Sir Rupert’s Wife.You see where the cliffs frown yonder in a line of dingy red?—That wild, fierce crag, the highest, is known as Sir Rupert’s Head:It’s five hundred feet and over from the brow to the sea below,And it won its name in the winter, a hundred years ago.There wasn’t a squire in Devon so famous as Rupert Leigh;He was lord of the broad, rich acres, good-looking and fancy free.He came of a race of giants, stood six feet two in his socks,And once, for a drunken wager, with his fist he had felled an ox.Dare-devil Leigh was his nick-name; he was last of a lawless lineWho had gone to the deuce full gallop, through women and cards and wine.He wasn’t so bad as they were—he was more of a hunting squire,And he freed the name a little from some of the ancient mire.His wasn’t an easy country, but he’d take it every inch,And ride as straight as an arrow where the boldest well might flinch.When a lad he had climbed yon headland, climbed it from base to crest,For a short-frocked hussy who wanted the eggs from a seagull’s nest.One winter he went to London—he then was about forty-three;His steward had told the parson he’d lawyers in town to see.’Twas dull in the place without him, for his mansion was Liberty Hall;There was always a warm, wet welcome for neighbors who chose to call.He was gone for a twelvemonth nearly, writing to no old friends,But a Devonshire man in London news to the parson sends.Sir Rupert had married a madam, a play-acting, mincing wench,Who painted and patched and powdered, and was finiking, fine and French.She was no more French than I am, but this was about the time,That French was the title given to nigh every kind of crime.She sang in a minor play-house—in opera, so they say—And he saw her as Polly Peachum in that famous work by Gay.He was always an easy target for a wench’s rolling eye,So it got to bouquets and presents, and to letters by-and-by,He was wax in the hussy’s fingers, and she moulded with practiced skill,Till he took the form of a husband, the slave of her slightest will.They traveled about a little, saw Paris, the Hague and Rome—Then the news went abroad Sir Rupert was bringing his lady home.The people about here liked him, and no warmth did their welcome lack,But they looked askance at my lady, and she gave them their glances back.They hated her then directly, they chafed at her cold disdain,And they gossiped her story over in language a bit too plain.They called her a “stuck-up stroller,” and somehow the scandal grew,Till my lady as “Polly Peachum” the whole of the country knew.Sir Rupert was broken-hearted when he heard of the mocking tone,And he quarreled with all his comrades until he was left alone—Alone at the Hall with “Polly,” for the gentry had cut her dead,But his heart was as true as ever to the woman he had stooped to wed.To him she was just an angel who had come from the holy skiesThat his heart might bask forever in the light of her lustrous eyes.No wine, no cards, and no hunting: he kept at my lady’s side—’Twas a great big boy with a sweetheart, not a man with a year-won bride.She pined in the lonely mansion: she wanted society-life—She wanted to play my lady as well as Sir Rupert’s wife.Sir Rupert must ask a party—not of bumpkins, but folks from the town;He had plenty of friends in London; would he not ask them down?They came, and the sound of laughter rang through the Hall once more,And my lady was proud and happy, but her husband’s heart was sore;He had learned from an idle whisper—a whisper not meant for him—A secret that sapped his life-blood and the strength of each stalwart limb.He reeled when he heard the whisper and guessed at the ghastly truth:’Twas the tale of a play-woman and a curled and scented youth,A dandy of six-and-twenty, the son of an old, old chum—He was one of the guests invited, and one of the first to come.Sir Rupert had been in London a guest of his father’s, too,And this young fop, he remembered, had led him his wife to woo;He had raved of this Polly Peachum, and dragged him to hear her sing;He said at the time he knew her—’twas a planned and plotted thing!And now she was always with him, they chatted and laughed away;She was cold and dull with Sir Rupert,—with him she was kind and gay.She was weary of playing my lady, and of being Sir Rupert’s wife—She pined for the tinsel glories of the old Bohemian life.She hated the dull decorum, she hated the legal tie—Her cage was a cage, though gilded. Then the tempter whispered “Fly!”One night their chairs were empty, and slowly the news leaked out:Two horses were gone from the stable—’twas a settled thing, no doubt.Sir Rupert was white with horror, but he turned to the gaping crewAnd cried, “It’s a lie, I tell you!—who dares to say its true?”Then seizing his holster pistols, he mounted his fleetest mareAnd made straight for the Red Cliff roadway—he guessed they had gone by there,For that was the way to London, from Exmouth the pair would post,And the road they were bound to travel was the road by the rugged coast.If you look you will see it passes right over the headland’s brow—Only a century distant it wasn’t as good as now.He dug his spurs in the hunter, and it flew up the fearful steep,’Twas a wild, fierce night in winter, and the snow lay thick and deep;But the moon through the clouds had broken, and right on the Head he spiedA horse that had slipped and fallen, and the rider by its side;And over them bent a figure, but whose he could scarcely see,Then he uttered a cry to Heaven that his wife unharmed might be;And lashing his steed to fury it flew through the slippery snow,While the wild waves roared a warning five hundred feet below.A slip, and both horse and rider would roll to a hideous fate,But Sir Rupert, with set white features, rode to the headland straight.They heard him now, and the woman rose from her knees and moaned,And the man gave a sudden shudder and opened his eyes and groaned.Sir Rupert reined up so fiercely that the mare on the precipice reared,And the woman sprang back with horror, in the jaws of the death she feared.For a moment she seemed to totter, and then with a piercing cryWent over that awful headland that seems to touch the sky.For a second no sound was uttered, only the billows roared,While up from its nest a sea-gull, startled and shrieking, soared;Then, shouting for help, Sir Rupert clutched at the snow-clad turf,And glanced with a look of horror down at the boiling surf.And as he lay there peering, right at the farthest edge,Something his eyes detected—a heap on a narrow ledge;It was thirty feet between them, but he knew ’twas his wretched wife,And he vowed, though his own paid forfeit, he would save her guilty life.He could see there were tiny juttings where his foot might find a hold,And the man he had quite forgotten was worth his weight in gold.The booby was bruised and shaken, and fancied that he should die,But Sir Rupert bade him help him, or he’d shoot him by-and-byThen the white-faced coward whimpered and lifted his jeweled hands,And Sir Rupert set him tearing his mantle in narrow bands.Then the strips were twined together and tied to a rough stone seat,And over went brave Sir Rupert, clinging with hands and feet.The waves in their winter fury shrieked for a human life,But down and down crept Rupert till he swung by his senseless wife,Stooping, he clasped her firmly, one hand on the doubtful rope,Pressed his lips on her marble forehead, and whispered her, “Darling—hope!”Then breathing a prayer to Heaven to save them both that night,He toiled with his heavy burden up the face of the frowning height.A fall of the soft red sandstone, a slip of his bleeding hand,And their bodies had lain together, crushed on the cruel strand.Safe! safe at last on the summit! safe on the firm hard road!There where the moonbeams glittered, he glanced at his senseless load.Her face was bruised and battered, and the warm blood welled and gushed;And he saw that his wife was injured, and her tender bones were crushed.No trace of the lady’s gallant; he’d limped to a horse and flown:Sir Rupert and “Polly Peachum” were there on the heights alone.He leaped on the gallant hunter; took his wife in his brawny arms,And galloped across the country to one of his tenants’ farms.For six long months my lady hovered ’twixt death and life—’Twas a surgeon who came from London that saved Sir Rupert’s wife—And when she was out of danger it was known she was marked and maimed,A battered, misshapen cripple, distorted and scarred and lamed.But Sir Rupert clung closer to her; they traveled from place to place,And he never winced or shuddered at the sight of her injured face.It was he who carried the cripple, who nursed her with tenderest care:And never in knightly story such gallant had lady fair.For many a year she lingered—’twas up at the Hall she died,And here in the village churchyard they’re sleeping side by side.She died in his arms confessing the worth of his noble love,And in less than a year he sought her in the mansions of God above.There stands the great bluff headland—there swells the sea below—And the story I’ve told you happened nigh a hundred years ago,Yet there isn’t a soul that visits those towering crags of redBut thinks of the love and daring that hallowed “Sir Rupert’s Head.”George R. Sims.
You see where the cliffs frown yonder in a line of dingy red?—That wild, fierce crag, the highest, is known as Sir Rupert’s Head:It’s five hundred feet and over from the brow to the sea below,And it won its name in the winter, a hundred years ago.There wasn’t a squire in Devon so famous as Rupert Leigh;He was lord of the broad, rich acres, good-looking and fancy free.He came of a race of giants, stood six feet two in his socks,And once, for a drunken wager, with his fist he had felled an ox.Dare-devil Leigh was his nick-name; he was last of a lawless lineWho had gone to the deuce full gallop, through women and cards and wine.He wasn’t so bad as they were—he was more of a hunting squire,And he freed the name a little from some of the ancient mire.His wasn’t an easy country, but he’d take it every inch,And ride as straight as an arrow where the boldest well might flinch.When a lad he had climbed yon headland, climbed it from base to crest,For a short-frocked hussy who wanted the eggs from a seagull’s nest.One winter he went to London—he then was about forty-three;His steward had told the parson he’d lawyers in town to see.’Twas dull in the place without him, for his mansion was Liberty Hall;There was always a warm, wet welcome for neighbors who chose to call.He was gone for a twelvemonth nearly, writing to no old friends,But a Devonshire man in London news to the parson sends.Sir Rupert had married a madam, a play-acting, mincing wench,Who painted and patched and powdered, and was finiking, fine and French.She was no more French than I am, but this was about the time,That French was the title given to nigh every kind of crime.She sang in a minor play-house—in opera, so they say—And he saw her as Polly Peachum in that famous work by Gay.He was always an easy target for a wench’s rolling eye,So it got to bouquets and presents, and to letters by-and-by,He was wax in the hussy’s fingers, and she moulded with practiced skill,Till he took the form of a husband, the slave of her slightest will.They traveled about a little, saw Paris, the Hague and Rome—Then the news went abroad Sir Rupert was bringing his lady home.The people about here liked him, and no warmth did their welcome lack,But they looked askance at my lady, and she gave them their glances back.They hated her then directly, they chafed at her cold disdain,And they gossiped her story over in language a bit too plain.They called her a “stuck-up stroller,” and somehow the scandal grew,Till my lady as “Polly Peachum” the whole of the country knew.Sir Rupert was broken-hearted when he heard of the mocking tone,And he quarreled with all his comrades until he was left alone—Alone at the Hall with “Polly,” for the gentry had cut her dead,But his heart was as true as ever to the woman he had stooped to wed.To him she was just an angel who had come from the holy skiesThat his heart might bask forever in the light of her lustrous eyes.No wine, no cards, and no hunting: he kept at my lady’s side—’Twas a great big boy with a sweetheart, not a man with a year-won bride.She pined in the lonely mansion: she wanted society-life—She wanted to play my lady as well as Sir Rupert’s wife.Sir Rupert must ask a party—not of bumpkins, but folks from the town;He had plenty of friends in London; would he not ask them down?They came, and the sound of laughter rang through the Hall once more,And my lady was proud and happy, but her husband’s heart was sore;He had learned from an idle whisper—a whisper not meant for him—A secret that sapped his life-blood and the strength of each stalwart limb.He reeled when he heard the whisper and guessed at the ghastly truth:’Twas the tale of a play-woman and a curled and scented youth,A dandy of six-and-twenty, the son of an old, old chum—He was one of the guests invited, and one of the first to come.Sir Rupert had been in London a guest of his father’s, too,And this young fop, he remembered, had led him his wife to woo;He had raved of this Polly Peachum, and dragged him to hear her sing;He said at the time he knew her—’twas a planned and plotted thing!And now she was always with him, they chatted and laughed away;She was cold and dull with Sir Rupert,—with him she was kind and gay.She was weary of playing my lady, and of being Sir Rupert’s wife—She pined for the tinsel glories of the old Bohemian life.She hated the dull decorum, she hated the legal tie—Her cage was a cage, though gilded. Then the tempter whispered “Fly!”One night their chairs were empty, and slowly the news leaked out:Two horses were gone from the stable—’twas a settled thing, no doubt.Sir Rupert was white with horror, but he turned to the gaping crewAnd cried, “It’s a lie, I tell you!—who dares to say its true?”Then seizing his holster pistols, he mounted his fleetest mareAnd made straight for the Red Cliff roadway—he guessed they had gone by there,For that was the way to London, from Exmouth the pair would post,And the road they were bound to travel was the road by the rugged coast.If you look you will see it passes right over the headland’s brow—Only a century distant it wasn’t as good as now.He dug his spurs in the hunter, and it flew up the fearful steep,’Twas a wild, fierce night in winter, and the snow lay thick and deep;But the moon through the clouds had broken, and right on the Head he spiedA horse that had slipped and fallen, and the rider by its side;And over them bent a figure, but whose he could scarcely see,Then he uttered a cry to Heaven that his wife unharmed might be;And lashing his steed to fury it flew through the slippery snow,While the wild waves roared a warning five hundred feet below.A slip, and both horse and rider would roll to a hideous fate,But Sir Rupert, with set white features, rode to the headland straight.They heard him now, and the woman rose from her knees and moaned,And the man gave a sudden shudder and opened his eyes and groaned.Sir Rupert reined up so fiercely that the mare on the precipice reared,And the woman sprang back with horror, in the jaws of the death she feared.For a moment she seemed to totter, and then with a piercing cryWent over that awful headland that seems to touch the sky.For a second no sound was uttered, only the billows roared,While up from its nest a sea-gull, startled and shrieking, soared;Then, shouting for help, Sir Rupert clutched at the snow-clad turf,And glanced with a look of horror down at the boiling surf.And as he lay there peering, right at the farthest edge,Something his eyes detected—a heap on a narrow ledge;It was thirty feet between them, but he knew ’twas his wretched wife,And he vowed, though his own paid forfeit, he would save her guilty life.He could see there were tiny juttings where his foot might find a hold,And the man he had quite forgotten was worth his weight in gold.The booby was bruised and shaken, and fancied that he should die,But Sir Rupert bade him help him, or he’d shoot him by-and-byThen the white-faced coward whimpered and lifted his jeweled hands,And Sir Rupert set him tearing his mantle in narrow bands.Then the strips were twined together and tied to a rough stone seat,And over went brave Sir Rupert, clinging with hands and feet.The waves in their winter fury shrieked for a human life,But down and down crept Rupert till he swung by his senseless wife,Stooping, he clasped her firmly, one hand on the doubtful rope,Pressed his lips on her marble forehead, and whispered her, “Darling—hope!”Then breathing a prayer to Heaven to save them both that night,He toiled with his heavy burden up the face of the frowning height.A fall of the soft red sandstone, a slip of his bleeding hand,And their bodies had lain together, crushed on the cruel strand.Safe! safe at last on the summit! safe on the firm hard road!There where the moonbeams glittered, he glanced at his senseless load.Her face was bruised and battered, and the warm blood welled and gushed;And he saw that his wife was injured, and her tender bones were crushed.No trace of the lady’s gallant; he’d limped to a horse and flown:Sir Rupert and “Polly Peachum” were there on the heights alone.He leaped on the gallant hunter; took his wife in his brawny arms,And galloped across the country to one of his tenants’ farms.For six long months my lady hovered ’twixt death and life—’Twas a surgeon who came from London that saved Sir Rupert’s wife—And when she was out of danger it was known she was marked and maimed,A battered, misshapen cripple, distorted and scarred and lamed.But Sir Rupert clung closer to her; they traveled from place to place,And he never winced or shuddered at the sight of her injured face.It was he who carried the cripple, who nursed her with tenderest care:And never in knightly story such gallant had lady fair.For many a year she lingered—’twas up at the Hall she died,And here in the village churchyard they’re sleeping side by side.She died in his arms confessing the worth of his noble love,And in less than a year he sought her in the mansions of God above.There stands the great bluff headland—there swells the sea below—And the story I’ve told you happened nigh a hundred years ago,Yet there isn’t a soul that visits those towering crags of redBut thinks of the love and daring that hallowed “Sir Rupert’s Head.”George R. Sims.
You see where the cliffs frown yonder in a line of dingy red?—That wild, fierce crag, the highest, is known as Sir Rupert’s Head:It’s five hundred feet and over from the brow to the sea below,And it won its name in the winter, a hundred years ago.There wasn’t a squire in Devon so famous as Rupert Leigh;He was lord of the broad, rich acres, good-looking and fancy free.He came of a race of giants, stood six feet two in his socks,And once, for a drunken wager, with his fist he had felled an ox.Dare-devil Leigh was his nick-name; he was last of a lawless lineWho had gone to the deuce full gallop, through women and cards and wine.He wasn’t so bad as they were—he was more of a hunting squire,And he freed the name a little from some of the ancient mire.His wasn’t an easy country, but he’d take it every inch,And ride as straight as an arrow where the boldest well might flinch.When a lad he had climbed yon headland, climbed it from base to crest,For a short-frocked hussy who wanted the eggs from a seagull’s nest.One winter he went to London—he then was about forty-three;His steward had told the parson he’d lawyers in town to see.’Twas dull in the place without him, for his mansion was Liberty Hall;There was always a warm, wet welcome for neighbors who chose to call.He was gone for a twelvemonth nearly, writing to no old friends,But a Devonshire man in London news to the parson sends.Sir Rupert had married a madam, a play-acting, mincing wench,Who painted and patched and powdered, and was finiking, fine and French.She was no more French than I am, but this was about the time,That French was the title given to nigh every kind of crime.She sang in a minor play-house—in opera, so they say—And he saw her as Polly Peachum in that famous work by Gay.He was always an easy target for a wench’s rolling eye,So it got to bouquets and presents, and to letters by-and-by,He was wax in the hussy’s fingers, and she moulded with practiced skill,Till he took the form of a husband, the slave of her slightest will.They traveled about a little, saw Paris, the Hague and Rome—Then the news went abroad Sir Rupert was bringing his lady home.The people about here liked him, and no warmth did their welcome lack,But they looked askance at my lady, and she gave them their glances back.They hated her then directly, they chafed at her cold disdain,And they gossiped her story over in language a bit too plain.They called her a “stuck-up stroller,” and somehow the scandal grew,Till my lady as “Polly Peachum” the whole of the country knew.Sir Rupert was broken-hearted when he heard of the mocking tone,And he quarreled with all his comrades until he was left alone—Alone at the Hall with “Polly,” for the gentry had cut her dead,But his heart was as true as ever to the woman he had stooped to wed.To him she was just an angel who had come from the holy skiesThat his heart might bask forever in the light of her lustrous eyes.No wine, no cards, and no hunting: he kept at my lady’s side—’Twas a great big boy with a sweetheart, not a man with a year-won bride.She pined in the lonely mansion: she wanted society-life—She wanted to play my lady as well as Sir Rupert’s wife.Sir Rupert must ask a party—not of bumpkins, but folks from the town;He had plenty of friends in London; would he not ask them down?They came, and the sound of laughter rang through the Hall once more,And my lady was proud and happy, but her husband’s heart was sore;He had learned from an idle whisper—a whisper not meant for him—A secret that sapped his life-blood and the strength of each stalwart limb.He reeled when he heard the whisper and guessed at the ghastly truth:’Twas the tale of a play-woman and a curled and scented youth,A dandy of six-and-twenty, the son of an old, old chum—He was one of the guests invited, and one of the first to come.Sir Rupert had been in London a guest of his father’s, too,And this young fop, he remembered, had led him his wife to woo;He had raved of this Polly Peachum, and dragged him to hear her sing;He said at the time he knew her—’twas a planned and plotted thing!And now she was always with him, they chatted and laughed away;She was cold and dull with Sir Rupert,—with him she was kind and gay.She was weary of playing my lady, and of being Sir Rupert’s wife—She pined for the tinsel glories of the old Bohemian life.She hated the dull decorum, she hated the legal tie—Her cage was a cage, though gilded. Then the tempter whispered “Fly!”One night their chairs were empty, and slowly the news leaked out:Two horses were gone from the stable—’twas a settled thing, no doubt.Sir Rupert was white with horror, but he turned to the gaping crewAnd cried, “It’s a lie, I tell you!—who dares to say its true?”Then seizing his holster pistols, he mounted his fleetest mareAnd made straight for the Red Cliff roadway—he guessed they had gone by there,For that was the way to London, from Exmouth the pair would post,And the road they were bound to travel was the road by the rugged coast.If you look you will see it passes right over the headland’s brow—Only a century distant it wasn’t as good as now.He dug his spurs in the hunter, and it flew up the fearful steep,’Twas a wild, fierce night in winter, and the snow lay thick and deep;But the moon through the clouds had broken, and right on the Head he spiedA horse that had slipped and fallen, and the rider by its side;And over them bent a figure, but whose he could scarcely see,Then he uttered a cry to Heaven that his wife unharmed might be;And lashing his steed to fury it flew through the slippery snow,While the wild waves roared a warning five hundred feet below.A slip, and both horse and rider would roll to a hideous fate,But Sir Rupert, with set white features, rode to the headland straight.They heard him now, and the woman rose from her knees and moaned,And the man gave a sudden shudder and opened his eyes and groaned.Sir Rupert reined up so fiercely that the mare on the precipice reared,And the woman sprang back with horror, in the jaws of the death she feared.For a moment she seemed to totter, and then with a piercing cryWent over that awful headland that seems to touch the sky.For a second no sound was uttered, only the billows roared,While up from its nest a sea-gull, startled and shrieking, soared;Then, shouting for help, Sir Rupert clutched at the snow-clad turf,And glanced with a look of horror down at the boiling surf.And as he lay there peering, right at the farthest edge,Something his eyes detected—a heap on a narrow ledge;It was thirty feet between them, but he knew ’twas his wretched wife,And he vowed, though his own paid forfeit, he would save her guilty life.He could see there were tiny juttings where his foot might find a hold,And the man he had quite forgotten was worth his weight in gold.The booby was bruised and shaken, and fancied that he should die,But Sir Rupert bade him help him, or he’d shoot him by-and-byThen the white-faced coward whimpered and lifted his jeweled hands,And Sir Rupert set him tearing his mantle in narrow bands.Then the strips were twined together and tied to a rough stone seat,And over went brave Sir Rupert, clinging with hands and feet.The waves in their winter fury shrieked for a human life,But down and down crept Rupert till he swung by his senseless wife,Stooping, he clasped her firmly, one hand on the doubtful rope,Pressed his lips on her marble forehead, and whispered her, “Darling—hope!”Then breathing a prayer to Heaven to save them both that night,He toiled with his heavy burden up the face of the frowning height.A fall of the soft red sandstone, a slip of his bleeding hand,And their bodies had lain together, crushed on the cruel strand.Safe! safe at last on the summit! safe on the firm hard road!There where the moonbeams glittered, he glanced at his senseless load.Her face was bruised and battered, and the warm blood welled and gushed;And he saw that his wife was injured, and her tender bones were crushed.No trace of the lady’s gallant; he’d limped to a horse and flown:Sir Rupert and “Polly Peachum” were there on the heights alone.He leaped on the gallant hunter; took his wife in his brawny arms,And galloped across the country to one of his tenants’ farms.For six long months my lady hovered ’twixt death and life—’Twas a surgeon who came from London that saved Sir Rupert’s wife—And when she was out of danger it was known she was marked and maimed,A battered, misshapen cripple, distorted and scarred and lamed.But Sir Rupert clung closer to her; they traveled from place to place,And he never winced or shuddered at the sight of her injured face.It was he who carried the cripple, who nursed her with tenderest care:And never in knightly story such gallant had lady fair.For many a year she lingered—’twas up at the Hall she died,And here in the village churchyard they’re sleeping side by side.She died in his arms confessing the worth of his noble love,And in less than a year he sought her in the mansions of God above.There stands the great bluff headland—there swells the sea below—And the story I’ve told you happened nigh a hundred years ago,Yet there isn’t a soul that visits those towering crags of redBut thinks of the love and daring that hallowed “Sir Rupert’s Head.”George R. Sims.
You see where the cliffs frown yonder in a line of dingy red?—
That wild, fierce crag, the highest, is known as Sir Rupert’s Head:
It’s five hundred feet and over from the brow to the sea below,
And it won its name in the winter, a hundred years ago.
There wasn’t a squire in Devon so famous as Rupert Leigh;
He was lord of the broad, rich acres, good-looking and fancy free.
He came of a race of giants, stood six feet two in his socks,
And once, for a drunken wager, with his fist he had felled an ox.
Dare-devil Leigh was his nick-name; he was last of a lawless lineWho had gone to the deuce full gallop, through women and cards and wine.He wasn’t so bad as they were—he was more of a hunting squire,And he freed the name a little from some of the ancient mire.His wasn’t an easy country, but he’d take it every inch,And ride as straight as an arrow where the boldest well might flinch.When a lad he had climbed yon headland, climbed it from base to crest,For a short-frocked hussy who wanted the eggs from a seagull’s nest.
Dare-devil Leigh was his nick-name; he was last of a lawless line
Who had gone to the deuce full gallop, through women and cards and wine.
He wasn’t so bad as they were—he was more of a hunting squire,
And he freed the name a little from some of the ancient mire.
His wasn’t an easy country, but he’d take it every inch,
And ride as straight as an arrow where the boldest well might flinch.
When a lad he had climbed yon headland, climbed it from base to crest,
For a short-frocked hussy who wanted the eggs from a seagull’s nest.
One winter he went to London—he then was about forty-three;His steward had told the parson he’d lawyers in town to see.’Twas dull in the place without him, for his mansion was Liberty Hall;There was always a warm, wet welcome for neighbors who chose to call.He was gone for a twelvemonth nearly, writing to no old friends,But a Devonshire man in London news to the parson sends.Sir Rupert had married a madam, a play-acting, mincing wench,Who painted and patched and powdered, and was finiking, fine and French.
One winter he went to London—he then was about forty-three;
His steward had told the parson he’d lawyers in town to see.
’Twas dull in the place without him, for his mansion was Liberty Hall;
There was always a warm, wet welcome for neighbors who chose to call.
He was gone for a twelvemonth nearly, writing to no old friends,
But a Devonshire man in London news to the parson sends.
Sir Rupert had married a madam, a play-acting, mincing wench,
Who painted and patched and powdered, and was finiking, fine and French.
She was no more French than I am, but this was about the time,That French was the title given to nigh every kind of crime.She sang in a minor play-house—in opera, so they say—And he saw her as Polly Peachum in that famous work by Gay.He was always an easy target for a wench’s rolling eye,So it got to bouquets and presents, and to letters by-and-by,He was wax in the hussy’s fingers, and she moulded with practiced skill,Till he took the form of a husband, the slave of her slightest will.
She was no more French than I am, but this was about the time,
That French was the title given to nigh every kind of crime.
She sang in a minor play-house—in opera, so they say—
And he saw her as Polly Peachum in that famous work by Gay.
He was always an easy target for a wench’s rolling eye,
So it got to bouquets and presents, and to letters by-and-by,
He was wax in the hussy’s fingers, and she moulded with practiced skill,
Till he took the form of a husband, the slave of her slightest will.
They traveled about a little, saw Paris, the Hague and Rome—Then the news went abroad Sir Rupert was bringing his lady home.The people about here liked him, and no warmth did their welcome lack,But they looked askance at my lady, and she gave them their glances back.They hated her then directly, they chafed at her cold disdain,And they gossiped her story over in language a bit too plain.They called her a “stuck-up stroller,” and somehow the scandal grew,Till my lady as “Polly Peachum” the whole of the country knew.
They traveled about a little, saw Paris, the Hague and Rome—
Then the news went abroad Sir Rupert was bringing his lady home.
The people about here liked him, and no warmth did their welcome lack,
But they looked askance at my lady, and she gave them their glances back.
They hated her then directly, they chafed at her cold disdain,
And they gossiped her story over in language a bit too plain.
They called her a “stuck-up stroller,” and somehow the scandal grew,
Till my lady as “Polly Peachum” the whole of the country knew.
Sir Rupert was broken-hearted when he heard of the mocking tone,And he quarreled with all his comrades until he was left alone—Alone at the Hall with “Polly,” for the gentry had cut her dead,But his heart was as true as ever to the woman he had stooped to wed.To him she was just an angel who had come from the holy skiesThat his heart might bask forever in the light of her lustrous eyes.No wine, no cards, and no hunting: he kept at my lady’s side—’Twas a great big boy with a sweetheart, not a man with a year-won bride.
Sir Rupert was broken-hearted when he heard of the mocking tone,
And he quarreled with all his comrades until he was left alone—
Alone at the Hall with “Polly,” for the gentry had cut her dead,
But his heart was as true as ever to the woman he had stooped to wed.
To him she was just an angel who had come from the holy skies
That his heart might bask forever in the light of her lustrous eyes.
No wine, no cards, and no hunting: he kept at my lady’s side—
’Twas a great big boy with a sweetheart, not a man with a year-won bride.
She pined in the lonely mansion: she wanted society-life—She wanted to play my lady as well as Sir Rupert’s wife.Sir Rupert must ask a party—not of bumpkins, but folks from the town;He had plenty of friends in London; would he not ask them down?They came, and the sound of laughter rang through the Hall once more,And my lady was proud and happy, but her husband’s heart was sore;He had learned from an idle whisper—a whisper not meant for him—A secret that sapped his life-blood and the strength of each stalwart limb.
She pined in the lonely mansion: she wanted society-life—
She wanted to play my lady as well as Sir Rupert’s wife.
Sir Rupert must ask a party—not of bumpkins, but folks from the town;
He had plenty of friends in London; would he not ask them down?
They came, and the sound of laughter rang through the Hall once more,
And my lady was proud and happy, but her husband’s heart was sore;
He had learned from an idle whisper—a whisper not meant for him—
A secret that sapped his life-blood and the strength of each stalwart limb.
He reeled when he heard the whisper and guessed at the ghastly truth:’Twas the tale of a play-woman and a curled and scented youth,A dandy of six-and-twenty, the son of an old, old chum—He was one of the guests invited, and one of the first to come.Sir Rupert had been in London a guest of his father’s, too,And this young fop, he remembered, had led him his wife to woo;He had raved of this Polly Peachum, and dragged him to hear her sing;He said at the time he knew her—’twas a planned and plotted thing!
He reeled when he heard the whisper and guessed at the ghastly truth:
’Twas the tale of a play-woman and a curled and scented youth,
A dandy of six-and-twenty, the son of an old, old chum—
He was one of the guests invited, and one of the first to come.
Sir Rupert had been in London a guest of his father’s, too,
And this young fop, he remembered, had led him his wife to woo;
He had raved of this Polly Peachum, and dragged him to hear her sing;
He said at the time he knew her—’twas a planned and plotted thing!
And now she was always with him, they chatted and laughed away;She was cold and dull with Sir Rupert,—with him she was kind and gay.She was weary of playing my lady, and of being Sir Rupert’s wife—She pined for the tinsel glories of the old Bohemian life.She hated the dull decorum, she hated the legal tie—Her cage was a cage, though gilded. Then the tempter whispered “Fly!”One night their chairs were empty, and slowly the news leaked out:Two horses were gone from the stable—’twas a settled thing, no doubt.
And now she was always with him, they chatted and laughed away;
She was cold and dull with Sir Rupert,—with him she was kind and gay.
She was weary of playing my lady, and of being Sir Rupert’s wife—
She pined for the tinsel glories of the old Bohemian life.
She hated the dull decorum, she hated the legal tie—
Her cage was a cage, though gilded. Then the tempter whispered “Fly!”
One night their chairs were empty, and slowly the news leaked out:
Two horses were gone from the stable—’twas a settled thing, no doubt.
Sir Rupert was white with horror, but he turned to the gaping crewAnd cried, “It’s a lie, I tell you!—who dares to say its true?”Then seizing his holster pistols, he mounted his fleetest mareAnd made straight for the Red Cliff roadway—he guessed they had gone by there,For that was the way to London, from Exmouth the pair would post,And the road they were bound to travel was the road by the rugged coast.If you look you will see it passes right over the headland’s brow—Only a century distant it wasn’t as good as now.
Sir Rupert was white with horror, but he turned to the gaping crew
And cried, “It’s a lie, I tell you!—who dares to say its true?”
Then seizing his holster pistols, he mounted his fleetest mare
And made straight for the Red Cliff roadway—he guessed they had gone by there,
For that was the way to London, from Exmouth the pair would post,
And the road they were bound to travel was the road by the rugged coast.
If you look you will see it passes right over the headland’s brow—
Only a century distant it wasn’t as good as now.
He dug his spurs in the hunter, and it flew up the fearful steep,’Twas a wild, fierce night in winter, and the snow lay thick and deep;But the moon through the clouds had broken, and right on the Head he spiedA horse that had slipped and fallen, and the rider by its side;And over them bent a figure, but whose he could scarcely see,Then he uttered a cry to Heaven that his wife unharmed might be;And lashing his steed to fury it flew through the slippery snow,While the wild waves roared a warning five hundred feet below.
He dug his spurs in the hunter, and it flew up the fearful steep,
’Twas a wild, fierce night in winter, and the snow lay thick and deep;
But the moon through the clouds had broken, and right on the Head he spied
A horse that had slipped and fallen, and the rider by its side;
And over them bent a figure, but whose he could scarcely see,
Then he uttered a cry to Heaven that his wife unharmed might be;
And lashing his steed to fury it flew through the slippery snow,
While the wild waves roared a warning five hundred feet below.
A slip, and both horse and rider would roll to a hideous fate,But Sir Rupert, with set white features, rode to the headland straight.They heard him now, and the woman rose from her knees and moaned,And the man gave a sudden shudder and opened his eyes and groaned.Sir Rupert reined up so fiercely that the mare on the precipice reared,And the woman sprang back with horror, in the jaws of the death she feared.For a moment she seemed to totter, and then with a piercing cryWent over that awful headland that seems to touch the sky.
A slip, and both horse and rider would roll to a hideous fate,
But Sir Rupert, with set white features, rode to the headland straight.
They heard him now, and the woman rose from her knees and moaned,
And the man gave a sudden shudder and opened his eyes and groaned.
Sir Rupert reined up so fiercely that the mare on the precipice reared,
And the woman sprang back with horror, in the jaws of the death she feared.
For a moment she seemed to totter, and then with a piercing cry
Went over that awful headland that seems to touch the sky.
For a second no sound was uttered, only the billows roared,While up from its nest a sea-gull, startled and shrieking, soared;Then, shouting for help, Sir Rupert clutched at the snow-clad turf,And glanced with a look of horror down at the boiling surf.And as he lay there peering, right at the farthest edge,Something his eyes detected—a heap on a narrow ledge;It was thirty feet between them, but he knew ’twas his wretched wife,And he vowed, though his own paid forfeit, he would save her guilty life.
For a second no sound was uttered, only the billows roared,
While up from its nest a sea-gull, startled and shrieking, soared;
Then, shouting for help, Sir Rupert clutched at the snow-clad turf,
And glanced with a look of horror down at the boiling surf.
And as he lay there peering, right at the farthest edge,
Something his eyes detected—a heap on a narrow ledge;
It was thirty feet between them, but he knew ’twas his wretched wife,
And he vowed, though his own paid forfeit, he would save her guilty life.
He could see there were tiny juttings where his foot might find a hold,And the man he had quite forgotten was worth his weight in gold.The booby was bruised and shaken, and fancied that he should die,But Sir Rupert bade him help him, or he’d shoot him by-and-byThen the white-faced coward whimpered and lifted his jeweled hands,And Sir Rupert set him tearing his mantle in narrow bands.Then the strips were twined together and tied to a rough stone seat,And over went brave Sir Rupert, clinging with hands and feet.
He could see there were tiny juttings where his foot might find a hold,
And the man he had quite forgotten was worth his weight in gold.
The booby was bruised and shaken, and fancied that he should die,
But Sir Rupert bade him help him, or he’d shoot him by-and-by
Then the white-faced coward whimpered and lifted his jeweled hands,
And Sir Rupert set him tearing his mantle in narrow bands.
Then the strips were twined together and tied to a rough stone seat,
And over went brave Sir Rupert, clinging with hands and feet.
The waves in their winter fury shrieked for a human life,But down and down crept Rupert till he swung by his senseless wife,Stooping, he clasped her firmly, one hand on the doubtful rope,Pressed his lips on her marble forehead, and whispered her, “Darling—hope!”Then breathing a prayer to Heaven to save them both that night,He toiled with his heavy burden up the face of the frowning height.A fall of the soft red sandstone, a slip of his bleeding hand,And their bodies had lain together, crushed on the cruel strand.
The waves in their winter fury shrieked for a human life,
But down and down crept Rupert till he swung by his senseless wife,
Stooping, he clasped her firmly, one hand on the doubtful rope,
Pressed his lips on her marble forehead, and whispered her, “Darling—hope!”
Then breathing a prayer to Heaven to save them both that night,
He toiled with his heavy burden up the face of the frowning height.
A fall of the soft red sandstone, a slip of his bleeding hand,
And their bodies had lain together, crushed on the cruel strand.
Safe! safe at last on the summit! safe on the firm hard road!There where the moonbeams glittered, he glanced at his senseless load.Her face was bruised and battered, and the warm blood welled and gushed;And he saw that his wife was injured, and her tender bones were crushed.No trace of the lady’s gallant; he’d limped to a horse and flown:Sir Rupert and “Polly Peachum” were there on the heights alone.He leaped on the gallant hunter; took his wife in his brawny arms,And galloped across the country to one of his tenants’ farms.
Safe! safe at last on the summit! safe on the firm hard road!
There where the moonbeams glittered, he glanced at his senseless load.
Her face was bruised and battered, and the warm blood welled and gushed;
And he saw that his wife was injured, and her tender bones were crushed.
No trace of the lady’s gallant; he’d limped to a horse and flown:
Sir Rupert and “Polly Peachum” were there on the heights alone.
He leaped on the gallant hunter; took his wife in his brawny arms,
And galloped across the country to one of his tenants’ farms.
For six long months my lady hovered ’twixt death and life—’Twas a surgeon who came from London that saved Sir Rupert’s wife—And when she was out of danger it was known she was marked and maimed,A battered, misshapen cripple, distorted and scarred and lamed.But Sir Rupert clung closer to her; they traveled from place to place,And he never winced or shuddered at the sight of her injured face.It was he who carried the cripple, who nursed her with tenderest care:And never in knightly story such gallant had lady fair.
For six long months my lady hovered ’twixt death and life—
’Twas a surgeon who came from London that saved Sir Rupert’s wife—
And when she was out of danger it was known she was marked and maimed,
A battered, misshapen cripple, distorted and scarred and lamed.
But Sir Rupert clung closer to her; they traveled from place to place,
And he never winced or shuddered at the sight of her injured face.
It was he who carried the cripple, who nursed her with tenderest care:
And never in knightly story such gallant had lady fair.
For many a year she lingered—’twas up at the Hall she died,And here in the village churchyard they’re sleeping side by side.She died in his arms confessing the worth of his noble love,And in less than a year he sought her in the mansions of God above.There stands the great bluff headland—there swells the sea below—And the story I’ve told you happened nigh a hundred years ago,Yet there isn’t a soul that visits those towering crags of redBut thinks of the love and daring that hallowed “Sir Rupert’s Head.”George R. Sims.
For many a year she lingered—’twas up at the Hall she died,
And here in the village churchyard they’re sleeping side by side.
She died in his arms confessing the worth of his noble love,
And in less than a year he sought her in the mansions of God above.
There stands the great bluff headland—there swells the sea below—
And the story I’ve told you happened nigh a hundred years ago,
Yet there isn’t a soul that visits those towering crags of red
But thinks of the love and daring that hallowed “Sir Rupert’s Head.”
George R. Sims.