1 Mi #**. . t ." - v ' , EDITED BY A NEW EDITION. WITH SEVERAL NEW BALLADS Illustrations. NEW YORK TV. J. TVIDDLETON SUCCESSOR TO J. i. BEBFIELD 1862 IHSfeb CONTENTS. Span is ft PAGB THE BROKEN PITCIIEE 11 DON FERNANDO GOMEE8ALEZ : FEOM tax SPAKKH OF ASTLEY'S, 14 THE COURTSHIP OF OUR CID . 25 Jlmnitan THE FIGUT WITH THE SNAPPING TURTLE, OR THE AMERI- CAN ST. GEORGE : FTTTE FIRST ........ 30 FYTTE SECOND ....... 88 THE LAY OF MR. COLT: STREAK THE FIRST ...... 8T STREAK THE SECOND ...... 39 THE DEATH OF JABEZ DOLLAR ..... 43 THE ALABAMA DUEL ....... 47 THE AMERICAN'S APOSTROPHE TO BOZ 51 CONTENTS. PASS THE STUDENT OF JENA ...... 66 THE LAY OF THE LEVITE ...... 60 BURSCH GROGGENBURG ...... 68 NIGHT AND MORNING ...... 6 THE BITER BIT . ...... 63 THE CONVICT AND THE AUSTRALIAN LADY . . 71 THE DOLEFUL LAY OF THE HONORABLE I. 0. UWIN8 ......... 74 THE KNYGHTE AND THE TAYLZEOUR'S DAUGHTER . 79 THE MIDNIGHT VISIT ....... 83 THE LAY OF THE LOVELORN ..... 8T MY WIFE'S COUSIN ....... 95 THE QUEEN IN FRANCE: AN ANCIENT SCOTTISH BALLAD: PAST 1 ......... 99 PABT II ........ 104 THE MASSACRE OF THE MACPHER80N: FBOM THE GAELIC . 108 THE STOCKBROKER'S BRIDE ...... 112 THE LAUREATES' TOURNEY: FYTTE THE FIRST ....... 115 FYTTB THB SECOND ....... 119 THE ROYAL BANQUET 128 THE BARD OF ERIN'S LAMENT ..... 127 THE LAUREATE ........ 129 A MIDNIGHT MEDITATION ...... 182 MONTGOMERY : a POEM ...... 185 THE DEATH OF SPACE ....... 138 LITTLE JOHN AND THE RED FRIAR: A LAY o SHER- WOOD: Frrr* THE FIBST ...*... 141 FTTTE THE SECOND ...... 144 THE RHYME OF SIR LAUNCELOT BOGLE . . .150 THE LAY OF THE LOVER'S FRIEND .... 162 FRANCESCA DA RIMINI ....... 165 THE CADI'S DAUGHTER: A LEGEND or THE BOSPHOKUB . . 169 CONTENTS. Vii MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS (ooNTnoriD) : PAGE EASTERN SERENADE 171 THE DEATH OF DTTVAL 178 THE DIRGE OF THE DRINKER 173 DAME FREDEGONDE .181 THE DEATH OF ISHMAEL 185 PARR'S LIFE PILLS 1S7 TARQUIN AND THE AUGUR 189 LA MORT D'ARTHUR 191 JUPITER AND THE INDIAN ALE 192 THE LAY OF THE DOUDNET BROTHERS . . . .194 PARIS AND HELEN 197 SONG OF THE ENNUYE 200 CAROLINE . . . . . . . . 202 TO A FORGET ME-NOT 205 THE MISHAP 207 COMFORT IN AFFLICTION 209 THE INVOCATION 211 THE HUSBAND'S PETITION 214 COME, buy my lays, and read them if you ^st; My pensive public, if you list not, buy. Come, for you know me. I am he who sung Of Mister Colt, and I am he who framed Of Widdicomb the mild and wond'rous song. Come, listen to my lays, and you shall hear How Wordsworth, battling for the laureate J wreath, Bore to the dust the terrible Fitzball ; How N. 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 Roman lay ; And Bulwer Lytton, Lytton Bulwer erst, Unseen amidst a metaphysic fog, Bawl melancholy homage to the man : For you once more Montgomery sha.l rave 1 n all his rapt rabidity of rhyme ; Nankeen'd Cockaigne shall pipe his puny note, And our Young England's penny trumpet b 1 3w. l* SPANISH BALLADS. 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 ? why sitt'st thou by the spring ? Say, dost thou seek a lover, or any other thing ? Why gazest thou upon me, with eyes so large and wide, And wherefore doth the pitcher lie broken by thy side 1 ?" " I dp 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 hia nieces." " 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. Id 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. Dim ftmSa <0>nmmiaUj. 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 ?" Then the bearded Cadi answered " Be not wrotn, my lord, the King, If thy faithful slave shall venture to observe one little thing ; Valiant, doubtless, are thy warriors, and their bearda are long and hairy, And a thunderbolt in battle is each bristly janissary : It) 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-Widdicomb, 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 pule 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 ? Rack and pincers I defy Is it that thy base grotesques 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. 18 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. 2* 1 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 stalwarc 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, With 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 ? " 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 behind 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 Caesar, 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 inay'st be wondrous glad, That thy head is on thy shoulders for thy wonc 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 OP BALLADS. 23 Btiffly 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 ? 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 ! THB BOOK OF BALLADS. (tartsijiji of nnr Ci WHAT a pang of sweet emotion Thrilled the Master of the Ring, When he first beheld the lady, Through the stabled portal spring f Midway in his wild grimacing Stopped the piebald-visaged Clowe r 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 1 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 : 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 Donua Inez Woolfordinez ! Why those blushes on thy cheek 1 Doth thy trembling bosom tell thee, He hath come thy love to seek 1 Fleet thy Arab but behind 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 j 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 courser'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. 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, Wodfordinez ! 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 clasj>ed her, Raised her in his manly arms ; And the stables' closing barriers Hid his valor, and her charms ! 30 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. AMEBICAN BALLADS /igjjt tnitjr tjp Snapping (Turtle. OR, THE AMERICAN ST. GEORGE. FTTTE FIRST. HAVE you heard of Philip Slingsby, Slingsby of the manly chest ; How he slew the Snapping Turtle In the regions of the West"? 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 ?" Then sagacious Tyler answered, " You're the ring-tailed squealer ! Less Than a hundred heavy dollars 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 go ?" 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 With 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 ! 82 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. "Tell her that I died devoted, Victim to a noble task ! Ha'n't you got a drop of brandy In the bottom of your flask 1" 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 ! the Snapping Turtle !" Thus the squire in terror cried ; But the noble Slingsby straightway Drew the toothpick from his side, M 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* 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 Cull en 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 Slingsby flew. Bent and bloody was the bowie, 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 !" But 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 Bonds /" " The only Good American Securities.'' THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 87 rf air. [THE story of Mr. Colt, of which our Lay contains 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 the sympathy of a jury of his country," as "a young man just entering into life, whose pros- pects, probably have been permanently 'blasted.' 1 ' 1 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 ; 38 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. Fhe 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 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 two hours. We '11 shut the prison doors and keep the gaping world at bay, For love is long as 'tarnity, though I must die to-day !" THE BOOK OF BALLADS. . 39 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 lifts his hat, And saunters to her side, " I beg your pardon, Mrs. C., But is your husband ready ?" " I guess you'd better ask himself," Eeplied 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 sheriff 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. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. And when the lamp is lighted In 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. Dtfltjj . drains. COME and listen, lords and ladies, To a woful lay of mine ; He whose tailor's bill unpaid is, Let him now his **r incline ! Let him hearken to my story, How the noblest of the land Pined long time in dreary duresse 'Neath a sponging bailiff's hail. 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 Lull'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 dish 1 ?" the Bailiff mutter'd, Rushing in with fury wild ; " Ish your muffins so veil butter'd Dat you 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 slish 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, I. O. Uwins did agree ! Little plagued with holy scruples From the starting post was he. The fashionnble abbreviation for a thousand pounds THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 77 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. Uwins faster 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 wife Rebecca bolted With a missionary Jew. Ye who read this doleful ditty, Ask ye where is Uwins now 1 Wend your way 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. O. U. THE HOOK OK BALLADS. 79 mift tjp 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 ? " 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 you ask for tick. 80 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. Christinas and its bills are coming, Soon will they be showering in ;, Therefore, once for all, my rum 'un,. I expect you '11 post the tin. " Mark, Sir Knyghte, that gloomy bayliffe, In the palmer's amice brown ;. He shall lead you unto jail, if Instantly you stump not down." Deeply swore the young crusader,, But the taylzeour would not hear ; And the gloomy bearded bayliffe Evermore kept sneaking near. " Neither groat nor noaravedi 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 I'll work the rest for thee." Lightly leaped he on the shop-board, Lightly crooked his manly limb, Lightly drove the glancing needle Through the growing doublet's rim. Gaberdines, in countless number Did the taylzeourJcnyghte repair! And the cabbage and cucumber Were his sole and simple fare. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 8 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 small 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, In the middle of the Spring, There was some superior jousting By the order of the king. 4* 82 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 where 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 tho taylzc/our's daughter's feet. THB BOOK OF BALLADS. 83 BWgjjt Eisit. 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 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. And on his vest of green he wears an eagle and a star, Saint George 1 protect us ! 't is THE MAN the thunder- bolt of war ! Is that the famous hat that waved along Marengo's ridge 1 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 1 Pale grew the Lord of Castlereagh, his tongue was parched and dry, As in his brain he felt the glare of that tremendous eye ; What wonder 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' st the lion was afar, but he hath burst the chain The watchword for to-night is France the answer, St. Helcne. " And didst thou deem the barren isle, or ocean waves, could bind The master <>f tho universe the monarch of mankind? 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! Mark! This very night my name Was thundered in its capital with 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 (ho floor? HG THE BOOK OF BALLADS. And could that be the Emperor that moved before my eyes? 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 1 ' At Astley's, every night, the play of Moscow's FALL ! NAPOLEON for the thousandth time, by Mr. GOMERSAL !" THB BOOK OF BALLADS. nf 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 I 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 ! This 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 twinkle, 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 father's anger, minion to a nabob's love ! Is it well to wish thee happy? Having known me, could you ever Stoop to marry half a heart, and little more than half a liver ? Happy ! Damme ! 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 hold thee surely then Something lower than his hookah, something less than his cayenne. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 89 What is tins'? His eyes are pinky. Was't the claret 1 ? 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, He will understand 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 fill 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 Good! Better, 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 be 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 I 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 twenty-two. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 91 When 1 smoked my independent pipe along the Quad- rant wide, With the many larks of London flaring up on every side. W hen 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 years! 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 caw 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 Afric, lion-haunted, where the giant forest yields Rarer robes and finer tissue than 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 pride ; 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 purple main Sounds the oath of British commerce, or the accents of Cockaigne. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 93 There, methinks, would be enjoyment, where no envirous rule prevents ; Sink the steamboats ! cuss the railways ! rot, O 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, Ride a tiger-hunting, mounted on a thorough-bred giraffe. Fiercely shall I shout the war-whoop, 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 lower than the Christian cad. 94 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. I the swell the city dandy ! 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 1 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 ; I 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 ! TUB 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 feast 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 I seize and vanish ; Every trouble from my bosom, Every anxious care I banish. 90 THE BOOK OP BALLAUs. Swiftly brushing o'er the pavement, At a furious pace 1 go, Till I reach my darling dwelling In the wilds of Pimlico. " Mary, wife, where art thou, dearest ? Thus I cry, while yet afar ; Ah ! what scent invades my nostrils 1 '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 round Mary's waist. And his other hand is playing Most familiarly 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 wife? Ah ! how long must I endure it : How protract this hateful life ? All day long quite unprotected, Does he leave his wife at home ; And she cannot see her cousins, Even when they kindly 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 cousin, then he 's mine ! Very glad, indeed, to see you, Won't you stop with us, and dine ?" 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 scienw In his estimate of beer. Hallf-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. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. Evermore he stays to dinner, Evermore devours my meal j 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 ; And I 'd rather see his fingers In the fire, than touching hera. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. Itt ft&W. AN ANCIENT SCOTTISH BALLAD. PART I. 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 daurna 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. " O weel, weel may the waters rise, In welcome o' their Queen ; What gars ye look sae white, Albert 1 What makes your e'e sae green ?" "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 ; " O wha may be the gay ladye That owns that ship sae fine 1 " And wha may be that bonny lad, That looks sae pale and wan ? 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 ; I '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 the 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 ?" 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 1 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 trap'pit 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 M tell him o' my mind." 104 THE BOOE OP 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-yar*. 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 1" PAKT ir. 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 aald 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. K 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, 1 '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 awa?" " 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 GAULTIER ? 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 was 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 ?" The dourest prince he bit his lip, And his brow was black as glaur : u The only game that e'er I play Is the bluiily game o' war !" THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 107 " And gin 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 Icuch, 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 mauii come to me, Sir King, As I have come to ye ; And a benison upon your heid 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 wily 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. " Will 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 fflmzm nf tjp FROM THE GAELIC. FHAIRSTON swore a feud Against the clan MTavish ; 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. n. 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 tn 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 peas ties. Here 's Mhic-Mac-Methusalen Coming wi' his fassals, Gillies seventy-three, And sixty Dhuinewassails !" IV. " Coot tay to you, sir ; Are not you ta Fhairshon \ Was you coining 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." v. Fat is tat you say ? Dar you cock your peaver? I 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. I 1 1 VI. " I am fery glad To learn what you mention, 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. vn. ID 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. vm. 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 ! Here 's your fery good healths, And tamn ta whusky tuty ! THE BOOK OF BALLADS. torkhrate's " 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-pl ashing 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 Rocked with a most unpleasant motion ; Young Mivins leant him o'er a bulk, And poured his sorrows to the ocean. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 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 stretehed upon a hair-cloth sofar. All night he moaned, the steamer groaned, And he was hourly getting fainter ; When 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. Jenkin ?" 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 ?" " 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 !" " Vy, does you think a gal can vait As sets 'er 'art on being married ? 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. THX BOOK OF BALLADS. 115 BY THE HOX. [Tms and the five following poems were among those forwarded to the Home Secretary, by the unsuccessful competitors 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 fall 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 bongn ; With palpitating hand I take ye now, Since worthier minstrel there is none beside, And with a thrill of song half deified, I bind them proudly on my locks of snow, There shall they bide, till he who follows next, Of whom I cannot even guess the name, Shall by Court favor, or some vain pretext Of fancied merit, desecrate the same, And think, perchance, he wears them quite as well As the sole bard who sang of Peter Bell !] FTTTB THE FIRST. " WHAT news, what news, thou pilgrim grey, what news from southern land 1 How fare the bold Conservatives, how is it with Ferrand ? 116 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. How does the little Prince of Wales how looks our lady Queen ; And tell me, is the gentle Brough* once more at Windsor seen?" " I bring no tidings from the court, nor from St. Stephen's hall; I Ve heard the thundering tramp of horse, and the trumpet's battle call ; And these old eyes have seen a fight, which England ne'er hath seen, Since fell King Richard sobbed his soul through blood on Bosworth Green. " He 's dead, he 's dead, the Laureate's dead !" Twas thus the cry began, And straightway every garret roof gave up its minstrel man ; From Grub Street, and from Houndsditch, and from Farrinedon Within, The poets all towards Whitehall poured on with eldritch din. Loud yelled they for Sir James the Graham : but sore afraid was he ; A hardy knight were he that might face such a min- strelsie. For the convenience of fntnre commentators It may be mentioned, that the "(tentle Brongh" was the Monthly Xnrse who attended her Majesty on the occasion of the birth of the Princess Rovsl. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 117 " Now by St. Giles of Nethcrby, my patron saint, I swear, I 'd rather by a thousand crowns Lord Palmerston were here ! " What is 't ye seek, ye rebel knaves, what make you there beneath ?" " The bays, the bays ! we want the bays ! we seek the laureate wreath ! We seek the butt of generous wine that cheers the sons of song: Choose thou among us all, Sir Knight we may not tarry long !" Loud laughed the good Sir James in scom " Rare jest it were, I think, But one poor butt of Xeres, and a thousand rogues to drink ! An' if it flowed with wine or beer, 't is easy to be seen That dry within the hour would be the well of Hippo- crene. "Tell me, if on Parnassus' heights there grow a thou- sand sheaves: Or has Apollo's laurel bush yet borne ten hundred leaves ? Or if so many leaves were there, how long would they sustain The ravage and the glutton bite of such a locust train ? 118 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. " No ! get ye back into your dens, take counsel for the night, And choose me out two champions to meet in deadly fight; To-morrow's dawn shall see the lists marked out in Spitalfields, And he who wins shall have the bays, and he shall die who yields !" Down went the window with a crash, in silence and in fear Each ragged bard looked anxiously upon his neighbor near; Then up and spake young Tennyson "Who 's here that fears for death ? 'T were better one of us should die, than England lose the wreath ! " Let's cast the lots among us now, which two shall fight to-morrow ; For armor bright we '11 club our mite, and horses we can borrow. T were shame that bards of France should sneer, and German Dichters too, If none of British song might dare a deed of derring-do /" " The lists of love are mine," said Moore, " and not the lists of Mars ;" fcJaid Hunt, " I seek the jars of wine, but shun the com bat's jars !" THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 119 "I 'm old," quoth Samuel Rogers. "Faith," ^ays Campbell, " so am I !" "And I 'm in holy orders, sir !" quoth Tom of Ingoldsby. " Now out upon ye, craven loons !" cried Moxon, good at need, " Bide, if ye will, secure at home, and sleep while others bleed. I second Alfred's motion, boys, let 's try the chance of lot; And monks shall sing, and bells shall ring, for him that goes to pot." Eight hundred minstrels slunk away two hundred stayed to draw, Now heaven protect the daring wight that pulls the longest straw ! 'T is done ! 't is done ! And who hath won ? Keep silence, one and all, The first is William Wordsworth hight, the second Ned Fitzball !" FYTTE THE SECOND. OH, bright and gay hath dawned the day on lordly Spitalfields, How flash the rays with ardent blaze from polished helms and shields ! On either side the chivalry of England throng the green, \nd in the middle balcony appears our gracious Queen. 120 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. With iron fists, to keep the lists, two valiant knights appear, The Marquis Hal of Waterford, and stout Sir Aubrey Vere. " What ho, there, herald, blow the trump ! Let 's see who comes to claim The butt of golden Xeres, and the Laureate's honored name !" That instant dashed into the lists, all armed from head to heel, On courser brown, with vizor down, a warrior sheathed in steel ; Then said our Queen " Was ever seen so stout a knight and tall ? His name his race ?" " An 't please your grace, it is the brave Fitzball. "Oft in the Melodrama line his prowess hath been shown, And well throughout the Surrey side his thirst for blood is known. But see, the other champion comes !" Then rung the startled air With shouts of " Wordsworth, Wordsworth, ho ! the bard of Rydal 's there." And lo ! upon a little steed, unmeet for such a course, Appeared the honored veteran ; but weak seemed man and horse. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 121 Then shook their ears the sapient peers, " That joust will soon be done: My Lord of Brougham, I '11 back Fit/ball, and give you two to one !" " Done," quoth the Brougham, " and done with you !" " Now, Minstrels, are you ready ?" Exclaimed the Lord of Waterford, " You 'd better both sit steady. Blow, trumpets, blow the note of charge ! and forward to the fight !" "Amen !" said good Sir Aubrey Vere; "Saint Schism defend the right !" As sweeps the blast against the mast, when blows the furious squall, So started at the trumpet's sound, the terrible Fitz- ball ; His lance he bore his breast before, Saint George pro- tect the just, Or Wordsworth's hoary head must roll along the shame- ful dust ! " Who threw that calthrop 1 Seize the knave !" Alas the deed is done ; Down went the steed, and o'er his head flew bright Apollo's son. "Undo his helmet! cut the lace! pour water on his head !" " It ain't no use at all, my lord ; 'cos vy 1 the covey 's dead !" 122 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. Above him stood the Bydal bard his face was full of wo " Now there thou liest, stiff and stark, who never feared a foe : A braver knight, or more renowned in tourney and in hall, Ne'er brought the upper gallery down, than terrible Fitzball !" They led our Wordsworth to the Queen she crowned him with the bays, And wished him many happy years, and many quarter- days, And if you 'd have the story told by abler lips than mine, You 've but to call at Rydal Mount, and taste the Laureate's wine ! THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 323 BY THE HON. O- THE Queen, she kept high festival in Windsor's lordly hall, And round her sat the gartered knights, and ermined nobles all ; There drank the valiant Wellington, there fed the wary Peel, And at the bottom of the board, Prince Albert carved the veal. " What, pantler, ho ! remove the cloth ! Ho ! cellarer, the wine, And bid the royal nurse bring in the hope of Brunswick's line!" Then rose, with one tumultuous shout, the band of British peers, " God bless her sacred Majesty ! Let 's see the little dears !" 124 THE BOOK OP BALLADS. Now by Saint George, our patron saint, 't was a touch- ing sight to see That iron warrior gently place the Princess on his knee ; To hear him hush her infant fears, and teach her how to gape With rosy mouth expectant for the raisin and the grape ! They passed the wine, the sparkling wine they filled the goblets up, Even Brougham, the cynic anchorite, smiled blandly on the cup ; And Lyndhurst, with a noble thirst, that nothing could appease, Proposed the immortal memory of King William on his knees. " What want we here, my gracious liege," cried good Lord Aberdeen, " Save gladsome song and minstrelsy to flow our cups between 1 I ask not now for Goulburn's voice or Knatchbull's warbling lay, But where 's the Poet Laureate to grace our board to- day?" Loud laughed the Knight of Netherby, and scornfully he cried, " Or art thou mad with wine, Lord Earl, or art thyself beside ? THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 125 Eight hundred Bedlam bards have claimed the Laureate's vacant crown, And now like frantic Bacchanals run wild through Lon- don town !" " Now glory to our gracious Queen !" a voice was heard to cry, And dark Macaulay stood before them all with frenzied eye; " Now glory to our gracious Queen, and all her glorious race, A boon, a boon, my sovran liege ! Give me the Lau- reate's place ! " 'T was I that sang the might of Rome, the glories of Navarre ; And who could swell the fame so well of Britain's Isles afar? The hero of a hundred fights " Then Wellington up sprung, " Ho, silence in the ranks, I say ! Sit down, and hold your tongue. " By heaven thou shalt not twist my name into a jingling lay, Or mimic in thy puny song the thunders of Assaye ! 'T is hard that for thy lust of place in peace we cannot dine. Nurse, take her Royal Highness here ! Sir Robet, pass the wine !" 126 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. " No laureate need we at our board !" then spoke the Lord of Vaux ; " Here 's many a voice to charm the ear with minstrel song, I know. Even I, myself " Then rose the cry " A song, a song from Brougham !" He sang, and straightway found himself alone within the room. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. nf BY T M RE, ESQ. OH, weep for the hours when the little blind boy Wove round me the spells of his Paphian bower; When I dipp'd my light wings in the nectar of joy, And soar'd in the sunshine, the moth of the hour ! From beauty to beauty, I pass'd like the wind ; Now fondled the lily, now toy'd with the rose ; And the fair, that at morn had enchanted my mind, Was forsook for another ere evening's close. I sighed not for honor, I cared not for fame, While Pleasure sat by me, and Love was my guest ; They twined a fresh wreath for each day as it came, And the bosom of beauty still pillowed my rest ; And the harp of my country neglected it slept In hall or by greenwood unheard were its songs ; From Lore's Sybarite dreams I aroused me, and swept Its chord to the tale of her glories and wrongs. 128 THE^pOOK OF BALLADS. But weep for the hour ! Life's summer is past, And the snow of its winter lies cold on my brow; And my soul, as it shrinks from each stroke of the blast, Cannot turn to a fire that glows inwardly now. No, its ashes are dead and, alas ! Love or Song No charm to Life's lengthening shadows can lend, Like a cup of old wine, rich, mellow, and strong, And a seat by the fire tete-a-tete with a friend. THE BOOK OF BAL^DS. 129 Iflitrwrt*. BY A- WHO would not be The Laureate bold With his butt of sherry To keep him merry, And nothing to do but to pocket his gold Tis I would be the Laureate bold ! When the days are hot, and the sun is strong, I 'd lounge in the gateway all the day long, With her Majesty's footmen in crimson and gold. I 'd care not a pin for the waiting-lord ; But I 'd lie on my back on the smooth green sward, With a straw in my mouth, and an open vest, And the cool wind blowing upon my breast, And I 'd vacantly stare at the clear blue sky, And watch the clouds as listless as I, Lazily, lazily ! 6* 130 THB4BOOK OP BALLADS. And I 'd pick the moss and daisies white, And chew their stalks with a nibbling bite ; And I 'd let my fancies roam abroad In search of a hint for a birth-day ode, Crazily, erazily ! Oh, that would be the life for me, With plenty to- g.et and nothing to do, But to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of bluey And whistle all day to- the Qneen's cockatoo, Trance-somely y trance-swrnely, Then the chambermaids, that elean the rooms, Would come to the windows and! vest on their broom*, With their saucy caps, and their crisped hair, And they 'd toss their heads in the fragrant air, And say to each other " Just look do\yn tfceve, At the nice young man, so tidy and small, Who is paid for writing on nothing at all, Handsomely, handsomely !"" They would pelt me with matches and sweet pastilles, And crumpled up balls of the royal bills, Giggling and laughing, and screaming with fun, As they 'd see me start, with a leap and a run, From the broad of my back to the point of my toes, When a pellet of paper hit my nose, Teazingly, sneezingly. Then I 'd fling them bunches of garden flowers, And hyacinths plucked from the Castle bowers ; And I 'd challenge them all to come down to me, And 1 'd kiss them all till they kissed me, Laughingly, laughingly. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 1 Oh, would r.ot that be a merry life, Apart from care, and apart from strife, With the Laureate's wine, and the Laureate's pay, And no deductions at quarter-day ? Oh, that would be the post for me ! With plenty to get and nothing to do But to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of blue, And whistle a tune to the Queen's cockatoo, And scribble of verses remarkably few, And at evening empty a bottle or two, Quaffingly, quaffingly ! T is I would be The Laureate bold, With my butt of sherry To keep me merry, And nothing to do but to pocket my gold ! THE BOOK OF BALLADS. FILL me once more the foaming pewter up ! Another board of oysters, ladye mine ! To-night Lucullus with himself shall sup. These mute inglorious Miltons are divine ; And as I here in slippered ease recline, Quaffing of Perkins' Entire my fill, I sigh not for the lymph of Aganippe's rill. A nobler inspiration fires my brain, Caught from Old England's fine time-hallowed drink ; I snatch the pot again and yet again, And as the foaming fluids shrink and shrink, Fill me once more, I say, up to the brink ! This makes strong hearts strong heads attest its charm This nerves the might that sleeps in JBritain's brawn v arm ! But these remarks are neither here nor there. Where was I ? Oh, I see old Southey 's dead ! They '11 want some bard to fill the vacant chair, And drain the annual butt and oh, what head More fit with laurel to be garlandec 1 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 133 Than this, which, curled in many a fragrant coil, Breathes of Castalia's streams, and best Macassar oil ? I know a grace is seated on my brow, Like young Apollo's with his golden beams ; There should Apollo's bays be budding now : And in my flashing eyes the radiance beams That marks the poet in his waking dreams, When as his fancies cluster thick and thicker, He feels the trance divine of poesy and liquor. They throng around me now, those things of air, That from my fancy took their being's stamp : There Pelham sits and twirls his glossy hair, There Clifford leads his pals upon the tramp ; Their pale Zanoni, bending o'er his lamp, Roams through the starry wilderness of thought, Where all is everything, and everything is nought. Yes, I am he, who sung how Aram won The gentle ear of pensive Madeline ! How love and murder hand in hand may run, Cemented by philosophy serene, And kisses bless the spot where gore has been ! Who breathed the melting sentiment of crime, And for the assassin waked a sympathy sublime ! Yes, I am he, who on the novel shed Obscure philosophy's enchanting light ! I'ntil the public, wildered as they read, Believed they saw that which was not in sight Of course 't was not for me to set them right; 134 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. For in my nether heart convinced I am, Philosophy 's as good as any other bam. Novels three-volumed I shall write no more Somehow or other now they will not sell ; And to invent new passions is a bore I find the Magazines pay quite as well. Translating 's simple, too, as I can tell, Who 've hawked at Schiller on his lyric throne, And given the astonished bard a meaning all my own. Moore, Campbell, Wordsworth, their best days are grassed ; Battered and broken are their early lyres. Rogers, a pleasant memory of the past, Warmed his young hands at Smithfield's martyr fires, And, worth a plum, nor bays, nor butt desires. But these are things would suit me to the letter, For though this Stout is good, old Sherry 's greatly better. A fico for your small poetic ravers, Your Hunts, your Tennysons, your Milnes, and these ! Shall they compete with him who wrote " Maltravers," Prologue to " Alice or the Mysteries ?" No ! Even now, my glance prophetic sees My own high brow girt with the bays about. What ho, within there, ho ! another pint of STOUT ! THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 135 A POEM. LIKE one who, waking from a troublous dream, Pursues with force his meditative theme ; Calm as the ocean in its halcyon still, Calm as the sunlight sleeping on the hill : Calm as at Ephesus great Paul was seen To rend his robes in agonres serene ; Calm as the love that radiant Luther bore To all that lived behind him, and before ; Calm as meek Calvin, when, with holy smile, He sang the mass around Servetus' pile, So once again I snatch this harp of mine, To breathe rich incense from a mystic shrine. Not now to whisper to the ambient air The sound of Satan's Universal Prayer ; Not now to sing in sweet domestic strife That woman reigns the Angel of our life; But to proclaim the wish, with pious art, Which thrills through Britain's universal heart, That on this brow, with native honors graced, The Laureate's chaplet should at length be placed ! 136 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. Fear not, ye maids, who love to hear me speak ; Let no desponding tears bedim your cheek ! No gust of envy, no malicious scorn, Hath this poor heart of mine with frenzy torn. There are who move so far above the great, Their very look disarms the glance of hate ; Their thoughts, more rich than emerald or gold, Enwrap them like the prophet's mantle's fold. Fear not for me, nor think that this our age, Blind though it be, hath yet no Archimage. I, who have bathed in bright Castalia's tide, By classic Isis and more classic Clyde ; I, who have handled in my lofty strain, All things divine, and many things profane ; I, who have trod where seraphs fear to tread ; I, who on mountain honey dew have fed ; I, who undaunted broke the mystic seal, And left no page for prophets to reveal ; I, who in shade portentous Dante threw ; I, who have done what Milton dared not do, I fear no rival for the vacant throne ; No mortal thunder shall eclipse my own ! Let dark Macaulay chaunt his Roman lays, Let Monckton Milnes go mounder for the bays, Let Simmons call on great Napoleon's shade, Let Lytton Bulwer seek his Aram's aid, Let Wordsworth ask for help from Peter Bell, Let Campbell carol Copenhagen's knell, Let Delta warble through his Delphic groves, Let Elliot shout for pork and penny loaves, THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 137 I cai e not, I ! resolved to stand or fall ; One down, another on, I '11 smash them all ! Back, ye profane ! this hand alone hath power To pluck the laurel from its sacred bower ; This brow alone is privileged to wea The ancient wreath o'er hyacinthine hair ; These lips alone may quaff the sparkling wine, And make its mortal juice once more divine. Back, ye profane ! And thou, fair queen, rejoice : A nation's praise shall consecrate thy choice. Thus, then, I kneel where Spencer knelt before, On the same spot perchance, of Windsor's floor ; And take, while awe-struck millions round me stand, The hallowed wreath from epeat Victoria's hand. 138 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. totjj nf f par?. [WHY has Satan's own Laureate never given to the world his mar- vellous threnody on "The Death of Space?" Who knows where the bays might have fallen, had he forwarded that mystic manuscript to the Home Office ? If unwonted modesty withholds it from the public eye, the public will pardon the boldness that tears from blush- ing obscurity the following fragments of this unique poem.] ETERNITY shall raise her funeral pile In the vast dungeon of the extinguish'd sky, And, clothed in dim barbaric splendor, smile, And murmur shouts of elegiac joy. While those that dwell beyond the realms of space, And those that people all that dreary void, When old Time's endless heir hath run his race, Shall live for aye, enjoying and eujoy'd. And 'mid the agony of unsullied bliss, Her Demogorgon's doom shall Sin bewail, The undying serpent at the spheres shall hiss, And lash the empyrean with his tail. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 139 And Hell, inflated with supernal wrath, Shall open wide her thunder-bolted jaws, And shout into the dull cold ear of Death, That he must pay his debt to Nature's laws. And when the King of Terrors breathes his last, Infinity shall creep into her shell, Cause and effect shall from their thrones be cast, And end their strife with suicidal yell. While from their ashes, burnt with pomp of Kings 'Mid incense floating to the evanished skies, Nonentity, on circumambient wings, An everlasting Phoenix shall arise. 140 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. ITittb Satjit rait tjrr EA fmt. A LAY OF SHERWOOD. FYTTE THE FIRST. THE deer may leap within the glade ; The fawns may follow free For Robin is dead, and his bones are laid Beneath the greenwood tree. And broken are his merry, merry men, That goodlie companie ; There 's some have ta'en thu n. rthern road With Jem of Netherbee. The best and bravest of the band With Derby Ned are gone ; But Earlie Gray and Charlie Wood, They staid with Little John. Now Little John was an outlaw proud, A prouder ye never saw ; Through Nottingham and Leicester shires He thought his word was law, And he strutted through the greenwood wide Like a pestilent jack-daw. fMK BOOK OF BALLADS. 141 He swore that none, but with leave of him, Should set foot on the turf so free And he thought to spread his cutter's rule, All over the south countrie. " There 's never a knave in the land," he said, " But shall pay his toll to me !" And Charlie Wood was a taxman good As ever stepped the ground, He levied mail, like a sturdy thief, From all the yeomen round. " Nay, stand !" quoth he, " thou shalt pay to me, Seven pence from every pound !" Now word has come to Little John, As he lay upon the grass, That a friar red was in merry Sherwood "Without his leave to pass. " Come hither, come hither, my little foot-page ! Ben Hawes, come tell to me, What manner of man is this burly frere Who walks the wood so free !" " My master good !" the little page said, "His name I wot not well, But he wears on his head a hat so red, With a monstrous scallop-shell. " He says he is Prior of Copmanshurst. And Bishop of London town, And he comes with a rope from our father, the Pope To put the outlaws down. 142 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. " I saw him ride but yester-tide With his jolly chaplains three ; And he swears that he has an open pass From Jem of Netherbee !" Little John has ta'en an arrow so broad, And broke it o'er his knee ; " Now I may never strike doe again, But this wrong avenged shall be ! " And has he dared, this greasy frere, To trespass in my bound, Nor asked for leave from Little John To range with hawk and hound *? " And has he dared to take a pass From Jem of Netherbee, Forgetting that the Sherwood shawf Pertain of right to me ? " O were he but a simple man And not a slip-shod frere ! I M hang him up by his own waist-rope Above yon tangled brere. " O did he come alone from Jem And not from our father the Pope, I 'd bring him in to Copmanshurst. With the noose of a hempen rope ! THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 143 " But since he has come from our father the Pope, And sailed across the sea, And since he has power to bind and loose, His life is safe for me ; But a heavy penance he shall do Beneath the greenwood tree !" " O tarry yet," quoth Charlie Wood, " O tarry, master mine ! It 's ill to shear a yearling hog, Or twist the wool of swine ! " It 's ill to make a bonny silk purse From the ear of a bristly boar ; It 's ill to provoke a shaveling's curse, When the way lies him before. " I 've walked the forest for twenty years, In weather wet and dry, And never stopped a good fellawe Who had no coin to buy. " What boots it to search a beggarman's bags When no silver groat he has ? So, master mine, I rede you well, E'en let the Friar pass !" "Now cease thy prate," quoth Little John, " Thou japest but in vain ; An he have not a groat within his pouch We may find a silver chain. 144 THE BOOK OP BALLADS. " But were he as bare as a ne\V-flayed buck, As truly he may be, He shall not tread the Sherwood shaws Without the leave of me !" " Little John has taken his arrows and bow, His sword and buckler strong, And lifted up his quarter-staff, "Was full three cloth yards long And he has left his merry men At the trysting-tree behind, And gone into the gay greenwood, This burly frere to find. O'er holt and hill, thro' brake and brere He took his way alone Now, Lordlings, list and you shall hear This geste of Little John. FTTTE THE SECOND. T is merry, 't is merry in gay greenwood, When the little birds are singing, When the buck is belling in the fern And the hare from the thicket springing! 'T is merry to hear the waters clear As they splash in the pebbly fall ; And the ouzel whistling to his mate As he lights on the stones so small. THE BOOK OF BALLA.DS. 14i) But small pleasaunce took little John In all he heard and saw ; Till h(j reached the cave of a hermit old Who wonned within the shaw. " Ora pro >iobis /" quoth Little John His Latin was somewhat rude " Now, holy Father, hast thou seen A frere within the wood? " By his scarlet hose, and his ruddy nose, I guess you may know him well ; And he wears on his head a hat so red, And monstrous scallop shell." " I have served Saint Pancras," the hermit saidj " In this cell for thirty year, Yet never saw I, in the forest bounds, The face of such a frere ! " And if ye find him, master mine, E'en take an old man's advice, And raddle him well, till he roar again. Lest ye fail to meet liim twice !" 'Trust me for that !" qucih Little John " Trust me foi that !" quoth he with a laueh, "There never was man of woman horn, That a?k'd twice for the taste of my quarter-staff!" 116 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. Then Little John, he strutted on, 'Till he came to an open bound, And he was aware of a Red Friar Was sitting upon the ground. His shoulders they were broad and stror g, And large was he of limb : Few yeomen in the north countrie Would care to mell with him. He heard the rustling of the boughs, As Little John drew near ; But. never a single word he spoke, Of welcome or of cheer. I like not his looks ! thought Little John, Nor his staff of the oaken tree. Now may our Lady be my help, Else beaten I well may be ! " What dost thou here, thou strong Friar, In Sherwood's merry round, Without the leave of Little John, To range with hawk and hound ?" " Small thought have I," quoth the Red Filar, " Of any leave, I trow. That Little John is an outlawed thief, And so, I ween, art thou ! THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 147 "Know, 1 am Prior of Copmanshurst, And Bishop of London town, And I bring a rope from our father the Pope, To put the outlaws down." Then out spoke Little John in wrath, "I tell thee, burly frere, The Pope may do as he likes at home, But he sends no Bishops here! " Up, and away, Red Friar !" he said, " Up, and away, right speedilie ; An it were not for that cowl of thine, Avenged on thy body I would be !" " Nay, heed not that," said the Red Friar, " And let my cowl no hindrance be ; I warrant that I can give as good As ever I think to take from thee !" Little John he raised his quarter-staff, And so did the burly priest, And they fought beneath the greenwood tree, A stricken hour at least. But Little John was weak of fence, And his strength began to fail, Whilst the Friar's blows came thundering down, Like the strokes of a threshing flail. 148 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. " Now, hold thy hand," thou stalwart Friar, " Now rest beneath the thorn, Until I gather breath enow, For a blast at my bugle horn !" " I '11 hold my hand," the Friar said, " Since that is your propine, But, an you sound your bugle horn, I '11 even blow on mine !" Little John he wound a blast so shrill That it rung o'er rock and linn, And Charlie Wood and his merry men all Came lightly bounding in. The Friar he wound a blast so strong That it shook both bush and tree, And to his side came Witless Will And Jem of Netherbee ; With all the worst of Robin's band, And many a Rapparee ! Liltle John he wist not what to do, When he saw the others come ; So he twisted his quarter-staff between His fingers and his thumb. "There 's some mistake, good Friar!" he said, "There 's some mistake 'twixt thee and me; I know thou art Prior of Copmanshurst, But not beneath the greenwood tree. 7I1E BOOK OF LALLALS. " And if you will take some other name, You shall have ample leave to bide ; With pasture also for your Bulls, And power tc range the forest wide." "Thre 't, no mistake' 5 ' the Friar said, " I '11 call myself j'ist what 1 olease. My ioctrinj id that chalk is chalk, And cheese is nothing else than cneese.'' "So be it then P quoth Little John ; " But surely you will not object, If 1 and all my merry men Should treat you with reserved respect r { "' We can't call you Prior of Coprnanshurst, Nor Bishop of London town, Nor on the grass, as you chance to pass, Can we very well kneel down. :< But you '11 send the Pope my compliments, And say, as a further hint, That, within the Sherwood bounds, you saw Little John, who is the son-in-law Of his friend, old Mat-o'-the-Mint !" So ends this geste of Little John God save our noble Queen! But, Lordlings, say is Sherwood now What Sherwood once hath been ? 140 150 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. m $3 A LEGEND OF GLASGOW. BY MRS. E B B- THERE 's a pleasant place of rest, near a City of the West, Where its bravest and its best find their grave. Below the willows weep, and their hoary branches steep In the waters still and deep, Not a wave ! And the old Cathedral Wall, so scathed, a/id gray, and tall. Like a priest surveying all, stands beyond. And the ringing of its bell, when the ringers ring it well, Makes a kind of tidal swell On the pond ! And there it was I lay, on a beauteous summer's day, With the odor of the hay floating by ; And I heard the blackbirds sing, and the bells demurely ring, Chime by chime, ting by ting, Droppingly. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 151 Then my thoughts went wandering back on a very beaten track To the confine deep and black of the tomb, And 1 wondered who he was, that is laid beneath the grass, Where the dandelion has Such a bloom. Then I straightway did espy, with my slantly sloping eye, A carved stone hard by, somewhat worn ; And I read in letters cold ff.je.race.off.Uofltle.oUi, Here the letters failed outright, but I knew That a stout crusading lord, who had crossed the Jordan's ford, Lay there beneath the sward, Wet with dew. Time and tide they passed away, ou that pleasant sum- mer's day, And arounJ me as I lay, all grew old : Sank the ehimn^s from the town, and the clouds of vapor brown No ioiger. like a crown, O'er it rolled. 153 THE BOOK O* BALLAP3. Sank the great Saint Roliux stalk, like a pile of dingy chalk Disappeared the cypress walk, and the flowers. And a donjon keep arose, that might baffle any foes, With its men-at-arms in rows, On its towers. And the flag that flaunted there, snowed the grim and grizzly bear, Which the Bogles always wear for their crest. And I heard the warder call, as he stood upon the wall, " Wake ye up ! my comrades all, From your rest ! " For by the blessed rood, there 's a glimpse of armor good In the deep Cowcaddens wood, o'er the stream ; And I hear the stifled hum, of a multitude that come, Though they have not beat the drum It would seem ! " Go tell it to my Lord, lest he wish to man the ford With partizan and sword, just beneath ; Ho, Gilkison and Nares ! Ho, Provan of Cowlairs ! We '11 back the bonny bears To the death !" To the tower above the moat, like one who heedeth not, Came the bold Sir Launcelot, half undressed ; On the outer rim he stood, and peered into the wood, With his arms across him glued On his breast. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 153 And he muttered " Foe accurst ! has thou dared to seek me first? George of Gorbals, do thy worst for J swear, O'er thy gory corpse to ride, ere thy sister and my bride, From my undesevered side, Thou shalt tear ! "Ho! herald mine, Brownlee! ride forth, I pray and see, Who, what, and whence is he, foe or friend ! Sir Roderick Dalgleish, and my foster-brother Neish With his bloodhounds in the leash, Shall attend." Forth went the herald stout, o'er the drawbridge and without, Then a wild and savage shout rose amain, Six arrows sped their force, and, a pale and bleeding corse, He sank from off his horse On the plain ! Back drew the bold Dalgleish, back started stalwart Neish, With his bloodhounds in the leash, from Brownlee. " Now shame be to the sword that made thee knight and lord, Thou caitiff thrice abhorred, Shame on thee! 7* 154 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. " Ho, bowmen, bend your bows ! Discharge upon the foes, Forthwith no end of those heavy bolts. Three angels to the brave who finds the foe a grave, And a gallows for the slave Who revolts !" Ten days the combat lasted ; but the bold defenders fasted, While the foemen, better pastied, fed their host ; You might hear the savage cheers of the hungry Gorba- liers, As at night they dressed the steers For the roast. And Sir Launcelot grew thin, and Provan's double chin Showed sundry folds of skin down beneath ; In silence and in grief found Gilkisoii relief, Nor did Neish the spellword, beef, Dare to breathe. To the ramparts Edith came, that fair and youthful dame, With the rosy evening flame on her face. She sighed, and looked around on the soldiers on th" ground, Who but little penance found, Saying grace ! THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 155 And she said unto her lord, as he leaned upon his sword, " One short and little word may I speak ? I cannofc bear to view those eyes so ghastly blue, Or mark the sallow hue Of thy cheek ! " I know the rage and wrath that my furious brothet hath Is less against us both than at me. Then, dearest, let me go, to find among the foe An arrow from the bow, Like Brownlee !" " I would soil my father's name, I would lose my trea- sured fame, Ladye mine, should such a shame on me light : While I wear a belted brand, together still we stand, Heart to heart, hand to hand !" Said the knight. " All our chances are not lost, as your brother and his host Shall discover to their cost rather hard ! Ho, Provan ! take this key hoist up the Malvoisie, And heap it, d' ye see, In the ynr.fi. 156 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. " Of usquebaugh and rum, you will find I reckon some, Besides the beer and mum, extra stout ; Go straightway to your tasks, and roll 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, Since their time is rather short, I should think !" With a loud triumphant yell, as the heavy drawbridge fell, Rushed the Gorbaliers 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 waa rather fain To assist. THK BOOK OF BALLADS. 157 With a beaker in his hand, in the midst he took his stand, And silence did command all below " 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 !" Dumb as death stood Launcelot, as though he heard him 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 weapons 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, wake 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 BOOK OF BALLADS. " George of Gorbals craven lord ! thou didst threat me with the cord, Come forth and brave my sword, if you 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 were down, Like a field of barley mown in the ear : It had done a soldier good, to see how Provan stood, With Neish all bathed in blood, Panting 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, with trumpet and with drum, To taste our beer 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 check. 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 all. He placed the spigot low, and gave the cask a blow. 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 ; What 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. nf tju [Am " 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 Eichmond 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 who 's lost his heart A short time ago. 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 'in 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 ftamm fto Hirnrai. TO BON GAULTIER. ARGUMENT. An impassioned pupil of Leigh Hunt, having met Bon Gaultier 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 squeezing 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 Avith 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 fine 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 untouch'd upon the floor, Thine eyes met mine. That night we danced no more ! 168 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 'B Dnngjjtrr. A LKGEND OF THE BOSPHORU8. 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 j 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. 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 ? " 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 !" Eemorseless 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 immik THE minarets wave on the plain of Stamboul, And the breeze of the evening blows freshly and cool ; The voice of the niusnud 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 hi 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 tetlj nf Dmml. PH, ESQ. Methinks 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 !" BEGGAR'S OPERA. 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 ? say, wherefore doth he tarry ?" Starts the enquiry loud from every tongue. " Surely," they cry, " that tedious Ordinary 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 Hill 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, Whose 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 triumphal car, Rich gold and gems, the spoils of foreign war. lo Triumphe ! They forgot their clay. E'en so Duval who rode in glory on his way. His laced cravat, his kids of purest 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 Caesar, 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 girl, 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, while 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 manly form, While floated in the breeze his tresses brown. He hung the stated time, and then they cut him down. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 177 With soft and tender care the trainbands bore him, Just as they 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, from their glassy case, He was the last, the best of all that noble race ! 178 1HE BOOK OF BALLAD?- ff irgr of tlft IhMrr. 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 ! Raise 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 off the floor ; See, how calm he sleeps, unconscious as the deadest nail in door! Widely o'er the earth I've wander'd ; where 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 quaff'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, 1 havs 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 turn'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 as. he is! THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 181 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 offer'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 1 ? I'll beg a slice Of Father Eaulin'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 'vc thought of Guillot, truth to ti-11 ! He 's steady, knows his business well. What do you think ?" When thus he met her ; " Oh, take him, dear, you can't do better !" " But then the danger, my good pasor, 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 hall ?" " 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