Or in the Adelphi sitting, half in rapture, half in tears,Saw the glorious melodrama conjure up the shades ofyears!Saw Jack Sheppard, noble stripling, act his wondrous featsagain,Snapping Newgate's bars of iron, like an infant's daisychain.
Might was right, and all the terrors, which had held theworld in awe,Were despised, and prigging prospered, spite of Laurie,spite of law.In suchscenes as these I triumphed, ere my passion'sedge was rusted,And my cousin's cold refusal left me very much dis-gusted!
Since, my heart is sere and withered, and I do not care acurse,Whether worse shall be the better, or the better be theworse.Hark! my merry comrades call me, bawling for anotherjorum;They would mock me in derision, should I thus appearbefore 'em.
Womankind no more shall vex me, such at least as goarrayed.In the most expensive satins and the newest silk brocade.I'll to Afric, lion-haunted, where the giant forest yieldsRarer robes and finer tissue than are sold at Spital-fields.
Or to burst all chains of habit, flinging habit's selfaside,I shall walk the tangled jungle in mankind's primevalpride;Feeding on the luscious berries and the rich cassava root,Lots of dates and lots of guavas, clusters of forbiddenfruit.
Never comes the trader thither, never o'er the purplemainSounds the oath of British commerce, or the accents ofCockaigne.There, methinks, would be enjoyment, where no enviousrule prevents;Sink the steamboats! cuss the railways! rot, O rot theThree per Cents!
There the passions, cramped no longer, shall have spaceto breathe, my cousin!I will wed some savage woman—nay, I'll wed at least adozen.There I'll rear my young mulattoes, as no Bond Streetbrats are reared:They shall dive for alligators, catch the mid goats by thebeard—
Whistle to the cockatoos, and mock the hairy-facedbaboon,Worship mighty Mumbo Jumbo in the Mountains of theMoon.I myself, infar Timbuctoo, leopard's blood will dailyquaff,Ride a tiger-hunting, mounted on a thorough-bred giraffe.
Fiercely shall I shout the war-whoop, as some sullenstream he crosses,Startling from their noonday slumbers iron-bound rhino-ceroses.Fool! again the dream, the fancy! But I know my wordsare mad,For I hold the grey barbarian lower than the Christiancad.
I the swell—the city dandy! I to seek such horridplaces,—I to haunt with squalid negroes, blubber-lips, and monkey-faces!I to wed with Coromantees! I, who managed—verynear—To secure theheart and fortune of the widow Shilli-beer!
Stuff and nonsense! let me never fling a single chanceaway;Maids ere now, I know, have loved me, and anothermaiden may.'Morningpost' ('The Times' won't trust me)help me, as I know you can;I will pen an advertisement,—that's a never-failing plan.
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"Wanted—By a bard, in wedlock, some younginteresting woman:Looks are not so much an object, if the shinersbe forthcoming!"Hymen's chains the advertiser vows shall bebut silken fetters;Please address to A. T., Chelsea. N.B.—Youmust pay the letters."That's the sort of thing to do it. Now I'll goand taste the balmy,—Rest thee with thy yellow nabob, spider-heartedCousin Amy!
124m
Deckedwith shoes of blackest polish,And with shirt as white as snow,After matutinal breakfastTo my daily desk I go;
First a fond salute bestowingOn my Mary's ruby lips,Which, perchance, may be rewardedWith a pair of playful nips.
All day long across the ledgerStill my patient pen I drive,Thinking what a feast awaits meIn my happy home at five;
In my small one-storeyed Eden,Where my wife awaits my coming,And our solitary handmaidMutton-chops with care is crumbing.
Whenthe clock proclaims my freedom,Then my hat I seize and vanish;Every trouble from my bosom,Every anxious care I banish.
Swiftly brushing o'er the pavement,At a furious pace I go,Till I reach my darling dwellingIn the wilds of Pimlico.
"Mary, wife, where art thou, dearest?"Thus I cry, while yet afar;Ah! what scent invades my nostrils?—'Tis the smoke of a cigar!
Instantly into the parlourLike a maniac I haste,And I find a young Life-Guardsman,With his arm round Mary's waist.
And his other hand is playingMost familiarly with hers;And I think my Brussels carpetSomewhat damaged by his spurs.
"Fire and furies! what the blazes?"Thus in frenzied wrath I call;When my spouse her arms upraises,With a most astounding squall.
"Was there ever such a monster,Ever such a wretched wife?Ah! howlong must I endure it,How protract this hateful life?
All day long, quite unprotected,Does he leave his wife at home;And she cannot see her cousins,Even when they kindly come!"
Then the young Life-Guardsman, rising,Scarce vouchsafes a single word,But, with look of deadly menace,Claps his hand upon his sword;
And in fear I faintly falter—"This your cousin, then he's mine!Very glad, indeed, to see you,-Won't you stop with us, and dine?"
Won't a ferret suck a rabbit?—As a thing of course he stops;And with most voracious swallowWalks into my mutton-chops.
In the twinkling of a bed-postIs each savoury platter clear,And he shows uncommon scienceIn his estimate of beer.
Half-and-half goes down before him,Gurgling from the pewter pot;And hemoves a counter motionFor a glass of something hot.
Neither chops nor beer I grudge him,Nor a moderate share of goes;But I know not why he's alwaysTreading upon Mary's toes.
Evermore, when, home returning,From the counting-house I come,Do I find the young Life-GuardsmanSmoking pipes and drinking rum.
Evermore he stays to dinner,Evermore devours my meal;For I have a wholesome horrorBoth of powder and of steel.
Yet I know he's Mary's cousin,For my only son and heirMuch resembles that young Guardsman,"With the self-same curly hair;
But I wish he would not alwaysSpoil my carpet with his spurs;And I'd rather see his fingersIn the fire, than touching hers.
128m
An Ancient Scottish Ballad.
Itfell upon the August month,When landsmen bide at hame,That our gude Queen went out to sailUpon the saut-sea faem.
And she has ta'en the silk and gowd,The like was never seen;And shehas ta'en the Prince Albert,And the bauld Lord Abërdeen.
"Ye'se bide at hame, Lord Wellington:Ye daurna gang wi' me:For ye hae been ance in the land o' France,And that's enench for ye.
"Ye'se bide at hame, Sir Robert Peel,To gather the red and the white monie;And see that my men dinna eat me upAt Windsor wi' their gluttonie."
They hadna sailed a league, a league,—A league, but barely twa,When the lift grew dark, and the waves grew wan,And the wind began to blaw.
"O weel weel may the waters rise,In welcome o' their Queen;What gars ye look sae white, Albert?What makes your ee sae green?"
"My heart is sick, my heid is sair:"Gie me a glass o' the gude brandie:To set my foot on the braid green sward,I'd gie the half o' my yearly fee.
"It'ssweet to hunt the sprightly hareOn the bonny slopes o' Windsor lea,But O, it's ill to bear the thudAnd pitching o' the saut saut sea!"
And aye they sailed, and aye they sailed,Till England sank behind,And over to the coast of FranceThey drave before the wind.
Then up and spak the King o' France,Was birling at the wine;"O wha may be the gay ladye,That owns that ship sae fine?
"And wha may be that bonny lad,That looks sae pale and wan?I'll wad my lands o' Picardie,That he's nae Englishman."
Then up and spak an auld French lord,Was sitting beneath his knee,"It is the Queen o' braid EnglandThat's come across the sea."
"And O an it be England's Queen,She's welcome here the day;I'd rather hae her for a friendThan for a deadly fae.
"Gae,kill the eerock in the yard,The auld sow in the sty,And bake for her the brockit calf,But and the puddock-pie!"
And he has gane until the ship,As soon as it drew near,And he has ta'en her by the hand—"Ye're kindly welcome here!"
And syne he kissed her on ae cheek,And syne upon the ither;And he ca'd her his sister dear,And she ca'd him her brither.
"Light doun, light doun now, ladye mine,Light doun upon the shore;Nae English king has trodden hereThis thousand years and more."
"And gin I lighted on your land,As light fu' weel I may,O am I free to feast wi' you,And free to come and gae?"
And he has sworn by the Haly Rood,And the black stane o' Dumblane,That she is free to come and gaeTill twenty days are gane.
"I'velippened to a Frenchman's aith,"Said gude Lord Aberdeen;"But I'll never lippen to it againSae lang's the grass is green.
"Yet gae your ways, my sovereign liege,Sin' better mayna be;The wee bit bairns are safe at hame,By the blessing o' Marie!"
Then doun she lighted frae the ship,She lighted safe and sound;And glad was our good Prince AlbertTo step upon the ground.
"Is that your Queen, my Lord," she said,"That auld and buirdly dame?I see the crown upon her head;But I dinna ken her name."
And she has kissed the Frenchman's Queen,And eke her daughters three,And gien her hand to the young Princess,That louted upon the knee.
And she has gane to the proud castle,That's biggit beside the sea:But aye, when she thought o' the bairns at hame,The tear was in her ee.
Shegied the King the Cheshire cheese,But and the porter fine;And he gied her the puddock-pies,But and the blude-red wine.
Then up and spak the dourest Prince,An admiral was he;"Let's keep the Queen o' England here,Sin' better mayna be!
"O mony is the dainty kingThat we hae trappit here;And mony is the English yerlThat's in our dungeons drear!"
"You lee, you lee, ye graceless loon,Sae loud's I hear ye lee!There never yet was EnglishmanThat came to skaith by me.
"Gae oot, gae oot, ye fause traitour!Gae oot until the street;It's shame that Kings and Queens should sitWi' sic a knave at meat!"
Then up and raise the young French lord,In wrath and hie disdain—"O ye may sit, and ye may eatYour puddock-pies alane!
"Butwere I in my ain gude ship,And sailing wi' the wind,And did I meet wi' auld Napier,I'd tell him o' my mind."
O then the Queen leuch loud and lang,And her colour went and came;"Gin ye meet wi' Charlie on the sea,Ye'd wish yersel at hame!"
And aye they birlit at the wine,And drank richt merrilie,Till the auld cock crawed in the castle-yard,And the abbey bell struck three.
The Queen she gaed until her bed,And Prince Albert likewise;And the last word that gay ladye saidWas—"O thae puddock-pies!"
The sun was high within the liftAfore the French King raise;And syne he louped intil his sark,And warslit on his claes.
"Gaeup, gae up, my little foot-page,Gae up until the toun;And gin ye meet wi' the auld harper,Be sure ye bring him doun."
And he has met wi' the auld harper;O but his een were reid;And the bizzing o' a swarm o' beesWas singing in his heid.
"Alack! alack!" the harper said,"That this should e'er hae been!I daurna gang before my liege,For I was fou yestreen."
"It's ye maun come, ye auld harper:Ye dauma tarry lang;The King is just dementit-likeFor wanting o' a sang."
And when he came to the King's chamber,He loutit on his knee,"O what may be your gracious willWi' an auld frail man like me?"
"I want a sang, harper," he said,"I want a sang richt speedilie;And gin ye dinna make a sang,I'll hang ye up on the gallows tree."
"I cannado't, my liege," he said,"Hae mercy on my auld grey hair!But gin that I had got the words,I think that I might mak the air."
"And wha's to mak the words, fause loon,When minstrels we have barely twa;And Lamartine is in Paris toun,And Victor Hugo far awa?"
"The diel may gang for Lamartine,And flee away wi' auld Hugo,For a better minstrel than them baithWithin this very toun I know.
"O kens my liege the gude Walter,At hame they ca' him Bon Gaultier?He'll rhyme ony day wi' True Thomas,And he is in the castle here."
The French King first he lauchit loud,And syne did he begin to sing;"My een are auld, and my heart is cauld,Or I suld hae known the minstrels' King.
"Gae take to him this ring o' gowd,And this mantle o' the silk sae fine,And bid him mak a maister sangFor his sovereign ladye's sake and mine."
"I winnatake the gowden ring,Nor yet the mantle fine:But I'll mak the sang for my ladye's sake,And for a cup of wine."
The Queen was sitting at the cards,The King ahint her back;And aye she dealed the red honours,And aye she dealed the black;
And syne unto the dourest PrinceShe spak richt courteouslie;—"Now will ye play, Lord Admiral,Now will ye play wi' me?"
The dourest Prince he bit his lip,And his brow was black as glaur;"The only game that e'er I playIs the bluidy game o' war!"
"And gin ye play at that, young man,It weel may cost ye sair;Ye'd better stick to the game at cards,For you'll win nae honours there!"
The King he leuch, and the Queen she leuch,Till the tears ran blithely doon;But the Admiral he raved and swore,Till they kicked him frae the room.
Theharper came, and the harper sang,And O but they were fain;For when he had sung the gude sang twice,They called for it again.
It was the sang o' the Field o' Gowd,In the days of anld langsyne;When bauld King Henry crossed the seas,Wi' his brither King to dine.
And aye he harped, and aye he carped,Till up the Queen she sprang—"I'll wad a County Palatine,Gude Walter made that sang."
Three days had come, three days had gane,The fourth began to fa',When our gude Queen to the Frenchman said,"It's time I was awa!
"O, bonny are the fields o' France,And saftly draps the rain;But my barnies are in Windsor Tower,And greeting a' their lane.
"Now ye maun come to me, Sir King,As I have come to ye;And a benison upon your heidFor a' your courtesie!
"Ye mauncome, and bring your ladye fere;Ye sail na say me no;And ye'se mind, we have aye a bed to spareFor that gawsy chield Guizot."
Now he has ta'en her lily-white hand,And put it to his lip,And he has ta'en her to the strand,And left her in her ship.
"Will ye come back, sweet bird," he cried,"Will ye come kindly here,When the lift is blue, and the lavrocks sing,In the spring-time o' the year?"
"It's I would blithely come, my Lord,To see ye in the spring;It's I would blithely venture back,But for ae little thing.
"It isna that the winds are rude,Or that the waters rise,But I loe the roasted beef at hame,And no thae puddock-pies!"
140m
[From the Gaelic.]
I.
Fhairshonswore a feudAgainst the elan M'Tavish;Marched into their landTo murder and to rafish;For he did resolveTo extirpate the vipers,With four-and-twenty menAnd five-and-thirty pipers.
II.
Butwhen he had goneHalf-way down Strath Canaan,Of his fighting tailJust three were remainin'.They were all he had,To back him in ta battle;All the rest had goneOlf, to drive ta cattle.
III.
"Fery coot!" cried Fhairshon,"So my clan disgraced is;Lads, we'll need to fight,Pefore we touch the peasties.Here's Mhic-Mac-MethusalehComing wi' his fassals,Gillies seventy-three,And sixty Dhuiné wassails!"
IV.
"Coot tay to you, sir;Are you not ta Fhairshon?Was you coming hereTo fisit any person?Youare a plackguard, sir!It is now six hundredCoot long years, and more,Since my glen was plundered."
V.
"Fat is tat you say?Dare you cock your peaver?I will teach you, sir,Fat is coot pehaviour!You shall not existFor another day more;I will shoot you, sir,Or stap you with my claymore!"
VI.
"I am fery gladTo learn what you mention,Since I can preventAny such intention."So Mhic-Mac-MethusalehGave some warlike howls,Trew his skhian-dhu,An' stuck it in his powels.
VII.
Inthis fery wayTied ta faliant Fhairshon,Who was always thoughtA superior person.Fhairshon had a son,Who married Noah's daughter,And nearly spoiled ta Flood,By trinking up ta water:
VIII.
Which he would have done,I at least believe it,Had ta mixture peenOnly half Glenlivet.This is all my tale:Sirs, I hope 'tis new t'ye!Here's your fery good healths,And tamn ta whusky duty!
144m
"O swiftlyspeed the gallant bark!—I say, you mind my luggage, porter!I do not heed yon storm-cloud dark,I go to wed old Jenkin's daughter.I go to claim my own Mariar,The fairest flower that blooms in Harwich;My panting bosom is on fire,And all is ready for the marriage."
Thusspoke young Mivins, as he steppedOn hoard the "Firefly," Harwich packet;The bell rang out, the paddles sweptPlish-plashing round with noisy racket.The louring clouds young Mivins saw,But fear, he felt, was only folly;And so he smoked a fresh cigar,Then fell to whistling "Nix my dolly!"
The wind it roared; the packet's hulkRocked with a most unpleasant motion;Young Mivins leant him o'er a bulk,And poured his sorrows to the ocean.Tints—blue and yellow—signs of woe—Flushed, rainbow like, his noble face in,As suddenly he rushed below,Crying, "Steward, steward, bring a basin!"
On sped the bark: the howling stormThe funnel's tapering smoke did blow far;Unmoved, young Mivins' lifeless formWas stretched upon a haircloth sofar.All night he moaned, the steamer groaned,And he was hourly getting fainter;When it came bump against the pier,And there was fastened by the painter.Young Mivinsrose, arranged his clothes,Caught wildly at his small portmanteau;He was unfit to lie or sit,And found it difficult to stand, too.
He sought the deck, he sought the shore,He sought the lady's house like winking,And asked, low tapping at the door,"Is this the house of Mr Jenkin?"A short man came—he told his name—Mivins was short—he cut him shorter,For in a fury he exclaimed,"Are you the man as vants my darter?Yot kim'd on you, last night, young sqvire?""It was the steamer, rot and scuttle her!""Mayhap it vos, but our MariarYalked off last night with Bill the butler."
"And so you've kim'd a post too late.""It was the packet, sir, miscarried!""Vy, does you think a gal can vaitAs sets 'er 'art on being married?Last night she vowed she'd be a bride,And 'ave a spouse for vuss or better:So Bill struck in; the knot vos tied,And now I vishes you may get her!"
YoungMivins turned him from the spot,Bewildered with the dreadful stroke, herPerfidy came like a shot—He was a thunder-struck stockbroker."A curse on steam and steamers too!By their delays I have been undone!"He cried, as, looking very blue,He rode a bachelor to London.
By the Hon. T- B——M'A-.
[Thisand the five following Poems were among those forwarded to the Home Secretary, by "the unsuccessful competitors for the Laureateship, on its becoming vacant by the death of Southey. How they came into our possession is a matter between Sir James Graham and ourselves. The result of the contest could never have been doubtful, least of all to the great poet who then succeeded to the bays. His own sonnet on the subject is full of the serene consciousness of superiority, which does not even admit the idea of rivalry, far less of defeat.
Bays! which in former days have graced the browOf some, who lived and loved, and sang and died;Leaves that were gathered on the pleasant sideOf old Parnassus from Apollo's bough;With palpitating hand I take ye now,Since worthier minstrel there is none beside,And with a thrill of song half deified,I bind them proudly on my locks of snow.There shall they bide, till he who follows next,Of whom I cannot even guess the name,Shall by Court favour, or some vain pretextOf fancied merit, desecrate the same,—And think, perchance, he wears them quite as wellAs the sole bard who sang of Peter Bell!]
"What news, what news, thou pilgrim grey, what newsfrom southern land?How fare the bold Conservatives, how is it with Ferrand?How does the little Prince of Wales—how looks our ladyQueen?
And tell me, is the monthly nurse once more at Windsorseen?""I bringno tidings from the Court, nor from St Stephen'shall;I've heard the thundering tramp of horse, and the trum-pet's battle-call;And these old eyes have seen a fight, which England ne'erhath seen,Since fell King Richard sobbed his soul through blood onBosworth Green.
'He's dead, he's dead, the Laureate's dead!' 'Twas thusthe cry began,And straightway every garret-roof gave up its minstrelman;From Grub Street, and from Houndsditch, and from Far-ringdon Within,The poets all towards Whitehall poured on with eldritchdin.
Loud yelled they for Sir James the Graham: but soreafraid was he;A hardy knight were he that might face such a minstrelsie.'Now by St Giles of Netherby, my patron Saint, Iswear,I'd rather by a thousand crowns Lord Palmerston werehere!—
'What is'tye seek, ye rebel knaves—what make youthere beneath?''The bays, the bays! we want the bays! we seek thelaureate wreath!We seek the butt of generous wine that cheers the sonsof song;Choose thou among us all, Sir Knight—we may not tarrylong!'
Loud laughed the good Sir James in scorn—'Rare jest itwere, I think,But one poor butt of Xeres, and a thousand rogues todrink!An' if it flowed with wine or beer, 'tis easy to beseen,That dry within the hour would be the well of Hippo-crene.
'Tell me, if on Parnassus' heights there grow a thousandsheaves:Or has Apollo's laurel bush yet borne ten hundredleaves?Or if so many leaves were there, how long would theysustainThe ravage and the glutton bite of such a locust train?
'No! getye "back into your dens, take counsel for thenight,And choose me out two champions to meet in deadlyfight;To-morrow's dawn shall see the lists marked out in Spital-fields,And he who wins shall have the hays, and he shall diewho yields!'
Down went the window with a crash,—in silence and infearEach raggèd bard looked anxiously upon his neighbournear;Then up and spake young Tennyson—'Who's here thatfears for death?'Twere better one of us should die, than England lose thewreath!
'Let's cast the lots among us now, which two shall fightto-morrow;—For armour bright we'll club our mite, and horses we canborrow;'Twere shame that bards of France should sneer, andGermanDichterstoo,If none of British song might dare a deed ofderring-do!'
'The listsof Love are mine,' said Moore, 'and not thelists of MarsSaid Hunt, 'I seek the jars of wine, but shun the com-bat's jars!''I'm old,' quoth Samuel Rogers.—'Faith, says Camp-bell, 'so am I!''And I'm in holy orders, sir!' quoth Tom of Ingoldsby.
'Now out upon ye, craven loons!' cried Moxon, good atneed,—'Bide, if ye will, secure at home, and sleep while othersbleed.I second Alfred's motion, boys,—let's try the chance oflot;And monks shall sing, and bells shall ring, for him thatgoes to pot.'
Eight hundred minstrels slunk away—two hundredstayed to draw,—Now Heaven protect the daring wight that pulls thelongest straw!'Tis done! 'tis done! And who hath won? Keep silenceone and all,—The first is William Wordsworth hight, the second NedFitzball!
'Oh,bright and gay hath dawned the day on lordlySpitalfields,—How flash the rays with ardent blaze from polished helmsand shields!On either side the chivalry of England throng the green,And in the middle balcony appears our gracious Queen.
With iron fists, to keep the lists, two valiant knights ap-pear,The Marquis Hal of Waterford, and stout Sir Aubrey Vere.'What ho! there, herald, blow the trump! Let's see whocomes to claimThe butt of golden Xeres, and the Laureate's honouredname!'
That instant dashed into the lists, all armed from head toheel,On courser brown, with vizor down, a warrior sheathed insteel;Then said our Queen—'Was ever seen so stout a knightand tall?His name—his race?'—'An't please your grace, it is thebrave Fitzball.
'Oft inthe Melodrama line his prowess hath beenshown,And well throughout the Surrey side his thirst for bloodis known.But see, the other champion comes!'—Then rang thestartled airWith shouts of 'Wordsworth, Wordsworth, ho! the bardof Kydal's there.'
And lo! upon a little steed, unmeet for such a course,Appeared the honoured veteran; but weak seemed manand horse.Then shook their ears the sapient peers,—'That joustwill soon be done:My Lord of Brougham, I'll back Fitzball, and give youtwo to one!'
'Done,' quoth the Brougham,—'And done with you!''Now, Minstrels, are you ready?'Exclaimed the Lord of Waterford,—'You'd better bothsit steady.Blow, trumpets, blow the note of charge! and forward to'the fight!''Amen!' said good Sir Aubrey Vere; 'Saint Schismdefend the right!'
Assweeps the blast against the mast when blows thefurious squall,So started at the trumpet's sound the terrible Fitzball;His lance he bore his breast before,—Saint George protectthe just!Or Wordsworth's hoary head must roll along the shame-ful dust!