One day through Fancy’s telescope,Which is my richest treasure,I saw, dear Susan, Love and HopeSet out in search of pleasure:All mirth and smiles I saw them go;Each was the other’s banker;For Hope took up her brother’s bow,And Love, his sister’s anchor.They rambled on o’er vale and hill,They passed by cot and tower;Through summer’s glow and winter’s chill,Through sunshine and through shower:But what did those fond playmates careFor climate, or for weather?All scenes to them were bright and fairOn which they gazed together.Sometimes they turned aside to blessSome Muse and her wild numbers,Or breathe a dream of holinessOn Beauty’s quiet slumbers:“Fly on,” said Wisdom, with cold sneers,“I teach my friends to doubt you:”“Come back,” said Age, with bitter tears,“My heart is cold without you.”When Poverty beset their pathAnd threatened to divide them,They coaxed away the beldame’s wrathEre she had breath to chide them,By vowing all her rags were silk,And all her bitters, honey,And showing taste for bread and milk,And utter scorn of money.They met stern Danger in their wayUpon a ruin seated;Before him kings had quaked that day,And armies had retreated:But he was robed in such a cloudAs Love and Hope came near him,That though he thundered long and loud,They did not see or hear him.A grey-beard joined them, Time by name;And Love was nearly crazyTo find that he was very lame,And also very lazy:Hope, as he listened to her tale,Tied wings upon his jacket;And then they far outran the mail,And far outsailed the packet.And so, when they had safely passedO’er many a land and billow,Before a grave they stopped at last,Beneath a weeping willow:The moon upon the humble moundHer softest light was flinging;And from the thickets all aroundSad nightingales were singing.“I leave you here,” quoth Father Time,As hoarse as any raven;And Love kneeled down to spell the rhymeUpon the rude stone graven:But Hope looked onward, calmly brave,And whispered, “Dearest brother—We’re parted on this side the grave,—We’ll meet upon the other.”
One day through Fancy’s telescope,Which is my richest treasure,I saw, dear Susan, Love and HopeSet out in search of pleasure:All mirth and smiles I saw them go;Each was the other’s banker;For Hope took up her brother’s bow,And Love, his sister’s anchor.They rambled on o’er vale and hill,They passed by cot and tower;Through summer’s glow and winter’s chill,Through sunshine and through shower:But what did those fond playmates careFor climate, or for weather?All scenes to them were bright and fairOn which they gazed together.Sometimes they turned aside to blessSome Muse and her wild numbers,Or breathe a dream of holinessOn Beauty’s quiet slumbers:“Fly on,” said Wisdom, with cold sneers,“I teach my friends to doubt you:”“Come back,” said Age, with bitter tears,“My heart is cold without you.”When Poverty beset their pathAnd threatened to divide them,They coaxed away the beldame’s wrathEre she had breath to chide them,By vowing all her rags were silk,And all her bitters, honey,And showing taste for bread and milk,And utter scorn of money.They met stern Danger in their wayUpon a ruin seated;Before him kings had quaked that day,And armies had retreated:But he was robed in such a cloudAs Love and Hope came near him,That though he thundered long and loud,They did not see or hear him.A grey-beard joined them, Time by name;And Love was nearly crazyTo find that he was very lame,And also very lazy:Hope, as he listened to her tale,Tied wings upon his jacket;And then they far outran the mail,And far outsailed the packet.And so, when they had safely passedO’er many a land and billow,Before a grave they stopped at last,Beneath a weeping willow:The moon upon the humble moundHer softest light was flinging;And from the thickets all aroundSad nightingales were singing.“I leave you here,” quoth Father Time,As hoarse as any raven;And Love kneeled down to spell the rhymeUpon the rude stone graven:But Hope looked onward, calmly brave,And whispered, “Dearest brother—We’re parted on this side the grave,—We’ll meet upon the other.”
One day through Fancy’s telescope,Which is my richest treasure,I saw, dear Susan, Love and HopeSet out in search of pleasure:All mirth and smiles I saw them go;Each was the other’s banker;For Hope took up her brother’s bow,And Love, his sister’s anchor.
They rambled on o’er vale and hill,They passed by cot and tower;Through summer’s glow and winter’s chill,Through sunshine and through shower:But what did those fond playmates careFor climate, or for weather?All scenes to them were bright and fairOn which they gazed together.
Sometimes they turned aside to blessSome Muse and her wild numbers,Or breathe a dream of holinessOn Beauty’s quiet slumbers:“Fly on,” said Wisdom, with cold sneers,“I teach my friends to doubt you:”“Come back,” said Age, with bitter tears,“My heart is cold without you.”
When Poverty beset their pathAnd threatened to divide them,They coaxed away the beldame’s wrathEre she had breath to chide them,By vowing all her rags were silk,And all her bitters, honey,And showing taste for bread and milk,And utter scorn of money.
They met stern Danger in their wayUpon a ruin seated;Before him kings had quaked that day,And armies had retreated:But he was robed in such a cloudAs Love and Hope came near him,That though he thundered long and loud,They did not see or hear him.
A grey-beard joined them, Time by name;And Love was nearly crazyTo find that he was very lame,And also very lazy:Hope, as he listened to her tale,Tied wings upon his jacket;And then they far outran the mail,And far outsailed the packet.
And so, when they had safely passedO’er many a land and billow,Before a grave they stopped at last,Beneath a weeping willow:The moon upon the humble moundHer softest light was flinging;And from the thickets all aroundSad nightingales were singing.
“I leave you here,” quoth Father Time,As hoarse as any raven;And Love kneeled down to spell the rhymeUpon the rude stone graven:But Hope looked onward, calmly brave,And whispered, “Dearest brother—We’re parted on this side the grave,—We’ll meet upon the other.”
O’er yon Churchyard the storm may lower;But, heedless of the wintry air,One little bud shall linger there,A still and trembling flower.Unscathed by long revolving years,Its tender leaves shall flourish yet,And sparkle in the moonlight, wetWith the pale dew of tears.And where thine humble ashes lie,Instead of ’scutcheon or of stone,It rises o’er thee, lonely one,Child of obscurity!Mild was thy voice as Zephyr’s breath,Thy cheek with flowing locks was shaded!But the voice hath died, the cheek hath fadedIn the cold breeze of death!Brightly thine eye was smiling, sweet!But now decay hath stilled its glancing;Warmly thy little heart was dancing,But it hath ceased to beat!A few short months—and thou wert here!Hope sat upon thy youthful brow;And what is thy memorial now?A flower—and a Tear.
O’er yon Churchyard the storm may lower;But, heedless of the wintry air,One little bud shall linger there,A still and trembling flower.Unscathed by long revolving years,Its tender leaves shall flourish yet,And sparkle in the moonlight, wetWith the pale dew of tears.And where thine humble ashes lie,Instead of ’scutcheon or of stone,It rises o’er thee, lonely one,Child of obscurity!Mild was thy voice as Zephyr’s breath,Thy cheek with flowing locks was shaded!But the voice hath died, the cheek hath fadedIn the cold breeze of death!Brightly thine eye was smiling, sweet!But now decay hath stilled its glancing;Warmly thy little heart was dancing,But it hath ceased to beat!A few short months—and thou wert here!Hope sat upon thy youthful brow;And what is thy memorial now?A flower—and a Tear.
O’er yon Churchyard the storm may lower;But, heedless of the wintry air,One little bud shall linger there,A still and trembling flower.
Unscathed by long revolving years,Its tender leaves shall flourish yet,And sparkle in the moonlight, wetWith the pale dew of tears.
And where thine humble ashes lie,Instead of ’scutcheon or of stone,It rises o’er thee, lonely one,Child of obscurity!
Mild was thy voice as Zephyr’s breath,Thy cheek with flowing locks was shaded!But the voice hath died, the cheek hath fadedIn the cold breeze of death!
Brightly thine eye was smiling, sweet!But now decay hath stilled its glancing;Warmly thy little heart was dancing,But it hath ceased to beat!
A few short months—and thou wert here!Hope sat upon thy youthful brow;And what is thy memorial now?A flower—and a Tear.
They hurried to the feast,The warrior and the priest,And the gay maiden with her jewelled brow;The minstrel’s harp and voiceSaid “Triumph and rejoice!”—One only mourned!—many are mourning now!“Peace! startle not the lightWith the wild dreams of night!”—So spake the Princes in their pride and joy,When I, in their dull ears,Shrieked forth my tale of tears,“Woe to the gorgeous city, woe to Troy!”Ye watch the dim smoke riseUp to the lurid skies;Ye see the red light flickering on the stream;Ye listen to the fallOf gate, and tower, and wall;Sisters, the time is come!—alas, it is no dream!Through hall, and court, and porch,Glides on the pitiless torchThe swift avengers faint not in their toil:Vain now the matron’s sighs,Vain now the infant’s cries;—Look, sisters, look! who leads them to the spoil?Not Pyrrhus, though his handIs on his father’s brand;Not the fell framer of the accursèd steed;Not Nestor’s hoary head,Nor Teucer’s rapid tread,Nor the fierce wrath of impious Diomede.Visions of deeper fearTo-night are warring here;—I know them, sisters, the mysterious Three:Minerva’s lightning frown,And Juno’s golden crown,And him, the mighty Ruler of the sounding sea!Through wailing and through woeSilent and stern they go;So have I ever seen them in my trance:Exultingly they guideDestruction’s fiery tide,And lift the dazzling shield, and point the deadly lance.Lo, where the old man stands,Folding his palsied hands,And muttering, with white lips, his querulous prayer:“Where is my noble son,My best my bravest one—Troy’s hope and Priam’s—where is Hector, where?”Why is thy falchion grasped?Why is thy helmet clasped?Fitter the fillet for such brow as thine!The altar reeks with gore;O sisters, look no more!It is our father’s blood upon the shrine!And ye, alas! must roamFar from your desolate home,Far from lost Ilium, o’er the joyless wave;Ye may not from these bowersGather the trampled flowersTo wreath sad garlands for your brethren’s grave.Away, away! the galeStirs the white-bosomed sail;Hence! look not back to freedom or to fame;Labour must be your doom,Night-watchings, days of gloom,The bitter bread of tears, the bridal couch of shame.Even now some Grecian dameBeholds the signal flame,And waits, expectant, the returning fleet;“Why lingers yet my lord?Hath he not sheathed his sword?Will he not bring my handmaid to my feet?”Me too, the dark Fates call:Their sway is over all,Captor and captive, prison-house and throne:—I tell of others’ lot;They hear me, heed me not!Hide, angry Phœbus, hide me from mine own!
They hurried to the feast,The warrior and the priest,And the gay maiden with her jewelled brow;The minstrel’s harp and voiceSaid “Triumph and rejoice!”—One only mourned!—many are mourning now!“Peace! startle not the lightWith the wild dreams of night!”—So spake the Princes in their pride and joy,When I, in their dull ears,Shrieked forth my tale of tears,“Woe to the gorgeous city, woe to Troy!”Ye watch the dim smoke riseUp to the lurid skies;Ye see the red light flickering on the stream;Ye listen to the fallOf gate, and tower, and wall;Sisters, the time is come!—alas, it is no dream!Through hall, and court, and porch,Glides on the pitiless torchThe swift avengers faint not in their toil:Vain now the matron’s sighs,Vain now the infant’s cries;—Look, sisters, look! who leads them to the spoil?Not Pyrrhus, though his handIs on his father’s brand;Not the fell framer of the accursèd steed;Not Nestor’s hoary head,Nor Teucer’s rapid tread,Nor the fierce wrath of impious Diomede.Visions of deeper fearTo-night are warring here;—I know them, sisters, the mysterious Three:Minerva’s lightning frown,And Juno’s golden crown,And him, the mighty Ruler of the sounding sea!Through wailing and through woeSilent and stern they go;So have I ever seen them in my trance:Exultingly they guideDestruction’s fiery tide,And lift the dazzling shield, and point the deadly lance.Lo, where the old man stands,Folding his palsied hands,And muttering, with white lips, his querulous prayer:“Where is my noble son,My best my bravest one—Troy’s hope and Priam’s—where is Hector, where?”Why is thy falchion grasped?Why is thy helmet clasped?Fitter the fillet for such brow as thine!The altar reeks with gore;O sisters, look no more!It is our father’s blood upon the shrine!And ye, alas! must roamFar from your desolate home,Far from lost Ilium, o’er the joyless wave;Ye may not from these bowersGather the trampled flowersTo wreath sad garlands for your brethren’s grave.Away, away! the galeStirs the white-bosomed sail;Hence! look not back to freedom or to fame;Labour must be your doom,Night-watchings, days of gloom,The bitter bread of tears, the bridal couch of shame.Even now some Grecian dameBeholds the signal flame,And waits, expectant, the returning fleet;“Why lingers yet my lord?Hath he not sheathed his sword?Will he not bring my handmaid to my feet?”Me too, the dark Fates call:Their sway is over all,Captor and captive, prison-house and throne:—I tell of others’ lot;They hear me, heed me not!Hide, angry Phœbus, hide me from mine own!
They hurried to the feast,The warrior and the priest,And the gay maiden with her jewelled brow;The minstrel’s harp and voiceSaid “Triumph and rejoice!”—One only mourned!—many are mourning now!
“Peace! startle not the lightWith the wild dreams of night!”—So spake the Princes in their pride and joy,When I, in their dull ears,Shrieked forth my tale of tears,“Woe to the gorgeous city, woe to Troy!”
Ye watch the dim smoke riseUp to the lurid skies;Ye see the red light flickering on the stream;Ye listen to the fallOf gate, and tower, and wall;Sisters, the time is come!—alas, it is no dream!
Through hall, and court, and porch,Glides on the pitiless torchThe swift avengers faint not in their toil:Vain now the matron’s sighs,Vain now the infant’s cries;—Look, sisters, look! who leads them to the spoil?
Not Pyrrhus, though his handIs on his father’s brand;Not the fell framer of the accursèd steed;Not Nestor’s hoary head,Nor Teucer’s rapid tread,Nor the fierce wrath of impious Diomede.
Visions of deeper fearTo-night are warring here;—I know them, sisters, the mysterious Three:Minerva’s lightning frown,And Juno’s golden crown,And him, the mighty Ruler of the sounding sea!
Through wailing and through woeSilent and stern they go;So have I ever seen them in my trance:Exultingly they guideDestruction’s fiery tide,And lift the dazzling shield, and point the deadly lance.
Lo, where the old man stands,Folding his palsied hands,And muttering, with white lips, his querulous prayer:“Where is my noble son,My best my bravest one—Troy’s hope and Priam’s—where is Hector, where?”
Why is thy falchion grasped?Why is thy helmet clasped?Fitter the fillet for such brow as thine!The altar reeks with gore;O sisters, look no more!It is our father’s blood upon the shrine!
And ye, alas! must roamFar from your desolate home,Far from lost Ilium, o’er the joyless wave;Ye may not from these bowersGather the trampled flowersTo wreath sad garlands for your brethren’s grave.
Away, away! the galeStirs the white-bosomed sail;Hence! look not back to freedom or to fame;Labour must be your doom,Night-watchings, days of gloom,The bitter bread of tears, the bridal couch of shame.
Even now some Grecian dameBeholds the signal flame,And waits, expectant, the returning fleet;“Why lingers yet my lord?Hath he not sheathed his sword?Will he not bring my handmaid to my feet?”
Me too, the dark Fates call:Their sway is over all,Captor and captive, prison-house and throne:—I tell of others’ lot;They hear me, heed me not!Hide, angry Phœbus, hide me from mine own!
To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas! the clarion’s note is high;To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas! the huge drum makes reply:Ere this hath Lucas marched with his gallant cavaliers,And the bray of Rupert’s trumpets grows fainter on our ears.To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas! White Guy is at the door,And the vulture whets his beak o’er the field of Marston Moor.Up rose the Lady Alice from her brief and broken prayer,And she brought a silken standard down the narrow turret stair.Oh, many were the tears those radiant eyes had shed,As she worked the bright word “Glory” in the gay and glancing thread;And mournful was the smile that o’er those beauteous features ran,As she said, “It is your lady’s gift, unfurl it in the van.”“It shall flutter, noble wench, where the best and boldest ride,Through the steel-clad files of Skippon and the black dragoons of Pride;The recreant soul of Fairfax will feel a sicklier qualm,And the rebel lips of Oliver give out a louder psalm,When they see my lady’s gew-gaw flaunt bravely on their wing,And hear her loyal soldiers shout, For God and for the King!”—’Tis noon; the ranks are broken along the royal line;They fly, the braggarts of the court, the bullies of the Rhine:Stout Langley’s cheer is heard no more, and Astley’s helm is down,And Rupert sheathes his rapier with a curse and with a frown;And cold Newcastle mutters, as he follows in the flight,“The German boar had better far have supped in York to-night.”The knight is all alone, his steel cap cleft in twain,His good buff jerkin crimsoned o’er with many a gory stain;But still he waves the standard, and cries amid the rout—“For Church and King, fair gentlemen, spur on and fight it out!”And now he wards a Roundhead’s pike, and now he hums a stave,And here he quotes a stage-play, and there he fells a knave.Good speed to thee, Sir Nicholas! thou hast no thought of fear;Good speed to thee, Sir Nicholas! but fearful odds are here.The traitors ring thee round, and with every blow and thrust,“Down, down,” they cry, “with Belial, down with him to the dust!”“I would,” quoth grim old Oliver, “that Belial’s trusty swordThis day were doing battle for the Saints and for the Lord!”—The lady Alice sits with her maidens in her bower;The grey-haired warden watches on the castle’s highest tower.—“What news, what news, old Anthony?”—“The field is lost and won,The ranks of war are melting as the mists beneath the sun;And a wounded man speeds hither,—I am old and cannot see,Or sure I am that sturdy step my master’s step should be.”—“I bring thee back the standard from as rude and rough a fray,As e’er was proof of soldier’s thews, or theme for minstrel’s lay,Bid Hubert fetch the silver bowl, and liquorquantum suff:I’ll make a shift to drain it, ere I part with boot and buff;Though Guy through many a gaping wound is breathing out his life,And I come to thee a landless man, my fond and faithful wife!“Sweet, we will fill our money-bags, and freight a ship for France,And mourn in merry Paris for this poor realm’s mischance;Or, if the worse betide me, why, better axe or rope,Than life with Lenthal for a king, and Peters for a pope!Alas, alas, my gallant Guy! out on the crop-eared boor,That sent me with my standard on foot from Marston Moor!”
To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas! the clarion’s note is high;To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas! the huge drum makes reply:Ere this hath Lucas marched with his gallant cavaliers,And the bray of Rupert’s trumpets grows fainter on our ears.To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas! White Guy is at the door,And the vulture whets his beak o’er the field of Marston Moor.Up rose the Lady Alice from her brief and broken prayer,And she brought a silken standard down the narrow turret stair.Oh, many were the tears those radiant eyes had shed,As she worked the bright word “Glory” in the gay and glancing thread;And mournful was the smile that o’er those beauteous features ran,As she said, “It is your lady’s gift, unfurl it in the van.”“It shall flutter, noble wench, where the best and boldest ride,Through the steel-clad files of Skippon and the black dragoons of Pride;The recreant soul of Fairfax will feel a sicklier qualm,And the rebel lips of Oliver give out a louder psalm,When they see my lady’s gew-gaw flaunt bravely on their wing,And hear her loyal soldiers shout, For God and for the King!”—’Tis noon; the ranks are broken along the royal line;They fly, the braggarts of the court, the bullies of the Rhine:Stout Langley’s cheer is heard no more, and Astley’s helm is down,And Rupert sheathes his rapier with a curse and with a frown;And cold Newcastle mutters, as he follows in the flight,“The German boar had better far have supped in York to-night.”The knight is all alone, his steel cap cleft in twain,His good buff jerkin crimsoned o’er with many a gory stain;But still he waves the standard, and cries amid the rout—“For Church and King, fair gentlemen, spur on and fight it out!”And now he wards a Roundhead’s pike, and now he hums a stave,And here he quotes a stage-play, and there he fells a knave.Good speed to thee, Sir Nicholas! thou hast no thought of fear;Good speed to thee, Sir Nicholas! but fearful odds are here.The traitors ring thee round, and with every blow and thrust,“Down, down,” they cry, “with Belial, down with him to the dust!”“I would,” quoth grim old Oliver, “that Belial’s trusty swordThis day were doing battle for the Saints and for the Lord!”—The lady Alice sits with her maidens in her bower;The grey-haired warden watches on the castle’s highest tower.—“What news, what news, old Anthony?”—“The field is lost and won,The ranks of war are melting as the mists beneath the sun;And a wounded man speeds hither,—I am old and cannot see,Or sure I am that sturdy step my master’s step should be.”—“I bring thee back the standard from as rude and rough a fray,As e’er was proof of soldier’s thews, or theme for minstrel’s lay,Bid Hubert fetch the silver bowl, and liquorquantum suff:I’ll make a shift to drain it, ere I part with boot and buff;Though Guy through many a gaping wound is breathing out his life,And I come to thee a landless man, my fond and faithful wife!“Sweet, we will fill our money-bags, and freight a ship for France,And mourn in merry Paris for this poor realm’s mischance;Or, if the worse betide me, why, better axe or rope,Than life with Lenthal for a king, and Peters for a pope!Alas, alas, my gallant Guy! out on the crop-eared boor,That sent me with my standard on foot from Marston Moor!”
To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas! the clarion’s note is high;To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas! the huge drum makes reply:Ere this hath Lucas marched with his gallant cavaliers,And the bray of Rupert’s trumpets grows fainter on our ears.To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas! White Guy is at the door,And the vulture whets his beak o’er the field of Marston Moor.
Up rose the Lady Alice from her brief and broken prayer,And she brought a silken standard down the narrow turret stair.Oh, many were the tears those radiant eyes had shed,As she worked the bright word “Glory” in the gay and glancing thread;And mournful was the smile that o’er those beauteous features ran,As she said, “It is your lady’s gift, unfurl it in the van.”
“It shall flutter, noble wench, where the best and boldest ride,Through the steel-clad files of Skippon and the black dragoons of Pride;The recreant soul of Fairfax will feel a sicklier qualm,And the rebel lips of Oliver give out a louder psalm,When they see my lady’s gew-gaw flaunt bravely on their wing,And hear her loyal soldiers shout, For God and for the King!”—
’Tis noon; the ranks are broken along the royal line;They fly, the braggarts of the court, the bullies of the Rhine:Stout Langley’s cheer is heard no more, and Astley’s helm is down,And Rupert sheathes his rapier with a curse and with a frown;And cold Newcastle mutters, as he follows in the flight,“The German boar had better far have supped in York to-night.”
The knight is all alone, his steel cap cleft in twain,His good buff jerkin crimsoned o’er with many a gory stain;But still he waves the standard, and cries amid the rout—“For Church and King, fair gentlemen, spur on and fight it out!”And now he wards a Roundhead’s pike, and now he hums a stave,And here he quotes a stage-play, and there he fells a knave.
Good speed to thee, Sir Nicholas! thou hast no thought of fear;Good speed to thee, Sir Nicholas! but fearful odds are here.The traitors ring thee round, and with every blow and thrust,“Down, down,” they cry, “with Belial, down with him to the dust!”“I would,” quoth grim old Oliver, “that Belial’s trusty swordThis day were doing battle for the Saints and for the Lord!”—
The lady Alice sits with her maidens in her bower;The grey-haired warden watches on the castle’s highest tower.—“What news, what news, old Anthony?”—“The field is lost and won,The ranks of war are melting as the mists beneath the sun;And a wounded man speeds hither,—I am old and cannot see,Or sure I am that sturdy step my master’s step should be.”—
“I bring thee back the standard from as rude and rough a fray,As e’er was proof of soldier’s thews, or theme for minstrel’s lay,Bid Hubert fetch the silver bowl, and liquorquantum suff:I’ll make a shift to drain it, ere I part with boot and buff;Though Guy through many a gaping wound is breathing out his life,And I come to thee a landless man, my fond and faithful wife!
“Sweet, we will fill our money-bags, and freight a ship for France,And mourn in merry Paris for this poor realm’s mischance;Or, if the worse betide me, why, better axe or rope,Than life with Lenthal for a king, and Peters for a pope!Alas, alas, my gallant Guy! out on the crop-eared boor,That sent me with my standard on foot from Marston Moor!”
The men of sin prevail!Once more the prince of this world lifts his horn;Judah is scattered, as the chaff is borneBefore the stormy gale.Where are our brethren? whereThe good and true, the terrible and fleet?They whom we loved, with whom we sat at meat,With whom we kneeled in prayer?Mangled and marred they lieUpon the bloody pillow of their rest;Stern Dalzell smiles, and Clavers with a jestSpurs his fierce charger by.So let our foes rejoice;We to the Lord, who hears their impious boasts,Will call for comfort; to the God of hostsWe will lift up our voice.Give ear unto our song;For we are wandering o’er our native landAs sheep that have no shepherd; and the handOf wicked men is strong.Only to Thee we bow:Our lips have drained the fury of Thy cup;And the deep murmurs of our hearts go upTo Heaven for vengeance now.Avenge,—oh! not our yearsOf pain and wrong, the blood of martyrs shed,The ashes heaped upon the hoary head,The maiden’s silent tears.The babe’s bread torn away,The harvest blasted by the war-steed’s hoof,The red flame wreathing o’er the cottage roof,Judge not for these to-day!—Is not Thine own dread rodMocked by the proud, Thy holy book disdained,Thy name blasphemed, Thy temple courts profaned?Avenge Thyself, O God!Break Pharaoh’s iron crown;Bind with new chains their nobles and their kings:Wash from thine house the blood of unclean things,And hurl their Dagon down!Come in Thine own good time!We will abide; we have not turned from Thee,Though in a world of grief our portion be,Of bitter grief and crime.Be Thou our guard and guide!Forth from the spoiler’s synagogue we go,That we may worship where the torrents flowAnd where the whirlwinds ride.From lonely rocks and cavesWe will pour forth our sacrifice of prayer.—On, brethren, to the mountains! seek we thereSafe temples, quiet graves!
The men of sin prevail!Once more the prince of this world lifts his horn;Judah is scattered, as the chaff is borneBefore the stormy gale.Where are our brethren? whereThe good and true, the terrible and fleet?They whom we loved, with whom we sat at meat,With whom we kneeled in prayer?Mangled and marred they lieUpon the bloody pillow of their rest;Stern Dalzell smiles, and Clavers with a jestSpurs his fierce charger by.So let our foes rejoice;We to the Lord, who hears their impious boasts,Will call for comfort; to the God of hostsWe will lift up our voice.Give ear unto our song;For we are wandering o’er our native landAs sheep that have no shepherd; and the handOf wicked men is strong.Only to Thee we bow:Our lips have drained the fury of Thy cup;And the deep murmurs of our hearts go upTo Heaven for vengeance now.Avenge,—oh! not our yearsOf pain and wrong, the blood of martyrs shed,The ashes heaped upon the hoary head,The maiden’s silent tears.The babe’s bread torn away,The harvest blasted by the war-steed’s hoof,The red flame wreathing o’er the cottage roof,Judge not for these to-day!—Is not Thine own dread rodMocked by the proud, Thy holy book disdained,Thy name blasphemed, Thy temple courts profaned?Avenge Thyself, O God!Break Pharaoh’s iron crown;Bind with new chains their nobles and their kings:Wash from thine house the blood of unclean things,And hurl their Dagon down!Come in Thine own good time!We will abide; we have not turned from Thee,Though in a world of grief our portion be,Of bitter grief and crime.Be Thou our guard and guide!Forth from the spoiler’s synagogue we go,That we may worship where the torrents flowAnd where the whirlwinds ride.From lonely rocks and cavesWe will pour forth our sacrifice of prayer.—On, brethren, to the mountains! seek we thereSafe temples, quiet graves!
The men of sin prevail!Once more the prince of this world lifts his horn;Judah is scattered, as the chaff is borneBefore the stormy gale.
Where are our brethren? whereThe good and true, the terrible and fleet?They whom we loved, with whom we sat at meat,With whom we kneeled in prayer?
Mangled and marred they lieUpon the bloody pillow of their rest;Stern Dalzell smiles, and Clavers with a jestSpurs his fierce charger by.
So let our foes rejoice;We to the Lord, who hears their impious boasts,Will call for comfort; to the God of hostsWe will lift up our voice.
Give ear unto our song;For we are wandering o’er our native landAs sheep that have no shepherd; and the handOf wicked men is strong.
Only to Thee we bow:Our lips have drained the fury of Thy cup;And the deep murmurs of our hearts go upTo Heaven for vengeance now.
Avenge,—oh! not our yearsOf pain and wrong, the blood of martyrs shed,The ashes heaped upon the hoary head,The maiden’s silent tears.
The babe’s bread torn away,The harvest blasted by the war-steed’s hoof,The red flame wreathing o’er the cottage roof,Judge not for these to-day!—
Is not Thine own dread rodMocked by the proud, Thy holy book disdained,Thy name blasphemed, Thy temple courts profaned?Avenge Thyself, O God!
Break Pharaoh’s iron crown;Bind with new chains their nobles and their kings:Wash from thine house the blood of unclean things,And hurl their Dagon down!
Come in Thine own good time!We will abide; we have not turned from Thee,Though in a world of grief our portion be,Of bitter grief and crime.
Be Thou our guard and guide!Forth from the spoiler’s synagogue we go,That we may worship where the torrents flowAnd where the whirlwinds ride.
From lonely rocks and cavesWe will pour forth our sacrifice of prayer.—On, brethren, to the mountains! seek we thereSafe temples, quiet graves!
Most beautiful! I gaze and gazeIn silence on the glorious pile,And the glad thoughts of other daysCome thronging back the while.To me dim memory makes more dearThe perfect grandeur of the shrine;But if I stood a stranger here,The ground were still divine.Some awe the good and wise have felt,As reverently their feet have trodOn any spot where man hath kneltTo commune with his God;By sacred spring, or haunted well,Beneath the ruined temple’s gloom,Beside the feeble hermit’s cell,Or the false Prophet’s tomb.But when was high devotion gracedWith lovelier dwelling, loftier throne,Than here the limner’s art hath gracedFrom the time-honoured stone?The Spirit here of worship seemsTo bind the soul in willing thrall,And heavenward hopes and holy dreamsCome at her voiceless call;At midnight, when the lonely moonLooks from a vapour’s silvery fold;At morning, when the sun of JuneCrests the high towers with gold;For every change of hour and formMakes that fair scene more deeply fair,And dusk and daybreak, calm and storm,Are all Religion there.
Most beautiful! I gaze and gazeIn silence on the glorious pile,And the glad thoughts of other daysCome thronging back the while.To me dim memory makes more dearThe perfect grandeur of the shrine;But if I stood a stranger here,The ground were still divine.Some awe the good and wise have felt,As reverently their feet have trodOn any spot where man hath kneltTo commune with his God;By sacred spring, or haunted well,Beneath the ruined temple’s gloom,Beside the feeble hermit’s cell,Or the false Prophet’s tomb.But when was high devotion gracedWith lovelier dwelling, loftier throne,Than here the limner’s art hath gracedFrom the time-honoured stone?The Spirit here of worship seemsTo bind the soul in willing thrall,And heavenward hopes and holy dreamsCome at her voiceless call;At midnight, when the lonely moonLooks from a vapour’s silvery fold;At morning, when the sun of JuneCrests the high towers with gold;For every change of hour and formMakes that fair scene more deeply fair,And dusk and daybreak, calm and storm,Are all Religion there.
Most beautiful! I gaze and gazeIn silence on the glorious pile,And the glad thoughts of other daysCome thronging back the while.To me dim memory makes more dearThe perfect grandeur of the shrine;But if I stood a stranger here,The ground were still divine.
Some awe the good and wise have felt,As reverently their feet have trodOn any spot where man hath kneltTo commune with his God;By sacred spring, or haunted well,Beneath the ruined temple’s gloom,Beside the feeble hermit’s cell,Or the false Prophet’s tomb.
But when was high devotion gracedWith lovelier dwelling, loftier throne,Than here the limner’s art hath gracedFrom the time-honoured stone?The Spirit here of worship seemsTo bind the soul in willing thrall,And heavenward hopes and holy dreamsCome at her voiceless call;
At midnight, when the lonely moonLooks from a vapour’s silvery fold;At morning, when the sun of JuneCrests the high towers with gold;For every change of hour and formMakes that fair scene more deeply fair,And dusk and daybreak, calm and storm,Are all Religion there.
“Oh yes! he is in Parliament;He’s been returning thanks;You can’t conceive the time he’s spentAlready on his franks.He’ll think of nothing, night and day,But place, and theGazette:”—No matter what the people say,—You won’t believe them yet.“He filled an album, long ago,With such delicious rhymes;Now we shall only see, you know,His speeches in theTimes:And liquid tone and beaming brow,Bright eyes and locks of jet,He’ll care for no such nonsense now:”Oh! don’t believe them yet!“I vow he’s turned a Goth, a Hun,By that disgusting Bill;He’ll never make another pun;He’s danced his last quadrille.We shall not see him flirt againWith any fair coquette;He’ll never laugh at Drury Lane.”—Psha!—don’t believe them yet.“Last week I heard his uncle boastHe’s sure to have the seals;I read it in theMorning Post,That he has dined at Peel’s;You’ll never see him any more,He’s in a different set:He cannot eat at half-past four:”—No?—don’t believe them yet.“In short, he’ll soon be false and cold,And infinitely wise;He’ll grow next year extremely old,He’ll tell enormous lies;He’ll learn to flatter and forsake,To feign and to forget:”—O whisper—or my heart will break—You won’t believe them yet!
“Oh yes! he is in Parliament;He’s been returning thanks;You can’t conceive the time he’s spentAlready on his franks.He’ll think of nothing, night and day,But place, and theGazette:”—No matter what the people say,—You won’t believe them yet.“He filled an album, long ago,With such delicious rhymes;Now we shall only see, you know,His speeches in theTimes:And liquid tone and beaming brow,Bright eyes and locks of jet,He’ll care for no such nonsense now:”Oh! don’t believe them yet!“I vow he’s turned a Goth, a Hun,By that disgusting Bill;He’ll never make another pun;He’s danced his last quadrille.We shall not see him flirt againWith any fair coquette;He’ll never laugh at Drury Lane.”—Psha!—don’t believe them yet.“Last week I heard his uncle boastHe’s sure to have the seals;I read it in theMorning Post,That he has dined at Peel’s;You’ll never see him any more,He’s in a different set:He cannot eat at half-past four:”—No?—don’t believe them yet.“In short, he’ll soon be false and cold,And infinitely wise;He’ll grow next year extremely old,He’ll tell enormous lies;He’ll learn to flatter and forsake,To feign and to forget:”—O whisper—or my heart will break—You won’t believe them yet!
“Oh yes! he is in Parliament;He’s been returning thanks;You can’t conceive the time he’s spentAlready on his franks.He’ll think of nothing, night and day,But place, and theGazette:”—No matter what the people say,—You won’t believe them yet.
“He filled an album, long ago,With such delicious rhymes;Now we shall only see, you know,His speeches in theTimes:And liquid tone and beaming brow,Bright eyes and locks of jet,He’ll care for no such nonsense now:”Oh! don’t believe them yet!
“I vow he’s turned a Goth, a Hun,By that disgusting Bill;He’ll never make another pun;He’s danced his last quadrille.We shall not see him flirt againWith any fair coquette;He’ll never laugh at Drury Lane.”—Psha!—don’t believe them yet.
“Last week I heard his uncle boastHe’s sure to have the seals;I read it in theMorning Post,That he has dined at Peel’s;You’ll never see him any more,He’s in a different set:He cannot eat at half-past four:”—No?—don’t believe them yet.
“In short, he’ll soon be false and cold,And infinitely wise;He’ll grow next year extremely old,He’ll tell enormous lies;He’ll learn to flatter and forsake,To feign and to forget:”—O whisper—or my heart will break—You won’t believe them yet!
Aye, bear it hence, thou blessed child,Though dire the burden be,And hide it in the pathless wild,Or drown it in the sea;The ruthless murderer prays and swears;So let him swear and pray;Be deaf to all his oaths and prayers,And take the sword away.We’ve had enough of fleets and camps,Guns, glories, odes, gazettes,Triumphal arches, coloured lamps,Huzzas and epaulettes;We could not bear upon our headAnother leaf of bay;That horrid Buonaparte’s dead:Yes, take the sword away,We’re weary of the noisy boastsThat pleased our patriot throngs;We’ve long been dull to Gooch’s toasts,And tame to Dibdin’s songs;We’re quite content to rule the waveWithout a great display;We’re known to be extremely brave;But take the sword away.We give a shrug, when fife and drumPlay up a favourite air;We think our barracks are becomeMore ugly than they were;We laugh to see the banners float:We loathe the charger’s bray;We don’t admire a scarlet coat;Do take the sword away.Let Portugal have rulers twain,Let Greece go on with none,Let Popery sink or swim in SpainWhile we enjoy the fun;Let Turkey tremble at the knout,Let Algiers lose her Dey,Let Paris turn her Bourbons out:Bah! take the sword away.Our honest friends in ParliamentAre looking vastly sad;Our farmers say with one consentIt’s all immensely bad;There was a time for borrowing,And now it’s time to pay;A budget is a serious thing;So take the sword away.And, oh, the bitter tears we weptIn those our days of fame,—The dread that o’er our heart-strings creptWith every post that came,—The home affections, waged and lostIn every far-off fray,—The price that British glory cost!Ah, take the sword away!We’ve plenty left to hoist the sailOr mount the dangerous breach,And Freedom breathes in every galeThat wanders round our beach;When duty bids us dare or die,We’ll fight, another day;But till we know the reason why,Take—take the sword away.
Aye, bear it hence, thou blessed child,Though dire the burden be,And hide it in the pathless wild,Or drown it in the sea;The ruthless murderer prays and swears;So let him swear and pray;Be deaf to all his oaths and prayers,And take the sword away.We’ve had enough of fleets and camps,Guns, glories, odes, gazettes,Triumphal arches, coloured lamps,Huzzas and epaulettes;We could not bear upon our headAnother leaf of bay;That horrid Buonaparte’s dead:Yes, take the sword away,We’re weary of the noisy boastsThat pleased our patriot throngs;We’ve long been dull to Gooch’s toasts,And tame to Dibdin’s songs;We’re quite content to rule the waveWithout a great display;We’re known to be extremely brave;But take the sword away.We give a shrug, when fife and drumPlay up a favourite air;We think our barracks are becomeMore ugly than they were;We laugh to see the banners float:We loathe the charger’s bray;We don’t admire a scarlet coat;Do take the sword away.Let Portugal have rulers twain,Let Greece go on with none,Let Popery sink or swim in SpainWhile we enjoy the fun;Let Turkey tremble at the knout,Let Algiers lose her Dey,Let Paris turn her Bourbons out:Bah! take the sword away.Our honest friends in ParliamentAre looking vastly sad;Our farmers say with one consentIt’s all immensely bad;There was a time for borrowing,And now it’s time to pay;A budget is a serious thing;So take the sword away.And, oh, the bitter tears we weptIn those our days of fame,—The dread that o’er our heart-strings creptWith every post that came,—The home affections, waged and lostIn every far-off fray,—The price that British glory cost!Ah, take the sword away!We’ve plenty left to hoist the sailOr mount the dangerous breach,And Freedom breathes in every galeThat wanders round our beach;When duty bids us dare or die,We’ll fight, another day;But till we know the reason why,Take—take the sword away.
Aye, bear it hence, thou blessed child,Though dire the burden be,And hide it in the pathless wild,Or drown it in the sea;The ruthless murderer prays and swears;So let him swear and pray;Be deaf to all his oaths and prayers,And take the sword away.
We’ve had enough of fleets and camps,Guns, glories, odes, gazettes,Triumphal arches, coloured lamps,Huzzas and epaulettes;We could not bear upon our headAnother leaf of bay;That horrid Buonaparte’s dead:Yes, take the sword away,
We’re weary of the noisy boastsThat pleased our patriot throngs;We’ve long been dull to Gooch’s toasts,And tame to Dibdin’s songs;We’re quite content to rule the waveWithout a great display;We’re known to be extremely brave;But take the sword away.
We give a shrug, when fife and drumPlay up a favourite air;We think our barracks are becomeMore ugly than they were;We laugh to see the banners float:We loathe the charger’s bray;We don’t admire a scarlet coat;Do take the sword away.
Let Portugal have rulers twain,Let Greece go on with none,Let Popery sink or swim in SpainWhile we enjoy the fun;Let Turkey tremble at the knout,Let Algiers lose her Dey,Let Paris turn her Bourbons out:Bah! take the sword away.
Our honest friends in ParliamentAre looking vastly sad;Our farmers say with one consentIt’s all immensely bad;There was a time for borrowing,And now it’s time to pay;A budget is a serious thing;So take the sword away.
And, oh, the bitter tears we weptIn those our days of fame,—The dread that o’er our heart-strings creptWith every post that came,—The home affections, waged and lostIn every far-off fray,—The price that British glory cost!Ah, take the sword away!
We’ve plenty left to hoist the sailOr mount the dangerous breach,And Freedom breathes in every galeThat wanders round our beach;When duty bids us dare or die,We’ll fight, another day;But till we know the reason why,Take—take the sword away.
“On this spot the French cavalry charged, and broke the English squares!”—Narrative of a French Tourist.
“Is it true, think you?”—Winter’s Tale.
Aye, here such valorous deeds were doneAs ne’er were done before;Aye, here the reddest wreath was wonThat ever Gallia wore;Since Ariosto’s wondrous knightMade all the Paynims dance,There never dawned a day so brightAs Waterloo’s on France.The trumpet poured its deafening sound,Flags fluttered on the gale,And cannon roared, and heads flew roundAs fast as summer hail;The sabres flashed their light of fear,The steeds began to prance,The English quaked from front to rear,—They never quake in France.The cuirassiers rode in and outAs fierce as wolves and bears;’Twas grand to see them slash aboutAmong the English squares!And then the Polish Lancer cameCareering with his lance;No wonder Britain blushed for shameAnd ran away from France!The Duke of York was killed that day;The King was sadly scarred;Lord Eldon, as he ran away,Was taken by the Guard;Poor Wellington with fifty BluesEscaped by some strange chance;Henceforth I think he’ll hardly chooseTo show himself in France.So Buonaparte pitched his tentThat night in Grosvenor Place,And Ney rode straight to ParliamentAnd broke the Speaker’s mace;“Vive l’empereur” was said and sung,From Peebles to Penzance;The Mayor and Aldermen were hung,Which made folk laugh in France.They pulled the Tower of London down,They burnt our wooden walls,They brought the Pope himself to town,And lodged him in St. Paul’s;And Gog and Magog rubbed their eyes,Awaking from a trance,And grumbled out in great surprise,“Oh, mercy! we’re in France!”They sent a Regent to our Isle,The little King of Rome;And squibs and crackers all the whileBlazed in the Place Vendôme;And ever since in arts and powerThey’re making great advance;They’ve had strong beer from that glad hour,And sea-coal fires, in France.My uncle, Captain Flanigan,Who lost a leg in Spain,Tells stories of a little man,Who died at St. Helène.But bless my heart, they can’t be true;I’m sure they’re all romance;John Bull was beat at Waterloo!They’ll swear to that in France.
Aye, here such valorous deeds were doneAs ne’er were done before;Aye, here the reddest wreath was wonThat ever Gallia wore;Since Ariosto’s wondrous knightMade all the Paynims dance,There never dawned a day so brightAs Waterloo’s on France.The trumpet poured its deafening sound,Flags fluttered on the gale,And cannon roared, and heads flew roundAs fast as summer hail;The sabres flashed their light of fear,The steeds began to prance,The English quaked from front to rear,—They never quake in France.The cuirassiers rode in and outAs fierce as wolves and bears;’Twas grand to see them slash aboutAmong the English squares!And then the Polish Lancer cameCareering with his lance;No wonder Britain blushed for shameAnd ran away from France!The Duke of York was killed that day;The King was sadly scarred;Lord Eldon, as he ran away,Was taken by the Guard;Poor Wellington with fifty BluesEscaped by some strange chance;Henceforth I think he’ll hardly chooseTo show himself in France.So Buonaparte pitched his tentThat night in Grosvenor Place,And Ney rode straight to ParliamentAnd broke the Speaker’s mace;“Vive l’empereur” was said and sung,From Peebles to Penzance;The Mayor and Aldermen were hung,Which made folk laugh in France.They pulled the Tower of London down,They burnt our wooden walls,They brought the Pope himself to town,And lodged him in St. Paul’s;And Gog and Magog rubbed their eyes,Awaking from a trance,And grumbled out in great surprise,“Oh, mercy! we’re in France!”They sent a Regent to our Isle,The little King of Rome;And squibs and crackers all the whileBlazed in the Place Vendôme;And ever since in arts and powerThey’re making great advance;They’ve had strong beer from that glad hour,And sea-coal fires, in France.My uncle, Captain Flanigan,Who lost a leg in Spain,Tells stories of a little man,Who died at St. Helène.But bless my heart, they can’t be true;I’m sure they’re all romance;John Bull was beat at Waterloo!They’ll swear to that in France.
Aye, here such valorous deeds were doneAs ne’er were done before;Aye, here the reddest wreath was wonThat ever Gallia wore;Since Ariosto’s wondrous knightMade all the Paynims dance,There never dawned a day so brightAs Waterloo’s on France.
The trumpet poured its deafening sound,Flags fluttered on the gale,And cannon roared, and heads flew roundAs fast as summer hail;The sabres flashed their light of fear,The steeds began to prance,The English quaked from front to rear,—They never quake in France.
The cuirassiers rode in and outAs fierce as wolves and bears;’Twas grand to see them slash aboutAmong the English squares!And then the Polish Lancer cameCareering with his lance;No wonder Britain blushed for shameAnd ran away from France!
The Duke of York was killed that day;The King was sadly scarred;Lord Eldon, as he ran away,Was taken by the Guard;Poor Wellington with fifty BluesEscaped by some strange chance;Henceforth I think he’ll hardly chooseTo show himself in France.
So Buonaparte pitched his tentThat night in Grosvenor Place,And Ney rode straight to ParliamentAnd broke the Speaker’s mace;“Vive l’empereur” was said and sung,From Peebles to Penzance;The Mayor and Aldermen were hung,Which made folk laugh in France.
They pulled the Tower of London down,They burnt our wooden walls,They brought the Pope himself to town,And lodged him in St. Paul’s;And Gog and Magog rubbed their eyes,Awaking from a trance,And grumbled out in great surprise,“Oh, mercy! we’re in France!”
They sent a Regent to our Isle,The little King of Rome;And squibs and crackers all the whileBlazed in the Place Vendôme;And ever since in arts and powerThey’re making great advance;They’ve had strong beer from that glad hour,And sea-coal fires, in France.
My uncle, Captain Flanigan,Who lost a leg in Spain,Tells stories of a little man,Who died at St. Helène.But bless my heart, they can’t be true;I’m sure they’re all romance;John Bull was beat at Waterloo!They’ll swear to that in France.
“Incipiunt magni procedere menses.”—Virgil.
(1830.)
We’re sick of this distressing stateOf order and repose;We have not had enough of lateOf blunders or of blows;We can’t endure to pass our lifeIn such a humdrum way;We want a little pleasant strife:The Whigs are in to-day!Our worthy fathers were contentWith all the world’s applause,They thought they had a Parliament,And liberty, and laws.It’s no such thing; we’ve wept and groanedBeneath a despot’s sway;We’ve all been whipped and starved and stoned:The Whigs are in to-day!We used to fancy EnglishmenHad broken Europe’s chain,And won a battle now and thenAgainst the French in Spain;Oh no! we never ruled the waves,Whatever people say;We’ve all been despicable slaves:The Whigs are in to-day!It’s time for us to see the thingsWhich other folks have seen,It’s time we should cashier our kings,And build our guillotine;We’ll abrogate Police and Peers,And vote the Church away;We’ll hang the parish overseers:The Whigs are in to-day!We’ll put the landlords to the rout,We’ll burn the College Halls,We’ll turn St. James’s inside outAnd batter down St. Paul’s.We’ll hear no more of Bench or Bar;The troops shall have no pay;We’ll turn adrift our men-of-war;The Whigs are in to-day!We fear no bayonet or ballFrom those who fight for hire,For Baron Brougham has told them allOn no account to fire;Lord Tenterden looks vastly black,But Baron Brougham, we pray,Will strip the ermine from his back:The Whigs are in to-day!Go pluck the jewels from the crown,The colours from the mast;And let the Three per Cents come down,We can but break at last;If Cobbett is the first of men,The second is Lord Grey;Oh, must we not be happy, whenThe Whigs are in to-day!
We’re sick of this distressing stateOf order and repose;We have not had enough of lateOf blunders or of blows;We can’t endure to pass our lifeIn such a humdrum way;We want a little pleasant strife:The Whigs are in to-day!Our worthy fathers were contentWith all the world’s applause,They thought they had a Parliament,And liberty, and laws.It’s no such thing; we’ve wept and groanedBeneath a despot’s sway;We’ve all been whipped and starved and stoned:The Whigs are in to-day!We used to fancy EnglishmenHad broken Europe’s chain,And won a battle now and thenAgainst the French in Spain;Oh no! we never ruled the waves,Whatever people say;We’ve all been despicable slaves:The Whigs are in to-day!It’s time for us to see the thingsWhich other folks have seen,It’s time we should cashier our kings,And build our guillotine;We’ll abrogate Police and Peers,And vote the Church away;We’ll hang the parish overseers:The Whigs are in to-day!We’ll put the landlords to the rout,We’ll burn the College Halls,We’ll turn St. James’s inside outAnd batter down St. Paul’s.We’ll hear no more of Bench or Bar;The troops shall have no pay;We’ll turn adrift our men-of-war;The Whigs are in to-day!We fear no bayonet or ballFrom those who fight for hire,For Baron Brougham has told them allOn no account to fire;Lord Tenterden looks vastly black,But Baron Brougham, we pray,Will strip the ermine from his back:The Whigs are in to-day!Go pluck the jewels from the crown,The colours from the mast;And let the Three per Cents come down,We can but break at last;If Cobbett is the first of men,The second is Lord Grey;Oh, must we not be happy, whenThe Whigs are in to-day!
We’re sick of this distressing stateOf order and repose;We have not had enough of lateOf blunders or of blows;We can’t endure to pass our lifeIn such a humdrum way;We want a little pleasant strife:The Whigs are in to-day!
Our worthy fathers were contentWith all the world’s applause,They thought they had a Parliament,And liberty, and laws.It’s no such thing; we’ve wept and groanedBeneath a despot’s sway;We’ve all been whipped and starved and stoned:The Whigs are in to-day!
We used to fancy EnglishmenHad broken Europe’s chain,And won a battle now and thenAgainst the French in Spain;Oh no! we never ruled the waves,Whatever people say;We’ve all been despicable slaves:The Whigs are in to-day!
It’s time for us to see the thingsWhich other folks have seen,It’s time we should cashier our kings,And build our guillotine;We’ll abrogate Police and Peers,And vote the Church away;We’ll hang the parish overseers:The Whigs are in to-day!
We’ll put the landlords to the rout,We’ll burn the College Halls,We’ll turn St. James’s inside outAnd batter down St. Paul’s.We’ll hear no more of Bench or Bar;The troops shall have no pay;We’ll turn adrift our men-of-war;The Whigs are in to-day!
We fear no bayonet or ballFrom those who fight for hire,For Baron Brougham has told them allOn no account to fire;Lord Tenterden looks vastly black,But Baron Brougham, we pray,Will strip the ermine from his back:The Whigs are in to-day!
Go pluck the jewels from the crown,The colours from the mast;And let the Three per Cents come down,We can but break at last;If Cobbett is the first of men,The second is Lord Grey;Oh, must we not be happy, whenThe Whigs are in to-day!
Where is Miss Myrtle? can anyone tell?Where is she gone, where is she gone?She flirts with another, I know very well;And I—am left all alone!She flies to the window when Arundel rings,—She’s all over smiles when Lord Archibald sings,—It’s plain that her Cupid has two pair of wings:Where is she gone, where is she gone?Her love and my love are different things;And I—am left all alone!I brought her, one morning, a rose for her brow;Where is she gone, where is she gone?She told me such horrors were ne’er worn now:And I—am left all alone!But I saw her at night with a rose in her hair,And I guess who it came from—of course I don’t care!We all know that girls are as false as they’re fair;Where is she gone, where is she gone?I’m sure the lieutenant’s a horrible bear:And I—am left all alone!Whenever we go on the Downs for a ride,Where is she gone, where is she gone?She looks for another to trot by her side:And I—am left all alone!And whenever I take her downstairs from a ball,She nods to some puppy to put on her shawl:I’m a peaceable man, and I don’t like a brawl;—Where is she gone, where is she gone?But I would give a trifle to horsewhip them all;And I—am left all alone!She tells me her mother belongs to the sect,Where is she gone, where is she gone?Which holds that all waltzing is quite incorrect;And I—am left all alone!But a fire’s in my heart, and a fire’s in my brain,When she waltzes away with Sir Phelim O’Shane;I don’t think I evercanask her again:Where is she gone, where is she gone?And, Lord! since the summer she’s grown very plain;And I—am left all alone!She said that she liked me a twelvemonth ago;Where is she gone, where is she gone?And how should I guess that she’d torture me so?And I—am left all alone!Some day she’ll find out it was not very wiseTo laugh at the breath of a true lover’s sighs;After all, Fanny Myrtle is not such a prize:Where is she gone, where is she gone?Louisa Dalrymple has exquisite eyes;And I’ll be—no longer alone!
Where is Miss Myrtle? can anyone tell?Where is she gone, where is she gone?She flirts with another, I know very well;And I—am left all alone!She flies to the window when Arundel rings,—She’s all over smiles when Lord Archibald sings,—It’s plain that her Cupid has two pair of wings:Where is she gone, where is she gone?Her love and my love are different things;And I—am left all alone!I brought her, one morning, a rose for her brow;Where is she gone, where is she gone?She told me such horrors were ne’er worn now:And I—am left all alone!But I saw her at night with a rose in her hair,And I guess who it came from—of course I don’t care!We all know that girls are as false as they’re fair;Where is she gone, where is she gone?I’m sure the lieutenant’s a horrible bear:And I—am left all alone!Whenever we go on the Downs for a ride,Where is she gone, where is she gone?She looks for another to trot by her side:And I—am left all alone!And whenever I take her downstairs from a ball,She nods to some puppy to put on her shawl:I’m a peaceable man, and I don’t like a brawl;—Where is she gone, where is she gone?But I would give a trifle to horsewhip them all;And I—am left all alone!She tells me her mother belongs to the sect,Where is she gone, where is she gone?Which holds that all waltzing is quite incorrect;And I—am left all alone!But a fire’s in my heart, and a fire’s in my brain,When she waltzes away with Sir Phelim O’Shane;I don’t think I evercanask her again:Where is she gone, where is she gone?And, Lord! since the summer she’s grown very plain;And I—am left all alone!She said that she liked me a twelvemonth ago;Where is she gone, where is she gone?And how should I guess that she’d torture me so?And I—am left all alone!Some day she’ll find out it was not very wiseTo laugh at the breath of a true lover’s sighs;After all, Fanny Myrtle is not such a prize:Where is she gone, where is she gone?Louisa Dalrymple has exquisite eyes;And I’ll be—no longer alone!
Where is Miss Myrtle? can anyone tell?Where is she gone, where is she gone?She flirts with another, I know very well;And I—am left all alone!She flies to the window when Arundel rings,—She’s all over smiles when Lord Archibald sings,—It’s plain that her Cupid has two pair of wings:Where is she gone, where is she gone?Her love and my love are different things;And I—am left all alone!
I brought her, one morning, a rose for her brow;Where is she gone, where is she gone?She told me such horrors were ne’er worn now:And I—am left all alone!But I saw her at night with a rose in her hair,And I guess who it came from—of course I don’t care!We all know that girls are as false as they’re fair;Where is she gone, where is she gone?I’m sure the lieutenant’s a horrible bear:And I—am left all alone!
Whenever we go on the Downs for a ride,Where is she gone, where is she gone?She looks for another to trot by her side:And I—am left all alone!And whenever I take her downstairs from a ball,She nods to some puppy to put on her shawl:I’m a peaceable man, and I don’t like a brawl;—Where is she gone, where is she gone?But I would give a trifle to horsewhip them all;And I—am left all alone!
She tells me her mother belongs to the sect,Where is she gone, where is she gone?Which holds that all waltzing is quite incorrect;And I—am left all alone!But a fire’s in my heart, and a fire’s in my brain,When she waltzes away with Sir Phelim O’Shane;I don’t think I evercanask her again:Where is she gone, where is she gone?And, Lord! since the summer she’s grown very plain;And I—am left all alone!
She said that she liked me a twelvemonth ago;Where is she gone, where is she gone?And how should I guess that she’d torture me so?And I—am left all alone!Some day she’ll find out it was not very wiseTo laugh at the breath of a true lover’s sighs;After all, Fanny Myrtle is not such a prize:Where is she gone, where is she gone?Louisa Dalrymple has exquisite eyes;And I’ll be—no longer alone!
“Father—Father—I confess—Here he kneeled and sighed,When the moon’s soft lovelinessSlept on turf and tide.In my ear the prayer he prayedSeems to echo yet;But the answer that I made—Father—I forget!Ora pro me!“Father—Father—I confess—Precious gifts he brought;Satin sandal, silken dress;Richer ne’er were wrought;Gems that make the daylight dim,Plumes in gay gold set;—But the gaud I gave to him—Father—I forget!Ora pro me!“Father—Father—I confess—He’s my beauty’s thrall,In the lonely wilderness,In the festive hall;All his dreams are aye of me,Since our young hearts met;What my own may sometimes be—Father—I forget!Ora pro me!”
“Father—Father—I confess—Here he kneeled and sighed,When the moon’s soft lovelinessSlept on turf and tide.In my ear the prayer he prayedSeems to echo yet;But the answer that I made—Father—I forget!Ora pro me!“Father—Father—I confess—Precious gifts he brought;Satin sandal, silken dress;Richer ne’er were wrought;Gems that make the daylight dim,Plumes in gay gold set;—But the gaud I gave to him—Father—I forget!Ora pro me!“Father—Father—I confess—He’s my beauty’s thrall,In the lonely wilderness,In the festive hall;All his dreams are aye of me,Since our young hearts met;What my own may sometimes be—Father—I forget!Ora pro me!”
“Father—Father—I confess—Here he kneeled and sighed,When the moon’s soft lovelinessSlept on turf and tide.In my ear the prayer he prayedSeems to echo yet;But the answer that I made—Father—I forget!Ora pro me!
“Father—Father—I confess—Precious gifts he brought;Satin sandal, silken dress;Richer ne’er were wrought;Gems that make the daylight dim,Plumes in gay gold set;—But the gaud I gave to him—Father—I forget!Ora pro me!
“Father—Father—I confess—He’s my beauty’s thrall,In the lonely wilderness,In the festive hall;All his dreams are aye of me,Since our young hearts met;What my own may sometimes be—Father—I forget!Ora pro me!”
In these gay pages there is foodFor every mind and every mood,Fair Lady, if you dare to spell them:Now merriment—now grief prevails;But yet the best of all the talesIs of the young group met to tell them.Oh, was it not a pleasant thoughtTo set the pestilence at nought,Chatting among sweet streams and flowersOf jealous husbands, fickle wives,Of all the tricks which love contrivesTo see through veils, and talk through towers?Lady, they say the fearful guestOnward—still onward to the west,Poised on his sulphurous wings, advances,Who on the frozen river’s banksHas thinned the Russian despot’s ranks,And marred the might of Warsaw’s lances.Another year—a brief, brief year—And lo, the fell destroyer here!He comes with all his gloomy terrors;Then Guilt will read the properest books,And Folly wear the soberest looks,And Virtue shudder at her errors.And there’ll be sermons in the street;And every friend and foe we meetWill wear the dismal garb of sorrow;And quacks will send their lies about,And weary Halford will find outHe must have four new bays to-morrow.But you shall fly from their dark signs,As did those happy Florentines,Ere from your cheek one rose is faded;And hide your youth and lovelinessIn some bright garden’s green recess,By walls fenced round, by huge trees shaded.There brooks shall dance in light along,And birds shall trill their constant songOf pleasure, from their leafy dwelling;You shall have music, novels, toys;But still the chiefest of your joysMust be, fair Lady, story-telling.Be cautious how you choose your men:Don’t look for people of the pen,Scholars who read, or write the papers;Don’t think of wits, who talk to dine,Who drink their patron’s newest wine,And cure their patron’s newest vapours.Avoid all youths who toil for praiseBy quoting Liston’s last new phrase,Or sigh to leave high fame behind them.For swallowing swords, or dancing jigs,Or imitating ducks and pigs;Take men of sense, if you can find them.Live, laugh, tell stories; ere they’re told,New themes succeed upon the old,New follies come, new faults, new fashions;An hour, a minute will supplyTo thought a folio historyOf blighted hopes, and thwarted passions.King Death, when he has snatched awayDrunkards from brandy, Dukes from play,And common-councilmen from turtle,Shall break his dart in Grosvenor Square,And mutter, in his fierce despair,“Why, what’s become of Lady Myrtle?”
In these gay pages there is foodFor every mind and every mood,Fair Lady, if you dare to spell them:Now merriment—now grief prevails;But yet the best of all the talesIs of the young group met to tell them.Oh, was it not a pleasant thoughtTo set the pestilence at nought,Chatting among sweet streams and flowersOf jealous husbands, fickle wives,Of all the tricks which love contrivesTo see through veils, and talk through towers?Lady, they say the fearful guestOnward—still onward to the west,Poised on his sulphurous wings, advances,Who on the frozen river’s banksHas thinned the Russian despot’s ranks,And marred the might of Warsaw’s lances.Another year—a brief, brief year—And lo, the fell destroyer here!He comes with all his gloomy terrors;Then Guilt will read the properest books,And Folly wear the soberest looks,And Virtue shudder at her errors.And there’ll be sermons in the street;And every friend and foe we meetWill wear the dismal garb of sorrow;And quacks will send their lies about,And weary Halford will find outHe must have four new bays to-morrow.But you shall fly from their dark signs,As did those happy Florentines,Ere from your cheek one rose is faded;And hide your youth and lovelinessIn some bright garden’s green recess,By walls fenced round, by huge trees shaded.There brooks shall dance in light along,And birds shall trill their constant songOf pleasure, from their leafy dwelling;You shall have music, novels, toys;But still the chiefest of your joysMust be, fair Lady, story-telling.Be cautious how you choose your men:Don’t look for people of the pen,Scholars who read, or write the papers;Don’t think of wits, who talk to dine,Who drink their patron’s newest wine,And cure their patron’s newest vapours.Avoid all youths who toil for praiseBy quoting Liston’s last new phrase,Or sigh to leave high fame behind them.For swallowing swords, or dancing jigs,Or imitating ducks and pigs;Take men of sense, if you can find them.Live, laugh, tell stories; ere they’re told,New themes succeed upon the old,New follies come, new faults, new fashions;An hour, a minute will supplyTo thought a folio historyOf blighted hopes, and thwarted passions.King Death, when he has snatched awayDrunkards from brandy, Dukes from play,And common-councilmen from turtle,Shall break his dart in Grosvenor Square,And mutter, in his fierce despair,“Why, what’s become of Lady Myrtle?”
In these gay pages there is foodFor every mind and every mood,Fair Lady, if you dare to spell them:Now merriment—now grief prevails;But yet the best of all the talesIs of the young group met to tell them.
Oh, was it not a pleasant thoughtTo set the pestilence at nought,Chatting among sweet streams and flowersOf jealous husbands, fickle wives,Of all the tricks which love contrivesTo see through veils, and talk through towers?
Lady, they say the fearful guestOnward—still onward to the west,Poised on his sulphurous wings, advances,Who on the frozen river’s banksHas thinned the Russian despot’s ranks,And marred the might of Warsaw’s lances.
Another year—a brief, brief year—And lo, the fell destroyer here!He comes with all his gloomy terrors;Then Guilt will read the properest books,And Folly wear the soberest looks,And Virtue shudder at her errors.
And there’ll be sermons in the street;And every friend and foe we meetWill wear the dismal garb of sorrow;And quacks will send their lies about,And weary Halford will find outHe must have four new bays to-morrow.
But you shall fly from their dark signs,As did those happy Florentines,Ere from your cheek one rose is faded;And hide your youth and lovelinessIn some bright garden’s green recess,By walls fenced round, by huge trees shaded.
There brooks shall dance in light along,And birds shall trill their constant songOf pleasure, from their leafy dwelling;You shall have music, novels, toys;But still the chiefest of your joysMust be, fair Lady, story-telling.
Be cautious how you choose your men:Don’t look for people of the pen,Scholars who read, or write the papers;Don’t think of wits, who talk to dine,Who drink their patron’s newest wine,And cure their patron’s newest vapours.
Avoid all youths who toil for praiseBy quoting Liston’s last new phrase,Or sigh to leave high fame behind them.For swallowing swords, or dancing jigs,Or imitating ducks and pigs;Take men of sense, if you can find them.
Live, laugh, tell stories; ere they’re told,New themes succeed upon the old,New follies come, new faults, new fashions;An hour, a minute will supplyTo thought a folio historyOf blighted hopes, and thwarted passions.
King Death, when he has snatched awayDrunkards from brandy, Dukes from play,And common-councilmen from turtle,Shall break his dart in Grosvenor Square,And mutter, in his fierce despair,“Why, what’s become of Lady Myrtle?”