Withsaddest music all day longShe soothed her secret sorrow:At night she sighed “I fear ’twas wrongSuch cheerful words to borrow.Dearest, a sweeter, sadder songI’ll sing to thee to-morrow.”
I thanked her, but I could not sayThat I was glad to hear it:I left the house at break of day,And did not venture near itTill time, I hoped, had worn awayHer grief, for nought could cheer it!
At night she signed
My dismal sister! Couldst thou knowThe wretched home thou keepest!Thy brother, drowned in daily woe,Is thankful when thou sleepest;For if I laugh, however low,When thou’rt awake, thou weepest!
I took my sister t’other day(Excuse the slang expression)To Sadler’s Wells to see the playIn hopes the new impressionMight in her thoughts, from grave to gayEffect some slight digression.
I asked three gay young dogs from townTo join us in our folly,Whose mirth, I thought, might serve to drownMy sister’s melancholy:The lively Jones, the sportive Brown,And Robinson the jolly.
The maid announced the meal in tonesThat I myself had taught her,Meant to allay my sister’s moansLike oil on troubled water:I rushed to Jones, the lively Jones,And begged him to escort her.
Vainly he strove, with ready wit,To joke about the weather—To ventilate the last ‘on dit’—To quote the price of leather—She groaned “Here I and Sorrow sit:Let us lament together!”
I urged “You’re wasting time, you know:Delay will spoil the venison.”“My heart is wasted with my woe!There is no rest—in Venice, onThe Bridge of Sighs!” she quoted lowFrom Byron and from Tennyson.
I need not tell of soup and fishIn solemn silence swallowed,The sobs that ushered in each dish,And its departure followed,Nor yet my suicidal wishTobethe cheese I hollowed.
Some desperate attempts were madeTo start a conversation;“Madam,” the sportive Brown essayed,“Which kind of recreation,Hunting or fishing, have you madeYour special occupation?”
Her lips curved downwards instantly,As if of india-rubber.“Houndsin full cryI like,” said she:(Oh how I longed to snub her!)“Of fish, a whale’s the one for me,It is so full of blubber!”
The night’s performance was “King John.”“It’s dull,” she wept, “and so-so!”Awhile I let her tears flow on,She said they soothed her woe so!At length the curtain rose upon‘Bombastes Furioso.’
In vain we roared; in vain we triedTo rouse her into laughter:Her pensive glances wandered wideFrom orchestra to rafter—“Tier upon tier!” she said, and sighed;And silence followed after.
Sighing at the table
[Sent to a friend who had complained that I was glad enough to see him when he came, but didn’t seem to miss him if he stayed away.]
And cannot pleasures, while they last,Be actual unless, when past,They leave us shuddering and aghast,With anguish smarting?And cannot friends be firm and fast,And yet bear parting?
And must I then, at Friendship’s call,Calmly resign the little all(Trifling, I grant, it is and small)I have of gladness,And lend my being to the thrallOf gloom and sadness?
And think you that I should be dumb,And fulldolorum omnium,Excepting whenyouchoose to comeAnd share my dinner?At other times be sour and glumAnd daily thinner?
Must he then only live to weep,Who’d prove his friendship true and deepBy day a lonely shadow creep,At night-time languish,Oft raising in his broken sleepThe moan of anguish?
The lover, if for certain daysHis fair one be denied his gaze,Sinks not in grief and wild amaze,But, wiser wooer,He spends the time in writing lays,And posts them to her.
And if the verse flow free and fast,Till even the poet is aghast,A touching Valentine at lastThe post shall carry,When thirteen days are gone and pastOf February.
Farewell, dear friend, and when we meet,In desert waste or crowded street,Perhaps before this week shall fleet,Perhaps to-morrow.I trust to findyourheart the seatOf wasting sorrow.
Hetrilled a carol fresh and free,He laughed aloud for very glee:There came a breeze from off the sea:
There came a breeze from off the sea
It passed athwart the glooming flat—It fanned his forehead as he sat—It lightly bore away his hat,
All to the feet of one who stoodLike maid enchanted in a wood,Frowning as darkly as she could.
With huge umbrella, lank and brown,Unerringly she pinned it down,Right through the centre of the crown.
Then, with an aspect cold and grim,Regardless of its battered rim,She took it up and gave it him.
A while like one in dreams he stood,Then faltered forth his gratitudeIn words just short of being rude:
For it had lost its shape and shine,And it had cost him four-and-nine,And he was going out to dine.
Unerringly she pinned it down
“To dine!” she sneered in acid tone.“To bend thy being to a boneClothed in a radiance not its own!”
The tear-drop trickled to his chin:There was a meaning in her grinThat made him feel on fire within.
“Term it not ‘radiance,’” said he:“’Tis solid nutriment to me.Dinner is Dinner: Tea is Tea.”
And she “Yea so? Yet wherefore cease?Let thy scant knowledge find increase.Say ‘Men are Men, and Geese are Geese.’”
He moaned: he knew not what to say.The thought “That I could get away!”Strove with the thought “But I must stay.
“To dine!” she shrieked in dragon-wrath.“To swallow wines all foam and froth!To simper at a table-cloth!
“Say, can thy noble spirit stoopTo join the gormandising troupWho find a solace in the soup?
“Canst thou desire or pie or puff?Thy well-bred manners were enough,Without such gross material stuff.”
“Yet well-bred men,” he faintly said,“Are not willing to be fed:Nor are they well without the bread.”
Her visage scorched him ere she spoke:“There are,” she said, “a kind of folkWho have no horror of a joke.
“Such wretches live: they take their shareOf common earth and common air:We come across them here and there:
“We grant them—there is no escape—A sort of semi-human shapeSuggestive of the man-like Ape.”
“In all such theories,” said he,“One fixed exception there must be.That is, the Present Company.”
Baffled, she gave a wolfish bark:He, aiming blindly in the dark,With random shaft had pierced the mark.
She felt that her defeat was plain,Yet madly strove with might and mainTo get the upper hand again.
Fixing her eyes upon the beach,As though unconscious of his speech,She said “Each gives to more than each.”
He could not answer yea or nay:He faltered “Gifts may pass away.”Yet knew not what he meant to say.
“If that be so,” she straight replied,“Each heart with each doth coincide.What boots it? For the world is wide.”
He faltered “Gifts may pass away”
“The world is but a Thought,” said he:“The vast unfathomable seaIs but a Notion—unto me.”
And darkly fell her answer dreadUpon his unresisting head,Like half a hundredweight of lead.
“The Good and Great must ever shunThat reckless and abandoned oneWho stoops to perpetrate a pun.
“The man that smokes—that reads theTimes—That goes to Christmas Pantomimes—Is capable ofanycrimes!”
He felt it was his turn to speak,And, with a shamed and crimson cheek,Moaned “This is harder than Bezique!”
But when she asked him “Wherefore so?”He felt his very whiskers glow,And frankly owned “I do not know.”
This is harder than Bezique!
While, like broad waves of golden grain,Or sunlit hues on cloistered pane,His colour came and went again.
Pitying his obvious distress,Yet with a tinge of bitterness,She said “The More exceeds the Less.”
“A truth of such undoubted weight,”He urged, “and so extreme in date,It were superfluous to state.”
Roused into sudden passion, sheIn tone of cold malignity:“To others, yea: but not to thee.”
But when she saw him quail and quake,And when he urged “For pity’s sake!”Once more in gentle tones she spake.
“Thought in the mind doth still abideThat is by Intellect supplied,And within that Idea doth hide:
“And he, that yearns the truth to know,Still further inwardly may go,And find Idea from Notion flow:
“And thus the chain, that sages sought,Is to a glorious circle wrought,For Notion hath its source in Thought.”
So passed they on with even pace:Yet gradually one might traceA shadow growing on his face.
A shadow growing on his face
They walked beside the wave-worn beach
They walked beside the wave-worn beach;Her tongue was very apt to teach,And now and then he did beseech
She would abate her dulcet tone,Because the talk was all her own,And he was dull as any drone.
She urged “No cheese is made of chalk”:And ceaseless flowed her dreary talk,Tuned to the footfall of a walk.
Her voice was very full and rich,And, when at length she asked him “Which?”It mounted to its highest pitch.
He a bewildered answer gave,Drowned in the sullen moaning wave,Lost in the echoes of the cave.
He answered her he knew not what:Like shaft from bow at random shot,He spoke, but she regarded not.
She waited not for his reply,But with a downward leaden eyeWent on as if he were not by
Sound argument and grave defence,Strange questions raised on “Why?” and “Whence?”And wildly tangled evidence.
When he, with racked and whirling brain,Feebly implored her to explain,She simply said it all again.
Wrenched with an agony intense,He spake, neglecting Sound and Sense,And careless of all consequence:
“Mind—I believe—is Essence—Ent—Abstract—that is—an Accident—Which we—that is to say—I meant—”
When, with quick breath and cheeks all flushed,At length his speech was somewhat hushed,She looked at him, and he was crushed.
It needed not her calm reply:She fixed him with a stony eye,And he could neither fight nor fly.
While she dissected, word by word,His speech, half guessed at and half heard,As might a cat a little bird.
He spake, neglecting Sound and Sense
Then, having wholly overthrownHis views, and stripped them to the bone,Proceeded to unfold her own.
“Shall Man be Man? And shall he missOf other thoughts no thought but this,Harmonious dews of sober bliss?
“What boots it? Shall his fevered eyeThrough towering nothingness descryThe grisly phantom hurry by?
“And hear dumb shrieks that fill the air;See mouths that gape, and eyes that stareAnd redden in the dusky glare?
“The meadows breathing amber light,The darkness toppling from the height,The feathery train of granite Night?
“Shall he, grown gray among his peers,Through the thick curtain of his tearsCatch glimpses of his earlier years,
Shall Man be Man?
“And hear the sounds he knew of yore,Old shufflings on the sanded floor,Old knuckles tapping at the door?
“Yet still before him as he fliesOne pallid form shall ever rise,And, bodying forth in glassy eyes
“The vision of a vanished good,Low peering through the tangled wood,Shall freeze the current of his blood.”
Still from each fact, with skill uncouthAnd savage rapture, like a toothShe wrenched some slow reluctant truth.
Till, like a silent water-mill,When summer suns have dried the rill,She reached a full stop, and was still.
Dead calm succeeded to the fuss,As when the loaded omnibusHas reached the railway terminus:
When, for the tumult of the street,Is heard the engine’s stifled beat,The velvet tread of porters’ feet.
With glance that ever sought the ground,She moved her lips without a sound,And every now and then she frowned.
He gazed upon the sleeping sea,And joyed in its tranquillity,And in that silence dead, but she
To muse a little space did seem,Then, like the echo of a dream,Harked back upon her threadbare theme.
Still an attentive ear he lentBut could not fathom what she meant:She was not deep, nor eloquent.
He marked the ripple on the sand:The even swaying of her handWas all that he could understand.
He saw in dreams a drawing-room,Where thirteen wretches sat in gloom,Waiting—he thought he knew for whom:
He saw them drooping here and there,Each feebly huddled on a chair,In attitudes of blank despair:
Oysters were not more mute than they,For all their brains were pumped away,And they had nothing more to say—
Save one, who groaned “Three hours are gone!”Who shrieked “We’ll wait no longer, John!Tell them to set the dinner on!”
The vision passed: the ghosts were fled:He saw once more that woman dread:He heard once more the words she said.
He left her, and he turned aside:He sat and watched the coming tideAcross the shores so newly dried.
He sat and watched the coming tide
He wondered at the waters clear,The breeze that whispered in his ear,The billows heaving far and near,
And why he had so long preferredTo hang upon her every word:“In truth,” he said, “it was absurd.”
He sits
Quick tears were raining down his face
Not long this transport held its place:Within a little moment’s spaceQuick tears were raining down his face
His heart stood still, aghast with fear;A wordless voice, nor far nor near,He seemed to hear and not to hear.
“Tears kindle not the doubtful spark.If so, why not? Of this remarkThe bearings are profoundly dark.”
“Her speech,” he said, “hath caused this pain.Easier I count it to explainThe jargon of the howling main,
“Or, stretched beside some babbling brook,To con, with inexpressive look,An unintelligible book.”
Low spake the voice within his head,In words imagined more than said,Soundless as ghost’s intended tread:
“If thou art duller than before,Why quittedst thou the voice of lore?Why not endure, expecting more?”
“Rather than that,” he groaned aghast,“I’d writhe in depths of cavern vast,Some loathly vampire’s rich repast.”
He groaned aghast
“’Twere hard,” it answered, “themes immenseTo coop within the narrow fenceThat ringsthyscant intelligence.”
“Not so,” he urged, “nor once alone:But there was something in her toneThat chilled me to the very bone.
“Her style was anything but clear,And most unpleasantly severe;Her epithets were very queer.
“And yet, so grand were her replies,I could not choose but deem her wise;I did not dare to criticise;
“Nor did I leave her, till she wentSo deep in tangled argumentThat all my powers of thought were spent.”
A little whisper inly slid,“Yet truth is truth: you know you did.”A little wink beneath the lid.
And, sickened with excess of dread,Prone to the dust he bent his head,And lay like one three-quarters dead
The whisper left him—like a breezeLost in the depths of leafy trees—Left him by no means at his ease.
Once more he weltered in despair,With hands, through denser-matted hair,More tightly clenched than then they were.
When, bathed in Dawn of living red,Majestic frowned the mountain head,“Tell me my fault,” was all he said.
When, at high Noon, the blazing skyScorched in his head each haggard eye,Then keenest rose his weary cry.
And when at Eve the unpitying sunSmiled grimly on the solemn fun,“Alack,” he sighed, “whathaveI done?”
Tortured, unaided, and alone
But saddest, darkest was the sight,When the cold grasp of leaden NightDashed him to earth, and held him tight.
Tortured, unaided, and alone,Thunders were silence to his groan,Bagpipes sweet music to its tone:
“What? Ever thus, in dismal round,Shall Pain and Mystery profoundPursue me like a sleepless hound,
“With crimson-dashed and eager jaws,Me, still in ignorance of the cause,Unknowing what I broke of laws?”
The whisper to his ear did seemLike echoed flow of silent stream,Or shadow of forgotten dream,
The whisper trembling in the wind:“Her fate with thine was intertwined,”So spake it in his inner mind:
a scared dullard, gibbering low
“Each orbed on each a baleful star:Each proved the other’s blight and bar:Each unto each were best, most far:
“Yea, each to each was worse than foe:Thou, a scared dullard, gibbering low,And she,an avalanche of woe!”
[Why is it that Poetry has never yet been subjected to that process of Dilution which has proved so advantageous to her sister-art Music? The Diluter gives us first a few notes of some well-known Air, then a dozen bars of his own, then a few more notes of the Air, and so on alternately: thus saving the listener, if not from all risk of recognising the melody at all, at least from the too-exciting transports which it might produce in a more concentrated form. The process is termed “setting” by Composers, and any one, that has ever experienced the emotion of being unexpectedly set down in a heap of mortar, will recognise the truthfulness of this happy phrase.
For truly, just as the genuine Epicure lingers lovingly over a morsel of supreme Venison—whose every fibre seems to murmur “Excelsior!”—yet swallows, ere returning to the toothsome dainty, great mouthfuls of oatmeal-porridge and winkles: and just as the perfect Connoisseur in Claret permits himself but one delicate sip, and then tosses off a pint or more of boarding-school beer: so also—
Ineverloved a dear Gazelle—Nor anything that cost me much:High prices profit those who sell,But why should I be fond of such?
To glad me with his soft black eyeMy son comes trotting home from school;He’s had a fight but can’t tell why—He always was a little fool!
But, when he came to know me well,He kicked me out,her testy Sire:And when I stained my hair,that BelleMight note the change,and thus admire
And love me, it was sure to dyeA muddy green or staring blue:Whilst one might trace,with half an eye,The still triumphant carrot through.
Five little girls
Fivelittle girls, of Five, Four, Three, Two, One:Rolling on the hearthrug, full of tricks and fun.
Five rosy girls, in years from Ten to Six:Sitting down to lessons—no more time for tricks.
Five growing girls, from Fifteen to Eleven:Music, Drawing, Languages, and food enough for seven!
Now tell me which you mean
Five winsome girls, from Twenty to Sixteen:Each young man that calls, I say “Now tell me which youmean!”
Five dashing girls, the youngest Twenty-one:But, if nobody proposes, what is there to be done?
Five showy girls—but Thirty is an ageWhen girls may beengaging, but they somehow don’tengage.
Five dressy girls, of Thirty-one or more:So gracious to the shy young men they snubbed so much before!
* * * *
Fivepasségirls—Their age? Well, never mind!We jog along together, like the rest of human kind:But the quondam “careless bachelor” begins to think he knowsThe answer to that ancient problem “how the money goes”!
Child on old man’s knee
“How shall I be a poet?How shall I write in rhyme?You told me once ‘the very wishPartook of the sublime.’Then tell me how! Don’t put me offWith your ‘another time’!”
The old man smiled to see him,To hear his sudden sally;He liked the lad to speak his mindEnthusiastically;And thought “There’s no hum-drum in him,Nor any shilly-shally.”
“And would you be a poetBefore you’ve been to school?Ah, well! I hardly thought youSo absolute a fool.First learn to be spasmodic—A very simple rule.
“For first you write a sentence,And then you chop it small;Then mix the bits, and sort them outJust as they chance to fall:The order of the phrases makesNo difference at all.
“Then, if you’d be impressive,Remember what I say,That abstract qualities beginWith capitals alway:The True, the Good, the Beautiful—Those are the things that pay!
“Next, when you are describingA shape, or sound, or tint;Don’t state the matter plainly,But put it in a hint;And learn to look at all thingsWith a sort of mental squint.”
“For instance, if I wished, Sir,Of mutton-pies to tell,Should I say ‘dreams of fleecy flocksPent in a wheaten cell’?”“Why, yes,” the old man said: “that phraseWould answer very well.
“Then fourthly, there are epithetsThat suit with any word—As well as Harvey’s Reading SauceWith fish, or flesh, or bird—Of these, ‘wild,’ ‘lonely,’ ‘weary,’ ‘strange,’Are much to be preferred.”
“And will it do, O will it doTo take them in a lump—As ‘the wild man went his weary wayTo a strange and lonely pump’?”“Nay, nay! You must not hastilyTo such conclusions jump.
The wild man went his weary way
“Such epithets, like pepper,Give zest to what you write;And, if you strew them sparely,They whet the appetite:But if you lay them on too thick,You spoil the matter quite!
“Last, as to the arrangement:Your reader, you should show him,Must take what information heCan get, and look for no im-mature disclosure of the driftAnd purpose of your poem.
“Therefore, to test his patience—How much he can endure—Mention no places, names, or dates,And evermore be sureThroughout the poem to be foundConsistently obscure.
“First fix upon the limitTo which it shall extend:Then fill it up with ‘Padding’(Beg some of any friend):Your greatSensation-stanzaYou place towards the end.”
“And what is a Sensation,Grandfather, tell me, pray?I think I never heard the wordSo used before to-day:Be kind enough to mention one‘Exempli gratiâ.’”
And the old man, looking sadlyAcross the garden-lawn,Where here and there a dew-dropYet glittered in the dawn,Said “Go to the Adelphi,And see the ‘Colleen Bawn.’
“The word is due to Boucicault—The theory is his,Where Life becomes a Spasm,And History a Whiz:If that is not Sensation,I don’t know what it is.
“Now try your hand, ere FancyHave lost its present glow—”“And then,” his grandson added,“We’ll publish it, you know:Green cloth—gold-lettered at the back—In duodecimo!”
Then proudly smiled that old manTo see the eager ladRush madly for his pen and inkAnd for his blotting-pad—But, when he thought ofpublishing,His face grew stern and sad.
His face grew stern and sad
When on the sandy shore I sit
Whenon the sandy shore I sit,Beside the salt sea-wave,And fall into a weeping fitBecause I dare not shave—A little whisper at my earEnquires the reason of my fear.
I answer “If that ruffian JonesShould recognise me here,He’d bellow out my name in tonesOffensive to the ear:He chaffs me so on being stout(A thing that always puts me out).”
Ah me! I see him on the cliff!Farewell, farewell to hope,If he should look this way, and ifHe’s got his telescope!To whatsoever place I flee,My odious rival follows me!
For every night, and everywhere,I meet him out at dinner;And when I’ve found some charming fair,And vowed to die or win her,The wretch (he’s thin and I am stout)Is sure to come and cut me out!
He’s thin and I am stout
The girls (just like them!) all agreeTo praise J. Jones, Esquire:I ask them what on earth they seeAbout him to admire?They cry “He is so sleek and slim,It’s quite a treat to look at him!”
They vanish in tobacco smoke,Those visionary maids—I feel a sharp and sudden pokeBetween the shoulder-blades—“Why, Brown, my boy! Your growing stout!”(I told you he would find me out!)
“My growth is notyourbusiness, Sir!”“No more it is, my boy!But if it’syours, as I infer,Why, Brown, I give you joy!A man, whose business prospers so,Is just the sort of man to know!
“It’s hardly safe, though, talking here—I’d best get out of reach:For such a weight as yours, I fear,Must shortly sink the beach!”—Insult me thus because I’m stout!I vow I’ll go and call him out!
For such a weight as yours . . .
Ay, ’twas here, on this spot,In that summer of yore,Atalanta did notVote my presence a bore,Nor reply to my tenderest talk “She hadheard all that nonsense before.”
She’d the brooch I had boughtAnd the necklace and sash on,And her heart, as I thought,Was alive to my passion;And she’d done up her hair in the style thatthe Empress had brought into fashion.
I had been to the playWith my pearl of a Peri—But, for all I could say,She declared she was weary,That “the place was so crowded and hot, andshe couldn’t abide that Dundreary.”
On this spot . . .
Then I thought “Lucky boy!’Tis foryouthat she whimpers!”And I noted with joyThose sensational simpers:And I said “This is scrumptious!”—aphrase I had learned from the Devonshire shrimpers.
And I vowed “’Twill be saidI’m a fortunate fellow,When the breakfast is spread,When the topers are mellow,When the foam of the bride-cake is white,and the fierce orange-blossoms are yellow!”
O that languishing yawn!O those eloquent eyes!I was drunk with the dawnOf a splendid surmise—I was stung by a look, I was slain by a tear,by a tempest of sighs.
Then I whispered “I seeThe sweet secret thou keepest.And the yearning forMEThat thou wistfully weepest!And the question is ‘License or Banns?’,though undoubtedly Banns are the cheapest.”
“Be my Hero,” said I,“And letmebe Leander!”But I lost her reply—Something ending with “gander”—For the omnibus rattled so loud that nomortal could quite understand her.
The ladye she stood at her lattice high,Wi’ her doggie at her feet;Thorough the lattice she can spyThe passers in the street,
“There’s one that standeth at the door,And tirleth at the pin:Now speak and say, my popinjay,If I sall let him in.”
Then up and spake the popinjayThat flew abune her head:“Gae let him in that tirls the pin:He cometh thee to wed.”
O when he cam’ the parlour in,A woeful man was he!“And dinna ye ken your lover agen,Sae well that loveth thee?”
The popinjay
“And how wad I ken ye loved me, Sir,That have been sae lang away?And how wad I ken ye loved me, Sir?Ye never telled me sae.”
Said—“Ladye dear,” and the salt, salt tearCam’ rinnin’ doon his cheek,“I have sent the tokens of my loveThis many and many a week.
“O didna ye get the rings, Ladye,The rings o’ the gowd sae fine?I wot that I have sent to theeFour score, four score and nine.”
“They cam’ to me,” said that fair ladye.“Wow, they were flimsie things!”Said—“that chain o’ gowd, my doggie to howd,It is made o’ thae self-same rings.”
“And didna ye get the locks, the locks,The locks o’ my ain black hair,Whilk I sent by post, whilk I sent by box,Whilk I sent by the carrier?”
“They cam’ to me,” said that fair ladye;“And I prithee send nae mair!”Said—“that cushion sae red, for my doggie’s head,It is stuffed wi’ thae locks o’ hair.”
“And didna ye get the letter, Ladye,Tied wi’ a silken string,Whilk I sent to thee frae the far countrie,A message of love to bring?”
“It cam’ to me frae the far countrieWi’ its silken string and a’;But it wasna prepaid,” said that high-born maid,“Sae I gar’d them tak’ it awa’.”
“O ever alack that ye sent it back,It was written sae clerkly and well!Now the message it brought, and the boon that it sought,I must even say it mysel’.”
Then up and spake the popinjay,Sae wisely counselled he.“Now say it in the proper way:Gae doon upon thy knee!”
The lover he turned baith red and pale,Went doon upon his knee:“O Ladye, hear the waesome taleThat must be told to thee!
“For five lang years, and five lang years,I coorted thee by looks;By nods and winks, by smiles and tears,As I had read in books.
“For ten lang years, O weary hours!I coorted thee by signs;By sending game, by sending flowers,By sending Valentines.
“For five lang years, and five lang years,I have dwelt in the far countrie,Till that thy mind should be inclinedMair tenderly to me.
“Now thirty years are gane and past,I am come frae a foreign land:I am come to tell thee my love at last—O Ladye, gie me thy hand!”
The ladye she turned not pale nor red,But she smiled a pitiful smile:“Sic’ a coortin’ as yours, my man,” she said“Takes a lang and a weary while!”
And out and laughed the popinjay
And out and laughed the popinjay,A laugh of bitter scorn:“A coortin’ done in sic’ a way,It ought not to be borne!”
Wi’ that the doggie barked aloud,And up and doon he ran,And tugged and strained his chain o’ gowd,All for to bite the man.
“O hush thee, gentle popinjay!O hush thee, doggie dear!There is a word I fain wad say,It needeth he should hear!”
Aye louder screamed that ladye fairTo drown her doggie’s bark:Ever the lover shouted mairTo make that ladye hark:
Shrill and more shrill the popinjayUpraised his angry squall:I trow the doggie’s voice that dayWas louder than them all!
O hush thee, gentle gentle popinjay!
The serving-men and serving-maidsSat by the kitchen fire:They heard sic’ a din the parlour withinAs made them much admire.
Out spake the boy in buttons(I ween he wasna thin),“Now wha will tae the parlour gae,And stay this deadlie din?”
And they have taen a kerchief,Casted their kevils in,For wha will tae the parlour gae,And stay that deadlie din.
When on that boy the kevil fellTo stay the fearsome noise,“Gae in,” they cried, “whate’er betide,Thou prince of button-boys!”
Syne, he has taen a supple caneTo swinge that dog sae fat:The doggie yowled, the doggie howledThe louder aye for that.
The doggie ceased his noise
Syne, he has taen a mutton-bane—The doggie ceased his noise,And followed doon the kitchen stairThat prince of button-boys!
Then sadly spake that ladye fair,Wi’ a frown upon her brow:“O dearer to me is my sma’ doggieThan a dozen sic’ as thou!
“Nae use, nae use for sighs and tears:Nae use at all to fret:Sin’ ye’ve bided sae well for thirty years,Ye may bide a wee langer yet!”
Sadly, sadly he crossed the floorAnd tirlëd at the pin:Sadly went he through the doorWhere sadly he cam’ in.
“O gin I had a popinjayTo fly abune my head,To tell me what I ought to say,I had by this been wed.
“O gin I find anither ladye,”He said wi’ sighs and tears,“I wot my coortin’ sall not beAnither thirty years
“For gin I find a ladye gay,Exactly to my taste,I’ll pop the question, aye or nay,In twenty years at maist.”
Sadly went he through the door
[Theseconsist of two Double Acrostics and two Charades.
No. I. was written at the request of some young friends, who had gone to a ball at an Oxford Commemoration—and also as a specimen of what might be done by making the Double Acrostica connected poeminstead of what it has hitherto been, a string of disjointed stanzas, on every conceivable subject, and about as interesting to read straight through as a page of a Cyclopædia. The first two stanzas describe the two main words, and each subsequent stanza one of the cross “lights.”
No. II. was written after seeing Miss Ellen Terry perform in the play of “Hamlet.” In this case the first stanza describes the two main words.
No. III. was written after seeing Miss Marion Terry perform in Mr. Gilbert’s play of “Pygmalion and Galatea.” The three stanzas respectively describe “My First,” “My Second,” and “My Whole.”]
I
Therewas an ancient City, stricken downWith a strange frenzy, and for many a dayThey paced from morn to eve the crowded town,And danced the night away.
I asked the cause: the aged man grew sad:They pointed to a building gray and tall,And hoarsely answered “Step inside, my lad,And then you’ll see it all.”