I sit alone in my garden:Around, the moonlight flows:And the air is faint with the fragranceOf the too-sweet tuberose.
By the lilies and dewy myrtlesThe fireflies rise and fall;And the peerless yucca raisesHer silver coronal.
Now the night-loving cactus,Like a Hebe, holdeth up,To the dew and showery moonlight,Many a milk-white cup.
From under the eaves' deep shadowThe jasmine-bud, pearl-white, peers;And on the bent face of the sunflowerThe dew-drops shine like tears.
All nature is lapt in silence,Save only yon moonlit sea,—Whose voice seems but to echoThe memories that rise in me.
* * * * *
"Just thirty years," I murmur,"Just thirty years to-nightThey were sitting here in my garden,Werder, and Green, and Wright.
In my ears now ring their voices:We had each our cheroots alit;And the swift hours flitted o'er us,Winged by laughter and wit.
As now, then glittered the fireflies,And gleam'd the moonlit leaf;And as now, we heard midst our converseThe roller boom from yon reef.
The same stars in their placesShine from the same old sky,—But I, of those four blithe comradesI only remain, even I."
* * * * *
The German, Rheinhold Werder,The Englishman, John Wright,With Thomas Green, the Welshman,Were at my house that night:
And these, my jovial comrades,Their jokes began to bandy,Because that I, a Scotchman,Had whiskers somewhat sandy.
To whiskerless old WerderThereat I turned, and said,—"Why don'tyoutry and grow some?What odds if they were red?"
Old Werder chuckled grimly,And straight replied, "Ah vell!Since you vould ask de reason,I now a tale vill tell.—
"Vonce on a time an Angel,Von star-eyed leetle thing,Some presents to de nationsDid in von basket bring.
"Dese gifts vere hair and viskars,Vich she from heaven brought down,And dey vere of all colours,Some black, some red, some brown.
"She first did go to England,Dey chose brown viskars there:And den de Velshmans gladly,Selected de black pair.
"Moustaches fierce and lengthyDe Frenchmans most did please;And all de beards called "goaty"Vere taken by 'cute Yankees.
"After, de leetle AngelDid come to Germanie,And don, vidin de basket—Mein Gott!—vat did ve see!—
"Only von pair of viskars!You dirtee—ach!—RED pair!So said ve to de Angel,—'Ve dont vant any hair!'
"Thus de Angel took dese viskarsAcross de German Sea,—And on de cheeks of ScotchmansDese viskars now ve see!"
We laughed at Werder's story,And I the most of all,Whilst the clouds in the west were rising,And the western moon did fall.
Then followed one hour of converse,And then came the rushing rain,—So we four comrades parted,Never to meet again!
* * * * *
Thirty long years—just thirtySince then have passed away.Alas! those jovial comrades,To-night, ah where are they?
The wild Atlantic billowRolls over Thomas Green;And in a Dorset ChurchyardJohn Wright's name may be seen.—
And brave old Rheinhold WerderDropt to a Chassepôt shot,Amongst the trees that shadowThe road past Gravelotte.
And I, I only linger;And thinking of them to-night,Unconsciously pull my whiskers,So "sandy" once,—now white.
Dame Nature, that to flowersGives sunshine, dew, and showers,To me hath given much billing and much cooing.And now my head grows gray,I can but sigh and sayThat wooing almost always ends in ruing.
Shrive me, good Reader!—oftI've loved. My heart's too soft."I love not man the less, but woman more."In each new form and faceI see some special grace:I've loved too many girls——Confiteor!
Confiteor!—One seesThose little humbugs, bees,Flit fast from flower to flower, their honey hiving;It has been mine to seekRose lip and lily cheek.Confound it, yes! I need no end of shriving!
Why, I was scarce fourteen,And only once had seenSweet Caroline, the pride of Bangalore,When straight to her I wroteOn pink, a gushing note,In which my love, by all the stars, I swore!
But very strange to say,Upon that self-same day,I met three sisters, Alice, Clare, and Nelly:Nelly had golden hair,Alice sang well, and ClareWas a great hand at making guava jelly!
Bound by this triple chain,I knew not, in my pain,To which of these fair three to bend my knees:When at a ball one nightBurst on my raptured sightStar-like, the charms of my serene Louise.
For, ah! I must confessA boundless amorousnessIngrain'd and rooted in my nature is;A girl I cannot seeBut straight there wakes in meUnutterable longing for a kiss!
When last, Madras, in theeI saw sweet Rosalie,With eyes so blue, so bright, and O! so merry,—I loved her,—till I metThe coy and pale Annette,A sweet French rose that blooms in Pondicherry.
To Trichy next I came,And there another flameBlazed for a little, then was quench'd in tearsFor soon I learnt, enraged,That Agnes was engagedTo Major Spooney of the Fusiliers.
But why should I dilateFurther upon my fateOf loving many maids but wedding none?How Maud my heart perplext,Then Annie, Constance next,—The last a widow, aged twenty-one?
Enough for me to sayThat now, though I grow gray,My heart's as warm and tender as of yore.Yet, though my love burns brightIt sheds a softer light,A milder radiance, mellowing evermore!
For now, not one, nor two,But every maid I viewI love, with love that widens with my years.And when I pass away,Reader, weep not, but say,Chutney is with the cherubs—pretty dears!
THE RUSSIANS IN MADRAS.
McDowell, McDowell,Beware of the dayWhen the Russians come sailingThrough Bengal Bay;When they land at MadrasIn countless shoals,Cossacks, Siberians,Laplanders, Poles!Beware for they comeAs thirsty as bold,To a very hot climate,From regions of cold,And as soon as they landTo ransack this town,They will rush, O! McDowell,To thy Godown!Oh who would not weepFor thee O Madras!They'll swig every quartOf "Daukes' bottled Bass:"McDowell, slap intoYour godowns, pell mell,They'll burst, and get tight onYour "Sparkling Moselle."Your "Light Wines," and "Rhine Wines"They'll certainly drain,Your "Burgundy," "Hock,""Greek Wines," and "Champagne.""Hockeimer," thy bloodIn torrents shall flow,With that choicest of Burgundies,—"Clos Vougeot."Lucid "White Hymet,"Crystally clear,On the lips of LaplandersShall shed many a tear.Down the throats of SiberiansShall freely be pour'd,"Suisse Extract d'Absinthe,"And th' "Old Tom" of "Swaine Board."Whilst the Cossacks of DonTheir paunches shall fillWith "Creme de Noyeau"And "Creme de Vanille."McDowell, McDowell,Tell me I pray.Think you, could RussiansResist your "Tokai?"Think you their palatesCould ever refuseYour mellow "Oporto"Your "Grande Chartreuse?""Steinwine, in Box butel""Blue labell'd Schloss,"With "Chateau Pexoto,"They'll certainly toss.Alas, oh, alas,What then will becomeOf your "Munro's best Cooper,"And "Syrup of Gum?"Where then will your "Chablis,"And "Palatine" go,—With your "Muscat," your "Cider,"—McDowell and Co.?Oh ghost of Exshaw,What bottles they'll burst,Of your "No. 1 Brandy,"—Of brandies the first!With Gledstane's best vintageThey'll make them right merry,—His "oldest choice Cognac,"His "pale yellow Sherry."But what shall we doThat this may not be,When the thirsty barbariansCome over the sea?—Let us forestal the Russians!At once let us go—And buy the whole stock ofMCDOWELL & CO.