SIR RUPERT THE RED.
Sir Rupert the Red was as gallant a knightAs ever did battle for wrong or for right,As ever resented the slightest slight,Or broke an antagonist’s head.Full tall was his stature, full stalwart his frame,Full red was his hair, his beard was the same,Mustachios and whiskers—whence his name,His name of Sir Rupert the Red.Sir Rupert he lived in a castle old,Residence meet for a baron bold:Thick were its walls, and dark and coldThe swift Rhine ran below them.Full handy to Rupert the Red was the Rhine:Rich travellers passing were asked to dine,And when he’d sufficiently hocussed their wine,Why—into its waters he’d throw them!But stories will spread, howe’er you may tryTo stifle Dame Rumour—and so, by-and-bye,He found himself shunned by all far and nigh;And when asked to dinner, each neighbour fought shy.The bell ne’er was rung, and no stranger imploredThe porter to run up, and question his lordIf he kindly would grant a night’s shelter and board?No priest on Sir Rupert’s head called down a benison,No acquaintance sent presents of black-cock and venison.While his former bad temper began to grow worse,He would mutter and fidget—nay, stamp, foam, and curse;But his feelings I’ll try to describe in the verseMost used by our Alfred—not Bunn though, but Tennyson.Very early in the morning would he, tumbling out of bed,Mow his chin with wretched razor, mow and hack it till it bled;Then he’d curse the harmless cutler, heap upon him curses deep—Curse him in his hour of waking, doubly curse him in his sleep—Saying, “Mechi! O my Mechi! O my Mechi, mine no more,Whither’s fled that brilliant sharpness which thy razors had of yore,Ere thou quittedst Leadenhall-street, quittedst it with many a qualm—Ere thou soughtest rustic Tiptree, Tiptree and its model farm?Many a morning, by the mirror, did I pass thee o’er my beard,And my chin grew smooth beneath thee, of its hairy harvest cleared;Many an evening have I drawn thee ’cross the throats of wretched Jews,When they, trembling, showed their purses, stuffed for safety in their shoes.But, like mine, thy day is over—thou art blunt and I’m disgraced!Curses on thy maker’s projects, curses on his ‘magic paste.’”Thus he grumbled all day, from morning till night—No person could please him, no conduct was right—Till his very retainers grew furious quite,And determined to quit his service.For much afflicted was Seneschal Hans;While the groom from York told the cook from France“He warn’t going to be led such a precious danceIn a house turned topsy-turvies.”Oh, “the castled crag of Drachenfels,”With its slippery sides and flowery dells,Is a very romantic sight for “swells”Who leave the squares of Belgravia,And during the autumn visit the Rhine,With courier hirsute and footman fine,Who are both eternally drinking wine,Though the last “don’t like the flaviour.”But Drachenfels was a different sightOn a dark, tempestuous winter’s night;Then below it the river was foaming white,And above it the storm-fiend strode:On such a night, from his own red room,Sir Rupert looked out athwart the gloomTo see what might “in the future loom,”Or be coming up the road.He strained his weary eye-balls, but well was he repaidTo see a troop of travellers advancing up the glade.Flanked round with equerries and guards, a wealthy host they seemed,And Sir Rupert’s heart grew lighter, and his eye more brightly beamed;For many a day had passed away since he a prize had won,And no hand had touched his bell save that of poursuivant or dun.“Now haste ye,” he cried, “throw open the gate,And let the drawbridge fall;”Then three little pages, with hair combed straight,Who ever upon Sir Rupert wait,Ran off to the warden tall.The drawbridge falls, and the company cross,In number say fifty,i. e., man and horse.First comes a gay herald, all silver and blue,And then men in armour, who ride two and two;Not such Guys as are seen on the ninth of November,But your regular middle-age troopers, remember.By the way, this last rhymeAppertains to a timeMuch thought of in childhood, by schoolboys called “prime,”When young Hopeful’s small pocketsAre emptied for rockets,And eyebrows are burnt, and arms torn out of sockets—When you’re begged (and the tyrants take care you do not)Ne’er to cease to remember the Gunpowder-plot.The herald stept forth, and he made a low bow—If you’ve seen Mr. PayneAt old Drury Lane,In the opening part of a grand Christmas pantomime,Do tricks, to describe which my Muse fails for want o’ rhyme—Please to fancy my herald does just the same now;And his trumpet he blows, and his throat well he clears,And he twists his mustachios right up to his ears,Looks, as usual with speakers, in dreadful distress,And thus to Sir Rupert begins his address.“Sir Rupert the Red,To you I have spedFrom a dame with whose brother you’ve conquered and bled,Who, benighted by chance in this dismal locality,Has ventured to ask for a night’s hospitality.No refusal I fearWhen her name you once hear;Therefore learn that the dame for whom shelter I crave,Is Margaret, the sister of Blutwurst the Brave!”Thus spake the gay herald. Sir Rupert replied,“’Tis well known that my castle is never deniedTo pilgrims of all countries, nations, and hues,From swaggering English to gold-lending Jews;How great, then, my joy ’neath my roof to receiveThe sister of oneWhom I loved as a son,For whose tragical end I have ne’er ceased to grieve.”Thus much to the herald. Then, turning, he said,“Off, Wilhelm, at once, let the banquet be spread;Bring up some Moselles and some red Assmanshausers.Fritz, lay out my doublet and new Paris trousers,Tell Gretchen to hasten and clear out the bedroomThe lady will sleep in—let’s see—notthe red room.To put her in thereIs more than I dare;So where shall she go, in the purple or blue?Oh, give her the next room to mine, number two—Tell Eugéne to serve his best sauces and stews,And take care that, as soon as the cloth is removed,Old Max, of whose singing I oft have approved,Comes up with his harp—he will serve to amuse.”The banquet is spread—At his table’s head,Decked out in gay garments, sits Rupert the Red;And close on his rightIs the queen of the night,Fair Marg’ret, whose beauty’s completely a sightFor a father,—aye, even for “Pater-familias,”—“Who of all slow papas is the veriest silly ass;Blue are her eyes as the clear vault of heaven,Pale her smooth brow, though some rose-bud has givenIts loveliest tint to that soft cheek and lip,Which ’twere worth a king’s ransom once only to sip;While the net-work of curls in her bonny brown hairHas entangled a sun-beam and prisoned it there.And Sir Rupert admired her, and flattered, and laughed,And his ardour grew warmer the deeper he quaffed;He touched her fair fingers whene’er he was able,And in error pressed warmly the leg of the table;Till Rudolf von Gansen, a merry young spark(Who was given to hoaxing and “having a lark,”Addicted to laughing,And humour called “chaffing,”And dining, and wine-ing, and e’en half-and-half-ing,And gambling, and vices called “having your fling”),Exclaimed to Hans König (in English, Jack King),“By Jove, Hans, the gov’nor’s hit under the wing!”“Now come hither, old Max,” Sir Rupert cried,“And sing us a merry song,Or tell us of Siegfried’s blooming bride,Or the priest who was plunged in the Rhine’s cold tideFor indulging his wishes wrong.”The old man sung a sentimental strain,A song of love, its wishes, hopes, and fears;And while he sung his colour came again,His eye blazed brightly as in former years,When it was quickly kindled by disdain,Nor dimmed, as often now, by bitter tears.These very words, with true poetic fire,He once for glory sung, but now for hire!And, while he sings, they vanish from his sight,The knights, the ladies gay, the very room!Once more a youth, with eyes and prospects bright,He sings to her, now mould’ring in the tomb,Ere Age and Poverty’s overwhelming blightFrom Life’s first blushing flowers had robbed the bloom.Sweet season, long expected, quickly past,In youth Love’s fire too fiercely burns to last!The minstrel’s song was no sooner done,Than ’twas plain that his lay had extinguished the fun,And yawning fearfully, one by one,They vanished knights and ladies.The lights were put out, not a single “glim”Shed its ray o’er the walls of that castle grim;And the banqueting hall was soon as dimAs ’tis said to be in Hades.My story thus forward, I now must relateSome previous details concerning the fateOf that famous young hero, Sir Blutwurst the Great,Of whom I’ve just made mention—And so, to prevent the smallest mystery,Or the thread of my story from getting a twist awry,To his death, which took place ere the date of my history,I must call my readers’ attention.Blutwurst and Rupert were two pretty menAs ever were sketched by pencil or pen—Together they’d hunt, shoot, fish, frolic, and gamble,In short, to dispense with a longer preamble,They so loved each other,That Corsican Brother,Or Damon, or Pythias, or Siamese twin,Ne’er cared for his friend, or his kith or his kin,As did Blutwurst for Rupert: they ne’er knew division,But were like Box and Cox in a German edition.Mr. Coleridge says, “Truth, that exists in the young,Too often is killed by a whispering tongue;”And this proved the case between Blutwurst and Rupert.The former, perhaps, in his language was too pert;For having committed some irregularities,Whichhecalled “peccadilloes,” but others “barbarities,”Sir Rupert declined to subscribe to some charitiesWhich Blutwurst advised as a species of “hedge.”Then the latter blazed out;—the “thin end of the wedge”Being thus once inserted, the matter grew serious.Each spake words of high disdainAnd insult to his heart’s best brother—“Just repeat those words again!”“You’re a scoundrel!” “You’re another!”With curses and oaths, to repeat which would weary us,Till from furious words they proceeded to blows.Who first drew his rapier nobody knows;But Hans, the old seneschal, sitting down stairs,Heard a shriek, then a plunge in the river, he swears;And going up found Rupert, all haggard and wan,Who stated that Blutwurst had started for Bonn,And requested that thither his bag be sent on.This story gained ground,Till the body was foundA great distance off—in fact, down at Dusseldorf,Whence the horrified finder all hurriedly bustled offTo tell Blutwurst’s parents the terrible news.A coroner’s inquest was held on the body,Where, after much talking and more Hollands toddy,Much anger, much squabbling, and dreadful abuse,They found that, “returning home, muddled with wine,The deceased had been murdered and flung in the Rhine,By some persons unknown, with malicious design!”To Rupert no blame e’er attached in the matter;Poor Blutwurst was called mad, “as mad as a hatter,”For drinking so much as to fall from his perch.And now, if you please, we’ll return to the castle,Where I think we shall find that, fatigued by the wassail,With two small exceptions, each master and vassalMay safely be reckoned as “fast as a church.”Fair Margaret sits at her toilette-glass,And rests her head on her snow-white hand;Through her throbbing brain what visions pass,As over her shoulders there falls a massOf curls, ne’er touched by the crimping brand;She thinks of Sir Rupert’s attentions that night,And of them, too, she thinks less with pleasure than fright;For his great leering eyesSeem before her to rise,And she looks o’er her shoulder, and shivers and sighs,For the room is so large, and the pictures so grim,And the wind howls so loud, and her light burns so dim,And she sees in the mirror, not herself, buthim.Yes! he kneels at her side;Says he wont be denied;And calls her “his dear little duck of a bride!”His utt’rance is thick, his cravat is untied,And his face is as red as a new Murray’s Guide;His gait is unsteady, his manner so rude,It’s plain to perceive that Sir Rupert is “screwed.”But he touches his heart, and he turns up his eyes,And by language and gesture most earnestly triesTo convince her that ne’er from his knees will he rise,Till to wed on the morrow she freely complies.If you’ve seen Mrs. KeanIn that excellent sceneWhich she with Mr. Wigan so forcibly plays,In Bourcicault’s comedy, “Love in a Maze,”When her scorn for her tempter, her love for her spouse,In language theatrical, “bring down the house,”You can fancy how Margaret, deeply enraged,And backed up by the feeling that she was engagedTo Otto Von Rosen, the dearest of men,Rejected Sir Rupert at once, there and then.In vain he implored,Declared himself “floored.”Wept by turns and entreated, then ranted and roared;She still was disdainful,And said “it was painfulTo witness the friend of her brother so lowered.”Till, maddened with fury, he seized her, and said—“Be mine, or thou’rt numbered this night with the dead.No maiden has yet refused Rupert the Red!”That instant there rang through the castle a shriek—Compared with which e’en Madame Celeste’s are weak—The chamber-doors fell with a terrible crash,And with, under his left arm, a yet gory gash—Come forth from his grave,Stood Blutwurst the brave,Who’d arrived just in time his poor sister to save.Sir Rupert gazed at him a second or more,Made one strong exclamation, then sunk on the floor.From every side a swarming tide of vassals pour amain,And, struggling with each other, the fatal room they gain,And quickly entering, they find fair Margaret in a swoon,They cut the lace that holds her ⸺, base must be the man who’d ownThat such a garment now exists; with water from CologneThey sprinkle her, and she revives, and sweetly smiles once more,And points to what appears a heap of ashes on the floor!Alas! ’twas so; the gallant knight, the former “man of mark,”Is fitted now for nought but dust for Stapleton or Darke;All shrivelled into nothingness, a horrid mass he lay,His projects vanished into smoke, himself a yard of clay!And never from that hour has anything been seen,Except the ruin pointed out to Robinson or Green,That e’er pertained to him of all the Rhenish clans the head,To him, the hero of my song, Sir Rupert called the Red.
Sir Rupert the Red was as gallant a knightAs ever did battle for wrong or for right,As ever resented the slightest slight,Or broke an antagonist’s head.Full tall was his stature, full stalwart his frame,Full red was his hair, his beard was the same,Mustachios and whiskers—whence his name,His name of Sir Rupert the Red.Sir Rupert he lived in a castle old,Residence meet for a baron bold:Thick were its walls, and dark and coldThe swift Rhine ran below them.Full handy to Rupert the Red was the Rhine:Rich travellers passing were asked to dine,And when he’d sufficiently hocussed their wine,Why—into its waters he’d throw them!But stories will spread, howe’er you may tryTo stifle Dame Rumour—and so, by-and-bye,He found himself shunned by all far and nigh;And when asked to dinner, each neighbour fought shy.The bell ne’er was rung, and no stranger imploredThe porter to run up, and question his lordIf he kindly would grant a night’s shelter and board?No priest on Sir Rupert’s head called down a benison,No acquaintance sent presents of black-cock and venison.While his former bad temper began to grow worse,He would mutter and fidget—nay, stamp, foam, and curse;But his feelings I’ll try to describe in the verseMost used by our Alfred—not Bunn though, but Tennyson.Very early in the morning would he, tumbling out of bed,Mow his chin with wretched razor, mow and hack it till it bled;Then he’d curse the harmless cutler, heap upon him curses deep—Curse him in his hour of waking, doubly curse him in his sleep—Saying, “Mechi! O my Mechi! O my Mechi, mine no more,Whither’s fled that brilliant sharpness which thy razors had of yore,Ere thou quittedst Leadenhall-street, quittedst it with many a qualm—Ere thou soughtest rustic Tiptree, Tiptree and its model farm?Many a morning, by the mirror, did I pass thee o’er my beard,And my chin grew smooth beneath thee, of its hairy harvest cleared;Many an evening have I drawn thee ’cross the throats of wretched Jews,When they, trembling, showed their purses, stuffed for safety in their shoes.But, like mine, thy day is over—thou art blunt and I’m disgraced!Curses on thy maker’s projects, curses on his ‘magic paste.’”Thus he grumbled all day, from morning till night—No person could please him, no conduct was right—Till his very retainers grew furious quite,And determined to quit his service.For much afflicted was Seneschal Hans;While the groom from York told the cook from France“He warn’t going to be led such a precious danceIn a house turned topsy-turvies.”Oh, “the castled crag of Drachenfels,”With its slippery sides and flowery dells,Is a very romantic sight for “swells”Who leave the squares of Belgravia,And during the autumn visit the Rhine,With courier hirsute and footman fine,Who are both eternally drinking wine,Though the last “don’t like the flaviour.”But Drachenfels was a different sightOn a dark, tempestuous winter’s night;Then below it the river was foaming white,And above it the storm-fiend strode:On such a night, from his own red room,Sir Rupert looked out athwart the gloomTo see what might “in the future loom,”Or be coming up the road.He strained his weary eye-balls, but well was he repaidTo see a troop of travellers advancing up the glade.Flanked round with equerries and guards, a wealthy host they seemed,And Sir Rupert’s heart grew lighter, and his eye more brightly beamed;For many a day had passed away since he a prize had won,And no hand had touched his bell save that of poursuivant or dun.“Now haste ye,” he cried, “throw open the gate,And let the drawbridge fall;”Then three little pages, with hair combed straight,Who ever upon Sir Rupert wait,Ran off to the warden tall.The drawbridge falls, and the company cross,In number say fifty,i. e., man and horse.First comes a gay herald, all silver and blue,And then men in armour, who ride two and two;Not such Guys as are seen on the ninth of November,But your regular middle-age troopers, remember.By the way, this last rhymeAppertains to a timeMuch thought of in childhood, by schoolboys called “prime,”When young Hopeful’s small pocketsAre emptied for rockets,And eyebrows are burnt, and arms torn out of sockets—When you’re begged (and the tyrants take care you do not)Ne’er to cease to remember the Gunpowder-plot.The herald stept forth, and he made a low bow—If you’ve seen Mr. PayneAt old Drury Lane,In the opening part of a grand Christmas pantomime,Do tricks, to describe which my Muse fails for want o’ rhyme—Please to fancy my herald does just the same now;And his trumpet he blows, and his throat well he clears,And he twists his mustachios right up to his ears,Looks, as usual with speakers, in dreadful distress,And thus to Sir Rupert begins his address.“Sir Rupert the Red,To you I have spedFrom a dame with whose brother you’ve conquered and bled,Who, benighted by chance in this dismal locality,Has ventured to ask for a night’s hospitality.No refusal I fearWhen her name you once hear;Therefore learn that the dame for whom shelter I crave,Is Margaret, the sister of Blutwurst the Brave!”Thus spake the gay herald. Sir Rupert replied,“’Tis well known that my castle is never deniedTo pilgrims of all countries, nations, and hues,From swaggering English to gold-lending Jews;How great, then, my joy ’neath my roof to receiveThe sister of oneWhom I loved as a son,For whose tragical end I have ne’er ceased to grieve.”Thus much to the herald. Then, turning, he said,“Off, Wilhelm, at once, let the banquet be spread;Bring up some Moselles and some red Assmanshausers.Fritz, lay out my doublet and new Paris trousers,Tell Gretchen to hasten and clear out the bedroomThe lady will sleep in—let’s see—notthe red room.To put her in thereIs more than I dare;So where shall she go, in the purple or blue?Oh, give her the next room to mine, number two—Tell Eugéne to serve his best sauces and stews,And take care that, as soon as the cloth is removed,Old Max, of whose singing I oft have approved,Comes up with his harp—he will serve to amuse.”The banquet is spread—At his table’s head,Decked out in gay garments, sits Rupert the Red;And close on his rightIs the queen of the night,Fair Marg’ret, whose beauty’s completely a sightFor a father,—aye, even for “Pater-familias,”—“Who of all slow papas is the veriest silly ass;Blue are her eyes as the clear vault of heaven,Pale her smooth brow, though some rose-bud has givenIts loveliest tint to that soft cheek and lip,Which ’twere worth a king’s ransom once only to sip;While the net-work of curls in her bonny brown hairHas entangled a sun-beam and prisoned it there.And Sir Rupert admired her, and flattered, and laughed,And his ardour grew warmer the deeper he quaffed;He touched her fair fingers whene’er he was able,And in error pressed warmly the leg of the table;Till Rudolf von Gansen, a merry young spark(Who was given to hoaxing and “having a lark,”Addicted to laughing,And humour called “chaffing,”And dining, and wine-ing, and e’en half-and-half-ing,And gambling, and vices called “having your fling”),Exclaimed to Hans König (in English, Jack King),“By Jove, Hans, the gov’nor’s hit under the wing!”“Now come hither, old Max,” Sir Rupert cried,“And sing us a merry song,Or tell us of Siegfried’s blooming bride,Or the priest who was plunged in the Rhine’s cold tideFor indulging his wishes wrong.”The old man sung a sentimental strain,A song of love, its wishes, hopes, and fears;And while he sung his colour came again,His eye blazed brightly as in former years,When it was quickly kindled by disdain,Nor dimmed, as often now, by bitter tears.These very words, with true poetic fire,He once for glory sung, but now for hire!And, while he sings, they vanish from his sight,The knights, the ladies gay, the very room!Once more a youth, with eyes and prospects bright,He sings to her, now mould’ring in the tomb,Ere Age and Poverty’s overwhelming blightFrom Life’s first blushing flowers had robbed the bloom.Sweet season, long expected, quickly past,In youth Love’s fire too fiercely burns to last!The minstrel’s song was no sooner done,Than ’twas plain that his lay had extinguished the fun,And yawning fearfully, one by one,They vanished knights and ladies.The lights were put out, not a single “glim”Shed its ray o’er the walls of that castle grim;And the banqueting hall was soon as dimAs ’tis said to be in Hades.My story thus forward, I now must relateSome previous details concerning the fateOf that famous young hero, Sir Blutwurst the Great,Of whom I’ve just made mention—And so, to prevent the smallest mystery,Or the thread of my story from getting a twist awry,To his death, which took place ere the date of my history,I must call my readers’ attention.Blutwurst and Rupert were two pretty menAs ever were sketched by pencil or pen—Together they’d hunt, shoot, fish, frolic, and gamble,In short, to dispense with a longer preamble,They so loved each other,That Corsican Brother,Or Damon, or Pythias, or Siamese twin,Ne’er cared for his friend, or his kith or his kin,As did Blutwurst for Rupert: they ne’er knew division,But were like Box and Cox in a German edition.Mr. Coleridge says, “Truth, that exists in the young,Too often is killed by a whispering tongue;”And this proved the case between Blutwurst and Rupert.The former, perhaps, in his language was too pert;For having committed some irregularities,Whichhecalled “peccadilloes,” but others “barbarities,”Sir Rupert declined to subscribe to some charitiesWhich Blutwurst advised as a species of “hedge.”Then the latter blazed out;—the “thin end of the wedge”Being thus once inserted, the matter grew serious.Each spake words of high disdainAnd insult to his heart’s best brother—“Just repeat those words again!”“You’re a scoundrel!” “You’re another!”With curses and oaths, to repeat which would weary us,Till from furious words they proceeded to blows.Who first drew his rapier nobody knows;But Hans, the old seneschal, sitting down stairs,Heard a shriek, then a plunge in the river, he swears;And going up found Rupert, all haggard and wan,Who stated that Blutwurst had started for Bonn,And requested that thither his bag be sent on.This story gained ground,Till the body was foundA great distance off—in fact, down at Dusseldorf,Whence the horrified finder all hurriedly bustled offTo tell Blutwurst’s parents the terrible news.A coroner’s inquest was held on the body,Where, after much talking and more Hollands toddy,Much anger, much squabbling, and dreadful abuse,They found that, “returning home, muddled with wine,The deceased had been murdered and flung in the Rhine,By some persons unknown, with malicious design!”To Rupert no blame e’er attached in the matter;Poor Blutwurst was called mad, “as mad as a hatter,”For drinking so much as to fall from his perch.And now, if you please, we’ll return to the castle,Where I think we shall find that, fatigued by the wassail,With two small exceptions, each master and vassalMay safely be reckoned as “fast as a church.”Fair Margaret sits at her toilette-glass,And rests her head on her snow-white hand;Through her throbbing brain what visions pass,As over her shoulders there falls a massOf curls, ne’er touched by the crimping brand;She thinks of Sir Rupert’s attentions that night,And of them, too, she thinks less with pleasure than fright;For his great leering eyesSeem before her to rise,And she looks o’er her shoulder, and shivers and sighs,For the room is so large, and the pictures so grim,And the wind howls so loud, and her light burns so dim,And she sees in the mirror, not herself, buthim.Yes! he kneels at her side;Says he wont be denied;And calls her “his dear little duck of a bride!”His utt’rance is thick, his cravat is untied,And his face is as red as a new Murray’s Guide;His gait is unsteady, his manner so rude,It’s plain to perceive that Sir Rupert is “screwed.”But he touches his heart, and he turns up his eyes,And by language and gesture most earnestly triesTo convince her that ne’er from his knees will he rise,Till to wed on the morrow she freely complies.If you’ve seen Mrs. KeanIn that excellent sceneWhich she with Mr. Wigan so forcibly plays,In Bourcicault’s comedy, “Love in a Maze,”When her scorn for her tempter, her love for her spouse,In language theatrical, “bring down the house,”You can fancy how Margaret, deeply enraged,And backed up by the feeling that she was engagedTo Otto Von Rosen, the dearest of men,Rejected Sir Rupert at once, there and then.In vain he implored,Declared himself “floored.”Wept by turns and entreated, then ranted and roared;She still was disdainful,And said “it was painfulTo witness the friend of her brother so lowered.”Till, maddened with fury, he seized her, and said—“Be mine, or thou’rt numbered this night with the dead.No maiden has yet refused Rupert the Red!”That instant there rang through the castle a shriek—Compared with which e’en Madame Celeste’s are weak—The chamber-doors fell with a terrible crash,And with, under his left arm, a yet gory gash—Come forth from his grave,Stood Blutwurst the brave,Who’d arrived just in time his poor sister to save.Sir Rupert gazed at him a second or more,Made one strong exclamation, then sunk on the floor.From every side a swarming tide of vassals pour amain,And, struggling with each other, the fatal room they gain,And quickly entering, they find fair Margaret in a swoon,They cut the lace that holds her ⸺, base must be the man who’d ownThat such a garment now exists; with water from CologneThey sprinkle her, and she revives, and sweetly smiles once more,And points to what appears a heap of ashes on the floor!Alas! ’twas so; the gallant knight, the former “man of mark,”Is fitted now for nought but dust for Stapleton or Darke;All shrivelled into nothingness, a horrid mass he lay,His projects vanished into smoke, himself a yard of clay!And never from that hour has anything been seen,Except the ruin pointed out to Robinson or Green,That e’er pertained to him of all the Rhenish clans the head,To him, the hero of my song, Sir Rupert called the Red.
Sir Rupert the Red was as gallant a knightAs ever did battle for wrong or for right,As ever resented the slightest slight,Or broke an antagonist’s head.Full tall was his stature, full stalwart his frame,Full red was his hair, his beard was the same,Mustachios and whiskers—whence his name,His name of Sir Rupert the Red.
Sir Rupert the Red was as gallant a knight
As ever did battle for wrong or for right,
As ever resented the slightest slight,
Or broke an antagonist’s head.
Full tall was his stature, full stalwart his frame,
Full red was his hair, his beard was the same,
Mustachios and whiskers—whence his name,
His name of Sir Rupert the Red.
Sir Rupert he lived in a castle old,Residence meet for a baron bold:Thick were its walls, and dark and coldThe swift Rhine ran below them.Full handy to Rupert the Red was the Rhine:Rich travellers passing were asked to dine,And when he’d sufficiently hocussed their wine,Why—into its waters he’d throw them!
Sir Rupert he lived in a castle old,
Residence meet for a baron bold:
Thick were its walls, and dark and cold
The swift Rhine ran below them.
Full handy to Rupert the Red was the Rhine:
Rich travellers passing were asked to dine,
And when he’d sufficiently hocussed their wine,
Why—into its waters he’d throw them!
But stories will spread, howe’er you may tryTo stifle Dame Rumour—and so, by-and-bye,He found himself shunned by all far and nigh;And when asked to dinner, each neighbour fought shy.The bell ne’er was rung, and no stranger imploredThe porter to run up, and question his lordIf he kindly would grant a night’s shelter and board?No priest on Sir Rupert’s head called down a benison,No acquaintance sent presents of black-cock and venison.While his former bad temper began to grow worse,He would mutter and fidget—nay, stamp, foam, and curse;But his feelings I’ll try to describe in the verseMost used by our Alfred—not Bunn though, but Tennyson.
But stories will spread, howe’er you may try
To stifle Dame Rumour—and so, by-and-bye,
He found himself shunned by all far and nigh;
And when asked to dinner, each neighbour fought shy.
The bell ne’er was rung, and no stranger implored
The porter to run up, and question his lord
If he kindly would grant a night’s shelter and board?
No priest on Sir Rupert’s head called down a benison,
No acquaintance sent presents of black-cock and venison.
While his former bad temper began to grow worse,
He would mutter and fidget—nay, stamp, foam, and curse;
But his feelings I’ll try to describe in the verse
Most used by our Alfred—not Bunn though, but Tennyson.
Very early in the morning would he, tumbling out of bed,Mow his chin with wretched razor, mow and hack it till it bled;Then he’d curse the harmless cutler, heap upon him curses deep—Curse him in his hour of waking, doubly curse him in his sleep—Saying, “Mechi! O my Mechi! O my Mechi, mine no more,Whither’s fled that brilliant sharpness which thy razors had of yore,Ere thou quittedst Leadenhall-street, quittedst it with many a qualm—Ere thou soughtest rustic Tiptree, Tiptree and its model farm?Many a morning, by the mirror, did I pass thee o’er my beard,And my chin grew smooth beneath thee, of its hairy harvest cleared;Many an evening have I drawn thee ’cross the throats of wretched Jews,When they, trembling, showed their purses, stuffed for safety in their shoes.But, like mine, thy day is over—thou art blunt and I’m disgraced!Curses on thy maker’s projects, curses on his ‘magic paste.’”
Very early in the morning would he, tumbling out of bed,
Mow his chin with wretched razor, mow and hack it till it bled;
Then he’d curse the harmless cutler, heap upon him curses deep—
Curse him in his hour of waking, doubly curse him in his sleep—
Saying, “Mechi! O my Mechi! O my Mechi, mine no more,
Whither’s fled that brilliant sharpness which thy razors had of yore,
Ere thou quittedst Leadenhall-street, quittedst it with many a qualm—
Ere thou soughtest rustic Tiptree, Tiptree and its model farm?
Many a morning, by the mirror, did I pass thee o’er my beard,
And my chin grew smooth beneath thee, of its hairy harvest cleared;
Many an evening have I drawn thee ’cross the throats of wretched Jews,
When they, trembling, showed their purses, stuffed for safety in their shoes.
But, like mine, thy day is over—thou art blunt and I’m disgraced!
Curses on thy maker’s projects, curses on his ‘magic paste.’”
Thus he grumbled all day, from morning till night—No person could please him, no conduct was right—Till his very retainers grew furious quite,And determined to quit his service.For much afflicted was Seneschal Hans;While the groom from York told the cook from France“He warn’t going to be led such a precious danceIn a house turned topsy-turvies.”
Thus he grumbled all day, from morning till night—
No person could please him, no conduct was right—
Till his very retainers grew furious quite,
And determined to quit his service.
For much afflicted was Seneschal Hans;
While the groom from York told the cook from France
“He warn’t going to be led such a precious dance
In a house turned topsy-turvies.”
Oh, “the castled crag of Drachenfels,”With its slippery sides and flowery dells,Is a very romantic sight for “swells”Who leave the squares of Belgravia,And during the autumn visit the Rhine,With courier hirsute and footman fine,Who are both eternally drinking wine,Though the last “don’t like the flaviour.”
Oh, “the castled crag of Drachenfels,”
With its slippery sides and flowery dells,
Is a very romantic sight for “swells”
Who leave the squares of Belgravia,
And during the autumn visit the Rhine,
With courier hirsute and footman fine,
Who are both eternally drinking wine,
Though the last “don’t like the flaviour.”
But Drachenfels was a different sightOn a dark, tempestuous winter’s night;Then below it the river was foaming white,And above it the storm-fiend strode:On such a night, from his own red room,Sir Rupert looked out athwart the gloomTo see what might “in the future loom,”Or be coming up the road.
But Drachenfels was a different sight
On a dark, tempestuous winter’s night;
Then below it the river was foaming white,
And above it the storm-fiend strode:
On such a night, from his own red room,
Sir Rupert looked out athwart the gloom
To see what might “in the future loom,”
Or be coming up the road.
He strained his weary eye-balls, but well was he repaidTo see a troop of travellers advancing up the glade.Flanked round with equerries and guards, a wealthy host they seemed,And Sir Rupert’s heart grew lighter, and his eye more brightly beamed;For many a day had passed away since he a prize had won,And no hand had touched his bell save that of poursuivant or dun.
He strained his weary eye-balls, but well was he repaid
To see a troop of travellers advancing up the glade.
Flanked round with equerries and guards, a wealthy host they seemed,
And Sir Rupert’s heart grew lighter, and his eye more brightly beamed;
For many a day had passed away since he a prize had won,
And no hand had touched his bell save that of poursuivant or dun.
“Now haste ye,” he cried, “throw open the gate,And let the drawbridge fall;”Then three little pages, with hair combed straight,Who ever upon Sir Rupert wait,Ran off to the warden tall.
“Now haste ye,” he cried, “throw open the gate,
And let the drawbridge fall;”
Then three little pages, with hair combed straight,
Who ever upon Sir Rupert wait,
Ran off to the warden tall.
The drawbridge falls, and the company cross,In number say fifty,i. e., man and horse.First comes a gay herald, all silver and blue,And then men in armour, who ride two and two;Not such Guys as are seen on the ninth of November,But your regular middle-age troopers, remember.By the way, this last rhymeAppertains to a timeMuch thought of in childhood, by schoolboys called “prime,”When young Hopeful’s small pocketsAre emptied for rockets,And eyebrows are burnt, and arms torn out of sockets—When you’re begged (and the tyrants take care you do not)Ne’er to cease to remember the Gunpowder-plot.The herald stept forth, and he made a low bow—If you’ve seen Mr. PayneAt old Drury Lane,In the opening part of a grand Christmas pantomime,Do tricks, to describe which my Muse fails for want o’ rhyme—Please to fancy my herald does just the same now;And his trumpet he blows, and his throat well he clears,And he twists his mustachios right up to his ears,Looks, as usual with speakers, in dreadful distress,And thus to Sir Rupert begins his address.
The drawbridge falls, and the company cross,
In number say fifty,i. e., man and horse.
First comes a gay herald, all silver and blue,
And then men in armour, who ride two and two;
Not such Guys as are seen on the ninth of November,
But your regular middle-age troopers, remember.
By the way, this last rhyme
Appertains to a time
Much thought of in childhood, by schoolboys called “prime,”
When young Hopeful’s small pockets
Are emptied for rockets,
And eyebrows are burnt, and arms torn out of sockets—
When you’re begged (and the tyrants take care you do not)
Ne’er to cease to remember the Gunpowder-plot.
The herald stept forth, and he made a low bow—
If you’ve seen Mr. Payne
At old Drury Lane,
In the opening part of a grand Christmas pantomime,
Do tricks, to describe which my Muse fails for want o’ rhyme—
Please to fancy my herald does just the same now;
And his trumpet he blows, and his throat well he clears,
And he twists his mustachios right up to his ears,
Looks, as usual with speakers, in dreadful distress,
And thus to Sir Rupert begins his address.
“Sir Rupert the Red,To you I have spedFrom a dame with whose brother you’ve conquered and bled,Who, benighted by chance in this dismal locality,Has ventured to ask for a night’s hospitality.No refusal I fearWhen her name you once hear;Therefore learn that the dame for whom shelter I crave,Is Margaret, the sister of Blutwurst the Brave!”
“Sir Rupert the Red,
To you I have sped
From a dame with whose brother you’ve conquered and bled,
Who, benighted by chance in this dismal locality,
Has ventured to ask for a night’s hospitality.
No refusal I fear
When her name you once hear;
Therefore learn that the dame for whom shelter I crave,
Is Margaret, the sister of Blutwurst the Brave!”
Thus spake the gay herald. Sir Rupert replied,“’Tis well known that my castle is never deniedTo pilgrims of all countries, nations, and hues,From swaggering English to gold-lending Jews;How great, then, my joy ’neath my roof to receiveThe sister of oneWhom I loved as a son,For whose tragical end I have ne’er ceased to grieve.”
Thus spake the gay herald. Sir Rupert replied,
“’Tis well known that my castle is never denied
To pilgrims of all countries, nations, and hues,
From swaggering English to gold-lending Jews;
How great, then, my joy ’neath my roof to receive
The sister of one
Whom I loved as a son,
For whose tragical end I have ne’er ceased to grieve.”
Thus much to the herald. Then, turning, he said,“Off, Wilhelm, at once, let the banquet be spread;Bring up some Moselles and some red Assmanshausers.Fritz, lay out my doublet and new Paris trousers,Tell Gretchen to hasten and clear out the bedroomThe lady will sleep in—let’s see—notthe red room.To put her in thereIs more than I dare;So where shall she go, in the purple or blue?Oh, give her the next room to mine, number two—Tell Eugéne to serve his best sauces and stews,And take care that, as soon as the cloth is removed,Old Max, of whose singing I oft have approved,Comes up with his harp—he will serve to amuse.”
Thus much to the herald. Then, turning, he said,
“Off, Wilhelm, at once, let the banquet be spread;
Bring up some Moselles and some red Assmanshausers.
Fritz, lay out my doublet and new Paris trousers,
Tell Gretchen to hasten and clear out the bedroom
The lady will sleep in—let’s see—notthe red room.
To put her in there
Is more than I dare;
So where shall she go, in the purple or blue?
Oh, give her the next room to mine, number two—
Tell Eugéne to serve his best sauces and stews,
And take care that, as soon as the cloth is removed,
Old Max, of whose singing I oft have approved,
Comes up with his harp—he will serve to amuse.”
The banquet is spread—At his table’s head,Decked out in gay garments, sits Rupert the Red;And close on his rightIs the queen of the night,Fair Marg’ret, whose beauty’s completely a sightFor a father,—aye, even for “Pater-familias,”—“Who of all slow papas is the veriest silly ass;Blue are her eyes as the clear vault of heaven,Pale her smooth brow, though some rose-bud has givenIts loveliest tint to that soft cheek and lip,Which ’twere worth a king’s ransom once only to sip;While the net-work of curls in her bonny brown hairHas entangled a sun-beam and prisoned it there.And Sir Rupert admired her, and flattered, and laughed,And his ardour grew warmer the deeper he quaffed;He touched her fair fingers whene’er he was able,And in error pressed warmly the leg of the table;Till Rudolf von Gansen, a merry young spark(Who was given to hoaxing and “having a lark,”Addicted to laughing,And humour called “chaffing,”And dining, and wine-ing, and e’en half-and-half-ing,And gambling, and vices called “having your fling”),Exclaimed to Hans König (in English, Jack King),“By Jove, Hans, the gov’nor’s hit under the wing!”
The banquet is spread—
At his table’s head,
Decked out in gay garments, sits Rupert the Red;
And close on his right
Is the queen of the night,
Fair Marg’ret, whose beauty’s completely a sight
For a father,—aye, even for “Pater-familias,”—
“Who of all slow papas is the veriest silly ass;
Blue are her eyes as the clear vault of heaven,
Pale her smooth brow, though some rose-bud has given
Its loveliest tint to that soft cheek and lip,
Which ’twere worth a king’s ransom once only to sip;
While the net-work of curls in her bonny brown hair
Has entangled a sun-beam and prisoned it there.
And Sir Rupert admired her, and flattered, and laughed,
And his ardour grew warmer the deeper he quaffed;
He touched her fair fingers whene’er he was able,
And in error pressed warmly the leg of the table;
Till Rudolf von Gansen, a merry young spark
(Who was given to hoaxing and “having a lark,”
Addicted to laughing,
And humour called “chaffing,”
And dining, and wine-ing, and e’en half-and-half-ing,
And gambling, and vices called “having your fling”),
Exclaimed to Hans König (in English, Jack King),
“By Jove, Hans, the gov’nor’s hit under the wing!”
“Now come hither, old Max,” Sir Rupert cried,“And sing us a merry song,Or tell us of Siegfried’s blooming bride,Or the priest who was plunged in the Rhine’s cold tideFor indulging his wishes wrong.”
“Now come hither, old Max,” Sir Rupert cried,
“And sing us a merry song,
Or tell us of Siegfried’s blooming bride,
Or the priest who was plunged in the Rhine’s cold tide
For indulging his wishes wrong.”
The old man sung a sentimental strain,A song of love, its wishes, hopes, and fears;And while he sung his colour came again,His eye blazed brightly as in former years,When it was quickly kindled by disdain,Nor dimmed, as often now, by bitter tears.These very words, with true poetic fire,He once for glory sung, but now for hire!
The old man sung a sentimental strain,
A song of love, its wishes, hopes, and fears;
And while he sung his colour came again,
His eye blazed brightly as in former years,
When it was quickly kindled by disdain,
Nor dimmed, as often now, by bitter tears.
These very words, with true poetic fire,
He once for glory sung, but now for hire!
And, while he sings, they vanish from his sight,The knights, the ladies gay, the very room!Once more a youth, with eyes and prospects bright,He sings to her, now mould’ring in the tomb,Ere Age and Poverty’s overwhelming blightFrom Life’s first blushing flowers had robbed the bloom.Sweet season, long expected, quickly past,In youth Love’s fire too fiercely burns to last!
And, while he sings, they vanish from his sight,
The knights, the ladies gay, the very room!
Once more a youth, with eyes and prospects bright,
He sings to her, now mould’ring in the tomb,
Ere Age and Poverty’s overwhelming blight
From Life’s first blushing flowers had robbed the bloom.
Sweet season, long expected, quickly past,
In youth Love’s fire too fiercely burns to last!
The minstrel’s song was no sooner done,Than ’twas plain that his lay had extinguished the fun,And yawning fearfully, one by one,They vanished knights and ladies.The lights were put out, not a single “glim”Shed its ray o’er the walls of that castle grim;And the banqueting hall was soon as dimAs ’tis said to be in Hades.
The minstrel’s song was no sooner done,
Than ’twas plain that his lay had extinguished the fun,
And yawning fearfully, one by one,
They vanished knights and ladies.
The lights were put out, not a single “glim”
Shed its ray o’er the walls of that castle grim;
And the banqueting hall was soon as dim
As ’tis said to be in Hades.
My story thus forward, I now must relateSome previous details concerning the fateOf that famous young hero, Sir Blutwurst the Great,Of whom I’ve just made mention—And so, to prevent the smallest mystery,Or the thread of my story from getting a twist awry,To his death, which took place ere the date of my history,I must call my readers’ attention.
My story thus forward, I now must relate
Some previous details concerning the fate
Of that famous young hero, Sir Blutwurst the Great,
Of whom I’ve just made mention—
And so, to prevent the smallest mystery,
Or the thread of my story from getting a twist awry,
To his death, which took place ere the date of my history,
I must call my readers’ attention.
Blutwurst and Rupert were two pretty menAs ever were sketched by pencil or pen—Together they’d hunt, shoot, fish, frolic, and gamble,In short, to dispense with a longer preamble,They so loved each other,That Corsican Brother,Or Damon, or Pythias, or Siamese twin,Ne’er cared for his friend, or his kith or his kin,As did Blutwurst for Rupert: they ne’er knew division,But were like Box and Cox in a German edition.Mr. Coleridge says, “Truth, that exists in the young,Too often is killed by a whispering tongue;”And this proved the case between Blutwurst and Rupert.The former, perhaps, in his language was too pert;For having committed some irregularities,Whichhecalled “peccadilloes,” but others “barbarities,”Sir Rupert declined to subscribe to some charitiesWhich Blutwurst advised as a species of “hedge.”Then the latter blazed out;—the “thin end of the wedge”Being thus once inserted, the matter grew serious.Each spake words of high disdainAnd insult to his heart’s best brother—“Just repeat those words again!”“You’re a scoundrel!” “You’re another!”With curses and oaths, to repeat which would weary us,Till from furious words they proceeded to blows.Who first drew his rapier nobody knows;But Hans, the old seneschal, sitting down stairs,Heard a shriek, then a plunge in the river, he swears;And going up found Rupert, all haggard and wan,Who stated that Blutwurst had started for Bonn,And requested that thither his bag be sent on.This story gained ground,Till the body was foundA great distance off—in fact, down at Dusseldorf,Whence the horrified finder all hurriedly bustled offTo tell Blutwurst’s parents the terrible news.A coroner’s inquest was held on the body,Where, after much talking and more Hollands toddy,Much anger, much squabbling, and dreadful abuse,They found that, “returning home, muddled with wine,The deceased had been murdered and flung in the Rhine,By some persons unknown, with malicious design!”To Rupert no blame e’er attached in the matter;Poor Blutwurst was called mad, “as mad as a hatter,”For drinking so much as to fall from his perch.And now, if you please, we’ll return to the castle,Where I think we shall find that, fatigued by the wassail,With two small exceptions, each master and vassalMay safely be reckoned as “fast as a church.”Fair Margaret sits at her toilette-glass,And rests her head on her snow-white hand;Through her throbbing brain what visions pass,As over her shoulders there falls a massOf curls, ne’er touched by the crimping brand;She thinks of Sir Rupert’s attentions that night,And of them, too, she thinks less with pleasure than fright;For his great leering eyesSeem before her to rise,And she looks o’er her shoulder, and shivers and sighs,For the room is so large, and the pictures so grim,And the wind howls so loud, and her light burns so dim,And she sees in the mirror, not herself, buthim.Yes! he kneels at her side;Says he wont be denied;And calls her “his dear little duck of a bride!”His utt’rance is thick, his cravat is untied,And his face is as red as a new Murray’s Guide;His gait is unsteady, his manner so rude,It’s plain to perceive that Sir Rupert is “screwed.”But he touches his heart, and he turns up his eyes,And by language and gesture most earnestly triesTo convince her that ne’er from his knees will he rise,Till to wed on the morrow she freely complies.
Blutwurst and Rupert were two pretty men
As ever were sketched by pencil or pen—
Together they’d hunt, shoot, fish, frolic, and gamble,
In short, to dispense with a longer preamble,
They so loved each other,
That Corsican Brother,
Or Damon, or Pythias, or Siamese twin,
Ne’er cared for his friend, or his kith or his kin,
As did Blutwurst for Rupert: they ne’er knew division,
But were like Box and Cox in a German edition.
Mr. Coleridge says, “Truth, that exists in the young,
Too often is killed by a whispering tongue;”
And this proved the case between Blutwurst and Rupert.
The former, perhaps, in his language was too pert;
For having committed some irregularities,
Whichhecalled “peccadilloes,” but others “barbarities,”
Sir Rupert declined to subscribe to some charities
Which Blutwurst advised as a species of “hedge.”
Then the latter blazed out;—the “thin end of the wedge”
Being thus once inserted, the matter grew serious.
Each spake words of high disdain
And insult to his heart’s best brother—
“Just repeat those words again!”
“You’re a scoundrel!” “You’re another!”
With curses and oaths, to repeat which would weary us,
Till from furious words they proceeded to blows.
Who first drew his rapier nobody knows;
But Hans, the old seneschal, sitting down stairs,
Heard a shriek, then a plunge in the river, he swears;
And going up found Rupert, all haggard and wan,
Who stated that Blutwurst had started for Bonn,
And requested that thither his bag be sent on.
This story gained ground,
Till the body was found
A great distance off—in fact, down at Dusseldorf,
Whence the horrified finder all hurriedly bustled off
To tell Blutwurst’s parents the terrible news.
A coroner’s inquest was held on the body,
Where, after much talking and more Hollands toddy,
Much anger, much squabbling, and dreadful abuse,
They found that, “returning home, muddled with wine,
The deceased had been murdered and flung in the Rhine,
By some persons unknown, with malicious design!”
To Rupert no blame e’er attached in the matter;
Poor Blutwurst was called mad, “as mad as a hatter,”
For drinking so much as to fall from his perch.
And now, if you please, we’ll return to the castle,
Where I think we shall find that, fatigued by the wassail,
With two small exceptions, each master and vassal
May safely be reckoned as “fast as a church.”
Fair Margaret sits at her toilette-glass,
And rests her head on her snow-white hand;
Through her throbbing brain what visions pass,
As over her shoulders there falls a mass
Of curls, ne’er touched by the crimping brand;
She thinks of Sir Rupert’s attentions that night,
And of them, too, she thinks less with pleasure than fright;
For his great leering eyes
Seem before her to rise,
And she looks o’er her shoulder, and shivers and sighs,
For the room is so large, and the pictures so grim,
And the wind howls so loud, and her light burns so dim,
And she sees in the mirror, not herself, buthim.
Yes! he kneels at her side;
Says he wont be denied;
And calls her “his dear little duck of a bride!”
His utt’rance is thick, his cravat is untied,
And his face is as red as a new Murray’s Guide;
His gait is unsteady, his manner so rude,
It’s plain to perceive that Sir Rupert is “screwed.”
But he touches his heart, and he turns up his eyes,
And by language and gesture most earnestly tries
To convince her that ne’er from his knees will he rise,
Till to wed on the morrow she freely complies.
If you’ve seen Mrs. KeanIn that excellent sceneWhich she with Mr. Wigan so forcibly plays,In Bourcicault’s comedy, “Love in a Maze,”When her scorn for her tempter, her love for her spouse,In language theatrical, “bring down the house,”You can fancy how Margaret, deeply enraged,And backed up by the feeling that she was engagedTo Otto Von Rosen, the dearest of men,Rejected Sir Rupert at once, there and then.In vain he implored,Declared himself “floored.”Wept by turns and entreated, then ranted and roared;She still was disdainful,And said “it was painfulTo witness the friend of her brother so lowered.”Till, maddened with fury, he seized her, and said—“Be mine, or thou’rt numbered this night with the dead.No maiden has yet refused Rupert the Red!”
If you’ve seen Mrs. Kean
In that excellent scene
Which she with Mr. Wigan so forcibly plays,
In Bourcicault’s comedy, “Love in a Maze,”
When her scorn for her tempter, her love for her spouse,
In language theatrical, “bring down the house,”
You can fancy how Margaret, deeply enraged,
And backed up by the feeling that she was engaged
To Otto Von Rosen, the dearest of men,
Rejected Sir Rupert at once, there and then.
In vain he implored,
Declared himself “floored.”
Wept by turns and entreated, then ranted and roared;
She still was disdainful,
And said “it was painful
To witness the friend of her brother so lowered.”
Till, maddened with fury, he seized her, and said—
“Be mine, or thou’rt numbered this night with the dead.
No maiden has yet refused Rupert the Red!”
That instant there rang through the castle a shriek—Compared with which e’en Madame Celeste’s are weak—The chamber-doors fell with a terrible crash,And with, under his left arm, a yet gory gash—Come forth from his grave,Stood Blutwurst the brave,Who’d arrived just in time his poor sister to save.Sir Rupert gazed at him a second or more,Made one strong exclamation, then sunk on the floor.
That instant there rang through the castle a shriek—
Compared with which e’en Madame Celeste’s are weak—
The chamber-doors fell with a terrible crash,
And with, under his left arm, a yet gory gash—
Come forth from his grave,
Stood Blutwurst the brave,
Who’d arrived just in time his poor sister to save.
Sir Rupert gazed at him a second or more,
Made one strong exclamation, then sunk on the floor.
From every side a swarming tide of vassals pour amain,And, struggling with each other, the fatal room they gain,And quickly entering, they find fair Margaret in a swoon,They cut the lace that holds her ⸺, base must be the man who’d ownThat such a garment now exists; with water from CologneThey sprinkle her, and she revives, and sweetly smiles once more,And points to what appears a heap of ashes on the floor!
From every side a swarming tide of vassals pour amain,
And, struggling with each other, the fatal room they gain,
And quickly entering, they find fair Margaret in a swoon,
They cut the lace that holds her ⸺, base must be the man who’d own
That such a garment now exists; with water from Cologne
They sprinkle her, and she revives, and sweetly smiles once more,
And points to what appears a heap of ashes on the floor!
Alas! ’twas so; the gallant knight, the former “man of mark,”Is fitted now for nought but dust for Stapleton or Darke;All shrivelled into nothingness, a horrid mass he lay,His projects vanished into smoke, himself a yard of clay!
Alas! ’twas so; the gallant knight, the former “man of mark,”
Is fitted now for nought but dust for Stapleton or Darke;
All shrivelled into nothingness, a horrid mass he lay,
His projects vanished into smoke, himself a yard of clay!
And never from that hour has anything been seen,Except the ruin pointed out to Robinson or Green,That e’er pertained to him of all the Rhenish clans the head,To him, the hero of my song, Sir Rupert called the Red.
And never from that hour has anything been seen,
Except the ruin pointed out to Robinson or Green,
That e’er pertained to him of all the Rhenish clans the head,
To him, the hero of my song, Sir Rupert called the Red.
E. H. Y.
SIR RUPERT THE RED—p. 79.
SIR RUPERT THE RED—p. 79.