, 
 
 
 
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 :.:-ROCK.
 
 BALLADS AND SONGS : : : BY 
 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 WITH ORIGINAL 
 ILL USTRA TIONS 
 BY H. M. BROCK 
 
 CASSELL AND COMPANY, LIMITED 
 LONDON. PARIS AND MELBOURNE 
 1896 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
 
 BALLADS. 
 
 PACK 
 
 THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM i 
 
 ABD-EL-KADER AT TOULON ; OR, THE CAGED HAWK 
 
 THE KING OF BRENTFORD'S TESTAMENT 
 
 THE WHITE SQUAI.I 
 
 PEG OK LIMAVADDY ,. 
 
 MAY-DAY ODE 
 
 THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE 
 
 THE MAHOGANY TREE 
 
 THE YANKEE VOLUNTEERS 
 
 THE PEN AND THE ALBUM 
 
 THE CANE-BOTTOM'D CHAIR 
 
 THE ROSE UPON MY BALCONY 
 
 RONSARD TO HIS MISTRESS 
 
 AT THE CHURCH GATE 
 
 THE AGE OF WISDOM 
 
 THE LAST OF MAY 
 
 A DOE IN THE CITY 
 
 SORROWS OF WERTHER 
 
 "An! BLEAK AND BARREN WAS THE MOOR" 
 
 2051162
 
 vi THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 FAIRY DAYS 93 
 
 TITMARSH'S CARMEN LILLIENSE 95 
 
 JEAMES OF BUCKLEY SQUARE A HELIGY IDC 
 
 LINES UPON MY SISTER'S PORTRAIT 104 
 
 THE THREE SAILOKS . . 106 
 
 THE FLYING DUKE no 
 
 MR. SMITH AND MOSES 116 
 
 THE FRODDYLENT BUTLER . 120 
 
 LOVE SONGS MADE EASY. 
 
 WHAT MAKES MY HEART TO THRILL AND GLOW? .... 125 
 THE GHAZUL, OR ORIENTAL LOVE SONG : 
 
 THE ROCKS 129 
 
 THE MERRY BARD 130 
 
 THE CAIQUE 131 
 
 MY NORA 132 
 
 To MARY 134 
 
 SERENADE 135 
 
 FOUR GERMAN DITTIES. 
 
 A TRAGIC STORY 136 
 
 THE CHAPLET 138 
 
 THE KING ON THE TOWER 140 
 
 To A VERY OLD WOMAN 142 
 
 FOUR IMITATIONS OF BER ANGER. 
 
 THE KING OF YVETOT H4 
 
 THE KING OF BRKNTFORD !^ 7 
 
 THE GARRET . ^ 
 
 JOLLY JACK I5I 
 
 IMITATION OF HORACE. 
 
 To His MAID 
 
 154
 
 CONTENTS. vii 
 
 OLD FKIKXDS WITH NEW FACES. 
 
 THE KNIGHTLY GUERDON ......... 155 
 
 THE ALMACK'S ADIEU . 157 
 
 \\'HKN THE GLOOM IS ON THK GLEN 159 
 
 THE RED FLAG 160 
 
 DEAR JACK 162 
 
 COMMANDERS OF THE FAITHFUL 163 
 
 WHEN MOON LIKE ORE THE HAZURF. SEAS 164 
 
 KING CANUTE i6S 
 
 ATRA CURA 172 
 
 FRIAR'S SONG 173 
 
 REQUIESCAT 175 
 
 THK WILLOW-TREE 176 
 
 THE WILLOW- TREE (ANOTHER VERSION) 179 
 
 LYRA HIBERNK'A. 
 
 THE PIMLICO PAVILION 183 
 
 THE CRYSTAL PALACE 187 
 
 MOLONY'S LAMENT 196 
 
 MR. MOLONY'S ACCOUNT OF THE BALL GIVEN TO THE NEPAULESE 
 
 AMBASSADOR BY THK PENINSULAR AND ORIENTAL COMPANY. 200 
 
 THE BATTLE OF LIMERICK 205 
 
 LARRY O'TOOLE 211 
 
 THE ROSE OF FLORA 212 
 
 THE LAST IRISH GRIEVANCE 214 
 
 THE BALLADS OF POLICEMAN A'. 
 
 THE WOFLE NEW BALLAD OF JANE RONEY AND MARY BROWN . 216 
 
 THE THREE CHRISTMAS WAITS 219 
 
 LINKS ON A LATE HOSPICIOUS EWENT 228 
 
 THE BALLAD OF ELIZA DAVIS 234 
 
 DAMAGES Two HUNDRED POUNDS 240 
 
 THE KNIGHT AND THE LADY 245
 
 viii THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 JACOB HOMNIUM'S Hoss 250 
 
 THE SPECULATORS. 257 
 
 A WoiiFUL NEW BALLAD OF THE PROTESTANT CONSPIRACY TO 
 
 TAKE THE POPE s LIFE 260 
 
 THE LAMENTABLE BALLAD OF THE FOUNDLING OF SHOREDITCH . 264 
 
 THE ORGAN-BOY'S APPEAL 269 
 
 THE END OF THE PLAY 272
 
 ONE DAY I DRUMM'D DOWN THE BASTILLE'" 
 
 ON THE SUNSHINY BENCH OF A TAVERN 
 
 HE SITS AND HE PRATES OF OLD WARS" . 
 
 1 ' DEAR MAMMY SHE LOOKS IN THEIR FACES, 
 AND ASKS IF HER HUSBAND HAS COME?'" 
 
 'TO THE LOVELY COURT LADIES IN POWDER 1 " 
 1 ' THE PEOPLE EACH DAY FLOCKED AROUND 
 
 AND I DRUMM'D FOR A GALLANT PROCESSION, 
 THAT MARCHED WITH HER HEAD ON A PIKE ' " 
 
 "AND HIS COMPANY CURSED THE QUICK FROST' " . 
 'THE EMPEROR RODE THROUGH OUR FILES'" . 
 
 1 DOTH EACH EXALT WITH ALL HIS WIT 
 THE NOBLE ART OF MURDERING" 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Frontispiece. 
 
 '3 
 16 
 
 19 
 
 22 
 
 WHERE TOULON'S WHITE-WALLED LAZARET LOOKS SOUTHWARD 
 
 O'ER THE WAVE, 
 SlTS HE THAT TRUSTED IN THE WORD A SON OF LOUIS GAVE " . 26 
 
 'THEY CRAMM'D THEIR GRACIOUS MASTER 
 
 WITH POTION AND WITH 1'ILI," 3O 
 
 'COME TAKE YOl'R PEN AND PAPER, 
 AND WRITE AS 1 DICTATE'" 
 
 3 2
 
 x THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 PAGE 
 "'SEE, HERE THE WILL IS WITNESS'D, 
 
 AM) HEKE'S JUS AUTOGRAl'Il'" 38 
 
 "AND THE SHIP, AND ALL THE OCEAN, 
 WOKE UP IN WILD (OMMOHON" ..:.... 42 
 
 "CAPTAIN LEWIS" 45 
 
 "A PR AVER AT HOME FOR ME " . . . . , . . .46 
 
 " BUMPKD ALONG THE ROAD 
 
 LEADS TO LIMAVADDY" 47 
 
 "AS THE GLASS OF ALE 
 
 TRICKLING DOWN MY LEGS WAS" 51 
 
 "THUS IT WAS I DREW HER 
 
 SCOURING OF A KETTLE " 54 
 
 "A BLAZING ARCH OF LUCID GLASS 
 LEAPS LIKE A FOUNTAIN FROM THE GRASS" 57 
 
 "THE BROTHERHOOD OF NATIONS MET" ... . . 62 
 
 "HE'D COME AND SMILE BEFORE YOUR TABLE, 
 
 AND HOPE YOU LIKED YOUR BOUILLABAISSE" . . 65 
 
 "HERE LET US SPORT, 
 BOYS, AS WE SIT" 69 
 
 THE YANKEE VOLUNTEERS 71 
 
 THE PEN AND THE ALBUM 74 
 
 "'A FAIR MISTKESS'" * 76 
 
 " I SIT HERE ALONE. BUT WE YET ARE A PAIR 
 MY FANNY I SEE IN MY CANE-BOTTOM'D CHAIR" .... Co 
 
 "AND THERE'S SUNSHINE IN MY HEART, MAMMA, WHICH WAKENS 
 
 AND REJOICES, 
 AND SO I SING AND BLUSH, MAMMA, AND THAT'S THE REASON 
 
 \V11V" 8l 
 
 " You SAY, ' WHEN I WAS FAIR AND YOUNG, 
 
 A POET SANG OF ME ! ' " .- 82 
 
 AT THE CHURCH GATE 84 
 
 THE AGE OF WISDOM 86 
 
 "I'LL DRINK A BUMPER WITH MY LORD 
 
 UPON THE LAST OF MAY" 83 
 
 " THREADING THROUGH THREADNEEDLE STREET, 
 
 TROTS THE LITTLE KlTTY" 89 
 
 "WOULD YOU KNOW HOW FIRST HE MET HER? 
 
 SHE WAS CUTTING BREAD AND BUTTER " . 91
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. xi 
 
 PACE 
 
 "AN ORPHAN BOY THE LATTICE 1'ASS'D " 92 
 
 " WITH WHAT A BLUSHING GRACE HE FALLS UPON HIS KNKK 
 
 AND TAKES THE LAUY'S HA\D AND WHISPERS, 'YOU ARE 
 
 FREE ! ' " 94 
 
 "I THINK HOW PLEASANT WERE A POT, 
 
 A FROTHING POT OF KEEK OF LlLLE ! " 97 
 
 "O HOW MY GENTLE HEART DID BOUND, 
 
 TO THINK THAT I HIS NAME SHOULD BEAR ! " . . . IOI 
 
 '"AND so, Miss MARY HANN, FORGET 
 
 FOR HEVER JEAMES OF BUCKLEY SQUARE'" .... 103 
 
 MY SISTER'S PORTRAIT .104 
 
 " WHEN BILL HE HEARD THIS INFORMATION, 
 
 HE USED HIS POCKET HANDKERCHIE" 107 
 
 "SAY, WHOSE CAN YONDER CHARIOT BE 
 
 THAT THUNDERS ON so FAST?" no 
 
 "DUKE ARTHUR TAKES HIS PLACE" 113 
 
 "THE DUKE BRINGS UP THE REAR" .... . . 115 
 
 "INVITING THE COUPLE TO ENTER HIS PLACE". .... 117 
 
 " WHEREBY FOR NOTHINK TO GET GLORIOUS, 
 
 WlCH SO HE DID, AND GREW MORE BOLD" . . . .121 
 
 "AND ORDERED, WITH A VOICE OF THUNDER, 
 
 THE RETCHED BUTLER FROM THE ROOM" .... 123 
 
 "WHAT COULD IT BE THAT MADE ME FIND 
 
 OLD JAWKINS PLEASANT AT THE CLUB?" .... 127 
 
 "ZULEIKAH BROUGHT ME WATER FROM THE WELL" . ... 129 
 "I AM A MERRY BARD" 130 
 
 "BENEATH THE GOLD ACACIA BUDS 
 MY GENTLE NORA SITS AND BROODS" 132 
 
 "THEY SUE ME I LAUGH AS I SPURN 
 
 THE SLAVES AT MY KNKK " 131 
 
 "THOU ART MY PRAYER, MY SAINT, MY SHRINE!" . . . -135 
 
 'THEN ROUND, AND ROUND, AND OUT AND IN, 
 ALL DAY THE PUZZLED SAGE DID SPIN " . . ' ' . .136 
 
 "THE LOVELY LADY SMILED AND LAID 
 
 A WREATH UPON THE MAIDEN'S BROW " 138 
 
 "BUT HERE IS THE NIGHT AND THE DARK HI. UK HEAVEN, 
 
 AND MY SOUL SHALL HI. Al REST" 140
 
 xii THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 PACK 
 
 "IN CHIMNEY CORNER THOU 
 SITT'ST SHIVERING ON" 142 
 
 "AND, STEP BY STEP, UPON AN ASS, 
 
 RODE ABROAD HIS REALMS TO SEE " 145 
 
 "AND TOPERS, TENDER-HEARTED, REGARD HIS HONEST PHIZ, 
 AND ENVY TIMES DEPARTED THAT KNEW A REIGN LIKE HIS " . 148 
 
 "WITH PENSIVE EYES THE LITTLE ROOM I VIEW" .... 149 
 
 "JACK HEEDED NOT THEIR ANGRY WORDS, 
 
 BUT SMILED AND DRANK HIS SKINFUL" 152 
 
 "BUT A PLAIN LEG OF MUTTON, MY LUCY, 
 
 I PRITHEE GET READY AT THREE" 154 
 
 "MY FAITH THEN I PLIGHTED, MY LOVE I CONFESS'D, 
 AS I GAVE YOU THE BATTLE-AXE MARKED WITH YOUR CREST!". 156 
 
 "AND YOU GAVE, O MOV DlKU I TO REVIVE HER 
 
 MY BEAUTIFUL VINEGARETTE ! " 158 
 
 " OVER HER SIDES WE DASH, 
 
 WE GALLOP ACROSS HER DECK " 160 
 
 " STERN DEATH, ON A SUDDEN, TO TOM Din APPEAR, 
 AND SAID, ' HONEST THOMAS, COME TAKE YOUR LAST BIER ' " . 162 
 
 COMMANDERS OF THE FAITHFUL 163 
 
 "R HANGELINE ! R LADY MINE! 
 
 DOST THOU REMEMBER JEAMES?" 164 
 
 "'NAY, I FEEL,' REPLIED KlNG CANUTE, 'THAT MY END IS 
 DRAWING NEAR.' 
 
 DON'T SAY so,' EXCLAIMED THE COURTIERS (STRIVING EACH TO 
 
 SQUEEZE A TEAR)" 168 
 
 "CANUTE TURNED TOWARDS THE OCEAN ' BACK !' HE SAID, 'THOU 
 
 FOAMING BRINE'" 170 
 
 "FOR LO ! I AM A WITLESS FOOL, 
 AND LAUGH AT GRIEF AND RIDE A MULE" 172 
 
 "I KISS HER CHEEK SO RED AND SLEEK" 173 
 
 " AND THOUGH SHE LOOKED AROUND, 
 
 YET NO ONE CAME ! " 176 
 
 "VAINLY THE CONSTABLE 
 
 SHOUTED AND CALLED HER " 179 
 
 "AND A PALE COUNTENANCE 
 
 LOOKED THROUGH THE CASEMENT" 181 
 
 "A LOVELY SWISH BUILDING, ALL PAINTING AND GILDING, 
 
 THE FAMOUS PAVILION OF SWEET PIMLICO" .... 183
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. xiii 
 
 PAGE 
 MOLONY OF KlLBALLY MOLONY l86 
 
 " I STUD INSOIDE 
 AND LOOKED THE WORLD'S GREAT FAIR IN " 19! 
 
 "AND SOME, I THINK, 
 THAT ISN'T OVER PROPER " 193 
 
 "THEY'RE GOAN TO RECAL THE LH-TININT, 
 
 AND SHUT UP THE CASTLE AND COORT ! " . . . .196 
 
 "SURGEON O'TOOLE AND MlSS LEARY" 198 
 
 "ALL ROUND ABOUT HIS ROYAL CHAIR, 
 
 THE SQUEEZIN AND THE PUSHIN WAS" 2OI 
 
 "AND SOME BESIDE (THE ROGUES !) I SPIED, 
 
 BEHIND THE WINDIES COORTING THERE" 203 
 
 "AND SHAKE A PUT WITH FANNY THERE!" 204 
 
 "WITH THROWING OK BRICKBATS, 
 DROWNED PUPPIES AND DEAD RATS " 207 
 
 " BUT THEY HIT HIM ON THE NOSE BY THE SHANNON SHORE" . 209 
 "THE PEELERS CAME IN VIEW" 20 
 
 " HE HAD BUT ONE EYE 
 
 TO OGLE YE BY 
 OH, MURTHEK, BUT THAT WAS A JEW'L!" 211 
 
 "HER NAME IS NORA, AND THE GODDESS FLORA 
 
 PRESENTS HER WITH THIS BLOOMING ROSE" .... 212 
 
 " I'D STAMP UNDER FEET THE BASE BOOK OF HIS SCIENCE, 
 
 AND SPIT ON HIS CHAIR AS HE TAUGHT IN THE SCHOOLS !" . 214 
 
 "' I CHARGE THIS YOUNG WOMAN, MR. PLEASEMAN,' SAYS SHE" . 217 
 ' I DREAMED I SOU THREE WAITS, 
 
 A-PLAYING OF THEIR TUNE" 2ig 
 
 " BUT FEBUWEKRY CAME, 
 
 AND BROUGHT A RABBLE ROUT" 221 
 
 "THAT DAY AMONG THE CABBAGES!" . . . . . . 225 
 
 " HE VEWS WITH PLEASANT LOOK 
 
 THIS POOTY FLOWER OF MAY" 229 
 
 "AND X, ALTHOUGH THE PEOPLE PUSH, 
 
 SAYS WERY KIND, ' MOVE HON ' " 232 
 
 " 'SHIVER UP MY POOR OLD TIMBERS, 
 
 LET ME BE A MATE FOR YOU ! ' " 235 
 
 "AND HE CAUGHT THE VICKED VOMAN 
 
 UNDERNEATH THE LODGER'S BED " 238
 
 xiv THACKERAY* s POEMS. 
 
 PAGE 
 "THREE MONTHS AFTER THEY WERE MARRIED, HUSBAND PUSHED 
 
 HER TO THE DOOR, 
 TOLD HER TO BE OFF AND LEAVE HIM, FOR HE WANTED HER 
 
 NO MORE " 241 
 
 "THEN THE HONEST BRITISH TWELVE, TO EACH OTHER TURNING 
 ROUND, 
 
 LAID THEIR CLEVER HEADS TOGETHER WITH A WISDOM MOST 
 
 PROFOUND ! " 243 
 
 " BUT AR ! HE MOST OF ALL ENJYF.D IT, 
 
 WHEN SOME ONE HELSE WAS SITTIN INSIDE ! " . . . 246 
 
 "WHEN MlSS WAS LATE, HE'D MAKE SO BOLD 
 UPSTAIRS TO CALL OUT. ' MISSY, MISSY, 
 
 COME DOWN, THE COFFY'S GETTING COLD ! ' " . . . . 248 
 
 "AND THE RASKLE THIEF GOT OFF THE OSS 
 
 AND CUT AVAY LIKE VIND " 252 
 
 " ' DO YOU SEE ANYTHINK GREEN IN ME?' 
 
 MR. JACOB HOMNIUM CRIED " 254 
 
 "THESE SHABBY BUCKS DID WALK" 258 
 
 "AND TO THE KIND POPE'S AlR-DRKSSEK THE I'RODESTANT C'LAKK 
 
 DID GO, 
 
 AND PROPOSED HIM TO DECAPITATE THE INNOCENT PlO " . . 262 
 "THE CAPTING AND THE DOCTOR VAITED VITH THE BABBY" . 265 
 
 "DON'T YOU SEE THE OUSEMAIDS (POOTY FOLLIES AND MARIES), 
 VEN VE BRING OUR URDIGURDIS, SMILING FROM THE HAIRIES?" . 270 
 
 "A MOMENT YET THE ACTOK STOPS, 
 
 AND LOOKS AROUND TO SAY FAREWELL " 272 
 
 "AND IF, IN TIME OF SACRED YOUTH, 
 
 WE LEARNED AT HOME TO LOVE AND PRAY" .... 274 
 
 " I LAY THE WEARY PEN ASIDE" 276
 
 BALLADS
 
 PART I. 
 
 AT Paris, hard by the Maine barriers, 
 
 ^'hoever will choose to repair, 
 'Midst a dozen of wooden-legged warriors 
 
 May haply fall in with old Pierre. 
 On the sunshiny bench of a tavern 
 
 He sits and he prates of old wars, 
 And moistens his pipe of tobacco 
 
 With a drink that is named after Mars. 
 
 The beer makes his tongue run the quicker, 
 And as long as his tap never fails, 
 
 Thus over his favourite liquor 
 Old Peter will tell his old tales.
 
 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 Says he, " In my life's ninety summers 
 Strange changes and chances I've seen, 
 
 So here's to. all gentlemen drummers 
 That ever have thumped on a skin ! 
 
 " Brought up in the art military 
 
 For four generations we are ; 
 My ancestors drummed for King Hairy, 
 
 The Huguenot lad of Navarre. 
 And as each man in life has his station 
 
 According as Fortune may fix, 
 While Conde was waving the baton, 
 
 My grandsire was trolling the sticks. 
 
 "Ah ! those were the days for commanders ! 
 
 What glories my grandfather won, 
 Ere bigots, and lacqueys, and panders 
 
 The fortunes of France had undone ! 
 In Germany, Flanders, and Holland, 
 
 What foeman resisted us then ? 
 No ; my grandsire was ever victorious, 
 
 My grandsire and Monsieur Turenne. 
 
 " He died : and our noble battalions 
 
 The jade fickle Fortune forsook ; 
 And at Blenheim, in spite of our valiance, 
 
 The victory lay with Malbrook. 
 The news it was brought to King Louis ; 
 
 Corbleu ! how His Majesty swore 
 When he heard they had taken my grandsire 
 
 And twelve thousand gentlemen more.
 
 THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM. 
 
 " At Namur, Ramillies, and Malplaquet 
 
 Were we posted, on plain or in trench : 
 Malbrook only need to attack it, 
 
 And away from him scamper'd we French. 
 Cheer up ! 'tis no use to be glum, boys, 
 
 Tis written, since fighting begun, 
 That sometimes we fight and we conquer, 
 
 And sometimes we fight and we run. 
 
 " To fight and to run was our fate : 
 
 Our fortune and fame had departed. 
 And so perish'd Louis the Great, 
 
 Old, lonely, and half broken-hearted. 
 His coffin they pelted with mud, 
 
 His body they tried to lay hands on ; 
 And so having buritd King Louis, 
 
 They loyally served his great-grandson. 
 
 " God save the beloved King Louis ! 
 
 (For so he was nicknamed by some), 
 And now came my father to do his 
 
 King's orders and beat on the drum. 
 My grandsire was dead, but his bones 
 
 Must have shaken, I'm certain, for joy, 
 To hear daddy drumming the English 
 
 From the meadows of famed Fontenoy. 
 
 " So well did he drum in that battle 
 
 That the enemy show'd us their backs ; 
 Corbleu ! it was pleasant to rattle 
 
 The sticks and to follow old Saxe ! 
 B 2
 
 Th 'ACKER AY 'S POEMS. 
 
 We next had Soubise as a leader, 
 
 And as luck hath its changes and fits, 
 
 At Rossbach, in spite of dad's drumming, 
 'Tis said we were beaten by Fritz. 
 
 " And now daddy cross'd the Atlantic, 
 
 To drum for Montcalm and his men ; 
 Morbleu ! but it makes a man frantic 
 
 To think we were beaten again ! 
 My daddy he cross'd the wide ocean, 
 
 My mother brought me on her neck, 
 And we came in the year 'fifty-seven 
 
 To guard the good town of Quebec. 
 
 " In the year 'fifty-nine came the Britons 
 
 Full well I remember the day, 
 They knocked at our gates for admittance, 
 
 Their vessels were moor'd in our bay. 
 Says our general, ' Drive me yon red-coats 
 
 Away to the sea whence they come ! ' 
 So we march'd against Wolfe and his bulldogs, 
 
 We marched at the sound of the drum. 
 
 " I think I can see my poor mammy 
 
 With me in her hand as she waits, 
 And bur regiment, slowly retreating, 
 
 Pours back through the citadel gates. 
 Dear mammy she looks in their faces, 
 
 And asks if her husband has come ? 
 He is lying all cold on the glacis, 
 
 And will never more beat on the drum.
 
 THE CHRONICLE OF THE VRUM. 
 
 " Come, drink, 'tis no use to be glum, boys ! 
 
 He died like a soldier in glory ; 
 Here's a glass to the health of all drum-boys, 
 
 And now I'll commence my own story ! 
 
 Once more did we cross the salt ocean, 
 We came in the year 'eighty-one ; 
 
 And the wrongs of my father the drummer 
 Were avenged by the drummer his son.
 
 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 " In Chesapeak Bay we were landed. 
 
 In vain strove the British to pass : 
 Rochambeau our armies commanded, 
 
 Our ships they were led by De Grasse. 
 Morbleu ! how I rattled the drumsticks 
 
 The day we march'd into Yorktown ; 
 Ten thousand of beef-eating British 
 
 Their weapons we caused to lay down. 
 
 " Then homewards returning victorious, 
 
 In peace to our country we came, 
 And were thanked for our actions glorious 
 
 By Louis, Sixteenth of the name. 
 What drummer on earth could be prouder 
 
 Than I, while I drumm'd at Versailles 
 To the lovely Court ladies in powder, 
 
 And lappets, and long satin-tails ? 
 
 " The princes that day pass'd before us 
 
 Our countrymen's glory and hope ; 
 Monsieur, who was learned in Horace, 
 
 D'Artois, who could dance the tight-rope. 
 One night we kept guard for the Queen 
 
 At Her Majesty's opera-box, 
 While the King, that majestical monarch, 
 
 Sat filing at home at his locks. 
 
 " Yes, I drumm'd for the fair Antoinette, 
 And so smiling she look'd and so tender, 
 
 That our officers, privates, and drummers, 
 All vow'd they would die to defend her.
 
 THE CHRONICLE OP THE DRUM. 
 
 But she cared not for us honest fellows, 
 Who fought and who bled in her wars, 
 
 She sneer'd at our gallant Rochambeau, 
 And turned Lafayette out of doors. 
 
 " Ventrebleu ! then I swore a great oath, 
 
 No more to such tyrants to kneel ; 
 And so, just to keep up my drumming, 
 
 One day I drumm'd down the Bastille. 
 Ho, landlord ! a stoup of fresh wine. 
 
 Come, comrades, a bumper we'll try, 
 And drink to the year 'eighty-nine 
 
 And the glorious fourth of July ! 
 
 "Then bravely our cannon it thunder'd 
 As onwards our patriots bore.
 
 THA CKERA y's POEMS. 
 
 Our enemies were but a hundred, 
 And we twenty thousand or more. 
 
 They carried the news to King Louis. 
 He heard it as calm as you please, 
 
 And, like a majestical monarch, 
 Kept filing his locks and his keys. 
 
 " We show'd our republican courage, 
 
 We storm'd and we broke the great gate in, 
 And we murder'd the insolent governor 
 
 For daring to keep us a-waiting. 
 Lambesc and his squadrons stood by : 
 
 They never stirr'd ringer or thumb. 
 The saucy aristocrats trembled 
 
 As they heard the republican drum. 
 
 " Hurrah ! what a storm was a-brewing ! 
 
 The day of our vengeance was come ! 
 Through scenes of what carnage and ruin 
 
 Did I beat on the patriot drum ! 
 Let's drink to the famed tenth of August : 
 
 At midnight I beat the tattoo, 
 And woke up the pikemen of Paris 
 
 To follow the bold Barbaroux. 
 
 " With pikes, and with shouts, and with torches 
 March'd onwards our dusty battalions, 
 
 And we girt the tall castle of Louis, 
 A million of tatterdemalions. 
 
 \Ve storm'd the fair gardens where tower'd 
 The walls of his heritage splendid.
 
 Tar. CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM. 
 
 Ah, shame on him, craven and coward, 
 That had not the heart to defend it ! 
 
 " With the crown of his sires on his head, 
 
 His nobles and knights by his side, 
 At the foot of his ancestors' palace 
 
 'Twere easy, methinks, to have died. 
 But no : when we burst through his barriers, 
 
 'Mid heaps of the dying and dead, 
 In vain through the chambers we sought him 
 
 He had turn'd like a craven and fled. 
 * * * * 
 
 " You all know the Place de la Concorde ? 
 
 'Tis hard by the Tuileries wall. 
 'Mid terraces, fountains, and statues, 
 
 There rises an obelisk tall. 
 There rises an obelisk tall, 
 
 All garnish'd and gilded the base is : 
 'Tis surely the gayest of all 
 
 Our beautiful city's gay places. 
 
 " Around it are gardens and flowers 
 
 And the Cities of France on their thrones, 
 Each crown'd with his circlet of flowers, 
 
 Sits watching this biggest of stones ! 
 I love to go sit in the sun there, 
 
 The flowers and fountains to see, 
 And to think of the deeds that were done there 
 
 In the glorious year 'ninety-three. 
 
 " Twas here stood the Altar of Freedom ; 
 And though neither marble nor gilding
 
 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 Was used in those days to adorn 
 Our simple republican building, 
 
 Corbleu ! but the mere guillotine 
 Cared little for splendour or show, 
 
 
 So you gave her an axe and a beam, 
 And a plank and a basket or so, 
 
 " Awful, and proud, and erect, 
 
 Here sat our republican goddess. 
 
 Each morning her table we deck'd 
 With dainty aristocrats' bodies. 
 
 The people each day flocked around 
 As she sat at her meat and her wine
 
 THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM. 
 
 'Twas always the use of our nation 
 To witness the sovereign dine. 
 
 " Young virgins with fair golden tresses, 
 
 Old silver-hair'd prelates and priests, 
 Dukes, marquises, barons, princesses, 
 
 Were splendidly served at her feasts. 
 Ventrebleu ! but we pamper'd our ogress 
 
 With the best that our nation could bring, 
 And dainty she grew in her progress, 
 
 And called for the head of a King ! 
 
 " She called for the blood of our King, 
 
 And straight from his prison we drew him ; 
 And to her with shouting we led him, 
 
 And took him, and bound him, and slew him 
 ' The monarchs of Europe against me 
 
 Have plotted a godless alliance ! 
 I'll fling them the head of King Louis.' 
 
 She said, 'as my gage of defiance.' 
 
 " I see him as now, for a moment, 
 
 Away from his gaolers he broke ; 
 And stood at the foot of the scaffold, 
 
 And linger'd, and fain would have spoke. 
 ' Ho, drummer ! quick, silence yon Capet,' 
 
 Says Santerre, ' with a beat of your drum.' 
 Lustily then did I tap it, 
 
 And the son of Saint Louis was dumb."
 
 PART II. 
 
 " THE glorious days of September 
 
 Saw many aristocrats fall ; 
 'Twas then that our pikes drank the blood 
 
 In the beautiful breast of Lamballe. 
 Pardi, 'twas a beautiful lady ! 
 
 I seldom have look'd on her like ; 
 And I drumm'd for a gallant procession, 
 
 That marched with her head on a pike. 
 
 " Let's show the pale head to the Queen, 
 
 We said she'll remember it well. 
 She looked from the bars of her prison, 
 
 And shriek'd as she saw it, and fell. 
 We set up a shout at her screaming, 
 
 We laugh'd at the fright she had shown 
 At the sight of the head of her minion 
 
 How she'd tremble to part with her own ! 
 
 " We had taken the head of King Capet, 
 
 We called for the blood of his wife ; 
 Undaunted she came to the scaffold, 
 
 And bared her fair neck to the knife. 
 As she felt the foul fingers that touch'd her, 
 
 She shrank, but she deigned not to speak 
 She look'd with a royal disdain, 
 
 And died with a blush on her cheek ! 
 
 " 'Twas thus that our country was saved ; 
 
 So told us the Safety Committee ! 
 But psha ! I've the heart of a soldier, 
 
 All gentleness, mercy, and pity.
 
 THE CHRONICLE OF ~JHE DRUM. 
 
 I loathed to assist at such deeds, 
 
 And my drum beat its loudest of tunes 
 
 As we offered to justice offended 
 The blood of the bloody tribunes. 
 
 " Away with such foul recollections ! 
 No more of the axe and the block ; 
 
 '3 
 
 I saw the last fight of the sections, 
 
 As they fell 'neath our guns at Saint Roch. 
 
 Young Bonaparte led us that day ; 
 When he sought the Italian frontier, 
 
 I follow'd my gallant young captain, 
 I follow'd him many a long year. 
 
 " We came to an army in rags, 
 Our general was but a boy
 
 14 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 When we first saw the Austrian flags 
 Flaunt proud in the fields of Savoy. 
 
 In the glorious year 'ninety-six, 
 
 We march'd to the banks of the Po ; 
 
 I carried my drum and my sticks, 
 And we laid the proud Austrian low. 
 
 " In triumph we enter'd Milan, 
 
 We seized on the Mantuan keys ; 
 The troops of the Emperor ran, 
 
 And the Pope he fell down on his knees.'' 
 Pierre's comrades here call'd a fresh bottle, 
 
 And clubbing together their wealth, 
 They drank to the Army of Italy, 
 
 And General Bonaparte's health. 
 
 The drummer now bared his old breast, 
 
 And show'd us a plenty of scars, 
 Rude presents that Fortune had made him 
 
 In fifty victorious wars. 
 " This came when I follow'd bold Kleber 
 
 'Twas shot by a Mameluke gun ; 
 And this from an Austrian sabre, 
 
 When the field of Marengo was won. 
 
 " My forehead has many deep furrows, 
 But this is the deepest of all : 
 
 A Brunswicker made it at Jena, 
 Beside the fair river of Saal. 
 
 This cross, 'twas the Emperor gave it ; 
 (God bless him !) it covers a blow ;
 
 THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM. 15 
 
 I had it at Austerlitz fight, 
 
 As I beat on my drum in the snow. 
 
 " Tvvas thus that we conquer'd and fought ; 
 
 But wherefore continue the story ? 
 There's never a baby in France 
 
 But has heard of our chief and our glory, 
 But has heard of our chief and our fame, 
 
 His sorrows and triumphs can tell, 
 How bravely Napoleon conquer'd, 
 
 How bravely and sadly he fell. 
 
 " It makes my old heart to beat higher, 
 
 To think of the deeds that I saw ; 
 I follow'd bold Ney through the fire, 
 
 And charged at the side of Murat." 
 And so did old Peter continue 
 
 His story of twenty brave years ; 
 His audience follow'd with comments 
 
 Rude comments of curses and tears. 
 
 He told how the Prussians in vain 
 
 Had died in defence of their land ; 
 His audience laughed at the story, 
 
 And vow'd that their captain was grand ! 
 He had fought the red English, he said, 
 
 In many a battle of Spain ; 
 They cursed the red English, and prayed 
 
 To meet them and fight them again. 
 
 He told them how Russia was lost, 
 Had winter not driven them back ;
 
 i6 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 And his company cursed the quick frost, 
 And doubly they cursed the Cossack. 
 
 He told how the stranger arrived , 
 They wept at the tale of disgrace ; 
 
 And they long'd but for one battle more, 
 The stain of their shame to efface. 
 
 " Our country their hordes overrun, 
 We fled to the fields of Champagne, 
 
 And fought them, though twenty to one, 
 And beat them again and again ! 
 
 Our warrior was conquer'd at last ; 
 They bade him his crown to resign ;
 
 THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM. 1 7 
 
 To fate and his country he yielded 
 The rights of himself and his line. 
 
 " He came, and among us he stood, 
 
 Around him \ve press'd in a throng ; 
 We could not regard him for weeping, 
 
 Who had led us and loved us so long. 
 ' I have led you for twenty long years,' 
 
 Napoleon said ere he went ; 
 ' Wherever was honour I found you, 
 
 And with you, my sons, am content ! 
 
 " ' Though Europe against me was arm'd, 
 Your chiefs and my people are true ; . 
 
 I still might have struggled with fortune, 
 And baffled all Europe with you. 
 
 " ' But France would have suffer'd the while, 
 
 'Tis best that I suffer alone ; 
 I go to my place of exile, 
 
 To write of the deeds we have done. 
 
 " ' Be true to the king that they give you. 
 
 We may not embrace ere we part ; 
 But, General, reach me your hand, 
 
 And press me, I pray, to your heart.' 
 
 " He call'd for our battle standard ; 
 
 One kiss to the eagle he gave. 
 ' Dear eagle ! ' he said, ' may this kiss 
 
 Long sound in the hearts of the brave ! ' 
 'Twas thus that Napoleon left us ; 
 
 Our people were weeping and mute, 
 c
 
 1 8 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 As he passed through the lines of his guard, 
 And our drums beat the notes of salute. 
 
 " I look'd when the drumming was o'er, 
 
 I look'd, but our hero was gone ; 
 We were destined to see him once more, 
 
 When we fought on the Mount of St. John. 
 The Emperor rode through our files ; 
 
 'Twas June, and a fair Sunday morn. 
 The lines of our warriors for miles 
 
 Stretch'd wide through the Waterloo corn. 
 
 " In thousands we stood on the plain, 
 
 The red-coats were crowning the height ; 
 ' Go scatter yon English,' he said ; 
 
 ' We'll sup, lads, at Brussels to-night.' 
 We answer'd his voice with a shout ; 
 
 Our eagles were bright in the sun ; 
 Our drums and our cannon spoke out, 
 
 And the thundering battle begun. 
 
 " One charge to another succeeds, 
 
 Like waves that a hurricane bears ; 
 All day do our galloping steeds 
 
 Dash fierce on the enemy's squares. 
 At noon we began the fell onset : 
 
 We charged up the Englishman's hill ; 
 And madly we charged it at sunset 
 
 His banners were floating there still. 
 
 " Go to ! I will tell you no more ; 
 You know how the battle was lost.
 
 I he Emperor 
 rode through our file si* 
 
 C 2

 
 THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM. 
 
 Ho ! fetch me a beaker of wine, 
 And, comrades, I'll give you a toast, 
 
 I'll give you a curse on all traitors, 
 Who plotted our Emperor's ruin ; 
 
 And a curse on those red-coated English, 
 Whose bayonets helped our undoing ! 
 
 "A curse on those British assassins, 
 
 Who order'd the slaughter of Ney ; 
 A curse on Sir Hudson, who tortured 
 
 The life of our hero away. 
 A curse on all Russians I hate them 
 
 On all Prussian and Austrian fry ; 
 And oh ! but I pray we may meet them, 
 
 And fight them again ere I die ! " 
 
 'Twas thus old Peter did conclude 
 
 His chronicle with curses fit. 
 He spoke the tale in accents rude, 
 
 In ruder verse I copied it. 
 
 Perhaps the tale a moral bears 
 
 (All tales in time to this must come), 
 
 The story of two hundred years 
 Writ on the parchment of a drum. 
 
 What Peter told with drum and stick, 
 Is endless theme for poet's pen : 
 
 Is found in endless quartos thick, 
 Enormous books by learned men. 
 
 And ever since historian writ, 
 And ever since a bard could sing,
 
 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 Doth each exalt with all his wit 
 The noble art of murdering. 
 
 We love to read the glorious page, 
 How bold Achilles kill'd his foe ; 
 
 And Turn us, fell'd by Trojans' rage, 
 Went howling to the shades below. 
 
 How Godfrey led his red-cross knights, 
 How mad Orlando slash'd and slew ; 
 
 There's not a single bard that writes 
 But doth the glorious theme renew. 
 
 And while, in fashion picturesque, 
 The poet rhymes of blood and blows 
 
 The grave historian at his desk 
 
 Describes the same in classic prose.
 
 THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM, 23 
 
 Go read the works of Reverend Coxe, 
 
 You'll duly see recorded there 
 The history of the self-same knocks 
 
 Here roughly sung by Drummer Pierre. 
 
 Of battles fierce and warriors big, 
 
 He writes in phrases dull and slow, 
 And waves his cauliflower wig, 
 
 And shouts " Saint George for Marlborow ! " 
 
 Take Doctor Southey from the shelf, 
 
 An LL.D., a peaceful man ; 
 Good Lord, how doth he plume himself 
 
 Because we beat the Corsican ! 
 
 From first to last his page is filled 
 With stirring tales how blows were struck. 
 
 He shows how we the Frenchmen kill'd, 
 And praises God for our good luck. 
 
 Some hints, ''tis true, of politics 
 
 The Doctor gives, and statesman's art : 
 
 Pierre only bangs his drum and sticks, 
 And understands the bloody part. 
 
 He cares not what the cause may be, 
 
 He is not nice for wrong and right ; 
 But show him where's the enemy. 
 
 He only asks to drum and fight. 
 
 They bid him fight, perhaps he wins ; 
 
 And when he tells the story o'er, 
 The honest savage brags and grins, 
 
 And only longs to fight once more.
 
 24 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 But luck may change, and valour fail, 
 
 Our drummer, Peter, meet reverse, 
 And with a moral points his tale 
 
 The end of all such tales a curse. 
 Last year, my love, it was my hap 
 
 Behind a grenadier to be, 
 And, but he wore a hairy cap, 
 
 No taller man, methinks, than me. 
 
 Prince Albert and the Queen, God wot 
 (Be blessings on the glorious pair !), 
 
 Before us passed. I saw them not 
 I only saw a cap of hair. 
 
 Your orthodox historian puts 
 
 In foremost rank the soldier thus, 
 
 The red-coat bully in his boots 
 
 That hides the march of men from us. 
 
 He puts him there in foremost rank, 
 You wonder at his cap of hair : 
 
 You hear his sabre's cursed clank, 
 His spurs are jingling everywhere. 
 
 Go to ! I hate him and his trade : 
 Who bade us so to cringe and bend, 
 
 And all God's peaceful people made 
 To such as him subservient ? 
 
 Tell me what find we to admire 
 In epaulets and scarlet coats 
 
 In men, because they load and fire, 
 And know the art of cutting throats ? 
 
 *****
 
 THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM. 25 
 
 Ah, gentle, tender lady mine ! 
 
 The winter wind blows cold and shrill ; 
 Come, fill me one more glass of wine, 
 
 And give the silly fools their will. 
 
 And what care we for war and wrack, 
 How kings and heroes rise and fall ? 
 
 Look yonder,* in his coffin black 
 There lies the greatest of them all ! 
 
 To pluck him down, and keep him up, 
 
 Died many million human souls. 
 Tis twelve o'clock and time to sup ; 
 
 Bid Mary heap the fire with coals. 
 
 He captured many thousand guns , 
 
 He wrote " The Great " before his name ; 
 
 And dying, only left his sons 
 The recollection of his shame. 
 
 Though more than half the world was his, 
 
 He died without a rood his own ; 
 And borrow'd from his enemies 
 
 Six foot of ground to lie upon. 
 
 He fought a thousand glorious wars, 
 
 And more than half the world was his; 
 And somewhere now, in yonder stars, 
 Can tell, mayhap, what greatness is. 
 1841. 
 
 * Written in Paris at the time of the Second Funeral of Napoleon.
 
 26 
 
 No more, thou lithe and long-winged hawk, of desert life for 
 
 thee ; 
 
 No more across the .sultry sands shalt thou go swooping free : 
 Blunt idle talons, idle beak, with spurning of thy chain, 
 Shatter against thy cage the wing thou ne'er mayst spread 
 
 again. 
 
 Long, sitting by their watchfires, shall the Kabyles tell the tale 
 
 Of thy dash from Ben Halifa on the fat Metidja vale ; 
 
 How thou swept'st the desert over, bearing down the wild 
 
 El Riff, 
 From eastern Beni Salah to western Ouad Shelif ; 
 
 How thy white burnous went streaming, like the storm-rack 
 
 o'er the sea, 
 
 When thou rodest in the van ward of the Moorish chivalry ; 
 How thy razzia was a whirlwind, thy onset a simoom, 
 How thy sword-sweep was the lightning, dealing death from 
 
 out the gloom !
 
 ABD-EL-KADER AT TOULON. 27 
 
 Nor less quirk to slay in battle than in peace to spare and 
 
 save, 
 Of brave men wisest counsellor, of wise counsellors most 
 
 brave ; 
 How the eye that flashed destruction could beam gentleness 
 
 and love : 
 How lion in thee mated lamb, how eagle mated dove ! 
 
 Availed not or steel or shot 'gainst that charmed life secure, 
 Till cunning France, in last resource, tossed up the golden 
 
 lure ; 
 And the carrion buzzards round him stooped, faithless, to the 
 
 cast, 
 And the wild hawk of the desert is caught and caged at last. 
 
 Weep, maidens of Zerifah, above the laden loom ! 
 Scar, chieftains of Al Elmah, your cheeks in grief and gloom ! 
 Sons of the Beni Snazam, throw down the useless lance, 
 And stoop your necks and bare your backs to yoke and 
 scourge of France ! 
 
 'T\vas not in fight they bore him down : he never cried " Aman " ; 
 He never sank his sword before the Prince of Franghistan ; 
 But with traitors all around him, his star upon the wane, 
 He heard the voice of Allah, and he would not strive in vain. 
 
 They gave him what he asked them : from king to king he 
 
 spake, 
 As one that plighted word and seal not knoweth how to 
 
 break :
 
 28 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 " Let me pass from out my deserts, be't mine own choice 
 
 where to go ; 
 I brook no fettered life to live, a captive and a show." 
 
 And they promised, and he trusted them, and proud and calm 
 
 he came, 
 
 Upon his black mare riding, girt with his sword of fame. 
 Good steed, good sword, he rendered both unto the Frankish 
 
 throng ; 
 He knew them false and fickle but a Prince's word is strong. 
 
 How have they kept their promise ? Turn'd they the vessel's 
 
 prow 
 
 Unto Acre, Alexandria, as they had sworn e'en now ? 
 Not so : from Oran northwards the white sails gleam and 
 
 glance, 
 And the wild hawk of the desert is borne away to France ! 
 
 Where Toulon's white-walled lazaret looks southward o'er the 
 
 wave, 
 
 Sits he that trusted in the word a son of Louis gave. 
 O noble faith of noble heart ! And was the warning vain, 
 The text writ by the Bourbon in the blurred black book of 
 
 Spain ? 
 
 They have need of thee to gaze on, they have need of thee to 
 
 grace 
 
 The triumph of the Prince, to gild the pinchbeck of their race. 
 Words are but wind ; conditions must be construed by 
 
 Guizot ; 
 Dash out thy heart, thou desert hawk, ere thou art made a 
 
 show !
 
 THE noble King of Brentford 
 
 Was old and very sick, 
 He summon'd his physicians 
 
 To wait upon him quick : 
 They stepp'd into their coaches 
 
 And brought their best physick. 
 
 They cramm'd their gracious master 
 With potion and with pill ; 
 
 They drench'd him and they bled him 
 They could not cure his ill. 
 
 " Go fetch," says he, " my lawyer ; 
 I'd better make my will." 
 
 The monarch's royal mandate 
 
 The lawyer did obey ; 
 The thought of six-and-eightpence 
 
 Did make his heart full gay. 
 "What is't," says he, "your Majesty 
 
 Would wish of me to-day ? " 
 
 " The doctors have belabour'd me 
 
 With potion and with pill : 
 My hours of life are counted, 
 
 man of tape and quill ! 
 
 Sit down and mend a pen or two ; 
 
 1 want to make my will. 
 
 " O'er all the land of Brentford 
 I'm lord, and eke of Kew :
 
 3 
 
 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 I've three-per-cents, and five-per-cents. ; 
 
 My debts are but a few : 
 And to inherit after me 
 
 I have but children two. 
 
 " Prince Thomas is my eldest son ; 
 
 A sober prince is he, 
 And from the day we breech'd him 
 
 Till now he's twenty-three 
 He never caused disquiet 
 
 To his poor mamma or me. 
 
 " At school they never flogg'd him ; 
 
 At college, though not fast, 
 Yet his little-go and great-go 
 
 He creditably pass'd,
 
 THE KING OF BRENTFORD'S TESTAMENT. 31 
 
 And made his year's allowance 
 For eighteen months to last. 
 
 " He never owed a shilling, 
 
 Went never drunk to bed, 
 He has not two ideas 
 
 Within his honest head 
 In all respects he differs 
 
 From my second son, Prince Ned. 
 
 " When Tom has half his income 
 
 Laid by at the year's end, 
 Poor Ned has ne'er a stiver 
 
 That rightly he may spend, 
 But sponges on a tradesman, 
 
 Or borrows from a friend. 
 
 " While Tom his legal studies 
 
 Most soberly pursues, 
 Poor Ned must pass his mornings 
 
 A-dawdling with the Muse : 
 While Tom frequents his banker, 
 
 Young Ned frequents the Jews. 
 
 " Ned drives about in buggies, 
 
 Tom sometimes takes a 'bus ; 
 Ah, cruel fate, why made you 
 
 My children differ thus ? 
 Why make of Tom a dullard, 
 
 And Ned a genius ? " 
 
 "You'll cut him with a shilling," 
 Exclaimed the man of wits :
 
 32 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 " I'll leave my wealth," said Brentford, 
 
 " Sir Lawyer, as befits, 
 And portion both their fortunes 
 
 Unto their several wits." 
 
 " Your Grace knows best," the lawyer said ; 
 
 " On your commands I wait." 
 " Be silent, sir," says Brentford, 
 
 " A plague upon your prate !
 
 THE KING OF BRENTFORD'S TESTAMENT. 33 
 
 Come take your pen and paper, 
 And write as I dictate.' 1 
 
 The will as Brentford spoke it 
 Was writ and signed and closed : 
 
 He bade the lawyer leave him, 
 
 And turn'd him round and dozed ; 
 
 And next week in the churchyard 
 The good old King reposed. 
 
 Tom, dressed in crape and hatband, 
 
 Of mourners was the chief; 
 In bitter self-upbraidings 
 
 Poor Edward showed his grief : 
 Tom hid his fat white countenance 
 
 In his pocket-handkerchief. 
 
 Ned's eyes were full of weeping, 
 
 He falter'd in his walk; 
 Tom never shed a tear, 
 
 But onwards he did stalk, 
 As pompous, black, and solemn 
 
 As any catafalque. 
 
 And when the bones of Urentford 
 
 That gentle King and just 
 With bell and book and candle 
 
 Were duly laid in dust, 
 " Now, gentlemen," says Thomas, 
 
 " Let business be discussed. 
 
 " When late our sire beloved 
 Was taken deadly ill, 
 
 D
 
 34 THACKERAY* s POEMS. 
 
 Sir Lawyer, you attended him 
 (I mean to tax your bill) ; 
 
 And, as you signed and wrote it, 
 I prithee read the will." 
 
 The lawyer wiped his spectacles, 
 And drew the parchment out j 
 
 And all the Brentford family 
 Sat eager round about : 
 
 Poor Ned was somewhat anxious, 
 But Tom had ne'er a doubt. 
 
 " My son, as I make ready 
 To seek my last long home, 
 
 Some cares I had for Neddy, 
 But none for thee, my Tom : 
 
 Sobriety and order 
 
 You ne'er departed from. 
 
 " Ned hath a brilliant genius, 
 And thou a plodding brain ; 
 
 On thee I think with pleasure, 
 On him with doubt and pain." 
 
 (" You see, good Ned," says Thomas, 
 " What he thought about us twain.") 
 
 " Though small was your allowance, 
 You saved a little store ; 
 
 And those who save a little 
 Shall get a plenty more." 
 
 As the lawyer read this compliment, 
 Tom's eyes were running o'er.
 
 THE KING OF BRENTFORD'S TESTAMENT. 35 
 
 " The tortoise and the hare, Tom, 
 
 Set out at each his pace ; 
 The hare it was the fleeter, 
 
 The tortoise won the race ; 
 And since the world's beginning 
 
 This ever was the case. 
 
 " Ned's genius, blithe and singing, 
 
 Steps gaily o'er the ground ; 
 As steadily you trudge it, 
 
 He clears it with a bound ; 
 But dulness has stout legs, Tom, 
 
 And wind that's wondrous sound. 
 
 " O'er fruits and flowers alike, Tom, 
 
 You pass with plodding feet ; 
 You heed not one nor t'other, 
 
 But onwards go your beat ; 
 While genius stops to loiter 
 
 With all that he may meet ; 
 
 " And ever as he wanders, 
 
 Will have a pretext fine 
 For sleeping in the morning, 
 
 Or loitering to dine, 
 Or dozing in the shade, 
 
 Or basking in the shine. 
 
 " Your little steady eyes, Tom, 
 
 Though not so bright as those 
 That restless round about him 
 His flashing genius throws, 
 D 2
 
 36 THACKERAY'S 
 
 Are excellently suited 
 To look before your nose. 
 
 " Thank Heaven, then, for the blinkers 
 It placed before your eyes ; 
 
 The stupidest are strongest, 
 The witty are not wise ; 
 
 Oh, bless your good stupidity ! 
 It is your dearest prize. 
 
 " And though my lands are wide, 
 
 And plenty is my gold, 
 Still better gifts from Nature, 
 
 My Thomas, do you hold 
 A brain that's thick and heavy, 
 
 A heart that's dull and cold. 
 
 "Too dull to feel depression, 
 
 Too hard to heed distress, 
 Too cold to yield to passion 
 
 Or silly tenderness. 
 March on your road is open 
 
 To wealth, Tom, and success. 
 
 " Ned sinneth in extravagance. 
 
 And you in greedy lust." 
 (" F faith," says Ned, " our father 
 
 Is less polite than just.") 
 " In you, son Tom, I've confidence, 
 
 But Ned I cannot trust. 
 
 " Wherefore my lease and copyholds, 
 My lands and tenements,
 
 THE KING OF BRENTFORD'S TESTAMENT. 37 
 
 My parks, my farms, and orchards, 
 
 My houses and my rents, 
 My Dutch stock and my Spanish stock, 
 
 My five and three per cents., 
 
 " I leave to you, my Thomas "- 
 
 (" What, all ? " poor Edward said. 
 " \Vell, well, I should have spent them. 
 
 And Tom's a prudent head.") 
 " I leave to you, my Thomas, 
 
 To you in trust for Ned." 
 
 The wrath and consternation 
 
 What poet e'er could trace 
 That at this fatal passage 
 
 Came o'er Prince Tom his face ; 
 The wonder of the company, 
 
 And honest Ned's amaze? 
 
 " 'Tis surely some mistake ! " 
 
 (iood naturedly cries Ned ; 
 The lawyer answered gravely, 
 
 " 'Tis even as I said : 
 'Twas thus his gracious Majesty 
 
 Ordain'd on his death bed. 
 
 " See, here the will is witness'd, 
 
 And here's his autograph." 
 "In truth, our father's writing," 
 
 Says Edward, with a laugh ; 
 " But thou shall not be a loser, Tom ; 
 
 We'll share it half and half."
 
 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 " Alas ! my kind young gentleman, 
 This sharing cannot be ; 
 
 Tis written in the testament 
 That Brentford spoke to me, 
 
 ' I do forbid Prince Ned to give 
 Prince Tom a halfpenny. 
 
 ' ' He hath a store of money, 
 But ne'er was known to lend it ; 
 
 He never helped his brother ; 
 The poor he ne'er befriended ;
 
 THE KING OF BRENTFORD'S TESTAMENT. 39 
 
 He hath no need of property 
 Who knows not how to spend it. 
 
 " ' Poor Edward knows but how to spend. 
 
 And thrifty Tom to hoard ; 
 Let Thomas be the steward, then, 
 
 And Edward be the Lord ; 
 And as the honest labourer 
 
 Is worthy his reward, 
 
 " ' I pray Prince Ned, my second son, 
 
 And my successor dear, 
 To pay to his intendant 
 
 Five hundred pounds a year ; 
 And to think of his old father, 
 
 And live and make good cheer.' " 
 
 Such was old Brentford's honest testament. 
 
 He did devise his moneys for the best, 
 
 And lies in Brentford church in peaceful rest 
 Prince Edward lived, and money made and spent ; 
 
 But his good sire was wrong, it is confess'd, 
 To say his son, young Thomas, never lent. 
 
 He did. Young Thomas lent at interest, 
 And nobly took his twenty-five per cent. 
 
 Long time the famous reign of Ned endured 
 
 O'er Chiswick, Fulham, Brentford, Putney, Kew, 
 
 But of extravagance he ne'er was cured. 
 
 And when both died, as mortal men will do, 
 
 'Twas commonly reported that the steward 
 Was very much the richer of the two.
 
 ON deck beneath the awning, 
 I dozing lay and yawning ; 
 It was the grey of dawning, 
 
 Ere yet the sun arose ; 
 And above the funnel's roaring, 
 And the fitful wind's deploring, 
 I heard the cabin snoring 
 
 With universal nose. 
 I could hear the passengers snorting 
 I envied their disporting 
 Vainly I was courting 
 
 The pleasure of a doze ! 
 
 So I lay, and wondered why light 
 Came not, and watched the twilight, 
 And the glimmer of the skylight, 
 
 That shot across the deck ; 
 And the binnacle pale and steady, 
 And the dull glimpse of the dead-eye, 
 And the sparks in fiery eddy 
 
 That whirled from the chimney neck. 
 In our jovial floating prison 
 There was sleep from fore to mizen, 
 And never a star had risen 
 
 The hazy sky to speck. 
 
 Strange company we harboured ; 
 We'd a hundred Jews to larboard.
 
 THE WHITE SQUALL. 41 
 
 Unwashed, uncombed, unbarbered 
 
 Jews black, and brown, and grey ; 
 With terror it would seize ye, 
 And make your souls uneasy, 
 To see those Rabbis greasy, 
 
 Who did nought but scratch and pray : 
 Their dirty children puking 
 Their dirty saucepans cooking 
 Their dirty fingers hooking 
 
 Their swarming fleas away. 
 
 To starboard, Turks and Greeks were 
 Whiskered and browned their cheeks were 
 Enormous wide their breeks were, 
 
 Their pipes did puffalway; 
 Each on his mat allotted 
 In silence smoked and squatted, 
 Whilst round their children trotted 
 
 In pretty, pleasant play. 
 He can't but smile who traces 
 The smiles on those brown faces, 
 And the pretty prattling graces 
 
 Of those small heathens gay. 
 
 And so the hours kept tolling, 
 And through the ocean rolling 
 Went the brave Iberia bowling 
 
 Before the break of day 
 When a squall, upon a sudden, 
 Came o'er the waters scudding ;
 
 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 And the clouds began to gather, 
 And the sea was lashed to lather, 
 And the lowering thunder grumbled, 
 And the lightning jumped and tumbled, 
 And the ship, and all the ocean, 
 Woke up in wild commotion. 
 
 Then the wind set up a howling, 
 And the poodle dog a yowling, 
 And the cocks began a crowing, 
 And the old cow raised a lowing 
 As she heard the tempest blowing
 
 THE WHITE SQUALL. 43 
 
 And fowls and geese did cackle, 
 
 And the cordage and the tackle 
 
 Began to shriek and crackle ; 
 
 And the spray dashed o'er the funnels, 
 
 And down the deck in runnels ; 
 
 And the rushing water soaks all, 
 
 From the seamen in the fo'ksal 
 
 To the stokers whose black faces 
 
 Peer out of their bed-places ; 
 
 And the captain he was bawling 
 
 And the sailors pulling, hauling, 
 
 And the quarter-deck tarpauling 
 
 Was shivered in the squalling ; 
 
 And the passengers awaken, 
 
 Most pitifully shaken ; 
 
 And the steward jumps up, and hastens 
 
 For the necessary basins. 
 
 Then the Greeks they groaned and quivered, 
 
 And they knelt, and moaned, and shivered, 
 
 As the plunging waters met them, 
 
 And splashed and overset them ; 
 
 And they call in their emergence 
 
 Upon countless saints and virgins ; 
 
 And their marrowbones are bended, 
 
 And they think the world is ended. 
 
 And the Turkish women for'ard 
 
 Were frightened and behorror'd ; 
 
 And shrieking and bewildering, 
 
 The mothers clutched their children ;
 
 44 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 The men sang " Allah ! Illah ! 
 Mashallah Bismillah ! " 
 As the warring waters doused them, 
 And splashed them and soused them, 
 And they called upon the Prophet, 
 And thought but little of it. 
 
 Then all the fleas in Jewry 
 
 Jumped up and bit like fury ; 
 
 And the progeny of Jacob 
 
 Did on the main-deck wake up 
 
 (I wot those greasy Rabbins 
 
 Would never pay for cabins) ; 
 
 And each man moaned and jabbered in 
 
 His filthy Jewish gaberdine, 
 
 In woe and lamentation, 
 
 And howling consternation. 
 
 And the splashing water drenches 
 
 Their dirty brats and wenches ; 
 
 And they crawl from bales and benches 
 
 In a hundred thousand stenches. 
 
 This was the White Squall famous, 
 
 Which latterly o'ercame us, 
 
 And which all will well remember 
 
 On the 28th September ; 
 
 When a Prussian captain of Lancers 
 
 (Those tight-laced, whiskered prancers) 
 
 Came on the deck astonished, 
 
 By that wild squall admonished,
 
 THE WHITE SQUALL. 
 
 And wondering cried, " Potztausend J 
 Wie ist der Sturm jetzt brausend ? " 
 And looked at Captain Lewis, 
 Who calmly stood and blew his 
 
 45 
 
 Cigar in all the bustle, 
 And scorned the tempest's tussle. 
 And oft we've thought thereafter 
 How he beat the storm to laughter ;
 
 4 6 
 
 i8 4 4- 
 
 THA CKER A Y 's POEMS. 
 
 For well he knew his vessel 
 
 With that vain wind could wrestle ; 
 
 And when a wreck we thought her, 
 
 And doomed ourselves to slaughter, 
 
 How gaily he fought her, 
 
 And through the hubbub brought her, 
 
 And as the tempest caught her, 
 
 Cried, " GEORGE ! SOME BRANDY-AND-WATER 
 
 And when, its force expended, 
 The harmless storm was ended, 
 And as the sunrise splendid 
 
 Came blushing o'er the sea, 
 I thought, as day was breaking, 
 My little girls were waking, 
 And smiling, and making 
 
 A prayer at home for me.
 
 47 
 
 /pec Of 
 
 RIDING from Coleraine 
 
 (Famed for lovely Kitty), 
 Came a Cockney bound 
 
 Unto Derry city ; 
 Weary was his soul, 
 
 Shivering and sad, he 
 Bumped along the road 
 
 Leads to Limavaddy. 
 
 Mountains stretch'd around, 
 Gloomy was their tinting, 

 
 48 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 And the horse's hoofs 
 
 Made a dismal dinting ; 
 Wind upon the heath 
 
 Howling was and piping, 
 On the heath and bog, 
 
 Black with many a snipe in. 
 'Mid the bogs of black, 
 
 Silver pools were flashing, 
 Crows upon their sides 
 
 Picking were and splashing. 
 Cockney on the car 
 
 Closer folds his plaid}-, 
 Grumbling at the road 
 
 Leads to Limavaddy. 
 
 Through the crashing woods 
 
 Autumn brawl'd and biuster'd, 
 Tossing round about 
 
 Leaves the hue of mustard ; 
 Yonder lay Lough Foyle, 
 
 Which a storm was whipping, 
 Covering with mist 
 
 Lake, and shores, and shipping. 
 Up and down the hill 
 
 (Nothing could be bolder), 
 Horse went with a raw 
 
 Bleeding on his shoulder. 
 " Where are horses changed ? " 
 
 Said I to the laddy
 
 PEG OF LIMAVADDY. 49 
 
 Driving on the box : 
 " Sir, at Limavaddy/' 
 
 Limavuddy inn's 
 
 But a humble bait-house, 
 Where you may procure 
 
 Whisky and potatoes ; 
 Landlord at the door 
 
 Gives a smiling welcome 
 To the shivering wights 
 
 Who to his hotel come. 
 Landlady within 
 
 Sits and knits a stocking, 
 With a wary foot 
 
 Baby's cradle rocking. 
 
 To the chimney nook 
 
 Having found admittance, 
 There I watch a pup 
 
 Playing with two kittens ; 
 (Playing round the fire, 
 
 Which of blazing turf is, 
 Roaring to the pot 
 
 Which bubbles with the murphies). 
 And the cradled babe 
 
 Fond the mother nursed it, 
 Singing it a song 
 
 As she twists the worsted ! 
 
 Up and down the stuil 
 
 Two more young ones patter
 
 50 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 (Twins were never seen 
 
 Dirtier or fatter). 
 Both have mottled legs, 
 
 Both have snubby noses, 
 Both have Here the host 
 
 Kindly interposes : 
 " Sure you must be froze 
 
 With the sleet and hail, sir : 
 So will you have some punch, 
 
 Or will you have some ale, sir ? 
 
 Presently a maid 
 
 Enters with the liquor 
 (Half-a-pint of ale 
 
 Frothing in a beaker). 
 Gads ! I didn't know 
 
 What my beating heart meant : 
 Hebe's self, I thought, 
 
 Entered the apartment. 
 As she came she smiled, 
 
 And the smile bewitching, 
 On my word and honour, 
 
 Lighted all the kitchen ! 
 
 With a curtsey neat 
 
 Greeting the new comer, 
 
 Lovely, smiling Peg 
 Offers me the rummer ; 
 
 But ni} 1 trembling hand 
 Up the beaker tilted,
 
 the gla3 of aJe 
 Trickling down iny legs ws^V
 
 PEC oi"' LniAVADDY. 53 
 
 And the glass of ale 
 
 Every drop I spilt it : 
 Spilt it every drop 
 
 (Dames, who read my volumes, 
 Pardon such a word) 
 
 On my what-d'ye-call-'ems ! 
 
 Witnessing the sight 
 
 Of that dire disaster, 
 Out began to laugh 
 
 Missis, maid, and master ; 
 Such a merry peal 
 
 'Specially Miss Peg's was 
 (As the glass of ale 
 
 Trickling down my legs was), 
 That the joyful sound 
 
 Of that mingling laughter 
 Echoed in my ears 
 
 Many a long day after. 
 
 Such a silver peal ! 
 
 In the meadows listening, 
 You who've heard the bells 
 
 Ringing to a christening ; 
 You who ever heard 
 
 Caradori pretty, 
 Smiling like an angel, 
 
 Singing ' ; Giovinetti ;" 
 Fancy Peggy's laugh, 
 
 Sweet, and clear, and cheerful,
 
 54 
 
 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 At my pantaloons 
 
 With half-a-pint of beer full ! 
 
 When the laugh was done, 
 Peg, the pretty hussy, 
 
 Moved about the room 
 Wonderfully busy ;
 
 PEG OF Li MAI' A Din\ 55 
 
 Now she looks to see 
 
 If the kettle keep hot ; 
 Now she rubs the spoons, 
 
 Now she cleans the teapot ; 
 No\v she sets the cups 
 
 Trimly and secure : 
 Now she scours a pot, 
 
 And so it was I drew her. 
 
 Thus it was I drew her 
 
 Scouring of a kettle 
 (Faith ! her blushing cheeks 
 
 Redden'd on the metal ! ) 
 Ah ! but 'tis in vain 
 
 That I try to sketch it ; 
 The pot perhaps is like, 
 
 But Peggy's face is wretched. 
 No ! the best of lead 
 
 And of india-rubber 
 Never could depict 
 
 That sweet kettle-scrubber ! 
 
 See her how she moves, 
 
 Scarce the ground she touches ; 
 Airy as a fay, 
 
 Graceful as a duchess : 
 Bare her rounded arm, 
 
 Bare her little leg is, 
 Vestris never show'd 
 
 Ankles like to Peggy's.
 
 56 THACKERAY'S FORMS. 
 
 Braided is her hair, 
 
 Soft her look and modest, 
 
 Slim her little waist, 
 Comfortably bodiced. 
 
 This I do declare, 
 
 Happy is the laddy 
 Who the heart can share 
 
 Of Peg of Limavaddy. 
 Married if she were 
 
 Blest would be the daddy 
 Of the children fair 
 
 Of Peg of Limavaddy. 
 Beauty is not rare 
 
 In the land of Paddy, 
 Fair beyond compare 
 
 Is Peg of Limavaddy. 
 
 Citizen or Squire, 
 
 Tory, Whig, or Radi- 
 cal would all desire 
 
 Peg of Limavaddy. 
 Had I Homer's fire, 
 
 Or that of Sergeant Taddy. 
 Meetly I'd admire 
 
 Peg of Limavaddy. 
 And till I expire, 
 
 Or till I grow mad, I 
 Will sing unto my lyre 
 
 Peg of Limavaddy !
 
 57 
 
 f> * 
 
 \ 
 
 lUi yesterday a naked sod, 
 The dandies sneered from Rotten Row, 
 And cantered o'er it to and fro ; 
 
 And see, 'tis done ! 
 As though 'twere by a wizard's rod 
 A blazing arch of lucid glass 
 Leaps like a fountain from the grass 
 To meet the sun ! 
 
 A quiet green but few days since, 
 With cattle browsing in the shade : 
 And here are lines of bright arcade 
 In order raised !
 
 58 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 A palace as for fairy prince, 
 A rare pavilion, such as man 
 Saw never since mankind began, 
 
 And built and glazed ! 
 
 A peaceful place it was but now, 
 And lo ! within its shining streets 
 A multitude of nations meets ; 
 
 A countless throng. 
 I see beneath the crystal bow, 
 
 And Gaul and German, Russ and Turk, 
 Each with his native handisvork 
 
 And busy tongue. 
 
 I felt a thrill of love and awe 
 
 To mark the different garb of each, 
 The changing tongue, the various speech 
 
 Together blent : 
 
 A thrill, methinks, like His who saw 
 " All people dwelling upon earth 
 Praising our God with solemn mirth 
 And one consent." 
 
 High Sovereign, in your Royal state, 
 Captains, and chiefs, and councillors. 
 Before the lofty palace doors 
 
 Are open set, 
 
 Hush ! ere you pass the shining gate ; 
 Hush ! ere the heaving curtain draws, 
 And let the Royal pageant pause 
 A moment yet.
 
 MAY-DAY ODE. 59 
 
 People and prince a silence keep ! 
 Bow coronet and kingly crown, 
 Helmet and plume, bow lowly down, 
 
 The while the priest, 
 Before the splendid portal step 
 
 (While still the wondrous banquet stays), 
 From Heaven supreme a blessing prays 
 Upon the feast. 
 
 Then onwards let the triumph march ; 
 Then let the loud artillery roll, 
 And trumpets ring, and joy-bells toll, 
 And pass the gate. 
 Pass underneath the shining arch, 
 'Neath which the leafy elms are green ; 
 Ascend unto your throne, O Queen ! 
 
 And take your state. 
 
 Hehold her in her Royal place; 
 A gentle lady ; and the hand 
 That sways the sceptre of this land, 
 
 How frail and weak ! 
 Soft is the voice, and fair the face : 
 
 She breathes "Amen " to prayer and hymn ; 
 No wonder that her eyes are dim, 
 
 And pale her cheek. 
 
 This moment round her empire's shores 
 The winds of Austral winter sweep, 
 And thousands lie in midnight sleep 
 At rest to-day.
 
 6o THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 Oh ! awful is that crown of yours, 
 Queen of innumerable realms 
 Sitting beneath the budding elms 
 
 Of English May ! 
 
 A wondrous sceptre 'tis to bear : 
 Strange mystery of God which set 
 Upon her brow yon coronet, 
 
 The foremost crown 
 Of all the world, on one so fair ! 
 That chose her to it from her birth, 
 And bade the sons of all the earth 
 
 To her bow down. 
 
 The representatives of man 
 Here from the far Antipodes, 
 And from the subject Indian seas, 
 
 In congress meet ; 
 From Afric and from Hindustan, 
 From Western continent and isle, 
 The envoys of her empire pile 
 
 Gifts at her feet ; 
 
 Our brethren cross the Atlantic tides, 
 Loading the gallant decks which once 
 Roared a defiance to our guns, 
 
 With peaceful store ; 
 Symbol of peace, their vessel rides ! * 
 O'er English waves float Star and Stripe, 
 And firm their friendly anchor's gripe 
 The father shore ! 
 * The U.S. frigate St. Lawrence.
 
 MAY-DAY ODE. 6r 
 
 From Rhine and Danube, Rhone and Seine, 
 As rivers from their sources gush, 
 The swelling floods of nations rush, 
 
 And seaward pour : 
 From coast to coast in friendly chain, 
 
 With countless ships we bridge the straits, 
 And angry ocean separates 
 
 Europe no more. 
 
 From Mississippi and from Nile 
 From Baltic, Ganges, Bosphorus, 
 In England's ark assembled thus 
 
 Are friend and guest. 
 Look down the mighty sunlit aisle, 
 And see the sumptuous banquet set, 
 The brotherhood of nations met 
 
 Around the feast ! 
 
 Along the dazzling colonnade, 
 Far as the straining eye can gaze, 
 Gleam cross and fountain, bell and vase, . 
 
 In vistas bright ; 
 
 And statues fair of nymph and maid, 
 And steeds and pards and Amazons, 
 Writhing and grappling in the bronxe, 
 In endless fight. 
 
 To deck the glorious roof and dome, 
 To make the Queen a canopy, 
 The peaceful hosts of industry 
 
 Their standards bear.
 
 62 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 Yon are the works of Brahmin loom ; 
 On such a web of Persian thread 
 The desert Arab bows his head 
 
 And cries his prayer. 
 
 Look yonder where the engines toil : 
 These England's arms of conquest are, 
 The trophies of her bloodless war : 
 
 Brave weapons these. 
 Victorious over wave and soil, 
 
 With these she sails, she weaves, she tills, 
 Pierces the everlasting hills, 
 
 And spans the seas
 
 '.ir-DAV ODE. 63 
 
 The engine roars upon its race, 
 The shuttle whirrs along the woof, 
 The people hum from floor to roof, 
 
 With Babel tongue. 
 The fountain in the basin plays. 
 The chanting organ echoes clear, 
 An awful chorus 'tis to hear, 
 
 A wondrous song ! 
 
 Swell, organ, swell your trumpet blast, 
 March, Queen and Royal pageant, march 
 By splendid aisle and springing arch 
 Of this fair Hall : 
 And see ! above the fabric vast, 
 
 God's boundless heaven is bending blue, 
 God's peaceful sunlight's beaming through, 
 And shines o'er all. 
 
 May, 1851.
 
 A STREET there is in Paris famous, 
 
 For which no rhyme our language yields, 
 Rue Neuve des Petits Champs its name is 
 
 The New Street of the Little Fields. 
 And here's an inn, not rich and splendid, 
 
 But still in comfortable case ; 
 The which in youth I oft attended, 
 
 To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse. 
 
 This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is 
 
 A sort of soup, or broth, or bre\v, 
 Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes, 
 
 That Greenwich never could outdo : 
 Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffion, 
 
 Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace : 
 All these you eat at Terre's tavern 
 
 In that one dish of Bouillabaisse. 
 
 Indeed, a rich and savoury stew 'tis ; 
 
 And true philosophers, methinks, 
 Who love all sorts of natural beauties, 
 
 Should love good victuals and good drinks. 
 And Cordelier or Benedictine 
 
 Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace, 
 Nor find a fast-day too afflicting, 
 
 Which served him up a Bouillabaisse.
 
 THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE. 
 
 I wonder if the house still there is ? 
 
 Yes, here the lamp is, as before ; 
 The smiling red-cheeked ecaillere is 
 
 Still opening oysters at the door. 
 Is Terre still alive and able ? 
 
 I recollect his droll grimace -: 
 
 He'd come and smile before your table, 
 And hope you liked your Bouillabaisse. 
 
 We enter nothing's changed or older. 
 "How's Monsieur Terre, waiter, pray?"
 
 66 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 The waiter stares, and shrugs his shoulder 
 " Monsieur is dead this many a day." 
 
 " It is the lot of saint and sinner, 
 So honest Terre's run his race." 
 
 " What will Monsieur require for dinner ? " 
 " Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse ? " 
 
 " Oh, oui, Monsieur," 's the waiter's answer : 
 
 " Quel vin Monsieur desire-t-il ? " 
 "Tell me a good one."" That I can, Sir : 
 
 The Chambertin with yellow seal." 
 " So Terre's gone," I say, and sink in 
 
 My old accustom'd corner-place ; 
 " He's done with feasting and with drinking, 
 
 With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse. 3 ' 
 
 My old accustom'd corner here is, 
 
 The table still is in the nook ; 
 Ah ! vanished many a busy year is 
 
 This well known chair since last I took. 
 When first I saw ye, cari luoghi, 
 
 I'd scarce a beard upon my face, 
 And now a grizzled, grim old fogy, 
 
 I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse. 
 
 Where are you, old companions trusty 
 Of early days here met to dine ? 
 
 Come, waiter ! quick, a flagon crusty 
 I'll pledge them in the good old wine. 
 
 The kind old voices and old faces 
 My memory can quick retrace ;
 
 THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE, 67 
 
 Around the board they take their places, 
 And share the wine and Bouillabaisse. 
 
 There's Jack has made a wondrous marriage ; 
 
 There's laughing Tom is laughing yet ; 
 There's brave Augustus drives his carriage ; 
 
 There's poor old Fred in the Gazette ; 
 On James's head the grass is growing : 
 
 Good Lord ! the world has wagged apace 
 Since here we set the claret flowing, 
 
 And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse. 
 
 Ah me ! how quick the days are flitting ! 
 
 I mind me of a time that's gone, 
 When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting, 
 
 In this same place but not alone, 
 A fair young form was nestled near me, 
 
 A dear, dear face looked fondly up, 
 And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me 
 
 There's no one now to share my cup. 
 
 I drink it as the Fates ordain it. 
 
 Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes : 
 Fill up the lonely glass, and drain it 
 
 In memory of dear old times. 
 Welcome the wine, whate'er the seal is ; 
 
 And sit you down and say your grace 
 With thankful heart, whate'er the meal is. 
 
 Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse !
 
 68 
 
 CHRISTMAS is here : 
 Winds whistle shrill, 
 Icy and chill, 
 Little care we : 
 Little we fear 
 Weather without, 
 Sheltered about 
 The Mahogany Tree. 
 
 Once on the boughs 
 Birds of rare plume 
 Sang, in its bloom ; 
 Night-birds are we : 
 Here we carouse, 
 Singing like them, 
 Perched round the stem 
 Of the jolly old tree. 
 
 Here let us sport, 
 Boys, as we sit ; 
 Laughter and wit 
 Flashing so free. 
 Life is but short 
 When we are gone, 
 Let them sing on 
 Round the old tree.
 
 THE MAHOGANY T'REE. 
 
 Evenings we knew, 
 Happy as this ; 
 Faces we miss, 
 Pleasant to see. 
 
 6 9 
 
 Kind hearts and true, 
 Gentle and just, 
 Peace to your dust ! 
 We sing round the tree. 
 
 Care, like a dun, 
 Lurks at the gate :
 
 70 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 Let the dog wait ; 
 Happy we'll be ! 
 Drink, every one ; 
 Pile up the coals, 
 Fill the red bowls, 
 Round the old tree ! 
 
 Drain we the cup. 
 Friend, art afraid ? 
 Spirits are laid 
 In the Red Sea. 
 Mantle it up ; 
 Empty it yet ; 
 Let us forget, 
 Round the old tree. 
 
 Sorrows, begone ! 
 Life and its ills, 
 Duns and their bills, 
 Bid we to flee. 
 Come with the dawn, 
 Blue-devil sprite, 
 Leave us to-night, 
 Round the old tree.
 
 " A surgeon of the United States army says, that on inquiring of the captain of his 
 company, he found that nine-tenths of the men had enlisted on account of some female 
 difficulty." Morning Paper. 
 
 YE Yankee volunteers ! 
 It makes my bosom bleed 
 When I your story read, 
 
 Though oft 'tis told one. 
 So in both hemispheres 
 The women are untrue, 
 And cruel in the New, 
 
 As in the Old one ! 
 
 What in this company 
 
 Of sixty sons of Mars, 
 
 Who march 'neath Stripes and Stars 
 
 With fife and horn, 
 Nine-tenths of all we see 
 Along the warlike line 
 Had but one cause to join 
 
 This Hope Forlorn ?
 
 72 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 Deserters from the realm 
 Where tyrant Venus reigns, 
 You slipp'd her wicked chains, 
 
 Fled and outran her. 
 And now, with sword and helm, 
 Together banded are 
 Beneath the Stripe- and Star- 
 
 Embroider'd banner ! 
 
 And is it so with all 
 
 The warriors ranged in line, 
 
 With lace bedizen'd fine 
 
 And swords gold-hilted ? 
 Yon lusty corporal, 
 Yon colour-man who gripes 
 The flag of Stars and Stripes 
 
 Has each been jilted ? 
 
 Come, each man of this line, 
 The privates strong and tall, 
 " The pioneers and all," 
 
 The fifer nimble 
 Lieutenant and Ensign 
 Captain with epaulets, 
 And Blacky there, who beats 
 
 The clanging cymbal. 
 
 O cymbal-beating black, 
 Tell us, as thou canst feel, 
 Was it some Lucy Neal 
 Who caused thy ruin ?
 
 THE YANKEE VOLUNTEERS. 73 
 
 O nimble fifing Jack, 
 And drummer making din 
 So deftly on the skin, 
 
 With thy rat-tat-tooing- - 
 
 Confess, ye volunteers, 
 Lieutenant and Ensign, 
 And Captain of the line, 
 
 As bold as Roman 
 Confess, ye grenadiers, 
 However strong and tall, 
 The Conqueror of you all 
 
 Is Woman, Woman ! 
 
 No corselet is so proof 
 
 But through it from her bow 
 
 The shafts that she can throw 
 
 Will pierce and rankle. 
 No champion e'er so tough 
 But 's in the struggle thrown, 
 And tripp'd and trodden down 
 
 By her slim ankle. 
 
 i 
 
 Thus always it was ruled : 
 And when a woman smiled, 
 The strong man was a child, 
 
 The sage a noodle. 
 Alcides was befool'd, 
 And silly Samson shorn, 
 Long, long ere you were born, 
 
 Poor Yankee Doodle !
 
 74 
 
 " I AM Miss Catherine's book," the Album speaks ; 
 " I've lain among your tomes these many weeks ; 
 I'm tired of their old coats and yellow cheeks. 
 
 " Quick, Pen ! and write a line with a good grace : 
 
 Come ! draw me off a funny little face ; 
 
 And, prithee, send me back to Chesham Place." 
 
 PEN. 
 
 " I am my master's faithful old Gold Pen ; 
 
 I've served him three long years, and drawn since then 
 
 Thousands of funny women and droll men.
 
 THE PEN AND THE ALBUM. 75 
 
 " O Album ! could I tell you all his ways 
 
 And thoughts, since I am his, these thousand days, 
 
 Lord, how your pretty pages I'd amaze ! " 
 
 ALBUM. 
 
 " His ways ? his thoughts ? Just whisper me a few ; 
 Tell me a curious anecdote or two, 
 And write 'em quickly off, good Mordan, do ! " 
 
 PEN. 
 
 " Since he my faithful service did engage 
 To follow him through his queer pilgrimage, 
 I've drawn and written many a line and page. 
 
 "Caricatures I scribbled have, and rhymes, 
 And dinner-cards, and picture pantomimes, 
 And merry little children's books at times. 
 
 " I've writ the foolish fancy of his brain ; 
 
 The aimless jest that, striking, hath caused pain ; 
 
 The idle word that he'd wish back again. 
 
 " I've helped him to pen many a line for bread ; 
 
 To joke, with sorrow aching in his head ; 
 
 And make your laughter when his own heart bled. 
 
 " I've spoke with men of all degree and sort 
 Peers of the land, and ladies of the Court ; 
 Oh, but I've chronicled a deal of sport ! 
 
 " Feasts that were ate a thousand days ago, 
 Biddings to wine that long hath ceased to flow, 
 Gay meetings with good fellows long laid low ;
 
 76 '* THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 " Summons to bridal, banquet, burial, ball, 
 Tradesman's polite reminders of his small 
 Account due Christmas last I've answer'd all. 
 
 " Poor Diddler's tenth petition for a half- 
 Guinea ; Miss Bunyan's for an autograph ; 
 So I refuse, accept, lament, or laugh, 
 
 " Condole, congratulate, invite, praise, scoff, 
 Day after day still dipping in my trough, 
 And scribbling pages after pages off.
 
 THE PEN AND THE ALBUM. 77 
 
 " Day after day the labour's to be done, 
 And sure as come the postman and the sun, 
 The indefatigable ink must run. 
 
 " Go back, my pretty little gilded tome, 
 To a fair mistress and a pleasant home, 
 Where soft hearts greet us vvhensoe'er we come ! 
 
 " Dear friendly eyes, with constant kindness lit, 
 However rude my verse, or poor my wit, 
 Or sad or gay my mood, you welcome it. 
 
 " Kind lady ! till my last of lines is penn'd, 
 My master's love, grief, laughter, at an end, 
 Whene'er I write your name, may I write friend ! 
 
 " Not all are so that were so in past years ; 
 Voices, familiar once, no more he hears ; 
 Names, often writ, are blotted out in tears. 
 
 " So be it : joys will end and tears will dry 
 
 Album ! my master bids me wish good-bye, 
 He'll send you to your mistress presently. 
 
 "And thus with thankful heart he closes you : 
 Blessing the happy hour when a friend he knew 
 So gentle, and so generous, and so true. 
 
 " Nor pass the words as idle phrases by ; 
 
 Stranger ! I never writ a flattery, 
 
 Nor sign'd the page that register'd a lie."
 
 IN tattered old slippers that toast at the bars, 
 And a ragged old jacket perfumed with cigars, 
 Away from the world and its toils and its cares, 
 I've a snug little kingdom up four pair of stairs. 
 
 To mount to this realm is a toil, to be sure, 
 
 But the fire there is bright and the air rather pure ; 
 
 And the view I behold on a sunshiny day 
 
 Is grand through the chimney-pots over the way. 
 
 This snug little chamber is cramm'd in ail nooks 
 
 With worthless old knicknacks and silly old books, 
 
 And foolish old odds and foolish old ends, 
 
 Crack'd bargains from brokers, cheap keepsakes from friends. 
 
 Old armour, prints, pictures, pipes, china (all crack'd), 
 
 Old rickety tables, and chairs broken -backed; 
 
 A twopenny treasury, wondrous to see ; 
 
 What matter ? 'tis pleasant to you, friend, and me. 
 
 No better divan need the Sultan require, 
 Than the creaking old sofa that basks by the fire ; 
 And 'tis wonderful, surely, what music you get 
 From the rickety, ramshackle, wheezy spinet. 
 
 That praying-rug came from a Turcoman's camp ; 
 By Tiber once twinkled that brazen old lamp ; 

 
 CANE- BOTTOMED CHAIR. 79 
 
 A Mameluke fierce yonder dagger has drawn : 
 'Tis a murderous knife to toast muffins upon. 
 
 Long, long through the hours, and the night, and the chimes, 
 Here we talk of old books, and old friends, and old times ; 
 As we sit in a fog made of rich Latakie 
 This chamber is pleasant to you, friend, and me. 
 
 But of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest, 
 There's one that I love and I cherish the best : 
 For the finest of couches that's padded with hair 
 I never would change thee, my cane-bottom'd chair. 
 
 'Tis a bandy-legg'd, high-shoulder'd, worm-eaten seat, 
 With a creaking old back, and twisted old feet ; 
 But since the fair morning when Fanny sat there, 
 I bless thee and love thee, old cane-bottom'd chair. 
 
 If chairs have but feeling, in holding such charms, 
 
 A thrill must have passed through your witherd old arms ! 
 
 I look'd, and I long'd, and I wish'd in despair ; 
 
 I wish'd myself turn'd to a cane-bottom'd chair. 
 
 It was but a moment she sat in this place, 
 
 She'd a scarf on her neck, and a smile on her face J 
 
 A smile on her face, and a rose in her hair, 
 
 And she sat there and bloom'd in my cane-bottom'd chair. 
 
 And so I have valued my chair ever since, 
 
 Like the shrine of a saint, or the throne of a prince 
 
 Saint Fanny, my patroness sweet I declare, 
 
 The queen of my heart and my cane-bottom'd chair. 
 
 When the candles burn low, and the company's gone, 
 In the silence of night as I sit here alone
 
 8o THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 I sit here alone, but we yet are a pair 
 My Fanny I see in my cane-bottom'd chair. 
 
 She comes from the past and revisits my room ; 
 She looks as she then did, all beauty and bloom ; 
 So smiling and tender, so fresh and so fair, 
 And yonder she sits in my cane-bottom'd chair.
 
 8i 
 
 
 THE rose upon my balcony the morning air perfuming, 
 Was leafless all the winter time and pining for the spring ; 
 You ask me why her breath is sweet, and why her cheek is 
 
 blooming : 
 It is because the sun is out and birds begin to sing. 
 
 The nightingale whose melody is through the greenwood 
 
 ringing, 
 Was silent when the boughs were bare and winds were blowing 
 
 keen : 
 
 And if, mamma, you ask of me the reason of his singing, 
 It is because the sun is out and all the leaves are green. 
 
 Thus each performs his part, mamma : the birds have found 
 
 their voices, 
 
 The blowing rose a flush, mamma, her bonny cheek to dye ; 
 And there's sunshine in my heart, mamma, which wakens and 
 
 rejoices, 
 
 And so I sing and blush, mamma, and thu's the reason why. 
 G
 
 82 
 
 "Quand vous serez bien vieille, au soir a la chandelle, 
 Assise aupres du feu devisant et filant, 
 Direz, chantant mes vers en vous esmerveillant : 
 Ronsard me celebroit du temps que j'etois belle." 
 
 SOME winter night, shut snugly in 
 Beside the faggot in the hall, 
 
 I think I see you sit and spin, 
 Surrounded by your maidens all.
 
 RONSARD TO HJS MlS TRESS. 83 
 
 Old tales are told, old songs are sung, 
 
 Old days come back to memory ; 
 You say, " When I was fair and young, 
 
 A poet sang of me ! " 
 
 There's not a maiden in your hall, 
 
 Though tired and sleepy ever so, 
 But wakes, as you my name recall, 
 
 And longs the history to know. 
 And, as the piteous tale is said, 
 
 Of lady cold and lover true, 
 Each, musing, carries it to bed, 
 
 And sighs and envies you ! 
 
 " Our lady's old and feeble now," 
 
 They'll say ; " she once was fresh and fair, 
 And yet she spurn'd her lover's vow, 
 
 And heartless left him to despair : 
 The lover lies in silent earth, 
 
 No kindly mate the lady cheers : 
 She sits beside a lonely hearth, 
 
 With threescore and ten years ! " 
 
 Ah ! dreary thoughts and dreams are those. 
 
 But wherefore yield me to despair, 
 While yet the poet's bosom glows, 
 
 While yet the dame is peerless fair ? 
 Sweet lady mine ! while yet 'tis time 
 
 Requite my passion and my truth, 
 And gather in their blushing prime 
 
 The roses of your youth ! 
 
 G 2
 
 ALTHOUGH I enter not, 
 Yet round about the spot 
 
 Ofttimes I hover ; 
 And near the sacred gate, 
 With longing eyes I wait, 
 
 Expectant of her. 
 
 The Minster bell tolls out 
 Above the city's rout, 
 
 And noise and humming
 
 AT THE CHURCH GATE. 85 
 
 They've hush'd the Minster bell : 
 The organ 'gins to swell : 
 
 She's coming, she's coming ! 
 
 My lady comes at last, 
 Timid, and stepping fast, 
 
 And hastening hither, 
 With modest eyes downcast : 
 She comes she's here she's past - 
 
 May heaven go with her ! 
 
 Kneel, undisturbed, fair Saint ! 
 Pour out your praise or plaint 
 
 Meekly and duly ; 
 I will not enter there, 
 To sully your pure prayer 
 
 With thoughts unruly. 
 
 But suffer me to pace 
 Round the forbidden place, 
 
 Lingering a minute 
 Like outcast spirits who wait 
 And see through heaven's gate 
 
 Angels within it.
 
 86 
 
 Ho, pretty page, with the dimpled chin, 
 
 That never has known the barber's shear, 
 All your wish is woman to win, 
 This is the way that boys begin, 
 Wait till you come to Forty Year. 
 
 Curly gold locks cover foolish brains, 
 
 Billing and cooing is all your cheer ; 
 Sighing and singing of midnight strains, 
 Under Bonnybell's window panes, 
 Wait till you come to Forty Year.
 
 THE AGE OF WISDOM, 87 
 
 Forty times over let Michaelmas pass, 
 Grizzling hair the brain doth clear 
 
 Then you know a boy is an ass, 
 
 Then you know the worth of a lass, 
 Once you have come to Forty Year. 
 
 Pledge me round, I bid ye declare, 
 
 All good fellows whose beards are grey, 
 
 Did not the fairest of the fair 
 
 Common grow and wearisome ere 
 Ever a month was passed away ? 
 
 The reddest lips that ever have kissed, 
 The brightest eyes that ever have shone, 
 
 May pray and whisper, and we not list, 
 
 Or look away, and never be missed, 
 Ere yet ever a month is gone. 
 
 Gillian's dead, God rest her bier, 
 How I loved her twenty years syne ! 
 
 Marian's married, but I sit here 
 
 Alone and merry at Forty Year, 
 
 Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine.
 
 
 BY fate's benevolent award, 
 
 Should I survive the day, 
 I'll drink a bumper with my lord 
 
 Upon the last of May. 
 
 That I may reach that happy time 
 
 The kindly gods I pray, 
 For are not ducks and peas in prime 
 
 Upon the last of May ? 
 
 At thirty boards, 'twixt now and then, 
 
 My knife and fork shall play ; 
 But better wine and better men 
 
 I shall not meet in May. 
 
 And though, good friend, with whom I dine, 
 
 Your honest head is grey, 
 And, like this grizzled head of mine, 
 
 Has seen its last of May ; 
 
 Yet, with a heart that's ever kind, 
 
 A gentle spirit gay, 
 You've spring perennial in your mind, 
 
 And round you make a May !
 
 8 9 
 
 IDoe in the Qty - f" 
 
 
 LITTLE KITTY LORIMER, 
 
 Fair, and young, and witty, 
 What has brought your ladyship 
 
 Rambling to the City ? 
 
 All the stags in Capel Court 
 
 Saw her lightly trip it ; 
 All the lads of Stock Exchange 
 
 Twigg'd her muff and tippet. 
 
 With a sweet perplexity, 
 
 And a mystery pretty, 
 Threading through Threadneedle Street 
 
 Trots the little Kitty.
 
 90 THACKERAY'S POEMS, 
 
 What was my astonishment 
 What was my compunction, 
 
 When she reached the Offices 
 Of the Didland Junction ! 
 
 Up the Didland stairs she went. 
 
 To the Didland door, Sir ; 
 Porters, lost in wonderment, 
 
 Let her pass before, Sir. 
 
 " Madam," says the old chief Clerk, 
 " Sure we can't admit ye." 
 
 "Where's the Didland Junction deed?" 
 Dauntlessly says Kitty. 
 
 "If you doubt my honesty, 
 Look at my receipt, Sir." 
 
 Up then jumps the old chief Clerk, 
 Smiling as he meets her. 
 
 Kitty at the table sits 
 
 (Whither the old Clerk leads her), 
 " I deliver this" she says, 
 
 " As my act and deed, St'r." 
 
 When I heard these funny words 
 Come from lips so pretty, 
 
 This, I thought, should surely be 
 Subject for a ditty. 
 
 What ! are ladies stagging it ? 
 
 Sure, the more's the pity ; 
 But I've lost my heart to her,- 
 
 Naughty little Kitty.
 
 9 1 
 
 I |MB 
 
 WERTHER had a love for Charlotte 
 Such as words could never utter ; 
 
 Would you know how first he met her ? 
 She was cutting bread and butter. 
 
 Charlotte was a married lady, 
 And a moral man was Werther, 
 
 And, for all the wealth of Indies, 
 Would do nothing for to hurt her. 
 
 So he sighed and pined and ogled, 
 And his passion boiled and bubbled, 
 
 Till he blew his silly brains out, 
 And no more was by it troubled. 
 
 Charlotte, having seen his body 
 Borne before her on a shutter, 
 
 Like a well-conducted person, 
 
 Went on cutting bread and butter.
 
 AH ! bleak and barren was the moor, 
 
 Ah ! loud and piercing was the storm, 
 The cottage roof was sheltered sure, 
 
 The cottage hearth was bright and warm. 
 An orphan boy the lattice pass'd, 
 
 And, as he marked its cheerful glow, 
 Felt doubly keen the midnight blast, 
 
 And doubly cold the fallen snow. 
 
 They mark'd him as he onward press'd, 
 
 With fainting heart and weary limb ; 
 Kind voices bade him turn and rest, 
 
 And gentle faces welcomed him. 
 The dawn is up the guest is gone, 
 
 The cottage hearth is blazing still : 
 Heaven pity all poor wanderers lone ! 
 
 Hark to the wind upon the hill !
 
 93 
 
 BESIDE the old hall-fire upon my nurse's knee, 
 
 Of happy fairy days what tales were told to me ! 
 
 I thought the world was once all peopled with princesses, 
 
 And my heart would beat to hear their loves and their 
 
 distresses ; 
 
 And many a quiet night, in slumber sweet and deep, 
 The pretty fairy people would visit me in sleep. 
 
 I saw them in my dreams come flying east and west, 
 With wondrous fairy gifts the new-born babe they bless'd ; 
 One has brought a jewel and one a crown of gold, 
 And one has brought a curse but she is wrinkled and old. 
 The gentle Queen turns pale to hear those words of sin, 
 But the King he only laughs and bids the dance begin. 
 
 The babe has grown to be the fairest of the land, 
 And rides the forest green a hawk upon her hand, 
 An ambling palfrey white a golden robe and crown : 
 I've seen her in my dreams riding up and down : 
 And heard the ogre laugh as she fell into his snare, 
 At the little tender creature who wept and tore her hair ! 
 
 But ever when it seemed her need was at the sorest, 
 
 A prince in shining mail comes prancing through the forest, 
 
 A waving ostrich-plume a buckler burnished bright ; 
 
 I've seen him in my dreams good sooth ! a gallant knight 
 
 His lips are coral red beneath a dark moustache; 
 
 See how he waves his hand and how his blue eyes flash !
 
 94 
 
 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 " Come forth, thou Paynim knight ! " he shouts in accents 
 
 clear. 
 
 The giant and the maid both tremble his voice to hear. 
 Saint Mary guard him well ! he draws his falchion keen, 
 The giant and the knight are fighting on the green. 
 I see them in my dreams his blade gives stroke on stroke, 
 The giant pants and reels and tumbles like an oak ! 
 
 With what a blushing grace he falls upon his knee 
 
 And takes the lady's hand and whispers, " You are free ! " 
 
 Ah ! happy childish tales of knight and faerie ! 
 
 I waken from my dreams but there's ne'er a knight for me ! 
 
 I waken from my dreams and wish that I could be 
 
 A child by the old hall-fire upon my nurse's knee !
 
 95 
 
 Jjllieme- 
 
 LILLE : Sept. 2. 1843. 
 My heart is weary, my peace is gone. 
 
 How shall I e'er my woes reveal ? 
 I have no money, I lie in fawn, 
 
 A stranger in t/ie town of Lille. 
 
 I. 
 
 WITH twenty pounds but three weeks since 
 From Paris forth did Titmarsh wheel, 
 
 I thought myself as rich a prince 
 As beggar poor I'm now at Lille. 
 
 Confiding in my ample means 
 
 In troth, I was a happy chiel ! 
 I passed the gates of Valenciennes, 
 
 I never thought to come by Lille. 
 
 I never thought my twenty pounds 
 
 Some rascal knave would dare to steal ; 
 
 I gaily passed the Belgic bounds 
 
 At Quievrain, twenty miles from Lille. 
 
 To Antwerp town I hastened post, 
 And as I took my evening meal, 
 I felt my pouch, my purse was lost, 
 
 Heaven ! Why came I not by Lille ? 
 
 I straightway called for ink and pen, 
 To grandmamma I made appeal ; 
 Meanwhile a loan of guineas ten 
 
 1 borrowed from a friend so leal. 
 
 I got the cash from grandmamma 
 
 (Her gentle heart my woes could feel),
 
 96 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 But where I went, and what I saw, 
 What matters ? Here I am at Lille. 
 
 My heart is weary, my peace is gone, 
 How shall I e'er my woes reveal ? 
 
 I have no cash, I lie in pawn, 
 A stranger in the town of Lille. 
 
 ii. 
 To stealing I can never come, 
 
 To pawn my watch I'm too genteel : 
 Besides, I left my watch at home 
 
 How could I pawn it then at Lille ? 
 
 " La note" at times the guests will say. 
 
 I turn as white as cold boil'd veal ; 
 I turn and look another way, 
 
 / dare not ask the bill at Lille. 
 
 I dare not to the landlord say, 
 
 " Good sir, I cannot pay your bill ; " 
 
 He thinks I am a Lord Anglais, 
 And is quite proud I stay at Lille. 
 
 He thinks I am a Lord Anglais, 
 Like Rothschild or Sir Robert Peel, 
 
 And so he serves me every day 
 
 The best of meat and drink in Lille. 
 
 Yet when he looks me in the face 
 I blush as red as cochineal ; 
 
 And think, did he but know my case, 
 How changed he'd be, my host of Lille.
 
 TITMARSH'S CARMEN LILLIENSE. 
 
 My heart is weary, my peace is gone, 
 How shall I e'er my woes reveal ? 
 
 I have no money, I lie in pawn, 
 A stranger in the town of Lille. 
 
 97 
 
 in. 
 
 The sun bursts out in furious blaze, 
 I perspirate from head to heel ; 
 
 I'd like to hire a one-horse chaise 
 How can I, without cash at Lille !
 
 9 8 THACKERAY'S POEMS, 
 
 I pass in sunshine burning hot 
 By cafes where in beer they deal ; 
 
 I think how pleasant were a pot, 
 A frothing pot of beer of Lille ! 
 
 What is yon house with walls so thick, 
 All girt around with guard and grille? 
 
 O gracious gods ! it makes me sick, 
 It is the prison-house of Lille ! 
 
 cursed prison, strong and barred, 
 It does my very blood congeal ! 
 
 1 tremble as I pass the guard, 
 
 And quit that ugly part of Lille. 
 
 The church-door beggar whines and prays, 
 
 I turn away at his appeal : 
 Ah, church-door beggar ! go thy ways ! 
 
 You're not the poorest man in Lille. 
 
 My heart is weary, my peace is gone, 
 How shall I e'er my woes reveal ? 
 
 I have no money, I lie in pawn, 
 A stranger in the town of Lille. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Say, shall I to yon Flemish church, 
 And at a Popish altar kneel ? 
 
 Oh, do not leave me in the lurch, 
 I'll cry, ye patron saints of Lille ! 
 
 Ye virgins dressed in satin hoops, 
 Ye martyrs slain for mortal weal,
 
 
 TITMARSH'S CARMEN LILLIENSE. 99 
 
 Look kindly down ! before you stoops 
 The miserablest man in Lille ! 
 
 And lo ! as I beheld with awe 
 
 A pictured saint (I swear 'tis real), 
 
 It smiled, and turned to grandmamma i 
 It did ! and I had hope in Lille ! 
 
 'Twas five o'clock, and I could eat, 
 Although I could not pay my meal : 
 
 I hasten back into the street 
 
 Where lies my inn, the best in Lille. 
 
 What see I on my table stand, 
 
 A letter with a well-known seal ? 
 Tis grandmamma's ! I know her hand, 
 
 "To Mr. M. A. Titmarsh, Lille." 
 
 I feel a choking in my throat, 
 
 I pant and stagger, faint and reel ! 
 
 It is it is a ten-pound note, 
 
 And I'm no more in pawn at Lille ! 
 
 [He goes off by the diligence that evening, and is restored to the bosom 
 of his happy family.]
 
 COME all ye gents vot cleans the plate, 
 
 Come all ye ladies' maids so fair- 
 Vile I a story vill relate 
 
 Of cruel Jeames of Buckley Square. 
 A tighter lad, it is confest, 
 
 Neer valked with powder in his air, 
 Or vore a nosegay in his breast, 
 
 Than andsum Jeames of Buckley Square. 
 
 O Evns ! it vas the best of sights, 
 
 Behind his Master's coach and pair, 
 To see our Jeames in red plush tights, 
 
 A driving hoff from Buckley Square. 
 He vel became his hagwilletts, 
 
 He cocked his at with such a hair ; 
 His calves and viskers vas such pets, 
 
 That hall loved Jeames of Buckley Square. 
 
 He pleased the hupstairs folks as veil, 
 
 And o ! I vithered vith despair, 
 Missis vould ring the parler bell, 
 
 And call up Jeames in Buckley Square. 
 Both beer and sperrits he abhord 
 
 (Sperrits and beer I can't a bear), 
 You would have thought he vas a lord 
 
 Down in our All in Buckley Square.
 
 JEAMES OF BUCKLEY SQUARE. 
 
 Last year he visper'd, " Mary Ann, 
 Ven I've an under'd pound to spare, 
 
 To take a public is my plan, 
 
 And leave this hojous Buckley Square." 
 
 101 
 
 O how my gentle heart did bound, 
 
 To think that I his name should bear ! 
 
 " Dear Jeames," says I, " I've twenty pound," 
 And gev them him in Buckley Square. 
 
 Our master vas a City gent, 
 
 His name's in railroads everywhere,
 
 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 And lord, vot lots of letters vent 
 
 Betwigst his brokers and Buckley Square ! 
 My Jeames it was the letters took, 
 
 And read them all (I think it's fair), 
 And took a leaf from Master's book, 
 
 As hothers do in Buckley Square. 
 
 Encouraged with my twenty pound, 
 
 Of which poor / was unavare, 
 He wrote the Companies all round, 
 
 And signed hisself from Buckley Square. 
 And how John Porter used to grin, 
 
 As day by day, share after share, 
 Came railvay letters pouring in : 
 
 " J. Plush, Esquire, in Buckley Square." 
 
 Our servants' All was in a rage 
 
 Scrip, stock, curves, gradients, bull and bear, 
 Vith butler, coachman, groom and page, 
 
 Vas all the talk in Buckley Square. 
 But O ! imagine vot I felt 
 
 Last Vensday veek as ever were ; 
 I gits a letter, which I spelt 
 
 " Miss M. A, Hoggins, Buckley Square." 
 
 He sent me back my money true 
 
 He sent me back my lock of air, 
 And said, " My dear, I bid ajew 
 
 To Mary Hann and Buckley Square. 
 Think not to marry, foolish Hann, 
 
 With people who your betters are :
 
 JEAMES OF BUCKLEY SQUARE. 
 
 James Plush is now a gentleman, 
 
 And you a cook in Buckley Square. 
 
 " I've thirty thousand guineas won, 
 
 In six short months, by genus rare ; 
 You little thought what Jeames was on, 
 
 Poor Mary Hann, in Buckley Square. 
 I've thirty thousand guineas net, 
 
 Powder and plush I scorn to vear ; 
 And so, Miss Mary Hann, forget 
 
 For never Jeames of Buckley Square." 
 
 103
 
 104 
 
 THE castle towers of Bareacres are fair upon the lea, 
 Where the cliffs of bonnie Diddlesex rise up from out the sea. 
 I stood upon the donjon keep and view'd the country o'er, 
 I saw the lands of Bareacres for fifty miles or more.
 
 LIXES UPON My SISTER'S PORTRAIT. 105 
 
 I stood upon the donjon keep it is a sacred place, 
 Where floated for eight hundred years the banner of my race ; 
 Argent, a dexter sinople, and gules an azure field ; 
 
 There ne'er was nobler cognisance on knightly warrior's shield. 
 
 
 
 The first time England saw the shield'twas round a Norman neck, 
 On board a ship from Valery, King William was on deck. 
 A Norman lance the colours wore, in Hastings' fatal fray 
 " St. Willibald for Bareacres ! " 'twas double gules that day ! 
 O Heaven and sweet Saint Willibald ! in many a battle since 
 A loyal-hearted Bareacres has ridden by his Prince ! 
 At Acre with Plantagenet, with Edward at Poictiers, 
 The pennon of the Bareacres was foremost on the spears ! 
 
 'Twas pleasant in the battle shock to hear our war-cry ringing ; 
 O grant me, sweet Saint Willibald, to listen to such singing ! 
 Three hundred steel-clad gentlemen, we drove the foe before us, 
 And thirty score of British bows kept twanging to the chorus ! 
 O knights, my noble ancestors ! and shall I never hear 
 "Saint Willibald for Bareacres ! " through battle ringing clear ? 
 I'd cut me off this strong right hand a single hour to ride, 
 And strike a blow for Bareacres, my fathers, at your side ! 
 
 Dash down, dash down yon mandolin, beloved sister mine ! 
 Those blushing lips may never sing the glories of our line : 
 Our ancient castles echo to the clumsy feet of churls, 
 The spinning-jenny houses in the mansion of our Earls. 
 Sing not, sing not, my Angeline ! in days so base and vile, 
 'Twere sinful to be happy, 'twere sacrilege to smile. 
 I'll hie me to my lonely hall, and by its cheerless hob 
 I'll muse on other days, and wish and wish I were A SNOB.
 
 io6 
 
 The Three Sal Ions * 
 
 THERE were three sailors in Bristol city 
 Who took a. boat and went to sea. 
 
 But first with beef and captain's biscuit 
 And pickled pork they loaded she. 
 
 There was guzzling Jack and gorging Jimmy, 
 And the youngest he was little Bil-/y. 
 
 Now very soon they were so greedy, 
 They didn't leave not one split pea. 
 
 Says guzzling Jack to gorging Jimmy, 
 " I am confounded hung-ery." 
 
 Says gorging Jim to guzzling Jacky, 
 
 " We have no wittles, so we must eat we. 
 
 Says guzzling Jack to gorging Jimmy, 
 " Oh ! gorging Jim, what a fool you be ! 
 
 "There's little Bill as is young and tender, 
 We're old and tough so let's eat he." 
 
 " Oh ! Bill, we're going to kill and eat you, 
 So undo the collar of your chemie." 
 
 When Bill he heard this information, 
 He used his pocket handkerchie. 
 
 The original version of " Little Billee." It was printed in " Sand 
 and Canvas ; a Narrative of Adventures in Egypt, with a Sojourn among 
 the Artists in Rome." By Samuel Beran. London: Charles Gilpin, 
 5, Bishopsgate Street Without, 1849.
 
 w/* 
 
 When liilt he liea^rd ^S 
 
 this infonnabkan 
 He used his pocket haodkcrdiie
 
 Tnz THREE SAILORS. icy 
 
 " Oh ! let me say my catechism, 
 As my poor mammy taught to me." 
 
 " Make haste, make haste," says guzzling Jacky, 
 Whilst Jim pulled out his snicker-snee. 
 
 So Bill went up the maintop-gallant mast, 
 When down he fell on his bended knee. 
 
 He scarce had said his catechism, 
 
 When up he jumps; "There's land I see: 
 
 " There's Jerusalem and Madagascar, 
 And North and South 
 
 " There's the British fleet a-nding at anchor, 
 With Admiral Napier, K.C.B." 
 
 So when they came to the Admiral's vessel, 
 He hanged fat Jack and flogged Jim-wj'. 
 
 But as for little Bill, he made him 
 The Captain of a Seventy-three.
 
 no 
 
 " SAY, whose can yonder chariot be 
 That thunders on so fast ; 
 
 And who was he that sat within ? 
 I marked him as he past." 
 
 " 'Twas Arthur, Duke of Wellington, 
 
 Who in that chariot sat, 
 All in his martial cloak, and in 
 
 His proudly-plumed cocked-hat." 
 
 " Not Arthur, Duke of Wellington, 
 That poster fierce could be, 
 
 Nor yet a living nobleman . 
 Some Demon Duke is he." 
 
 " Twas he to Folkestone he is bound, 
 To town by rail to wend ;
 
 THE FLYING DUKE. in 
 
 Wherefrom to Windsor he must hie, 
 A Council to attend." 
 
 With whizz and whistle, snort and puff, 
 
 The Duke is borne to town, 
 Nor stops until near London Bridge 
 
 The train hath set him down. 
 
 There waits a brougham on Wellington : 
 
 To Apsley House he flies, 
 Whereat a messenger in red 
 
 Doth meet his Grace's eyes. 
 
 " How now, thou scarlet messenger ; 
 
 Thy tidings briefly tell." 
 " The Queen invites your Grace to dine 
 
 To-morrow." 
 
 "Very well." 
 
 To Paddington by cab, to Slough 
 
 By steam away, away ! 
 To Windsor, thence, he goes by fly ; 
 
 But there he must not stay 
 
 For that his Grace at Walmer hath 
 
 A tryst this night to keep ; 
 And he hath warned his serving-men 
 
 He shall be back to sleep. 
 
 The Council's o'er; back posts his Grace, 
 
 As fast as fast might be. 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! well speeds the Duke 
 
 He'll be in time for tea.
 
 ii2 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 The morrow comes ; again away 
 
 The noble Duke is gone 
 To Folkestone, and to London Bridge, 
 
 And thence to Paddington. 
 
 " Away, away to Paddington, 
 
 As fast as ye can drive ; 
 'Twixt eight and nine the Queen doth dine : 
 
 Be there by half-past five." 
 
 Fast have they fled, right fleetly sped, 
 
 And Paddington is won. 
 " How, office-swain, about the train ? " 
 
 " 'Tis just this instant gone." 
 
 " Your Grace, we just have missed the train, 
 
 It grieveth me to say." 
 " To Apsley House ! " then cried the Duke, 
 
 " As quickly as you may." 
 
 The loud halloo of "Go it, you ! " 
 Beneath the gas-light's glare, 
 
 O'er wood and stone they rattle on, 
 As fast as they can tear. 
 
 On, on they went, with hue and cry, 
 
 Until the Duke got home, 
 The axle-trees on fire well nigh, 
 
 The horses in a foam. 
 
 Out stepp'd the Duke, serene and cool, 
 
 And calmly went upstairs, 
 And donn'd the dress, the which, at Court, 
 
 He generally wears.
 
 THE FLY i KG DUKE. 
 
 " \Vindsor I may not reach in time 
 To make my toilet there ; 
 
 So thus the hour I will employ, 
 Which I, perforce, must spare. 
 
 
 What is't o'clock ? " " Your Grace, near seven." 
 " Then bear me hence again ;
 
 ii4 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 And mark me this time take good care 
 You do not miss the train." 
 
 Off, off again, the coachman drives, 
 
 With fury fierce and fell, 
 'Mid whoop and shout from rabble rout, 
 
 And oath, and scream, and yell. 
 
 To right and left a way they cleft 
 
 Amid the bustling throng ; 
 While, meteor-like, the carriage-lamps 
 
 Flash'd as they flew along. 
 
 Hurrah ! Hurrah ! the station's nigh 
 " What ho, there ! Shout amain ! 
 
 Here comes the Duke, he's going down ; 
 Give word to stop the train." 
 
 The engineer and stoker hear ; 
 
 Duke Arthur takes his place ; 
 Behold him now, on way to Slough, 
 
 Borne at a whirlwind's pace. 
 
 " At Slough who stops ? " His Grace out pops. 
 
 His ticket is resigned. 
 '' To Windsor haste, like felon chased, 
 
 Or I shall be behind." 
 
 Off bounds the hack, while, far aback, 
 The night-hawk plies his wing ; 
 
 The race is run, the Castle's won, 
 " Come, this is just the thing."
 
 THE FLYING DUKE. 
 
 At half-past eight, for Queens don't wait, 
 
 The noble guests appear 
 In banquet-hall ; and of them all 
 
 The Duke brings up the rear. 
 
 MORAL. 
 
 " 'Tis money," as the proverb says, 
 " That makes the mare to go." 
 
 The Duke has cash to cut a dash ; 
 Would we could all do so ! 
 
 I 2
 
 n6 
 
 SMITH 
 
 A VETERAN gent, just stepped out of a boat, 
 In a tattered old hat and a ragged pea-coat, 
 Appeared at a shop whither many folks run, 
 And that was the Palace of Moses and Son. 
 
 A respectable dame with the mariner went, 
 Most likely the wife of this veteran gent, 
 And the eyes of the pair were excited with won- 
 der on seeing the mansion of Moses and Son. 
 
 " I've look'd upon many a palace before, 
 But splendour like this, love, I never yet sor ! " 
 This party exclaimed. "What a great sum of mon- 
 ey it sure must have cost Messrs. Moses and Son ! " 
 
 In the language of France his good lady replied, 
 " This house is well known through the universe wide ; 
 And you, my dear Philip, to seed having run, 
 Had better refit with E. Moses and Son." 
 
 E. Moses stepped forth with a bow full of grace, 
 Inviting the couple to enter his place : 
 He thought they were poor but the poor are not done, 
 And the rich are not fleeced by E. Moses and Son. 
 
 " What clothes can I serve you to-day, my good man ? " 
 E. Moses exclaimed : " You shall pay what you can ; 
 The peer or the peasant, we suit every one ; 
 Republicans true are E. Moses and Son."
 
 InvdTing 1 tfic- couple- 
 enter his
 
 MR. SMITH AND MOSES. 119 
 
 The pea-coated gent at that word made a start, 
 And looked nervously round at the goods of our mart : 
 " A vest, coat, and trousers, as soon as they're done, 
 I want, //'/ vous plait, Messieurs Moses and Son. 
 
 " I once was a king, like the monarch of Room, 
 
 But was forced from my throne and came off in a Br m ; 
 
 And in such a great hurry from P-r-s I run, 
 
 I forgot my portmanteau, dear Moses and Son." 
 
 " Dear sir," we exclaimed, " what a lucky escape ! " 
 So one brought the patterns, another the tape ; 
 And while with our patterns his " peepers " we stun, 
 The gent is quick measured by Moses and Son. 
 
 The clothes when complete we direct in a hurry 
 
 " Smith, Esquire, at Prince Leopold's, Claremont, in 
 
 Surrey." 
 
 The cloth was first-rate, and the fit such a one 
 As only is furnished by Moses and Son. 
 
 As he paces the valley or roams in the grove, 
 
 All cry, " What a very respectable cove ! " 
 
 How changed in appearance from him who late run 
 
 From Paris to refuge with Moses and Son. 
 
 Now who was this " veteran gent," sirs, E. Moses, 
 Although he may " guess," yet he never discloses. 
 Do you wish to know more, gents ? if you do, why then run 
 To Aldrate and ask of E. Moses and Son.
 
 THE feoDDYLEMT BurtER- 
 
 C; 
 
 MR. PUNCH, SIR, The abuv is the below ritten Pome, on a subjecof grate delicasy, 
 wich as a butler, I feel it a disgrase to the cloth that any man calling hisself a butler, 
 should go for to git wind on false pretences, and such wind (as reported in the papers of 
 Tuesday last), from Richmond ; and in justice to self and feller servants have expressed 
 my feelins in potry, wich as you ave prevously admitted to your entertainin columns 
 pomes by a futman (and also a pleaceman), I think you ave a right to find a plaice for a 
 pome by a butler, wich I beg to subscribe myself your constant reder, 
 
 JOHN CORKS. 
 
 14 Lushington Place West, Belgravy. 
 
 IT'S all of one John George Montresor, 
 And Briggs, Esquire, his master kind, 
 
 This retch, all for his privat plesure, 
 Did froddylently order wind. 
 
 To Mister Ellis, Richmond, Surrey, 
 Where Briggs, Esquire, he did reside, 
 
 This wicked John druv in a urry, 
 On June the fust and tenth beside. 
 
 And then, this mene and shabby feller 
 
 To Mister Ellis did remark, 
 Briggs ad gone out and took the cellar 
 
 Kee away across the Park ; 
 
 And cumpny comeng on a suddent, 
 Ad stayed to dine with Missis B., 
 
 Whereby in course the butler cooden't 
 Get out the wind without the kee. 
 
 So Missis B. she would be werry 
 
 Much obliged if e'd send in 
 Arf a dozen best brown sherry, 
 
 And single bottel 'Ollans gin.
 
 THE FRODDYLENT BUTLER. 
 
 But this was nothink but a story as 
 This wicked butler went and told, 
 
 Whereby for nothink to get glorious, 
 Wich so he did, and grew more bold. 
 
 121 
 
 Until, at last grown more audashus, 
 He goes and orders, wat d'ye think ? 
 
 He goes and orders, goodness grashus ! 
 Marsaly, wind no gent can drink.
 
 122 THACKERAY'S POEMS, 
 
 It wasn't for his private drinkin 
 For that he'd Briggses wine enuff 
 
 But, wen the sherry bins was sinkin 
 He filled 'em with this nasty stough. 
 
 And Briggs, Esquire, at is own label 
 (To rite such things my art offends) 
 
 Might ave to drink, if he was abul, 
 Marsaly wind, hisself and frends ! 
 
 But praps John ne'er to tabel brort it, 
 And used it in the negus line ; 
 
 Or praps the raskal, when he bort it, 
 Knew Briggs was not a judge of wind. 
 
 At all ewents, all thro' the seson 
 This villin plaid these orrid games. 
 
 For butlers to commit such treson, 
 I'm sure it is the wust of shames. 
 
 But masters, tho soft, has there senses, 
 And roges, tho sharp, are cotcht at last ; 
 
 So Briggs, Esquire, at last commenses 
 To find his wind goes werry fast. 
 
 Once, when the famly gev a party, 
 
 Shampain, in course, the bankwet crown'd 
 
 And Briggs, Esquire, so kind and arty, 
 He ordered John to and it round. 
 
 No wind in general's drunk more quicker, 
 But now his glass no gent would drane ; 
 
 When Briggs, on tastin, found the licker 
 Was British arf-a-crown Shampain !
 
 THE FRODDYLEXT BUTLER. 
 
 That they'd not drink it was no wunder, 
 A dredful look did Briggs assoom, 
 
 And ordered, with a voice of thunder, 
 The retched butler from the room. 
 
 123 
 
 Then, rushin edlong to the cellar, 
 Regardless if he broke is shins, 
 
 He found wot tricks the wicked feller 
 Had been a playin with the binns.
 
 124 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 Of all his prime old sherry, raelly 
 There wasent none to speke of there, 
 
 And Mr. Ellis's Marsaly 
 
 Was in the place the sherry were. 
 
 Soon after that the wicked feller's 
 
 Crimes was diskivered clear and clene, 
 
 By the small akount of Mr. Ellis, 
 For lickers, twenty pound fifteen. 
 
 And not content with thus embezzlin 
 His master's wind, the skoundrel had 
 
 The Richmond tradesmen all been chizzlin, 
 An' a doin' every think that's bad. 
 
 Whereby on Toosday, Janwry thirty, 
 
 As is reported in the Times, 
 He wor ad up for his conduc dirty 
 
 And dooly punished for his crimes. 
 
 So masters, who from such base fellers 
 Would keep your wind upon your shelves. 
 
 This int accept If you have cellars, 
 Always to mind the kee yourselves. 

 
 '25 
 
 WINTER and summer, night and morn, 
 I languish at this table dark ; 
 
 My office window has a corn- 
 er looks into St. James's Park. 
 
 I hear the foot-guards' bugle horn, 
 Their tramp upon parade I mark ; 
 
 I am a gentleman forlorn, 
 I am a Foreign-Office Clerk. 
 
 My toils, my pleasures, every one, 
 
 I find are stale, and dull, and slow ; 
 And yesterday, when work was done, 
 
 I felt myself so sad and low, 
 I could have seized a sentry's gun 
 
 My wearied brains out, out to blow. 
 What is it makes my blood to run ? 
 
 What makes my heart to beat and glow ? 
 
 My notes of hand are burnt, perhaps ? 
 
 Some one has paid my tailor's bill ? 
 No : every morn the tailor raps, 
 
 My I O U's are extant still.
 
 126 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 I still am prey of debt and dun ; 
 
 My elder brother's stout and well. 
 What is it makes my blood to run ? 
 
 What makes my heart to glow and swell ? 
 
 I know my chiefs distrust and hate ; 
 
 He says I'm lazy, and I shirk. 
 Ah ! had I genius like the late 
 
 Right Honourable Edmund Burke ! 
 My chance of all promotion's gone, 
 
 I know it is, he hates me so. 
 What is it makes my blood to run, 
 
 And all my heart to swell and glow ? 
 
 Why, why is all so bright and gay ? 
 
 There is no change, there is no cause ; 
 My office-time I found to-day 
 
 Disgusting as it ever was. 
 At three, I went and tried the Clubs, 
 
 And yawned and saunter'd to and fro ; 
 And now my heart jumps up and throbs, 
 
 And all my soul is in a glow. 
 
 At half-past four I had the cab ; 
 I drove as hard as I could go. 
 
 The London sky was dirty drab, 
 And dirty brown the London snow. 
 
 And as I rattled in a cant- 
 er down by dear old Bolton Row, 
 
 .A something made my heart to pant, 
 
 And caused my cheek to flush and glow.
 
 THE MAYFAIR LOVE-SONG. 
 
 What could it be that made me find 
 Old Jawkins pleasant at the Club ? 
 
 Why was it that I laughed and grinned 
 At whist, although I lost the rub ? 
 
 127 
 
 What was it made me drink like mad 
 Thirteen small glasses of Cura^oa ? 
 
 That made my inmost heart so glad, 
 And every fibre thrill and glow ?
 
 128 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 She's home again ! she's home, she's home ! 
 
 Away all cares and griefs and pain ; 
 I knew she would she's back from Rome ; 
 
 She's home again ! she's home again ! 
 " The family's gone abroad," they said, 
 
 September last they told me so ; 
 Since then my lonely heart is dead, 
 
 My blood, I think's forgot to flow. 
 
 She's home again ! away all care ! 
 
 O fairest form the world can show ! 
 O beaming eyes ! O golden hair ! 
 
 O tender voice that breathes so low ! 
 O gentlest, softest, purest heart ! 
 
 O joy, O hope ! " My tiger, ho ! " 
 Fitz-Clarence said ; we saw him start 
 
 He galloped down to Bolton Row.
 
 I 2f) 
 
 I WAS a timid little antelope ; 
 
 My home was in the rocks, the lonely rocks. . 
 
 I saw the hunters scouring on the plain ; 
 I lived among the rocks, the lonely rocks. 
 
 I was a-thirsty in the summer-heat ; 
 
 I ventured to the tents beneath the rocks. 
 
 Zuleikah brought me water from the well ; 
 Since then I have been faithless to the rocks. 
 
 I saw her face reflected in the well ; 
 
 Her camels since have marched into the rocks. 
 
 I look to see her image in the well ; 
 I only see my eyes, my own sad eyes. 
 My mother is alone among the rocks.
 
 1 3 o 
 
 ZULEIKAH ! The young Agas in the bazaar are slim-waisted 
 and wear yellow slippers. I am old and hideous. One of my 
 eyes is out, and the hairs of my beard are mostly grey. Praise 
 be to Allah ! I am a merry bard. 
 
 There is a bird upon the terrace of the Emir's chief wife. 
 Praise be to Allah ! He has emeralds on his neck, and a ruby 
 tail. I am a merry bard. He deafens me with his diabolical 
 screaming. 
 
 There is a little brown bird in the basket-maker's cage. 
 Praise be to Allah ! He ravishes my soul in the moonlight. 
 I am a merry bard. 
 
 The peacock is an Aga, but the little bird is a Bulbul. 
 
 I am a little brown Bulbul. Come and listen in the moon- 
 light. Praise be to Allah ! I am a merry bard.
 
 YONDER to the kiosk, beside the creek, 
 
 Paddle the swift caique. 
 
 Thou brawny oarsman with the sunburnt cheek, 
 
 Quick ! for it soothes my heart to hear the Bulbul speak. 
 
 Ferry me quickly to the Asian shores, 
 
 Swift bending to your oars. 
 
 Beneath the melancholy sycamores, 
 
 Hark ! what a ravishing note the love-lorn Bulbul pours. 
 
 Behold ! the bows seem quivering with delight, 
 
 The stars themselves more bright, 
 
 As 'mid the waving branches out of sight 
 
 The Lover of the Rose sits singing through the night. 
 
 Under the boughs I sat and listened still, 
 I could not have my fill. 
 
 " How comes," I said, " such music to his bill ? 
 Tell me for whom he sings so beautiful a trill." 
 
 " Once I was dumb," then did the Bird disclose, 
 " But looked upon the Rose ; 
 And in the garden where the loved one grows, 
 I straightway did begin sweet music to compose." 
 
 " O bird of song, there's one in this cai'que 
 The Rose would also seek ; 
 So he might learn like you to love and speak." 
 Then answered me the bird of dusky beak, 
 "The Rose, the Rose of Love blushes on Leilah's cheek.' 
 J 2
 
 I 3 2 
 
 BENEATH the gold acacia buds 
 My gentle Nora sits and broods, 
 Far, far away in Boston woods, 
 
 My gentle Ndra ! 
 
 I see the tear-drop in her e'e, 
 Her bosom's heaving tenderly ; 
 I know I know she thinks of me, 
 
 My darling Nora ! 
 
 And where am I ? My love, whilst thou 
 Sitt'st sad beneath the acacia bough, 
 Where pearls on neck, and wreath on brow, 
 I stand, my Nora !
 
 My NORA. 133 
 
 'Mid carcanet and coronet, 
 
 Where joy-lamps shine and flowers are set 
 
 Where England's chivalry are met, 
 
 Behold me, Nora ! 
 
 In this strange scene of revelry, 
 Amidst this gorgeous chivalry, 
 A form I saw was like to thee, 
 
 My love, my Nora ! 
 
 She paused amidst her converse glad ; 
 The lady saw that I was sad, 
 She pitied the poor lonely lad, 
 
 Dost love her, Nora ? 
 
 In sooth, she is a lovely dame, 
 
 A lip of red, an eye of flame, 
 
 And clustering golden locks, the same 
 
 As thine, dear Nora ! 
 
 Her glance is softer than the dawn's, 
 Her foot is lighter than the fawn's, 
 Her breast is whiter than the swan's, 
 
 Or thine, my Nora ! 
 
 Oh, gentle breast to pity me ! 
 Oh, lovely Ladye Emily ! 
 Till death till death I'll think of thee 
 Of thee and Nora !
 
 134 
 
 I SEEM, in the midst of the crowd, 
 
 The lightest of all : 
 My laughter rings cheery and loud 
 
 In banquet and ball. 
 My lip hath its smiles and its sneers, 
 
 For all men to see ; 
 But my soul, and my truth, and my tears 
 
 Are for thee, are for thee ! 
 
 Around me they flatter and fawn 
 
 The young and the old, 
 The fairest are ready to pawn 
 
 Their hearts for my gold. 
 They sue me I laugh as I spurn 
 
 The slaves at my knee ; 
 But in faith and in fondness I turn 
 
 Unto thee, unto thee !
 
 135 
 
 Now the toils of day are over, 
 And the sun hath sunk to rest, 
 
 Seeking, like a fiery lover, 
 
 The bosom of the blushing West 
 
 The faithful night keeps watch and ward, 
 Raising the moon her silver shield, 
 
 And summoning the stars to guard 
 The slumbers of my fair Mathilde ! 
 
 The faithful night, now all things lie 
 Hid by her mantle dark and dim, 
 
 In pious hope I hither hie, 
 
 And humbly chant mine evening hymn. 
 
 Thou art my prayer, my saint, my shrine ! 
 
 (For never holy pilgrim kneel'd 
 Or wept at feet more pure than thine), 
 
 My virgin love, my sweet Mathilde !
 
 136 
 
 Four German Otttie.* 
 
 's war Einer, dem's zu Herzen gieng.'' 
 
 THERE lived a sage in days of yore, 
 And he a handsome pigtail wore ; 
 But wondered much and sorrowed more 
 Because it hung behind him.
 
 A TRAGIC STORY. 137 
 
 He mused upon this curious case, 
 
 And swore he'd change the pigtail's place, 
 
 And have it hanging at his face, 
 
 Not dangling there behind him. 
 
 Says he, " The mystery I've found, 
 I'll turn me round," he turned him round ; 
 But still it hung behind him. 
 
 Then round, and round, and out and in, 
 All day the puzzled sage did spin ; 
 In vain it mattered not a pin, 
 The pigtail hung behind him. 
 
 And right, and left, and round about, 
 And up and down, and in and out, 
 He turned ; but still the pigtail stout 
 Hung steadily behind him. 
 
 And though his efforts never slack, 
 And though he twist, and twirl, and tack, 
 Alas ! still faithful to his back, 
 
 The pigtail hangs behind him.
 
 '38 
 
 FROM UHLAND. 
 " Es pfliickte Bliimlein mannigfalt." 
 
 A LITTLE girl through field and wood 
 Went plucking flowerets here and there, 
 
 When suddenly beside her stood 
 A lady wondrous fair. 
 
 The lovely lady smiled and laid 
 A wreath upon the maiden's brow : 
 
 " Wear it ; 'twill blossom soon," she said, 
 "Although 'tis leafless now."
 
 THE CHAPLET. 139 
 
 The little maiden older grew 
 
 And wandered forth of moonlight eves, 
 And sighed and loved as maids will do ; 
 
 When, lo ! her wreath bore leaves. 
 
 Then was our maid a wife, and hung 
 
 Upon a joyful bridegroom's bosom ; 
 When from the garland's leaves there sprung 
 
 Fair store of blossom. 
 
 And presently a baby fair 
 
 Upon her gentle breast she reared ; 
 When midst the wreath that bound her hair 
 
 Rich golden fruit appeared. 
 
 But when her love lay cold in death, 
 
 Sunk in the black and silent tomb, 
 All sere and withered was the wreath 
 
 That wont so bright to bloom. . 
 
 Yet still the withered wreath she wore ; 
 
 She wore it at her dying hour ; 
 When, lo ! the wondrous garland bore 
 
 Both leaf, and fruit, and flower !
 
 140 
 
 FROM UHLAND. 
 " Da liegen sie alle, die grauen Hohen." 
 
 THE cold grey hills they bind me around, 
 The darksome valleys lie sleeping below, 
 
 But the winds, as they pass o'er all this ground, 
 Bring me never a sound of woe. 
 
 Oh ! for all I have suffered and striven, 
 Care has embittered my cup and my feast ; 
 
 But here is the night and the dark blue heaven, 
 And my soul shall be at rest.
 
 THE KING ON THE TOWER. 141 
 
 O golden legends writ in the skies ! 
 
 I turn towards you with longing soul, 
 And list to the awful harmonies 
 
 Of the Spheres as on they roll 
 
 My hair is grey and my sight nigh gone ; 
 
 My sword it rusteth upon the wall ; 
 Right have I spoken, and right have I done ; 
 
 When shall I rest me once for all ? 
 
 O blessed rest ! O royal night ! 
 
 Wherefore seemeth the time so long 
 Till I see yon stars in their fullest light, 
 
 And list to their loudest song ?
 
 142 
 
 To a. 
 Very Old Wom&n 
 
 LA MOTTE FOUQu 
 
 " Und Du gingst einst, die Myrt' itn Haare." 
 
 AND thou wert once a maiden fair, 
 
 A blushing virgin warm and young : 
 With myrtles wreathed in golden hair, 
 And glossy brow that knew no care 
 Upon a bridegroom's arm you hung. 
 
 The golden locks are silvered now, 
 
 The blushing cheek is pale and wan ;
 
 To A VERY OLD WOMAN. 
 
 The spring may bloom, the autumn glo\v, 
 All's one in chimney corner thou 
 Sitt'st shivering on. 
 
 A moment and thou sink'st to rest ! 
 To wake perhaps an angel blest 
 
 In the bright presence of thy Lord. 
 Oh, weary is life's path to all ! 
 Hard is the strife, and light the fall, 
 But wondrous the reward ! 
 
 '43
 
 144 
 
 THERE was a king of Yvetot, 
 
 Of whom renown hath little said, 
 Who let all thoughts of glory go, 
 
 And dawdled half his days abed ; 
 And every night, as night came round, 
 By Jenny with a nightcap crowned, 
 
 Slept very sound : 
 Sing ho, ho, ho ! and he, he, he ! 
 That's the kind of king for me 
 
 And every day it came to pass, 
 
 That four lusty meals made he ; 
 And, step by step, upon an ass, 
 
 Rode abroad his realms to see ; 
 And wherever he did stir, 
 What think you was his escort, sir ? 
 
 Why, an old cur. 
 Sing ho, ho, ho ! and he, he, he ! 
 That's the kind of king for me. 
 
 If e'er he went into excess, 
 
 ; Twas from a somewhat lively thirst ; 
 But he who would his subjects bless, 
 
 Odd's fish ! must wet his whistle first ;
 
 THE KING OF Y^ETOT. 
 
 And so from every cask they got, 
 Our king did to himself allot 
 At least a pot. 
 
 Sing ho, ho, ho ! and he, he, he ! 
 
 That's the kind of king for me. 
 
 To all the ladies of the land, 
 
 A courteous king, and kind, was he- 
 The reason why, you'll understand, 
 
 They named him Pater Patruu.
 
 146 THACKERAY'S 
 
 Each year he called his fighting men, 
 And marched a league from home, and then 
 Marched back again. 
 
 Sing ho, ho, ho ! and he, he, he ! 
 
 That's the kind of king for me. 
 
 Neither by force nor false pretence, 
 
 He sought to make his kingdom great, 
 And made (O princes, learn from hence) 
 
 " Live and let live," his rule of state. 
 'Twas only when he came to die, 
 That his people who stood by, 
 
 Were known to cry. 
 Sing ho, ho, ho ! and he, he, he ! 
 That's the kind of king for me. 
 
 The portrait of this best of kings 
 
 Is extant still, upon a sign 
 That on a village tavern swings, 
 
 Famed in the country for good wine. 
 The people in their Sunday trim, 
 Filling their glasses to the brim, 
 
 Look up to him, 
 
 Singing ha, ha, ha ! and he, he, he ! 
 That's the sort of king for me.
 
 147 
 
 THERE was a king in Brentford of whom no legends tell, 
 But who, without his glory, could eat and sleep right well. 
 His Polly's cotton nightcap it was his crown of state, 
 He slept of evenings early and rose of mornings late. 
 
 All in a fine mud palace, each day he took four meals, 
 And for a guard of honour a dog ran at his heels, 
 Sometimes, to view his kingdoms rode forth this monarch good, 
 And then a prancing jackass he royally bestrode. 
 
 There were no costly habits with which this king was curst, 
 Except (and where's the harm on't ?) a somewhat lively thirst ; 
 But people must pay taxes and kings must have their sport, 
 So out of every gallon His Grace he took a quart. 
 
 He pleased the ladies round him, with manners soft and bland ; 
 With reason good, they named him the father of his land. 
 Each year his mighty armies marched forth in gallant show ; 
 Their enemies were targets their bullets they were tow. 
 
 He vexed no quiet neighbour no useless conquest made, 
 But by the laws of pleasure his peaceful realm he swayed. 
 And in the years he reigned through all this country wide, 
 There was no cause for weeping save when the good man died. 
 K 2
 
 148 
 
 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 The faithful men of Brentford do still their king deplore, 
 His portrait yet is swinging beside an alehouse door. 
 
 And topers, tender-hearted, regard his honest phiz, 
 And envy times departed that knew a reign like his.
 
 THE 
 
 WITH pensive eyes the little room I view, 
 
 Where, in my youth, I weathered it so long, 
 With a wild mistress, a staunch friend or two, 
 
 And a light heart still breaking into song : 
 Making a mock of life and all its cares, 
 
 Rich in the glory of my rising sun, 
 Lightly I vaulted up four pair of stairs, 
 
 In the brave days when I was twenty-one. 
 
 Yes ; 'tis a garret let him know't who will 
 There was my bed full hard it was and small ; 
 
 My table there and I decipher still 
 
 Half a lame couplet charcoaled on the wall.
 
 150 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 Ye joys, that Time hath swept with him away, 
 Come to mine eyes, ye dreams of love and fun ; 
 
 For you I pawned my watch how many a day, 
 In the brave days when I was twenty -one. 
 
 And see my little Jessy, first of all ; 
 
 She conies with pouting lips and sparkling eyes : 
 Behold, how roguishly she pins her shawl, 
 
 Across the narrow casement, curtain-wise, 
 Now by the bed her petticoat glides down, 
 
 And when did woman look the worse in none? 
 I have heard since who paid for many a gown, 
 
 In the brave days when I was twenty-one. 
 
 One jolly evening, when my friends and I 
 
 Made happy music with our songs and cheers, 
 A shout of triumph mounted up thus high, 
 
 And distant cannon opened on our ears : 
 We rise, we join in the triumphant strain, 
 
 Napoleon conquers Austerlitz is won 
 Tyrants shall never tread us down again, 
 
 In the brave days when I was twenty-one. 
 
 Let us begone the place is sad and strange 
 
 How far, far off, these happy times appear ; 
 All that I have to live I'd gladly change 
 
 For one such month as I have wasted here 
 To draw long dreams of beauty, love, and power, 
 
 From founts of hope that never will outrun, 
 And drink all life's quintessence in an hour, 
 
 Give me the days when I was twenty-one.
 
 Jolty 
 
 
 WHKN fierce political debate 
 
 Throughout the isle was storming, 
 And Rads attacked the Throne and State, 
 
 And Tories the Reforming, 
 To calm the furious rage of each, 
 
 And right the land demented, 
 Heaven sent us Jolly Jack, to teach 
 
 The way to be contented. 
 
 Jack's bed was straw, 'twas warm and soft, 
 
 His chair, a three-legged stool : 
 His broken jug was emptied oft, 
 
 Yet, somehow, always full. 
 His mistress' portrait decked the wall, 
 
 His mirror had a crack ; 
 Yet, gay and glad, though this was all 
 
 His wealth, lived Jolly Jack. 
 
 To give advice to avarice, 
 
 Teach pride its mean condition, 
 And preach good sense to dull pretence, 
 
 Was honest Jack's high mission. 
 Our simple statesman found his rule 
 
 Of moral in the flagon, 
 And held his philosophic school 
 
 Beneath the " George and Dragon."
 
 i5 2 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 When village Solons cursed the Lords, 
 
 And called the malt-tax sinful, 
 Jack heeded not their angry words, 
 
 But smiled and drank his skinful. 
 And when men wasted health and life, 
 
 In search of rank and riches, 
 Jack marked aloof the paltry strife, 
 
 And wore his threadbare breeches. 
 
 " I enter not the Church," he said, 
 " But I'll not seek to rob it ! " 
 
 So worthy Jack Joe Miller read, 
 While others studied Cobbett.
 
 JOLLY JACK. 153 
 
 His talk it was of feast and fun ; 
 
 His guide the Almanack ; 
 From youth to age thus gaily run 
 
 The life of Jolly Jack. 
 
 And when Jack prayed, as oft he would, 
 
 He humbly thanked his Maker ; 
 " I am," said he, " O Father good ! 
 
 Nor Catholic nor Quaker : 
 Give each his creed, let each proclaim 
 
 His catalogue of curses ; 
 I trust in Thee, and not in them, 
 
 In Thee and in Thy mercies ! 
 
 " Forgive me if, 'midst all Thy works, 
 
 No hint I see of damning ; 
 And think there's faith among the Turks, 
 
 And hope for e'en the Brahmin. 
 Harmless my mind is, and my mirth, 
 
 And kindly is my laughter ; 
 I cannot see the smiling earth, 
 
 And think there's hell hereafter." 
 
 Jack died ; he left no legacy, 
 
 Save that his story teaches : 
 Content to peevish poverty ; 
 
 Humility to riches. 
 Ye scornful great, ye envious small, 
 
 Come follow in his track ; 
 We all were happier, if we all 
 
 Would copy Jolly Jack.
 
 154 
 
 DEAR Lucy, you know what my wish is,- 
 
 I hate all your Frenchified fuss : 
 Your silly entrees and made dishes 
 
 Were never intended for us. 
 No footman in lace and in ruffles 
 
 Need dangle behind my arm-chair ; 
 And never mind seeking for truffles, 
 
 Although they be ever so rare. 
 
 But a plain leg of mutton, my Lucy, 
 
 I prithee get ready at three : 
 Have it smoking, and tender, and juicy, 
 
 And what better meat can there be ? 
 And when it has feasted the master, 
 
 'Twill amply suffice for the maid ; 
 Meanwhile I will smoke my canaster, 
 
 And tipple my ale in the shade.
 
 '55 
 
 UNTRUE to my Ulric I never could be,* 
 
 I vow by the saints and the blessed Marie, 
 
 Since the desolate hour when we stood by the shore. 
 
 And your dark galley waited to carry yqu o'er : 
 
 My faith then I plighted, my love I confess'd, 
 
 As I gave you the Battle-axe marked with your Crest ! 
 
 When the bold barons met in my father's old hall, 
 Was not Edith the flower of the banquet and ball ? 
 In the festival hour, on the lips of your bride, 
 Was there ever a smile save with thee at my side ? 
 Alone in my turret I loved to sit best, 
 To blazon your Banner and broider your Crest 
 
 "WAPPING OLD STAIRS. 
 
 "Your Molly has never been false, she declares, 
 Since last time we parted at Wapping Old Stairs ; 
 When I said that I would continue the same, 
 And gave you the 'bacco-box marked with my name 
 When I passed a whole fortnight between decks with you, 
 Did I e'er give a kiss, Tom, to one of your crew ? 
 To be useful and kind to my Thomas I stay'd, 
 For his trousers I washed, and his grog too I made. 
 
 " Though you promised last Sunday to walk in the Mall 
 With Susan from Deptford and likewise with Sail, 
 In silence I stood your unkindness to hear, 
 And only upbraided r.iy Tom with a tear. 
 Why should Sail, or should Susan, than me be more prized ? 
 For the heart that is true, Tom, should ne'er be despised. 
 Then be constant and kind, nor your Molly forsake ; 
 Still your trousers I'll wash, and your grog too I'll make."
 
 i 5 6 
 
 THACKERAY*S POEMS. 
 
 The knights were assembled, the tourney was gay ! 
 
 Sir Ulric rode first in the warrior- melee. 
 
 In the dire battle-hour, when the tourney was done, 
 
 And you gave to another the wreath you had won ! 
 
 Though I never reproached thee, cold, cold was my breast, 
 
 As I thought of that Battle-axe, ah ! and that Crest ! 
 
 But away with remembrance, no more will I pine 
 That others usurped for a time what was mine ! 
 There's a festival hour for my Ulric and me : 
 Once more, as of old, shall he bend at my knee : 
 Once more by the side of the knight I love best 
 Shall I blazon his Banner and broider his Crest.
 
 YOUR Fanny was never false-hearted, 
 
 And this she protests and she vows. 
 From the triste moment when we parted 
 
 On the staircase of Devonshire House ! 
 I blushed when you asked me to marry, 
 
 I vowed I would never forget ; 
 And at parting I gave my dear Harry 
 
 A beautiful vinegarette ! 
 
 We spent en province all December, 
 
 And I ne'er condescended to look 
 At Sir Charles, or the rich county member, 
 
 Or even at that darling old Duke. 
 You were busy with dogs and with horses ; 
 
 Alone in my chamber I sat, 
 And made you the nicest of purses, 
 
 And the smartest black satin cravat ! 
 
 At night with that vile Lady Frances 
 
 (Jefaisats moi tapis serie) 
 You danced every one of the dances, 
 
 And never once thought of poor me ! 
 Man pauvre petit coeur ! what a shiver 
 
 I felt as she danced the last set ; 
 And you gave, O man Dieu ! to revive her 
 
 My beautiful vinegarette !
 
 158 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 Return, love away with coquetting : 
 This flirting disgraces a man ; 
 
 And ah ! all the while you're forgetting 
 The heart of your poor little Fan ! 
 
 Reviews ! break away from those Circes, 
 Reviens, for a nice little chat ; 
 
 And I've made you the sweetest of purses, 
 And a lovely black satin cravat !
 
 WHEN the moonlight's on the mountain 
 And the gloom is on the glen, 
 
 At the cross beside the fountain 
 There is one will meet thee then. 
 
 At the cross beside the fountain, 
 Yes, the cross beside the fountain, 
 
 There is one will meet thee then ! 
 
 I have braved, since first we met, love, 
 
 Many a danger in my course ; 
 But I never can forget, love, 
 
 That dear fountain, that old cross. 
 Where, her mantle shrouded o'er her 
 
 For the winds were chilly then 
 First I met my Leonora, 
 
 When the gloom was on the glen. 
 
 Many a clime I've ranged since then, love, 
 
 Many a land I've wandered o'er ; 
 But a valley like that glen, love, 
 
 Half so dear I never sor ! 
 Ne'er saw maiden fairer, coyer, 
 
 Than wert thou, my true love, when 
 In the gloaming first I saw yer, 
 
 In the gloaming of the glen !
 
 i6o 
 
 WHERE the quivering lightning flings 
 
 His arrows from out the clouds, 
 And the howling tempest sings 
 
 And whistles among the shrouds, 
 Tis pleasant, 'tis pleasant to ride 
 
 Along the foaming brine 
 Wilt be the Rover's bride ? 
 
 Wilt follow him, lady mine ? 
 Hurrah ! 
 
 For the bonny, bonny brine.
 
 THE RED FLAG. 161 
 
 Amidst the storm and rack, 
 
 You shall see our galley pass, 
 As a serpent, lithe and black, 
 
 Glides through the waving grass. 
 As the vulture, swift and dark, 
 
 Down on the ring-dove flies, 
 You shall see the Rover's bark 
 
 Swoop down upon his prixc. 
 Hurrah ! 
 
 For the bonny, bonny prize. 
 
 Over her sides we dash, 
 
 We gallop across her deck 
 Ha ! there's a ghastly gash 
 
 On the merchant-captain's neck 
 Well shot, well shot, old Ned ! 
 
 Well struck, well struck, black James ! 
 Our arms are red, and our foes are dead, 
 
 And we leave a ship in flames ! 
 Hurrah ! 
 
 For the bonny, bonny flames !
 
 l62 
 
 DEAR Jack, this white mug that with Guinness I fill, 
 And drink to the health of Sweet Nan of the Hill, 
 Was once Tommy Tosspot's, as jovial a sot 
 As e'er drew a spigot, or drain'd a full pot 
 In drinking all round 'twas his joy to surpass, 
 And with all merry tipplers he swigg'd off his glass. 
 
 One morning in summer while seated so snug, 
 In the porch of his garden, discussing his jug, 
 Stern Death, on a sudden, to Tom did appear, 
 And said, "Honest Thomas, come take your last bier." 
 We kneaded his clay in the shape of this can, 
 From which let us drink to the health of my Nan.
 
 1 6; 
 
 THE Pope he is a happy man, 
 
 His palace is the Vatican, 
 
 And there he sits and drains his can : 
 
 The Pope he is a happy man. 
 
 I often say when I'm at home, 
 
 I'd like to be the Pope of Rome. 
 
 And then there's Sultan Saladin, 
 That Turkish Soldan full of sin ; 
 He has a hundred wives at least, 
 By which his pleasure is increased : 
 I've often wished, I hope no sin, 
 That I were Sultan Saladin. 
 
 But no, the Pope no wife may choose, 
 And so I would not wear his shoes ; 
 No wine may drink the proud Paynim, 
 And so I'd rather not be him ! 
 My wife, my wine, I love, I hope, 
 And would be neither Turk nor Pope.
 
 164 
 
 WHEN moonlike ore the hazure seas 
 
 In soft effulgence swells, . 
 When silver jews and balmy breaze 
 
 Bend down the Lily's befls ; 
 When calm and deap, the rosy sleap 
 
 Has lapt your soal in dreems, 
 R Hangeline ! R lady mine ! 
 
 Dost thou remember Jeames ?
 
 WHEN MOON LIKE ORE THE HA/.URE SEA*>. 165 
 
 I mark thec in the Marble All, 
 
 Where England's loveliest shine 
 I say the fairest of them hall 
 
 Is Lady Hangeline. 
 My soul, in desolate eclipse, 
 
 With recollection teems 
 And then I hask, with weeping lips, 
 
 Dost thou remember Jeames? 
 
 Away ! I may not tell thee hall 
 
 This soughring heart endures- 
 There is a lonely sperrit-call 
 
 That Sorrow never cures ; 
 There is a little, little Star, 
 
 That still above me beams ; 
 It is the Star of Hope but ar ! 
 
 Dost thou remember Jeames?
 
 1 66 
 
 KING CANUTE was weary-hearted ; he had reigned for years a 
 
 score, 
 Battling, struggling, pushing, fighting, killing much and robbing 
 
 more ; 
 And he thought upon his actions, walking by the wild sea-shore. 
 
 'Tvvixt the Chancellor and Bishop walked the King with steps 
 
 sedate, 
 Chamberlains and grooms came after, silver-sticks and gold 
 
 sticks great, 
 Chaplains, aides-de-camp, and pages, all the officers of state. 
 
 Sliding after like a shadow, pausing when he chose to pause, 
 If a frown his face contracted, straight the courtiers dropped 
 
 their jaws ; 
 
 If to laugh the King was minded, out they burst in loud hee- 
 haws. 
 
 But that day a something vexed him, that was clear to old and 
 young : 
 
 Thrice his Grace had yawned at table, when his favourite glee- 
 men sung, 
 
 Once the Queen would have consoled him, but he bade her 
 hold her tongue. 
 
 " Something ails my gracious master," cried the Keeper of the 
 
 Seal. 
 " Sure, my Lord, it is the lampreys served to dinner, or the 
 
 veal ? "
 
 KING CANUTE. 167 
 
 "Psha!" exclaimed the angry monarch. " Keeper, 'tis not 
 that I feel. 
 
 " 'Tis the heart, and not the dinner, fool, that doth my rest 
 
 impair : 
 Can a king be great as I am, prithee, and yet know no 
 
 care? 
 Oh, I'm sick, and tired, and weary." Some one cried, " The 
 
 King's arm-chair ! " 
 
 Then towards the lacqueys turning, quick my Lord the Keeper 
 nodded, 
 
 Straight the King's great chair was brought him by two foot- 
 men able-bodied ; 
 
 Languidly he sank into it : it was comfortably wadded. 
 
 " Leading on my fierce companions," cried he, " over storm 
 
 and brine, 
 I have fought and I have conquered ! Where was glory like 
 
 to mine ? " 
 Loudly all the- courtiers echoed : " Where is glory like to 
 
 thine ? " 
 
 "What avail me all my kingdoms? Weary am I now and old; 
 Those fair sons I have begotten, long to see me dead and cold; 
 Would I were, and quiet buried underneath the silent mould ! 
 
 " Oh, remorse, the writhing serpent ! at my bosom tears and 
 
 bites ; 
 Horrid, horrid things I look on, though I put out all the 
 
 lights ; 
 Ghosts of ghastly recollections troop about my bed at nights.
 
 i68 
 
 TlIA CKERA Y 'S POEMS. 
 
 "Cities burning, convents blazing, red with sacrilegious fires ; 
 Mothers weeping, virgins screaming vainly for their slaughtered 
 
 sires. ''- 
 " Such a tender conscience," cries the Bishop, " every one 
 
 admires. 
 
 " But for such unpleasant bygones, cease, my gracious Lord, 
 
 to search, 
 
 They're forgotten and forgiven by our Holy Mother Church ; 
 Never, never does she leave her benefactors in the lurch.
 
 KING CANUTE. 169 
 
 " Look! the land is crowned with minsters, which your Grace's 
 
 bounty raised ; 
 Abbeys filled with holy men, where you and Heaven are daily 
 
 praised : 
 You, my Lord, to think of dying ! On my conscience I'm 
 
 amazed !" 
 
 " Xay, I feel," replied King Canute, " that my end is drawing 
 
 near." 
 " Don't say so," exclaimed the courtiers (striving each to 
 
 squeeze a tear). 
 "Sure your Grace is strong and lusty, and may live this fifty 
 
 year." 
 
 " Live these fifty years ! " the Bishop roared, with actions made 
 
 to suit. 
 " Are you mad, my good Lord Keeper, thus to speak of King 
 
 Canute ? 
 Men have lived a thousand years, and sure his Majesty will 
 
 do't. 
 
 " Adam, Enoch, Lamech, Cainan, Mahaleel, Methuselah, 
 Lived nine hundred years apiece, and mayn't the King as 
 
 well as they ? " 
 " Fervently," exclaimed the Keeper, "fervently I trust he may." 
 
 "He to die?" resumed the Bishop. "He a mortal like 
 
 to us ? 
 
 Death was not for him intended, though communis omnibus : 
 Keeper, you are irreligious for to talk and cavil thus.
 
 170 
 
 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 " \Yith his wondrous skill in healing ne'er a doctor can com- 
 pete, 
 
 Loathsome lepers, if he touch them, start up clean upon their 
 
 feet; 
 Surely he could raise the dead up, did his Highness think it 
 
 meet.
 
 KING CANUTE. 171 
 
 " Did not once the Jewish captain stay the sun upon the hill, 
 <\nd the while he slew the foemeh, bid the silver moon stand 
 
 still ? 
 So, no doubt, could gracious Canute, if it were his sacred will." 
 
 Alight I stay the sun above us, good Sir Bishop?" Canute 
 
 cried ; 
 
 "Could I bid the silver moon to pause upon her heavenly ride? 
 If the moon obeys my orders, sure I can command the tide. 
 
 "Will the advancing waves obey me, Bishop, if I make the 
 
 sign?" 
 Said the Bishop, bowing lowly, " Land and sea, my Lord, are 
 
 thine." 
 Canute turned towards the ocean " Back ! " he said, " thou 
 
 foaming brine. 
 
 " From the sacred shore I stand on, I command thee to 
 
 retreat ; 
 
 Venture not, thou stormy rebel, to approach thy master's seat : 
 Ocean, be thou still ! I bid thee come not nearer to my feet ! " 
 
 But the sullen ocean answered with a louder, deeper roar, 
 And the rapid waves drew nearer, falling sounding on the shore ; 
 Back the Keeper and the Bishop, back the King and courtiers 
 bore. 
 
 And he sternly bade them never more to kneel to human clay, 
 But alone to praise and worship That which earth and seas 
 
 obey ; 
 
 And his golden crown of empire never wore he from that day. 
 King Canute is dead and gone : Parasites exist alway.
 
 BEFORE I lost my five poor wits 
 
 I mind me of a Romish clerk, 
 
 Who sang how Care, the phantom dark, 
 
 Beside the belted horseman sits. 
 
 Methought I saw the grisly sprite 
 
 Jump up but now behind my Knight. 
 
 And though he gallop as he may, 
 I mark that cursed monster black 
 Still sits behind his honour's back, 
 1'ight squeezing of his heart alway. 
 Like two black Templars sit they there 
 Beside one crupper, Knight and Care. 
 
 No knight am I with pennoned speaf, 
 To prance upon a bold destrere : 
 I will not have black Care prevail 
 Upon my long-eared charger's tail ; 
 For lo ! I am a witless fool, 
 And lausjh at Grief and ride a mule.
 
 173 
 
 V. love the matin-chimes, which tell 
 
 The hour of prayer to sinner : 
 But better far's the mid-day bell, 
 
 Which speaks the hour of dinner ; 
 For when I see a smoking fish, 
 
 Or capon drown'd in gravy, 
 Or noble haunch on silver dish, 
 
 Full glad I sing my Ave.
 
 174 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 My pulpit is an alehouse bench, 
 
 Whereon I sit so jolly ; 
 A smiling rosy country wench 
 
 My saint and patron holy. 
 I kiss her cheek so red and sleek, 
 
 I press her ringlets wavy, 
 And in her willing ear I speak 
 
 A most religious Ave. 
 
 And if I'm blind, yet Heaven is kind, 
 
 And holy saints forgiving ; 
 For sure he leads a right good life 
 
 Who thus admires good living. 
 Above, they say, our flesh is air, 
 
 Our blood celestial ichor : 
 Oh, grant ! 'mid all the changes there, 
 
 They may not change our liquor !
 
 UNDER the stone you behold, 
 Buried, and coffined, and cold, 
 Lieth Sir Wilfrid the Bold. 
 
 Always he marched in advance, 
 Warring in Flanders and France, 
 Doughty with sword and with lance. 
 
 Famous in Saracen fight, 
 
 Rode in his youth the good knight, 
 
 Scattering Paynims in flight. 
 
 Brian, the Templar untrue, 
 Fairly in tourney he slew, 
 Saw Hierusalem too. 
 
 Now he is buried and gone, 
 Lying beneath the grey stone : 
 Where shall you find such a one ? 
 
 Long time his widow deplored, 
 Weeping the fate of her lord, 
 Sadly cut off by the sword. 
 
 When she was eased of her pain, 
 Came the good Lord Athelstane, 
 When her ladyship married again.
 
 i 7 6 
 
 i 
 
 KNOW ye the willow-tree 
 
 Whose grey leaves quiver, 
 Whispering gloomily 
 
 To yon pale river ? 
 Lady, at eventide 
 
 Wander not near it : 
 They say its branches hide 
 
 A sad, lost spirit '. 
 
 Once to the willow-tree 
 A maid came fearful ; 
 
 Pale seemed her cheek to be, 
 Her blue eye tearful.
 
 THE WILLO w- TREE. 177 
 
 Soon as she saw the tree, 
 
 Her step moved fleeter ; 
 No one was there ah me ! 
 
 No one to meet her ! 
 
 Quick beat her heart to hear 
 
 The far bells' chime 
 Toll from the chapel-tower 
 
 The trysting-time : 
 But the red sun went down 
 
 In golden flame, 
 And though she looked round, 
 
 Yet no one came ! 
 
 Presently came the night, 
 
 Sadly to greet her, 
 Moon in her silver light, 
 
 Stars in their glitter ; 
 Then sank the moon away 
 
 Under the billow, 
 Still wept the maid alone 
 
 There by the willow ! 
 
 Through the long darkness, 
 
 By the stream rolling, 
 Hour after hour went en 
 
 Tolling and tolling. 
 Long was the darkness, 
 
 Lonely and stilly ; 
 Shrill came the night-wind, 
 
 Piercing and chilly. 
 M
 
 178 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 Shrill blew the morning breeze, 
 
 Biting and cold, 
 Bleak peers the grey dawn 
 
 Over the wold. 
 Bleak over moor and stream 
 
 Looks the grey dawn, 
 Grey, with dishevelled hair, 
 Still stands the willow there 
 
 The maid is gone ! 
 
 Domine, Domine .' 
 
 Sing we a litany. 
 
 Sing for poor maiden-hearts broken and wear\ 
 Domine, Domine '. 
 
 Sing we a litany, 
 Wail we and weep we a wild Miserere !
 
 179 
 
 
 
 - 
 
 ANOTHER VERSION. 
 I. 
 
 LONG by the willow-trees 
 Vainly they sought her, 
 
 Wild rang the mother's screams 
 ( )'er the grey water : 
 
 "\Yhere is my lovely one? 
 Where is my daughter? 
 
 M 2 
 
 " Rouse thee, sir constable 
 Rouse thce and look ;
 
 i So THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 Fisherman, bring your net, 
 Boatman, your hook. 
 
 Beat in the lily beds, 
 Dive in the brook ! " 
 
 in. 
 Vainly the constable 
 
 Shouted and called her ; 
 Vainly the fisherman 
 
 Beat the green alder ; 
 Vainly he flung the net, 
 
 Never it hauled her ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Mother beside the fire 
 Sat, her nightcap in ; 
 
 Father, in easy-chair, 
 Gloomily napping, 
 
 When at the window-sill 
 Came a light tapping ! 
 
 v. 
 And a pale countenance 
 
 Looked through the casement, 
 Loud beat the mother's heart 
 
 Sick with amazement, 
 And at the vision which 
 
 Came to surprise her, 
 Shrieked in an agony 
 
 " Lor ! it's Elizar ! "
 
 THE WILLOW-TREE. 
 
 181 
 
 VI. 
 
 Yes, 'twas Elizabeth 
 Yes, 'twas their girl ; 
 
 Pale was her cheek, and her 
 
 Hair out of curl. 
 " Mother ! " the loving one, 
 
 Blushing, exclaimed, 
 " Let not your innocent 
 
 Lv/.y be blamed. 
 
 VII. 
 
 " Yesterday, going to Aunt 
 Jones's to tea,
 
 1 82 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 Mother, dear mother, I 
 Forgot the door-key ! 
 
 And as the night was cold, 
 And the way steep, 
 
 Mrs. Jones kept me to 
 Breakfast and sleep." 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Whether her Pa and Ma 
 
 Fully believed her, 
 That we shall never know ; 
 
 Stern they received her ; 
 And for the work of that 
 
 Cruel, though short, night, 
 Sent her to bed without 
 
 Tea for a fortnight. 
 
 IX. 
 MORAL. 
 
 Hey diddle diddlely, 
 Cat and the fidd/ety, 
 
 Maidens of England, take caution by she ! 
 Let love and suicide 
 Never tempt you aside, 
 
 And ahvays remember to take the door-key !
 
 ?V3 p 77i& POEM5 Of 
 
 as ^ 
 
 trie- MoLjQMY of 
 
 YE pathrons of janius, Minerva and Vanius, 
 Who sit on Parnassus, that mountain of snow, 
 
 Descind from your station and make observation 
 Of the Prince's pavilion in sweet Pimlico. 
 
 This garden, by jakurs, is forty poor acivs 
 
 (The garner he tould me, and sure ought to know), 
 
 And yet greatly bigger, in size and in figure, 
 Than the Phanix itself, seems the Park Pimlico.
 
 184 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 O 'tis there that the spoort is, when the Queen and the Court is 
 
 Walking magnanimous all of a row, 
 Forgetful what state is among the pataties 
 
 And the pine-apple gardens of sweet Pimlico. 
 
 There in blossoms odorous the birds sing a chorus 
 Of " God save the Queen " as they hop to and fro ; 
 
 And you sit on the binches and hark to the finches, 
 Singing melodious in sweet Pimlico. 
 
 There shuiting their phanthasies, they pluck polyanthuses 
 That round in the gardens resplindently grow, 
 
 Wid roses and jessimins, and other sweet specimins, 
 Would charm bould Linnayus in sweet Pimlico. 
 
 You see when you inther, and stand in the cinther, 
 Where the roses, and necturns, and collyflowers blow, 
 
 A hill so tremindous, it tops the top-windows 
 Of the elegant houses of famed Pimlico. 
 
 And when you've ascinded that precipice splindid 
 You see on its summit a wondtherful show 
 
 A lovely Swish building, all painting and gilding, 
 The famous Pavilion of sweet Pimlico. 
 
 Prince Albert of Flandthers, that Prince of Commandthcrs 
 (On whom my best blessings hereby I bestow), 
 
 With goold and vermilion has decked that Pavilion, 
 Where the Queen may take tay in her sweet Pimlico. 
 
 There's lines from John Milton the chamber all gilt on, 
 And pictures beneath them that's shaped like a bow ;
 
 THE Pi ML tco PAVILION. 185 
 
 I was greatly astounded to think that that Roundhead 
 Should find an admission to famed Pimlico. 
 
 lovely's each fresco, and most picturesque O ; 
 And while round the chamber astonished I L,O, 
 
 1 think Dan Maclise's it baits all the pieces 
 Surrounding the cottage of famed Pimlico. 
 
 Eastlake has the chimney (a good one to limn he), 
 And a vargin he paints with a sarpent below ; 
 
 While bulls, pigs, and panthers, and other enchanthers, 
 Are painted by Landseer in sweet Pimlico. 
 
 And nature smiles opposite, Stanfield he copies it ; 
 
 O'er Claude or Poussang sure 'tis he that may crow 
 But Sir Ross's best failure is small miniature 
 
 He shouldn't paint frescoes in famed Pimlico. 
 
 There's Leslie and Uwins has rather small doings ; 
 
 There's Dyce, as brave masther as England can show ; 
 And the flowers and the sthrawberries, sure he no dauber is, 
 
 That painted the panels of famed Pimlico. 
 
 In the pictures from VValther Scott, never a fault there's got, 
 Sure the marble's as natural as thrue Scaglio ; 
 
 And the Chamber Pompayen is sweet to take lay in, 
 And ait butther'd muffins in sweet Pimlico. 
 
 There's landscapes by Gruner, both solar and lunar, 
 Them two little Doyles, too, deserve a bravo ; 
 
 Wid de piece by young Townsend (for janius abounds in't) ; 
 And that's why he's shuited to paint Pimlico.
 
 1 86 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 That picture of Severn's is worthy of rever'nce, 
 But some I won't mintion is rather so so ; 
 
 For sweet philosophy, or crumpets and coffee, 
 O where's a Pavilion like sweet Pimlico ? 
 
 O to praise this Pavilion would puzzle Quintilian, 
 Daymosthenes, Brougham, or young Cicero ; 
 
 So, heavenly Goddess, d'ye pardon my modesty, 
 And silence, my lyre ! about sweet Pimlico.
 
 i8 7 
 
 The 
 
 WITH ganial foire 
 
 Thransfuse me loyre, 
 Ye sacred nympths of Pindus, 
 
 The whoile I sing 
 
 That wondthrous thing, 
 The Palace made of windows ! 
 
 Say, Paxton, truth, 
 
 Thou wondthrous youth, 
 What sthroke of art celistial, 
 
 What power was lint 
 
 You to invint 
 This combineetion cristial ? 
 
 O would before 
 
 That Thomas Moore, 
 Likewoise the late Lord Boyron, 
 
 Thim aigles sthrong 
 
 Of godlike song, 
 Cast oi on that cast oiron ! 
 
 And saw than walls, 
 
 And glittering halls, 
 Thim rising slendther columns, 
 
 Which I, poor pole, 
 
 Could not denote, 
 No, not in twinty vollums.
 
 1 88 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 My Muse's words 
 
 Is like the bird's 
 That roosts beneath the panes there 
 
 Her wings she spoils 
 
 'Gainst them bright toiles, 
 And cracks her silly brains there. 
 
 This Palace tall, 
 
 This Cristial Hall, 
 Which Imperors might covet, 
 
 Stands in High Park, 
 
 Like Noah's Ark, 
 A rainbow bint above it. 
 
 The towers and fanes, 
 
 In other scaynes, 
 The fame of this will undo, 
 
 Saint Paul's big doom, 
 
 Saint Payther's, Room, 
 And Dublin's proud Rotundo. 
 
 'Tis here that roams, 
 
 As well becomes 
 Her dignitee and stations, 
 
 Victoria Great, 
 
 And houlds in state 
 The Congress of the Nations. 
 
 Her subjects pours 
 From distant shores, 
 Her Injians and Canadians;
 
 THE CRYSTAL PALACE. 189 
 
 And also we, 
 Her kingdoms three, 
 Attind with our allagiance. 
 
 Here come likewise 
 
 Her bould allies, 
 Both Asian and Europian ; 
 
 From East and West 
 
 They send their best 
 To fill her Coornucopean. 
 
 I seen (thank Grace !) 
 
 This wondthrous place 
 (His Noble Honour Misther 
 
 H. Cole it was 
 
 That gave the pass, 
 And let me see what is there). 
 
 With conscious proide 
 
 I stud insoide 
 And look'd the World's Great Fair in, 
 
 Until me sight 
 
 Was dazzled quite, 
 And couldn't see for staring. 
 
 There's holy saints 
 
 And window paints, 
 By Maydiayvnl Pugin ; 
 
 Alhamborough Jones, 
 
 Did paint the tones, 
 Of yellow and gambouge in.
 
 190 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 There's fountains there 
 
 And crosses fair ; 
 There's water-gods with urrns ; 
 
 There's organs three, 
 . To play, d'ye see? 
 " God save the Queen," by turrns. 
 
 There's statues bright 
 
 Of marble white, 
 Of silver, and of copper ; 
 
 And some in zinc, 
 
 And some, I think, 
 That isn't over proper. 
 
 There's staym ingynes, 
 
 That stands in lines, 
 Enormous and amazing. 
 
 That squeal and snort 
 
 Like whales in sport, 
 Or elephants a-grazing. 
 
 There's carts and gigs, 
 
 And pins for pigs, 
 There's dibblers and there's harrows, 
 
 And ploughs like toys 
 
 For little boys, 
 And iligant wheelbarrows. 
 
 For thim genteels 
 Who ride on wheels, 
 There's plenty to indulge 'cm :
 
 Icok'd Hie. Worlds Qrtat Tzi-r m"
 
 THE CRYSTAL PALACE-. 
 
 There's droskys snug 
 From Paytersbug, 
 And vayhycles from Bulgium. 
 
 193 
 
 There's cabs on stands 
 
 And shandthrydanns ; 
 There's waggons from New York here ; 
 
 There's Lapland sleighs 
 
 Have cross'd the seas, 
 And jaunting cyars from Cork here.
 
 1 94 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 Amazed I pass 
 
 From glass to glass, 
 Deloighted I survey 'em ; 
 
 Fresh wondthers grows 
 
 Before me nose 
 In this sublime Musayum ! 
 
 Look, here's a fan 
 
 From far Japan, 
 A sabre from Damasco : 
 
 There's shawls ye get 
 
 From far Thibet, 
 And cotton prints from Glasgow. 
 
 There's German flutes, 
 
 Marocky boots, 
 And Naples macaronies ; 
 
 Bohaymia 
 
 Has sent Bohay ; 
 Polonia her polonies. 
 
 There's granite flints 
 That's quite imminse, 
 
 There's sacks of coals and fuels, 
 There's swords and guns, 
 And soap in tuns, 
 
 And gingerbread and jewels. 
 
 There's taypots there, 
 And cannons rare ; 
 There's coffins fill'd with roses ;
 
 i8 5 i. 
 
 TUE CRYSTAL PALACE. 195 
 
 There's canvas tints, 
 Teeth insthrumints, 
 And shuits of clothes by Moses. 
 
 There's lashins more 
 
 Of things in store, 
 But thim I don't remimber ; 
 
 Nor could disclose 
 
 Did I compose 
 From May time to Novimber ! 
 
 Ah, Judy thru ! 
 
 With eyes so blue, 
 That you were here to view it ! 
 
 And could I screw 
 
 But tu pound tu, 
 Tis I would thrait you to it ! 
 
 So let us raise 
 
 Victoria's praise, 
 And Albert's proud condition, 
 
 That takes his ayse 
 
 As he surveys 
 This Cristial Exhibition.
 
 196 
 
 O TIM, did you hear of thim Saxons, 
 
 And read what the peepers report ? 
 They're goan to recal the Liftinint, 
 
 And shut up the Castle and Coort ! 
 Our desolate counthry of Oireland 
 
 They're bint, the blagyards, to desthroy, 
 And now, having murdthered our counthry, 
 
 They're goin to kill the Viceroy, 
 Dear boy ; 
 
 'Twas he was our proide and our joy ! 
 
 And will we no longer behould him, 
 Surrounding his carriage in throngs, 
 
 As he waves his cocked-hat from the windies, 
 And smiles to his bould aid-de-congs ?
 
 MOLONY'S LAMENT. 197 
 
 I liked for to see the young haroes, 
 
 All shoining with sihripes and with stars, 
 
 A horsing about in the Phaynix, 
 And winking the girls in the cyars, 
 
 Like Mars, 
 A smokin' their poipes and cigyars. 
 
 Dear Mitchel exoiled to Bermudies, 
 
 Your beautiful oilids you'll ope, 
 And there'll be an abondance of croyin' 
 
 From O'Brine at the Keep of Good Hope, 
 When they read of this news in the peepers, 
 
 Acrass the Atlantical wave, 
 That the last of the Oirish Liftinints, 
 
 Of the Oisland of Seents has tuck lave. 
 God save 
 
 The Queen she should betther behave. 
 
 And what's to become of poor Dame Sthreet, 
 
 And who'll ait the puffs and the tarts, 
 Whin the Coort of imparial splindor 
 
 From Doblin's sad city departs ? 
 And who'll have the fiddlers and pipers, 
 
 When the deuce of a Coort there remains? 
 And where'll be the bucks and the ladies, 
 
 To hire the Coort-shuits and the thrains ? 
 In sthrains, 
 
 It's thus that ould Erin complains ! 
 
 There's Counsellor Flanagan's leedy, 
 'Tsvas she in the Coort didn't fail,
 
 198 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 And she wanted a plinty of popplin, 
 
 For her dthress, and her flounce, and her tail 
 She bought it of Misthress O'Grady, 
 
 Eight shillings a yard tabinet, 
 But now that the Coort is concluded, 
 
 The divvle a yard will she get ; 
 I bet, 
 
 Bedad that she wears the old set. 
 
 There's Surgeon O'Toole and Miss Leary, 
 They'd daylings at Madam O'Riggs' ;
 
 Mo LO NY'S LAMENT. 199 
 
 Each year at the dthrawing-room sayson. 
 
 They mounted the neatest of wigs. 
 When Spring with its buds and its dasies, 
 
 Comes out in her beauty and bloom, 
 Thim tu'll never think of new jasies, 
 
 Becase there is no dthrawing-room, 
 For whom 
 
 They'd choose the expense to ashume. 
 
 There's Alderman Toad and his lady, 
 
 'Twas they gave the Clart and the Poort, 
 And the poine-apples, turbots, and lobsters, 
 
 To feast the Lord Liftinint's Coort. 
 But now that the quality's goin, 
 
 I warnt that the aiting will stop, 
 And you'll get at the Alderman's teeble 
 
 The devil a bite or a dthrop, 
 Or chop, 
 
 And the butcher may shut up his shop. 
 
 Yes, the grooms and the ushers are goin, 
 
 And his Lordship, the dear honest man, 
 And the Duchess, his eemiable leedy, 
 
 And Corry, and bould Connellan,- 
 And little Lord Hyde and the childthren, 
 
 And the Chewter and Governess tu ; 
 And the servants are packing their boxes, 
 
 Oh, murther, but what shall I due 
 Without you ? 
 
 O Meery, with ois of the blue !
 
 20O 
 
 f * A -'u>-'i ^ y^j s | *- v -' v - /v -4 
 
 of 6ie O71LL given to _ _ , . . 
 ^ J^^pft.UiC5^. v-Xi mocv.ss ^.QOT* ( 
 Peninsular a.n<i OnentaLi Company 
 
 O WILL ye choose to hear the news ? 
 
 Bedad I cannot pass it o'er : 
 I'll tell you all about the Ball 
 
 To the Naypaulase Ambassador. 
 Begor ! this fete all balls does bate 
 
 At which I've worn a pump, and I 
 Must here relate the splendthor great 
 
 Of th' Oriental Company. 
 
 These men of sinse dispoised expinse, 
 
 To fete these black Achilleses. 
 " We'll show the blacks," says they, " Almack's, 
 
 And take the rooms at Willis's." 
 With flags and shawls, for these Nepauls, 
 
 They hung the rooms of Willis up, 
 And decked the walls, and stairs, and halls, 
 
 With roses and with lilies up. 
 
 And Jullien's band it tuck its stand 
 
 So sweetly in the middle there, 
 And soft bassoons played heavenly chunes, 
 
 And violins did fiddle there. 
 And when the Coort was tired of spoort, 
 
 I'd lave you, boys, to think there was
 
 THE P. AND O. BALL. 
 
 A nate buffet before them set, 
 
 Where lashins of good dthrink there was. 
 
 At ten before the ballroom door, 
 His moighty Excellency was, 
 
 201 
 
 He smoiled and bowed to all the crowd, 
 So gorgeous and immense he was. 
 
 His dusky shuit, sublime and mute, 
 Into the doorway followed him ;
 
 202 THACKERAY'S FOEMS. 
 
 And O the noise of the blackguard boys, 
 As they hurrood and hollowed him ! 
 
 The noble Chair * stud at the stair, 
 
 And bade the dthrums to thump ; and he 
 Did thus evince, to that Black Prince, 
 
 The welcome of his Company. 
 O fair the girls, and rich the curls, 
 
 And bright the oys you saw there was, 
 And fixed each oye, ye there could spoi, 
 
 On Gineral Jung Bahawther, was ! 
 
 This Gineral great then tuck his sate, 
 
 With all the other ginerals 
 (Bedad his troat, his belt, his coat, 
 
 All bleezed with precious minerals) ; 
 And as he there, with princely air, 
 
 Recloinin on his cushion was, 
 All round about his royal chair 
 
 The squeezin and the pushin was. 
 
 O Pat, such girls, such Ji-.kes, and Earls, 
 
 Such fashion and nobilitee ! 
 Just think of Tim, and fancy him 
 
 Amidst the hoigh gentilitee ! 
 There was Lord De L'Huys, and the Portygeese 
 
 Ministher and his lady there, 
 And I reckonised, with much surprise, 
 
 Our messmate, Bob O'Grady, there; 
 
 * James Matheson, Esquire, to whom, and the Board of Directors of 
 the Peninsular and Oriental Company, I, Timotheus Molony, late stoker 
 on board the Iberia, the Lady Mary Wood, the Tagus, and the Oriental 
 steamships, humbly dedicate this production of my grateful Muse.
 
 THK P. .MV> O. BALL. 203 
 
 There was Baroness Brunow, that looked like Juno, 
 
 And Baroness Rehausen there, 
 And Countess Roullier, that looked peculiar 
 
 Well, in her robes of gauze in there. 
 There was Lord Crowhurst (I knew him first, 
 
 When only Mr. Pips he was), 
 
 And Mick O'Toole, the great big fool, 
 That after supper tipsy was. 
 
 There was Lord Fingall, and his ladies all, 
 And' Lords Killeen and Dufferin..
 
 204 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 And Paddy Fife, with his fat wife ; 
 
 I wondther how he could stuff her in. 
 There was Lord Belfast, that by me past, 
 
 And seemed to ask how should / go there ? 
 And the Widow Macrae, and Lord A. Hay, 
 
 And the Marchioness of Sligo there. 
 
 Yes, Jukes, and Earls, and diamonds, and pearls, 
 
 And pretty girls, was spoorting there ; 
 And some beside (the rogues ! ) I spied, 
 
 Behind the windies, coorting there. 
 Oh, there's one I know, bedad, would show 
 
 As beautiful as any there, 
 And I'd like to hear the pipers blow, 
 
 And shake a fut with Fanny there !
 
 20 5 
 
 YE Genii of the nation, 
 
 Who look with veneration, 
 And Ireland's desolation onsaysingly deplore; 
 
 Ye sons of General Jackson, 
 
 Who thrample on the Saxon, 
 Attend to the thransaction upon Shannon shore. 
 
 When William, Duke of Schurnbug, 
 
 A tyrant and a humbug, 
 With cannon and with thunder on our city bore, 
 
 Our fortitude and valliance 
 
 Insthructed his battalions 
 To rispict the galliant Irish upon Shannon shore. 
 
 Since that capitulation, 
 
 No city in this nation 
 So grand a reputation could boast before, 
 
 As Limerick prodigious, 
 
 That stands with quays and bridges, 
 And the ships up to the windies of the Shannon shore. 
 
 A chief of ancient line, 
 
 'Tis William Smith O'Brine, 
 Reprisints this darling Limerick, this ten years or more: 
 
 O the Saxons can't endure 
 
 To see him on the flure, 
 And thrimble at the Cicero from Shannon shore !
 
 206 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 This valiant son of Mars 
 
 Had been to visit Par's. 
 That land of Revolution, that grows the tricolor ; 
 
 And to welcome his returrn 
 
 From pilgrimages furren, 
 We invited him to tay on the Shannon shore ! 
 
 Then we summoned to our board 
 
 Young Meagher of the Sword ; 
 'Tis he will sheathe that battle-axe in Saxon gore : 
 
 And Mitchil of Belfast 
 
 We bade to our repast, 
 To dthrink a dish of coffee on the Shannon shore. 
 
 Convaniently to hould 
 
 These patriots so bould, 
 We tuck the opportunity of Tim Doolan's store ; 
 
 And with ornamints and banners 
 
 (As becomes gintale good manners) 
 We made the loveliest tay-room upon Shannon shore. 
 
 'Twould binifit your sowls, 
 
 To see the butthered rowls, 
 The sugar-tongs and sangwidges and craim galyore, 
 
 And the muffins and the crumpets, 
 
 And the band of harps and thrumpets, 
 To celebrate the sworry upon Shannon shore. 
 
 Sure the Imperor of Bohay 
 Would be proud to dthrink the tay 
 That Misthress Biddy Rooney for O'Brine did pour ;
 
 THE BATTLE OF LIMERICK. 
 
 And, since the days of Strongbow, 
 There never was such Congo 
 Mitchil dthrank six quarts of it by Shannon shore. 
 
 207 
 
 But Clarndon and Corry 
 
 Connellan beheld this sworry 
 With rage and imulation in their black hearts' core ; 
 
 And they hired a gang of ruffins 
 
 To interrupt the muffins 
 And the fragrance of the Congo on the Shannon shore.
 
 2o8 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 When full of tay and cake, 
 
 O'Brine began to spake ; 
 But juice a one could hear him, for a sudden roar 
 
 Of a ragamuffin rout 
 
 Began to yell and shout, 
 And frighten the propriety of Shannon shore. 
 
 As Smith O'Brine harangued, 
 
 They batthered and they banged : 
 Tim Doolan's doors and windies down they tore ; 
 
 They smashed the lovely vvindics 
 
 (Hung with muslin from the Indies), 
 Purshuing of their shindies upon Shannon shore. 
 
 With throwing of brickbats, 
 
 Drowned puppies and dead rats, 
 These ruffin democrats themselves did lower ; 
 
 Tin kettles, rotten eggs, 
 
 Cabbage-stalks, and wooden legs, 
 They flung among the patriots of Shannon shore. 
 
 O the girls began to scrame 
 
 And upset the milk and crame ; 
 And the honourable gintlemin, they cursed and swore : 
 
 And Mitchil of Belfast, 
 
 'Twas he that looked aghast, 
 When they roasted him in effigy by Shannon shore. 
 
 O the lovely tay was spilt 
 On that day of Ireland's guilt ; 
 Says Jack Mitchil, "I am kilt! Boys, where's the back door?
 
 Tin-: BATTLE OF LIMERICK. 
 
 209 
 
 'Tis a national disgrace : 
 Let me go and veil me face ; " 
 And he boulted with quick pace from the Shannon shore. 
 
 " Cut down the bloody horde ! " 
 Says Meagher of the Sword, 
 This conduct would disgrace any blackamore ; " 
 But the best use Tommy made 
 Of his famous battle blade 
 
 Was to cut his own stick from the Shannon shore, 
 o
 
 210 
 
 Til A CKER Ar's Po EMS. 
 
 Immortal Smith O'Brine 
 
 Was raging like a line ; 
 Twould have done your sowl good to have heard him roar 
 
 In his glory he arose, 
 
 And he rush'd upon his foes, 
 But they hit him on the nose by the Shannon shore. 
 
 Then the Futt and the Dthragoons 
 
 In squadthrons and platoons, 
 With their music playing chunes, down upon us bore ; 
 
 And they beat the rattatoo, 
 
 But the Peelers came in view, 
 And ended the shaloo on the Shannon shore.
 
 211 
 
 YOU'VE all heard of Larry O'Toole, 
 Of the beautiful town of Drumgoole ; 
 
 He had but one eye, 
 
 To ogle ye by 
 Oh, murther, but that was a jew'l ! 
 
 A fool 
 He made of de girls, dis O'Toole. 
 
 'Twas he was the boy didn't fail, 
 
 That tuck down pataties and mail ; 
 He never would shrink 
 From any sthrong dthrink, 
 
 Was it whisky or Drogheda ale ; 
 I'm bail 
 
 This Larry would swallow a pail. 
 
 Oh, many a night at the bowl, 
 With Larry I've sot cheek by jowl ; 
 
 He's gone to his rest, 
 
 Where there's dthrink of the best, 
 And so let us give his old sowl 
 
 A howl, 
 For 'twas he made the noggin to rowl.
 
 212 
 
 SENT BY A YOUNG GENTLEMAN OF QUALITY TO MISS BR-DY, 
 OF CASTLE BRADY. 
 
 ON Brady's Tower there grows a flower, 
 It is the loveliest flower that blows, 
 
 At Castle Brady there lives a lady 
 (And how I love her no one knows; ; 
 
 Her name is Nora, and the goddess Flora 
 Presents her with this blooming rose.
 
 THE ROSE OF FLORA. 213 
 
 " O Lady Nora," says the goddess Flora, 
 " I've many a rich and bright parterre ; 
 
 In Brady's towers there's seven more flowers, 
 But you're the fairest lady there : 
 
 Not all the county, nor Ireland's bounty, 
 Can projuice a treasure that's half so fair ! " 
 
 What cheek is redder ? sure roses fed her ! 
 
 Her hair is maregolds, and her eye of blew, 
 Beneath her eyelid, is like the vi'let, 
 
 That darkly glistens with gentle jew ! 
 The lily's nature is not surely whiter 
 
 Than Nora's neck is, and her arrums too. 
 
 " Come, gentle Nora," says the goddess Flora, 
 14 My dearest creature, take my advice : 
 
 There is a poet, full well you know it, 
 
 Who spends his lifetime in heavy sighs, 
 
 Young Redmond Barry, 'tis him you'll marry, 
 If rhyme and raisin you'd choose likewise."
 
 2I 4 
 
 ON reading of the general indignation occasioned in Ireland by the appointment 
 of a Scotch Professor to one of Her Majesty's Godless Colleges, Master Molloy Molony, 
 brother of Thaddeus Molony, Esq., of the Temple, a youth only fifteen years of age, 
 dashed off the following spirited lines : 
 
 As I think of the insult that's done to this nation, 
 Red tears of rivinge from me faytures I wash, 
 
 And uphold in this pome, to the world's daytistation, 
 The sleeves that appointed Professor MacCosh. 
 
 I look round me counthree, renowned by exparience, 
 And see 'midst her childthren. the witty, the wise, 
 
 Whole hayps of logicians, potes, schollars, grammarians. 
 All ayger for pleeces, all panting to rise; 
 
 I gaze round the world in its utmost diminsion ; 
 Lard Jahn and his minions in Council T ask,
 
 THE LAST IRISH GRIEVANCE. 2 \ 5 
 
 Was there ever a Government-pleece (with a pinsion) 
 But children of Erin were fit for that task ? 
 
 What, Erin beloved, is thy fetal condition ! 
 
 What shame in aych boosom must rankle and burrun, 
 To think that our countree has ne'er a logician 
 
 In the hour of her deenger will surrev her turrun ! 
 
 On the logic of Saxons there's little reliance, 
 And, rather from Saxon than gather its rules, 
 
 I'd stamp under feet the base book of his science, 
 And spit on his chair as he taught in the schools ! 
 
 O false Sir John Kane ! is it thus that you praych me? 
 
 I think all your Queen's Universitees bosh; 
 And if you've no neetive Professor to taych me, 
 
 I scawurn to be learned by the Saxon MacCosh. 
 
 There's Wiseman and Chume, and His Grace the Lord 
 Primate, 
 
 That sinds round the box, and the world will subscribe; 
 'Tis they'll build a College that's fit for our climate, 
 
 And taych me the saycrets I burn to imboibe ! 
 
 'Tis there as a Student of Science I'll enther, 
 
 Fair Fountain of Knowledge, of Joy, and Contint ! 
 
 Saint Pathrick's sweet Statue shall stand in the centher, 
 And wink his dear oi every day during Lint. 
 
 And good Doctor Newman, that praycher unwary, 
 'Tis he shall preside the Acaclemee School, 
 
 And quit the gay robe of St. Philip of Neri, 
 To wield the soft rod of St. Lawrence O'Toole !
 
 2l6 
 
 AN igstrawnary tail I vill tell you this veck 
 I stood in the Court of A'Beckett the Beak, 
 Vere Mrs. Jane Roney, a vidow, I see, 
 Who charged Mary Brown with a robbin of she. 
 
 This Mary was pore and in misery once, 
 
 And she came to Mrs. Roney it's more than twelve monce. 
 
 She adn't got no bed, nor no dinner, nor no tea, 
 
 And kind Mrs. Roney gave Mary all three. 
 
 Mrs. Roney kep Mary for ever so many veeks 
 (Her conduct disgusted the best of all Beax), 
 She kep her for nothink, as kind as could be, 
 Never thinkin that this Mary was a traitor to she. 
 
 " Mrs. Roney, O Mrs. Roney, I feel very ill ; 
 Will you just step to the Doctor's for to fetch me a pill ? " 
 " That I will, my pore Mary," Mrs. Roney says she ; 
 And she goes off to the Doctor's as quickly as may be. 
 
 No sooner on this message Mrs. Roney was sped, 
 Than hup gits vicked Mary, and jumps out a bed ; 
 She hopens all the trunks without never a key 
 She busies all the boxes, and vith them makes free. 
 
 Mrs Roney's best linning, gownds, petticoats, and close, 
 Her children's little coats and things, her boots, and her hose,
 
 J/A-.Y. 
 
 AXD MARY BROWX. 
 
 217 
 
 She packed them, and she stole 'em, and avay vith them did 
 
 flee. 
 Mrs. Roney's situation you may think vat it vould be! 
 
 ( )f Mary, ungrateful, who had served her this vay, 
 Mrs. Roney heard nothink for a long year and a day. 
 Till last Thursday, in Lambeth, ven whom should she see 
 But this Mary, as had acted so ungrateful to she ? 
 
 She was leaning on the helbo of a worthy young man, 
 They were going to be married, and were walkin hand in 
 hand ;
 
 2i8 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 And the church bells was a ringing for Mary and he, 
 And the parson was ready, and a waitin for his fee. 
 
 When up comes Mrs. Roney, and faces Mary Brown, 
 Who trembles, and castes her eyes upon the ground. 
 She calls a jolly pleaseman, it happens to be me ; 
 " I charge this young woman, Mr. Pleaseman," says she. 
 
 " Mrs. Roney, o, Mrs. Roney, o, do let me go, 
 
 I acted most ungrateful I own, and I know, 
 
 But the marriage bell is a ringin, and the ring you may see, 
 
 And this young man is a waitin," says Mary says she. 
 
 " I don't care three fardens for the parson and dark, 
 And the bell may keep ringin from noon day to dark. 
 Mary Brown, Mary Brown, you must come along with me ; 
 And I think this young man is lucky to be free." 
 
 So, in spite of the tears which bejew'd Mary's cheek, 
 I took that young gurl to A'Beckett the Beak : 
 That exlent Justice demanded her plea 
 But never a sullable said Mary said she. 
 
 On account of her conduck so base and so vile, 
 Tliat vicked young gurl is committed for trile, 
 And if she's transpawted beyond the salt sea, 
 It's a proper reward for such willians as she. 
 
 Now you young gurls of Southwark for Mary who veep, 
 From pickin and stealin your ands you must keep, 
 Or it may be my dooty, as it was Thursday veek, 
 To pull you all hup to A'Beckett the Beak.
 
 2ic; 
 
 THE THRE -j : 
 
 MY name is Pleaceman X ; 
 
 Last night I was in bed, 
 A dream did me perplex, 
 
 Which came into my Edd. 
 I dreamed I sor three Waits 
 
 A playing of their tune, 
 At Pimlico Palace gates, 
 
 All underneath the moon. 
 One puffed a hold French horn, 
 
 And one a hold Banjo, 
 And one chap seedy and torn 
 
 A Hirish pipe did blow.
 
 220 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 They sadly piped and played, 
 
 Dexcribing of their fates ; 
 And this was what they said, 
 
 Those three pore Christmas Waits : 
 
 " When this black year began, 
 
 This Eighteen-forty-eight, 
 I was a great, great man, 
 
 And king both vise and great, 
 And Munseer Guizot by me did show 
 
 As Minister of State. 
 
 " But Febuwerry came, 
 
 And brought a rabble rout, 
 And me and my good dame 
 
 And children did turn out, 
 And us, in spite of all our right, 
 
 Sent to the right about. 
 
 " I left my native ground, 
 
 I left my kin and kith, 
 I left my Royal crownd, 
 
 Vich I couldn't travel vith, 
 And vithout a pound came to English ground 
 
 In the name of Mr. mith. 
 
 "Like any anchorite 
 
 I've lived since I came here, 
 
 I've kep myself quite quite, 
 
 I've drank the small, small beer, 
 
 And the vater, you see. disagrees vitli me 
 And all my famly dear.
 
 THE THREE CHRISTMAS WAITS. 
 
 " O Tweeleries so dear, 
 O darling Pally Royl, 
 Vas it to finish here 
 
 221 
 
 That I did trouble and toyl ? 
 That all my plans should break in my 'ands, 
 And should on me recoil ?
 
 222 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 " My state I fenced about 
 
 Vith baynicks and vith guns ; 
 My gals I portioned hout, 
 
 Rich vives I got my sons ; 
 
 varn't it crule to lose my rule, 
 My money and lands at once? 
 
 " And so, vith arp and woice, 
 Both troubled and shagreened, 
 
 1 bid you to rejoice, 
 
 glorious England's Queend ! 
 
 And never have to veep, like pore Louis-Phileep, 
 Because you out are cleaned 
 
 " O Prins, so brave and stout. 
 
 1 stand before your gate ; 
 Pray send a trifle hout 
 
 To me, your pore old Vait ; 
 For nothink could be vuss than it's been 
 
 along vith us 
 In this year 'Forty-eight." 
 
 " Ven this bad year began," 
 
 The nex man said, saysee, 
 " I vas a Journeyman, 
 
 A taylor black and free, 
 And my wife went out and chaired about, 
 
 And my name's the bold Cuffee. 
 
 " The Queen and Halbert both 
 I swore I would confound,
 
 THE THREE CHRISTMAS WAITS. 223 
 
 I took a havvfle oath 
 
 To drag them to the ground ; 
 And sevral more with me they swore 
 
 Aginst the British Crownd. 
 
 " Aginst her Pleacemen all 
 
 We said we'd try our strenth ; 
 Her scarlick soldiers tall 
 
 We vow'd we'd lay full lenth : 
 And out we came, in Freedom's name, 
 
 Last Aypril was the tenth. 
 
 " Three 'undred thousand snobs 
 
 Came out to stop the vay, 
 Vith sticks vith iron knobs, 
 
 Or else we'd gained the day. 
 The harmy quite kept out of sight, 
 
 And so ve vent a vay. 
 
 " Next day the Pleacemen came 
 
 Rewenge it was their plann 
 And from my good old dame 
 
 They took her tailor-mann : 
 And the hard, hard beak did me bespeak 
 
 To Newgit in the Warm. 
 
 " In that etrocious Cort 
 
 The Jewry did agree ; 
 The Judge did me transport, 
 
 To go beyond the sea : 
 And so for life, from his dear wife 
 
 They took poor old Cuffee.
 
 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 : * O Kalbert, Appy Prince ! 
 
 With children round your knees> 
 Ingraving ansum Prints, 
 
 And taking hoff your hease, 
 O think of me, the old Cuffee, 
 
 Beyond the solt, solt seas ! 
 
 " Although I'm hold and black, 
 My hanguish is most great ; 
 
 Great Prince, O call me back, 
 And I vill be your Vait ! 
 
 And never no more vill break the Lor, 
 As I did in 'Forty-eight." 
 
 The tailer thus did close 
 
 (A pore old blackymore rogue), 
 
 When a dismal gent uprose, 
 And spoke with Hirish brogue : 
 
 " I'm Smith O'Brine, of Royal Line, 
 Descended from Rory Ogue. 
 
 : ' When great O'Connle died, 
 That man whom all did trust. 
 
 That man whom Henglish pride 
 Beheld with such disgust, 
 
 Then Erin free fixed eyes on me, 
 And swoar I should be fust. 
 
 " 'The glorious Hirish Crown,' 
 Says she, ' it shall be thine :
 
 THE THREE CHRISTMAS WAITS. 
 
 Long time, it's werry well known, 
 You kep it in your line ; 
 
 225 
 
 That diadem of hemerald gem 
 Is yours, my Smith O'Brine. 
 
 " ' Too long the Saxon churl 
 Our land encumbered hath ;
 
 226 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 Arise, ray Prince, my Earl, 
 
 And brush them from thy path : 
 
 Rise, mighty Smith, and sveep 'em vith 
 The besom of your wrath.' 
 
 " Then in my might I rose, 
 
 My country I surveyed, 
 I saw it filled with foes, 
 
 I viewed them undismayed ; 
 ' Ha, ha!' says I, 'the harvest's high, 
 
 I'll reap it with my blade.' 
 
 " My warriors I enrolled, 
 
 They rallied round their lord ; 
 
 And cheafs in council old 
 I summoned to the board 
 
 Wise Doheny and Duffy bold, 
 And Meagher of the Sword. 
 
 " I stood on Slievenamaun, 
 
 They came with pikes and bills ; 
 
 They gathered in the dawn, 
 Like mist upon the hills, 
 
 And rushed adown the mountain side 
 Like twenty thousand rills. 
 
 "Their fortress we assail ; 
 
 Hurroo ! my boys, hurroo ! 
 The bloody Saxons quail 
 
 To hear the wild shaloo : 
 Strike, and prevail, proud Innesfail, 
 
 O'Brine aboo, aboo !
 
 THE THREE CHRISTMAS WAITS. 
 
 " Our people they defied ; 
 
 They shot at 'em like savages, 
 Their bloody guns they plied 
 
 With sanguinary ravages ; 
 Hide, blushing Glory, hide 
 
 That day among the cabbages ! 
 
 " And so no more I'll say, 
 But ask your Mussy great, 
 
 And humbly sing and pray, 
 Your Majesty's poor Wait : 
 
 Your Smith O'Brine in 'Forty-nine 
 Will blush for 'Forty-eight." 
 
 227 
 
 ' 
 
 P 2
 
 228 
 
 UME5 N 7\ 17JTE H5PIC|OU5 
 * By a Gentleman oF (he 
 - Guards CBiue) <- 
 
 I PACED upon my beat 
 With steady step and slow 
 
 AH huppandownd of Ranelagh Street ; 
 Ran'lagh St., Pimlico. 
 
 While marching huppandownd 
 
 Upon that fair May morn, 
 Beold the booming cannings sound 
 
 A Royal child is born ! 
 
 The Ministers of State 
 
 Then presnly I sor, 
 They gallops to the Pallis gate, 
 
 In carridges and for. 
 
 With anxious looks intent, 
 
 Before the gate they stop, 
 There comes the good Lord President, 
 
 And there the Archbishopp. 
 
 Lord John he next elights ; 
 
 And who comes here in haste ? 
 'Tis the ero of one underd fights, 
 
 The caudle for to taste. 
 
 Then Mrs. Lily, the nuss, 
 
 Towards them steps with joy ; 
 
 The Birth of Prince Arthur, afterwards Duke of Connaught.
 
 LINES ON A LATE HOSPICIOUS EWENT. 
 
 Says the brave old Duke, " Come tell to us, 
 Is it a gal or a boy ? " 
 
 229 
 
 Says Mrs. L. to the Duke, 
 " Your Grace, it is a Prince.'" 
 
 And at that nuss's bold rebuke 
 He did both laugh and wince. 
 
 He vews with pleasant look 
 This pooty flower of May,
 
 230 Th 'ACKER AY 'S POEMS. 
 
 Then says the wenerable Duke, 
 " Egad, it's my buthday." 
 
 By memory backards borne, 
 Peraps his thoughts did stray 
 
 To that old place where he was born 
 Upon the first of May. 
 
 Peraps he did recal 
 
 The ancient towers of Trim ; 
 
 And County Meath and Dangan Hall 
 They did rewisit him. 
 
 I phansy of him so 
 
 His good old thoughts employin' ; 
 Fourscore years and one .ago 
 
 Beside the flowin' Boyne. 
 
 His father praps he sees, 
 Most musicle of Lords, 
 
 A playing maddrigles and glees 
 Upon the Arpsicords. 
 
 Jest phansy this old Ero 
 Upon his mother's knee ! 
 
 Did ever lady in this land 
 Ave greater sons than she ? 
 
 And I shoudn be surprize 
 While this was in his mind, 
 
 If a drop there twinkled in his eyes 
 Of unfamiliar brind.
 
 LINES ON A LATE HOSPICIOUS EWENT. 231 
 
 To Hapsly Ousc next day 
 
 Drives up a Broosh and for, 
 A gracious prince sits in that Shay 
 
 (I mention him with Hor !). 
 
 They ring upon the bell, 
 
 The Porter shows his Ed, 
 (He fought at Vaterloo as Veil, 
 
 And vears a Veskit red). 
 
 To see that carriage come, 
 
 The people round it press : 
 " And is the galliant Duke at ome ? ' 
 
 " Your Royal Ighness, yes." 
 
 He steps from out the Broosh 
 
 And in the gate is gone. ; 
 And X, although the people push, 
 
 Says wery kind, " Move hon." 
 
 The Royal Prince unto 
 
 The galliant Duke did say, 
 " Dear Duke, my little son and you 
 
 Was born the self-same day. 
 
 " The Lady of the land, 
 
 My wife and Sovring dear, 
 It is by her horgust command 
 
 I wait upon you here. 
 
 " That lady is as well 
 
 As can expected be ; 
 And to your Grace she bid me tel 
 
 This gracious message free.
 
 232 
 
 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 " That offspring of our race 
 Whom yesterday you see, 
 
 To show our honour for your Grace, 
 Prince Arthur he shall be. 
 
 " That name it rhymes to fame ; 
 
 All Europe knows the sound ; 
 And I couldn't find a better name 
 
 If you'd give me twenty pound.
 
 LINES ojv A LATE HOSPICIOUS EWENT. 233 
 
 " King Arthur had his knights 
 
 That girt his table round, 
 But you have won a hundred fights, 
 
 Will match 'em, I'll be bound. 
 
 " You fought with Bonypart, 
 
 And likewise Tippoo Saib ; 
 J name you then with all my heart 
 
 The Godsire of this babe." 
 
 That Prince his leave was took, 
 
 His hinterview was done, 
 So let us give the good old Duke 
 
 Good luck of his god-son, 
 
 And wish him years of joy 
 
 In this our time of Schism, 
 And hope he'll hear the Royal boy 
 
 His little catechism. 
 
 And my pooty little Prince 
 
 That's come our arts to cheer, 
 Let me my loyal powers ewince 
 
 A welcomin of you ere. 
 
 And the Poit-Laureat's crownd, 
 
 I think, in some respex, 
 Rgstremely shootable might be found 
 
 For honest Pleaseman X.
 
 234 
 
 The J3^U?^> of ELLZ71 DTI VIS- 
 
 GALLIANT gents and lovely ladies, 
 
 List a tail vich late befel, 
 Vich I heard it, bein on duty, 
 
 At the Pleace Hoffice, Clerkenwell. 
 
 Praps you know the Fondling Chapel, 
 Vere the little children sings : 
 
 (Lor ! I likes to hear on Sundies 
 Them there pooty little things !) 
 
 In this street there lived a housemaid, 
 If you particklarly ask me where 
 
 Vy, it vas at four-and-tventy 
 
 Guilford Street, by Brunsvick Square. 
 
 Vich her name was Eliza Davis, 
 And she went to fetch the beer : 
 
 In the street she met a party 
 
 As was quite surprized to see her. 
 
 Vich he vas a British Sailor, 
 For to judge him by his look : 
 
 Tarry jacket, canvass trowsies, 
 Ha-la Mr. T. P. Cooke. 
 
 Presently this Mann accostes 
 Of this hinnocent young gal 
 
 "Pray," say see, "excuse my freedom, 
 You're so like my Sister Sal !
 
 THE BALLAD OF ELIZA 
 
 " You're so like my Sister Sally, 
 Both in valk and face and size, 
 
 Miss, that dang my old lee scuppers, 
 It brings tears into my heyes ! 
 
 235 
 
 I 
 
 " I'm a mate on board a wessel, 
 I'm a sailor bold and true ; 
 
 Shiver up my poor old timbers, 
 Let me be a mate for you !
 
 236 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 " What's your name, my beauty, tell me ? 
 
 And she faintly hansers, " Lore, 
 Sir, my name's Eliza Davis, 
 
 And I live at tventy-four." 
 
 Hofttimes came this British seaman, 
 This deluded gal to meet ; 
 
 And at tventy-four was welcome, 
 Tventy-four in Guilford Street. 
 
 And Eliza told her Master 
 
 (Kinder they than Missuses are), 
 
 How in marridge he had ast her, 
 Like a galliant Brittish Tar. 
 
 And he brought his landlady vitli him 
 (Vich vas all his hartful plan), 
 
 And she told how Charley Thompson 
 Reely vas a good young man ; 
 
 And how she herself had lived in 
 Many years of union sweet 
 
 Vith a gent she met promiskous, 
 Valking in the public street. 
 
 And Eliza listened to them, 
 
 And she thought that soon their bands 
 Vould be published at the Fondlin, 
 
 Hand the clergyman jine their ands. 
 
 And he ast about the lodgers 
 
 (Vich her master let some rooms), 
 
 Likevise vere they kep their things, and 
 Vere her master kep his spoons.
 
 THE BALLAD OF ELIZA DAVIS. 237 
 
 Hand this vicked Charley Thompson 
 
 Came on Sundy veek to see her ; 
 And he sent Eliza Davis 
 
 Hout to fetch a pint of beer. 
 
 Hand while pore Eliza vent to 
 
 Fetch the beer, dewoid of sin, 
 This etrocious Charley Thompson 
 
 Let his wile accomplish hin. 
 
 To the lodgers, their apartments, 
 
 This abandingd female goes, 
 Prigs their shirts and umberellas ; 
 
 Prigs their boots, and hats, and clothes. 
 
 Vile the scoundrle Charley Thompson, 
 
 Lest his wictim should escape, 
 Hocust her vith rum and vater, 
 
 Like a fiend in huming shape. 
 
 But a hi was fixt upon 'em 
 
 Vich these raskles little sore ; 
 Namely, Mr. Hide, the landloid 
 
 Of the house at tventy-four. 
 
 He vas valkin in his garden, 
 
 Just afore he vent to sup ; 
 And on looking up he sor the 
 
 Lodgers' vinders lighted hup. 
 
 Hup the stairs the landlord tumbled ; 
 
 " Something's going wrong," he said ; 
 And he caught the vicked voman 
 
 Underneath the lodger's bed.
 
 238 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 And he called a brother Pleaseman, 
 Yich vas passing on his beat, 
 
 Like a true and galliant feller, 
 Hup and down in Guilford Street. 
 
 And that Pleaseman able-bodied 
 Took this voman to the cell ; 
 
 To the cell vere she was quodded 
 In the Close of Clerkenwell.
 
 THE BALLAD OF ELIZA Divis. 
 
 And though vicked Charley Thompson 
 Boulted like a miscrant base, 
 
 Presently another Pleaseman 
 Took him to the self-same place. 
 
 And this precious pair of raskles 
 Tuesday last came up for doom ; 
 
 By the beak they was committed, 
 Vich his name was Mr. Combe. 
 
 Has for poor Eliza Davis, 
 
 Simple gurl of tventy-four, 
 She, I ope, vill never listen 
 
 In the streets to sailors moar. 
 
 But if she must ave a sweet-art 
 (Vich most every gurl expex), 
 
 Let her take a jolly pleaseman ; 
 Vich his name peraps is X. 
 
 2 39
 
 240 
 
 TDamsiges - TA^O "Hundred Pounds- ;| 
 
 SPECIAL Jurymen of England ! who admire your country's 
 
 laws, 
 
 And proclaim a British Jury worthy of the realm's applause ; 
 Gaily compliment each other at the issue of a cause 
 Which was tried at Guildford 'sizes this day week as ever was. 
 
 Unto that august tribunal comes a gentleman in grief 
 (Special was the British Jury, and the Judge, the Baron Chief), 
 Comes a British man and husband asking of the law relief, 
 For his wife was stolen from him he'd have vengeance on the 
 thief. 
 
 Yes, his wife, the blessed treasure with the which his life was 
 
 crowned, 
 
 Wickedly was ravished from him by a hypocrite profound. 
 And he comes before twelve Britons, men for sense and truth 
 
 renowned, 
 To award him for his damage twenty hundred sterling pound. 
 
 He by counsel and attorney there at Guildford does appear, 
 Asking damage of the villain who seduced his lady dear : 
 But I can't help asking, though the lady's guilt was all too clear, 
 And though guilty the defendant, wasn't the plaintiff rather 
 queer ? 
 
 First, the lady's mother spoke, and said she'd seen her 
 
 daughter cry 
 But a fortnight after marriage : early times for piping eye.
 
 DAMAGES Tit'<> UU.\IIRI-:D I'OUNDS. 
 
 241 
 
 Six months -after, things were worse, and the piping eye was 
 
 black, 
 And this gallant British husband caned his wife upon the back, 
 
 Three months after they were married, husband pushed her 
 
 to the door, 
 
 Told her to be off and leave him, for he wanted her no more. 
 As she would not go, why he went : thrice he left his lady 
 
 dear - } 
 
 Left her, too, without a penny, for more than a quarter of 
 a year. 
 Q
 
 242 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 Mrs. Frances Duncan knew the parties very well indeed, 
 
 She had seen him pull his lady's nose and make her lip to 
 
 bleed ; 
 
 If he chanced to sit at home not a single word he said : 
 Once she saw him throw the cover of a dish at his lady's head. 
 
 Sarah Green, another witness, clear did to the jury note 
 How she saw this honest fellow seize his lady by the throat, 
 How he cursed her and abused her. beating her into a fit, 
 Till the pitying next-dooi neighbours crossed the wall and 
 witnessed it. 
 
 Next door to this injured Briton Mr. Owers a butcher dwelt ; 
 Mrs. Owers's foolish heart towards this erring dame did melt 
 (Not that she had eired as yet, crime was not developed 
 
 in her) ; 
 But being left without a penny, Mrs. Owers supplied her 
 
 dinner 
 God be merciful to Mrs. Owers, who was merciful to this 
 
 sinner ! 
 
 Caroline Naylor was their servant, said they led a wretched 
 life, 
 
 Saw this most distinguished Briton fling a teacup at his wife ; 
 
 He went out to balls and pleasures, and never once, in ten 
 months'" space, 
 
 Sat with his wife or spoke her kindly. This was the defen- 
 dant's case. 
 
 Pollock, C.B., charged the Jury; said the woman's guilt was 
 
 clear : 
 That was not the point, however, which the jury came to hear :
 
 DAMAGES Tiro HUNDRED POUNDS. 243 
 
 But the damage to determine which, as it should true appear, 
 'l"h is most tender-hearted husband, who so used his lady 
 dear 
 
 
 Beat her, kicked her, caned her, cursed her. left her starving, 
 
 year by year, 
 Flung her from him, parted from her, wrung her neck, and 
 
 boxed her ear 
 
 Q2
 
 244 TjfACKERAY*S POEMS. 
 
 What a reasonable damage this afflicted man could claim 
 By the loss of the affections of this guilty graceless dame ? 
 
 Then the honest British Twelve, to each other turning round, 
 Laid their clever heads together with a wisdom most profound ! 
 And towards his Lordship looking, spoke the foreman wise 
 
 and sound : 
 "My Lord, we find for this here plaintiff, damages two 
 
 hundred pound." 
 
 So, God bless the Special Jury ! pride and joy of English 
 
 ground, 
 And the happy land of England, where true justice does 
 
 abound ! 
 
 British Jurymen and husbands, let us hail this verdict proper ! 
 If a British wife offends you, Britons, you've a right to whop 
 
 her. 
 
 Though you promised to protect her, though you promised to 
 
 defend her, 
 You are welcome to neglect her : to the devil you may send 
 
 her : 
 You may strike her, curse, abuse her ; so declares our law 
 
 renowned ; 
 And if after this you lose her, why, you're paid two hundred 
 
 pound.
 
 245 
 
 THERE'S in the Vest a city pleasant 
 To vich King Bladud gev his name, 
 
 And in that city there's a Crescent 
 Vere dwelt a noble knight of fame. 
 
 Although that galliant knight is oldish, 
 Although Sir John as grey, grey air, 
 
 Hage has not made his busum coldish, 
 His Art still beats tewodds the Fair ! 
 
 'Twas two years sins, this knight so splendid, 
 Peraps fateagued with Bath's routines, 
 
 To Paris towne his phootsteps bended 
 In sutch of gayer folks and scans. 
 
 His and was free, his means was easy, 
 
 A nobler, finer gent than he 
 Ne'er drove about the Shons-Eleesy, 
 
 Or paced the Roo de Rivolee. 
 
 A brougham and pair Sir John prowided, 
 In which abroad he loved to ride ; 
 
 But ar ! he most of all enjyed it, 
 
 When some one helse was sittin inside ! 
 
 That '' some one helse " a lovely dame was, 
 Dear ladies, you will heasy tell 
 
 Countess Grabrowski her sweet name was, 
 A noble title, aid to spell.
 
 246 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 This faymus Countess ad a daughter 
 Of lovely form and tender art ; 
 
 A nobleman in marridge sought her, 
 By name the Baron of Saint Bart. 
 
 Their pashn touched the noble Sir John, 
 
 It was so pewer and profound ; 
 Lady Grabrowski he did urge on 
 
 With Hyming's wreeth their loves to crown 
 
 " O, come to Bath, to Lansdowne Crescent," 
 Says kind Sir John, " and live with me ;
 
 THE KNIGHT AND THE LADY. 
 
 The living there's uncommon pleasant 
 I'm sure you'll find the hair agree. 
 
 " O, come to Bath, my fair Grabrowski, 
 And bring your charming girl," sezee ; 
 
 " The Barring here shall have the ouse-key, 
 Vith breakfast, dinner, lunch, and tea. 
 
 " And when they've passed an appy winter, 
 Their opes and loves no more we'll bar ; 
 
 The marridge-vow they'll enter inter, 
 And I at church will be their Par." 
 
 To Bath they went to Lansdowne Crescent, 
 Where good Sir John he did provide 
 
 No end of teas and balls incessant, 
 And hosses both to drive and ride. 
 
 He was so Ospitably busy, 
 
 When Miss was late, he'd make so bold 
 Upstairs to call out, " Missy, Missy, 
 
 Come down, the coffy's getting cold ! " 
 
 But Oh ! 'tis sadd to think such bounties 
 Should meet with such return as this ; 
 
 O Barring of Saint Bart, O Countess 
 Grabrowski, and O cruel Miss ! 
 
 He married you at Bath's fair Habby, 
 Saint Bart he treated like a son 
 
 And wasn't it uncommon shabby 
 
 To do what you have went and done !
 
 248 Tti ACKER AY'S POEMS. 
 
 My trembling And a most refewses 
 
 To write the charge which Sir John swore, 
 
 Of which the Countess he ecuses, 
 Her daughter and her son-in-lore. 
 
 My Mews quite blushes as she sings of 
 The fatle charge which now I quote : 
 
 He says Miss took his two best rings off, 
 And pawned 'em for a te-npun note.
 
 THE KNIGHT AND THE LADY. 
 
 " Is this the child of honest parince, 
 To make away with folks' best things 
 
 Is this, pray, like the wives of Barrins, 
 To go and prig a gentleman's rings ? " 
 
 Thus thought Sir John, by anger wrought on, 
 And to rewenge his injured cause, 
 
 He brought them hup to Mr. Broughton, 
 Last Vensday veek as ever waws. 
 
 If guiltless, how she have been slandered ! 
 
 If guilty, wengeance will not fail : 
 Meanwhile the lady is remanded, 
 
 And gev three hundred pouns in bail. 
 
 249
 
 250 
 
 ONE sees in Viteall Yard, 
 Vere pleacemen do resort, 
 
 A wenerable hinstitute, 
 
 Tis called the Pallis Court. 
 
 A gent as got his i on it, 
 
 I think 'twill make some sport 
 
 The natur of this Court 
 
 My hindignation riles ; 
 A few fat legal spiders 
 
 Here set & spin their viles ; 
 To rob the town theyr privlege is, 
 
 In a hayrea of twelve miles. 
 
 The Judge of this year Court 
 
 Is a mellitary beak, 
 He knows no more of Lor 
 
 Than praps he does of Greek, 
 And prowides hisself a deputy 
 
 Because he cannot speak. 
 
 Four counsel in this Court 
 Misnamed of Justice sits ; 
 
 These lawyers ows their places to 
 Their money, not their wits ; 
 
 And there's six attornies under them, 
 As here their living gits. 

 
 JACOB HOMNIUM'S Hoss. 251 
 
 These lawyers, six and four, 
 
 Was a livin at their ease, 
 A sendin of their writs abowt, 
 
 And droring in the fees, 
 When there erose a cirkimstance 
 
 As is like to make a breeze. 
 
 It now is some monce since 
 
 A gent both good and trew 
 Possest an ansum oss vith vich 
 
 He didn know what to do ; 
 Peraps he did not like the oss, 
 
 Peraps he was a scru. 
 
 This gentleman his oss 
 
 At Tattersall's did lodge ; 
 There came a wulgar oss-dealer, 
 
 This gentleman's name did fodge, 
 And took the oss from Tattersall's : 
 
 Wasn that a artful dodge ? 
 
 One day this gentleman's groom 
 
 This willain did spy out, 
 A mounted on this oss 
 
 A ridin him about ; 
 " Get out of that there oss, you rogue," 
 
 Speaks up the groom so stout. 
 
 The thief was cruel whex'd 
 
 To find himself so pinn'd ; 
 The oss began to whinny, 
 
 The honest groom he grinn'd ;
 
 252 
 
 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 And the raskle thief got off the oss 
 And cut avay like vind. 
 
 And phansy with what joy 
 
 The master did regard 
 His dearly bluvd lost oss again 
 
 Trot in the stable yard ! 
 
 Who was this master good 
 
 Of whomb I makes these rhymes ?
 
 JACOB HOMNIUM'S If oss. 253 
 
 His name is Jacob Homnium, Exquire ; 
 
 And if /'d committed crimes, 
 Good Lord ! I wouldn't ave that mann 
 
 Attack me in the Times ! 
 
 Now shortly after the groomb 
 
 His master's oss did take up, 
 There came a livery-man 
 
 This gentleman to wake up ; 
 And he handed in a little bill, 
 
 Which hangered Mr. Jacob. 
 
 For two pound seventeen 
 
 This livery-man eplied, 
 For the keep of Mr. Jacob's oss, 
 
 Which the thief had took to ride. 
 " Do you see anythink green in me ? " 
 
 Mr. Jacob Homnium cried. 
 
 " Because a raskle chews 
 
 My oss away to robb, 
 And goes tick at your Mews 
 
 For seven-and-fifty boob, 
 Shall 7 be call'd to pay ? It is 
 
 A iniquitious Jobb." 
 
 Thus Mr. Jacob cut 
 
 The conwasation short ; 
 The livery-man went ome, 
 
 Detummingd to ave sport, 
 And summingsd Jacob Homnium, Exquire, 
 
 Into the Pallis Court.
 
 254 
 
 THA CKERA Y 'S Pi 1KMS. 
 
 Pore Jacob went to Court, 
 
 A Counsel for to fix, 
 And choose a barrister out of the four, 
 
 An attorney of the six : 
 And there he sor these men of Lor, 
 
 And watch'd 'em at their tricks. 
 
 The dreadful day of trile 
 
 In the Pallis Court did come ; 
 
 The lawyers said their say, 
 The judge look'd wery glum,
 
 JACOB HOMNIUM'S Hoss. 255 
 
 And then the British Jury cast 
 Pore Jacob Hom-ni-urn. 
 
 a weary day was that 
 For Jacob to go through ; 
 
 The debt was two seventeen 
 
 (Which he no mor owed than you), 
 
 And then there was the plaintives costs, 
 Eleven pound six and two. 
 
 And then there was his own, 
 
 Which the lawyers they did fix 
 At the wery moderit figgar 
 
 Of ten pound one and six. 
 Now Evins bless the Pallis Court, 
 
 And all its bold ver-dicks ! 
 
 1 cannot settingly tell 
 
 If Jacob swaw and cust, 
 At aving for to pay this sumb ; 
 
 But I should think he must, 
 And av drawn a cheque for ^24 45. 8d. 
 
 With most igstreme disgust. 
 
 O Pallis Court, you move 
 
 My pitty most profound. 
 A most emusing sport 
 
 You thought it, I'll be bound, 
 To saddle hup a three-pound debt 
 
 With two-and-twenty pound. 
 
 Good sport it is to you 
 To grind the honest pore,
 
 256 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 To pay their just or unjust debts 
 
 With eight hundred per cent, for Lor ; 
 
 Make haste and get your costes in, 
 They will not last much mor ! 
 
 Come down from that tribewn, 
 Thou shameless and Unjust ; 
 
 Thou Swindle, picking pockets in 
 The name of Truth august : 
 
 Come down, thou hoary Blasphemy, 
 For die thou shalt and must. 
 
 And go it, Jacob Homnium, 
 
 And ply your iron pen, 
 And rise up, Sir John Jervis, 
 
 And shut me up that den ; 
 That sty for fattening lawyers in 
 
 On the bones of honest men. 
 
 PLEACEMAN X.
 
 257 
 
 TH 
 
 THE night was stormy and dark. The town was shut up in 
 sleep : Only those were abroad who were out on a lark, Or 
 these who'd no beds to keep. 
 
 I pass'd through the lonely street, The wind did sing and 
 blow; I could hear the policeman's feet Clapping to and fro. 
 
 There stood a potato-man In the midst of all the wet ; He 
 stood with his 'tato can In the lonely Haymarket. 
 
 Two gents of dismal mien, And dank and greasy rags, 
 Came out of a shop for gin, Swaggering over the (lags : 
 
 Swaggering over the stones, These shabby bucks did walk ; 
 And I went and followed those seedy ones, And listened to 
 their talk. 
 
 Was I sober or a\vake ? Could I believe my ears ? Those 
 dismal beggars spake Of nothing but railroad shares. 
 
 I wondered more and more : Says one "Good friend of 
 mine, How many shares have you wrote for, In the Diddlesex 
 Junction line?" 
 
 'I wrote for twenty," says Jim, " But they wouldn't give 
 me one ; " His comrade straight rebuked him For the folly 
 he had done : 
 
 " O Jim, you are unawares Of the ways of this bad town ; 
 / always write for five hundred shares, And then they put me 
 down."
 
 258 
 
 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 "And yet you got no shares," Says Jim, "for all your 
 boast ! " "I would have wrote," says Jack, " but where Was 
 the penny to pay the post ? " 
 
 " I lost, for I couldn't pay That first instalment up ; But 
 here's taters smoking hot I say, Let's stop, my boy, and 
 sup." 
 
 And at this simple feast The while they did regale, I 
 drew each ragged capitalist Down on my left thumb-nail.
 
 THE SPECULATORS. 
 
 259 
 
 Their talk did me perplex,, All night -I tumbled and tost, 
 And thought of railroad specs, And how money was won and 
 lost 
 
 "Bless railroads everywhere," I said, "and the world's 
 advance ; Bless every railroad share In Italy, Ireland, 
 France; For never a beggar need now despair, And every 
 rogue has a chance." 
 
 R 2
 
 260 
 
 COME all ye Christian people, unto my tale give ear ; 
 
 'Tis about a base consperracy, as quickly shall appear ! 
 
 'Twill make your hair to bristle up, and your eyes to start and 
 
 glow, 
 When of this dread consperracy you honest folks shall know 
 
 The news of this consperracy and villianous attempt, 
 
 I read it in a newspaper, from Italy it was sent : 
 
 It was sent from lovely Italy, where the olives they do grow, 
 
 And our Holy Father lives ; yes, yes, while his name it is No no. 
 
 And 'tis there our English noblemen goes that is Puseyites no 
 
 longer, 
 
 Because they finds the ancient faith both better is and stronger. 
 And 'tis there I knelt beside my Lord when he kiss'd the Pope 
 
 his toe, 
 And hung his neck with chains at Saint Peter's Vinculo. 
 
 And 'tis there the splendid churches is, and the fountains play- 
 ing grand, 
 
 And the palace of Prince Torlonia, likewise the Vatican ; 
 
 And there's the stairs where the bagpipe-men and the piff- 
 ararys blow. 
 
 And it's there I drove my Lady and Lord in the Park of 
 Pincio.
 
 THE PROTESTANT CONSPIRACY. 261 
 
 And 'tis here our splendid churches is in all their pride and 
 
 glory, 
 
 Saint Peter's famous Basilisk and Saint Mary's Maggiory ; 
 And them benighted Prodestants, on Sunday they must go 
 Outside the town to the preaching-shop by the gate of Popolo. 
 
 Now in this town of famous Room, as I dessay you have 
 
 heard, 
 
 There is scarcely any gentleman as hasn't got a beard. 
 And ever since the world began it was ordained so, 
 That there should always barbers be wheresumever beards do 
 
 grow. 
 
 And as it always has been so since the world it did begin, 
 The Pope, our Holy Potentate, has a beard upon his chin ; 
 And every morning regular when cocks begin to crow, 
 There comes a certing party to wait on Pope Pio. 
 
 There comes a certing gintleman with razier, soap, and lather, 
 A shaving most respectfully the Pope, our Holy Father. 
 And now the dread consperracy I'll quickly to you show, 
 Which them sanguinary Prodestants did form against Nono. 
 
 .Them sanguinary Prodestants, which I abore and hate, 
 Assembled in the preaching-shop by the Flaminian gate ; 
 And they took counsel with their selves to deal a deadly blow 
 Against our gentle Father, the Holy Pope Pio. 
 
 Exhibiting a wickedness which I never heerd or read of; 
 What do you think them Prodestants wished ? to cut the 
 good Pope's head off!
 
 262 
 
 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 And to the kind Pope's Air-dresser the Prodestant Clark did 
 
 go, 
 And proposed him to decapitate the innocent Pio. 
 
 " What never can be easier," said this Clark this Man of Sin, 
 " When you are called to hoperate on His Holiness's chin, 
 Than just to give the razier a little slip just so? 
 And there's an end, dear barber, of innocent Pio ! " 
 
 This wicked conversation it chanced was overerd 
 
 By an Italian lady ; she heard it every word : 
 
 Which by birth she was a Marchioness, in service forced to go 
 
 With the parson of the preaching-shop at the gate of Popolo. 
 
 When the lady heard the news, as duty did obleege, 
 
 As fast as her legs could carry her she ran to the Poleege.
 
 THE PROTESTANT CONSPIRACY. 263 
 
 " O Polegia," says she (for they pronounts it so), 
 " They're going for to massyker our Holy Pope Pio. 
 
 " The ebomminable Englishmen, the Parsing and his Clark, 
 His Holiness's Air-dresser devised it in the dark ! 
 And I would recommend you in prison for to throw 
 These villians would esassinate the Holy Pope Pio ! 
 
 " And for saving of His Holiness and his trebble crownd 
 I humbly hope your Worships will give me a few pound ; 
 Because I was a Marchioness many years ago, 
 Before I came to service at the gate of Popolo." 
 
 That sackreligious Air-dresser, the Parson and his man, 
 Wouldn't, though ask'd continyally, own their wicked plan 
 And so the kind Authoraties let those villians go 
 That was plotting of the murder of the good Pio Nono. 
 
 Now isn't this safishnt proof, ye gentlemen at home, 
 
 How wicked is them Prodestants, and how good our Pope at 
 
 Rome : 
 
 So let us drink confusion to Lord John and Lord Minto, 
 And a health unto His Eminence, and good Pio Nono.
 
 264 
 
 BUNDLING f 5HRD1TCH 
 
 COME all ye Christian people, and listen lo my tail, 
 
 It is all about a doctor was travelling by the rail, 
 
 By the Heastern Counties Railway (vich the shares I don't 
 
 desire), 
 From Ixworth town in Suffolk, vich his name did not transpire. 
 
 A travelling from Bury this doctor was employed 
 
 With a gentleman, a friend of his, vich his name was Captain 
 
 Loyd, 
 And on reaching Marks Tey Station, that is next beyond 
 
 Colchest- 
 er, a lady entered in to them most elegantly dressed. 
 
 She entered into the Carriage all with a tottering step, 
 And a pooty little Bayby upon her bussum slep ; 
 The gentlemen received her with kindness and siwillaty, 
 Pitying this lady for her illness and debillaty. 
 
 She had a fust-class ticket, this lovely lady said ; 
 Because it was so lonesome she took a secknd instead. 
 Better to travel by secknd class, than sit alone in the fust, 
 And the pooty little Baby upon her breast she nust. 
 
 A seein of her cryin, ancLshiverin and pail, 
 
 To her spoke this surging, the Ero of my tail ; 
 
 Saysee " You look unwell, ma'am ; I'll elp you if I can, 
 
 And you may tell your case to me, for I'm a meddicle man."
 
 THE FOUNDLING OF SHOKEDITCH. 
 
 " Thank you, sir," the lady said, " I only look so pale, 
 Because I ain't accustom'd to travelling on the Rale ; 
 I shall be better presnly, when I've ad some rest" : 
 And that pooty little Baby she squeeged it to her breast. 
 
 265 
 
 So in comversation the journey they beguiled, 
 
 Capting Loyd and the meddicle man, and the lady and the 
 
 child, 
 
 Till the warious stations along the line was passed, 
 For even the Heastern Counties' trains must come in at last. 
 
 When at Shoreditch tumminus at lenth stopped the train, 
 This kind meddicle gentleman proposed his aid again.
 
 266 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 " Thank you, sir," the lady said, " for your kyindness dear ; 
 My carridge and my osses is probibbly come here. 
 
 " Will you old this baby, please, vilst I step and see ? " 
 The Doctor was a famly man : " That I will," says he. 
 Then the little child she kist, kist it very gently, 
 Vich was sucking its little fist, sleeping innocently. 
 
 With a sigh from her art, as though she would have bust it, 
 Then she gave the Doctor the child wery kind he nust it : 
 Hup then the lady jumped hofF the bench she sat from, 
 Tumbled down the carridge steps and ran along the platform. 
 
 Vile hall the other passengers vent upon their vays, 
 The Capting and the Doctor sat there in a maze ; 
 Some vent in a Homminibus, some vent in a Cabby, 
 The Capting and the Doctor vaited vith the babby. 
 
 There they sat looking queer, for an hour or more, 
 But their feller passinger neather on 'em sore : 
 Never, never back again did that lady come 
 To that pooty sleeping Hinfnt a suckin of its Thum ! 
 
 What could this pore Doctor do, bein treated thus, 
 
 When the darling Baby woke, cryin for its nuss? 
 
 Off he drove to a female friend, vich she was both kind and 
 
 mild, 
 And igsplained to her the circumstance of this year little child. 
 
 That kind lady took the child instantly in her lap, 
 And made it very comfortable by giving it some pap ; 
 And when she took its close off, what d'you think she found ? 
 A couple of ten pun notes sewn up, in its little gownd !
 
 THE FOUNDLING OF SHOREDITCH. 267 
 
 Also in its little close, was a note which did conwey 
 That this little baby's parents lived in a handsome way, 
 And for its Headucation they reglarly would pay, 
 And sirtingly like gentlefolks would claim the child one day, 
 If the Christian people who'd charge of it would say, 
 Per adwertisement in the Times, where the baby lay. 
 
 Pity of this bayby many people took, 
 
 It had such pooty ways and such a pooty look ; 
 
 And there came a lady forrard (I wish that I could see 
 
 Any kind lady as would do as much for me ; 
 
 And I wish with all my art, some night in my night gownd, 
 I could find a note stitched for ten or twenty pound) 
 There came a lady forrard, that most honorable did say, 
 She'd adopt this little baby, which its parents cast away. 
 
 While the Doctor pondered on this hoffer fair, 
 Comes a letter from Devonshire, from a party there, 
 Hordering the Doctor, at its Mar's desire, 
 To send the little Infant back to Devonshire. 
 
 Lost in apoplexity, this pore meddicle man, 
 Like a sensable gentleman, to the Justice ran ; 
 Which his name was Mr. Hammill, a honorable beak, 
 That takes his seat in Worship Street four times a week. 
 
 " O Justice," says the Doctor, " instrugt me what to do. 
 I've come up from the country, to throw myself on you ; 
 My patients have no doctor to tend them in their ills 
 (There they are in Suffolk without their draflts and pills !).
 
 268 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 " I've come up from the country, to know how I'll dispose 
 
 Of this pore little baby, and the twenty pun note, and the 
 
 close, 
 
 And I want to go back to Suffolk, dear Justice, if you please, 
 And my patients wants their Doctor, and their Doctor wants 
 
 his feez." 
 
 Up spoke Mr. Hammill, sittin at his desk, 
 
 " This year application does me much perplesk ; 
 
 What I do adwise you, is to leave this babby 
 
 In the Parish where it was left by its mother shabby." 
 
 The Doctor from his Worship sadly did depart 
 He might have left the baby, but he hadn't got the heart 
 To go for to leave that Hinnocent, has the laws allows, 
 To the tender mussies of the Union House. 
 
 Mother, who left this little one on a stranger's knee, 
 Think how cruel you have been, and how good was he ! 
 Think, if you've been guilty, innocent was she ; 
 And do not take unkindly this little word of me : 
 Heaven be merciful to us all, sinners as we be !
 
 269 
 
 " WESTMINSTER POI.ICK COURT. Policeman X. brought a paper of doggerel 
 verses to the Magistrate, which had been thrust into his hands, X said, by an Italian 
 boy, who ran away immediately afterwards 
 
 " The Magistrate, after perusing the lines, looked hard at X, and said he did not 
 think they were written by an Italian. 
 
 '' X, blushing, said he thought the paper read in court 1 -.st week, and which frightened 
 so the old gentleman to whom it was addressed, was also not of Italian origin." 
 
 O SIGNOR BRODERIP, you are a wickid ole man, 
 You wexis us little horgin-boys whenever you can : 
 How dare you talk of Justice, and go for to seek 
 To pussicute us horgin-boys, you senguinary Beek ? 
 
 Though you set in Vestminster surrounded by your crushers, 
 Harrogint and habsolute like the Hortacrat of hall the Rushers, 
 Yet there is a better vurld I'd have you for to know, 
 Likewise a place vere the henimies of horgin-boys will go. 
 
 O you vickid Herod without any pity ! 
 London vithout horgin-boys vood be a dismal city. 
 Sweet Saint Cicily who first taught horgin-pipes to blow, 
 Soften the heart of this Magistrit that haggerywates us so ! 
 
 Good Italian gentlemen, fatherly and kind, 
 Brings us over to London here our horgins for to grind ; 
 Sends us out vith little vite mice and guinea-pigs also 
 A poppin of the Veasel and a Jumpin of Jim Crow. 
 
 And as us young horgin-boys is grateful in our turn 
 
 We gives to these kind gentlemen hall the money we earn, 
 
 Because that they vood vop us wery wel we know 
 
 Unless we brought our hurnings back to them as loves us so.
 
 270 
 
 THA CKER Ay's POEMS. 
 
 O Mr. Broderip ! wery much I'm surprise, 
 
 Ven you take your valks abroad where can be your eyes ? 
 
 If a Beak had a heart then you'd compryend 
 
 Us pore little horgin-boys was the poor man's friend. 
 
 Don't you see the shildren in the droring-rooms 
 Clapping of their little ands when they year our toons? 
 On their mothers' bussums don't you see the babbies crow 
 And down to us dear horgin-boys lots of apence throw ? 
 
 Don't you see the ousemaids (pooty Follies and Maries), 
 Ven ve bring our urdigurdis, smiling from the hairies ?
 
 THE ORGAN-BOY'S APPEAL. 271 
 
 Then they come out vith a slice o' cole puddn or a bit o' 
 
 bacon or so 
 And give it us young horgin-boys for lunch afore we go. 
 
 Have you ever seen the Hirish children sport 
 
 When our velcome music-box brings sunshine in the Court? 
 
 To these little paupers who can never pay 
 
 Surely all good horgin-boys, for God's love, will play. 
 
 Has for those proud gentlemen, like a serting B k, 
 (Vich I von't be pussonal and therefore vil not speak), 
 That flings their parler-vinders hup ven ve begin to play, 
 And cusses us and swears at us in such a wiolent way, 
 
 Instedd of their abewsing and calling hout " Poleece ! " 
 Let em send out John to us vith sixpence or a shillin apiece. 
 Then like good young horgin-boys avay from there we'll go, 
 Blessing sweet Saint Cicily that taught our pipes to blow.
 
 272 
 
 THE play is done ; the curtain drops, 
 
 Slow falling to the prompter's bell : 
 A moment yet the actor stops 
 
 And looks around, to say farewell. 
 It is an irksome word and task ; 
 
 And, when he's laughed and said his say, 
 He shows, as he removes the mask, 
 
 A face that's anything but gay. 
 
 One word ere yet the evening ends, 
 Let's close it with a parting rhyme, 
 
 And pledge a hand to all young friends, 
 As fits the merry Christmas time.* 
 
 * These verses were printed as an Epilogue to one of the Christmas books 
 of Mr. M. A. Titmarsh, "Dr. Birch and his Young Friends" (1848-9).
 
 THE END OF THE PLAY. 273 
 
 On life's wide scene you, too, have parts, 
 That Fate ere long shall bid you play : 
 
 Good night ! with honest gentle hearts 
 A kindly greeting go ahvay ! 
 
 Good night ! I'd say, the griefs, the joys, 
 
 Just hinted in this mimic page, 
 The triumphs and defeats of boys, 
 
 Are but repeated in our age. 
 I'd say, your woes were not less keen, 
 
 Your hopes more vain, than those of men ; 
 Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen 
 
 At forty-five played o'er again. 
 
 I'd say, we suffer and we strive, 
 
 Not less nor more as men than boys ; 
 With grizzled beards at forty-five, 
 
 As erst at twelve in corduroys. 
 And if, in time of sacred youth, 
 
 We learned at home to love and pray, 
 Pray Heaven that early Love and Truth 
 
 May never wholly pass away. 
 
 And in the world, as in the school, 
 
 I'd say, how fate may change and shift ; 
 The prize be sometimes with the fool, 
 
 The race not always to the swift. * 
 The strong may yield, the good may fall, 
 
 The great man be a vulgar clown, 
 The knave be lifted over all, 
 
 The kind cast pitilessly down, 
 s
 
 274 
 
 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 Who knows the inscrutable design ? 
 
 Blessed be He who took and gave ! 
 Why should your mother, Charles, not mine, 
 
 Be weeping at her darling's grave ? * 
 
 We bow to Heaven that will'd it so, 
 That darkly rules the fate of all, 
 
 That sends the respite or the blow, 
 That's free to give or to recall. 
 
 *C. B., ob. apth November, 1848, xl. 42.
 
 THE END OF THE PLAY. 275 
 
 This crowns his feast with wine and wit : 
 
 Who brought him to that mirth and state ? 
 His betters, see, below him sit, 
 
 Or hunger hopeless at the gate. 
 Who bade the mud from Dives' wheel 
 
 To spurn the rags of Lazarus ? 
 Come, brother, in that dust we'll kneel, 
 
 Confessing Heaven that ruled it thus. 
 
 So each shall mourn, in life's advance, 
 
 Dear hopes, dear friends, untimely killed ; 
 Shall grieve for many a forfeit chance, 
 
 And longing passion unfulfilled. 
 Amen ! whatever fate be sent, 
 
 Pray God the heart may kindly glow, 
 Although the head with cares be bent, 
 
 And whitened with the winter snow. 
 
 Come wealth or want, come good or ill, 
 
 Let young and old accept their part, 
 And bow before the Awful Will, 
 
 And bear it with an honest heart, 
 Who misses or who wins the prize. 
 
 Go, lose or conquer as you can ; 
 But if you fail, or if you rise, 
 
 Be each, pray God, a gentleman. 
 
 A gentleman, or old or young ! 
 
 (Bear kindly with my humble lays) ; 
 The sacred chorus first was sung 
 
 Upon the first of Christmas days :
 
 276 THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 The shepherds heard it overhead 
 The joyful angels raised it then . 
 
 Glory to Heaven on high, it said, 
 And peace on earth to gentle men. 
 
 My song, save this, is little worth ; 
 
 I lay the weary pen aside, 
 And wish you health, and love, and mirth, 
 
 As fits the solemn Christmas-tide. 
 As fits the holy Christmas birth, 
 
 Be this, good friends, our carol still 
 Be peace on earth, be peace on earth, 
 
 To men of gentle will. 
 
 PRINTED BY CASSBLL & COMPANY, LIMITED. LA BELLE SAUVAGF, LONDON, E.C.
 
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 , Goodwin, IXIi.. 
 
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