There was a jovial beggar,He had a wooden leg,Lame from his cradle,And forced for to beg.And a-begging we will go,Will go, will go,And a-begging we will go.A bag for his oatmeal,Another for his salt,And a long pair of crutches,To show that he can halt.And a-begging we will go,Will go, will go,And a-begging we will go.A bag for his wheat,Another for his rye,And a little bottle by his side,To drink when he's a-dry.And a-begging we will go,Will go, will go,And a-begging we will go.Seven years I begg'dFor my old master Wilde,He taught me how to begWhen I was but a child.And a-begging we will go,Will go, will go,And a-begging we will go.I begg'd for my master,And got him store of pelf,But goodness now be praised,I'm begging for myself.And a-begging we will go,Will go, will go,And a-begging we will go.In a hollow treeI live, and pay no rent,Providence provides for me,And I am well content.And a-begging we will go,Will go, will go,And a-begging we will go.Of all the occupationsA beggar's is the best,For whenever he's a-weary,He can lay him down to rest.And a-begging we will go,Will go, will go,And a-begging we will go.I fear no plots against me,I live in open cell:Then who would be a king, lads,When the beggar lives so well?And a-begging we will go,Will go, will go,And a-begging we will go.
There was a jovial beggar,He had a wooden leg,Lame from his cradle,And forced for to beg.And a-begging we will go,Will go, will go,And a-begging we will go.
A bag for his oatmeal,Another for his salt,And a long pair of crutches,To show that he can halt.And a-begging we will go,Will go, will go,And a-begging we will go.
A bag for his wheat,Another for his rye,And a little bottle by his side,To drink when he's a-dry.And a-begging we will go,Will go, will go,And a-begging we will go.
Seven years I begg'dFor my old master Wilde,He taught me how to begWhen I was but a child.And a-begging we will go,Will go, will go,And a-begging we will go.
I begg'd for my master,And got him store of pelf,But goodness now be praised,I'm begging for myself.And a-begging we will go,Will go, will go,And a-begging we will go.
In a hollow treeI live, and pay no rent,Providence provides for me,And I am well content.And a-begging we will go,Will go, will go,And a-begging we will go.
Of all the occupationsA beggar's is the best,For whenever he's a-weary,He can lay him down to rest.And a-begging we will go,Will go, will go,And a-begging we will go.
I fear no plots against me,I live in open cell:Then who would be a king, lads,When the beggar lives so well?And a-begging we will go,Will go, will go,And a-begging we will go.
Old Song
The summer and autumn had been so wetThat in winter the corn was growing yet;'Twas a piteous sight to see all aroundThe grain lie rotting on the ground.Every day the starving poorCrowded around Bishop Hatto's door,For he had a plentiful last year's store,And all the neighbourhood could tellHis granaries were furnish'd well.At last Bishop Hatto appointed a dayTo quiet the poor without delay;He bade them to his great barn repair,And they should have food for the winter there.Rejoiced such tidings good to hear,The poor folk flock'd from far and near;The great barn was full as it could holdOf women and children, and young and old.Then when he saw it could hold no more,Bishop Hatto he made fast the door;And while for mercy on Christ they call,He set fire to the barn and burnt them all.'I' faith, 'tis an excellent bonfire!' quoth he,'And the country is greatly obliged to me,For ridding it in these times forlornOf rats, that only consume the corn.'So then to his palace returned he,And he sat down to supper merrily,And he slept that night like an innocent man,But Bishop Hatto never slept again.In the morning as he enter'd the hall,Where his picture hung against the wall,A sweat like death all over him came,For the rats had eaten it out of the frame.As he look'd there came a man from the farm,He had a countenance white with alarm;'My lord, I open'd your granaries this morn,And the rats had eaten all your corn.'Another came running presently,And he was pale as pale could be,'Fly! my Lord Bishop, fly,' quoth he,'Ten thousand rats are coming this way—The Lord forgive you for yesterday!''I'll go to my tower on the Rhine,' replied he,''Tis the safest place in Germany;The walls are high, and the shores are steep,And the stream is strong, and the water deep.'Bishop Hatto fearfully hasten'd away,And he cross'd the Rhine without delay,And reach'd his tower, and barr'd with careAll the windows, doors, and loopholes there.He laid him down and closed his eyes,But soon a scream made him arise;He started, and saw two eyes of flameOn his pillow from whence the screaming came.He listen'd and look'd; it was only the cat;But the Bishop he grew more fearful for that,For she sat screaming, mad with fear,At the army of rats that was drawing near.For they have swum over the river so deep,And they have climb'd the shores so steep,And up the tower their way is bentTo do the work for which they were sent.They are not to be told by the dozen or score,By thousands they come, and by myriads and moreSuch numbers had never been heard of before,Such a judgment had never been witness'd of yore.Down on his knees the Bishop fell,And faster and faster his beads did he tell,As louder and louder drawing nearThe gnawing of their teeth he could hear.And in at the windows, and in at the door,And through the walls helter-skelter they pour,And down from the ceiling, and up through the floor,From the right and the left, from behind and before,From within and without, from above and below,And all at once to the Bishop they go.They have whetted their teeth against the stones,And now they pick the Bishop's bones;They gnaw'd the flesh from every limb,For they were sent to do judgment on him.
The summer and autumn had been so wetThat in winter the corn was growing yet;'Twas a piteous sight to see all aroundThe grain lie rotting on the ground.
Every day the starving poorCrowded around Bishop Hatto's door,For he had a plentiful last year's store,And all the neighbourhood could tellHis granaries were furnish'd well.
At last Bishop Hatto appointed a dayTo quiet the poor without delay;He bade them to his great barn repair,And they should have food for the winter there.
Rejoiced such tidings good to hear,The poor folk flock'd from far and near;The great barn was full as it could holdOf women and children, and young and old.
Then when he saw it could hold no more,Bishop Hatto he made fast the door;And while for mercy on Christ they call,He set fire to the barn and burnt them all.
'I' faith, 'tis an excellent bonfire!' quoth he,'And the country is greatly obliged to me,For ridding it in these times forlornOf rats, that only consume the corn.'
So then to his palace returned he,And he sat down to supper merrily,And he slept that night like an innocent man,But Bishop Hatto never slept again.
In the morning as he enter'd the hall,Where his picture hung against the wall,A sweat like death all over him came,For the rats had eaten it out of the frame.
As he look'd there came a man from the farm,He had a countenance white with alarm;'My lord, I open'd your granaries this morn,And the rats had eaten all your corn.'
Another came running presently,And he was pale as pale could be,'Fly! my Lord Bishop, fly,' quoth he,'Ten thousand rats are coming this way—The Lord forgive you for yesterday!'
'I'll go to my tower on the Rhine,' replied he,''Tis the safest place in Germany;The walls are high, and the shores are steep,And the stream is strong, and the water deep.'
Bishop Hatto fearfully hasten'd away,And he cross'd the Rhine without delay,And reach'd his tower, and barr'd with careAll the windows, doors, and loopholes there.
He laid him down and closed his eyes,But soon a scream made him arise;He started, and saw two eyes of flameOn his pillow from whence the screaming came.
He listen'd and look'd; it was only the cat;But the Bishop he grew more fearful for that,For she sat screaming, mad with fear,At the army of rats that was drawing near.
For they have swum over the river so deep,And they have climb'd the shores so steep,And up the tower their way is bentTo do the work for which they were sent.
They are not to be told by the dozen or score,By thousands they come, and by myriads and moreSuch numbers had never been heard of before,Such a judgment had never been witness'd of yore.
Down on his knees the Bishop fell,And faster and faster his beads did he tell,As louder and louder drawing nearThe gnawing of their teeth he could hear.
And in at the windows, and in at the door,And through the walls helter-skelter they pour,And down from the ceiling, and up through the floor,From the right and the left, from behind and before,From within and without, from above and below,And all at once to the Bishop they go.
They have whetted their teeth against the stones,And now they pick the Bishop's bones;They gnaw'd the flesh from every limb,For they were sent to do judgment on him.
R. Southey
An old song made by an aged old pate,Of an old worshipful gentleman who had a great estate,That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate,And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate;Like an old courtier of the queen's,And the queen's old courtier.With an old lady whose anger one word assuages;They every quarter paid their old servants their wages,And never knew what belong'd to coachman, footman, nor pages,But kept twenty old fellows with blue coats and badges;Like an old courtier of the queen's,And the queen's old courtier.With an old study fill'd full of learned old books,With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his looks,With an old buttery hatch worn quite off the hooks,And an old kitchen, that maintain'd half a dozen old cooks;Like an old courtier of the queen's,And the queen's old courtier.With an old hall hung about with pikes, guns, and bows,With old swords, and bucklers, that had borne many shrewd blows,And an old frieze coat to cover his worship's trunk hose,And a cup of old sherry to comfort his copper nose;Like an old courtier of the queen's,And the queen's old courtier.With a good old fashion when Christmas was comeTo call in all his old neighbours with bagpipe and drum,With a good cheer enough to furnish every old room,And old liquor able to make a cat speak, and man dumb;Like an old courtier of the queen's,And the queen's old courtier.With an old falconer, huntsman, and a kennel of hounds,That never hawk'd nor hunted but in his own grounds,Who like a wise man kept himself within his own bounds,And when he died gave every child a thousand good pounds;Like an old courtier of the queen's,And the queen's old courtier.
An old song made by an aged old pate,Of an old worshipful gentleman who had a great estate,That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate,And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate;Like an old courtier of the queen's,And the queen's old courtier.
With an old lady whose anger one word assuages;They every quarter paid their old servants their wages,And never knew what belong'd to coachman, footman, nor pages,But kept twenty old fellows with blue coats and badges;Like an old courtier of the queen's,And the queen's old courtier.
With an old study fill'd full of learned old books,With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his looks,With an old buttery hatch worn quite off the hooks,And an old kitchen, that maintain'd half a dozen old cooks;Like an old courtier of the queen's,And the queen's old courtier.
With an old hall hung about with pikes, guns, and bows,With old swords, and bucklers, that had borne many shrewd blows,And an old frieze coat to cover his worship's trunk hose,And a cup of old sherry to comfort his copper nose;Like an old courtier of the queen's,And the queen's old courtier.
With a good old fashion when Christmas was comeTo call in all his old neighbours with bagpipe and drum,With a good cheer enough to furnish every old room,And old liquor able to make a cat speak, and man dumb;Like an old courtier of the queen's,And the queen's old courtier.
With an old falconer, huntsman, and a kennel of hounds,That never hawk'd nor hunted but in his own grounds,Who like a wise man kept himself within his own bounds,And when he died gave every child a thousand good pounds;Like an old courtier of the queen's,And the queen's old courtier.
Old Song
John Gilpin was a citizenOf credit and renown,A train-band captain eke was heOf famous London Town.John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear,'Though wedded we have beenThese twice ten tedious years, yet weNo holiday have seen.'To-morrow is our wedding-day,And we will then repairUnto the Bell at Edmonton,All in a chaise and pair.'My sister and my sister's child,Myself, and children three,Will fill the chaise; so you must rideOn horseback after we.'He soon replied, 'I do admireOf womankind but one,And you are she, my dearest dear,Therefore it shall be done.'I am a linen-draper bold,As all the world doth know,And my good friend, the Calender,Will lend his horse to go.'Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, 'That's well said;And for that wine is dear,We will be furnish'd with our own,Which is both bright and clear.'John Gilpin kiss'd his loving wife;O'erjoy'd was he to findThat, though on pleasure she was bent,She had a frugal mind.The morning came, the chaise was brought,But yet was not allowedTo drive up to the door, lest allShould say that she was proud.So three doors off the chaise was stay'd,Where they did all get in,Six precious souls, and all agogTo dash through thick and thin.Smack went the whip, round went the wheels,Were never folk so glad;The stones did rattle underneath,As if Cheapside were mad.John Gilpin, at his horse's side,Seiz'd fast the flowing mane,And up he got, in haste to ride,But soon came down again;For saddle-tree scarce reach'd had he,His journey to begin,When, turning round his head, he sawThree customers come in.So down he came; for loss of time,Although it grieved him sore,Yet loss of pence, full well he knew,Would trouble him much more.'Twas long before the customersWere suited to their mind,When Betty, screaming, came downstairs,'The wine is left behind!''Good lack!' quoth he, 'yet bring it me,My leathern belt likewise,In which I bear my trusty swordWhen I do exercise.'Now mistress Gilpin, (careful soul!)Had two stone-bottles found,To hold the liquor that she loved,And keep it safe and sound.Each bottle had a curling ear,Through which the belt he drew,And hung a bottle on each side,To make his balance true.Then over all, that he might beEquipp'd from top to toe,His long red cloak, well brush'd and neat,He manfully did throw.Now see him mounted once againUpon his nimble steed,Full slowly pacing o'er the stones,With caution and good heed.But finding soon a smoother roadBeneath his well-shod feet,The snorting beast began to trot,Which gall'd him in his seat.So, 'Fair and softly,' John he cried,But John he cried in vain;That trot became a gallop soon,In spite of curb and rein.So stooping down, as needs he mustWho cannot sit upright,He grasp'd the mane with both his hands,And eke, with all his might.His horse, who never in that sortHad handled been before,What thing upon his back had gotDid wonder more and more.Away went Gilpin, neck or nought;Away went hat and wig;He little dreamt, when he set out,Of running such a rig.The wind did blow, the cloak did fly,Like streamer long and gay,Till loop and button failing both,At last it flew away.Then might all people well discernThe bottles he had slung;A bottle swinging at each side,As hath been said or sung.The dogs did bark, the children scream'd,Up flew the windows all;And every soul cried out, Well done!As loud as he could bawl.Away went Gilpin—who but he?His fame soon spread around,'He carries weight! he rides a race!'Tis for a thousand pound!'And still as fast as he drew near,'Twas wonderful to viewHow in a trice the turnpike menTheir gates wide open threw.And now, as he went bowing downHis reeking head full low,The bottles twain behind his backWere shatter'd at a blow.Down ran the wine into the road,Most piteous to be seen,Which made his horse's flanks to smokeAs they had basted been.But still he seem'd to carry weight,With leathern girdle braced;For all might see the bottle necksStill dangling at his waist.Thus all through merry IslingtonThese gambols he did play,Until he came unto the WashOf Edmonton so gay;And there he threw the wash aboutOn both sides of the way,Just like unto a trundling mop,Or a wild goose at play.At Edmonton his loving wifeFrom the balcony spiedHer tender husband, wondering muchTo see how he did ride.'Stop, stop, John Gilpin!—Here's the house'—They all aloud did cry;'The dinner waits, and we are tired;'Said Gilpin, 'So am I!'But yet his horse was not a whitInclin'd to tarry there;For why? his owner had a houseFull ten miles off, at Ware.So like an arrow swift he flew,Shot by an archer strong;So did he fly—which brings me toThe middle of my song.Away went Gilpin, out of breath,And sore against his will,Till, at his friend the Calender's,His horse at last stood still.The Calender, amazed to seeHis neighbour in such trim,Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate,And thus accosted him.'What news? what news? your tidings tell;Tell me you must and shall—Say, why bare-headed you are come,Or why you come at all?'Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit,And loved a timely joke;And thus, unto the Calender,In merry guise he spoke:'I came because your horse would come;And, if I well forebode,My hat and wig will soon be here,They are upon the road.'The Calender, right glad to findHis friend in merry pin,Return'd him not a single word,But to the house went in;Whence straight he came, with hat and wig,A wig that flowed behind;A hat not much the worse for wear,Each comely in its kind.He held them up, and in his turnThus show'd his ready wit;'My head is twice as big as yours,They therefore needs must fit.But let me scrape the dust away,That hangs upon your face;And stop and eat, for well you mayBe in a hungry case.'Said John, 'It is my wedding-day,And all the world would stare,If wife should dine at Edmonton,And I should dine at Ware.'So, turning to his horse, he said,'I am in haste to dine;'Twas for your pleasure you came here,You shall go back for mine.'Ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast!For which he paid full dear;For, while he spake, a braying assDid sing most loud and clear;Whereat his horse did snort, as heHad heard a lion roar,And gallop'd off with all his might,As he had done before.Away went Gilpin, and awayWent Gilpin's hat and wig;He lost them sooner than at first,For why?—they were too big.Now Mrs. Gilpin, when she sawHer husband posting downInto the country far away,She pull'd out half-a-crown;And thus unto the youth she said,That drove them to the Bell,'This shall be yours, when you bring backMy husband safe and well.'The youth did ride, and soon did meetJohn coming back amain;Whom in a trice he tried to stop,By catching at his rein;But not performing what he meant,And gladly would have done,The frighted steed he frighted more,And made him faster run.Away went Gilpin, and awayWent postboy at his heels,The postboy's horse right glad to missThe rumbling of the wheels.Six gentlemen upon the roadThus seeing Gilpin fly,With postboy scampering in the rear,They rais'd a hue and cry:—'Stop thief!—stop thief!—a highwayman!'Not one of them was mute;And all and each that passed that wayDid join in the pursuit.And now the turnpike gates againFlew open in short space:The toll-men, thinking as beforeThat Gilpin rode a race.And so he did, and won it too,For he got first to town;Nor stopp'd till where he had got upHe did again get down.Now let us sing, long live the king,And Gilpin, long live he;And, when he next doth ride abroad,May I be there to see.
John Gilpin was a citizenOf credit and renown,A train-band captain eke was heOf famous London Town.
John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear,'Though wedded we have beenThese twice ten tedious years, yet weNo holiday have seen.
'To-morrow is our wedding-day,And we will then repairUnto the Bell at Edmonton,All in a chaise and pair.
'My sister and my sister's child,Myself, and children three,Will fill the chaise; so you must rideOn horseback after we.'
He soon replied, 'I do admireOf womankind but one,And you are she, my dearest dear,Therefore it shall be done.
'I am a linen-draper bold,As all the world doth know,And my good friend, the Calender,Will lend his horse to go.'
Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, 'That's well said;And for that wine is dear,We will be furnish'd with our own,Which is both bright and clear.'
John Gilpin kiss'd his loving wife;O'erjoy'd was he to findThat, though on pleasure she was bent,She had a frugal mind.
The morning came, the chaise was brought,But yet was not allowedTo drive up to the door, lest allShould say that she was proud.
So three doors off the chaise was stay'd,Where they did all get in,Six precious souls, and all agogTo dash through thick and thin.
Smack went the whip, round went the wheels,Were never folk so glad;The stones did rattle underneath,As if Cheapside were mad.
John Gilpin, at his horse's side,Seiz'd fast the flowing mane,And up he got, in haste to ride,But soon came down again;
For saddle-tree scarce reach'd had he,His journey to begin,When, turning round his head, he sawThree customers come in.
So down he came; for loss of time,Although it grieved him sore,Yet loss of pence, full well he knew,Would trouble him much more.
'Twas long before the customersWere suited to their mind,When Betty, screaming, came downstairs,'The wine is left behind!'
'Good lack!' quoth he, 'yet bring it me,My leathern belt likewise,In which I bear my trusty swordWhen I do exercise.'
Now mistress Gilpin, (careful soul!)Had two stone-bottles found,To hold the liquor that she loved,And keep it safe and sound.
Each bottle had a curling ear,Through which the belt he drew,And hung a bottle on each side,To make his balance true.
Then over all, that he might beEquipp'd from top to toe,His long red cloak, well brush'd and neat,He manfully did throw.
Now see him mounted once againUpon his nimble steed,Full slowly pacing o'er the stones,With caution and good heed.
But finding soon a smoother roadBeneath his well-shod feet,The snorting beast began to trot,Which gall'd him in his seat.
So, 'Fair and softly,' John he cried,But John he cried in vain;That trot became a gallop soon,In spite of curb and rein.
So stooping down, as needs he mustWho cannot sit upright,He grasp'd the mane with both his hands,And eke, with all his might.
His horse, who never in that sortHad handled been before,What thing upon his back had gotDid wonder more and more.
Away went Gilpin, neck or nought;Away went hat and wig;He little dreamt, when he set out,Of running such a rig.
The wind did blow, the cloak did fly,Like streamer long and gay,Till loop and button failing both,At last it flew away.
Then might all people well discernThe bottles he had slung;A bottle swinging at each side,As hath been said or sung.
The dogs did bark, the children scream'd,Up flew the windows all;And every soul cried out, Well done!As loud as he could bawl.
Away went Gilpin—who but he?His fame soon spread around,'He carries weight! he rides a race!'Tis for a thousand pound!'
And still as fast as he drew near,'Twas wonderful to viewHow in a trice the turnpike menTheir gates wide open threw.
And now, as he went bowing downHis reeking head full low,The bottles twain behind his backWere shatter'd at a blow.
Down ran the wine into the road,Most piteous to be seen,Which made his horse's flanks to smokeAs they had basted been.
But still he seem'd to carry weight,With leathern girdle braced;For all might see the bottle necksStill dangling at his waist.
Thus all through merry IslingtonThese gambols he did play,Until he came unto the WashOf Edmonton so gay;
And there he threw the wash aboutOn both sides of the way,Just like unto a trundling mop,Or a wild goose at play.
At Edmonton his loving wifeFrom the balcony spiedHer tender husband, wondering muchTo see how he did ride.
'Stop, stop, John Gilpin!—Here's the house'—They all aloud did cry;'The dinner waits, and we are tired;'Said Gilpin, 'So am I!'
But yet his horse was not a whitInclin'd to tarry there;For why? his owner had a houseFull ten miles off, at Ware.
So like an arrow swift he flew,Shot by an archer strong;So did he fly—which brings me toThe middle of my song.
Away went Gilpin, out of breath,And sore against his will,Till, at his friend the Calender's,His horse at last stood still.
The Calender, amazed to seeHis neighbour in such trim,Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate,And thus accosted him.
'What news? what news? your tidings tell;Tell me you must and shall—Say, why bare-headed you are come,Or why you come at all?'
Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit,And loved a timely joke;And thus, unto the Calender,In merry guise he spoke:
'I came because your horse would come;And, if I well forebode,My hat and wig will soon be here,They are upon the road.'
The Calender, right glad to findHis friend in merry pin,Return'd him not a single word,But to the house went in;
Whence straight he came, with hat and wig,A wig that flowed behind;A hat not much the worse for wear,Each comely in its kind.
He held them up, and in his turnThus show'd his ready wit;'My head is twice as big as yours,They therefore needs must fit.
But let me scrape the dust away,That hangs upon your face;And stop and eat, for well you mayBe in a hungry case.'
Said John, 'It is my wedding-day,And all the world would stare,If wife should dine at Edmonton,And I should dine at Ware.'
So, turning to his horse, he said,'I am in haste to dine;'Twas for your pleasure you came here,You shall go back for mine.'
Ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast!For which he paid full dear;For, while he spake, a braying assDid sing most loud and clear;
Whereat his horse did snort, as heHad heard a lion roar,And gallop'd off with all his might,As he had done before.
Away went Gilpin, and awayWent Gilpin's hat and wig;He lost them sooner than at first,For why?—they were too big.
Now Mrs. Gilpin, when she sawHer husband posting downInto the country far away,She pull'd out half-a-crown;
And thus unto the youth she said,That drove them to the Bell,'This shall be yours, when you bring backMy husband safe and well.'
The youth did ride, and soon did meetJohn coming back amain;Whom in a trice he tried to stop,By catching at his rein;
But not performing what he meant,And gladly would have done,The frighted steed he frighted more,And made him faster run.
Away went Gilpin, and awayWent postboy at his heels,The postboy's horse right glad to missThe rumbling of the wheels.
Six gentlemen upon the roadThus seeing Gilpin fly,With postboy scampering in the rear,They rais'd a hue and cry:—'Stop thief!—stop thief!—a highwayman!'Not one of them was mute;And all and each that passed that wayDid join in the pursuit.
And now the turnpike gates againFlew open in short space:The toll-men, thinking as beforeThat Gilpin rode a race.
And so he did, and won it too,For he got first to town;Nor stopp'd till where he had got upHe did again get down.
Now let us sing, long live the king,And Gilpin, long live he;And, when he next doth ride abroad,May I be there to see.
W. Cowper
Once on a time a rustic dame,(No matter for the lady's name)Wrapt up in deep imagination,Indulg'd her pleasing contemplation;While on a bench she took her seat,And plac'd the milk-pail at her feet.Oft in her hand she chink'd the pence,The profits which arose from thence;While fond ideas fill'd her brainOf layings up, and monstrous gain,Till every penny which she toldCreative fancy turn'd to gold;And reasoning thus from computation,She spoke aloud her meditation.'Please heaven but to preserve my health,No doubt I shall have store of wealth;It must of consequence ensueI shall have store of lovers too.O, how I'll break their stubborn heartsWith all the pride of female arts.What suitors then will kneel before me!Lords, Earls, and Viscounts shall adore me.When in my gilded coach I ride,My Lady, at his Lordship's side,How will I laugh at all I meetClattering in pattens down the street!And Lobbin then I'll mind no more,Howe'er I lov'd him heretofore;Or, if he talks of plighted truth,I will not hear the simple youth,But rise indignant from my seat,And spurn the lubber from my feet.'Action, alas! the speaker's grace,Ne'er came in more improper place,For in the tossing forth her shoeWhat fancied bliss the maid o'erthrew!While down at once, with hideous fall,Came lovers, wealth, and milk, and all.
Once on a time a rustic dame,(No matter for the lady's name)Wrapt up in deep imagination,Indulg'd her pleasing contemplation;While on a bench she took her seat,And plac'd the milk-pail at her feet.Oft in her hand she chink'd the pence,The profits which arose from thence;While fond ideas fill'd her brainOf layings up, and monstrous gain,Till every penny which she toldCreative fancy turn'd to gold;And reasoning thus from computation,She spoke aloud her meditation.
'Please heaven but to preserve my health,No doubt I shall have store of wealth;It must of consequence ensueI shall have store of lovers too.O, how I'll break their stubborn heartsWith all the pride of female arts.What suitors then will kneel before me!Lords, Earls, and Viscounts shall adore me.When in my gilded coach I ride,My Lady, at his Lordship's side,How will I laugh at all I meetClattering in pattens down the street!And Lobbin then I'll mind no more,Howe'er I lov'd him heretofore;Or, if he talks of plighted truth,I will not hear the simple youth,But rise indignant from my seat,And spurn the lubber from my feet.'
Action, alas! the speaker's grace,Ne'er came in more improper place,For in the tossing forth her shoeWhat fancied bliss the maid o'erthrew!While down at once, with hideous fall,Came lovers, wealth, and milk, and all.
R. Lloyd
Gentlefolks, in my time, I've made many a rhyme,But the song I now trouble you withLays some claim to applause, and you'll grant it, becauseThe subject's Sir Sidney Smith, it is;The subject's Sir Sidney Smith.We all know Sir Sidney, a man of such kidney,He'd fight every foe he could meet;Give him one ship or two, and without more ado,He'd engage if he met a whole fleet, he would;He'd engage if he met a whole fleet.Thus he took, every day, all that came in his way,Till fortune, that changeable elf,Order'd accidents so, that, while taking the foe,Sir Sidney got taken himself, he did;Sir Sidney got taken himself.His captors, right glad of the prize they now had,Rejected each offer we bid,And swore he should stay, lock'd up till doomsday,But he swore he'd be hang'd if he did, he did;But he swore he'd be hang'd if he did.So Sir Sid got away, and his gaoler next dayCried, 'Sacre, diable, morbleu!Mon prisonnier 'scape, I 'ave got in von scrape,And I fear I must run away, too, I must;I fear I must run away too.'
Gentlefolks, in my time, I've made many a rhyme,But the song I now trouble you withLays some claim to applause, and you'll grant it, becauseThe subject's Sir Sidney Smith, it is;The subject's Sir Sidney Smith.
We all know Sir Sidney, a man of such kidney,He'd fight every foe he could meet;Give him one ship or two, and without more ado,He'd engage if he met a whole fleet, he would;He'd engage if he met a whole fleet.
Thus he took, every day, all that came in his way,Till fortune, that changeable elf,Order'd accidents so, that, while taking the foe,Sir Sidney got taken himself, he did;Sir Sidney got taken himself.
His captors, right glad of the prize they now had,Rejected each offer we bid,And swore he should stay, lock'd up till doomsday,But he swore he'd be hang'd if he did, he did;But he swore he'd be hang'd if he did.
So Sir Sid got away, and his gaoler next dayCried, 'Sacre, diable, morbleu!Mon prisonnier 'scape, I 'ave got in von scrape,And I fear I must run away, too, I must;I fear I must run away too.'
T. Dibdin
Hamelin Town's in Brunswick,By famous Hanover city;The river Weser deep and wideWashes its walls on the southern side;A pleasanter spot you never spied;But, when begins my ditty,Almost five hundred years ago,To see the townsfolk suffer soFrom vermin, was a pity.Rats!They fought the dogs and killed the cats,And bit the babies in their cradles,And ate the cheeses out of the vats,And licked the soup from the cook's own ladles,Split open the kegs of salted sprats,Made nests inside men's Sunday hats,And even spoiled the women's chats,By drowning their speakingWith shrieking and squeakingIn fifty different sharps and flats.At last the people in a bodyTo the Town-hall came flocking:''Tis clear,' cried they, 'our Mayor's a noddy:And as for our Corporation—shockingTo think we buy gowns lined with ermineFor dolts that can't or won't determineWhat's best to rid us of our vermin!You hope, because you're old and obese,To find in the furry civic robe ease!Rouse up, Sirs! Give your brains a rackingTo find the remedy we're lacking,Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing!'At this the Mayor and CorporationQuaked with a mighty consternation.An hour they sat in council,At length the Mayor broke silence:'For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell;I wish I were a mile hence!It's easy to bid one rack one's brain—I'm sure my poor head aches again,I've scratched it so, and all in vain.Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap!'Just as he said this, what should hapAt the chamber door, but a gentle tap?'Bless us,' cried the Mayor, 'what's that?Anything like the sound of a ratMakes my heart go pit-a-pat!'Come in!' the Mayor cried, looking bigger:And in did come the strangest figure!His queer long coat from heel to headWas half of yellow, and half of red;And he himself was tall and thin,With sharp blue eyes each like a pin,And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin,No tuft on cheek, nor beard on chin,But lips where smiles went out and in—There was no guessing his kith and kin!And nobody could enough admireThe tall man and his quaint attire:Quoth one, 'It's as if my great-grandsire,Starting up at the trump of Doom's tone,Had walked this way from his painted tombstone!'He advanced to the council table:And, 'Please your honours,' said he, 'I'm able,By means of a secret charm, to drawAll creatures living beneath the sun,That creep, or swim, or fly, or run,After me so as you never saw!And I chiefly use my charmOn creatures that do people harm,The mole, the toad, the newt, the viper;And people call me the Pied Piper.Yet,' said he, 'poor piper as I am,In Tartary I freed the Cham,Last June, from his huge swarm of gnats;I eased in Asia the NizamOf a monstrous brood of vampyre bats:And as for what your brain bewilders,If I can rid your town of ratsWill you give me a thousand guilders?''One? fifty thousand!' was the exclamationOf the astonished Mayor and Corporation.Into the street the Piper stept,Smiling first a little smile,As if he knew what magic sleptIn his quiet pipe the while;Then like a musical adept,To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled,And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled,Like a candle flame where salt is sprinkled;And ere three shrill notes the pipe had uttered,You heard as if an army muttered;And the muttering grew to a grumbling;And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling;And out of the houses the rats came tumbling—Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats.Brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawny rats,Grave old plodders, gay young friskers,Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins,Cocking tails, and pricking whiskers,Families by tens and dozens,Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives—Followed the Piper for their lives.From street to street he piped, advancing,And step for step they followed dancing,Until they came to the river WeserWherein all plunged and perished,Save one, who stout as Julius Cæsar,Swam across, and lived to carry(Ashethe manuscript he cherished)To Rat-land home his commentary,Which was, 'At the first shrill notes of the pipe,I heard a sound as of scraping tripe,And putting apples wondrous ripeInto a cider press's gripe;And a moving away of pickle-tub boards,And a leaving ajar of conserve cupboards,And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks,And a breaking the hoops of butter casks;And it seemed as if a voice(Sweeter far than by harp or by psalteryIs breathed) called out, Oh rats, rejoice!The world is grown to one vast drysaltery!So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon,Breakfast, dinner, supper, luncheon!And just as a bulky sugar puncheon,All ready staved, like a great sun shoneGlorious, scarce an inch before me,Just as methought it said, "Come, bore me!"—I found the Weser rolling o'er me.'You should have heard the Hamelin peopleRinging the bells till they rocked the steeple;'Go,' cried the Mayor, 'and get long poles!Poke out the nests, and block up the holes!Consult with carpenters and builders,And leave in our town not even a traceOf the rats!' When suddenly up the faceOf the Piper perked in the market-place,With a 'First, if you please, my thousand guilders!'A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue,So did the Corporation too.For council dinners made rare havockWith Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock;And half the money would replenishTheir cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish.To pay this sum to a wandering fellowWith a gipsy coat of red and yellow!'Besides,' quoth the Mayor, with a knowing wink,'Our business was done at the river's brink;We saw with our eyes the vermin sink,And what's dead can't come to life, I think.So, friend, we're not the folks to shrinkFrom the duty of giving you something for drink,And a matter of money to put in your poke;But, as for the guilders, what we spokeOf them, as you very well know, was in joke—Beside, our losses have made us thrifty:A thousand guilders! come, take fifty!'The Piper's face fell, and he cried,'No trifling! I can't wait beside!I've promised to visit by dinner-timeBagdat, and accept the primeOf the head-cook's pottage, all he's rich in,For having left in the caliph's kitchen,Of a nest of scorpions no surviver.With him I proved no bargain-driver,With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver!And folks who put me in a passionMay find me pipe to another fashion.''How?' cried the Mayor, 'd'ye think I'll brookBeing worse treated than a cook?Insulted by a lazy ribaldWith idle pipe and vesture piebald?You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst,Blow your pipe there till you burst.'Once more he stept into the street,And to his lips againLaid his long pipe of smooth, straight cane;And ere he blew three notes (such sweetSoft notes as yet musician's cunningNever gave the enraptured air),There was a rustling that seemed like a bustlingOf merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling,Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering,Little hands clapping and little tongues chattering,And like fowls in a farmyard when barley is scatteringOut came the children running:All the little boys and girls,With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls,And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls,Tripping and skipping ran merrily afterThe wonderful music with shouting and laughter.The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stoodAs if they were changed into blocks of wood,Unable to move a step, or cryTo the children merrily skipping by—And could only follow with the eyeThat joyous crowd at the Piper's back.And now the Mayor was on the rack,And the wretched Council's bosoms beat,As the Piper turned from the High StreetTo where the Weser rolled its watersRight in the way of their sons and daughters!However he turned from south to west,And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed,And after him the children pressed;Great was the joy in every breast.'He never can cross that mighty top;He's forced to let the piping drop,And we shall see our children stop!'When, lo! as they reached the mountain's side,A wondrous portal opened wide,As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed;And the Piper advanced, and the children followed,And when all were in to the very last,The door in the mountain side shut fast.Did I say, all? No! One was lame,And could not dance the whole of the way;And in after years, if you would blameHis sadness, he was used to say,—'It's dull in our town since my playmates left!I can't forget that I'm bereftOf all the pleasant sights they see,Which the Piper also promised me:For he led us, he said, to a joyous land,Joining the town and just at hand,Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew,And flowers put forth a fairer hue,And everything was strange and new;The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here,And their dogs outran our fallow-deer,And honey-bees had lost their stings,And horses were born with eagles' wings;And just as I became assuredMy lame foot would be speedily cured,The music stopped and I stood still,And found myself outside the hill,Left alone against my will,To go now limping as before,And never hear of that country more!'The Mayor sent east, west, north, and southTo offer the Piper by word of mouth,Wherever it was man's lot to find him,Silver and gold to his heart's content,If he'd only return the way he went,And bring the children behind him.But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavour,And Piper and dancers were gone for ever,They made a decree that lawyers neverShould think their records dated duly,If after the day of the month and yearThese words did not as well appear,'And so long after what happened hereOn the twenty-second of July,Thirteen hundred and seventy-six:'And the better in memory to fixThe place of the children's last retreat,They called it, the Pied Piper's Street—Where any one playing on pipe or tabor,Was sure for the future to lose his labour.Nor suffered they hostelry or tavernTo shock with mirth a street so solemn;But opposite the place of the cavernThey wrote the story on a column,And on the great church window paintedThe same, to make the world acquaintedHow their children were stolen away;And there it stands to this very day.And I must not omit to sayThat in Transylvania there's a tribeOf alien people, that ascribeThe outlandish ways and dressOn which their neighbours lay such stress,To their fathers and mothers having risenOut of some subterraneous prisonInto which they were trepannedLong ago in a mighty band,Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land,But how or why, they don't understand.So Willy, let you and me be wipersOf scores out with all men,—especially pipers,And whether they pipe us free from rats or from miceIf we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise.
Hamelin Town's in Brunswick,By famous Hanover city;The river Weser deep and wideWashes its walls on the southern side;A pleasanter spot you never spied;But, when begins my ditty,Almost five hundred years ago,To see the townsfolk suffer soFrom vermin, was a pity.
Rats!They fought the dogs and killed the cats,And bit the babies in their cradles,And ate the cheeses out of the vats,And licked the soup from the cook's own ladles,Split open the kegs of salted sprats,Made nests inside men's Sunday hats,And even spoiled the women's chats,By drowning their speakingWith shrieking and squeakingIn fifty different sharps and flats.
At last the people in a bodyTo the Town-hall came flocking:''Tis clear,' cried they, 'our Mayor's a noddy:And as for our Corporation—shockingTo think we buy gowns lined with ermineFor dolts that can't or won't determineWhat's best to rid us of our vermin!You hope, because you're old and obese,To find in the furry civic robe ease!Rouse up, Sirs! Give your brains a rackingTo find the remedy we're lacking,Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing!'At this the Mayor and CorporationQuaked with a mighty consternation.
An hour they sat in council,At length the Mayor broke silence:'For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell;I wish I were a mile hence!It's easy to bid one rack one's brain—I'm sure my poor head aches again,I've scratched it so, and all in vain.Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap!'Just as he said this, what should hapAt the chamber door, but a gentle tap?'Bless us,' cried the Mayor, 'what's that?Anything like the sound of a ratMakes my heart go pit-a-pat!
'Come in!' the Mayor cried, looking bigger:And in did come the strangest figure!His queer long coat from heel to headWas half of yellow, and half of red;And he himself was tall and thin,With sharp blue eyes each like a pin,And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin,No tuft on cheek, nor beard on chin,But lips where smiles went out and in—There was no guessing his kith and kin!And nobody could enough admireThe tall man and his quaint attire:Quoth one, 'It's as if my great-grandsire,Starting up at the trump of Doom's tone,Had walked this way from his painted tombstone!'
He advanced to the council table:And, 'Please your honours,' said he, 'I'm able,By means of a secret charm, to drawAll creatures living beneath the sun,That creep, or swim, or fly, or run,After me so as you never saw!And I chiefly use my charmOn creatures that do people harm,The mole, the toad, the newt, the viper;And people call me the Pied Piper.Yet,' said he, 'poor piper as I am,In Tartary I freed the Cham,Last June, from his huge swarm of gnats;I eased in Asia the NizamOf a monstrous brood of vampyre bats:And as for what your brain bewilders,If I can rid your town of ratsWill you give me a thousand guilders?''One? fifty thousand!' was the exclamationOf the astonished Mayor and Corporation.
Into the street the Piper stept,Smiling first a little smile,As if he knew what magic sleptIn his quiet pipe the while;Then like a musical adept,To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled,And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled,Like a candle flame where salt is sprinkled;And ere three shrill notes the pipe had uttered,You heard as if an army muttered;And the muttering grew to a grumbling;And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling;And out of the houses the rats came tumbling—Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats.Brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawny rats,Grave old plodders, gay young friskers,Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins,Cocking tails, and pricking whiskers,Families by tens and dozens,Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives—Followed the Piper for their lives.From street to street he piped, advancing,And step for step they followed dancing,Until they came to the river WeserWherein all plunged and perished,Save one, who stout as Julius Cæsar,Swam across, and lived to carry(Ashethe manuscript he cherished)To Rat-land home his commentary,Which was, 'At the first shrill notes of the pipe,I heard a sound as of scraping tripe,And putting apples wondrous ripeInto a cider press's gripe;And a moving away of pickle-tub boards,And a leaving ajar of conserve cupboards,And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks,And a breaking the hoops of butter casks;And it seemed as if a voice(Sweeter far than by harp or by psalteryIs breathed) called out, Oh rats, rejoice!The world is grown to one vast drysaltery!So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon,Breakfast, dinner, supper, luncheon!And just as a bulky sugar puncheon,All ready staved, like a great sun shoneGlorious, scarce an inch before me,Just as methought it said, "Come, bore me!"—I found the Weser rolling o'er me.'
You should have heard the Hamelin peopleRinging the bells till they rocked the steeple;'Go,' cried the Mayor, 'and get long poles!Poke out the nests, and block up the holes!Consult with carpenters and builders,And leave in our town not even a traceOf the rats!' When suddenly up the faceOf the Piper perked in the market-place,With a 'First, if you please, my thousand guilders!'
A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue,So did the Corporation too.For council dinners made rare havockWith Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock;And half the money would replenishTheir cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish.To pay this sum to a wandering fellowWith a gipsy coat of red and yellow!'Besides,' quoth the Mayor, with a knowing wink,'Our business was done at the river's brink;We saw with our eyes the vermin sink,And what's dead can't come to life, I think.So, friend, we're not the folks to shrinkFrom the duty of giving you something for drink,And a matter of money to put in your poke;But, as for the guilders, what we spokeOf them, as you very well know, was in joke—Beside, our losses have made us thrifty:A thousand guilders! come, take fifty!'
The Piper's face fell, and he cried,'No trifling! I can't wait beside!I've promised to visit by dinner-timeBagdat, and accept the primeOf the head-cook's pottage, all he's rich in,For having left in the caliph's kitchen,Of a nest of scorpions no surviver.With him I proved no bargain-driver,With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver!And folks who put me in a passionMay find me pipe to another fashion.'
'How?' cried the Mayor, 'd'ye think I'll brookBeing worse treated than a cook?Insulted by a lazy ribaldWith idle pipe and vesture piebald?You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst,Blow your pipe there till you burst.'
Once more he stept into the street,And to his lips againLaid his long pipe of smooth, straight cane;And ere he blew three notes (such sweetSoft notes as yet musician's cunningNever gave the enraptured air),There was a rustling that seemed like a bustlingOf merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling,Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering,Little hands clapping and little tongues chattering,And like fowls in a farmyard when barley is scatteringOut came the children running:All the little boys and girls,With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls,And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls,Tripping and skipping ran merrily afterThe wonderful music with shouting and laughter.
The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stoodAs if they were changed into blocks of wood,Unable to move a step, or cryTo the children merrily skipping by—And could only follow with the eyeThat joyous crowd at the Piper's back.And now the Mayor was on the rack,And the wretched Council's bosoms beat,As the Piper turned from the High StreetTo where the Weser rolled its watersRight in the way of their sons and daughters!However he turned from south to west,And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed,And after him the children pressed;Great was the joy in every breast.'He never can cross that mighty top;He's forced to let the piping drop,And we shall see our children stop!'When, lo! as they reached the mountain's side,A wondrous portal opened wide,As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed;And the Piper advanced, and the children followed,And when all were in to the very last,The door in the mountain side shut fast.Did I say, all? No! One was lame,And could not dance the whole of the way;And in after years, if you would blameHis sadness, he was used to say,—'It's dull in our town since my playmates left!I can't forget that I'm bereftOf all the pleasant sights they see,Which the Piper also promised me:For he led us, he said, to a joyous land,Joining the town and just at hand,Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew,And flowers put forth a fairer hue,And everything was strange and new;The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here,And their dogs outran our fallow-deer,And honey-bees had lost their stings,And horses were born with eagles' wings;And just as I became assuredMy lame foot would be speedily cured,The music stopped and I stood still,And found myself outside the hill,Left alone against my will,To go now limping as before,And never hear of that country more!'
The Mayor sent east, west, north, and southTo offer the Piper by word of mouth,Wherever it was man's lot to find him,Silver and gold to his heart's content,If he'd only return the way he went,And bring the children behind him.But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavour,And Piper and dancers were gone for ever,They made a decree that lawyers neverShould think their records dated duly,If after the day of the month and yearThese words did not as well appear,'And so long after what happened hereOn the twenty-second of July,Thirteen hundred and seventy-six:'And the better in memory to fixThe place of the children's last retreat,They called it, the Pied Piper's Street—Where any one playing on pipe or tabor,Was sure for the future to lose his labour.Nor suffered they hostelry or tavernTo shock with mirth a street so solemn;But opposite the place of the cavernThey wrote the story on a column,And on the great church window paintedThe same, to make the world acquaintedHow their children were stolen away;And there it stands to this very day.And I must not omit to sayThat in Transylvania there's a tribeOf alien people, that ascribeThe outlandish ways and dressOn which their neighbours lay such stress,To their fathers and mothers having risenOut of some subterraneous prisonInto which they were trepannedLong ago in a mighty band,Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land,But how or why, they don't understand.
So Willy, let you and me be wipersOf scores out with all men,—especially pipers,And whether they pipe us free from rats or from miceIf we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise.
R. Browning