The Project Gutenberg eBook ofBalladsThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: BalladsAuthor: William Makepeace ThackerayRelease date: July 1, 2001 [eBook #2732]Most recently updated: December 26, 2012Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Donald Lainson, and David Widger*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BALLADS ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: BalladsAuthor: William Makepeace ThackerayRelease date: July 1, 2001 [eBook #2732]Most recently updated: December 26, 2012Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Donald Lainson, and David Widger
Title: Ballads
Author: William Makepeace Thackeray
Author: William Makepeace Thackeray
Release date: July 1, 2001 [eBook #2732]Most recently updated: December 26, 2012
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Donald Lainson, and David Widger
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BALLADS ***
CONTENTSBALLADS.THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUMABD-EL-KADER AT TOULON.THE KING OF BRENTFORD'S TESTAMENT.THE WHITE SQUALL.PEG OF LIMAVADDY.MAY-DAY ODE.THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE.THE MAHOGANY TREE.THE YANKEE VOLUNTEERS.THE PEN AND THE ALBUM.MRS. KATHERINE'S LANTERN.LUCY'S BIRTHDAY.THE CANE-BOTTOM'D CHAIR.PISCATOR AND PISCATRIX.THE ROSE UPON MY BALCONY.RONSARD TO HIS MISTRESS.AT THE CHURCH GATE.THE AGE OF WISDOM.SORROWS OF WERTHER.A DOE IN THE CITY.THE LAST OF MAY."AH, BLEAK AND BARREN WAS THE MOOR."SONG OF THE VIOLET.FAIRY DAYS.POCAHONTAS.FROM POCAHONTAS.LOVE-SONGS MADE EASY.WHAT MAKES MY HEART TO THRILL AND GLOW?THE GHAZUL, OR ORIENTAL LOVE-SONG.THE MERRY BARD.THE CAÏQUE.MY NORA.TO MARY.SERENADE.THE MINARET BELLS.COME TO THE GREENWOOD TREE.FIVE GERMAN DITTIES.A TRAGIC STORY.THE CHAPLET.THE KING ON THE TOWER.ON A VERY OLD WOMAN.A CREDO.FOUR IMITATIONS OF BÉRANGER.THE KING OF YVETOT.THE KING OF BRENTFORD.THE GARRET.ROGER-BONTEMPS.JOLLY JACK.IMITATION OF HORACE.AD MINISTRAM.OLD FRIENDS WITH NEW FACES.THE KNIGHTLY GUERDON.*THE ALMACK'S ADIEU.WHEN THE GLOOM IS ON THE GLEN.THE RED FLAG.DEAR JACK.COMMANDERS OF THE FAITHFUL.WHEN MOONLIKE ORE THE HAZURE SEAS.KING CANUTE.FRIAR'S SONG.ATRA CURA.REQUIESCAT.LINES UPON MY SISTER'S PORTRAIT.THE LEGEND OF ST. SOPHIA OF KIOFF.TITMARSH'S CARMEN LILLIENSE.THE WILLOW-TREE.THE WILLOW-TREE.LYRA HIBERNICATHE PIMLICO PAVILION.THE CRYSTAL PALACE.MOLONY'S LAMENT.MR. MOLONY'S ACCOUNT OF THE BALL.THE BATTLE OF LIMERICK.LARRY O'TOOLE.THE ROSE OF FLORA.THE LAST IRISH GRIEVANCE.THE BALLADS OF POLICEMAN X.THE WOLFE NEW BALLAD OF JANE RONEY AND MARY BROWN.THE THREE CHRISTMAS WAITS.LINES ON A LATE HOSPICIOUS EWENT.*THE BALLAD OF ELIZA DAVIS.DAMAGES, TWO HUNDRED POUNDS.THE KNIGHT AND THE LADY.JACOB HOMNIUM'S HOSS.THE SPECULATORS.A WOEFUL NEW BALLADTHE LAMENTABLE BALLAD OF THE FOUNDLING OF SHOREDITCH.THE ORGAN-BOY'S APPEAL.LITTLE BILLEE.*THE END OF THE PLAY.VANITAS VANITATUM.
CONTENTS
BALLADS.
THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM
ABD-EL-KADER AT TOULON.
THE KING OF BRENTFORD'S TESTAMENT.
THE WHITE SQUALL.
PEG OF LIMAVADDY.
MAY-DAY ODE.
THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE.
THE MAHOGANY TREE.
THE YANKEE VOLUNTEERS.
THE PEN AND THE ALBUM.
MRS. KATHERINE'S LANTERN.
LUCY'S BIRTHDAY.
THE CANE-BOTTOM'D CHAIR.
PISCATOR AND PISCATRIX.
THE ROSE UPON MY BALCONY.
RONSARD TO HIS MISTRESS.
AT THE CHURCH GATE.
THE AGE OF WISDOM.
SORROWS OF WERTHER.
A DOE IN THE CITY.
THE LAST OF MAY.
"AH, BLEAK AND BARREN WAS THE MOOR."
SONG OF THE VIOLET.
FAIRY DAYS.
POCAHONTAS.
FROM POCAHONTAS.
LOVE-SONGS MADE EASY.
WHAT MAKES MY HEART TO THRILL AND GLOW?
THE GHAZUL, OR ORIENTAL LOVE-SONG.
THE MERRY BARD.
THE CAÏQUE.
MY NORA.
TO MARY.
SERENADE.
THE MINARET BELLS.
COME TO THE GREENWOOD TREE.
FIVE GERMAN DITTIES.
A TRAGIC STORY.
THE CHAPLET.
THE KING ON THE TOWER.
ON A VERY OLD WOMAN.
A CREDO.
FOUR IMITATIONS OF BÉRANGER.
THE KING OF YVETOT.
THE KING OF BRENTFORD.
THE GARRET.
ROGER-BONTEMPS.
JOLLY JACK.
IMITATION OF HORACE.
AD MINISTRAM.
OLD FRIENDS WITH NEW FACES.
THE KNIGHTLY GUERDON.*
THE ALMACK'S ADIEU.
WHEN THE GLOOM IS ON THE GLEN.
THE RED FLAG.
DEAR JACK.
COMMANDERS OF THE FAITHFUL.
WHEN MOONLIKE ORE THE HAZURE SEAS.
KING CANUTE.
FRIAR'S SONG.
ATRA CURA.
REQUIESCAT.
LINES UPON MY SISTER'S PORTRAIT.
THE LEGEND OF ST. SOPHIA OF KIOFF.
TITMARSH'S CARMEN LILLIENSE.
THE WILLOW-TREE.
THE WILLOW-TREE.
LYRA HIBERNICA
THE PIMLICO PAVILION.
THE CRYSTAL PALACE.
MOLONY'S LAMENT.
MR. MOLONY'S ACCOUNT OF THE BALL.
THE BATTLE OF LIMERICK.
LARRY O'TOOLE.
THE ROSE OF FLORA.
THE LAST IRISH GRIEVANCE.
THE BALLADS OF POLICEMAN X.
THE WOLFE NEW BALLAD OF JANE RONEY AND MARY BROWN.
THE THREE CHRISTMAS WAITS.
LINES ON A LATE HOSPICIOUS EWENT.*
THE BALLAD OF ELIZA DAVIS.
DAMAGES, TWO HUNDRED POUNDS.
THE KNIGHT AND THE LADY.
JACOB HOMNIUM'S HOSS.
THE SPECULATORS.
A WOEFUL NEW BALLAD
THE LAMENTABLE BALLAD OF THE FOUNDLING OF SHOREDITCH.
THE ORGAN-BOY'S APPEAL.
LITTLE BILLEE.*
THE END OF THE PLAY.
VANITAS VANITATUM.
PART I.
At Paris, hard by the Maine barriers,Whoever will choose to repair,Midst a dozen of wooden-legged warriorsMay haply fall in with old Pierre.On the sunshiny bench of a tavernHe sits and he prates of old wars,And moistens his pipe of tobaccoWith a drink that is named after Mars.The beer makes his tongue run the quicker,And as long as his tap never fails,Thus over his favorite liquorOld Peter will tell his old tales.Says he, "In my life's ninety summersStrange changes and chances I've seen,—So here's to all gentlemen drummersThat ever have thump'd on a skin."Brought up in the art militaryFor four generations we are;My ancestors drumm'd for King Harry,The Huguenot lad of Navarre.And as each man in life has his stationAccording as Fortune may fix,While Condé was waving the baton,My grandsire was trolling the sticks."Ah! those were the days for commanders!What glories my grandfather won,Ere bigots, and lackeys, and pandersThe fortunes of France had undone!In Germany, Flanders, and Holland,—What foeman resisted us then?No; my grandsire was ever victorious,My grandsire and Monsieur Turenne."He died: and our noble battalionsThe jade fickle Fortune forsook;And at Blenheim, in spite of our valiance,The victory lay with Malbrook.The news it was brought to King Louis;Corbleu! how his Majesty sworeWhen he heard they had taken my grandsire:And twelve thousand gentlemen more."At Namur, Ramillies, and MalplaquetWere we posted, on plain or in trench:Malbrook only need to attack itAnd away from him scamper'd we French.Cheer up! 'tis no use to be glum, boys,—'Tis written, since fighting begun,That sometimes we fight and we conquer,And sometimes we fight and we run."To fight and to run was our fate:Our fortune and fame had departed.And so perish'd Louis the Great,—Old, lonely, and half broken-hearted.His coffin they pelted with mud,His body they tried to lay hands on;And so having buried King LouisThey loyally served his great-grandson."God save the beloved King Louis!(For so he was nicknamed by some,)And now came my father to do hisKing's orders and beat on the drum.My grandsire was dead, but his bonesMust have shaken I'm certain for joy,To hear daddy drumming the EnglishFrom the meadows of famed Fontenoy."So well did he drum in that battleThat the enemy show'd us their backs;Corbleu! it was pleasant to rattleThe sticks and to follow old Saxe!We next had Soubise as a leader,And as luck hath its changes and fits,At Rossbach, in spite of dad's drumming,'Tis said we were beaten by Fritz."And now daddy cross'd the Atlantic,To drum for Montcalm and his men;Morbleu! but it makes a man franticTo think we were beaten again!My daddy he cross'd the wide ocean,My mother brought me on her neck,And we came in the year fifty-sevenTo guard the good town of Quebec."In the year fifty-nine came the Britons,—Full well I remember the day,—They knocked at our gates for admittance,Their vessels were moor'd in our bay.Says our general, 'Drive me yon redcoatsAway to the sea whence they come!'So we marched against Wolfe and his bull-dogs,We marched at the sound of the drum."I think I can see my poor mammyWith me in her hand as she waits,And our regiment, slowly retreating,Pours back through the citadel gates.Dear mammy she looks in their faces,And asks if her husband is come?—He is lying all cold on the glacis,And will never more beat on the drum."Come, drink, 'tis no use to be glum, boys,He died like a soldier in glory;Here's a glass to the health of all drum-boys,And now I'll commence my own story.Once more did we cross the salt ocean,We came in the year eighty-one;And the wrongs of my father the drummerWere avenged by the drummer his son."In Chesapeake Bay we were landed.In vain strove the British to pass:Rochambeau our armies commanded,Our ships they were led by De Grasse.Morbleu! How I rattled the drumsticksThe day we march'd into Yorktown;Ten thousand of beef-eating BritishTheir weapons we caused to lay down."Then homewards returning victorious,In peace to our country we came,And were thanked for our glorious actionsBy Louis Sixteenth of the name.What drummer on earth could be prouderThan I, while I drumm'd at VersaillesTo the lovely court ladies in powder,And lappets, and long satin-tails?"The Princes that day pass'd before us,Our countrymen's glory and hope;Monsieur, who was learned in Horace,D'Artois, who could dance the tightrope.One night we kept guard for the QueenAt her Majesty's opera-box,While the King, that majestical monarch,Sat filing at home at his locks."Yes, I drumm'd for the fair Antoinette,And so smiling she look'd and so tender,That our officers, privates, and drummers,All vow'd they would die to defend her.But she cared not for us honest fellows,Who fought and who bled in her wars,She sneer'd at our gallant Rochambeau,And turned Lafayette out of doors."Ventrebleu! then I swore a great oath,No more to such tyrants to kneel.And so just to keep up my drumming,One day I drumm'd down the Bastille.Ho, landlord! a stoup of fresh wine.Come, comrades, a bumper we'll try,And drink to the year eighty-nineAnd the glorious fourth of July!"Then bravely our cannon it thunder'dAs onwards our patriots bore.Our enemies were but a hundred,And we twenty thousand or more.They carried the news to King Louis.He heard it as calm as you please,And, like a majestical monarch,Kept filing his locks and his keys."We show'd our republican courage,We storm'd and we broke the great gate in,And we murder'd the insolent governorFor daring to keep us a-waiting.Lambesc and his squadrons stood by:They never stirr'd finger or thumb.The saucy aristocrats trembledAs they heard the republican drum."Hurrah! what a storm was a-brewing:The day of our vengeance was come!Through scenes of what carnage and ruinDid I beat on the patriot drum!Let's drink to the famed tenth of August:At midnight I beat the tattoo,And woke up the Pikemen of ParisTo follow the bold Barbaroux."With pikes, and with shouts, and with torchesMarch'd onwards our dusty battalions,And we girt the tall castle of Louis,A million of tatterdemalions!We storm'd the fair gardens where tower'dThe walls of his heritage splendid.Ah, shame on him, craven and coward,That had not the heart to defend it!"With the crown of his sires on his head,His nobles and knights by his side,At the foot of his ancestors' palace'Twere easy, methinks, to have died.But no: when we burst through his barriers,Mid heaps of the dying and dead,In vain through the chambers we sought him—He had turn'd like a craven and fled.. . . . ."You all know the Place de la Concorde?'Tis hard by the Tuilerie wall.Mid terraces, fountains, and statues,There rises an obelisk tall.There rises an obelisk tall,All garnish'd and gilded the base is:'Tis surely the gayest of allOur beautiful city's gay places."Around it are gardens and flowers,And the Cities of France on their thrones,Each crown'd with his circlet of flowersSits watching this biggest of stones!I love to go sit in the sun there,The flowers and fountains to see,And to think of the deeds that were done thereIn the glorious year ninety-three."'Twas here stood the Altar of Freedom;And though neither marble nor gildingWas used in those days to adornOur simple republican building,Corbleu! but the MERE GUILLOTINECared little for splendor or show,So you gave her an axe and a beam,And a plank and a basket or so."Awful, and proud, and erect,Here sat our republican goddess.Each morning her table we deck'dWith dainty aristocrats' bodies.The people each day flocked aroundAs she sat at her meat and her wine:'Twas always the use of our nationTo witness the sovereign dine."Young virgins with fair golden tresses,Old silver-hair'd prelates and priests,Dukes, marquises, barons, princesses,Were splendidly served at her feasts.Ventrebleu! but we pamper'd our ogressWith the best that our nation could bring,And dainty she grew in her progress,And called for the head of a King!"She called for the blood of our King,And straight from his prison we drew him;And to her with shouting we led him,And took him, and bound him, and slew him.'The monarchs of Europe against meHave plotted a godless allianceI'll fling them the head of King Louis,'She said, 'as my gage of defiance.'"I see him as now, for a moment,Away from his jailers he broke;And stood at the foot of the scaffold,And linger'd, and fain would have spoke.'Ho,drummer! quick! silence yon Capet,'Says Santerre, 'with a beat of your drum.'Lustily then did I tap it,And the son of Saint Louis was dumb."
PART II.
"The glorious days of SeptemberSaw many aristocrats fall;'Twas then that our pikes drunk the bloodIn the beautiful breast of Lamballe.Pardi, 'twas a beautiful lady!I seldom have looked on her like;And I drumm'd for a gallant procession,That marched with her head on a pike."Let's show the pale head to the Queen,We said—she'll remember it well.She looked from the bars of her prison,And shriek'd as she saw it, and fell.We set up a shout at her screaming,We laugh'd at the fright she had shownAt the sight of the head of her minion;How she'd tremble to part with her own."We had taken the head of King Capet,We called for the blood of his wife;Undaunted she came to the scaffold,And bared her fair neck to the knife.As she felt the foul fingers that touch'd her,She shrunk, but she deigned not to speak:She look'd with a royal disdain,And died with a blush on her cheek!"'Twas thus that our country was saved;So told us the safety committee!But psha! I've the heart of a soldier,All gentleness, mercy, and pity.I loathed to assist at such deeds,And my drum beat its loudest of tunesAs we offered to justice offendedThe blood of the bloody tribunes."Away with such foul recollections!No more of the axe and the block;I saw the last fight of the sections,As they fell 'neath our guns at Saint Rock.Young BONAPARTE led us that day;When he sought the Italian frontier,I follow'd my gallant young captain,I follow'd him many a long year."We came to an army in rags,Our general was but a boyWhen we first saw the Austrian flagsFlaunt proud in the fields of Savoy.In the glorious year ninety-six,We march'd to the banks of the Po;I carried my drum and my sticks,And we laid the proud Austrian low."In triumph we enter'd Milan,We seized on the Mantuan keys;The troops of the Emperor ran,And the Pope he tell down on his knees.—Pierre's comrades here call'd a fresh bottle,And clubbing together their wealth,They drank to the Army of Italy,And General Bonaparte's health."The drummer now bared his old breast,And show'd us a plenty of scars,Rude presents that Fortune had made him,In fifty victorious wars."This came when I follow'd bold Kleber—'Twas shot by a Mameluke gun;And this from an Austrian sabre,When the field of Marengo was won."My forehead has many deep furrows,But this is the deepest of all:A Brunswicker made it at Jena,Beside the fair river of Saal.This cross, 'twas the Emperor gave it;(God bless him!) it covers a blow;I had it at Austerlitz fight,As I beat on my drum in the snow."'Twas thus that we conquer'd and fought;But wherefore continue the story?There's never a baby in FranceBut has heard of our chief and our glory,—But has heard of our chief and our fame,His sorrows and triumphs can tell,How bravely Napoleon conquer'd,How bravely and sadly he fell."It makes my old heart to beat higher,To think of the deeds that I saw;I follow'd bold Ney through the fire,And charged at the side of Murat."And so did old Peter continueHis story of twenty brave years;His audience follow'd with comments—Rude comments of curses and tears.He told how the Prussians in vainHad died in defence of their land;His audience laugh'd at the story,And vow'd that their captain was grand!He had fought the red English, he said,In many a battle of Spain;They cursed the red English, and prayedTo meet them and fight them again.He told them how Russia was lost,Had winter not driven them back;And his company cursed the quick frost,And doubly they cursed the Cossack.He told how the stranger arrived;They wept at the tale of disgrace:And they long'd but for one battle more,The stain of their shame to efface!"Our country their hordes overrun,We fled to the fields of Champagne,And fought them, though twenty to one,And beat them again and again!Our warrior was conquer'd at last;They bade him his crown to resign;To fate and his country he yieldedThe rights of himself and his line."He came, and among us he stood,Around him we press'd in a throng:We could not regard him for weeping,Who had led us and loved us so long.'I have led you for twenty long years,'Napoleon said, ere he went'Wherever was honor I found you,And with you, my sons, am content!"'Though Europe against me was arm'd,Your chiefs and my people are true;I still might have struggled with fortune,And baffled all Europe with you."'But France would have suffer'd the while,'Tis best that I suffer alone;I go to my place of exile,To write of the deeds we have done."'Be true to the king that they give you,We may not embrace ere we part;But, General, reach me your hand,And press me, I pray, to your heart.'"He called for our battle standard;One kiss to the eagle he gave.'Dear eagle!' he said, 'may this kissLong sound in the hearts of the brave!''Twas thus that Napoleon left us;Our people were weeping and mute,As he pass'd through the lines of his guard,And our drums beat the notes of salute.. . . . ."I look'd when the drumming was o'er,I look'd, but our hero was gone;We were destined to see him once more,When we fought on the Mount of St. John.The Emperor rode through our files;'Twas June, and a fair Sunday morn;The lines of our warriors for milesStretch'd wide through the Waterloo corn."In thousands we stood on the plain,The red-coats were crowning the height;'Go scatter yon English,' he said;'We'll sup, lads, at Brussels tonight.'We answered his voice with a shout;Our eagles were bright in the sun;Our drums and our cannon spoke out,And the thundering battle begun."One charge to another succeeds,Like waves that a hurricane bears;All day do our galloping steedsDash fierce on the enemy's squares.At noon we began the fell onset:We charged up the Englishman's hill;And madly we charged it at sunset—His banners were floating there still."—Go to! I will tell you no more;You know how the battle was lost.Ho! fetch me a beaker of wine,And, comrades, I'll give you a toast.I'll give you a curse on all traitors,Who plotted our Emperor's ruin;And a curse on those red-coated English,Whose bayonets help'd our undoing."A curse on those British assassins,Who order'd the slaughter of Ney;A curse on Sir Hudson, who torturedThe life of our hero away.A curse on all Russians—I hate them—On all Prussian and Austrian fry;And oh! but I pray we may meet them,And fight them again ere I die."'Twas thus old Peter did concludeHis chronicle with curses fit.He spoke the tale in accents rude,In ruder verse I copied it.Perhaps the tale a moral bears,(All tales in time to this must come,)The story of two hundred yearsWrit on the parchment of a drum.What Peter told with drum and stick,Is endless theme for poet's pen:Is found in endless quartos thick,Enormous books by learned men.And ever since historian writ,And ever since a bard could sing,Doth each exalt with all his witThe noble art of murdering.We love to read the glorious page,How bold Achilles kill'd his foe:And Turnus, fell'd by Trojans' rage,Went howling to the shades below.How Godfrey led his red-cross knights,How mad Orlando slash'd and slew;There's not a single bard that writesBut doth the glorious theme renew.And while, in fashion picturesque,The poet rhymes of blood and blows,The grave historian at his deskDescribes the same in classic prose.Go read the works of Reverend Cox,You'll duly see recorded thereThe history of the self-same knocksHere roughly sung by Drummer Pierre.Of battles fierce and warriors big,He writes in phrases dull and slow,And waves his cauliflower wig,And shouts "Saint George for Marlborow!"Take Doctor Southey from the shelf,An LL. D.—a peaceful man;Good Lord, how doth he plume himselfBecause we beat the Corsican!From first to last his page is filledWith stirring tales how blows were struck.He shows how we the Frenchmen kill'd,And praises God for our good luck.Some hints, 'tis true, of politicsThe doctors give and statesman's art:Pierre only bangs his drum and sticks,And understands the bloody part.He cares not what the cause may be,He is not nice for wrong and right;But show him where's the enemy,He only asks to drum and fight.They bid him fight,—perhaps he wins.And when he tells the story o'er,The honest savage brags and grins,And only longs to fight once more.But luck may change, and valor fail,Our drummer, Peter, meet reverse,And with a moral points his tale—The end of all such tales—a curse.Last year, my love, it was my hapBehind a grenadier to be,And, but he wore a hairy cap,No taller man, methinks, than me.Prince Albert and the Queen, God wot,(Be blessings on the glorious pair!)Before us passed, I saw them not,I only saw a cap of hair.Your orthodox historian putsIn foremost rank the soldier thus,The red-coat bully in his boots,That hides the march of men from us.He puts him there in foremost rank,You wonder at his cap of hair:You hear his sabre's cursed clank,His spurs are jingling everywhere.Go to! I hate him and his trade:Who bade us so to cringe and bend,And all God's peaceful people madeTo such as him subservient?Tell me what find we to admireIn epaulets and scarlet coats.In men, because they load and fire,And know the art of cutting throats?. . . . .Ah, gentle, tender lady mine!The winter wind blows cold and shrill,Come, fill me one more glass of wine,And give the silly fools their will.And what care we for war and wrack,How kings and heroes rise and fall;Look yonder,* in his coffin black,There lies the greatest of them all!To pluck him down, and keep him up,Died many million human souls;'Tis twelve o'clock, and time to sup,Bid Mary heap the fire with coals.He captured many thousand guns;He wrote "The Great" before his name;And dying, only left his sonsThe recollection of his shame.Though more than half the world was his,He died without a rood his own;And borrowed from his enemiesSix foot of ground to lie upon.He fought a thousand glorious wars,And more than half the world was his,And somewhere now, in yonder stars,Can tell, mayhap, what greatness is.1841.* This ballad was written at Paris at the time of the SecondFuneral of Napoleon.
OR, THE CAGED HAWK.
No more, thou lithe and long-winged hawk, of desert-life for thee;No more across the sultry sands shalt thou go swooping free:Blunt idle talons, idle beak, with spurning of thy chain,Shatter against thy cage the wing thou ne'er may'st spread again.Long, sitting by their watchfires, shall the Kabyles tell the taleOf thy dash from Ben Halifa on the fat Metidja vale;How thou swept'st the desert over, bearing down the wild El Riff,From eastern Beni Salah to western Ouad Shelif;How thy white burnous welit streaming, like the storm-rack o'er the sea,When thou rodest in the vanward of the Moorish chivalry;How thy razzia was a whirlwind, thy onset a simoom,How thy sword-sweep was the lightning, dealing death from out the gloom!Nor less quick to slay in battle than in peace to spare and save,Of brave men wisest councillor, of wise councillors most brave;How the eye that flashed destruction could beam gentleness and love,How lion in thee mated lamb, how eagle mated dove!Availéd not or steel or shot 'gainst that charmed life secure,Till cunning France, in last resource, tossed up the golden lure;And the carrion buzzards round him stooped, faithless, to the cast,And the wild hawk of the desert is caught and caged at last.Weep, maidens of Zerifah, above the laden loom!Scar, chieftains of Al Elmah, your cheeks in grief and gloom!Sons of the Beni Snazam, throw down the useless lance,And stoop your necks and bare your backs to yoke and scourge of France!Twas not in fight they bore him down; he never cried amàn;He never sank his sword before the PRINCE OF FRANGHISTAN;But with traitors all around him, his star upon the wane,He heard the voice of ALLAH, and he would not strive in vain.They gave him what he asked them; from king to king he spake,As one that plighted word and seal not knoweth how to break;"Let me pass from out my deserts, be't mine own choice where to go,I brook no fettered life to live, a captive and a show."And they promised, and he trusted them, and proud and calm he came,Upon his black mare riding, girt with his sword of fame.Good steed, good sword, he rendered both unto the Frankish throng;He knew them false and fickle—but a Prince's word is strong.How have they kept their promise? Turned they the vessel's prowUnto Acre, Alexandria, as they have sworn e'en now?Not so: from Oran northwards the white sails gleam and glance,And the wild hawk of the desert is borne away to France!Where Toulon's white-walled lazaret looks southward o'er the wave,Sits he that trusted in the word a son of Louis gave.O noble faith of noble heart! And was the warning vain,The text writ by the BOURBON in the blurred black book of Spain?They have need of thee to gaze on, they have need of thee to graceThe triumph of the Prince, to gild the pinchbeck of their race.Words are but wind, conditions must be construed by GUIZOT;Dash out thy heart, thou desert hawk, ere thou art made a show!
The noble King of BrentfordWas old and very sick,He summon'd his physiciansTo wait upon him quick;They stepp'd into their coachesAnd brought their best physick.They cramm'd their gracious masterWith potion and with pill;They drench'd him and they bled him;They could not cure his ill."Go fetch," says he, "my lawyer,I'd better make my will."The monarch's royal mandateThe lawyer did obey;The thought of six-and-eightpenceDid make his heart full gay."What is't," says he, "your MajestyWould wish of me to-day?""The doctors have belabor'd meWith potion and with pill:My hours of life are counted,O man of tape and quill!Sit down and mend a pen or two,I want to make my will."O'er all the land of BrentfordI'm lord, and eke of Kew:I've three-per-cents and five-per-cents;My debts are but a few;And to inherit after meI have but children two."Prince Thomas is my eldest son,A sober Prince is he,And from the day we breech'd himTill now, he's twenty-three,He never caused disquietTo his poor Mamma or me."At school they never flogg'd him,At college, though not fast,Yet his little-go and great-goHe creditably pass'd,And made his year's allowanceFor eighteen months to last."He never owed a shilling.Went never drunk to bed,He has not two ideasWithin his honest head—In all respects he differsFrom my second son, Prince Ned."When Tom has half his incomeLaid by at the year's end,Poor Ned has ne'er a stiverThat rightly he may spend,But sponges on a tradesman,Or borrows from a friend."While Tom his legal studiesMost soberly pursues,Poor Ned most pass his morningsA-dawdling with the Muse:While Tom frequents his banker,Young Ned frequents the Jews."Ned drives about in buggies,Tom sometimes takes a 'bus;Ah, cruel fate, why made youMy children differ thus?Why make of Tom a DULLARD,And Ned a GENIUS?""You'll cut him with a shilling,"Exclaimed the man of wits:"I'll leave my wealth," said Brentford,"Sir Lawyer, as befits;And portion both their fortunesUnto their several wits.""Your Grace knows best," the lawyer said"On your commands I wait.""Be silent, Sir," says Brentford,"A plague upon your prate!Come take your pen and paper,And write as I dictate."The will as Brentford spoke itWas writ and signed and closed;He bade the lawyer leave him,And turn'd him round and dozed;And next week in the churchyardThe good old King reposed.Tom, dressed in crape and hatband,Of mourners was the chief;In bitter self-upbraidingsPoor Edward showed his grief:Tom hid his fat white countenanceIn his pocket-handkerchief.Ned's eyes were full of weeping,He falter'd in his walk;Tom never shed a tear,But onwards he did stalk,As pompous, black, and solemn,As any catafalque.And when the bones of Brentford—That gentle king and just—With bell and book and candleWere duly laid in dust,"Now, gentleman," says Thomas,"Let business be discussed."When late our sire belovedWas taken deadly ill,Sir Lawyer, you attended him(I mean to tax your bill);And, as you signed and wrote it,I prithee read the will."The lawyer wiped his spectacles,And drew the parchment out;And all the Brentford familySat eager round about:Poor Ned was somewhat anxious,But Tom had ne'er a doubt."My son, as I make readyTo seek my last long home,Some cares I had for Neddy,But none for thee, my Tom:Sobriety and orderYou ne'er departed from."Ned hath a brilliant genius,And thou a plodding brain;On thee I think with pleasure,On him with doubt and pain.""You see, good Ned," says Thomas,"What he thought about us twain.""Though small was your allowance,You saved a little store;And those who save a littleShall get a plenty more."As the lawyer read this compliment,Tom's eyes were running o'er."The tortoise and the hare, Tom,Set out, at each his pace;The hare it was the fleeter,The tortoise won the race;And since the world's beginningThis ever was the case."Ned's genius, blithe and singing,Steps gayly o'er the ground;As steadily you trudge itHe clears it with a bound;But dulness has stout legs, Tom,And wind that's wondrous sound."O'er fruits and flowers alike, Tom,You pass with plodding feet;You heed not one nor t'otherBut onwards go your beat,While genius stops to loiterWith all that he may meet;"And ever as he wanders,Will have a pretext fineFor sleeping in the morning,Or loitering to dine,Or dozing in the shade,Or basking in the shine."Your little steady eyes, Tom,Though not so bright as thoseThat restless round about himHis flashing genius throws,Are excellently suitedTo look before your nose."Thank heaven, then, for the blinkersIt placed before your eyes;The stupidest are weakest,The witty are not wise;Oh, bless your good stupidity,It is your dearest prize!"And though my lands are wide,And plenty is my gold,Still better gifts from Nature,My Thomas, do you hold—A brain that's thick and heavy,A heart that's dull and cold."Too dull to feel depression,Too hard to heed distress,Too cold to yield to passionOr silly tenderness.March on—your road is openTo wealth, Tom, and success."Ned sinneth in extravagance,And you in greedy lust."("I' faith," says Ned, "our fatherIs less polite than just.")"In you, son Tom, I've confidence,But Ned I cannot trust."Wherefore my lease and copyholds,My lands and tenements,My parks, my farms, and orchards,My houses and my rents,My Dutch stock and my Spanish stock,My five and three per cents,"I leave to you, my Thomas—"("What, all?" poor Edward said."Well, well, I should have spent them,And Tom's a prudent head.")—"I leave to you, my Thomas,—To you in TRUST for Ned."The wrath and consternationWhat poet e'er could traceThat at this fatal passageCame o'er Prince Tom his face;The wonder of the company,And honest Ned's amaze!"'Tis surely some mistake,"Good-naturedly cries Ned;The lawyer answered gravely,"'Tis even as I said;'Twas thus his gracious MajestyOrdain'd on his death-bed."See, here the will is witness'd,And here's his autograph.""In truth, our father's writing,"Says Edward, with a laugh;"But thou shalt not be a loser, Tom,We'll share it half and half.""Alas! my kind young gentleman,This sharing cannot be;'Tis written in the testamentThat Brentford spoke to me,'I do forbid Prince Ned to givePrince Tom a halfpenny."'He hath a store of money,But ne'er was known to lend it;He never help'd his brother;The poor he ne'er befriended;He hath no need of propertyWho knows not how to spend it."'Poor Edward knows but how to spend,And thrifty Tom to hoard;Let Thomas be the steward then,And Edward be the lord;And as the honest laborerIs worthy his reward,"'I pray Prince Ned, my second son,And my successor dear,To pay to his intendantFive hundred pounds a year;And to think of his old father,And live and make good cheer.'"Such was old Brentford's honest testament,He did devise his moneys for the best,And lies in Brentford church in peaceful rest.Prince Edward lived, and money made and spent;But his good sire was wrong, it is confess'dTo say his son, young Thomas, never lent.He did. Young Thomas lent at interest,And nobly took his twenty-five per cent.Long time the famous reign of Ned enduredO'er Chiswick, Fulham, Brentford, Putney, Kew,But of extravagance he ne'er was cured.And when both died, as mortal men will do,'Twas commonly reported that the stewardWas very much the richer of the two.