"The music in my heart I bore,Long after it was heard no more."
One of the purposes in teaching poetry should be to store the mind, not with words only, but with impressions that may later be recalled to beautify and strengthen life.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
I wander'd lonely as a cloudThat floats on high o'er vales and hills,When all at once I saw a crowd,A host, of golden daffodils;Beside the lake, beneath the trees,Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.Continuous as the stars that shineAnd twinkle on the Milky Way,They stretch'd in never-ending lineAlong the margin of a bay:Ten thousand saw I at a glance,Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.The waves beside them danced, but theyOutdid the sparkling waves in glee:A poet could not but be gay,In such a jocund company:I gazed—and gazed—but little thoughtWhat wealth the show to me had brought:For oft, when on my couch I lieIn vacant or in pensive mood,They flash upon that inward eyeWhich is the bliss of solitude;And then my heart with pleasure fills,And dances with the daffodils.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
Behold her, single in the field,Yon solitary highland lass!Reaping and singing by herself;Stop here, or gently pass!Alone she cuts and binds the grain,And sings a melancholy strain;Oh, listen! for the vale profoundIs overflowing with the sound.No nightingale did ever chantMore welcome notes to weary bandsOf travelers in some shady haunt,Among Arabian sands:A voice so thrilling ne'er was heardIn spring-time from the cuckoo-bird,Breaking the silence of the seasAmong the farthest Hebrides.Will no one tell me what she sings?Perhaps the plaintive numbers flowFor old, unhappy, far-off things,And battles long ago!Or is it some more humble lay,Familiar matter of to-day?Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,That has been, and may be again?Whate'er the theme, the maiden sangAs if her song could have no ending:I saw her singing at her work,And o'er the sickle bending;—I listen'd, motionless and still;And, as I mounted up the hill,The music in my heart I bore,Long after it was heard no more.
Lady Norton (1808-1877) does not belong among the great poets, but she wrote several poems that were immense favorites with a generation now passing away. Among them are "Bingen on the Rhine," "The King of Denmark's Ride" and the one given below. It will no doubt show that her work still has power to stir readers of the present day, although we are likely to think of her poems as being too emotional or sentimental. She wrote the words of the very popular song "Juanita."
CAROLINE E. NORTON
My beautiful! my beautiful! that standest meekly by,With thy proudly arched and glossy neck, and dark and fiery eye,Fret not to roam the desert now, with all thy wingèd speed;I may not mount on thee again,—thou'rt sold, my Arab steed!Fret not with that impatient hoof,—snuff not the breezy wind,—The farther that thou fliest now, so far am I behind;The stranger hath thy bridle-rein,—thy master hath his gold,—Fleet-limbed and beautiful, farewell; thou'rt sold, my steed, thou'rt sold.Farewell! those free untired limbs full many a mile must roam,To reach the chill and wintry sky which clouds the stranger's home;Some other hand, less fond, must now thy corn and bed prepare,Thy silky mane, I braided once, must be another's care!The morning sun shall dawn again, but never more with theeShall I gallop through the desert paths, where we were wont to be;Evening shall darken on the earth, and o'er the sandy plainSome other steed, with slower step, shall bear me home again.Yes, thou must go! the wild, free breeze, the brilliant sun and sky,Thy master's house,—from all of these my exiled one must fly;Thy proud dark eye will grow less proud, thy step become less fleet,And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck, thy master's hand to meet.Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye, glancing bright;—Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light;And when I raise my dreaming arm to check or cheer thy speed,Then must I, starting, wake to feel,—thou'rt sold, my Arab steed.Ah! rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide,Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves, along thy panting side:And the rich blood that's in thee swells, in thy indignant pain,Till careless eyes, which rest on thee, may count each starting vein.Will they ill-use thee? If I thought—but no, it cannot be,—Thou art so swift, yet easy curbed; so gentle, yet so free:And yet, if haply, when thou'rt gone, my lonely heart should yearn,Can the hand which casts thee from it now command thee to return?Return! alas! my Arab steed! what shall thy master do,When thou, who wast his all of joy, hast vanished from his view?When the dim distance cheats mine eye, and through the gathering tearsThy bright form, for a moment, like the false mirage appears;Slow and unmounted shall I roam, with weary step alone,Where, with fleet step and joyous bound, thou oft hast borne me on;And sitting down by that green well, I'll pause and sadly think,"It was here he bowed his glossy neck when last I saw him drink!"When last I saw thee drink!—Away! the fevered dream is o'er,—I could not live a day, and know that we should meet no more!They tempted me, my beautiful! for hunger's power is strong,—They tempted me, my beautiful! but I have loved too long.Who said that I had given thee up? who said that thou wast sold?'T is false!—'t is false, my Arab steed! I fling them back their gold!Thus, thus, I leap upon thy back, and scour the distant plains;Away! who overtakes us now shall claim thee for his pains!
Robert Southey (1774-1843) was poet laureate of England, and a most prolific writer of poetry and miscellaneous prose. His great prominence in his own day has been succeeded by an obscurity so complete that only a few items of his work are now remembered. Among these are "The Battle of Blenheim," a very brief and effective satire against war, "The Well of St. Keyne," a humorous poem based on an old superstition, and "The Inchcape Rock," a stirring narrative of how evil deeds return upon the evil doer. (See also No.153.)
ROBERT SOUTHEY
No stir in the air, no stir in the sea,The ship was as still as she could be;Her sails from Heaven received no motion,Her keel was steady in the ocean.Without either sign or sound of their shock,The waves flowed over the Inchcape Rock;So little they rose, so little they fell,They did not move the Inchcape Bell.The holy Abbot of AberbrothokHad placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock;On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung,And over the waves its warning rung.When the rock was hid by the surges' swell,The mariners heard the warning bell;And then they knew the perilous Rock,And blessed the Abbot of Aberbrothok.The Sun in heaven was shining gay,All things were joyful on that day;The sea-birds screamed as they wheeled around,And there was joyance in their sound.The buoy of the Inchcape Rock was seen,A darker speck on the ocean green;Sir Ralph, the Rover, walked his deck,And he fixed his eye on the darker speck.He felt the cheering power of spring,It made him whistle, it made him sing;His heart was mirthful to excess;But the Rover's mirth was wickedness.His eye was on the Inchcape float;Quoth he, "My men, put out the boat;And row me to the Inchcape Rock,And I'll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothok."The boat is lowered, the boatmen row,And to the Inchcape Rock they go;Sir Ralph bent over from the boat,And cut the Bell from the Inchcape float.Down sank the Bell with a gurgling sound;The bubbles rose, and burst around.Quoth Sir Ralph, "The next who comes to the RockWill not bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok."Sir Ralph, the Rover, sailed away,He scoured the seas for many a day;And now, grown rich with plundered store,He steers his course for Scotland's shore.So thick a haze o'erspreads the skyThey cannot see the Sun on high;The wind hath blown a gale all day;At evening it hath died away.On the deck the Rover takes his stand;So dark it is they see no land.Quoth Sir Ralph, "It will be lighter soon,For there is the dawn of the rising Moon.""Canst hear," said one, "the breakers roar?For yonder, methinks, should be the shore.Now where we are I cannot tell,But I wish we could hear the Inchcape Bell."They hear no sound; the swell is strong;Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along,Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock,—"O Christ! it is the Inchcape Rock."Sir Ralph, the Rover, tore his hair;He cursed himself in his despair.The waves rush in on every side;The ship is sinking beneath the tide.But even in his dying fear,One dreadful sound he seemed to hear,—A sound as if, with the Inchcape Bell,The Devil below was ringing his knell.
The Shakespeare passages which follow are from the fairy play "A Midsummer Night's Dream." A teacher well acquainted with that play would find it possible to delight children with it. The fairy and rustic scenes could be given almost in their entirety, the other scenes could be summarized.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Over hill, over dale,Thorough bush, thorough brier,Over park, over pale,Thorough flood, thorough fire,I do wander everywhere,Swifter than the moon's sphere;And I serve the fairy queen,To dew her orbs upon the green.The cowslips tall her pensioners be:In their gold coats spots you see;Those be rubies, fairy favours,In those freckles live their savours:I must go seek some dewdrops here,And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEAREFairy Queen Titania(calls to herFairiesfollowing her)
Come, now a roundel and a fairy song;Then, for the third part of a minute, hence;Some to kill cankers in the musk-rose buds,Some war with rere-mice for their leathern wings,To make my small elves coats, and some keep backThe clamorous owl that nightly hoots and wondersAt our quaint spirits. Sing me now asleep;Then to your offices and let me rest.
She lies down to sleep, and theFairiessing as follows:
You spotted snakes with double tongue,Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen;Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong,Come not near our fairy queen.Philomel, with melodySing in our sweet lullaby;Lulla, lulla, lullaby, lulla, lulla, lullaby:Never harm,Nor spell nor charm,Come our lovely lady nigh:So good-night, with lullaby.Weaving spiders, come not here;Hence, you long-legged spinners, hence.Beetles black, approach not near;Worm nor snail, do no offence.Philomel, with melodySing in our sweet lullaby;Lulla, lulla, lullaby, lulla, lulla, lullaby:Never harm,Nor spell nor charm,Come our lovely lady nigh;So, good-night, with lullaby.
A Fairy
Hence, away! now all is well:One aloof stand sentinel.
Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882) is America's greatest spiritual teacher. His essays, such as "Self-Reliance" and "The American Scholar," are his chief claim to fame. The two brief poems given here are well known. "Fable" should be studied along with No.236, since they emphasize the same lesson that size is after all a purely relative matter. "Concord Hymn" is a splendidly dignified expression of the debt of gratitude we owe to the memory ofthose who made our country possible. Of course no reader will fail to notice the famous last two lines of the first stanza.
RALPH WALDO EMERSON
The mountain and the squirrelHad a quarrel,And the former called the latter "Little Prig";Bun replied,"You are doubtless very big;But all sorts of things and weatherMust be taken in togetherTo make up a yearAnd a sphere.And I think it no disgraceTo occupy my place.If I'm not so large as you,You are not so small as I,And not half so spry.I'll not deny you makeA very pretty squirrel track;Talents differ; all is well and wisely put;If I cannot carry forests on my back,Neither can you crack a nut!"
RALPH WALDO EMERSON
By the rude bridge that arched the flood,Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,Here once the embattled farmers stood,And fired the shot heard round the world.The foe long since in silence slept;Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;And Time the ruined bridge has sweptDown the dark stream which seaward creeps.On this green bank, by this soft stream,We set to-day a votive stone;That memory may their deed redeem,When, like our sires, our sons are gone.Spirit, that made those heroes dareTo die, and leave their children free,Bid Time and Nature gently spareThe shaft we raise to them and thee.
Almost any of the works of Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832), whether in prose or verse, is within the range of children in the grades. Especially the fine ballads, such as "Lochinvar" and "Allen-a-Dale," are sure to interest them. Children should be encouraged to read one of the long story-poems, "The Lady of the Lake" or "The Lay of the Last Minstrel." The famous expression of patriotism quoted below is from the latter poem.
SIR WALTER SCOTT
Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,Who never to himself hath said,This is my own, my native land!Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned,As home his footsteps he hath turnedFrom wandering on a foreign strand!If such there be, go, mark him well;For him no minstrel raptures swell;High though his titles, proud his name,Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;Despite those titles, power, and pelf,The wretch, concentered all in self,Living, shall forfeit fair renown,And doubly dying, shall go downTo the vile dust, from whence he sprung,Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.
When Oliver Wendell Holmes (1809-1894) was twenty-one years old, he read thatthe Navy Department had decided to destroy the old, unseaworthy frigate "Constitution," which had become famous in the War of 1812. In one evening he wrote the poem "Old Ironsides." This not only made Holmes immediately famous as a poet, but so aroused the American people that the Navy Department changed its plans and rebuilt the ship.
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!Long has it waved on high,And many an eye has danced to seeThat banner in the sky;Beneath it rung the battle shout,And burst the cannon's roar:—The meteor of the ocean airShall sweep the clouds no more.Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,Where knelt the vanquished foe,When winds were hurrying o'er the flood,And waves were white below,No more shall feel the victor's tread,Or know the conquered knee;—The harpies of the shore shall pluckThe eagle of the sea!Oh, better that her shattered hulkShould sink beneath the wave;Her thunders shook the mighty deep,And there should be her grave;Nail to the mast her holy flag,Set every threadbare sail,And give her to the god of storms,The lightning and the gale!
William Collins (1721-1759), English poet, wrote only a few poems, but among them is this short dirge which keeps his name alive in popular memory. It was probably in honor of his countrymen who fell at Fontenoy in 1745, the year before its composition. Its austere brevity, its well-known personifications, its freedom from fulsome expressions, place it very high among patriotic utterances.
WILLIAM COLLINS
How sleep the brave, who sink to restBy all their country's wishes blest!When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,Returns to deck their hallowed mould,She there shall dress a sweeter sodThan Fancy's feet have ever trod.By fairy hands their knell is rung;By forms unseen their dirge is sung;There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray,To bless the turf that wraps their clay;And Freedom shall awhile repair,To dwell a weeping hermit there!
The anonymous ballad dealing with the familiar story of Nathan Hale, of Revolutionary times, is the nearest approach to the old folk ballad in our history. Its repetitions help it in catching something of the breathless suspense accompanying his daring effort, betrayal, and execution. The pathos of the closing incidents of Hale's career has attracted the tributes of poets and dramatists. Francis Miles Finch, author of "The Blue and the Gray," wrote a well-known poetic account of Hale, while Clyde Fitch's drama ofNathan Halehad a great popular success.
The breezes went steadily through the tall pines,A-saying "Oh! hu-ush!" a-saying "Oh! hu-ush!"As stilly stole by a bold legion of horse,For Hale in the bush; for Hale in the bush."Keep still!" said the thrush as she nestled her young,In a nest by the road; in a nest by the road."For the tyrants are near, and with them appearWhat bodes us no good; what bodes us no good."The brave captain heard it, and thought of his homeIn a cot by the brook; in a cot by the brook;With mother and sister and memories dear,He so gayly forsook; he so gayly forsook.Cooling shades of the night were coming apace,The tattoo had beat; the tattoo had beat.The noble one sprang from his dark lurking-place,To make his retreat; to make his retreat.He warily trod on the dry rustling leaves,As he passed through the wood; as he passed through the wood;And silently gained his rude launch on the shore,As she played with the flood; as she played with the flood.The guards of the camp, on that dark, dreary night,Had a murderous will; had a murderous will.They took him and bore him afar from the shore,To a hut on the hill; to a hut on the hill.No mother was there, nor a friend who could cheer,In that little stone cell; in that little stone cell.But he trusted in love, from his Father above.In his heart, all was well; in his heart, all was well.An ominous owl, with his solemn bass voice,Sat moaning hard by; sat moaning hard by;"The tyrant's proud minions most gladly rejoice,For he must soon die; for he must soon die."The brave fellow told them, no thing he restrained,—The cruel general! the cruel general!—His errand from camp, of the ends to be gained,And said that was all; and said that was all.They took him and bound him and bore him away,Down the hill's grassy side; down the hill's grassy side.'Twas there the base hirelings, in royal array,His cause did deride; his cause did deride.Five minutes were given, short moments, no more,For him to repent; for him to repent.He prayed for his mother, he asked not another,To Heaven he went; to Heaven he went.The faith of a martyr the tragedy showed,As he trod the last stage; as he trod the last stage.And Britons will shudder at gallant Hale's blood,As his words do presage; as his words do presage:"Thou pale King of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe,Go frighten the slave; go frighten the slave;Tell tyrants, to you their allegiance they owe.No fears for the brave; no fears for the brave."
That men of great courage are certain to recognize and pay tribute to courage in others, even if those others are their enemies, is the theme of "The Red Thread of Honor." Sir Francis Hastings Doyle (1810-1888) wrote two other stirring poems of action, "The Loss of the Birkenhead" and "The Private of the Buffs."
FRANCIS HASTINGS DOYLE
Eleven men of EnglandA breastwork charged in vain;Eleven men of EnglandLie stripp'd, and gash'd, and slain.Slain; but of foes that guardedTheir rock-built fortress well,Some twenty had been mastered,When the last soldier fell.The robber-chief mused deeply,Above those daring dead;"Bring here," at length he shouted,"Bring quick, the battle thread.Let Eblis blast foreverTheir souls, if Allah will:But we must keep unbrokenThe old rules of the Hill."Before the Ghiznee tigerLeapt forth to burn and slay;Before the holy ProphetTaught our grim tribes to pray;Before Secunder's lancesPierced through each Indian glen;The mountain laws of honorWere framed for fearless men."Still, when a chief dies bravely,We bind with green one wrist—Green for the brave, for heroesOne crimson thread we twist.Say ye, oh gallant Hillmen,For these, whose life has fled,Which is the fitting color,The green one, or the red?""Our brethren, laid in honor'd graves, may wearTheir green reward," each noble savage said;"To these, whom hawks and hungry wolves shall tear,Who dares deny the red?"Thus conquering hate, and steadfast to the right,Fresh from the heart that haughty verdict came;Beneath a waning moon, each spectral heightRolled back its loud acclaim.Once more the chief gazed keenlyDown on those daring dead;From his good sword their heart's bloodCrept to that crimson thread.Once more he cried, "The judgment,Good friends, is wise and true,But though the red be given,Have we not more to do?"These were not stirred by anger,Nor yet by lust made bold;Renown they thought above them,Nor did they look for gold.To them their leader's signalWas as the voice of God:Unmoved, and uncomplaining,The path it showed they trod."As, without sound or struggle,The stars unhurrying march,Where Allah's finger guides them,Through yonder purple arch,These Franks, sublimely silent,Without a quickened breath,Went, in the strength of duty,Straight to their goal of death."If I were now to ask you,To name our bravest man,Ye all at once would answer,They call'd him Mehrab Khan.He sleeps among his fathers,Dear to our native land,With the bright mark he bled forFirm round his faithful hand."The songs they sing of RoostumFill all the past with light;If truth be in their music,He was a noble knight.But were those heroes living,And strong for battle still,Would Mehrab Khan or RoostumHave climbed, like these, the Hill?"And they replied, "Though Mehrab Khan was brave,As chief, he chose himself what risks to run;Prince Roostum lied, his forfeit life to save,Which these had never done.""Enough!" he shouted fiercely;"Doomed though they be to hell,Bind fast the crimson trophyRoundbothwrists—bind it well.Who knows but that great AllahMay grudge such matchless men,With none so decked in heaven,To the fiend's flaming den?"Then all those gallant robbersShouted a stern "Amen!"They raised the slaughter'd sergeant,They raised his mangled ten.And when we found their bodiesLeft bleaching in the wind,Aroundbothwrists in gloryThat crimson thread was twined.
In the year 1897 a great diamond jubilee was held in England in honor of the completion of sixty years of rule by Queen Victoria. Many poems were written for the occasion, most of which praised the greatness of Britain, the extent of her dominion, the strength of her army and navy, and the abundance of her wealth. The "Recessional" was written for the occasion by Rudyard Kipling (1865—). It is in the form of a prayer, but its purpose was to tell the British that they were forgetting the "God of our fathers" and putting their trust in wealth and navies and the "reeking tube and iron shard" of the cannon. The poem rang through England like a bugle call and stirred the British people more deeply than any other poem of recent times.
RUDYARD KIPLING
God of our fathers, known of old—Lord of our far flung battle-line—Beneath whose awful hand we holdDominion over palm and pine—Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,Lest we forget—lest we forget!The tumult and the shouting dies—The captains and the kings depart—Still stands Thine ancient Sacrifice,A humble and a contrite heart.Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,Lest we forget—lest we forget!Far-called our navies sink away—On dune and headland sinks the fireLo, all our pomp of yesterdayIs one with Nineveh and Tyre!Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,Lest we forget—lest we forget!If, drunk with sight of power, we looseWild tongues that have not Thee in awe—Such boasting as the Gentiles useOr lesser breeds without the law—Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,Lest we forget—lest we forget!For heathen heart that puts her trustIn reeking tube and iron shard—All valiant dust that builds on dust,And guarding calls not Thee to guard—For frantic boast and foolish word,Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord!
William Ernest Henley (1849-1903) was an English critic and journalist of great force and a poet whose verse is full of manliness and tenderness. His life was a constant and courageous struggle against disease. The spirit in which he faced conditions that would have conquered a weaker man breathes through the famous poem quoted below. Such a spirit is not confined to any particular stage of maturity as represented by years, and many young people will find themselves buoyed up in the face of difficulties by coming into touch with the unconquered and unconquerable voice in this poem. The last two lines in particular are often quoted.
WILLIAM E. HENLEY
Out of the night that covers me,Black as the pit from pole to pole,I thank whatever gods may beFor my unconquerable soul.In the fell clutch of circumstanceI have not winced nor cried aloud:Under the bludgeonings of chanceMy head is bloody, but unbowed.Beyond this place of wrath and tearsLooms but the horror of the shade,And yet the menace of the yearsFinds and shall find me unafraid.It matters not how strait the gate,How charged with punishments the scroll,I am the master of my fate;I am the captain of my soul.
James Russell Lowell (1819-1891) is a poet of such high idealisms that many of his poems seem to form the natural heritage of youth. Among such are "The Vision of Sir Launfal," "The Present Crisis," "The Fatherland," and "Aladdin." "The Falcon" is not so well known as any of these, but its fine image for the seeker after truth should appeal to most children of upper grades. "The Shepherd of King Admetus" is a very attractive poetizing of an old myth (see No.261) and lets us see something of how the public looks upon its poets and other artistic folk.
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL
I know a falcon swift and peerlessAs e'er was cradled in the pine;No bird had ever eye so fearless,Or wing so strong as this of mine.The winds not better love to pilotA cloud with molten gold o'errun,Than him, a little burning islet,A star above the coming sun.For with a lark's heart he doth tower,By a glorious upward instinct drawn;No bee nestles deeper in the flowerThan he in the bursting rose of dawn.No harmless dove, no bird that singeth,Shudders to see him overhead;The rush of his fierce swooping bringethTo innocent hearts no thrill of dread.Let fraud and wrong and baseness shiver,For still between them and the skyThe falcon Truth hangs poised foreverAnd marks them with his vengeful eye.
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL
There came a youth upon the earth,Some thousand years ago,Whose slender hands were nothing worth,Whether to plough, or reap, or sow.Upon an empty tortoise-shellHe stretched some chords, and drewMusic that made men's bosoms swellFearless, or brimmed their eyes with dew.Then King Admetus, one who hadPure taste by right divine,Decreed his singing not too badTo hear between the cups of wine:And so, well pleased with being soothedInto a sweet half-sleep,Three times his kingly beard he smoothed,And made him viceroy o'er his sheep.His words were simple words enough,And yet he used them so,That what in other mouths was roughIn his seemed musical and low.Men called him but a shiftless youth,In whom no good they saw;And yet, unwittingly, in truth,They made his careless words their law.They knew not how he learned at all,For idly, hour by hour,He sat and watched the dead leaves fall,Or mused upon a common flower.It seemed the loveliness of thingsDid teach him all their use,For, in mere weeds, and stones, and springs,He found a healing power profuse.Men granted that his speech was wise,But, when a glance they caughtOf his slim grace and woman's eyes,They laughed, and called him good-for-naught.Yet after he was dead and gone,And e'en his memory dim,Earth seemed more sweet to live upon,More full of love, because of him.And day by day more holy grewEach spot where he had trod,Till after-poets only knewTheir first-born brother as a god.
Sir William S. Gilbert (1837-1911), an English dramatist, is known to us as the librettist of the popular Gilbert and Sullivan operas,The Mikado,Pinafore, etc. In his earlier days he wrote a book of humorous poetry calledThe Bab Ballads. Many of these still please readers who like a little nonsense now and then of a supremely ridiculous type. "The Yarn of the Nancy Bell" is a splendid take-off on "travelers' tales," and is not likely to deceive anyone. However, Gilbert said that when he sent the poem toPunch, the editor made objection to its extremely cannibalistic nature!
WILLIAM S. GILBERT
'Twas on the shores that round our coastFrom Deal to Ramsgate span,That I found alone on a piece of stoneAn elderly naval man.His hair was weedy, his beard was long,And weedy and long was he,And I heard this wight on the shore recite,In a singular minor key:"Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold,And the mate of the Nancy brig,And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,And the crew of the captain's gig."And he shook his fists and he tore his hair,Till I really felt afraid,For I couldn't help thinking the man had been drinking,And so I simply said:"Oh, elderly man, it's little I knowOf the duties of men of the sea,And I'll eat my hand if I understandHowever you can be"At once a cook, and a captain bold,And the mate of the Nancy brig,And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,And the crew of the captain's gig."Then he gave a hitch to his trousers, whichIs a trick all seamen larn,And having got rid of a thumping quid,He spun this painful yarn:"'Twas in the good ship Nancy BellThat we sailed to the Indian Sea,And there on a reef we come to grief,Which has often occurred to me."And pretty nigh all the crew was drowned(There was seventy-seven o' soul),And only ten of the Nancy's menSaid 'Here!' to the muster-roll."There was me and the cook and the captain bold,And the mate of the Nancy brig,And the bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,And the crew of the captain's gig."For a month we'd neither wittles nor drink,Till a-hungry we did feel,So we drawed a lot, and accordin' shotThe captain for our meal."The next lot fell to the Nancy's mate,And a delicate dish he made;Then our appetite with the midshipmiteWe seven survivors stayed."And then we murdered the bo'sun tight,And he much resembled pig;Then we wittled free, did the cook and me,On the crew of the captain's gig."Then only the cook and me was left,And the delicate question, 'WhichOf us two goes to the kettle?' arose,And we argued it out as sich."For I loved that cook as a brother, I did,And the cook he worshipped me;But we'd both be blowed if we'd either be stowedIn the other chap's hold, you see."'I'll be eat if you dines off me,' says Tom;'Yes, that,' says I, 'you'll be,'—'I'm boiled if I die, my friend,' quoth I;And 'Exactly so,' quoth he."Says he, 'Dear James, to murder meWere a foolish thing to do;For don't you see that you can't cook me,While I can—and will—cookyou!'"So he boils the water, and takes the saltAnd the pepper in portions true(Which he never forgot), and some chopped shalot,And some sage and parsley, too."'Come here,' says he, with a proper pride,Which his smiling features tell,''T will soothing be if I let you seeHow extremely nice you'll smell.'"And he stirred it round and round and roundAnd he sniffed at the foaming froth;When I ups with his heels and smothers his squealsIn the scum of the boiling broth."And I eat that cook in a week or less,And—as I eating beThe last of his chops, why, I almost drops,For a wessel in sight I see!"'And I never larf, and never smile,And I never lark nor play,But sit and croak, and a single jokeI have—which is to say:"'Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold,And the mate of the Nancy brig,And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,And the crew of the captain's gig!'"