x^^' % ■>^. .^"^^ .H -7% '^^ ,,^^- c •^> %■ ■ f '-^ ' ^ .x\^- "■':, ,-.v^' ^^ ^-^^ v^^ \'' ^- <^o :S' ^^ .V ^^ o 0^ %m% IF mmm i ► V^v^ ^IHS © EDITED BY 10S ©AWHIllacJ^^^ Har+^Vi^^^ The o^ic-y-e -,.-J A NEW EDITION, WITH SEVERAL NEW BALLADS. W&itl^ illustrations. i REDFIELD, CLINTON HALL, NEW-YORK. 1852. -^^^^l CONTENTS. Ijiiittisti Soollois. PAGE THE BEOKEN PITCHER . . . .8 DON FERNANDO GOMERSALEZ : from the Spanish— of Astlet's . . . . . . 6 i ', THE COURTSHIP OF OUR CID . . . 20 i -5 amniran UnlUii THE FIGHT WITH THE SNAPPING TURTLE, OR THE AMERICAN ST. GEORGE :— Fttte Fiest ..... Fytte Second .... THE LAY OF MR. COLT :— Steeak the FmsT .... Streak the Second . . THE DEATH OF JABEZ DOLLAR THE ALABAMA DUEL .... THE AMERICAN'S APOSTROPHE TO BOZ 29 i 40 > ] 45 60 4^1 56 5-1 VI CONTENTS. 3JlistBllllEHlIS ^DEllub; THE STUDENT OF JENA . . . .63 THE LAY OF THE LEVITE ... 68 BUKSCH GKOGGENBUEG . . . .70 NIGHT AND MOKNING . . . .74 THE BITEE BIT . . . . .76 THE CONVICT AND THE AUSTRALIAN LADY . 79 THE DOLEFUL LAY OF THE HONORABLE I. O. UWINS ..... 82 THE KNYGHTE AND THE TAYLZEOUR'S DAUGHTER 83 THE MIDNIGHT VISIT . . . .94 THE LAY OF THE LOVELORN ... 99 MY WIFE'S COUSIN . . . . .109 THE QUEEN IN FRANCE : an ancient Scottish Ballad :— Part I. . . . . .113 Part II. . . . . . 119 THE MASSACRE OF THE MACPHERSON : from the Gaelic . . . . .125 THE YOUNG STOCKBROKER'S BRIDE . . 129 THE LAUREATES' TOURNEY :— Fttte the First . . . . 133 Fytte the Second .... 138 THE ROYAL BANQUET .... 142 THE BARD OF ERIN'S LAMENT . . .147 THE LAUREATE . . . .149 A MIDNIGHT MEDITATION . . . .153 MONTGOMERY: a Poem .... 157 THE DEATH OF SPACE . . . .160 LITTLE JOHN AND THE RED FRIAR : a Lay of Sher- wood : — Fttte the First .... 162 Fytte the Second . . . .168 THE RHYME OF SIR LAUNCELOT BOGLE . 176 THE LAY OF THE LOVER'S FRIEND . . 190 FRANCESCA DA RIMINI . . .194 THE CADI'S DAUGHTER : a Legend of the Bosphorus 198 CONTENTS. VU MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS (oontintjed) :— EASTEEN SEEENADE THE DEATH OF DUVAL THE DIKGE OF THE DEINKEE DAME FREDBGONDE . THE DEATH OF ISHMAEL . FARE'S LIFE PILLS TAEQUIN AND THE AUGUR LA MORT D' ARTHUR JUPITER AND THE INDIAN ALE . THE LAY OF THE DOUDNEY BROTHERS PARIS AND HELEN i SONG OF THE ENNUYE CAROLINE .... TO A FORGET-ME-NOT . THE MISHAP COMFORT IN AFFLICTION THE INVOCATION . THE HUSBAND'S PETITION 202 • 205 ^3 . 210 :78 . 213 ■-■/ . 218 • r f 220 ' ■-'"' . 222 !>1 224 ^1 . 225 ' 'h 227 '' + 230 "' ' 233 236 239 241 244 246 249 Co:me, buy my lays, and read tliem if you list ; My pensive public, if you list not, buy. Come, for jou know me. I am be who sung Of Mister Colt, and I am be wbo framed Of "Widdicomb the mild and wond'rous song. Come, listen to my lays, and you shall bear How Wordsworth, battling for the laureate's wreath. Bore to the dust the terrible Fitzball ; How ]Sr. P. Willis, for his country's good, In complete steel, all bowie-knived at point. Took lodgings in the Snapping Turtle's mouth. Come, listen to my lays, and you shall hear The mingled music of all modern bards Floating aloft in such peculiar strains, As strike themselves with envy and amaze ; For you " bright-harped " Tennyson shall sing ; Macaulay chant a more than Eoman lay ; And Bulwer Lytton, Lytton Bulwer erst. Unseen amidst a metaphysic fog. Bawl melancholy homage to the man : For you once more Montgomery shall rave In all his rapt rabidity of rhyme ; Nankeen'd Cockaigne shall pipe his puny note, And our Young England's penny trumpet blow. SPAIISH BALLADS €^ aornten f itrln^r. It was a Moorish maiden was sitting by a well, And what the maiden thought of, I cannot, cannot tell, When by there rode a valiant knight from the town of Oviedo — Alphonzo Guzman was he hight, the Count of Desparedo. " Oh, maiden, Moorish maiden 1 why sitt'st thou by the spring 1 Say, dost thou seek a lover, or any other thing 1 Why gazest thou upon me, with eyes so large and wide. And wherefore doth the pitcher lie broken by thy side?" " I do not seek a lover, thou Christian knight so gay, Because an article like that hath never come my way ; And why I gaze upon you, I cannot, cannot tell. Except that in your iron hose you look uncommon swell. 12 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. " My pitcher it is broken, and this the reason is, — A shepherd came behind me, and tried to snatch a kiss ; I would not stand his nonsense, so ne'er a word I spoke, But scored him on the costard, and so the jug was broke. " My uncle, the Alcayde, he waits for me at home. And will not take his tumbler until Zorayda come. I cannot bring him water — the pitcher is in pieces — And so I'm sure to catch it, 'cos he wallops all his "Oh, maiden, Moorish maiden! wilt thou be ruled by me ! So wipe thine eyes and rosy lips, and give me kisses three ; And I '11 give thee my helmet, thou kind and courteous lady, To carry home the water to thy uncle, the Alcayde." He lighted down from off his steed — he tied him to a tree — He bowed him to the maiden, and took his kisses three : "To wrong thee, sweet Zorayda, I swear would be a sin !" He knelt him at the fountain, and he dipped his helmet in. Up rose the Moorish maiden — behind the knight she steals, And caught Alphonzo Guzman up tightly by the heels ; THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 13 She tipped him in, and held him down beneath the bub- bling water, — " Now, take thou that for venturing to kiss Al Hamet's daughter !" A Christian maid is weeping in the town of Oviedo ; She waits the coming of her love, the Count of Desparedo. I pray you all in charity, that you will never tell, How he met the Moorish maiden beside the lonely well. 14 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. inn /EEirata #nniBr3iiUi FROM THE SPANISH OF ASTLEY S. Don Fernando Gomersalez ! basely have they borne thee down ; Paces ten behind thy charger is thy glorious body thrown ; Fetters have they bound upon thee — iron fetters fast and sure ; Don Fernando Gomersalez, thou art captive to the Moor ! Long within a sable dungeon pined that brave and noble knight, For the Saracenic warriors well they knew and feared his might; Long he lay and long he languished on his dripping bed of stone. Till the cankered iron fetters ate their way into his bone. On the twentieth day of August — 't was the feast of false Mahound — Came the Moorish population from the neighboring cities round ; THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 15 There to hold their foul carousal, there to dance and there to sing, And to pay their yearly homage to Al-Widdicomb, the King ! First they wheeled their supple coursers, wheeled them at their utmost speed. Then they galloped by in squadrons, tossing far the light jereed ; Then around the circus racing, faster than the swallow flies. Did they spurn the yellow saw-dust in the rapt specta- tors' eyes. Proudly did the Moorish monarch every passing warrior greet, As he sat enthroned above them, with the lamps beneath his feet ; " Tell me, thou black-bearded Cadi ! are there any in the land, That against my janissaries dare one hour in combat stand V Then the bearded Cadi answered — " Be not wroth, my lord, the King, If thy faithful slave shall venture to observe one little thing ; Valiant, doubtless, are thy warriors, and their beards are long and hairy. And a thunderbolt in battle is each bristly janissary : 16 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. " But I cannot, O my sovereign, quite forgot that fearful day. When I saw the Christian army in its terrible array ; When they charged across the footlights like a torrent down its bed, With the red cross floating o'er them, and Fernando at their head ! " Don Fernando Gomersalez ! matchless chieftain he in . war. Mightier than Don Sticknejo, braver than the Cid Bavar ! Not a cheek within Grenada, O my King, but wan and pale is, When they hear the dreaded name of Don Fernando Gomersalez !" " Thou shalt see thy champion. Cadi ! hither quick the captive bring !" Thus in wrath and deadly anger spoke Al-Wijidicomb, the King ; " Paler than a maiden's forehead is the Christian's hue I ween, Since a year within the dungeons of Grenada he hath been !" Then they brought the Gomersalez, and they led the warrior in, Weak and wasted seemed his body, and his face was pale and thin ; \ THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 17 But the ancient fire was burning, unallayed, within his eye, And his step was proud and stately, and his look was stern and high. Scarcely from tumultuous cheering could the galleried crowd refrain, For they knew Don Gomersalez and his prowess in the plain ; But they feared the grizzly despot and his myrmidons in steel, So their sympathy descended in the fruitage of Seville. " Wherefore, monarch, hast thou brought me from the dungeon dark and drear. Where these limbs of mine have wasted in confinement for a year "? Dost thou lead me forth to torture 1 — Rack and pincers I defy— Is it that thy base grotesquos may behold a hero die?" " Hold thy peace, thou Christian caitiff! and attend to what I say : Thou art called the starkest rider of the Spanish curs' array — If thy courage be undaunted, as they say it was of yore. Thou may'st yet achieve thy freedom, — yet regain thy native shore. IS THE BOOK OF BALLADS. "Courses three within this circus 'gainst my warriors shalt thou run, Ere yon weltering pasteboard ocean shall receive yon muslin sun ; Victor — thou shalt have thy freedom ; but if stretched upon the plain, To thy dark and dreary dungeon they shall bear thee back again." " Give me but the armor, monarch, I have worn in many a field. Give me but a trusty helmet, give me but my dinted shield ; And my old steed, Bavieca, swiftest courser in the ring. And I rather should imagine that I '11 do the business, King !" Then they carried down the armor from the garret where it lay, O ! but it was red and rusty, and the plumes were shorn away; And they led out Bavieca, from a foul and filthy van, For the conqueror had sold him to a Moorish dogs-meat man. When the steed beheld his master, then he whinned loud and free. And, in token of subjection, knelt upon each broken knee; THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 19 And a tear of walnut largeness to the warrior's eyelids rose, As he fondly picked a beanstraw from his coughing courser's nose. " Many a time, O Bavieca, hast thou borne me through the fray ! Bear me but again as deftly through the listed ring this day; Or if thou art worn and feeble, as may well have come to pass, Time it is, my trusty charger, both of us. were sent to grass !" Then he seized his lance, and vaulting in the saddle, sate upright. Marble seemed the noble courser, iron seemed the mailed knight ; And a cry of admiration burst from every Moorish lady— " Five to four on Don Fernando !" cried the sable- bearded Cadi. Warriors three from Alcantara burst into the listed space, Warriors three, all bred in battle, of the proud Alham- bra race : Trumpets sounded, coursers bounded, and the foremost straight went down. Tumbling, like a sack of turnips, just before the jeering Clown. 20 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. In the second chieftain galloped, and he bowed him to the King, And his saddle-girths were tightened by the Master of the Ring; Through three blazoned hoops he bounded ere the des- perate fight began — Don Fernando ! bear thee bravely ! — 'tis the Moor Ab- dorrhoman ! Like a double streak of lightning, clashing in the sul- phurous sky, Met the pair of hostile heroes, and they made the saw- dust fly ; And the Moslem spear so stiffly smote on Don Fernan- do's mail. That he reeled, as if in liquor, back to Bavieca's tail. But he caught the mace beside him, and he griped it hard and fast, And he swung it starkly upwards as the foeman bound- ed past ; And the deadly stroke descended through the skull and through the brain. As ye may have seen a poker cleave a cocoa-nut in twain. Sore astonished was the monarch, and the Moorish war- riors all. Save the third bold chief, who tarried and beheld his brethren fall ; THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 21 And the Clown in haste arising from the footstool where he set, Notified the first appearance of the famous Acrobat ! Never on a single charger rides that stout and stalwart Moor, Five beneath his stride so stately bear him o'er the trembling floor ; Five Arabians, black as midnight — on their necks the rein he throws. And the outer and the inner feel the pressure of his toes. Never wore that chieftain armor ; in a knot himself he ties, \Yith his grizzly head appearing in the centre of his thighs. Till the petrified spectator asks in paralyzed alarm — Where may be the warrior's body, — which is leg, and which is arm 1 " Sound the charge !" the coursers started ; with a yell and furious vault, High in air the Moorish champion cut a wondrous somersault ; O'er the head of Don Fernando like a tennis-ball he sprung. Caught him tightly by the girdle, and behmd the crup- per hung. 22 THE BOOK OF BALLADS, Then his dagger Don Fernando plucked from out its jewelled sheath, And he struck the Moor so fiercely, as he grappled him beneath, That the good Damascus weapon sunk within the folds of fat, And, as dead as Julius Csesar, dropped the Gordian Acrobat. Meanwhile, fast the sun was sinking, — it had sunk be- neath the sea. Ere Fernando Gomersalez smote the latter of the three ; And Al-Widdicomb, the monarch, pointed with a bitter smile, To the deeply-darkening canvass — blacker grew it all the while. " Thou hast slain my warriors, Spaniard ! but thou hast not kept thy time ; Only two had sunk before thee ere I heard the curfew chime ; Back thou goest to thy dungeon, and thou may'st be wondrous glad, That thy head is on thy shoulders for thy work to-day, my lad ! "Therefore, all thy boasted valor, Christian dog, of no avail is !" Dark as midnight grew the brow of Don Fernando Gomersalez; — THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 23 Stiffly sate he in his saddle, grimly looked around the ring, Laid his lance within the rest, and shook his gauntlet at the King. " O, thou foul and faithless traitor ! wouldst thou play me false again 1 Welcome death and welcome torture, rather than the captive's chain ! But I give thee warning, caitiff ! Look thou sharply to thine eye — Unavenged, at least in harness, Gomersalez shall not die !" Thus he spoke, and Bavieca like an arrow forward flew, Right and left the Moorish squadron wheeled to let the hero through ; Brightly gleamed the light of vengeance — fiercely sped the fatal thrust — From his throne the Moorish monarch tumbled lifeless in the dust. Speed thee, speed thee, Bavieca ! speed thee faster than the wind ! Life and freedom are before thee, deadly foes give chase behind ! Speed thee up the sloping spring-board ; o'er the bridge that spans the seas ; Yonder gauzy moon will light thee through the grove of canvas trees. 24 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. Close before thee, Pampeluna spreads her painted paste- board gate ! Speed thee onward, gallant courser, speed thee with thy knightly freight — Victory ! the town receives them ! — Gentle ladies, this the tale is. Which I learned in Astley's Circus, of Fernando Gomer- salez ! THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 26 What a pang of sweet emotion Thrilled the Master of the Ring, When he first beheld the lady, Through the stabled portal spring ! Midway in his wild grimacing Stopped the piebald-visaged Clown ; And the thunders of the audience Nearly brought the gallery down. Donna Inez Woolfordinez ! Saw ye ever such a maid, With the feathers swaling o'er her, And her spangled rich brocade ? In her fairy hand a horsewhip, On her foot a buskin small, So she stepped, the stately damsel, Through the scarlet grooms and all. And she beckoned for her courser, And they brought a milk-white mare ; Proud. I ween, was that Arabian Such a gentle freight to bear : 2 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. And the Master moved towards her, With a proud and stately walk ; And, in reverential homage, Rubbed her soles with virgin chalk. Round she flew, as Flora flying Spans the circle of the year ; And the youth of London sighing, Half forgot the ginger beer — Quite forgot the maids beside them ; As they surely well might do. When she raised two Roman candles, Shooting fireballs red and blue ! Swifter than the Tartar's arrow. Lighter than the lark in flight, On the left foot now she bounded, Now she stood upon the right. Like a beautiful Bacchante, Here she soars, and there she kneels. While amid her floating tresses, Flash two whirling Catherine wheels ! Hark ! the blare of yonder trumpet ! See the gates are open wide ! Room, there, room for Gomersalez, — Gomersalez in his pride ! Rose the shouts of exultation. Rose the cat's triumphant call, As he bounded, man and courser, Over Master, Clown, and all ! THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 27 Donna Inez Woolfordinez ! Why those blushes on thy cheek ? Doth thy trembling bosom tell thee, He hath come thy love to seek 1 Fleet thy Arab — but behmd thee He is rushing like a gale ; One foot on his coal black's shoulders, And the other on his tail ! Onward, onward, panting maiden ! He is faint and fails — for now, By the feet he hangs suspended From his glistening saddle-bow. Down are gone both cap and feather, Lance and gonfalon are down ! Trunks, and cloak, and vest of velvet, He has flung them to the Clown. Faint and failing ! Up he vaulteth. Fresh as when he first began ; All in coat of bright vermilion, 'Quipped as Shaw, the Life-guardsman. Right and left his whizzing broadsword, Like a sturdy flail, he throws ; Cutting out a path unto thee Through imaginary foes. Woolfordinez ! speed thee onward ! He is hard upon thy track, — Paralyzed is Widdicombez, Nor his whip can longer crack ; THE BOOK OF BALLADS. He has flung away his broadsword, 'Tis to clasp thee to his breast. Onward ! — see he bares his bosom, Tears away his scarlet vest ; Leaps from out his nether garments, And his leathern stock unties — As the flower of London's dustmen, Now in swift pursuit he flies. Nimbly now he cuts and shuffles, O'er the buckle, heel and toe ! And with hands deep in his pockets Winks to all the throng below ! Onward, onward rush the coursers ; Woolfordinez, peerless girl, O'er the garters lightly bounding From her steed with airy whirl ! Gomersalez, wild with passion, Danger — all but her — forgets ; Wheresoe'er she flies, pursues her, Casting clouds of somersets ! Onward, onward rush the coursers ; Bright is Gomersalez' eye ; Saints protect thee, Woolfordinez, For his triumph, sure, is nigh ! Now his com-ser's flanks he lashes. O'er his shoulder flings the rein. And his feet aloft he tosses. Holding stoutly by the mane ! THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 29 Then his feet once more regaining, DofFs his jacket, doffs his smalls ; And in graceful folds around him A bespangled tunic falls. Pinions from his heels are bursting. His bright locks have pinions o'er them ; And the public sees with rapture Maia's nimble son before them. Speed thee, speed thee, Woolfordinez ! For a panting god pursues ; And the chalk is very nearly Rubbed from thy white satin shoes ; Every bosom throbs with terror, You might hear a pin to drop ; All was hushed, save where a starting Cork gave out a casual pop. One smart lash across his courser, One tremendous bound and stride. And our noble Cid was standing By his Woolfordinez' side ! With a god's embrace he clasped her, Raised her in his manly arms ; And the stables' closing barriers Hid his valor, and her charms ! 30 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. AMEEICAI BALLADS €ljB /igjit mitli tli^ limppiiig Curtis OR, THE AMERICAN ST. GEORGE. FYTTE FIRST. Have you heard of Philip Slingsby, Slingsby of the manly chest ; How he slew the Snapping Turtle In the regions of the West 1 "&' Every day the huge Cawana Lifted up its monstrous jaws ; And it swallowed Langton Bennett, And digested Rufus Dawes. Riled, I ween, was Philip Slingsby, Their untimely deaths to hear ; For one author owed him money, And the other loved him dear. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 31 " Listen, now, sagacious Tyler, Whom the loafers all obey ; What reward will Congress give me, If I take this pest away f Then sagacious Tyler answered, " You're the ring-tailed squealer ! Less Than a hundred heavy doliai-s Won't be offered you, I guess ! " And a lot of wooden nutmegs In the bargain, too, we'll throw- Only you just fix the criter — Won't you liquor ere you gol" Straightway leaped the valiant Slingsby Into armor of Seville, With a strong Arkansas toothpick Screwed in every joint of steel. " Come thou with me, Cullen Bryant, Come with me as squire, I pray ; Be the Homer of the battle That I go to wage to-day." So they went along careering W^ith a loud and martial tramp, Till they neared the Snapping Turtle In the dreary Swindle Swamp. But when Slingsby saw the water, Somewhat pale, I ween, was he. " If I come not back, dear Bryant, Tell the tale to Melanie ! 2Q THE BOOK OF BALLADS. " Tell her that I died devoted, Victim to a noble task ! HaVt you got a drop of brandy In the bottom of your flask V As he spoke, an alligator Swam across the sullen creek ; And the two Columbians started When they heard the monster shriek : For a snout of huge dimensions Rose above the waters high, And took down the alligator, As a trout takes down a fly. " 'Tarnal death I the Snapping Turtle !" Thus the squire in terror cried ; But the noble Slingsby straightway Drew the toothpick from his side» " Fare thee well !" he cried, and dashing Through the waters, strongly swam : Meanwhile Cullen Bryant, watching, Breathed a prayer and sucked a dram. Sudden from the slimy bottom Was the snout again upreared, With a snap as loud as thunder, — And the Slingsby disappeared. Like a mighty steam-ship foundering, Down the monstrous vision sank ; And the ripple, slowly rolling, Plashed and played upon the bank. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. Still and stiller grew the water, Hushed the canes within the brake ; There was but a kind of coughing At the bottom of the lake. Bryant wept as loud and deeply As a father for a son — " He's a finished 'coon, is Slingsby, And the brandy's nearly done!" FYTTE SECOND. In a trance of sickening anguish, Cold, and stiff, and sore and damp, For two days did Bryant linger By the dreary Swindle Swamp; Always peering at the water, Always waiting for the hour. When those monstrous jaws should open As he saw them ope before. Still in vain ; — the alligators Scrambled through the marshy brake, And the vampire leeches gaily Sucked the garfish in the lake. But the Snapping Turtle never Rose for food or rose for rest, Since he lodged the steel deposit In the bottom of his chest. 2* 34 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. Only always from the bottom Violent sounds of coughing rolled, Just as if the huge Cawana Had a most confounded cold. On the bank lay CuUen Bryant, As the second moon arose ; Gouging on the sloping green sward Some imaginary foes. When the swamp began to tremble And the canes to rustle fast, As if some stupendous body Through their roots was crushing past. And the water boiled and bubbled, And in groups of twos and threes, Several alligators bounded. Smart as squirrels up the trees. Then a hideous head was lifted, With such huge distended jaws, That they might have held Goliath Quite as well as Rufus Dawes. Paws of elephantine thickness Dragged its body from the bay, And it glared at Cullen Bryant In a most unpleasant way. Then it writhed as if in torture, And it staggered to and fro ; And its very shell was shaken, In the anguish of its throe : THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 85 And its cough grew loud and louder, And its sob more husky thick ; For, indeed, it was apparent That the beast was very sick. Till at last a violent vomit Shook its carcass through and through, And, as if from out a cannon, All in armor Sllngsby flew. Bent and bloody was the bowle, Which he held within his grasp ; And he seemed so much exhausted That he scarce had strength to gasp — *' Gouge him, Bryant ! darn ye, gouge him ! Gouge him while he's on the shore !" And his thumbs were straightway buried Where no thumbs had pierced before. Right from out their bony sockets. Did he scoop the monstrous balls; And, with one convulsive shudder. Dead the Snapping Turtle falls ! "Post the tin, sagacious Tyler!" Bat the old experienced file, Leering first at Clay and Webster, Answered, with a quiet smile — 36 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. Since you dragged the 'tarnal crittur From the bottom of the ponds, Here's the hundred dollars due you. All in Pennsylvanian Bond^^ /" 'The only Good American Securities." THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 87 \t ITot! Df 3lr. Cnlt. [The story of Mr. Colt, of which our Lay coutaius merely the sequel, is this : A New York printer, of the name of Adams, had the effron- tery to call upon him one day for the payment of an account, which the independent Colt settled by cutting his creditor's head to frag- ments with an axe. He then packed his body in a box, sprinkling it with salt, and despatched it to a packet, bound for New Orleans. Suspicions having been excited, he was seized, and tried before Judge Kent. The trial is, perhaps, the most disgraceful upon the records of any country. The ruffian's mistress was produced in court, and examined in disgusting detail, as to her connexion with Colt, and his movements during the days and nights succeeding the murder. The head of the murdered man was bandied to and fro in the court, hand- ed up to the jury, and commented on by witnesses and counsel ; and to crown the horrors of the whole proceeding, the wretch's own counsel, a Mr. Emmet, commencing the defence with a cool admis- sion that his client took the life of Adams, and following it up by a detail of the whole circumstances of this most brutal murder in the first person, as though he himself had been the murderer, ended by telling the jury, that his client was " entitled to tlie sympathy of a jury of his country," as " a yoimg man just entering into life, wJiose pros- pects, probably Jiave been permanently blasted. " Colt was found guilty ; but a variety of exceptions were taken to the charge by the judge, and after a long series of appeals, which occupied more than- a year from, the date of the conviction, the sentence of death was ratified by Governor Seward. The rest of Colt's story is told in our ballad.] STREAK THE FIRST. * * * * And now the sacred rite was done, and the marriage knot was tied, And Colt withdrew his blushing wife a little way aside ; 60 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. " Let 's go," he said, " into my cell, let 's go alone, my dear ; I fain would shelter that sweet face from the sheriff's odious leer. The gaoler and the hangman, they are waiting both for me, — I cannot bear to see them wink so knowingly at thee ! Oh, how I loved thee, dearest ! They say that I am i wild, \ That a mother dares not trust me with the weasand of her child. They say my bowie knife is keen to sliver into halves The carcass of my enemy, as butchers slay their calves. They say that I am stern of mood, because, like salted beef, I packed my quartered foreman up, and marked him ' prime tariff ;' Because I thought to palm him on the simple-souled John Bull, And clear a small per centage on the sale at Liverpool ; It may be so, I do not know — these things, perhaps, may be ; But surely I have always been a gentleman to thee ! Then come, my love, into my cell, short bridal space is ours, — Nay, sheriff, never look thy watch — I guess there's good j two hours. j We '11 shut the prison doors and keep the gaping world i at bay. For love is long as 'tarnity, though I must die to-day !" THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 89 STREAK THE SECOND. The clock is ticking onward, It nears the hour of doom, And no one yet hath entered Into that ghastly room. The gaoler and the sheriff They are walking to and fro ; And the hangman sits upon the steps, And smokes his pipe below. In grisly expectation The prison all is bound, And save expectoration. You cannot hear a sound. The turnkey stands and ponders. His hand upon the bolt, — " In twenty minutes more, I guess, 'T will all be up with Colt !" But see, the door is opened ! Forth comes the weeping bride ; The courteous sheriff lifls his hat. And saunters to her side, — " I beg your pardon, Mrs. C, But is your husband ready 1" " I guess you'd better ask himself," Replied the woful lady. The clock is ticking onward, The minutes almost run. The hangman's pipe is nearly out, 'T is on the stroke of one. 40 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. At every grated window Unshaven faces glare ; There's Puke, the judge of Tennessee, And Lynch, of Delaware ; And Batter, with the long black beard, Whom Hartford's maids know well ; And Winkinson, from Fish Kill Reach, The pride of New Rochelle ; Elkanah Nutts, from Tarry Town, The gallant gouging boy ; And coon-faced Bushwhack, from the hills That frown o'er modern Troy ; * Young Wheezer, whom our Willis loves, Because, 't is said, that he, One morning from a bookstall filched The tale of " Melanie ;" And Skunk, who fought his country's fight Beneath the stripes and stars, — All thronging at the windows stood. And gazed between the bars. The little boys that stood behind (Young thievish imps were they !) Displayed considerable nous On that eventful day ; For bits of broken looking-glass They held aslant on high. And there a mirrored gallows-tree Met their delighted eye.* •A Fact THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 41 The clock is ticking onward ; Hark ! Hark ! it striketh one ! Each felon draws a whistling breath, " Time 's up with Colt ; he 's done !" The sheriff looks his watch again, Then puts it in his fob, And turns him to the hangman, — " Get ready for the job." The gaoler knocketh loudly, The turnkey draws the bolt. And pleasantly the sheriif says, " We 're waiting, Mister Colt !" No answer 1 No ! no answer ! All 's still as death within ; The sheriff eyes the gaoler. The gaoler strokes his chin. " I should n't wonder, Nahum, if It were as you suppose." The hangman looked unhappy, and The turnkey blew his nose. They entered. On his pallet The noble convict lay, — The bridegroom on his marriage bed, But not in trim array. His red right hand a razor held, Fresh sharpened from the hone, And his ivory neck was severed, And gashed into the bone. 42 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. And when the lamp is lighted 111 the long November days, And lads and lasses mingle At the shucking of the maize ; When pies of smoking pumpkin Upon the table stand, And bowls of black molasses Go round from hand to hand ; When slap-jacks, maple-sugared, Are hissing in the pan, And cider, with a dash of gin, Foams in the social can ; When the good man wets his whistle. And the good wife scolds the child ; And the girls exclaim convulsively, " Have done, or I'll be riled !" When the loafer sitting next them Attempts a sly caress, And whispers, " Oh ! you 'possum, You 've fixed my heart, I guess !" With laughter and with weeping. Then shall they tell the tale, How Colt his foreman quartered, And died within the gaol. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 43 €^t ifnll; (Df Mt] Bnllnr. [Before the following poem, which originally appeared in " Fraser's Magazine," could have reached America, intelligence was received in tliis country of an affray in Congress, very nearly the counterpart of that which the Author has liere imagined in jest. It was very clear, to any one who observed the state of joublic manners in America, that such occurrences 7mist happen sooner or later. The Americans apparently felt the force of the satire, as the poem was widely re- printed throughout the States. It subsequently returned to this country, embodied in an American work on American manners, where it characteristically appeared as the writer's own production ; and it afterwards went the round of British newspapers, as an amu- sing satire by an American, of his countrymen's foibles !] The Congress met, the day was wet, Van Buren took the chair, On either side, the statesman pride of fair Kentuck was there. With moody frown, there sat Calhoun, and slowly in his cheek His quid he thrust, and slaked the dust, as Webster rose to speak. Upon that day, near gifted Clay, a youthful member sat, And like a free American upon the floor he spat ; Then turning round to Clay, he said, and wiped his manly chin, " What kind of Locofoco's that, as wears the painter's skini" 44 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. "Young man," quoth Clay, "avoid the way of Slick of Tennessee, Of gougers fierce, the eyes that pierce, the fiercest gouger he. He chews and spits as there he sits, and whittles at the chairs. And in his hand, for deadly strife, a bowie-knife he bears. " Avoid that knife ! In frequent strife its blade, so long and thin, Has found itself a resting-place his rival's ribs within." But coward fear came never near young Jabez Dollar's heart, "Were he an alligator, I would rile him pretty smart!" Then up he rose, and cleared his nose, and looked toward the chair, He saw the stately stripes and stars— our country's flag was there! His heart beat high, with savage cry upon the floor he sprang, Then raised his- wrist, and shook his fist, and spolce his first harangue. "Who sold the nutmegs made of wood-the clocks that wouldn't figure 1 Who grinned the bark off gum-trees dark,-the ever- lasting nigger ? J THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 45 For twenty cents, ye Congress gents, through 'tarnity I'll kick That man, I guess, though nothing less than coon-faced Colonel Slick!" The colonel smiled — with frenzy wild, — his very beard w^axed blue, — His shirt it could not hold him, so wrathy riled he grew; He foams and frets, his knife he whets upon his seat below — He sharpens it on either side, and whittles at his toe, — " Oh ! waken, snakes, and walk your chalks ! " he cried, with ire elate ; " Darn my old mother, but I will in wild cats whip my weight ! Oh ! 'tarnal death I'll spoil your breath, young Dollar, and your chaffing, — Look to your ribs, for here is that will tickle them with- out laughing ! " His knife he raised — with fury crazed, he sprang across the hall ; He cut a caper in the air — he stood before them all : ' He never stopped to look or think if he the deed should do. But spinning sent the President, and on young Dollar flew. 46 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. They met — they closed — they sunk — they rose, — in vain young Dollar strove — Tor, like a streak of lightning greased, the infuriate colonel drove His bowie blade deep in his side, and to the ground they rolled. And, drenched in gore, wheeled o'er and o'er, locked in ^-^^A. other's hold. With fury dumb — with nail and thumb — they struggled and they thi-ust, — The blood ran red from Dollar's side, like rain, upon the dust; He nerved his might for one last spring, and as he sunk and died. Reft of an eye, his enemy fell groaning at his side. Thus did he fall within the hall of Congress, that brave youth ; The bowie-knife had quenched his life of valor and of truth ; And still among the statesmen throng at Washington they tell How nobly Dollar gouged his man — how gallantly he fell! THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 47 €^t Sllfibnina BubL " Young chaps, give ear, — the case is clear. You, Silas Fixings, you Pay Mister Nehemiah Dodge, them dollars as you 're due, You are a bloody cheat, — you are. But spite of all your tricks, it Is not in you. Judge Lynch to do. No ! no how you can fix it !" Thus spake Judge Lynch, as there he sat in Alabama's forum. Around he gazed with legs upraised upon the bench high o'er him ; And, as he gave this sentence stern to him who stood beneath, Still, with his gleaming bowie-knife he slowly picked his teeth. It was high noon, the month was June, and sultry was the air, A cool gin-sling stood by his hand, his coat hung o'er his chair ; All naked were his manly arms, and, shaded by his hat, Like an old Senator of Rome, that simple Archon sat. 48 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. " A bloody cheat?— Oh, legs and feet !" in wrath young Silas cried ; And, springing high into the air, he jerked his quid aside. — " No man shall put my dander up, or with my feelings trifle, As long as Silas Fixings wears a bowie-knife and rifle." " If your shoes pinch," replied Judge Lynch, " you '11 very soon have ease, I '11 give you satisfaction, squire, in any way you please ; Where are your weapons ?— knife or gun ?— at both I 'm pretty spry !" "Oh! 'tarnal death, you 're spry, you are?" quoth Silas ; " so am I !" Hard by the town a forest stands, dark with the shades of time. And they have sought that forest dark at morning's early prime; Lynch, backed by Nehemiah Dodge, and Silas with a friend, And half the town in glee came down, to see that con- test's end. They led their men two miles apart, they measured out the ground ; A belt of that vast wood it was, they notched the trees around : THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 49 Into the tangled brake they turned them oif, and neither knew Where he should seek his wagered foe, how get him into view. With stealthy tread, and stooping head, from tree to tree they passed, They crept beneath the crackling furze, they held their rifles fast : Hour passed on hour, the noon-day sun smote fiercely down, but yet No sound to the expectant crowd proclaimed that they had met. And now the sun was going down, when, hark ! a rifle's crack ! Hush — hush ! another strikes the air, and all their breath drew back, — Then crashing on through bush and briar, the crowd from either side Rushed in to see whose rifle sure with blood the moss had dyed. Weary with watching up and down, brave Lynch con- ceived a plan, An artful dodge whereby to take at unawares his man ; He hung his hat upon a bush, and hid himself hard by, Young Silas thought he had him fast, and at the hat let flv, 3 50 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. ^ It fell ; up sprung young Silas, — he hurled his gun away ; Lynch fixed him with his rifle from the ambush where he lay. The bullet pierced his manly breast — yet, valiant to the • last, He drew his fatal bowie-knife, and up his foxtail* cast. With tottering steps and glazing eye he cleared the space between. And stabbed the air as, in Macbeth, still stabs the younger Kean ; Brave Lynch received him with a bang that stretched him on the ground, Then sat himself serenely down till all the crowd drew round. They hailed him with triumphant cheers — in him each loafer saw The bearing bold that could uphold the majesty of law ; And, raising him aloft, they bore him homewards at his ease, — That noble judge, whose daring hand enforced his own decrees. They buried Silas Fixings in the hollow where he fell, And gum-trees wave above his grave — that tree he loved so well ; And the 'coons sit chattering o'er him when the nights are long and damp. But he sleeps w^ell in that lonely dell, the Dreary 'Possum Swamp. • The Yankee substitute for the chapeau de sole. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 51 €^t ^mxixu'B SlpnstrnpljB tn 36n|. [Eapidly as oblivion dees its work now-a-days, the burst of amiable indignation with which enlightened America received the issue of Boz's " Notes," can scarcely yet be forgotten. Not content with wa- ging a universal rivalry in the piracy of the work, Columbia showered upon its author the riches of its own choice vocabulary of abuse ; while some of her more fiery spirits threw out playful hints as to the propriety of gouging the "strannger," and furnishing him with a per- manent suit of tar and feathers, in the very improbable event of his paying them a second visit. The perusal of these animated expres- sions of free opinion suggested the following lines, which those who remember Boz's book, and the festivities with which he was all but hunted to death, will at once understand. We hope we have done justice to the bitterness and " immortal hate" of these thin-skinned, sons of freedom.] Sneak across the wide Atlantic, worthless London's puling child, Better that its waves should bear thee, than the land thou hast reviled ; Better in the stifling cabin, on the sofa should'st thou lie, Sickening as the fetid nigger bears the greens and bacon by. Better, when the midnight horrors haunt the strained and creaking ship. Thou should'st yell in vain for brandy with a fever- sodden lip ; 52 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. When amid the deepening darkness and the lamp's expiring shade, From the bagman's berth above thee comes the boun- tiful cascade. Better than upon the Broadway thou should'st be at noon-day seen, Smirking like a Tracy Tupman with a Mantalini mien, With a rivulet of satin falling o'er thy puny chest. Worse than even N. P. Willis for an evening party dressed ! We received thee warmly — kindly — though we knew thou vvert a quiz. Partly for thyself it may be, chiefly for the sake of Phiz! Much we bore and much we suffered, listening to remorseless spells Of that Smike's unceasing drivellings, and these ever- lasting Nells. When you talk of babes and sunshine, fields, and all that sort of thmg, Each Columbian inly chuckled, as he slowly sucked his sling ; And though all our sleeves were bursting, from the many hundreds near, Not one single scornful titter rose on thy complacent earT Then to show thee to the ladies, with our usual want of sense We engaged the p];ice in Park Street at a ruinous expense ; THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 53 Ev'n our own three-volumed Cooper waived his old pre- scriptive right, And deluded Dickens figured first on that eventful night. Clusters of uncoated Yorkers, vainly striving to be cool. Saw thee desperately plunging through the perils of La Poule ; And their muttered exclamation drowned the tenor of the tune, — ■' Don't he beat all natur hollow 1 Don't he foot it like a ' coon 1 " Did we spare our brandy-cocktails, stint thee of our whisky-grogs 1 Half the juleps that we gave thee would have floored a Newm-an Noggs ; And thou took'st them in so kindly, little was there then to blame. To thy parched and panting palate sweet as mother's milk they came. Did the hams of old Virginny find no favor in thine eyes 1 Came no soft compunction o'er thee at the thought of pumpkin pies ? Could not all our care and coddling teach thee how to draw it mild'? But, no matter, we deserve it. Serves us right ! We spoilt the child ! You, forsooth, must come crusading, boring us with broadest hints Of your own peculiar losses by American reprints. 54 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. Such an impudent remonstrance never in our face was flung; Lever stands it, so does Ainsworth ; yoii^ I guess, may hold your tongue. Down our throats you'd cram your projects, thick and hard as pickled salmon, That, I s'pose, you call free-trading, I pronounce it utter gammon. No, my lad, a cuter vision than your own might soon have seen, That a true Columbian ogle carries little that is green. Quite enough we pay, I reckon, w^hen we stump a cent or two For the voyages and travels of a freshman such as you. I have been at Niagara, I have stood beneath the Falls, I have marked the water twisting over its rampagious walls ; But " a holy calm sensation," one, in fact, of perfect peace, Was as much my first idea as the thought of Christmas geese. As for " old familiar flices," looking through the misty air, Surely you were strongly liquored when you saw your Chuckster there. One familiar face, however, you will very likely see. If you'll only treat the natives to a call in Tennessee, Of a certain individual, true Columbian every inch. In a high judicial station, called by 'mancipators, Lynch. TH3 BOOK OF BALLADS. 55 Half-an-hour of conversation with his worship in a wood Would, 1 strongly notion, do you an infernal deal of good. Then you'd understand more clearly than you ever did before. Why an independent patriot freely spits upon the floor, Why he gouges when he pleases, why he whittles at the chairs, Why for swift and deadly combat still the bowie-knife he bears : — Why he sneers at the Old Country with republican disdain, And, unheedful of the negro's cry, still tighter draws his chain. All these things the judge shall teach thee of the land thou hast reviled ; Get thee o'er the wide Atlantic, worthless London's puling child ! 56 THE BOOK OF BALLADS, MISCELLAMOUS BALLADS Cjie Muhui nf Sm, Once, — 't was when I lived at Jena, — At a Wirthshaus' door I sat ; And in pensive contemplation, Eat the sausage thick and fat ; Eat the kraut, that never sourer Tasted to my lips than here ; Smoked my pipe of strong canaster, Sipped my fifteenth jug of beer ; Gazed upon the glancing river. Gazed upon the tranquil pool, Whence the silver-voiced Undine, When the nights v/ere calm and cool, As the Baron Fouque tells us, Rose from out her shelly grot, Casting glamor o'er the waters, Witching that enchanted spot. From the shadow which the coppice Flings across the rippling stream, THE BvOOK OF BALLADS. 57 Did I hear a sound of music — V,'V-S it thought or was it dre^sm ? There, beside a piJe of linen, Stretched along the daised sward, Stood a young and blooming maiden — 'T was her thrush-like song I heard, Evermore within the eddy Did she plunge the white chemise ; And her robes were loosely gathered Rather far above her knees ; Then my breath at once forsook me. For too surely did I deem That I saw the fair Undine Standing in the glancing stream — And 1 felt the charm of knighthood; And from that remembered day. Every evening to the Wirthshaus Took I my enchanted way. Shortly to relate my story. Many a week of summer long, Came I there, when beer-o'ertaken. With my lute and with my song ; Sang in mellow-toned soprano, All my love and all my wo. Till the river-maiden answered. Lilting in the stream below : — "Eair Undine ! sweet Undine ! Dost thou love as I love thee f " Love is free as running water," Was the answer made to me. S* 58 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. Thus, in interchange seraphic, Did I woo my phantom fay, Till the nights grew long and chilly, Short and shorter grew the day ; Till at last — 't was dark and gloomy. Dull and starless was the sky. And my steps were all unsteady, For a little flushed was I, — To the well accustomed signal No response the maiden gave ; But I heard the waters washing, And the moaning of the wave. Vanished was my own Undine, All her linen, too, was gone ; And I walked about, lamenting, On the river bank alone. Idiot that I was, for never Had I asked the maiden's name. Was it Lieschen — was it Gretchen 1 Had she tin — or whence she camel So I took my trusty meerschaum, And I took my lute likewise ; Wandered forth in minstrel fashion. Underneath the lowering skies ; Sang before each comely Wirthshaus, Sang beside each purling stream, That same ditty which I chanted When Undine was my theme, THE BOOK OF BALLADS. Singing, as I sang at Jena, When the shifts were hung to dry, " Fair Undine ! young Undine ! Dost thou love as well as I ]" But, alas ! in field or village, Or beside the pebbly shore, Did I see those glancing ankles, And the white robe nevermore ; And no answer came to greet me, No sweet voice to mine replied ; But I heard the waters rippling. And the moaning of the tide. 59 The moaninsi of the tied.' 60 r'AZ JitiOK OF BALLAU3. There is a sound that's dear to me, It haunts me in my sleep ; I wake, and, if I hear it not, I cannot choose but weep. Above the roaring of the wind, Above the river's flow, Methinks I hear the mystic cry Of ''• Clo !— Old CIo !" The exile's song, it thrills among The dv/ellings of the free, Its sound is strange to English ears, But 't is not strange to me ; For it hath shook the tented field In ages long ago. And hosts nave quailed before the cry Of "Clo!~01dClo!" Oh, lose it not ! forsake it not ! And let no time efface The memory of that solemn sound, The watchword of our r?vce. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 61 For not by dark and eagle eye The Hebrew shall you know, So well as by the plaintive cry Of " Clo !— Old Clo !" Even now, perchance, by Jordan's banks, Or Sidon's sunny walls, Where, dial-like, to portion time, The palm-tree's shadow falls. The pilgrims, wending on their way, Will linger as they go. And listen to the distant cry Of "Clo!— Old Clo!" 62 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. foum^ (0rnggraterg. AFTER THE MANNER OF SCHILLER. " BuRSCH ! if foaming beer content ye, Come and drink your fill ; In our cellars there is plenty ; Himmel ! how you swill ! That the liquor hath allurance, Well I understand ; But 't is really past endurance, When you squeeze my hand !" And he heard her as if dreaming. Heard her half in awe ; And the meerschaum's smoke came streaming From his open jaw : And his pulse beat somewhat quicker Than it did before, And he finished off his liquor. Staggered through the door ; THE BOOK pF BALLADS. 63 Bolted off direct to Munich, And within the year Underneath his German tunio Sto^Yed whole butts of beer. And he drank like fifty fishes, Drank till all was blue ; For he felt extremely vicious — Somewhat thirsty too. But at length tliis dire deboshing Drew towards an end ; Few of all his silber-groschen Had he left to spend. And he knew it was not prudent Longer to remain ; So, with weary feet, the student Wended home again. At the tavern's well known portal, Knocks he as before. And a waiter, rather mortal, Hiccups through the door, — " Masters 's sleeping in the kitchen ; You '11 alarm the house ; Yesterday the Jungfrau Fritchen Married baker Kraus !" Like a fiery comet bristling, Eose the young man's hair. And, poor soul ! he fell a-whistling, Out of sheer despair. 64 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. Down the gloomy street in silence, Savage-calm he goes; But he did no deed of vi'lcnce — Only blew his nose. Then he hired an airy garret Near her dwelling-place ; Grew a beard of fiercest carrot, Never washed his fiice ; Sate all day beside the casement, Sate a dreary man ; Foimd in smoking such an easement As the wretched can ; Stared for hours and hours together, Stared yet more and more ; Till in fine and sunny weather, At the baker's door, Stood, in apron white and mealy, That beloved dame, Counting out the loaves so freely, Selling of the same. Then like a volcano puffing, Sm.oked he out his pipe ; Sigh'd and supp'd on ducks and stuffing. Ham, and kraut, and tripe ; Went to bed, and in the morning, Waited as before, Still his eyes in anguish turning To the baker's door ; THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 65 Til], with apron white and mealy, Came the lovely dame, Counting out the loaves so freely, Selling of the same. So, one day — the fact 's amazing ! — On his post he died ; And they found the body gazing At the baker's bride. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 3Sigtit nui BInrmiig. NOT BY SIR E. BULWER LYTTON. " Thy coffee, Tom, 's untasted, And thy egg is very cold ; Thy cheeks are wan and wasted, Not rosy as of old. My boy what has come o'er ye, You surely are not well ! Try some of that ham before ye, And then, Tom, ring the bell !" " I cannot eat, my mother, My tongue is parched and bound, And my head somehow or other, Is swim.ming round and round. In my eyes there is a fulness, And my pulse is beating quick ; On my brain is a weight of dulness : Oh, mother, I am sick !" THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 67 " These long, long nights of watching Are killing you outright ; The evening dews are catching, And you 're out every night. Why does that horrid grumbler, Old Inkpen, work you so ?" Tom {Jene susurrans) " My head ! Oh, that tenth tumbler ! 'T was that wihch wrought my w^o !" 68 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. €^. foitn foil The sun is in the sky, mother, the flowers are springing fair. And the melody of woodland birds is stirring in the air; The river, smiling to the sky, glides onward to the sea, And happiness is everywhere, oh mother, but with me ! They are going to the church, mother, — I hear the marriage bell ; It booms along the upland, — oh! it haunts me like a knell ; He leads her on Ms arm, mother, he cheers her faltering step, And closely to his side she clings, — she does, the demirep ! They are crossing by the stile, mother, where we so oft have stood. The stile beside the shady thorn, at the corner of the wood ; THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 69 And the boughs, that wont to murmur back the words that won my ear, Wave their silver branches o'er him, as he leads his bridal fere. He will pass beside the stream, mother, where first my hand he pressed, By the meadow where, with quivering lip, his passion he confessed ; And down the hedgerows where we 've strayed again and yet again ; But he will not think of me, mother, his broken-hearted Jane ! He said that I was proud, mother, that I looked for rank and gold, He said I did not love him, — he said my words were cold; He said I kept him off and on, in hopes of higher game,— And it may be that I did, mother ;^ bjwt who has n't done the samel ' I did not know my heart, mother, — I know it now too late; I thought that I without a pang could wed some nobler mate ; But no nobler suitor sought me, — and he has taken wing, And my heart is gone, and I am left a lone and blighted thins. 70 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. You may lay me in my bed, mother, — my head is throbbing sore ; And, mother, prithee, let the sheets be duly aired before ; And, if you 'd please, my mother dear, your poor des- ponding child, Draw me a pot of beer, mother, ana, mother, draw it mild! * Love gone to pot.' THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 71 €)^t Cnunirt ml l\)t 2mlmlm itiiiti» Thy skin is dark as jet, ladye, Thy cheek is sharp and high, And there's a cruel leer, love, Within thy rolling eye ! These tangled ebon tresses No comb hath e'er gone through ; And thy forehead it is furrowed by The elegant tattoo ! I love thee, — oh, I love thee. Thou strangely feeding maid ! Nay, lift not thus thy boomerang, I meant not to upbraid ! Come, let me taste those yellow lips That ne'er were tasted yet, Save when the shipwrecked mariner Pass'd through them for a whet. Nay, squeeze me not so tightly ! For I am gaunt and thin, There's little flesh to tempt thee Beneath a convict's skin. 72 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. » I came not to be eaten, I sought thee, love, to woo ; Besides, bethink thee, dearest, Thou 'st dined on cockatoo ! Thy father is a chieftain ; Why that's the very thing ! Vf ithin my native country I, too, have been a king. Behold this branded letter, Which nothing can efface ! It is the royal emblem, The token of my race ! But rebels rose against me, And dared my power disown — You've heard, love, of the judges 1 They drove me from my throne. And I have wandered hither, Across the stormy sea, In search of glorious freedom, In search, my sweet, of thee ! The bush is now my empire, The knife my sceptre keen ; Come with me to the desert wild, And be my dusky queen. I cannot give thee jewels, I have nor sheep nor cow. Yet there are kangaroos, love, And colonists enow. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 73 We'll meet the unwary settler, As whistling home he goes, And I'll take tribute from him, His money cand his clothes. Then on his Ijleeding carcass Thou'lt lay thy pretty paw, And lunch upon him roasted, Or, if you like it, raw ! Then come w^ith me, my princess, My own Australian dear, Within this grove of gum trees, We'll hold our bridal cheer ! Thy heart with love is beating, I feel it through my side : — Hurrah, then, for the noble pair, The Convict and his bride ! 74 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. €)}t MM Itnti nf i\)t fmuMi 1 dD. Smius, Come and listen, lords and ladies, To a woful lay of mine ; He whose tailor's bill unpaid is, Let him now his ear incline ! Let him hearken to my story, How the noblest of the land Pined long time in dreary duresse 'Neath a sponging bailiff's hand. I. O. Uwins! I. O. Uwins! Baron's son although thou be, Thou must pay for thy misdoings In the country of the free ! None of all thy sire's retainers To thy rescue now may come; And there lie some score detainers, With Abednego, the bum. Little reck'd he of his prison Whilst the sun was in the sky : Only when the moon was risen, Did you hear the captive's cry; THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 75 For, till then, cigars and claret Liill'd him in oblivion sweet ; And he much preferr'd a garret, For his drinking, to the street. But the moonlight, pale and broken, Pain'd at soul the Baron's son ; For he knew, by that soft token. That the larking had begun ; — That the stout and valiant Marquis Then was leading forth his swells, Mangling some policeman's carcass. Or purloining private bells. So he sat, in grief and sorrow. Rather drunk than otherwise, Till the golden gush of morrow Dawned once more upon his eyes : Till the sponging bailiff's daughter, Lightly tapping at the door, Brought his draught of soda water, Brandy-bottom'd as before. " Sweet Rebecca ! has your father, Think you, made a deal of brass ?" And she answered — '' Sir, I rather Should imagine that he has." Uwins then, his whiskers scratching, Leer'd upon the maiden's face. And, her hand with ardor catching, Folded her in close embrace. 76 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. " La, Sir ! let alone — you fright me !" Said the daughter of the Jew : " Dearest, how those eyes delight me ! Let me love thee, darling, do ! " "Vat is dishT' the Bailiff mutter d. Rushing in with fury wild ; " Ish your muffins so veil Lutter'd Dat 3^ou darsh insult ma shild ? " *' Honorable my intentions, Good Abednego, I swear ! And I have some small pretensions, For I am a Baron's heir. If you'll only clear my credit, And advance a thou'^ or so, She's a peeress — I have said it : Don't you twig, Abednego % " " Datsh a very different matter," Said the Bailiff, with a leer ; " But you musht not cut it fatter Than ta si ish will shtand, ma tear ! If you seeksh ma approbation, You musht quite give up your rigsh ; Alsho you musht join our nashun, And renounsh ta flesh of pigsh." Fast as one of Fagin's pupils, L O. Uwins did agree ! Little plagued with holy scruples From the starting post was he. • The fashionable abhreviution for a thousand pounds. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. T7 But at times a baleful vision Rose before his trembling view, For he knew that circumcision Was expected from a Jew. At a meeting of the Rabbis Held about the Whitsuntide, Was this thorough-paced Barabbas Wedded to his Hebrew bride. All his former debts compounded, From the spunging house he came. And his father's feelings wounded With reflections on the same. But the sire his son accosted — " Split my wig ! if any more Such a double-dyed apostate Shall presume to cross my door ! Not a penny -piece to save ye From the kennel or the spout ; — Dinner, John ! the pig and gravy ! — Kick this dirty scoundrel out !" Forth rush'd I. O. Uwlns fister Than all winking — much afraid, That the orders of the master Would be punctually obeyed : Sought his club, and then the sentence Of expulsion first he saw ; No one dared to own acquaintance With a bailiff's son-in-law. 78 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. Uselessly down Bond-street strutting Did he greet his friends of yore : Such a universal cutting Never man received before : Till at last his pride revolted — Pale, and lean, and stern he grew ; • And his wnfe Rebecca bolted With a missionary Jew. Ye who read this doleful ditty, Ask ye where is Uwins now^ ? Wend your w^ay through London city, Climb to Holborn's lofty brow\ Near the sign-post of the " Nigger," Near the baked-potato shed, You may see a ghastly figure With three hats upon his head. When the evening shades are dusky. Then the phantom form draws near, And, with accents low and husky, Pours effluvium in your ear : Craving an immediate barter Of your trousers or surtout, And you know the Hebrew martyr, Once the peerless I. 0. U. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 79 €\}t lmj[i!]tr nnli tjir (Tniiljrniir'H ffnuglitBt Did you ever hear the story — Old the legend is and true — How a knyghte of fame and glory All aside his armor threw ; Spouted spear and pawned habergeon, Pledged his sword and surcoat gay, Sate down cross-legged on the shop-board Sate and stitched the livelong day 1 "Taylzeour! not one single shilling Does my breeches' pocket hold : I to pay am really willing, If I only had the gold. Farmers none can I encounter, Graziers there are none to kill ; Therefore, prithee, gentle taylzeour, Bother not about thy bill." " Good Sir Knyghte, just once too often Have you tried that slippery trick ; Hearts like mine you cannot soften. Vainly do vou ask for tick. .80 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. Christiaas and its bills are coming, Soon will they be showering in ; Therefore, once for all, my rum 'un, I expect you 'il post the tin. " j\[ark, Sir Knyghte, that gloomy bayliffe, In the palmer's amice brown ; He shall lead you unto jail, if Instantly you stump not dov/n." Deeply swore the young crusader, But the taylzeour would not hear ; And the gloomy bearded bayliffe Evermore kept sneaking near. " Neither groat nor maravedi Have I got my soul to bless ; And I feel extremely seedy, Languishing in vile duresse. Therefore listen, ruthless taylzeour, Take my steed and armor free. Pawn them at thy Hebrew uncle's, And ril work the rest for thee." Lightly leaped he on the shop-board, Lightly crooked his meanly limb, Lightly drove the glancing needle Through the growing doublet's rim. Gaberdines in countless number Did the taylzeour-knyghte repair ! And the cabbage and cucumber Were his sole and simple fare. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 81 Once his weary task beguiling With a low and plaintive song, That good knyghte o'er miles of broadcloth Drove the hissing goose along ; From her lofty lattice window, Looked the taylzeour's daughter down, And she instantly discovered That her heart was not her own. " Canst thou love me, gentle stranger ?" Blushing like a rose she stood — And the knyghte at once admitted. That he rather thought he could. " He who weds me shall have riches, Gold, and lands, and houses free." " For a single pair of — sinall clothes, I would roam the world with thee !" Then she flung him down the tickets — Well the knyghte their import knew — " Take this gold, and win thy armor. From the unbelieving Jew. Though in garments mean and lowly, Thou wouldst roam the world with me, Only as a belted warrior, Stranger, will I wed with thee !" At the feast of good Saint Alban, Li the middle of the Spring, There was some superior jousting By the order of the king. 4* 83 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. " Valiant knyghtes !" exclaimed the monarch, " You will please to understand, He who bears himself most bravely, Shall obtain my daughter's hand." Well and bravely did they bear them, Bravely battled, one and all ; But the bravest in the tourney Was a warrior stout and tall. None could tell his name or lineage, None could meet him in the field. And a goose regardant proper Hissed along his azure shield. " Warrior, thou hast won my daughter !" But the champion bowed his knee, *' Princely blood may not be wasted On a simple knyghte like me. She I love is meek and lowly ; But her heart is high and frank ; And there must be tin forthcoming, That will do as well as rank." Slowly rose that nameless warrior. Slowly turned his steps aside. Passed the lattice whei-e the princess Sate in beauty, sate in pride. Passed the row of noble ladies, Hied him to an humbler seat. And in silence laid the chaplet At 'the taylzeour's daughter's feet. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 83 €^t Bihigljt ^ml It was the Lord of Castlereagh, he sat within his room, His arms were crossed upon his breast, his face was marked with gloom ; They said that St. Helena's Isle had rendered up its charge, That France was bristling high in arms, — the Emperor at large. 'Twas midnight ! all the lamps were dim, and dull as death the street, It might be that the watchman slept that night upon his beat, When, lo ! a heavy foot was heard to creak upon the stair, The door revolved upon its hinge, — Great Heaven! — What enters there 1 A little man, of stately mien, with slow and solemn stride ; His hands are crossed upon his back, his coat is opened wide : 84 THK BOOK OF BALLADS. And on his vest of green he wears an eagle and a star, — Saint George ! protect us ! 't is The JMan — the thunder- bolt of -war ! Is that the famous hat that waved along Marengo's ridge '? Are these the spurs of Austerlitz — the boots of Lodi's bridge ? Leads he the conscript swarm again from France's hornet hive? What seeks the fell usurper here, in Britain, and alive? Pale grew the Lord of Castlereagh, his tongue was parched and dry, As in his l)rain he felt the glare of that tremendous eye; AVhat ViOnder if he shrunk in fear, for who could meet the glance Of him who reared, 'mid Russian snows, the gonfalon of France ? From the side-pocket of his vest, a pinch the despot took, Yet not a whit did he relax the sternness of his look, — "Thou thought'^:^t the iion was a fir. but he hath burst the chain — The watchword thv to-night is France — the answer, St. Helcne. " And didst thou deem the barren isle, or ocean waves, could bind The master of the universe — the monarch of mankind 1 ' THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 85 I tell thee, fool ! the world itself is all too small for me, I laugh to scorn thy bolts and bars — I burst them, and am free. " Thou think'st that England hates me 1 Mark !— This very night my name AVas thundered in its capital -svith tumult and acclaim ! They saw me, knew me, owned my power — Proud lord ! I say, beware ! There be men within the Surrey side, who know to do and dare ! "To-morrow, in thy very teeth, my standard will I rear — Ay, well that ashen cheek of thine may blanch and shrink with fear ! To-morrow night another town shall sink in ghastly flames ; And as I crossed the Borodin, so shall I cross the Thames ! "Thou 'It seize me, wilt thou, ere the dawn? Weak lordling, do thy worst? These hands ere now have broke thy chains, thy fetters they have burst. Yet, wouldst thou know my resting-place ? Behold 't is written there ! And let thy coward myrmidons approach me if they dare !*' Another pinch, another stride — he passes through the door — " Was it a phantom or a man was standing on the floor? 80 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. And could that be the Emperor that moved before my eyes 1 .Ah, yes! too sure it was himself, for here the paper lies!" With trembling hands, Lord Castlereagh undid the mys- tic scroll, With glassy eye essayed to read, for fear was on his soul — What's here ? — ' At Astley's, every night, the play of Moscow's Fall ! Napoleon for the thousandth time, by Mr. Gom3R3al !" THE BOOK OF BALLAD3. 87 (t'jjB Intj nf tIjB lonrlnrtt. Comrades, you may pass the rosy. With permission of the chair, I shall leave you for a little, for I'd like to take the air. Whether 't was the sauce at dinner, or that glass of gin- ger beer, Or these strong cheroots, I know not, but J feel a little queer. Let me go. Now, Chuckster, blow me, !pon my soul, this is too bad ! When you want me, ask the waiter, he knows where I'm to be had.' Whew ! Tliis is a great relief now ! Let me but undo my stock. Resting here beneath the porch, my nerves will steady like a rock. In my ears I hear the singing of a lot of favorite tunes — Bless my heart, how very odd ! Why, surely there's a brace of moons ! 88 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. See ! the stars ! how bright they twhikle, winking with a, frosty glare, Like my faithless cousin Amy when she drove me to despair. O, my cousin, spider-hearted ! Oh, my Amy ! No, confound it ! I must wear the mournful willow, — all around my hat I've bound it. Falser than the Bank of Fancy, — frailer than a shilling glove. Puppet to a fjither's anger, — minion to a nabob's love ! ^ Is it well to wish thee happy ? Having known me, could you ever Stoop to man-y half a heart, and little more than half a liver? Happy ! Dam.me ! Thou shalt lower to his level day by day, ^,^^^ Changing from the best of China to the commonest of clay. As the husband is, the wife is, — he is stomach-plagued and old ; And his curry soups will make thy cheek the color of his gold. When his feeble love is sated, he will liold thee surely then Something lower than his hookah, — something less than his cavenne. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 89 What is this ? His eyes are pinky. Was't the daret ? Oh, no, no, — Bless your soul, it was the salmon, — salmon always makes him so. Take him to thy dainty chamber — soothe him with thy lightest fancies, lie will miclerstand thee, won't he? — pay thee with a lover's glances ? Louder than the loudest trumpet, harsh as harshest ophicleide. Nasal respirations answer the endearments of his bride. Sweet response, delightful music ! Gaze upon thy noble charge Till the spirit fdl thy bosom that inspired the meek Laffarge. Better thou wert dead before me, — better, better that I stood Looking on thy murdered body, like the injured Daniel (rood ! Ik'tter, thou and I were lying, cold and timber-stiff and dead. With a pan of burning charcoal underneath our nuptial bed! Cursed be the bank of England's notes, that tempt the soul to sin ! Cursed be the want of acres, — doubly cursed the want of tin ! 90 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. Cursed be the marriage contract, that enslaved thy soul to greed ! Cursed he the sallow lawyer, that prepared and drew the deed ! Cursed be his foul apprentice, who the loathsome fees did earn ! Cursed be the clerk and parson, — cursed be the whole \ concern ! Oh, 't is well that I should bluster, — much I'm like to make of that ; Better comfort have 1 found in singing " All Around my Hat." . But that song, so wildly plaintive, palls upon my British ears. 'T will not do to pine for ever, — I am getting up in years. Can't I turn the honest penny, scribbling for the weekly press, And in writing Sunday libels drown my private wretch- edness ? Oh, to feel the wild pulsation that in manhood's dawn I knew, When my days were all before me, and my years were twentv-two. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 91 When I smoked my independent pipe along the Quad- rant wide, With the many larks of London flaring up on every side. When I went the pace so wildly, caring little what might come. Coffee-milling care and sorrow, with a nose-adapted thumb. Felt the exquisite enjoyment, tossing nightly off, oh heavens! Brandy at the Cider Cellars, kidneys smoking-hot at Evans' ! Or in the Adelphi sitting, half in rapture, half in tears. Saw the glorious melo-drama conjure up the shades of vears } Saw Jack Sheppard, noble stripling, act his wondrous feats again. Snapping Newgate's bars of iron, like an infant's daisy chain. Might was right, and all the terrors which had held the world in awe Were despised, and prigging prospered, spite of Laurie, spite of law. In such scenes as these I triumphed, ere my passion's edge was rusted. And my cousin's cold refusal left me very much dis- gusted ! 92 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. Since, my heart is sere and withered, and I do not care a curse Whether worse shall be the better, or the better be the worse. Hark ! my merry comrades call me, bawling for another jorum ; They would mock me in derision, should I thus appear before 'em. Womankind no more shall vex me, such at least, as go arrayed In the most expensive satins, and the newest silk brocade. I '11 to x\fric. lion-haunted, where the giant forest yields Rarer robes and finer tissueUhan are sold at Spital- fields. Or to burst all chains of habit, flinging habit's self aside, I shall walk the tangled jungle in mankind's primeval piide ; Feeding on the luscious berries and the rich cassava root. Lots of dates and lots of guavas, clusters of forbidden fruit. Never comes the trader thither, never o'er the pwrple main Sounds the oath of British commerce, or the accents of Cockaigne. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 03 There, inethinks, would be enjoyment, where no envtfous rule prevents ; Sink the steamboats ! cuss the railways ! rot, rot the Three per Cents ! There the passions, cramped no longer, shall have space to breathe, my cousin ! I will take some savage woman — nay, I '11 take at least a dozen. There I '11 rear my young mulattoes, as no Bond Street brats are reared : They shall dive for aligators, catch the wild goats by the beard — Whistle to the cockatoos, and mock the hairy-faced baboon, Worship mighty Mumbo Jumbo in the Mountains of the Moon. « I myself, in far Timbuctoo, leopard's blood will daily quaff, Kide a tiger-hunting, mounted on a thorough-bred giraffe. Fiercely shall I shout the war-who<>p, as some sullen stream he crosses, Startling from their noon-day slumbers, iron-bound rhino- ceroses. Fool ! again the dream, the fancy ! But I know my words are mad, For I hold the grey barbarian lov/er than the Christian cad. 94 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. I the swell — the city daudy ! I to seek such horrid places, — I to haunt with squalid negroes, blubber-lips, and mon- key faces. I to wed with Coromantees! I, who managed — very near — To secure the heart and fortune of the widow Shilli- beer ! Stuff and nonsense ! let me never fling a single chance away. Maids ere now, I know, have loved me, and another maiden may. *' Morning Post," ("The Times" won't trust me) help me, as I know you can ; 1 will pen an advertisement, — that 's a never-failing plan. "Wanted — By a bard in wedlock, some young inter- esting woman : Looks are not so much an object, if the shiners be forth- coming ! " Hymen's chains, the advertiser vows, shall be but silken fetters, Please address to A. T., Chelsea. N. B. — You must pay the letters." That 's the sort of thing to do it. Now I '11 go and taste the balmy, — Rest thee with thy yellow nabob, spider-hearted cousin Amy ! THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 95 Decked with shoes of blackest polish, And with shirt as white as snow, After matutinal breakfast To my daily desk I go ; First a fond salute bestowing On my Mary's ruby lips, Which, perchance, may be rewarded With a pair of playful nips. All day long across the ledger Still my patient pen I drive, Thinking what a feaf^t awaits me In my happy home at five ; In my small, one-storied Eden, Where my wife awaits my coming, And our solitary handmaid Mutton chops with care is crumbing. When the clock proclaims my freedom, Then my hat 1 seize and vanish ; Every trouble from ray bosom, Every anxious care I banish. 96 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. Swiftjj brushing o'er the pavement, At a furious pace 1 go, Till I reach my darlmg dwelling In the wilds of Pimlico. *'Mary, wife, where art thou, dearest?" Thus I cry, while yet afar ; Ah ! what scent invades my nostrils ? — 'T is the smoke of a cigar ! Instantly into the parlor Like a maniac I haste. And I find a young Life-Guardsman, With his arm I'ound Mary's waist. And his other liand is playing Most familiai-ly with hers ; And I think my Brussels carpet Somewhat damaged by his spurs. "Fire and furies! what the blazes?" Thus in frenzied wrath I call ; When my spouse her* arms upraises, With a most astounding squall. " Was there ever such a monster : Ever such a wretched M'Ife? Ah ! how long must I endure it : How protract this hateful life ? All day long quite unprotected, Does he leave his wife at hon^e ; And she cannot see her cousins. Even v,hen they kindlv come !" THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 97 Then the young Life-Guardsman, rising, Scarce vouchsafes a single word, But with look of deadly menace. Claps his hand upon his sword ; And in fear I faintly falter — " This your cousm, then he 's mine ! Very glad, indeed, to see you, — Won't you stop with us, and dine 1" Won't a ferret suck a rabbit ? — As a thing of course he stops ; And, with most voracious swallow Walks into my mutton chops. In the twinkling of a bed-post. Is each savoury platter clear. And he shows uncommon science In his estimate of beer. Half and-half goes down before him. Gurgling from the pewter-pot ; And he moves a counter motion For a glass of something hot. Neither chops nor beer I grudge him. Nor a moderate share of goes ; But I know not why he's always Treading upon Mary's toes. Evermore, when home returning, From the counting house I come, Do I find the young Life-Guardsman Smoking pipes and drinking rum. 5 9B THE BOOK OF BALLADS. Evermore he stays to dinner, Evermore devours my meal ; For I have a wholesome horror Both of powder and of steel. Yet I know he 's Mary's cousin, For my only son and heir Much resembles that young Guardsman, With the self-same curly hair ; But I wish he would not always Spoil my carpet with his spurs j And I 'd rather see his fingers In the fire, than touching hers. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 99 €ljB (UnM -in fynxh AN ANCIENT SCOTTISH BALLAD. It fell upon the August month, When landsmen bide at hame, That our gude Queen went out to sail Upon the saut-sea faem. And she has ta'en the silk and gowd, The like was never seen ; And she has ta'en the Prince Albert, And the bauld Lord Aberdeen. " Ye'se bide at hame, Lord Wellington : Ye dauraa gang wi' me : For ye hae been ance in the land o' France, And that 's eneuch for ye." " Ye'se bide at hame, Sir Robert Peel, To gather the red and the white monie ; And see that my men dinna eat me up At Windsor wi' their gluttonie." 100 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. They hadna sailed a league, a league, — A league, but barely twa, When the lift grew dark, and the waves grew wan, And the wind began to blaw. " weel, weel may the waters rise, In welcome o' their Queen ; What gars ye look sae white, Albert ? What makes your e'e sae green 1" " My heart is sick, my heid is sair : Gie me a glass o' gude brandie : To set my foot on the braid green sward. I 'd gie the half o' my yearly fee. " It 's sweet to hunt the sprightly hare On the bonny slopes o' Windsor lea, But O, it 's ill to bear the thud And pitching o' the saut, saut sea !" And aye they sailed, and aye they sailed, Till England sank behind. And over to the coast of France They drave before the wind. Then up and spak the King o' France, Was birling at the wine ; " wha may be the gay ladye That owns that ship sae fine ? " And wha may be that bonny lad, That looks sae pale and wan 1 I '11 wad my lands o' Picardie That he 's nae Englishman." THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 101 Then up and spak an auld French lord, Was sitting beneath his knee, " It is the Queen o' braid England That's come across the sea." " And O an it be England's Queen, She's welcome here the day; 1 'd rather hae her for a friend Than for a deadly fae. " Gae, kill the eerock in the yard. The auld sow in the stye, And bake for her t>he brockit calf, But and the puddock-pie !" And he has gane until the ship. As sune as it drew near. And he has ta'en her by the hand — " Ye 're kindly welcome here !" And syne he kissed her on ae cheek, And syne upon the ither ; And he ca'ed her his sister dear. And she ca'ed him her brither. " Light doun, light doun now, layde mine. Light doun upon the shore ; Nae English king has trodden here. This thousand years and more." " And gin I lighted on your land, As light fu' weel I may, O am I free to feast wi' you. And free to come and gae 1" 102 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. And he has sworn by the Haly Rood, And the black staue o' Dumblane, That she is free to come and gae Till twenty days are gane. " I 've lippened to a Frenchman's aith," Said gude Lord Aberdeen ; " But I '11 never lippen to it again Sae lang 's the grass is green. " Yet gae your ways, my sovereign liege, Since better may na be ; The wee bit bairns are safe at hame, By the blessing o' Marie !" Then doun she lighted frae the ship, She lighted safe and sound ; And glad was our good Prince Albert To step upon the ground. " Is that your Queen, My Lord," she said, " That auld and buirdly dame ? I see the crown upon her heid ; But I dinna ken her name." And she has kissed the Frenchman's Queen, And eke her daughters three. And gi'en her hand to the young Princess That louted upon the knee. And she has gane to the proud castle, That 's biggit beside the sea : But aye, when she thought o' the bairns at hame. The tear was in her e'e. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 103 She gied the King the Cheshire cheese, But and the porter fine ; And he gied her the puddock-pies, But and the blude-red wine. Then up and spak the dourest prince, An Admiral was he ; "Let 's keep the Queen o' England here, Sin' better may na be ! " O mony is the dainty king That we hae trappit here; And mony is the English yerl That ^s in our dungeons drear!" " You lee, you lee, ye graceless loon, Sae loud 's I hear ye lee ! There never yet was Englishman That came to skaith by me. " Gae out, gae out, ye fause traitor! Gae out until the street ; It 's shame that Kings and Queens should sit Wi' sic a knave at meat !" Then up and raise the young French lord, In wrath and hie disdain- — " O ye may sit, and ye may eat Your puddock-pies alane ! " But were I in my ain gude ship, And sailing wi' the wind. And did I meet wi' auld Napier, I 'd tell him o' my mind." 104 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. O then the Queen leuch loud and lang, And her color went and came ; " Gin ye met wi' Charlie on the sea Ye 'd wish yersell at hame !" And aye they birlit at the wine, And drank right merrilie, Till the auld cock crawed in the castle-yard, And the abbey bell struck three. The Queen she gaed until her bed, And Prince Albert likewise ; And the last word that gay ladye said Was — " O thae puddock-pies V PART II. The sun was high within the lift Afore the French King raise ; And syne he louped intil his sark, And warslit on his claes. " Gae up, gae up, my little foot-page, Gae up until the toun ; And gin ye meet wi' the auld harper, Be sure ye bring him doun." And he has met wi' the auld harper; O but his e'en were red ; And the bizzing o' a swarm o' bees Was singing in his heid. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 105 "Alack! alack!" the harper said, " That this should e'er hae been ! I daurna gang before my liege, For I was fou yestreen." " It 's ye maun come, ye auld harper : Ye daurna tarry lang ; The King is just dementit-like For wanting o' a sang." And when he came to the King's chamber, He loutit on his knee, " O what may be your gracious will Wi' an auld frail man like me ?" " I want a sang, harper," he said, " I want a sang richt speedilie ; And gin ye dinna make a sang, I '11 hang ye up on the gallows-tree." " I cannot do 't, my liege," he said, " Hae mercy on my auld gray hair ! But gin that I had got the words, I think that I might mak the air." " And wha 's to mak the words, fause loon, When minstrels we have barely twa ; And Lamartine is in Paris toun, And Victor Hugo far awaf " The deil may gang for Lamartine, And flie awa wi' auld Hugo, For a better minstrel than them baith Within this very toun I know. ' 5* 106 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. " O kens my liege the gude Walter, — At hame they ca' him Bon GaultierI He '11 rhyme ony day wi' True Thomas, And he is in the castle here." The French King first he lauchit loud, And syne did he begin to sing ; " My e'en are auld, and my heart is cauld, Or I suld hae known the minstrels' King. " Gae take to him this ring o' gowd. And this mantle o' the silk sae fine. And bid him mak a maister sang For his sovereign ladye's sake and mine." " I winna take the gowden ring, Nor yet the mantle fine : But I'll mak the sang for my ladye's sake, And for a cup of wine." The Queen v/as sitting at the cards. The King ahint her back ; And aye she dealed the red honors. And aye she dealed the black ; And syne unto the dourest Prince She spak richt courteouslie : — " Now will ye play, Lord Admiral, Now will ye play wi' me f The dourest prince he bit his lip, And his brow was black as glaur : " The only game that e'er I play Is the bluidy game o' war !" THE BOOK OP BALLADS. 107 " And gill ye play at that, young man, It weel may cost ye sair ; Ye 'd better stick to the game at cards, For you '11 win nae honors there !" The King he leuch, and the Queen she leuch, Till the tears ran blithely doun ; But the Admiral he raved and swore, Till they kicked him frae the room. The Harper came, and the Harper sang, And O but they were fain ; For when he had sung the gude sang twice. They called for it again. It was the sang o' the Field o' Gowd, In the days of auld lang syne ; When bauld King Henry crossed the seas, Wi' his brither King to dine. And aye he harped, and aye he carped, Till up the Queen she sprang — " I '11 wad a County Palatine, Gude Walter made that sang." Three days had come, three days had gane, The fourth began to fa'. When our gude Queen to the Frenchman said, " It 's time I was awa ! " O, bonny are the fields o' France, And saftly draps the rain ; But my bairnies are in Windsor Tower, And greeting a' their lane. 108 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. " Now ye maun come to me, Sir King, As I have come to ye ; And a benison upon your held For a' your courtesie ! " Ye maun come, and bring your ladye fere : Ye sail na say me no ; And ye 'se mind, we have aye a bed to spare For your w^ily friend Guizot." Now he has ta'en her lily white hand, And put it to his lip, And he has ta'en her to the strand, And left her in her ship. "AY ill ye come back, sweet bird," he cried, " Will ye come kindly here, When the lift is blue, and the lavrocks sing. In the spring-time o' the year '?" " It 's I would blithely come, my Lord, To see ye in the spring ; It 's I would blithely venture back, But for ae little thing. " It is na that the winds are rude. Or that the waters rise. But I lo'e the roasted beef at hame, And no thae puddock-pies !" THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 109 FROM THE GAELIC. I. Fhairston swore a feud Against the clan M'Tavish ; Marched into their land To murder and to rafish ; For he did resolve To extirpate the vipers, With four and-twenty men, And five-and-thirty pipers. II. But when he had gone Half-way down Strath Canaan, Of his fighting tail Just three were remainin'. They were all he had, To back him in ta battle ; All the rest had gone Off, to drive ta cattle. 110 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. III. " Feiy coot !" cried Fhairshon, " So my clan disgraced is ; Lads, we '11 need to fight Pefore we touch the peasties. Here 's Mhic-Mac-Methusaleh Coming wi' his fassals, Gillies seventy-three, And sixty Dhuinewassails !" IV. " Coot tay to you, sir ; ^ Are not you ta Fhairshon ? Was you coming here To visit any person ? You are a plackguard, sir ! It is now six hundred Coot long years, and more. Since my glen was plundered." Fat is tat you say ? Dar you cock your peaver ? J will teach you, sir. Fat is coot pehavior ! You shall not exist For another day more ; I will shot you, sir, Or stap you with my claymore !" THE BOOK OF BALLADS. VI. " I am fery glad To learn what you mentioiij Since I can prevent Any such intention." So Mhic-Mac-Methusaleh Gave some warlike howls, Trew his skhian-dhu, An' stuck it in his powels. VII. In this fery way Tied ta faliant Fhairshon, Who was always thought A superior person. Fhairshon had a son, Who married Noah's daughter, And nearly spoiled ta Flood, By trinking up ta water. VIII. Which he would have done, I at least believe it. Had ta mixture peen Only half Glenlivet. This is all my tale : Sirs, I hope 't is new t' ye I Here 's your fery good healths, And tamn ta whusky tuty ! Ul 112 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. €^t '^^^nting ItnrkhrnkFr's 36rito. " O SWIFTLY speed the gallant bark !— I say, you mind my luggage, porter ! 1 do not heed yon storm-cloud dark, I go to wed old Jenkin's daughter. I go to claim my own Mariar, The fairest flower that blooms in Harwich ; My panting bosom is on fire, And all is ready for the marriage." Thus spoke young Mivins, as he stepped On board the " Firefly," Harwich packet ; The bell rung out, the paddles swept Plish-plashing round with noisy racket. The lowering clouds young Mivins saw, But fear, he felt, was only folly ; And so he smoked a fresh cigar. Then fell to whistling — " Nix my dolly !" The wind it roared ; the packet's hulk Eocked with a most unpleasant motion ; Young Mivins leant him o'er a bulk, And poured his sorrows to the ocean. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 113 Tints — blue and yellow — signs of wo — Flushed, rainbow-like, his noble face in, As suddenly he rushed below. Crying, " Steward, steward, bring a basin !" On sped the bark : the howling storm The funnel's tapering smoke did blow far ; Unmoved, young Mivins' lifeless form Was stretched upon a hair-cloth sofar. All night he moaned, the steamer groaned. And he was hourly getting fainter ; AVhen it came bump against the pier. And there was fastened by the painter. Young Mivins rose, and blew his nose. Caught wildly at his small portmanteau ; He was unfit to lie or sit. And found it difficult to stand, too. He sought the deck, he sought the shore, He sought the lady's house like winking. And asked, low tapping at the door, "Is this the house of Mr. Jenkini" A short man came — he told his name — Mivins was short — he cut him shorter, For in a fury, he exclaimed, " Are you the man as vants my darter ? Vot kim'd on you last night, young squire 1" " It was the steamer, rot and scuttle her !" " Mayhap it vos, but our Mariar, Valked off last night vith Bill the butler. 114 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. "And so you 've kim'd a post too late." " It was the packet, sir, miscarried I" " Vy, does you think a gal can vait As sets 'er 'art on being married 1 Last night she vowed she 'd be a bride, And 'ave a spouse for vuss or better : So Bill struck in ; the knot vos tied, And now I vishes you may get her !" Young Mivins turned him from the spot, Bewilder'd with the dreadful stroke, her Perfidy came like a shot — He was a thunderstruck stockbroker. " A curse on steam and steamers too ! By their delays I 've been undone !" He cried, as, looking very blue, He rode a bachelor to London. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 115 €to Tnttrratrs' €nuruBt[. BY THE HON. T B M A- [This and the five following poems were among those forwarded to the Home Secretary, by the unsuccessful competitor^ for the Laureate- ship, on its becoming vacant by the death of Southey. How they came in our possession is a matter between Sir James Graham and ourselves. The result of the contest could never have been doubtful, least of all the great poet who then succeeded to the bays. His own sonnet on the subject, is full of the serene consciousness of superiority, which does not even admit the idea of rivalry, far less of defeat. Bays, which in former days have graced the brow Of some, who lived and loved, and sung and died ; Leaves, that were gathered on the pleasant side Of old Parnassus from Apollo's bough ; With palpitating hand I tal THE nOOK OV BALLADS. " Of usqiiebaugli and rum, you will find I reckon some, Besides the beer and mum, extra stout ; Go straightway to your tasks, and roil me all the casks. As also range the flasks, Just without, " If I know the Gorbaliers, they are sure to dip their ears In the very inmost tiers of the drink. Let them win the outer-court, and hold it for their sport, Shice their time is rather short, I should think 1" With a loud triumphant yell, as the heavy drawbridge fell. Rushed the Gorbalicrs pell-mell, wild as Druids ; Mad with thirst for human gore, how they threatened and they swore, Till they stumbled on the floor, O'er the fluids ! Down their weapons then they threw, and each savage soldier drew - From his belt an iron screw, in his fist : George of Gorbals found it vain their excitement to restrain, And indeed was rather fain To assist. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 157 With a beaker in his hand, in the micTst he took his stand, And silence did command all belo\Y — " Ho ! Launcelot the bold, ere thy lips are icy cold, In the centre of thy hold, Pledge me now ! "Art surly, brother mine ? In this cup of rosy wine, I drink to the decline of thy race ! Thy proud career is done, thy sand is nearly run, Never more shall setting sun Gild thy face ! "The pilgrim in amaze, shall see a goodly blaze, Ere the pallid morning rays flicker up. And perchance he may espy certain corpses swinging high ! What, brother ! art thou dry ? Fill my cup !" Dunib as death stood Launcelot, as though he heard hlin not, But his bosom Provan smote, and he swore : And Sir Roderick Dalgleish, remarked aside to Neish, " Never sure did thirsty fish Swallow more !" 158 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. "Thirty casks are nearly done, yet the revel 's scarce begun, It were knightly sport and fun to strike in !" "Nay, tarry till they come," quoth Neish, "unto the rum — They are working at the mum. And the gin !" Then straight there did appear to each gallant Gorbalier Twenty castles dancing near, all around, The solid earth did shake, and the stones beneath them quake, And sinuous as a snake Moved the ground. Why and wherefore they had come, seemed intricate to some, But all agreed the rum was divine. And they looked with bitter scorn on their leader highly born. Who preferred to fill his horn Up with wine ! Then said Launcelot the tall, " Bring the chargers from their stall ; Lead them straight unto the hall, down below : Draw your weapofis from your side, fling the gates asunder wide, And together we shall ride On the foe !" THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 159 Then Provan knew full well, as he leaped into his selle, That few would 'scape to tell how they fared, And Gilkison and Nares, both mounted on their mares, Looked terrible as bears, All prepared. With his bloodhounds in the leash, stood the iron-sinew- ed Neish, And the falchion of Dalgleish glittered bright — " Now, w^ake the trumpet's blast ; and, comrades, follow fast; Smite them down unto the last !" Cried the knight. In the cumbered yard without, there was shriek, and yell, and shout. As the warriors wheeled about, all in mail. On the miserable kerne, fell the death-strokes stiff and stern, As the deer treads down the fern, In the vale ! Saint Mungo be my guide ! It was goodly in that tide To see the Bogle ride in his haste ; He accompanied each blow, with a cry of "Ha!" or "Ho!" And always cleft the foe To the waist. 160 THE EOOK OF BALLADS. " George of Gorbals — crriven lord ! thou didst threat me with the cord, Come forth and brave my sword, if yon dare !" But he met with no reply, and never could descry The glitter of his eye Anywhere. Ere the dawn of morning shone, all the Gorbaliers wer( down, Like a field of barley mown in the ear : It had done a soldier good, to see how Pro van stood, With Neish all bathed in blood. Pan tin a; near. "Now ply ye to your tasks — go carry down those casks. And place the empty flasks on the floor. George of Gorbals scarce will come, vrith trumpet and with drum. To taste our lieer and rum Any more ! So they plied them to their tasks, and they carried down the casks, And replaced the empty flasks on the floor ; But pallid for a week was the cellar master's cheek, For he swore he heard a shriek Through the door. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 161 When the merry Christmas came, and the Yule-log lent its flame To the face of squire and dame in the hall, The cellarer went down to tap October brown, Which was rather of renown 'Mongst them ail. lie placed the spigot low, and gave the cask a bloY>^. But his liquor would not flow through the pin. "Sure, 't is sweet as honeysuckles!" so he rapped it with his knuckles. But a sound as if of buckles, Clashed within. " Bring a hatchet, varlets, here !" and they cleft the cask of beer ; W^hat a spectacle of fear met their sight ! There George of Gorbals lay, skull and bones all blanched and grey. In the arms he bore the day Of the fight ! 1 have sung this ancient tale, not, I trust, without avail, Though the moral ye may fail to perceive, Sir Launcelot is dust, and his gallant sword is rust. And now, I think, I must Take my leave ! 162 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. [AiK— " The days we went a gipsying."] I WOULD all womankind were dead, Or banished o'er the sea ; For they have been a bitter plague These last six weeks to me : It is not that I 'm touched myself, For that I do not fear ; No female face hath shown me grace For many a bygone year. But 't is the most infernal bore, Of all the bores I know, To have a friend who 's lost his heart A short time ago. Whene'er we steam it to Blackwall, Or down to Greenwich run, To quaff the pleasant cider cup, And feed on fish and fun ; THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 163 Or climb the slopes of Richmond Hill, To catch a breath of air : Then, for my sins, he straight begins To rave about his fair. Oh, 't is the most tremendous bore, Of all the bores I know, To have a friend ^Yho 's lost his heart A short time asjo. In vain you pour into his ear Your own confiding grief; In vain you claim his sympathy, In vain you ask relief; In vain you try to rouse him by Joke, repartee, or quiz ; His sole reply 's a burning sigh, And " What a mind it is !" O Lord ! it is the greatest bore, Of all the bores I know, To have a friend who 's lost his heart A short time ago. I've heard her thoroughly described A hundred times, I 'm sure ; And all the while I 've tried to smile, And patiently endure ; He waxes strong upon his pangs. And potters o'er his grog ; And still I say, in a playful way — " Why you 're a lucky dog !" 164 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. But oh ! it is the heaviest bore, Of all the bores I know, To have a friend who's lost his heart A short time ago. I really wish he'd do like me When I was young and strong ; I formed a passion every week, But never kept it long. But he has not the sportive mood That always rescued me, And so I would all women could Be banished o'er the sea. For 't is the most egregious bore, Of all the bores I know, To have a friend who's lost his heart A short time ago. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 165 /rfmrmE Sh llimini. TO BOX GAULTIER. AKGUiiEXT. — All impassioued pupil of Leigh Hunt, having met Bou Guultier at a Fancy Ball, declares the destructive consequences thus.] DiDST thou not praise me, Gaultier, at the ball, Ripe lips, trim boddice, and a waist so small, With clipsome lightness, dwindling ever less, Beneath the robe of pea-y greeniness ? Dost thou remember, when with stately prance, Our heads went crosswise in the country dance ; How soft, warm fingers, tipp'd like buds of balm, Trembled within the squeezhig of thy palm ; And how a cheek grew flush'd and peachy-wise At the frank lifting of thy cordial eyes ? Ah, me ! that night there was one gentle thing. Who like a dove, with its scarce-feather'd wing, Flutter'd at the approach of thy quaint swaggering ! 166 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. There 's wont to be, at conscious times like these, An affectation of a bright-eyed ease, — A crispy-cheekiness, if so I dare Describe the swaling of a jaunty air ; And thus, when swirling from the waltz's wheel. You craved my hand to grace the next quadrille, That smiling voice, although it made me start, Boil'd in the meek o'erlifting of my heart ; And, picking at my flowers, I said with free And usual tone, " Oh yes, sir, certainly !" Like one that swoons, 'twixt sweet amaze and fear, I heard the music burning in my ear, And felt I cared not, so thou wert with me, If Gurth or Wamba were our vis-a-vis. So, when a tall Knight Templar ringing came. And took his place against us with his dame, I neither turned away, nor bashful shrunk From the stern survey of the soldier-monk. Though rather more than full three-quarters drunk ; But threading through the figure, first in rule, I paused to see thee plunge into La Poule. Ah, what a sight was that "? Not prurient Mars, Pointing his toe through ten celestial bars — Not young Apollo, beamily array 'd In tripsome guise for Juno's masquerade — Not smartest Hermes, with his pinion girth. Jerking with freaks and snatches down to earth, Look'd half so bold, so beautiful and strong, . As thou when pranking thro' the glittering throng ! THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 167 How the calm'd ladies looked with eyes of love On thy trim velvet doublet laced above ; The hem of gold, that, like a wavy river, Flowed down into thy back with glancing shiver ! So bare was thy line throat, and curls of black So lightsomely dropp'd on thy lordly back, So crisply swaled the feather in thy bonnet. So glanced thy thigh, and spanning palm upon it, That my weak soul took instant flight to thee. Lost in the fondest gush of that sweet witchery ! But when the dance was o'er, and arm in arm, (The full heart beating 'gainst the elbow warm,) We pass'd into the great refreshment hall. Where the heap'd cheese-cakes and the comfits small Lay, like a hive of sunbeams, brought to burn Around the margin of the negus urn ; When my poor quivering hand you finger'd twice, And, with enquiring accents, whisper'd " Ice, Water, or cream ?" I could no more dissemble, But dropp'd upon the couch all in a tremble. A swimming faintness misted o'er my brain. The corks seem'd starting from the brisk champagne, The custards fell untouched upon the floor. Thine eyes met mine. That night we danced no more ! 168 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. '^t (PaM's Siiugljtrr. A LEGEND OF THE BOSPHORUS. How beauteous is the star of night "Within the eastern skies, Like the twinkling glance of the Toorkman's lance, Or the antelope's azure eyes ! A lamp of love in the heaven above, That star is fondly streaming ; And the gay kiosk and the shadowy mosque In the Golden Horn are gleaming. Young Leila sits in her jasmine bower. And she hears the bulbul sing. As it thrills its throat to the first full note, That anthems the flowery spring. She gazes still, as a maiden will, On that beauteous eastern star : You might see the throb of her bosom's sob Beneath the white cymar ! She thinks of him who is far away, — Her own brave Galiongee, — Where the billows foam and the breezes roam. On the wild Carpathian sea. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 169 She thinks of the oath that bound them both Beside the stormy water ; And the words of love, that in Athens' grove He spake to the Cadi's daughter. "My Selim !" thus the maiden said, " Though severed thus we be, By the raging deep and the mountains' steep, My soul still yearns to thee. Thy form so dear is mirror'd here In my heart's pellucid well, As the rose looks up to Phingari's orb, Or the moth to the gay gazelle. " I think of the time, when the Kaftan's crime Our love's young joys o'ertook, And thy name still floats in the plaintive notes • Of my silver-toned chibouque. Thy hand is red with the blood it has shed. Thy soul it is heavy laden ; Yet come, my Giaour, to thy Leila's bower ; Oh, come to thy Turkish maiden !" A light step trode on the dewy sod. And a voice was in her ear. And an arm embraced young Leila's waist — " Beloved ! I am here !" Like the phantom form that rules the storm, Appeared the pirate lover. And his fiery eye was like Zatanai, As he fondly bent above her. 8 170 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. " Speak, Leila, speak ! for my light caique Rides proudly in yonder bay ; I have come from my rest to her I love best,. To carry thee, love, away. The breast of thy lover shall shield thee, and cover My own jemscheed from harm ; Think'st thou I fear the dark vizier, Or the mufti's vengeful arm 1 " Then droop not, love, nor turn away From this rude hand of mine !" And Leila looked in her lover's eyes, And murmured — " I am thine !" But a gloomy man with a yataghan Stole through the acacia blossoms. And the thrust he made with his gleaming blade Had pierced through both their bosoms. *' There ! there ! thou cursed caitiff Giaour ! There, there, thou false one, lie !" Remorseless Hassan stands above, And he smiles to see them die. They sleep beneath the fresh green turf, The lover and the lady — And the maidens wail to hear the tale Of the daughter of the Cadi ! THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 171 f HstBtii iBr^tmie. The minarets wave on the plain of Stamboul, And the breeze of the evening blows freshly and cool ; The voice of the musnud is heard from the west, And kaftan and kalpac have gone to their rest, The notes of the kislar re-echo no more, And the waves of Al Sirat fall light on the shore. Where art thou, my beauty ; where art thou, my bride? Oh, come and repose by the dragoman's side ! I wait for thee still by the flowery tophaik — I have broken my Eblis for Zuleima's sake. But the heart that adores thee is faithful and true. Though it beats 'neath the folds of a Greek Allah-hu ! Oh, wake thee, my dearest ! the muftis are still. And the tschocadars sleep on the Franguestan hill ; No sullen aleikoum — no derveesh is here. And the mosques are all watching by lonely Kashmere! Oh, come in the gush of thy beauty so full, I have waited for thee, my adored attar-gul ! 172 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. I see thee — I hear thee — thy antelope foot Treads lightly and soft on the velvet cheroot ; The jewelled amaun of thy zemzem is bare, And the folds of thy palampore wave in the air. Come, rest on the bosom that loves thee so well, My dove ! my phingari ! my gentle gazelle ! Nay, tremble not, dearest ! I feel thy heart throb, 'Neath the sheltering shroud of thy snowy kiebaub ; Lo, there shines Muezzin, the beautiful star ! Thy lover is with thee, and danger afar : Say, is it the glance of the haughty vizier. Or the bark of the distant effendi, you fear '? Oh, swift fly the hours in the garden of bliss ! And sweeter than balm of Gehenna, thy kiss ! Wherever I wander — wherever I roam, My spirit flies back to its beautiful home : It dwells by the lake of the limpid Stamboul, With thee, my adored one ! my own attar-gul ! THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 173 CljB Srntlj nf Mnl -TH, ESQ. Mefhinks I see him already in the cart, sweeter and more lovely than the nosegay in his hand ! I hear the crowd extolling his re- solution and intrepidity ! What volleys of sighs are sent from the windows of Holborn, that so comely a youth should be brought to disgrace ! I see him at the tree ! the whole circle are in tears ! even butchers weep I" — Begg^vp.'s OpepvA. A LIVING sea of eager human faces, A thousand bosoms, throbbing all as one, Walls, windows, balconies, all sorts of places, Holding their crowds of gazers to the sun : Through the hushed groups low buzzing murmurs run ; And on the air, with slow reluctant swell, Comes the dull funeral boom of old Sepulchre's bell. Oh, joy in London now ! in festal measure Be spent the evening of this festive day ! For thee is opening now a high-strung pleasure Now, even now, in yonder press-yard they Strike from his limbs the fetters loose away ! A little while, and he, the brave Duval, Will issue forth, serene, to glad and greet you all. 174 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. "Why comes he not 1 say, wherefore doth he tarry '?" Starts the enquiry loud from every tongue. *' Surely," they cry, " that tedious Ordinar}^ His tedious psalms must long ere this have sung, — Tedious to him that's waiting to be hung !" But hark ! old Newgate's doors fly wide apart. " He comes, he comes !" A thrill shoots through each gazer's heart. Join'd in the stunning cry ten thousand voices, All Smithfield answered to the loud acclaim. " He comes, he comes !" and every breast rejoices, As down Snow HiJl the shout tumultuous came. Bearing to Holborn's crowd the welcome fame. " He comes, he comes !" and each holds back his breath, — Some ribs are broke and some few scores are crush'd to death. With step majestic to the cart advances The dauntless Claude, and springs into his seat. He feels that on him now are fix'd the glances Of many a Britain bold and maiden sweet, W^hose hearts responsive to his glories beat. In him the honor of " The Road" is centred. And all the hero's fire into his bosom enter'd. His was the transport — his the exultation Of Rome's great generals, when from afar, Up to the Capitol, in the ovation. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 175 They bore with them in the triuraphal car, Rich gold and gems, the spoils of foreign war. lo Triumjyhe ! They forgot their clay. E'en so Duval who rode in glory on his way. His laced cravat, his kids of ]3urest yellow, The many-tinted nosegay in his hand, His large black eyes, so fiery, yet so mellow, Like the old vintages of Spanish land. Locks clustering o'er a brow of high command, Subdue all hearts ; and, as up Holborn's steep Toils the slow car of death, e'en cruel butchers weep. He saw it, but he heeded not. His story, He knew, was graven on the page of Time. Tyburn to him was as a field of glory, Where he must stoop to death his head sublime, Hymn'd in full many an elegiac rhyme. He left his deeds behind him, and his name — For he, like Cassar, had lived long enough for fame. He quail'd not, save when, as he raised the chalice, — St. Giles's bowl, — filled with the mildest ale, To pledge the crowd, on her — his beauteous Alice — His eye alighted, and his cheek grew pale. She, whose sweet breath was like the spicy gale. She, whom he fondly deem'd his own dear gii'l. Stood with a tall dragoon, drinking long draughts of purl. 176 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. He bit his lip — it quiver'd but a moment — Then pass'd his hand across his flashing brows : He could have spared so forcible a comment Upon the constancy of woman's vows. One short, sharp pang his hero-soul allows ; But in the bowl he drowned the stinging pain, And on his pilgrim-course went calmly forth again. A princely group of England's noble daughters Stood in a balcony suffused with grief. Diffusing fragrance round them, of strong waters, And waving many a snowy handkerchief. Then glow'd the prince of highwayman and thief! His soul was touched with a seraphic gleam : — That woman could be false was but a mocking dream. And now, his bright career of triumph ended, His chariot stood beneath the triple tree. The law's grim finisher to its boughs ascended, And fix'd the hempen bandages, w^hile he Bow'd to the throng^ then bade the car go free. The car roll'd on, and left him dangling there Like famed Mahommed's tomb, uphung midway in air. As droops the cup of the surcharged lily Beneath the buffets of the surly storm, Or the soft petals of the daffodilly. When Sirius is uncomfortably warm, So drooped his head upon his nianly form, While floated in the breeze his tresses brown. He hung the stated time, and then they cut hhn down. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 177 With soft and tender care the trainbands bore him, Just as the J found him, nightcap, rope, and all, And placed this neat though plain inscription o'er him, Among the otomies in Surgeon's Hall : "These are the Bones of the renown'd Duval!" There still they tell us, fi'om their glassy case. He was the last, the best of all that noble race ! 8* 178 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. €k BirgB nf tlj^ Sriutor. ESQ. Brothers, spare awhile your liquor, lay your final tum- bler down ; He has dropp'd — that star of honor — on the field of his renown ! Eaise the wail, but raise it softly, lowly bending on your knees. If you find it more convenient, you may hiccup if you please. Sons of Pantagruel, gently let your hip-hurraing sink, Be your manly accents clouded, half with sorrow, half with drink ! Lightly to the sofa pillow lift his head from ofi" the floor ; See, how calm he sleeps, unconscious as the deadest nail in door! Widely o'er the earth I've wander'd ; w^here the drink most freely flow'd, I have ever reel'd the foremost, foremost to the beaker strode. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 179 Deep in shady Cider Cellars I have dream'd o'er heavy- wet, By the fountains of Damascus I have c[uaff'd the ric) Sherbet, Regal Montepulciano drained beneath its native rock, On Johannis' sunny mountain frequent hiccup'd o'er my hock; I have bathed in butts of Xeres deeper than did e'er Monsoon, Sangaree'd with bearded Tartars in the Mountains of the Moon ; In beer-swilling Copenhagen I have drunk your Danes- man blind, I have kept my feet in Jena, when each bursch to earth declined ; Glass for glass, in fierce Jamaica, I have shared the planter's rum. Drank with Highland dhuinie-wassels, till each gibbering Gael grew dumb ; But a stouter, bolder drinker — one that loved his liquor more — Never yet did I encounter than our friend upon the floor! Yet the best of us are mortal, we to weakness all are heir, He has fallen, who rarely stagger'd — let the rest of us beware ! We shall leave him, as we found him, — -lying where his manhood fell, 'Mong the trophies of the revel, for he took his tipple well. 180 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. Better 't were we loosed his neckcloth, laid his throat and bosom bare, Pulled his Hobies off, and tiirn'd his toes to taste the breezy air. Throw the sofa cover o'er him, dim the flaring of the gas, Calmly, calmly let him slumber, and, as by the bar we pass, We shall bid that thoughtful waiter place beside him, near and handy, Large supplies of soda water, tumbler's bottomed well with brandy. So when waking, he shall drain them, with that deathless thirst of his, Clinging to the hand that smote him, like a good 'un a& he is I THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 181 Sam /rrkgack. When folks with headstrong passion blind, To play the fool make up their mind, They 're sure to come with phrases nice, And modest air, for your advice. But, as a truth unfailing make it. They ask, but never mean to take it, 'T is not advice they want, in fact, But confirmation in their act. Now mark what did, in such a case, A worthy priest who knew the race. A dame more buxsome, blithe and free. Than Fredegonde you scarce would see. So smart her dress, so trim her shape, Ne'er hostess oifer'd juice of grape. Could for her trade wish better sign ; Her looks gave flavor to her wine. And each guest feels it, as he sips. Smack of the ruby of her lips. A smile for all, a welcome glad, — A jovial coaxing way she had ; 182 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. And, — what was more her fate than "blame, — A nine months' widow was our dame. But toil was hard, for trade was good, And gallants sometimes will be rude. " And what can a lone woman do 1 The nights are long, and eerie too. Now, Guillot there 's a likely man. None better draws or taps a can ; He 's just the man, I think, to suit. If I could bring my courage to 't." ' With thoughts like these her mind is cross'd : The dame, they say, who doubts is lost. " But then the risk ? I'll beg a slice Of Father Raulin's good advice." Prankt in her best, with looks demure, She seeks the priest ; and, to be sure, Asks if he thinks she ought to wed : " "With such a business on my head, I 'm worried off my legs with care. And need some help to keep things square. I 've thought of Guillot, truth to tell ! He 's steady, knows his business well. What do you think 1" When thus he met her " Oh, take him, dear, you can't do better !" " But then the danger, my good pastor. If of the man I make the master. There is no trusting to these men." " Well, well, my dear, don't have him then!" " But help I must have, there 's the curse. I may go farther and fare worse." THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 183 " Why, take him then !" " But if he should Turn out a thankless ne'er-do-good, — In drink and riot waste my all, And rout me out of house and halll" " Don't have him, then ! But I 've a plan To clear your doubts, if any can. The bells a peal are ringing, — hark ! Go straight, and what they tell you mark. If they say ' Yes !' wed, and be blest — If ' No,' why — do as you think best." The bells rung out a triple bob : Oh, how our widow's heart did throb, As thus she heard their burden go, "Marry, mar-marry, mar-Guillot !" Bells were not then left to hang idle : A week, — and the rang for her bridal. But, woe the while, they might as well Have rung the poor dame's parting knell. The rosy dimples left her cheek. She lost her beauties plump and sleek ; For Guillot oftener kicked than kiss'd And back'd his orders with his fist, Proving by deeds as well as words. That servants make the worst of lords. She seeks the priest, her ire to wreak, And speaks as angry women speak. With tiger looks, and bosom swelling, Cursing the hour she took his telling. 184 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. To all, his calm reply was this, — " I fear you 've read the bells amiss. If they have led you wrong in aught, Your wish, not they, inspired the thought. Just go, and mark well what they say." Off trudged the dame upon her way, And sure enough their chime went so, — " Don't have that knave, that knave Guillot !" " Too true," she cried, " there 's not a doubt What could my ears have been about !" She had forgot, that, as fools think, The bell is ever sure to clink. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 185 €ljB Sjntlj nf SHJjma?!, [This and the six following poems are examples of that new achieye- ment of modern song — which, blending the iitile with the dulce, symbolizes at once the practical and spiritual characteristics of the age, — and is called familiarly " the puff poetical."] Died the Jew 1 " The Hebrew died. On the pavement cold he lay, Around him closed the living tide ; The butcher's cad set down his tray : The pot-boy from the Dragon Green No longer for his pewter calls ; The Nereid rushes in between, Nor more her ' Fine live mackerel !' bawls. Died the Jew '? " The Hebrew died. They raised him gently from the stone, They flung his coat and neckcloth wide — But linen had that Hebrew none. They raised the pile of hats that pressed His noble head, his locks of snow ; But, ah, that head, upon his breast, Sank dowTi with an expiring ' Clo !' " 186 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. Died the Jew 1 " The Hebrew died, Struck with overwhelming qualms, Trom the flavor spreading wide Of some fine Virginia Hams. Would you know the fatal spot, Fatal to that child of sin ^ These fine-flavored hams are bought At 50, BisHOPSGATE Within !" THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 187 f nrr's m fills. 'T WAS in the town of Lubeck. A hundred years ago, An old man walk'd into the church With beard as white as snow ; Yet were his cheeks not wrinkled, Nor dim his eagle eye : There's many a knight that steps the street, Might wonder, should he chance to meet That man erect and high ! When silenced was the organ. And hush'd the vespers loud, The Sacristan approached the sire. And drew him from the crowd — " There's something in thy visage. On which I dare not look, 'And when I rang the passing bell, A tremor that I may not tell, My very vitals shook. 188 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. " Who art thou, awful stranger 1 Our ancient annals say, That twice two hundred years ago Another passed this way, Like thee in face and feature ; And, if the tale be true, 'T is writ, that in this very year Again the stranger shall appear. Art thou the wandering Jew f " The wandering Jew, thou dotard !" The wondrous phantom cried — 'T is several centuries ago Since that poor stripling died. He would not use my nostrums — See, shaveling, here they are ! These put to flight all human ills, These conquer death — unfailing pills, And I 'm the inventor, Parr !" THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 189 Gingerly is good King Tarqiiin shaving, Gently glides the razor o'er his chin, Near him stands a grim Haruspex raving, And with nasal whine he pitches in Church Extension hints, Till the monarch squints, Snicks his chin, and swears — a deadly sin ! " Jove confound thee, thou bare-legg'd impostor ! From my dressing-table get thee gone ! Dost thou think my flesh is double Glo'ster 1 There again ! That cut was to the bone ! Get ye from my sight ; I '11 believe you 're right When my razor cuts the sharping hone !" Thus spoke Tarquin with a deal of dryness ; But the Augur, eager for his fees. Answered — " Try it, your Imperial Highness, Press a little harder, if you please. 190 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. There ! the deed is done !" Through the solid stone Went the steel as glibly as through cheese. So the Augur touch'd the tin of Tarquin, Who suspected some celestial aid : But he wronged the blameless Gods ; for hearker Ere the monarch's bet was rashly laid, With his seaching eye Did the priest espy RoDGERs' name engraved upon the blade. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 191 ta Mml i'lrtlittt. NOT BY ALFRED TENNYSON. Slowly, as one who bears a mortal hurt, Through which the fountain of his life runs dry, Crept good King Arthur down unto the lake. A roughening wind was bringing in the waves With cold, dull plash and plunging to the shore, And a great bank of clouds came sailing up Athwart the aspect of the gibbous moon. Leaving no glimpse save starlight, as he sank, With a short stagger, senseless on the stones. No man yet knows how long he lay in swound ; But long enough it was to let the rust Lick half the surface of his polished shield ; For it was made by far inferior hands Than forged his helm, his breastplate, and his greaves, Whereon no canker lighted, for they bore The magic stamp of Mechi's Silver Steel. 192 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. Sttpitrr nEi tjiB Mian 3 it " Take away this clammy nectar !" Said the king of gods and men ; " Never at Olympus' table Let that trg-sh be Served again. Ho, Lyseus, thou, the beery ! Quick — invent some other drink ; Or, in a brace of shakes, thou standest On Cocytus' sulphury brink !" Terror shook the limbs of Bacchus, Paly grew his pimpled nose, And already in his rearward Felt he Jove's tremendous toes ; When a bright idea struck him — " Dash my thyrsus ! I '11 be bail — For you never were in India — That you know not Hodgson's Ale !" THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 198 "Bring it !" quoth the Cloud-compeller; And the wine-god brought the beer — " Port and Claret are like water To the noble stuff that's here !" And Saturnius drank and nodded, Winking with his lightning eyes ; And amidst the constellations Did the star of Hodgson rise! 194 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. Coats at five-and-forty sldllings ! trousers ten-and-six a pair ! Summer waistcoats, three a sovereign, light and comfort- able M' ear ! Taglionis, black or colored, Chesterfield and" velveteen ! The old English shooting-jacket, — doeskins, such as ne'er were seen ! Army cloaks and riding-habits, Alberts at a trifling cost ! Do you w^ant an annual contract 1 Write to Doudney's by the post. DouDNEY Brothers ! Doudney brothers ! Not the men that drive the van, Plaster'd o'er with advertisements, heralding some paltry plan, How, by base mechanic measure, and by pinching of their backs. Slim attorneys' clerks may manage to retrieve their Income-tax : But the old established business — where the best of clothes are given At the very lowest prices — Fleet-street, Number Ninety- seven. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 195 Would'st thou know the works of Doudney 1 Hie thee to the thronged Arcade, To the Park upon a Sunday, to the terrible Parade. There, amid the bayonets bristling, and the flashing of the steel, When the household troops in squadrons round the bold field-marshals wheel, Should'st thou see an aged warrior in a plain blue morn- ing frock, Peering at the proud battalion o'er the margin of his stock, — Should thy throbbing heart then tell thee, that the vete- ran, worn an gray, Curbed the course of Bonaparte, rolled the thunders of Assay e — Let it tell thee, stranger, likewise, that the goodly garb he wears Started into shape and being from the Doudney Bro- thers' shears ! Seek thou next the rooms of Willis — mark, where D'Orsay's Count is bending, See the trousers' undulation from his graceful hip descending ; Hath the earth another trouser so compact and love- compelling 1 Thou canst find it, stranger, only, if thou seek'st the DouDNEYs' dwelling. Hark, from Windsor's royal palace, what sweet voice enchants the ear 1 " Goodness, what a lovely waistcoat ? Oh, who made it, Albert, dear 1 196 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 'T is the very prettiest pattern ! You must get a dozen others !" And the Prince, in rapture, answers — " 'T is the work of DouDNEY Brothers !" THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 197 As the youthfal Paris presses Helen to his ivory breast, Sporting with her golden tresses, Close and ever closer pressed, He said : " So let me quaff the nectar, Which thy lips of ruhy yield ; Glory I can leave to Hector, Gathered in the tented field. " Let me ever gaze upon thee, Look into thine eyes so deep ; With a daring hand I won thee. With a faithful heart I'll keep. " Oh, my Helen, thou bright wonder, Who was ever like to thee 1 Jove w^ould lay aside his thunder, So he might be blest like me. 198 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. " How mine eyes so fondly linger On thy soft and pearly skin ; Scan each round and rosy finger, Drinking draughts of beauty in ! " Tell me, whence thy beauty, fairest ! Whence thy cheek's enchanting bloom 1 Whence the rosy hue thou wearest, Breathing round thee I'ich perfume ?" Thus he spoke, with heart that panted, Clasped her fondly to his side. Gazed on her with look enchanted, W^hile his Helen thus replied : " Be no discord, love, between us. If I not the secret tell ! 'T was a gift I had of Venus, — Venus, who hath loved me well. " And she told me as she gave it, ' Let not e'er the charm be known. O'er thy person freely lave it. Only when thou art alone.' " 'T is enclosed in yonder casket — Here behold its golden key ; But its name — love, do not ask it, Tell 't, I may not, even to thee !" THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 199 Long with vow and kiss he plied her, Still the secret did she keep, Till at length he sank beside her. Seemed as he had dropped to sleep. Soon was Helen laid in slumber, When her Paris, rising slow. Did his fair neck disencumber From her rounded arms of snow ; Then her heedless fingers oping, Takes the key and steals away, To the eben table groping. Where the wondrous casket lay ; Eagerly the lid uncloses, Sees within it, laid aslope. Pear's Liquid Bloom of Roses, Cakes of his Transparent Soap ! 200 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. inug nf tljB €nu^t. I 'm weary, and sick, and disgusted With Britain's mechanical din ; Where I 'm much too well known to be trusted, And plaguily pestered for tin ; Where love has two eyes for your banker, And one chilly glance for yourself; Where souls can afford to be franker, But when they 're well garnished with pelf. I 'm sick of the v/hole race of poets. Emasculate, missy, and fine ; They brew their small beer, and don't know its Distinction from full-bodied wine. I 'm sick of the prosers, that house up At drowsy St. Stephen's, — ain't you 1 I want some strong spirits to rouse up A good revolution or two ! I 'm sick of a land, where each morrow Repeats the dull tale of to-day. Where you can't even find a new sorrow, To chase your stale pleasures away. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 201 I 'm sick of bliie-stockings horrific, Steam, railroads, gas, scrip, and consols ; So I '11 off where the golden Pacific Round islands of r-aradlse rolls. There the passions shall revel unfettered, And the heart never speak but in truth, And the intellect wholly unlettered, Be bright with the freedom of youth ; There the earth can rejoice in her blossoms. Unsullied by vapor or soot, And there chimpanzees and opossums Shall playfully pelt me with fruit. There I '11 sit with my dark Orianas, In groves by the murmuring sea, And they '11 give, as I suck the bananas, Their kisses, nor ask them from me. They '11 never torment me for sonnets, Nor bore me to death with their own ; They '11 ask not for shawls nor for bonnets. For milliners there are unknown. There my couch shall be earth's freshest flowers, My curtains the night and the stars. And my spirit shall gather new powers, Uncramped by conventional bars. Love for love, truth for truth ever giving, My days shall be manfully sped ; I shall know that I 'm loved while I 'm living. And be wept by fond eyes when I 'm dead ! 9* 202 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. C^nrnlfe, Lightsome, brightsome, cousin mine ! Easy, breezy Caroline ! With thy locks all raven-shaded, From thy merry brow up-braided, And thine eyes of laughter full, Brightsome cousin mine ! Thou in chains of love hast bound me- Wherefore dost thou flit around me, Laughter-loving Caroline *? When I fain would go to sleep In my easy chair. Wherefore on my slumbers creep — Wherefore start me from repose, Ticklhig of my hooked nose, Pulling of my hair 1 Wherefore, then, if thou dost love me. So to words of anger move me. Corking of this face of mine, Tricksy cousin Caroline ! THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 203 When a sudden sound I hear, Much my nervous system suffers, Shakhig through and through, — Cousin Caroline, I fear, 'T was no other, now, but you Put gunpowder in the snuffers, Springing such a mine ! Yes, it was your tricksy self, Wicked-tricked, little elf, Naughty cousin Caroline ! Pins she sticks into my shoulder, Places needles in my chair. And, when I begin to scold her^ Tosses back her combed hair, With so saucy-vexed an air. That the pitying beholder Cannot brook that I should scold her : Then again she comes, and bolder, Blacks anew this face of mine, Artful cousin Caroline ! Would she only say she 'd love me, Winsome tinsome Caroline, Unto such excess 't would move me. Teasing, pleasing, cousin mine ! That she might the live-long day Undermine the snuffer tray, Tickle still my hooked nose. Startle me from calm repose 204 THE BOOK 05" BALLADS. With her pretty persecution ; Throw the tongs against my shins, Run me through and through with pins, Like a pierced cushion ; Would she only say she 'd love me, Darning needles should not move me ; But reclining back, I 'd say, " Dearest ! there 's the snuffer tray ; Pinch, O pinch those legs of mine ! Cork me, cousin Caroline !" THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 205 FOUND IN MY EMPORIUM OF LOVE TOKENS. Sweet flower, that with thy soft blue eye Did'st once look up in shady spot, To whisper to the passer-by Tliose tender words — Forget-me-not ! Though withered now, thou art to me The minister of gentle thought, — And I could weep to gaze on thee, Love's faded pledge — Forget-me-not ! Thou speak'st of hours when I v,^as young, And happiness arose unsought, When she, the whispering woods among, Gave me thy bloom — Forget-me-not ! What rapturous hour with that dear maid From memory's page no time shall blot, AVhen, yielding to my kiss, she said, "Oh, Theodore — Forget-ine-not !" 206 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. Alas, for love ! alas, for truth ! Alas for man's uncertain lot ! Alas for all the hopes of youth That fade like thee — Forget-me-not ! Alas ! for that one image fair, With all my brightest dreams inwrought ! That walks beside me everywhere, Still whispering — Forget-me-not ! Oh, memory ! thou art but a sigh For friendships dead and loves forgot ; And many a cold and altered eye. That once did say — Forget-me-not ! And I must bow me to thy laws. For — odd although it may be thought — I can't tell who the deuce it was That gave me this Forget-me-not ! THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 207 €k M4^' " Why art thou weeping, sister ? Why is thy cheek so pale 1 Look up, dear Jane, and tell me What is it thou dost ail 1 " I know thy will is froward, Thy feelings warm and keen, And that that Augustus Howard For weeks has not been seen. " I know how much you loved him ; But I know thou dost not weep For him ; — for though his passion be, His purse is noways deep. " Then tell me why those teardrops ; What means this woful mood 1 Say, has the tax-collector Been calling, and been rude ? 208 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. " Or has that hateful grocer, The slave ! been here to-day 1 Of course he had, by morrow's noon, A heavy bill to pay ! " Come, on thy brothex-'s bosom Unburden all thy woes ; Look 'up, look up, sweet sister ; There, dearest, blow your nose." " Oh, John, 't is not the grocer, For his account ; although How ever he is to be paid, I really do not know. " 'T is not the tax-collector ; Though by his fell command. They Ve seized our old paternal clock, And new umbrella-stand : " Nor that Augustus Howard, Whom I despise almost, — But the soot's come down the chimney, John, And fairly spoiled the roast 1" THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 209 (Cnmfnrt in afflirtinu. " Wherefore starts my bosom's lord 1 Why this anguish in thine eye ? Oh, it seems as thy heart's chord Had broken with that sigh ! " Rest thee, my dear lord, I pray, Rest thee on my bosom now ! And let me wipe the dews away, Are gathering on thy brow. " There, again ! that fevered start ! W^hat, love ! husband ! is thy pain 1 There is a sorrow on thy heart, A weight upon thy brain ! " Nay, nay, that sickly smile can ne'er Deceive affection's searching eye ; 'T is a wife's duty, love, to share Her husband's agony. 210 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. " Since the dawn began to peep, Have I lain with stifled breath ; Heard thee moaning in thy sleep, As thou wert at grips with death. " Oh, w^hat joy it was to see My gentle lord once more awake ! Tell me, what is amiss with thee 1 Speak, or my heart will break !" "Mary, thou angel of my life, Thou ever good and kind ; 'T is not, believe me, my dear wife, The anguish of the mind ! " It is not in my bosom dear, . No, nor my brain, in sooth ; But Mary, oh, I feel it here. Here in my wisdom tooth ! " Then give, — oh, first, best antidote. Sweet partner of my bed ! Give me thy flannel petticoat To wrap around my head !'* THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 211 €]}t Snnnrntinu, " Brother, thou art very weary, And thine eye is sunk and dim, And thy neckcloth's tie is crumpled, And thy collar out of trim ; There is dust upon thy visage, — Think not Charles I would hurt ye, When I say, that altogether. You appear extremely dirty. " Frown not, brother, now, but hie thee To thy chamber's distant room ; Drown the odors of the ledger With the lavender's perfume. Brush the mud from off thy trowsers, O'er the china basin kneel. Lave thy brows in w^ater softened With the soap of Old Castile. " Smooth the locks that o'er thy forehead Now in loose disorder stray ; Pare thy nails, and from thy whiskers Cut those ragged points away. 212 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. Let no more thy calculations Thy bewildered brain beset ; Life has other hopes than Cocker's, Other joys than tare and tret. " Haste thee, for I ordered dinner, Waiting to the very last, Twenty minutes after seven, And 't is now the quarter past. 'T is a dinner which Lucullus Would have wept with joy to see, One, might wake the soul of Curtis From Death's drowsy atrophy. " There is soup of real turtle, Turbot, and the dainty sole ; And the mottled roe of lobsters Blushes through the butter bowl. There the lordly haunch of mutton. Tender as the mountain grass, Waits to mix its ruddy juices With the girdling caper-sauce. " There a stag, whose branching forehead Spoke him monarch of the herds. He whose flight was o'er the heather. Swift as through the air the bird's, Yields for thee a dish of cutlets ; And the haunch that wont to dash O'er the roaring mountain torrent, Smokes in most delicious hash. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 213 "There, besides, are amber jellies Floating like a golden dream ; Ginger from the far Bermudas Dishes of Italian cream ; And a princely apple-dumpling, Which my own fair fingers wrought, Shall unfold its nectared treasures To thy lips all smoking hot. " Ha ! I see thy brow is clearing, Lustre flashes from thine eyes ; To thy lips I see the moisture Of anticipation rise. Hark ! the dinner bell is sounding !" " Only wait one moment, Jane : I'll be dressed, and down, before you Can get up the iced champagne !" 214 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. €)}t iMtani's f rfitinu. Come hither, my heart's darling, Come, sit upon my knee, And listen, while I whisper A boon I ask of thee. You need not pull my whiskers So amorously, my dove ; 'T is something quite apart from The gentle cares of love. I feel a bitter craving — A dark and deep desire. That glows beneath my bosom Like coals of kindled fire. The passion of the nightingale, When singing to the rose, Is feebler than the agony That murders my repose ! Nay, dearest ! do not doubt me, Though madly thus I speak — I feel thy arms about me. Thy tresses on my cheek : THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 215 I know the sweet devotion That links thy heart with mine, — I know my soul's emotion Is doubly felt by thine : And deem not that a shadow Hath fallen across my love : No, sweet, my love is shadowless, As yonder heaven above. These little taper fingers — Ah, Jane ! how white they be ! — Can well supply the cruel want That almost maddens me. Thou wilt not sure deny me My first and fond request ; I pray thee, by the memory Of all we cherish best — By all the dear remembrance Of those delicious days, When, hand in hand, we wandered Along the summer braes : By all we felt, unspoken, When 'neath the early moon, We sat beside the rivulet. In the leafy month of June ; And by the broken whisper That fell upon my ear. More sweet than angel-music. When first I woo'd thee, dear ! 216 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. By that great vow which bound thee For ever to my side, And by the ring that made thee My darling and my bride ! Thou wilt not fail nor falter, But bend thee to the task — A BOILED sheep's-head ON SuNDAT Is all the boon I ask ! ■\V.*VV,'4&>' ts 4 * ^ ■':^ -. g ^ '?^ '^o. ''^T^" . ?5 ^^ ^f \0 -^^^ ''if > /: ^^. ^ ^ 1 .#■ -^ v^^ '^0 o-^ ,^^' -.^v- v- - r- ^' ^■^^^' ^ ^' ■>'^ ^\ aX Deacidified using the Bookkeeper proce Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide '^ Treatment Date: April 2009 ^:^ ^.. PreservationTechnologii ^ A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVAT '^> 111 Thomson Park Drive Cranberry Township, PA 1 6066 ,\' o 0^ ><^S^ "^^ s^' A -r^ A^ ^y>- .0 o \V .0 o^ ^<^%^' .^•^, "^.c^"^ '\^ "'tr- .v\^' .^•^