PART III.

[Sidenote: Dick’s whole estate.]

NOW when the merchant gave to Dick That kitten for his own, No thing he had alive or dead On earth save it alone.

[Sidenote: His regret at its loss;]

And so enamour’d had he grown Of this his property, That sooth his heart did sorely smart When Puss was sent to sea.

[Sidenote: His melancholy vein,]

Then all was lonely as before; Again he rued his plight: He moped in solitude all day, And lay awake all night.

[Sidenote: and wayward fancy.]

So dismal and so desolate The granary now it seem’d, He long’d in the green fields to be, And where the sunshine gleam’d.

[Sidenote: He deserts his trust,]

Alas! how weak our nature is Its cravings to resist: For Dick betray’d his master’s trust To follow his own list.

[Sidenote: and wanders into the fields.]

He stroll’d abroad into the fields, He knew not where nor why; Regardless of his duty quite About the granary.

[Sidenote: The Lord Mayor’s day.]

Now as it chanced the new Lord Mayor Of London, that same day, To meet the king at Westminster In state had ta’en his way.

[Sidenote: Bow bells]

With such a charge the city-barge Did proudly flaunt along: And the bells of Bow were nothing slow To greet him with--_ding, dong_.

[Sidenote: heard by Dick.]

While truant Dick all sad and sick Was wandering in despair, Hark! hark! the music of Bow-bells Came wafted on the air.

[Sidenote: What they seemed to say.]

They seem’d to say--_Turn Whit-ting-ton_: _Again turn Whit-ting-ton_: And when he listen’d still, they said-- _Lord May-or of Lon-don_.

Again he heard the self-same words Repeated by the chimes; Yet trusted not, till he had heard The same an hundred times.

[Sidenote: His repentance and return.]

“It must be so: and I will go Back to my granary. Oh shame! to be so false while he Was true and kind to me.”

He turn’d, and reach’d the granary Before the fall of day: And not a living soul e’er knew That he had run away.

[Sidenote: his good resolves,]

This foolish prank he sorely rued; But now that it was o’er, And he all right again, he vow’d He ne’er would do so more.

[Sidenote: rewarded by peace of mind.]

And so that night in peace he slept, And so to joy he rose: But while he slept, he thought he trod Upon the Lord Mayor’s toes.

[Sidenote: His prophetic dream.]

Patience--patience! my little boy; Take heed to save your skin: The Lord Mayor is a portly man, And thou but small and thin.

Beware of cage, beware of cat That tails hath three times three: For he may strip, and he may whip, And he may ’mprison thee.

All in his sleep this sage advice Seem’d whisper’d to his ear: Nathless right on the Lord Mayor’s toe He stood withouten fear.

[Sidenote: A visiter]

Again the day had pass’d away, And night was creeping o’er, When such a knock as mote him shock Was thunder’d at his door.

[Sidenote: brings tidings of his luck.]

“Hallo! hallo! why batter so?” In trembling voice he sung: Whereat wide-open flew the door, And in the Captain sprung.

“Good luck, good luck! my jolly buck! Why whimper there and whine? Cheer up now Maister Whittington, For--all the cargo’s thine.”

[Sidenote: His incredulity.]

But Dick was so much used to woe, He dared not trust on weal: Nor had he zest to point a jest To rouse the sailor’s peal.

[Sidenote: The congratulations of the household.]

Till soon the household made aware Came rattling at the door, And greeted Maister Whittington, Who was poor Dick before.

They led him forth a man of worth, And humbly call’d him _Sire_; And placed him in a huge arm-chair Before the merchant’s fire.

The good man heard the rumour’d word And eke his daughter fair; And both ran straight to where he sate All in this huge arm-chair.

’Twas then the merchant laugh’d aloud, And then the maiden smiled: And then the servants bow’d to him They had before reviled.

[Sidenote: The virtue of riches.]

For Poverty may blameless be, Yet is an unblest thing; And wealth, for all that good men preach, Doth sure obeisance bring.

This truth found Dick, who grew full quick Into an honour’d man; Yet was he loth to let his luck Abide where it began.

[Sidenote: His active industry,]

So join’d he jolly venturers In every good emprise; It was no niggard share he staked In all their argosies.

[Sidenote: rewarded.]

All lucky he came off at sea; But luckier far on land, Whenas the merchant’s daughter fair Gave him her heart and hand.

[Sidenote: His honours.]

Next he became an Alderman, And Lord Mayor before long: And then--oh! how the bells of Bow Did greet him with _ding-dong_.

E’en on that day they seem’d to say _Lord May-or of Lon-don_: But when he listen’d still they said _Sir Rich-ard Whit-ting-ton_.

[Sidenote: His charity.]

Then thought he on the luckless lad That swept the granary floor; Nor ever in the pride of wealth Did he forget the poor.

And so God save our good Lord Mayor, And give him wealth and wit: But never let a prentice-lad Dick Whittington forget.

THE THREE WISHES.

_A Lay sung in small Families during the Moon which follows next to that which is known as the Honey-moon._

The Three Wishes.

IN wedlock once (’twas years agone) Were join’d a simple pair; The man in sooth was wondrous poor, The woman wondrous fair.

[Sidenote: Love is not covetous,]

What wonder then that they should love, As none e’er loved before; And tho’ few worldly goods they had, They coveted no more.

[Sidenote: but, whether woman’s, or man’s,]

For woman is a generous thing, And loves for love alone; And man he loves for beauty’s sake, And dotes on flesh and bone.

[Sidenote: consists not with starvation;]

But flesh and bone they must be fed, As all the world doth know; Withouten food the loveliest flesh Most hideous soon doth grow.

Nor bone will thrive on love alone, If bread and meat it lacks; Withouten food, the stronger love, The weaker bone doth wax.

[Sidenote: and is perill’d by idleness,]

Now three weeks wedded had they been, And though he was so poor, The man, who had no goods within, Scarce passed without the door.

The woman loved him still so much, She wish’d for nought instead; Yet did she pine, each night to go All supperless to bed.

One night as o’er the hearth they sat, The embers glowing bright, My dear, quoth he, most fair by day Thou’rt fairer still by night!

[Sidenote: which induces want,]

I too, quoth she, do love thee now As ne’er I loved before; Yet, were I not so hungry, I Methinks should love thee more.

[Sidenote: discontent,]

Alas, said he, that poverty Should such fond hearts betide! I fain would work,--but love thee so, I cannot leave thy side:

[Sidenote: and unavailing wishes:]

I wish that we were very rich! She answer’d,--I am thine: And, though I never cared for wealth, Thy wishes shall be mine.

Scarce had they spoke when on the hearth Appear’d a little fay: So beautiful she was, the room It shone as bright as day.

[Sidenote: of which even the full indulgence]

Then waving thrice her lily hand, In silver tones she spake;— Thrice may ye wish what wish ye please, And thrice your wish shall take.

I am your guardian fay, she said, And joy to see your love: What would ye more to make you blest As spirits are above?

The beauteous fay then vanishing, The man he kiss’d his wife; And swore he never was before So happy in his life.

Now shall I be a lord, said he, A bishop, or a king? We’ll think it o’er to night, nor wish In haste for any thing.

[Sidenote: would end in folly.]

Be it, said she; to-morrow then We’ll wish one wish, my dear: In the meantime, I only wish We had some pudding here.

Ah! luckless wish! upon the word, A pudding straightway came: At which the man wax’d high with rage, The woman low with shame.

[Sidenote: Then folly begets anger;]

And as she hid her blushing eyes, And crouch’d upon a stool; The man he rose and stamp’d his foot, And cursed her for a fool.

He stamp’d his foot, and clench’d his fist, And scarce refrain’d from blows: A pudding! zounds, cried he, I wish You had it at your nose!

Up rose the pudding as he spake, And, like an air-balloon, Was borne aloft in empty space, But oh! it settled soon:

[Sidenote: and anger strife,]

Too soon it settled on the nose Of his unhappy wife: Alas! how soon an angry word Turns harmony to strife!

For now the woman sobb’d aloud To feel the pudding there; And in her turn was angry too, And call’d the man a bear.

[Sidenote: followed by remorse and shame.]

But when their anger had burnt out, Its ash remain’d behind; Remorse and shame that they had been So foolish and so blind.

The man brake silence first, and said,— Two wishes now are gone, And nothing gain’d; but one remains, And much may still be done.—

Oh were it so! but I have gain’d What much I wish to lose-- The woman blurted, as she saw The pudding at her nose.

Then off the pudding flew amain, And roll’d into the dish: For she in sooth unwittingly Had wish’d the other wish.

Now when the man saw what was done, His choler quick return’d; But when he look’d into her face, With love again he burn’d.

[Sidenote: But love consists with a lowly estate,]

For now she smiled as she was wont, And seem’d so full of charms, That all unmindful of the past He rush’d into her arms.

Oh! how I joy thou’rt not, she said, Nor bishop, king, nor lord! I love thee better as thou art, I do, upon my word!

And I, said he, do dote on thee: For now the pudding’s gone, There’s not a face in any place So pretty as thine own!

[Sidenote: so there be contentment,]

But as we have the pudding here, ’Tis all we want,--said she, Suppose we just sit down awhile And eat it merrily.

[Sidenote: and industry.]

With all my heart, my love, said he, For I am hungry too: From this time forth, I’ll strive to earn Enough for me and you.

[Sidenote: Moral.]

The fay then reappear’d, and spake The moral of my song:— “Man wants but little here below, Nor wants that little long.”

Love is a heavenly prize in sooth, But earthborn flesh and bone, If they would love, must live as well, And cannot love alone.

Then strive to earn the bread of life, And guard your body’s health; But mark--enough is all you want, And competence is wealth.

And to that happy soul, who love With competency blends, Contentment is a crown of joy!— And here the moral ends.

A brief Account of the sad Accident which befel

LITTLE RED-RIDING-HOOD

showing plainly what brought about the same.

_A Lay of the Nursery, as chanted to simple Music by the lady-governesses of the olden time._

Little Red-riding-hood.

A LITTLE girl once lived in a cottage near a tree, A pretty little girl she was, and good as she could be. Her father often kiss’d her; and her mother loved her so, That if the king had pledged his crown for her, she had said--no. Her grandmother, who lived in a village through a wood, Had made her little granddaughter a nice red riding-hood, This riding-hood she used to wear whenever she walk’d out; It was so smart, the boys and girls would follow her about. And all the neighbours loved her, and to see her often came; And little Dame Red-riding-hood they call’d her for her name.

One beautiful fine morning when her mother had been churning, This little girl upon the hearth some nice sweet cakes was turning: And whisper’d softly to herself, how well our oven bakes! Oh, how I wish that grandmamma could taste these nice sweet cakes! Her mother who was close behind, and heard her little mutter, Then you shall take her some, she said, with some of my fresh butter. But loiter not upon the road, nor from the footpath stray, For many wicked folks there be might harm thee by the way. As soon as she had heard these words, oh! how she jump’d for joy! For she old granny loved as much as most love a new toy. She put on her red-riding-hood, and started off in haste; All eager for her grandmother her nice sweet cakes to taste. And thus as on she trotted with her basket on her arm, She little thought that any one would wish to do her harm.

Now when she came into the wood, through which the footpath lay, The birds were singing all around, the flowers were blooming gay. Such yellow buttercups she saw, such violets white and blue, Such primroses, such sweet-briars, and honey-suckles too; That, oh! she thought within herself, I wish Mamma were here: I’m sure she’d let me stop awhile; there can be nought to fear: I must just pick these pretty flowers which smell so fresh and sweet: ’Twill be so nice to take her home a nose-gay for a treat. She told me not to loiter here, nor from the footpath stray; And so I wont stop very long, nor wander far away. And so she stopp’d, nor thought of harm, because she knew not what: Enough it should have been to know--Mamma had told her not. And from the path she stray’d away, and pick’d a thousand flowers; And all the birds did welcome her within their leafy bowers. But, as it so fell out, a wolf was basking in the grass, And soon with his sharp hazel eyes espied the little lass. And then he trotted up to her, and right before her stood: How do you do, my dear? said he; what brings you to my wood? Now though his coat was very rough, his words were soft and kind; And not a single thought of fear e’er cross’d her simple mind. And so she freely said,--I go to see my Granny, Sir, Who lives in yonder village in the cottage near the fir. I am her little pet, you know, and take her nice sweet cakes-- Good bye; said he, and brush’d away thro’ bushes and thro’ brakes. And not five minutes had pass’d by since he had quitted her, Before he reach’d the village and the cottage near the fir.

He rubb’d and scratch’d against the door; but she was ill in bed; And when he tried to make a knock, she feebly raised her head; And cried, who knocks at Martha’s door, and poor old Martha wakes? It is your little pet, said he, who brings you nice sweet cakes. God help you, dearest child, she cried, so pull the string you know; And up the latch will go, my love, and you may enter so. Then up he jump’d to reach the string, and open flew the door; And in he walk’d, and fasten’d it, just as it was before. Alas! alas!--as you or I on bread and milk would sup, The greedy wolf this poor old dame he gobbled fairly up.

But now, ashamed of what he’d done, he jump’d into her bed; And put her gown upon his back, her cap upon his head. But ere he long had lain, there came the very little pet, Who long’d to tell her Granny of the kind wolf she had met. And gently tapping at the door, she whisper’d soft and still; And the false wolf spake huskily, as he were very ill: Who knocks at Martha’s door, he cried, and poor old Martha wakes? It is her little pet, said she, who brings her nice sweet cakes. God help you, dearest, cried the wolf, so pull the string you know; And up the latch will go, my love, and you may enter so. Then up she jump’d to reach the string, and open flew the door; And in she stepp’d, and fasten’d it, just as it was before.

Now take off your red riding-hood, and come to me in bed: He spake with an affected voice, and cover’d up his head. The little damsel, as he spoke, just saw his hairy nose: Yet now she did as she was bid, and so pull’d off her clothes.

Oh! Granny, what rough arms you’ve got! I’m not afraid, cried she: Rough arms? my dearest child, he said; better for hugging thee. Oh! Granny, what sharp eyes you’ve got! I’m half afraid, cried she: Sharp eyes? my dearest child, he said; better for seeing thee. Oh! Granny, what long ears you’ve got! I’m quite afraid, cried she: Long ears? my dearest child, he said; better for hearing thee. Oh! Granny, what wide lips you’ve got! I think you’ll swallow me: Wide lips? my dearest child, he said; better for kissing thee. Thus having said, he kisses gave her one--two--three--and four; And then--he would have eat her up, but he could eat no more.

So little people all take heed, and do as you are bid; Lest you some day should meet a wolf, as this poor maiden did.

A Passage in the Life of

JACK THE GIANT-KILLER.

_A Lay formerly sung about the South-western coast of England and the Principality of Wales, but known in more remote parts since the spread of Learning._

Jack the Giant-killer.

_Monstrum horrendum, informe, ingens._

OLD Cormoran of Michael’s mount By all his teeth he swore, That he would eat more butcher’s meat, Than a whole host from Cornwall’s coast Of ten or fifteen score.

In Arthur’s reign this Giant lived; A Giant huge was he: His name was known in every town, From Devon’s border to Land’s-end, And eke from sea to sea.

Six fingers on each hand he bore, Six toes upon each foot: An ox’s hide his glove supplied; And three times ten stout Cornish men Could sleep within his boot.

And while he bathed his monstrous legs, And straddled in the seas, The bravest ship of Arthur’s fleet Might sail between his knees.

His breath was like a gale of wind As now-a-days it blows: His sneeze was like a hurricane; And leagues around was heard the sound When he did blow his nose.

His laugh was like a thunderclap If e’er in jest he spoke; And the waves that lay in Michael’s bay Shook, like a merry company, Responsive to his joke.

Thrice every day he gorged his fill, And thrice he drank as well: One herd at least of salted swine, One hundred fatted beeves in brine, And eke a thousand casks of wine, Were stow’d within his cell.

On every sabbath day at morn, While Church-bells toll’d for prayer, He took his club and took his horn, And took his belt with iron welt, And through the sea did fare.

Then foraging the country round He pillaged every farm; And hogs and sheep and oxen too Were fell’d by his strong arm: And then he bound them in his belt, And round his waist huge loads did pack, And swung the rest across his back, And sought his isle again: And not a man of all who dwelt Or high or low within that shire, Or peasant, parson or esquire, But dreaded Cormoran.

The very magistrates themselves, Who once a fortnight did dispense King Arthur’s justice at Penzance, Despite of justice and of law He made them cater for his maw: And tho’ they lived in rusty pride, Nor took their country’s pay, He spared them not for that a jot, But used to say the balance lay Upon the country’s side.

In sooth it was a grievous sight, And sad it is to tell, When Cormoran came o’er the sea, What fearful things befel: He had no shame of his ill name, No sneaking thief was born; But standing stiff on the main cliff Nine times he wound his horn.

Oh then I ween you might have seen All nature in despair! The bird soar’d high toward the sky, The wild beast sought his lair.

The sheep ran huddling to a nook, As they had seen a wolf: The snorting colt defied the brook, Or plunged into the gulf.

The lazy-grouping steers, that grazed Upon the mountain fell, Forgot their pasture all amazed, And pour’d into the dell.

The pigs that buried in the straw Lay grunting snug and warm, Now helter-skelter scurried off, As if they smelt a storm.

The watch-dog tore against his chain, As he would choke with rage: But when he listen’d once agen, He knew the voice of Cormoran, And skulk’d into his den.

From every steeple on the coast, And eke from every tower, The village bells right merrily Did chime the matins-hour; But when they heard th’ accursed blast, Each sturdy sexton stood aghast; The rope it glided from his grasp, And silence reign’d around: Save here and there where sudden jerk Had follow’d interrupted work, Like dying man’s convulsive gasp, There came a jangling sound.

The lads and lasses, who that morn Had donn’d their high-day trim, Were pacing solemnly to prayer, In modest guise and prim. Apart they walk’d in decent pride, And scarcely ventured side by side: But hark! it was--it was-- ’Twas Cormoran! they knew the sound That paralysed the country round, And hurried off in mass. Forgetful now of prayer and pride In groups they thrid the forest wide, Or lurk in caves together: And here and there a plighted pair Wander aloof in mute despair, Or crouch upon the heather.