.M. 2 vols, post 8vo. 21s. "We may say with confi Here you have nearly fifty captivating romances with the pith of all their interest preserved in undiminished poignancy, and any one may be read in half an hour. It is not the least of their merits that the romances are founded on fact — or what, at least, has been handed down for truth by long tradition — and the romance of reality far exceeds the romance of fiction. Each story is told in the clear, unaffected style with which the author's former works have made the public familiar, while they afford evidence of the value, even to a work of amusement, of that historical and genealogical learning that may justly be expected of the author of ' The Peerage.' " — Standard. " The very reading for sea-side or fire-side in our hours of idleness." — Athenosum. THE ROMANCE OF THE FORUM; OR, NARRA- TIVES, SCENES, AND ANECDOTES FROM COURTS OF JUSTICE. SECOND SERIES. BY PETER BURKE, Esq., of the Inner Temple, Barristei--at-Law. 2 vols, post 8vo. 2Is. PRINCIPAL CONTENTS :— Lord Crichton's Revenge— The Great Douglas Cause — Lord and Lady Kinnaird — Marie Delorme and Her Husband — The Spectral Treasure — Murders in Inns of Court — Matthieson the Forger — Trials that established the Illegality of Slavery — The Lover Highwayman — The Accusing Spirit — The Attorney-General of the Reign of Terror — Eccentric Occurrences in the Law — Adventuresses of Pretended Rank — The Courier of Lyons — General Sarrazin's Bigamy — The Elstree Murder — Count Bocarme and his wife — Professor Webster, &c. " We have no hesitation in recommending this, as one of the most interesting works that have been lately given to the public." — Morning Chronicle. " The favour with which the first series of this publication was received, has induced Mr. Burke to extend his researches, which he has done with great judgment. The incidents forming the subject of the second series are as extraordinary in every respect, as those which obtained so high a meed of celebrity for the first. Some of the tales could scarcely be believed to be founded in fact, or to be records of events that have startled the world, were there not the incontestable evidence which Mr. Burke has established to prove that they have actually happened." — Messenger, WORKS OF FICTION. 21 BY MRS. FASHIONABLE LIFE ; Or, PARIS AND LONDON. 3 vols. *' A very amusing novel." — Standard. "The book has among its merits the invaluable one of being thoroughly read- able." — Examiner. "These volumes abound with graphic pictures of society." — U. S. Mag, GERTRUDE; Or, FA3IILY PRIDE. 3 vols. " A wonderfully interesting and original novel." — Herald. " The publication of this work will add to Mrs. Trollope's high reputation as a novelist." — Post. TROLLOPE. LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF A CLEVER WOMAN. 3 vols. " The ' Clever Woman ' is of the same class with the ' Vicar of Wrexhill,' and ' Widow Barnaby.' No person can fail to be amused by it." — Critic. UNCLE WALTER. 3 vols. "An exceedingly entertaining novel. It assures Mrs. TroUope more than ever in her position as one of the ablest fic- tion writers of the day," — Post, BY MRS. GORE, A LIFE'S LESSONS. 3 vols. "'A Life's Lessons ' is not exclusively a tale of fashionable life. The romantic element predominates in it, and in the first volume especially we have sketches of secluded village lile and wild scenery which Miss Bronte might have penned. The spirit of the tale is admirable. Mrs. Gore writes more like a woman who knows the world, than a woman of the world. Her literary talents, which are conside- rable, and her social experience, which is wide, are here combined to produce a pleasing fiction, suitable to the taste of the whole world of novel readers." — The Press. MAMMON ; OR, THE HARD- SHIPS OF AN HEIRESS. 3 vols. " Mrs. Gore has not produced a more clever, sparkling and amusing novel than * Mammon.- " — Critic, PROGRESS & PREJUDICE. 3 vols. " This entertaining and clever novel is not to be analysed, but to be praised, and that emphatically." — Examiner, BY THE AUTHOR OF MARGARET MAITLAND. LILLIESLEAF. Beixg the Concluding Seriks op "Passages in the Like of Mrs. Mar- c.^ret Maitland." Cheaper Edition, 1 vol. 6s. "The concluding series of passages in the ' Life of Mrs. Margaret Blaitland' is, to our thinking, superior to the begin- ning ; and this we take to be about the most satisfactory compliment we can pay the authoress. There is a vein of simple good sense and pious feeling running throughout, for which no reader can fail to be the better." — Athenceum. '" Lilliesleaf ' is a sequel to the charm- ing ' Passages in the Life of Mrs. Margaret Maitland,' told also by herself in her own quaint way, and full of the same touching grace which won the hearts of so many people, young and old. It is to be said but rarely of a sequel that it possesses so much beauty, and so much sustained interest, as the tale of " Lilliesleaf." — Examiner. THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. an autobiography. 3 vols. MAGDALEN HEPBURN; a story of the SCOTTISH REFORMATION. 3 vols. " A well prepared and carefully exe- cuted picture of the society and state of manners in Scotland at the dawn of the Reformation." — Atheiiceum. HARRY MUIR. Second Editio.v. 3 vols. " We prefer ' Harry Muir ' to most of the Scottish novels that have appeared since Gait's domestic stories." — Athe- noMm. ADAM GRAEME, OF MOSSGRAY. 3 vols. " A story awakening genuine emotions of interest and delight by its admirable pictures of Scottish life and scenery." — Post. 22 WORKS OF FICTION. EOSA GREY. By the Author of "Anne Dysart. 3 v. "The characters are well delineated, the story is lucidly told, and the conver- sations are spirited, and impressed with the individuality of the speakers. Alto- gether the work is a success." — Daily News. ISABEL ; THE YOUNG WIFE, AND THE OLD LOVE. By J C. Jbaffreson, Author of "Crewb Rise." 3 vols. "A clever pictureof modern life, written by a man who has seen the world. ' Isa- bel ' is a fresh, healthy, entertaining book." — Leader. WILDFLOWER. By the Author of "Thk House of El- BIORE." 3 vols. "One of the best novels it has lately been our fortune to meet with. The plot is ingenious and novel, and the characters are sketched with a masterly hand." — Press. THE GENERAL'S DAUGHTER. By Capt. Brook J. Knight. 3 vols. EDGAR BARDON. By \V. Knighton, BI.A. 3 vols. "The story of Edgar Bardon' is in every way worthy of the author's reputation. It is a remarkable performance, full of exciting inciiients, romantic situations, and graphic descriptions." — Post. MR. ARLE. 2 vols. " ' Mr. Arle ' is a v.ork of a very high order, and we are utlVring it no light tribute when we say that, in style and conception, it reminds us of the writings of Mrs. Gaskell."— Jo/<« Bull. MARGARET AND HER BRIDESMAIDS. By the Author of " Woman's Devotion." " We recommend all who are in search of a fascinating novel to read this work. There are a freshness and an originality about it quite charming, and there is a certain nobleness in the treatment, both of sentiment and incident, which is not often found." — Athenteiim. HORATIO HOWARD BRENTON. By Capt. Sir E. Belchkr, R.N., C.B. 3 v. " A naval novel of the most genuine and natural kind." — Chrunicle. JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. By the Author of "The Head of the Family." "This is a very good and a very inte- resting novel. It is designed to trace the career from boyhood to age of a perfect man — a Christian gentleman, and it abounds in incident both well and highly wrought. Throughout it is conceived in high spirit, and written with great ability, better than any former work, we think, of its deservedly successful author." — Ex- aminer. MARRIED FOR LOVE. By the Author of " Cousin Geoffrey." 3 vols. THE YOUNG LORD. By the Author of "The Discipline op Life," &c. 2 vols. " This new novel by Lady Emily Pon- sonby is interesting as a story, and still more to be commended for the profitable lessons it inculcates." — Lit. Gaz. EVELYN MARSTON. By the Author of " Emilia Wyndham." 3 vols. " The author has made in ' Evelyn Dlarston ' a considerable advance over her later fictions. She has chosen a new field for the subject of her tale, and conceived her principal actors wiih her pristine skill, as well as executed them with her pristine finish." — Spectator. ARTHUR BRANDON. 2 vols. "'Arthur Brandon' abounds in free, vigorous sketi hes, both of life and scenery, which are dashed oli' with a freshness and vitality which the reader will feel to be charming-. The pictures of Rome and of artist-life in Rome are especially good." — Athenneum. " This novel has merits of a very high order. We bear willing testimony to its tine wit and fervid fancy."' — Post. OUT ON THE WORLD. By Henry Owgan, L.L.D. 3 vols. " The thoughts and observations of Dr. Owgan's "Out on the W'orlii,' are of a fresh nnd racy kind, and very different from the generality ot no\e\s."— Spectator, EUSTACE CONYERS. By Jambs Hannav, Esa. 3 vols. " Mr. Hannay's ablest, wisest-, and maturest work." — AthenoEum. WORKS OF FICTION. 23 RACHEL GRAY. By Julia Kavavaob, Author of "Nathalie," &c. 1vol. "Rachel Gray is a charming and touch- ing story, narrated with grace and skill. No one can read the story and not feel a good influence from it. The characters are vigorously slcetched, and have a life- like reality about them. We heartily re- commend this story, and shall rejoice when Miss Kiivanagh will give us an- other equally good." — Athenceum. LADY WILLOUGHBY; Or, THE D0UI5LE MARRIAGE. By Mrs. La Toi'CHE. 3 vols. "An eicee'dingly brilliant novel. Full of interest." — Chronicle. THE HOUSE OF ELMORE ; A FAMILY HISTORY. 3 vols. "A splendid production. The story, conceived with great skill, is worked out in a succession of powerful portraitures, and of soul-stirring scenes." — John Bull. MILLICENT; Or, THE TRIALS OF LIFE. By the Author of "Thk Curate of Overton." 3 vols. "This novel is one of the most beauti- fully-written and powerfully-conceived works that has ever come under our no- tice." — Hei'uld. PERCY BLAKE; Ob, the VOUNG rifleman. By Capt. Rafter. 3 vols. " A capital novel, of the ' Charles O'Malley ' school, lull of dashing adven- ture, with scenes of real history cleverly introduced ia the narrative." — Lit. Gaz. MODERN SOCIETY IN EOLIE. By J. R. Beste, E