Chapter 3

The sun was high within the lift Afore the French King raise; And syne he louped intil his sark, And warslit on his claes.

"Gae up, gae up, my little foot-page, Gae up until the toun; And gin ye meet wi' the auld harper, Be sure ye bring him doun."

And he has met wi' the auld harper; O but his een were reid; And the bizzing o' a swarm o' bees Was singing in his heid.

"Alack! alack!" the harper said, "That this should e'er hae been! I daurna gang before my liege, For I was fou yestreen."

"It's ye maun come, ye auld harper: Ye daurna tarry lang; The King is just dementit-like For wanting o' a sang."

And when he came to the King's chamber, He loutit on his knee, "O what may be your gracious will Wi' an auld frail man like me?"

"I want a sang, harper," he said, "I want a sang richt speedilie; And gin ye dinna make a sang, I'll hang ye up on the gallows tree."

"I canna do't, my liege," he said, "Hae mercy on my auld grey hair! But gin that I had got the words, I think that I might mak the air."

"And wha's to mak the words, fause loon, When minstrels we have barely twa; And Lamartine is in Paris toun, And Victor Hugo far awa?"

"The diel may gang for Lamartine, And flee away wi' auld Hugo, For a better minstrel than them baith Within this very toun I know.

"O kens my liege the gude Walter, At hame they ca' him BON GAULTIER? He'll rhyme ony day wi' True Thomas, And he is in the castle here."

The French King first he lauchit loud, And syne did he begin to sing; "My een are auld, and my heart is cauld, Or I suld hae known the minstrels' King.

"Gae take to him this ring o' gowd, And this mantle o' the silk sae fine, And bid him mak a maister sang For his sovereign ladye's sake and mine."

"I winna take the gowden ring, Nor yet the mantle fine: But I'll mak the sang for my ladye's sake, And for a cup of wine."

The Queen was sitting at the cards, The King ahint her back; And aye she dealed the red honours, And aye she dealed the black;

And syne unto the dourest Prince She spak richt courteouslie;-- "Now will ye play, Lord Admiral, Now will ye play wi' me?"

The dourest Prince he bit his lip, And his brow was black as glaur; "The only game that e'er I play Is the bluidy game o' war!"

"And gin ye play at that, young man, It weel may cost ye sair; Ye'd better stick to the game at cards, For you'll win nae honours there!"

The King he leuch, and the Queen she leuch, Till the tears ran blithely doon; But the Admiral he raved and swore, Till they kicked him frae the room.

The harper came, and the harper sang, And oh but they were fain; For when he had sung the gude sang twice, They called for it again.

It was the sang o' the Field o' Gowd, In the days of auld langsyne; When bauld King Henry crossed the seas, Wi' his brither King to dine.

And aye he harped, and aye he carped, Till up the Queen she sprang-- "I'll wad a County Palatine, Gude Walter made that sang."

Three days had come, three days had gane, The fourth began to fa', When our gude Queen to the Frenchman said, "It's time I was awa!

"O, bonny are the fields o' France, And saftly draps the rain; But my bairnies are in Windsor Tower, And greeting a' their lane.

"Now ye maun come to me, Sir King, As I have come to ye; And a benison upon your heid For a' your courtesie!

"Ye maun come, and bring your ladye fere; Ye sall na say me no; And ye'se mind, we have aye a bed to spare For that gawsy chield Guizot."

Now he has ta'en her lily-white hand, And put it to his lip, And he has ta'en her to the strand, And left her in her ship.

"Will ye come back, sweet bird?" he cried, "Will ye come kindly here, When the lift is blue, and the lavrocks sing, In the spring-time o' the year?"

"It's I would blithely come, my Lord, To see ye in the spring; It's I would blithely venture back But for ae little thing.

"It isna that the winds are rude, Or that the waters rise, But I loe the roasted beef at hame, And no thae puddock-pies!"

The Massacre of the Macpherson.

[FROM THE GAELIC.]

I.

Fhairshon swore a feud Against the clan M'Tavish; Marched into their land To murder and to rafish; For he did resolve To extirpate the vipers, With four-and-twenty men And five-and-thirty pipers.

II.

But when he had gone Half-way down Strath Canaan, Of his fighting tail Just three were remainin'. They were all he had, To back him in ta battle; All the rest had gone Off, to drive ta cattle.

III.

"Fery coot!" cried Fhairshon, "So my clan disgraced is; Lads, we'll need to fight, Pefore we touch the peasties. Here's Mhic-Mac-Methusaleh Coming wi' his fassals, Gillies seventy-three, And sixty Dhuinewassails!"

IV.

"Coot tay to you, sir; Are you not ta Fhairshon? Was you coming here To fisit any person? You are a plackguard, sir! It is now six hundred Coot long years, and more, Since my glen was plundered."

V.

"Fat is tat you say? Dare you cock your peaver? I will teach you, sir, Fat is coot pehaviour! You shall not exist For another day more; I will shoot you, sir, Or stap you with my claymore!"

VI.

"I am fery glad, To learn what you mention, Since I can prevent Any such intention." So Mhic-Mac-Methusaleh Gave some warlike howls, Trew his skhian-dhu, An' stuck it in his powels.

VII.

In this fery way Tied ta faliant Fhairshon, Who was always thought A superior person. Fhairshon had a son, Who married Noah's daughter, And nearly spoiled ta Flood, By trinking up ta water:

VIII.

Which he would have done, I at least pelieve it, Had ta mixture peen Only half Glenlivet. This is all my tale: Sirs, I hope 'tis new t'ye! Here's your fery good healths, And tamn ta whusky duty!

[The six following Poems were among those forwarded to the Home Secretary, by the unsuccessful competitors for the Laureateship, on its becoming vacant by the death of Southey. How they came into our possession is a matter between Sir James Graham and ourselves. The result of the contest could never have been doubtful, least of all to the great poet who then succeeded to the bays. His own sonnet on the subject is full of the serene consciousness of superiority, which does not even admit the idea of rivalry, far less of defeat.

Bays! which in former days have graced the brow Of some, who lived and loved, and sang and died; Leaves that were gathered on the pleasant side Of old Parnassus from Apollo's bough; With palpitating hand I take thee now, Since worthier minstrel there is none beside, And with a thrill of song half deified, I bind them proudly on my locks of snow. There shall they bide, till he who follows next, Of whom I cannot even guess the name, Shall by Court favour, or some vain pretext Of fancied merit, desecrate the same,-- And think, perchance, he wears them quite as well As the sole bard who sang of Peter Bell!]

The above note, which appeared in the first and subsequent editions of this volume, is characteristic of the audacious spirit of fun in which Bon Gaultier revelled. The sonnet here ascribed to Wordsworth must have been believed by some matter-of-fact people to be really by him. On his death in 1857, in an article on the subject of the vacant Laureate-ship, it was quoted in a leading journal as proof of Wordsworth's complacent estimate of his own supremacy over all contemporary poets. In writing the sonnet I was well aware that there was some foundation for his not unjust high appreciation of his own prowess, as the phrase "sole bard" pretty clearly indicates, but I never dreamt that any one would fail to see the joke.

The Laureates' Tourney.

BY THE HON. T--- B--- M---.

FYTTE THE FIRST.

"What news, what news, thou pilgrim grey, what news from southern land? How fare the bold Conservatives, how is it with Ferrand? How does the little Prince of Wales--how looks our lady Queen? And tell me, is the monthly nurse once more at Windsor seen?"

"I bring no tidings from the Court, nor from St Stephen's hall; I've heard the thundering tramp of horse, and the trumpet's battle-call; And these old eyes have seen a fight, which England ne'er hath seen, Since fell King Richard sobbed his soul through blood on Bosworth Green.

'He's dead, he's dead, the Laureate's dead!' 'Twas thus the cry began, And straightway every garret-roof gave up its minstrel man; From Grub Street, and from Houndsditch, and from Farringdon Within, The poets all towards Whitehall poured on with eldritch din.

Loud yelled they for Sir James the Graham: {157} but sore afraid was he; A hardy knight were he that might face such a minstrelsie. 'Now by St Giles of Netherby, my patron Saint, I swear, I'd rather by a thousand crowns Lord Palmerston were here!--

'What is't ye seek, ye rebel knaves--what make you there beneath?' 'The bays, the bays! we want the bays! we seek the laureate wreath! We seek the butt of generous wine that cheers the sons of song; Choose thou among us all, Sir Knight--we may not tarry long!'

Loud laughed the good Sir James in scorn--'Rare jest it were, I think, But one poor butt of Xeres, and a thousand rogues to drink! An' if it flowed with wine or beer, 'tis easy to be seen, That dry within the hour would be the well of Hippocrene.

'Tell me, if on Parnassus' heights there grow a thousand sheaves: Or has Apollo's laurel bush yet borne ten hundred leaves? Or if so many leaves were there, how long would they sustain The ravage and the glutton bite of such a locust train?

'No! get ye back into your dens, take counsel for the night, And choose me out two champions to meet in deadly fight; To-morrow's dawn shall see the lists marked out in Spitalfields, And he who wins shall have the bays, and he shall die who yields!'

Down went the window with a crash,--in silence and in fear Each ragged bard looked anxiously upon his neighbour near; Then up and spake young Tennyson--'Who's here that fears for death? 'Twere better one of us should die, than England lose the wreath!

'Let's cast the lot among us now, which two shall fight to-morrow;-- For armour bright we'll club our mite, and horses we can borrow; 'Twere shame that bards of France should sneer, and German _Dichters_ too, If none of British song might dare a deed of _derring-do_!'

'The lists of Love are mine,' said Moore, 'and not the lists of Mars;' Said Hunt, 'I seek the jars of wine, but shun the combat's jars!' 'I'm old,' quoth Samuel Rogers.--'Faith,' says Campbell, 'so am I!' 'And I'm in holy orders, sir!' quoth Tom of Ingoldsby.

'Now out upon ye, craven loons!' cried Moxon, {160} good at need,-- 'Bide, if ye will, secure at home, and sleep while others bleed. I second Alfred's motion, boys,--let's try the chance of lot; And monks shall sing, and bells shall ring, for him that goes to pot.'

Eight hundred minstrels slunk away--two hundred stayed to draw,-- Now Heaven protect the daring wight that pulls the longest straw! 'Tis done! 'tis done! And who hath won? Keep silence one and all,-- The first is William Wordsworth hight, the second Ned Fitzball!

FYTTE THE SECOND.

Oh, bright and gay hath dawned the day on lordly Spitalfields,-- How flash the rays with ardent blaze from polished helms and shields! On either side the chivalry of England throng the green, And in the middle balcony appears our gracious Queen.

With iron fists, to keep the lists, two valiant knights appear, The Marquis Hal of Waterford, and stout Sir Aubrey Vere. 'What ho! there, herald, blow the trump! Let's see who comes to claim The butt of golden Xeres, and the Laureate's honoured name!'

That instant dashed into the lists, all armed from head to heel, On courser brown, with vizor down, a warrior sheathed in steel; Then said our Queen--'Was ever seen so stout a knight and tall? His name--his race?'--'An't please your grace, it is the brave Fitzball. {162}

'Oft in the Melodrama line his prowess hath been shown, And well throughout the Surrey side his thirst for blood is known. But see, the other champion comes!'--Then rang the startled air With shouts of 'Wordsworth, Wordsworth, ho! the bard of Rydal's there.'

And lo! upon a little steed, unmeet for such a course, Appeared the honoured veteran; but weak seemed man and horse. Then shook their ears the sapient peers,--'That joust will soon be done: My Lord of Brougham, I'll back Fitzball, and give you two to one!'

'Done,' quoth the Brougham,--'And done with you!' 'Now, Minstrels, are you ready?' Exclaimed the Lord of Waterford,--'You'd better both sit steady. Blow, trumpets, blow the note of charge! and forward to the fight!' 'Amen!' said good Sir Aubrey Vere; 'Saint Schism defend the right!'

As sweeps the blast against the mast when blows the furious squall, So started at the trumpet's sound the terrible Fitzball; His lance he bore his breast before,--Saint George protect the just! Or Wordsworth's hoary head must roll along the shameful dust!

'Who threw that calthrop? Seize the knave!' Alas! the deed is done; Down went the steed, and o'er his head flew bright Apollo's son. 'Undo his helmet! cut the lace! pour water on his head!' 'It ain't no use at all, my lord; 'cos vy? the covey's dead!'

Above him stood the Rydal bard--his face was full of woe. 'Now there thou liest, stiff and stark, who never feared a foe: A braver knight, or more renowned in tourney and in hall, Ne'er brought the upper gallery down than terrible Fitzball!'

They led our Wordsworth to the Queen--she crowned him with the bays, And wished him many happy years, and many quarter-days; And if you'd have the story told by abler lips than mine, You've but to call at Rydal Mount, and taste the Laureate's wine!"

The Royal Banquet.

BY THE HON. G--- B--- S---.

The Queen she kept high festival in Windsor's lordly hall, And round her sat the gartered knights, and ermined nobles all; There drank the valiant Wellington, there fed the wary Peel, And at the bottom of the board Prince Albert carved the veal.

"What, pantler, ho! remove the cloth! Ho! cellarer, the wine, And bid the royal nurse bring in the hope of Brunswick's line!" Then rose with one tumultuous shout the band of British peers, "God bless her sacred Majesty! Let's see the little dears!"

Now by Saint George, our patron saint, 'twas a touching sight to see That iron warrior gently place the Princess on his knee; To hear him hush her infant fears, and teach her how to gape With rosy mouth expectant for the raisin and the grape!

They passed the wine, the sparkling wine--they filled the goblets up; Even Brougham, the cynic anchorite, smiled blandly on the cup; And Lyndhurst, with a noble thirst, that nothing could appease, Proposed the immortal memory of King William on his knees.

"What want we here, my gracious liege," cried gay Lord Aberdeen, "Save gladsome song and minstrelsy to flow our cups between? I ask not now for Goulburn's voice or Knatchbull's warbling lay, {168} But where's the Poet Laureate to grace our board to-day?"

Loud laughed the Knight of Netherby, and scornfully he cried, "Or art thou mad with wine, Lord Earl, or art thyself beside? Eight hundred Bedlam bards have claimed the Laureate's vacant crown, And now like frantic Bacchanals run wild through London town!"

"Now glory to our gracious Queen!" a voice was heard to cry, And dark Macaulay stood before them all with frenzied eye; "Now glory to our gracious Queen, and all her glorious race, A boon, a boon, my sovran liege! Give me the Laureate's place!

"'Twas I that sang the might of Rome, the glories of Navarre; And who could swell the fame so well of Britain's Isles afar? The hero of a hundred fights--" Then Wellington up sprung, "Ho, silence in the ranks, I say! Sit down and hold your tongue!

"By heaven, thou shalt not twist my name into a jingling lay, Or mimic in thy puny song the thunders of Assaye! 'Tis hard that for thy lust of place in peace we cannot dine. Nurse, take her Royal Highness, here! Sir Robert, pass the wine!"

"No Laureate need we at our board!" then spoke the Lord of Vaux; "Here's many a voice to charm the ear with minstrel song, I know. Even I myself--" Then rose the cry--"A song, a song from Brougham!" He sang,--and straightway found himself alone within the room.

The Bard of Erin's Lament.

BY T--- M---RE, ESQ.

Oh, weep for the hours, when the little blind boy Wove round me the spells of his Paphian bower; When I dipped my light wings in the nectar of joy, And soared in the sunshine, the moth of the hour! From beauty to beauty I passed, like the wind; Now fondled the lily, now toyed with the Rose; And the fair, that at morn had enchanted my mind, Was forsook for another ere evening's close.

I sighed not for honour, I cared not for fame, While Pleasure sat by me, and Love was my guest; They twined a fresh wreath for each day as it came, And the bosom of Beauty still pillowed my rest: And the harp of my country--neglected it slept-- In hall or by greenwood unheard were its songs; From Love's Sybarite dreams I aroused me, and swept Its chords to the tale of her glories and wrongs.

But weep for the hour!--Life's summer is past, And the snow of its winter lies cold on my brow; And my soul, as it shrinks from each stroke of the blast, Cannot turn to a fire that glows inwardly now. No, its ashes are dead--and, alas! Love or Song No charm to Life's lengthening shadows can lend, Like a cup of old wine, rich, mellow, and strong, And a seat by the fire _tete-a-tete_ with a friend.

The Laureate.

BY A--- T---.

Who would not be The Laureate bold, With his butt of sherry To keep him merry, And nothing to do but to pocket his gold? 'Tis I would be the Laureate bold! When the days are hot, and the sun is strong, I'd lounge in the gateway all the day long, With her Majesty's footmen in crimson and gold. I'd care not a pin for the waiting-lord; But I'd lie on my back on the smooth greensward With a straw in my mouth, and an open vest, And the cool wind blowing upon my breast, And I'd vacantly stare at the clear blue sky, And watch the clouds that are listless as I, Lazily, lazily! And I'd pick the moss and the daisies white, And chew their stalks with a nibbling bite; And I'd let my fancies roam abroad In search of a hint for a birthday ode, Crazily, crazily!

Oh, that would be the life for me, With plenty to get and nothing to do, But to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of blue, And whistle all day to the Queen's cockatoo, Trance-somely, trance-somely! Then the chambermaids, that clean the rooms, Would come to the windows and rest on their brooms, With their saucy caps and their crisped hair, And they'd toss their heads in the fragrant air, And say to each other--"Just look down there, At the nice young man, so tidy and small, Who is paid for writing on nothing at all, Handsomely, handsomely!"

They would pelt me with matches and sweet pastilles, And crumpled-up balls of the royal bills, Giggling and laughing, and screaming with fun, As they'd see me start, with a leap and a run, From the broad of my back to the points of my toes, When a pellet of paper hit my nose, Teasingly, sneezingly. Then I'd fling them bunches of garden flowers, And hyacinths plucked from the Castle bowers; And I'd challenge them all to come down to me, And I'd kiss them all till they kissed me, Laughingly, laughingly.

Oh, would not that be a merry life, Apart from care and apart from strife, With the Laureate's wine, and the Laureate's pay, And no deductions at quarter-day? Oh, that would be the post for me! With plenty to get and nothing to do, But to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of blue, And whistle a tune to the Queen's cockatoo, And scribble of verses remarkably few, And empty at evening a bottle or two, Quaffingly, quaffingly!

'Tis I would be The Laureate bold, With my butt of sherry To keep me merry, And nothing to do but to pocket my gold!

A Midnight Meditation.

BY SIR E--- B--- L---.

Fill me once more the foaming pewter up! Another board of oysters, ladye mine! To-night Lucullus with himself shall sup. These mute inglorious Miltons {177} are divine And as I here in slippered ease recline, Quaffing of Perkin's Entire my fill, I sigh not for the lymph of Aganippe's rill.

A nobler inspiration fires my brain, Caught from Old England's fine time-hallowed drink; I snatch the pot again and yet again, And as the foaming fluids shrink and shrink, Fill me once more, I say, up to the brink! This makes strong hearts--strong heads attest its charm-- This nerves the might that sleeps in Britain's brawny arm!

But these remarks are neither here nor there. Where was I? Oh, I see--old Southey's dead! They'll want some bard to fill the vacant chair, And drain the annual butt--and oh, what head More fit with laurel to be garlanded Than this, which, curled in many a fragrant coil, Breathes of Castalia's streams, and best Macassar oil?

I know a grace is seated on my brow, Like young Apollo's with his golden beams-- There should Apollo's bays be budding now:-- And in my flashing eyes the radiance beams, That marks the poet in his waking dreams, When, as his fancies cluster thick and thicker, He feels the trance divine of poesy and liquor.

They throng around me now, those things of air That from my fancy took their being's stamp: There Pelham sits and twirls his glossy hair, There Clifford leads his pals upon the tramp; There pale Zanoni, bending o'er his lamp, Roams through the starry wilderness of thought, Where all is everything, and everything is nought.

Yes, I am he who sang how Aram won The gentle ear of pensive Madeline! How love and murder hand in hand may run, Cemented by philosophy serene, And kisses bless the spot where gore has been! Who breathed the melting sentiment of crime, And for the assassin waked a sympathy sublime!

Yes, I am he, who on the novel shed Obscure philosophy's enchanting light! Until the public, 'wildered as they read, Believed they saw that which was not in sight-- Of course 'twas not for me to set them right; For in my nether heart convinced I am, Philosophy's as good as any other flam.

Novels three-volumed I shall write no more-- Somehow or other now they will not sell; And to invent new passions is a bore-- I find the Magazines pay quite as well. Translating's simple, too, as I can tell, Who've hawked at Schiller on his lyric throne, And given the astonished bard a meaning all my own.

Moore, Campbell, Wordsworth, their best days are grassed: Battered and broken are their early lyres, Rogers, a pleasant memory of the past, Warmed his young hands at Smithfield's martyr fires, And, worth a plum, nor bays nor butt desires. But these are things would suit me to the letter, For though this Stout is good, old Sherry's greatly better.

A fico for your small poetic ravers, Your Hunts, your Tennysons, your Milnes, and these! Shall they compete with him who wrote 'Maltravers,' Prologue to 'Alice or the Mysteries'? No! Even now my glance prophetic sees My own high brow girt with the bays about. What ho! within there, ho! another pint of STOUT!

Montgomery.

A POEM.

Like one who, waking from a troublous dream, Pursues with force his meditative theme; Calm as the ocean in its halcyon still, Calm as the sunlight sleeping on the hill; Calm as at Ephesus great Paul was seen To rend his robes in agonies serene; Calm as the love that radiant Luther bore To all that lived behind him and before; Calm as meek Calvin, when, with holy smile, He sang the mass around Servetus' pile,-- So once again I snatch this harp of mine, To breathe rich incense from a mystic shrine. Not now to whisper to the ambient air The sounds of Satan's Universal Prayer; Not now to sing, in sweet domestic strife That woman reigns the Angel of our life; But to proclaim the wish, with pious art, Which thrills through Britain's universal heart,-- That on this brow, with native honours graced, The Laureate's chaplet should at length be placed!

Fear not, ye maids, who love to hear me speak; Let no desponding tears bedim your cheek! No gust of envy, no malicious scorn, Hath this poor heart of mine with frenzy torn. There are who move so far above the great, Their very look disarms the glance of hate; Their thoughts, more rich than emerald or gold, Enwrap them like the prophet's mantle's fold. Fear not for me, nor think that this our age, Blind though it be, hath yet no Archimage. I, who have bathed, in bright Castalia's tide By classic Isis and more classic Clyde; I, who have handled, in my lofty strain, All things divine, and many things profane; I, who have trod where seraphs fear to tread; I, who on mount--no, "honey-dew" have fed; I, who undaunted broke the mystic seal, And left no page for prophets to reveal; I, who in shade portentous Dante threw; I, who have done what Milton dared not do,-- I fear no rival for the vacant throne; No mortal thunder shall eclipse my own!

Let dark Macaulay chant his Roman lays, Let Monckton Milnes go maunder for the bays, Let Simmons call on great Napoleon's shade, Let Lytton Bulwer seek his Aram's aid, Let Wordsworth ask for help from Peter Bell, Let Campbell carol Copenhagen's knell, Let Delta warble through his Delphic groves, Let Elliott shout for pork and penny loaves,-- I care not, I! resolved to stand or fall; One down, another on, I'll smash them all!

Back, ye profane! this hand alone hath power To pluck the laurel from its sacred bower; This brow alone is privileged to wear The ancient wreath o'er hyacinthine hair; These lips alone may quaff the sparkling wine, And make its mortal juice once more divine. Back, ye profane! And thou, fair Queen, rejoice: A nation's praise shall consecrate thy choice. Thus, then, I kneel where Spenser knelt before, On the same spot, perchance, of Windsor's floor; And take, while awe-struck millions round me stand, The hallowed wreath from great Victoria's hand.

Little John and the Red Friar.

A LAY OF SHERWOOD.

FYTTE THE FIRST.

The deer may leap within the glade; The fawns may follow free-- For Robin is dead, and his bones are laid Beneath the greenwood tree.

And broken are his merry, merry men, That goodly companie: There's some have ta'en the northern road With Jem of Netherbee.

The best and bravest of the band With Derby Ned are gone; But Earlie Grey and Charlie Wood, They stayed with Little John.

Now Little John was an outlaw proud, A prouder ye never saw; Through Nottingham and Leicester shires He thought his word was law, And he strutted through the greenwood wide, Like a pestilent jackdaw.

He swore that none, but with leave of him, Should set foot on the turf so free: And he thought to spread his cutter's rule, All over the south countrie. "There's never a knave in the land," he said, "But shall pay his toll to me!"

And Charlie Wood was a taxman good As ever stepped the ground, He levied mail, like a sturdy thief, From all the yeomen round. "Nay, stand!" quoth he, "thou shalt pay to me Seven pence from every pound!"

Now word has come to Little John, As he lay upon the grass, That a Friar red was in merry Sherwood Without his leave to pass.

"Come hither, come hither, my little foot-page! Ben Hawes, come tell to me, What manner of man is this burly frere Who walks the wood so free?"

"My master good!" the little page said, "His name I wot not well, But he wears on his head a hat so red, With a monstrous scallop-shell.

"He says he is Prior of Copmanshurst, And Bishop of London town, And he comes with a rope from our father the Pope, To put the outlaws down.

"I saw him ride but yester-tide, With his jolly chaplains three; And he swears that he has an open pass From Jem of Netherbee!"

Little John has ta'en an arrow so broad, And broken it o'er his knee; "Now may I never strike doe again, But this wrong avenged shall be!

"And has he dared, this greasy frere, To trespass in my bound, Nor asked for leave from Little John To range with hawk and hound?

"And has he dared to take a pass From Jem of Netherbee, Forgetting that the Sherwood shaws Pertain of right to me?

"O were he but a simple man, And not a slip-shod frere! I'd hang him up by his own waist-rope Above yon tangled brere.

"O did he come alone from Jem, And not from our father the Pope, I'd bring him into Copmanshurst, With the noose of a hempen rope!

"But since he has come from our father the Pope, And sailed across the sea, And since he has power to bind and lose, His life is safe for me; But a heavy penance he shall do Beneath the greenwood tree!"

"O tarry yet!" quoth Charlie Wood, "O tarry, master mine! It's ill to shear a yearling hog, Or twist the wool of swine!

"It's ill to make a bonny silk purse From the ear of a bristly boar; It's ill to provoke a shaveling's curse, When the way lies him before.

"I've walked the forest for twenty years, In wet weather and dry, And never stopped a good fellowe, Who had no coin to buy.

"What boots it to search a beggarman's bags, When no silver groat he has? So, master mine, I rede you well, E'en let the friar pass!"

"Now cease thy prate," quoth Little John, "Thou japest but in vain; An he have not a groat within his pouch, We may find a silver chain.

"But were he as bare as a new-flayed buck, As truly he may be, He shall not tread the Sherwood shaws Without the leave of me!"

Little John has taken his arrows and bow, His sword and buckler strong, And lifted up his quarter-staff, Was full three cloth yards long.

And he has left his merry men At the trysting-tree behind, And gone into the gay greenwood, This burly frere to find.

O'er holt and hill, through brake and brere, He took his way alone-- Now, Lordlings, list and you shall hear This geste of Little John.

FYTTE THE SECOND.

'Tis merry, 'tis merry in gay greenwood, When the little birds are singing, When the buck is belling in the fern, And the hare from the thicket springing!

'Tis merry to hear the waters clear, As they splash in the pebbly fall; And the ouzel whistling to his mate, As he lights on the stones so small.

But small pleasaunce took Little John In all he heard and saw; Till he reached the cave of a hermit old Who wonned within the shaw.

"_Ora pro nobis_!" quoth Little John-- His Latin was somewhat rude-- "Now, holy father, hast thou seen A frere within the wood?

"By his scarlet hose, and his ruddy nose, I guess you may know him well; And he wears on his head a hat so red, And a monstrous scallop-shell."

"I have served Saint Pancras," the hermit said, "In this cell for thirty year, Yet never saw I, in the forest bounds, The face of such a frere!

"An' if ye find him, master mine, E'en take an old man's advice, An' raddle him well, till he roar again, Lest ye fail to meet him twice!"

"Trust me for that!" quoth Little John-- "Trust me for that!" quoth he, with a laugh; "There never was man of woman born, That asked twice for the taste of my quarter-staff!"

Then Little John, he strutted on, Till he came to an open bound, And he was aware of a Red Friar, Was sitting upon the ground.

His shoulders they were broad and strong, And large was he of limb; Few yeomen in the north countrie Would care to mell with him.

He heard the rustling of the boughs, As Little John drew near; But never a single word he spoke, Of welcome or of cheer: Less stir he made than a pedlar would For a small gnat in his ear!

I like not his looks! thought Little John, Nor his staff of the oaken tree. Now may our Lady be my help, Else beaten I well may be!

"What dost thou here, thou strong Friar, In Sherwood's merry round, Without the leave of Little John, To range with hawk and hound?"

"Small thought have I," quoth the Red Friar, "Of any leave, I trow; That Little John is an outlawed thief, And so, I ween, art thou!

"Know, I am Prior of Copmanshurst, And Bishop of London town, And I bring a rope from our father the Pope, To put the outlaws down."

Then out spoke Little John in wrath, "I tell thee, burly frere, The Pope may do as he likes at home, But he sends no Bishops here!

"Up, and away, Red Friar!" he said, "Up, and away, right speedilie; An it were not for that cowl of thine, Avenged on thy body I would be!"

"Nay, heed not that," said the Red Friar, "And let my cowl no hindrance be; I warrant that I can give as good As ever I think to take from thee!"

Little John he raised his quarter-staff, And so did the burly priest, And they fought beneath the greenwood tree A stricken hour at least.

But Little John was weak of fence, And his strength began to fail; Whilst the Friar's blows came thundering down, Like the strokes of a threshing-flail.

"Now hold thy hand, thou stalwart Friar, Now rest beneath the thorn, Until I gather breath enow, For a blast at my bugle-horn!"

"I'll hold my hand," the Friar said, "Since that is your propine, But, an you sound your bugle-horn, I'll even blow on mine!"

Little John he wound a blast so shrill, That it rang o'er rock and linn, And Charlie Wood, and his merry men all, Came lightly bounding in.

The Friar he wound a blast so strong That it shook both bush and tree, And to his side came witless Will, And Jem of Netherbee; With all the worst of Robin's band, And many a Rapparee!

Little John he wist not what to do, When he saw the others come; So he twisted his quarter-staff between His fingers and his thumb.

"There's some mistake, good Friar!" he said, "There's some mistake 'twixt thee and me; I know thou art Prior of Copmanshurst, But not beneath the greenwood tree.

"And if you will take some other name, You shall have ample leave to bide; With pasture also for your Bulls, And power to range the forest wide."

"There's no mistake!" the Friar said; "I'll call myself just what I please. My doctrine is that chalk is chalk, And cheese is nothing else than cheese."

"So be it, then!" quoth Little John; "But surely you will not object, If I and all my merry men Should treat you with reserved respect?

"We can't call you Prior of Copmanshurst, Nor Bishop of London town, Nor on the grass, as you chance to pass, Can we very well kneel down.

"But you'll send the Pope my compliments, And say, as a further hint, That, within the Sherwood bounds, you saw Little John, who is the son-in-law Of his friend, old Mat-o'-the-Mint!"

So ends this geste of Little John-- God save our noble Queen! But, Lordlings, say--Is Sherwood now What Sherwood once hath been? {200}

The Rhyme of Sir Launcelot Bogle.

A LEGEND OF GLASGOW.

BY MRS E--- B--- B---.

There's a pleasant place of rest, near a City of the West, Where its bravest and its best find their grave. Below the willows weep, and their hoary branches steep In the waters still and deep, Not a wave!

And the old Cathedral Wall, so scathed and grey and tall, Like a priest surveying all, stands beyond; And the ringing of its bell, when the ringers ring it well, Makes a kind of tidal swell On the pond!

And there it was I lay, on a beauteous summer's day, With the odour of the hay floating by; And I heard the blackbirds sing, and the bells demurely ring, Chime by chime, ting by ting, Droppingly.

Then my thoughts went wandering back, on a very beaten track, To the confine deep and black of the tomb; And I wondered who he was, that is laid beneath the grass, Where the dandelion has Such a bloom.

Then I straightway did espy, with my slantly-sloping eye, A carved stone hard by, somewhat worn; And I read in letters cold--Here.lyes.Launcelot.ye.bolde, Off.ye.race.off.Bogile.old, Glasgow.borne.

He.wals.ane.valyaunt.knychte.maist.terrible.in.fychte. Here the letters failed outright, but I knew That a stout crusading lord, who had crossed the Jordan's ford, Lay there beneath the sward, Wet with dew.

Time and tide they passed away, on that pleasant summer's day, And around me, as I lay, all grew old: Sank the chimneys from the town, and the clouds of vapour brown No longer, like a crown, O'er it rolled.

Sank the great Saint Rollox stalk, like a pile of dingy chalk; Disappeared the cypress walk, and the flowers; And a donjon-keep arose, that might baffle any foes, With its men-at-arms in rows, On the towers.

And the flag that flaunted there showed the grim and grizzly bear, Which the Bogles always wear for their crest. And I heard the warder call, as he stood upon the wall, "Wake ye up! my comrades all, From your rest!

"For, by the blessed rood, there's a glimpse of armour good In the deep Cowcaddens wood, o'er the stream; And I hear the stifled hum of a multitude that come, Though they have not beat the drum, It would seem!

"Go tell it to my Lord, lest he wish to man the ford With partisan and sword, just beneath; Ho, Gilkison and Nares! Ho, Provan of Cowlairs! We'll back the bonny bears To the death!"

To the tower above the moat, like one who heedeth not, Came the bold Sir Launcelot, half undressed; On the outer rim he stood, and peered into the wood, With his arms across him glued On his breast.

And he muttered, "Foe accurst! hast thou dared to seek me first? George of Gorbals, do thy worst--for I swear, O'er thy gory corpse to ride, ere thy sister and my bride, From my undissevered side Thou shalt tear!

"Ho, herald mine, Brownlee! ride forth, I pray, and see, Who, what, and whence is he, foe or friend! Sir Roderick Dalgleish, and my foster-brother Neish, With his bloodhounds in the leash, Shall attend."

Forth went the herald stout, o'er the drawbridge and without, Then a wild and savage shout rose amain, Six arrows sped their force, and, a pale and bleeding corse, He sank from off his horse On the plain!

Back drew the bold Dalgleish, back started stalwart Neish, With his bloodhounds in the leash, from Brownlee. "Now shame be to the sword that made thee knight and lord, Thou caitiff thrice abhorred, Shame on thee!

"Ho, bowmen, bend your bows! Discharge upon the foes Forthwith no end of those heavy bolts. Three angels to the brave who finds the foe a grave, And a gallows for the slave Who revolts!"

Ten days the combat lasted; but the bold defenders fasted, While the foemen, better pastied, fed their host; You might hear the savage cheers of the hungry Gorbaliers, As at night they dressed the steers For the roast.

And Sir Launcelot grew thin, and Provan's double chin Showed sundry folds of skin down beneath; In silence and in grief found Gilkison relief, Nor did Neish the spell-word, beef, Dare to breathe.

To the ramparts Edith came, that fair and youthful dame, With the rosy evening flame on her face. She sighed, and looked around on the soldiers on the ground, Who but little penance found, Saying grace!

And she said unto her lord, as he leaned upon his sword, "One short and little word may I speak? I cannot bear to view those eyes so ghastly blue, Or mark the sallow hue Of thy cheek!

"I know the rage and wrath that my furious brother hath Is less against us both than at me. Then, dearest, let me go, to find among the foe An arrow from the bow, Like Brownlee!"

"I would soil my father's name, I would lose my treasured fame, Ladye mine, should such a shame on me light: While I wear a belted brand, together still we stand, Heart to heart, hand in hand!" Said the knight.

"All our chances are not lost, as your brother and his host Shall discover to their cost rather hard! Ho, Provan! take this key--hoist up the Malvoisie, And heap it, d'ye see, In the yard.

"Of usquebaugh and rum, you will find, I reckon, some, Besides the beer and mum, extra stout; Go straightway to your tasks, and roll me all the casks, As also range the flasks, Just without.

"If I know the Gorbaliers, they are sure to dip their ears In the very inmost tiers of the drink. Let them win the outer court, and hold it for their sport, Since their time is rather short, I should think!"

With a loud triumphant yell, as the heavy drawbridge fell, Rushed the Gorbaliers pell-mell, wild as Druids; Mad with thirst for human gore, how they threatened and they swore, Till they stumbled on the floor, O'er the fluids.

Down their weapons then they threw, and each savage soldier drew From his belt an iron screw, in his fist; George of Gorbals found it vain their excitement to restrain, And indeed was rather fain To assist.

With a beaker in his hand, in the midst he took his stand, And silence did command, all below-- "Ho! Launcelot the bold, ere thy lips are icy cold, In the centre of thy hold, Pledge me now!

"Art surly, brother mine? In this cup of rosy wine, I drink to the decline of thy race! Thy proud career is done, thy sand is nearly run, Never more shall setting sun Gild thy face!

"The pilgrim, in amaze, shall see a goodly blaze, Ere the pallid morning rays flicker up; And perchance he may espy certain corpses swinging high! What, brother! art thou dry? Fill my cup!"

Dumb as death stood Launcelot, as though he heard him not, But his bosom Provan smote, and he swore; And Sir Roderick Dalgleish remarked aside to Neish, "Never sure did thirsty fish Swallow more!

"Thirty casks are nearly done, yet the revel's scarce begun; It were knightly sport and fun to strike in!" "Nay, tarry till they come," quoth Neish, "unto the rum-- They are working at the mum, And the gin!"

Then straight there did appear to each gallant Gorbalier Twenty castles dancing near, all around; The solid earth did shake, and the stones beneath them quake, And sinuous as a snake Moved the ground.

Why and wherefore they had come, seemed intricate to some, But all agreed the rum was divine. And they looked with bitter scorn on their leader highly born, Who preferred to fill his horn Up with wine!

Then said Launcelot the tall, "Bring the chargers from their stall; Lead them straight unto the hall, down below: Draw your weapons from your side, fling the gates asunder wide, And together we shall ride On the foe!"

Then Provan knew full well, as he leaped into his selle, That few would 'scape to tell how they fared; And Gilkison and Nares, both mounted on their mares, Looked terrible as bears, All prepared.

With his bloodhounds in the leash, stood the iron-sinewed Neish, And the falchion of Dalgleish glittered bright-- "Now, wake the trumpet's blast; and, comrades, follow fast; Smite them down unto the last!" Cried the knight.

In the cumbered yard without, there was shriek, and yell, and shout, As the warriors wheeled about, all in mail. On the miserable kerne fell the death-strokes stiff and stern, As the deer treads down the fern, In the vale!

Saint Mungo be my guide! It was goodly in that tide To see the Bogle ride in his haste; He accompanied each blow with a cry of "Ha!" or "Ho!" And always cleft the foe To the waist.

"George of Gorbals--craven lord! thou didst threat me with the cord; Come forth and brave my sword, if you dare!" But he met with no reply, and never could descry The glitter of his eye Anywhere.

Ere the dawn of morning shone, all the Gorbaliers were down, Like a field of barley mown in the ear: It had done a soldier good to see how Provan stood, With Neish all bathed in blood, Panting near.

"Now bend ye to your tasks--go trundle down those casks, And place the empty flasks on the floor; George of Gorbals scarce will come, with trumpet and with drum, To taste our beer and rum Any more!"

So they bent them to their tasks, and they trundled down the casks, And replaced the empty flasks on the floor; But pallid for a week was the cellar-master's cheek, For he swore he heard a shriek Through the door.

When the merry Christmas came, and the Yule-log lent its flame To the face of squire and dame in the hall, The cellarer went down to tap October brown, Which was rather of renown 'Mongst them all.

He placed the spigot low, and gave the cask a blow, But his liquor would not flow through the pin. "Sure, 'tis sweet as honeysuckles!" so he rapped it with his knuckles, But a sound, as if of buckles, Clashed within.

"Bring a hatchet, varlets, here!" and they cleft the cask of beer: What a spectacle of fear met their sight! There George of Gorbals lay, skull and bones all blanched and grey, In the arms he bore the day Of the fight!

I have sung this ancient tale, not, I trust, without avail, Though the moral ye may fail to perceive; Sir Launcelot is dust, and his gallant sword is rust, And now, I think, I must Take my leave!

ILLUSTRATIONS OF THE PUFF POETICAL

[The following eleven pieces of verse appeared originally with many others in an article called "Puffs and Poetry," from which the following passage is taken:--

"Some people are fond of excursions into the realms of old romance, with their Lancelots and Gueneveres, their enchanted castles, their bearded wizards, 'and such odd branches of learning.' There needs a winged griffin, at the very least, to carry them out of the everyday six-and-eightpenny world, or the whizz of an Excalibur to startle their drowsy imaginations into life. The beauties and the wonders of the universe died for them some centuries ago; they went out with Friar Bacon and the invention of gunpowder. Praised be Apollo! this is not our case. There is a snatch of poetry, to our apprehension, in almost everything. We have detected it pushing its petals forth from the curls of a barrister's wig, and scented its fragrance even in the columns of the 'London Gazette.'

"'The deep poetic voice that hourly speaks within us' is never silent. Like Signor Benedick, it 'will still be talking.' We can scarcely let our eyes dwell upon an object--nay, not even upon a gridiron or a toothpick--but it seems to be transmuted as by the touch of Midas into gold. Our facts accordingly adopt upon occasions a very singular shape. We are not nice to a shade. A trifle here or there never stands in our way. We regard a free play of fancy as the privilege of every genuine Briton, and exclaim with Pistol, 'A fico for all yea and nay rogues.'

"We have often thought of entering the lists against Robins [famous for his imaginative advertisements of properties for sale]. It may be vanity, but we think we could trump him. Robins amplifies well, but we think we could trump him. There is an obvious effort in his best works. The result is a want of unity of effect. Hesiod and Tennyson, the Caverns of Ellora, and the magic caves of the Regent's Park Colosseum, are jumbled confusedly one upon another. He never achieves the triumph of art--repose. Besides, he wants variety. A country box, consisting of twenty feet square of tottering brickwork, a plateau of dirt, with a few diseased shrubs and an open drain, is as elaborately be-metaphored as an island of the Hebrides, with a wilderness of red-deer, Celts, ptarmigan, and other wild animals upon it. Now, this is out of all rule. An elephant's trunk can raise a pin as well as uproot an oak, but it would be ridiculous to employ the same effort for one as for the other. Robins--with reverence to so great a name, be it spoken--does not attend to this. He has yet to acquire the light and graceful touch of the finished artist." Thereupon Bon Gaultier proceeds to illustrate his views by the following, and many other rhyming advertisements.]

The Death of Ishmael.

Died the Jew? "The Hebrew died. On the pavement cold he lay, Around him closed the living tide; The butcher's cad set down his tray; The pot-boy from the Dragon Green No longer for his pewter calls; The Nereid rushes in between, Nor more her 'Fine live mackerel!' bawls."

Died the Jew? "The Hebrew died. They raised him gently from the stone, They flung his coat and neckcloth wide-- But linen had that Hebrew none. They raised the pile of hats that pressed His noble head, his locks of snow; But, ah, that head, upon his breast, Sank down with an expiring 'Clo!'"

Died the Jew? "The Hebrew died, Struck with overwhelming qualms From the flavour spreading wide Of some fine Virginia hams. Would you know the fatal spot, Fatal to that child of sin? These fine-flavoured hams are bought AT 50 BISHOPSGATE WITHIN!"

Parr's Life Pills.

'Twas in the town of Lubeck, A hundred years ago, An old man walked into the church, With beard as white as snow; Yet were his cheeks not wrinkled, Nor dim his eagle eye: There's many a knight that steps the street, Might wonder, should he chance to meet That man erect and high!

When silenced was the organ, And hushed the vespers loud, The Sacristan approached the sire, And drew him from the crowd-- "There's something in thy visage, On which I dare not look; And when I rang the passing bell, A tremor that I may not tell, My very vitals shook.

"Who art thou, awful stranger? Our ancient annals say, That twice two hundred years ago Another passed this way, Like thee in face and feature; And, if the tale be true, 'Tis writ, that in this very year Again the stranger shall appear. Art thou the Wandering Jew?"

"The Wandering Jew, thou dotard!" The wondrous phantom cried-- "'Tis several centuries ago Since that poor stripling died. He would not use my nostrums-- See, shaveling, here they are! _These_ put to flight all human ills, These conquer death--unfailing pills, And I'm the inventor, PARR!"

Tarquin and the Augur.

Gingerly is good King Tarquin shaving. Gently glides the razor o'er his chin, Near him stands a grim Haruspex raving, And with nasal whine he pitches in Church extension hints, Till the monarch squints, Snicks his chin, and swears--a deadly sin!

"Jove confound thee, thou bare-legged impostor! From my dressing-table get thee gone! Dost thou think my flesh is double Glo'ster? There again! That cut was to the bone! Get ye from my sight; I'll believe you're right, When my razor cuts the sharpening hone!"

Thus spoke Tarquin with a deal of dryness; But the Augur, eager for his fees, Answered--"Try it, your Imperial Highness; Press a little harder, if you please. There! the deed is done!" Through the solid stone Went the steel as glibly as through cheese.

So the Augur touched the tin of Tarquin, Who suspected some celestial aid; But he wronged the blameless gods; for hearken! Ere the monarch's bet was rashly laid, With his searching eye Did the priest espy ROGERS' name engraved upon the blade.

La Mort d'Arthur,

NOT BY ALFRED TENNYSON.

Slowly, as one who bears a mortal hurt, Through which the fountain of his life runs dry, Crept good King Arthur down unto the lake. A roughening wind was bringing in the waves With cold dull plash and plunging to the shore, And a great bank of clouds came sailing up Athwart the aspect of the gibbous moon, Leaving no glimpse save starlight, as he sank, With a short stagger, senseless on the stones.

No man yet knows how long he lay in swound; But long enough it was to let the rust Lick half the surface of his polished shield; For it was made by far inferior hands, Than forged his helm, his breastplate, and his greaves, Whereon no canker lighted, for they bore The magic stamp of MECHI'S SILVER STEEL.

Jupiter and the Indian Ale.

"Take away this clammy nectar!" Said the king of gods and men; "Never at Olympus' table Let that trash be served again. Ho, Lyaeus, thou the beery! Quick--invent some other drink; Or, in a brace of shakes, thou standest On Cocytus' sulphury brink!"

Terror shook the limbs of Bacchus, Paly grew his pimpled nose, And already in his rearward Felt he Jove's tremendous toes; When a bright idea struck him-- "Dash my thyrsus! I'll be bail-- For you never were in India-- That you know not HODGSON'S ALE!"

"Bring it!" quoth the Cloud-compeller; And the wine-god brought the beer-- "Port and claret are like water To the noble stuff that's here!" And Saturnius drank and nodded, Winking with his lightning eyes, And amidst the constellations Did the star of HODGSON rise!

The Lay of the Doudney Brothers.

Coats at five-and-forty shillings! trousers ten-and-six a pair! Summer waistcoats, three a sov'reign, light and comfortable wear! Taglionis, black or coloured, Chesterfield and velveteen! The old English shooting-jacket--doeskins such as ne'er were seen! Army cloaks and riding-habits, Alberts at a trifling cost! Do you want an annual contract? Write to DOUDNEYS' by the post. DOUDNEY BROTHERS! DOUDNEY BROTHERS! Not the men that drive the van, Plastered o'er with advertisements, heralding some paltry plan, How, by base mechanic stinting, and by pinching of their backs, Lean attorneys' clerks may manage to retrieve their Income-tax: But the old established business--where the best of clothes are given At the very lowest prices--Fleet Street, Number Ninety-seven. Wouldst thou know the works of DOUDNEY? Hie thee to the thronged Arcade, To the Park upon a Sunday, to the terrible Parade. There, amid the bayonets bristling, and the flashing of the steel, When the household troops in squadrons round the bold field-marshals wheel, Shouldst thou see an aged warrior in a plain blue morning frock, Peering at the proud battalions o'er the margin of his stock,-- Should thy throbbing heart then tell thee, that the veteran worn and grey Curbed the course of Bonaparte, rolled the thunders of Assaye-- Let it tell thee, stranger, likewise, that the goodly garb he wears Started into shape and being from the DOUDNEY BROTHERS' shears! Seek thou next the rooms of Willis--mark, where D'Orsay's Count is bending, See the trouser's undulation from his graceful hip descending; Hath the earth another trouser so compact and love-compelling? Thou canst find it, stranger, only, if thou seek'st the DOUDNEYS' dwelling! Hark, from Windsor's royal palace, what sweet voice enchants the ear? "Goodness, what a lovely waistcoat! Oh, who made it, Albert dear? 'Tis the very prettiest pattern! You must get a dozen others!" And the Prince, in rapture, answers--"'Tis the work of DOUDNEY BROTHERS!"

Paris and Helen.

As the youthful Paris presses Helen to his ivory breast. Sporting with her golden tresses, Close and ever closer pressed,

"Let me," said he, "quaff the nectar, Which thy lips of ruby yield; Glory I can leave to Hector, Gathered in the tented field.

"Let me ever gaze upon thee, Look into thine eyes so deep; With a daring hand I won thee, With a faithful heart I'll keep.

"Oh, my Helen, thou bright wonder, Who was ever like to thee? Jove would lay aside his thunder, So he might be blest like me.

"How mine eyes so fondly linger On thy smooth and pearly skin; Scan each round and rosy finger, Drinking draughts of beauty in!

"Tell me, whence thy beauty, fairest? Whence thy cheek's enchanting bloom? Whence the rosy hue thou wearest; Breathing round thee rich perfume?"

Thus he spoke, with heart that panted, Clasped her fondly to his side, Gazed on her with look enchanted, While his Helen thus replied:

"Be no discord, love, between us, If I not the secret tell! 'Twas a gift I had of Venus,-- Venus, who hath loved me well;

"And she told me as she gave it, 'Let not e'er the charm be known; O'er thy person freely lave it, Only when thou art alone.'

"'Tis enclosed in yonder casket-- Here behold its golden key; But its name--love, do not ask it, Tell't I may not, even to thee!"

Long with vow and kiss he plied her; Still the secret did she keep, Till at length he sank beside her, Seemed as he had dropped to sleep.

Soon was Helen laid in slumber, When her Paris, rising slow, Did his fair neck disencumber From her rounded arms of snow.

Then, her heedless fingers oping, Takes the key and steals away, To the ebon table groping, Where the wondrous casket lay;

Eagerly the lid uncloses, Sees within it, laid aslope, PEARS' LIQUID BLOOM OF ROSES, Cakes of his TRANSPARENT SOAP!

A Warning.

Lose thou no time! A grave and solemn warning, Yet seldom ta'en, to man's eternal cost. Night wanes, day lessens, evening, noon, and morning Flit by unseen, and yet much time is lost.

And why? Are moments useless as the vapour That rises from the lamp's extinguish'd flame! Why do we, like the moth around the taper, Sport with the fire that must consume our frame?

Be wise in time! Arouse thee, oh thou sleeper, Account thy moments dearer than thy gold; While time thou hast, appoint a good time-keeper To treasure up thine hours till thou art old.

Lose but this chance, and thou art lost for ever,-- Seek him who keeps a watch for sinking souls-- Ask for COX SAVORY'S HORIZONTAL LEVER, With double case, and jewell'd in four holes!

To Persons About to Marry.

Gentle pair, ere Hymen binds you In his fetters, soft but sure, Pray, bethink you, have you ever Had substantial furniture?

Love's a fickle god, they tell us, Giddy-pated, lightly led, Therefore it were well you found him In a comfortable bed.

Olive branches soon will blossom Round your table, two or three; And that table should be made of Good and strong mahogany.

If the cares of life should gather, And we all must look for cares,-- Sorrow falls extremely lightly In the midst of rosewood chairs.

Few that walk can 'scape a stumble, Thus hath said The Prophet-King; But your fall will be a light one On Axminster carpeting.

We can keep your little children From collision with the grate-- We have wardrobes, we have presses At a reasonable rate;

Mirrors for the queen of beauty Basins of the purest stone, Ottomans which Cleopatra Might have envied on her throne.

Seek us ere you taste with rapture Love's sweet draught of filter'd honey, And you'll find the safest plan is, NO DISCOUNT, AND READY MONEY!

Want Places.

Wants a place a lad, who's seen Pious life at brother Teazle's, Used to cleaning boots, and been Touch'd with grace, and had the measles.

* * * * *

Wants a place as housemaid, or Companion to a bachelor, Up in years, and who'd prefer A person with no character, A female, who in this respect, Would leave him nothing to object.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS

The Lay of the Lover's Friend.

[AIR--"_The days we went a-gypsying_."]

I would all womankind were dead, Or banished o'er the sea; For they have been a bitter plague These last six weeks to me: It is not that I'm touched myself, For that I do not fear; No female face has shown me grace For many a bygone year. But 'tis the most infernal bore, Of all the bores I know, To have a friend who's lost his heart A short time ago.

Whene'er we steam it to Blackwall, Or down to Greenwich run, To quaff the pleasant cider-cup, And feed on fish and fun; Or climb the slopes of Richmond Hill, To catch a breath of air: Then, for my sins, he straight begins To rave about his fair. Oh, 'tis the most tremendous bore, Of all the bores I know, To have a friend who's lost his heart A short time ago.

In vain you pour into his ear Your own confiding grief; In vain you claim his sympathy, In vain you ask relief; In vain you try to rouse him by Joke, repartee, or quiz; His sole reply's a burning sigh, And "What a mind it is!" O Lord! it is the greatest bore, Of all the bores I know, To have a friend who's lost his heart A short time ago.

I've heard her thoroughly described A hundred times, I'm sure; And all the while I've tried to smile, And patiently endure; He waxes strong upon his pangs, And potters o'er his grog; And still I say, in a playful way-- "Why, you're a lucky dog!" But oh! it is the heaviest bore, Of all the bores I know, To have a friend who's lost his heart A short time ago.

I really wish he'd do like me, When I was young and strong; I formed a passion every week, But never kept it long. But he has not the sportive mood That always rescued me, And so I would all women could Be banished o'er the sea. For 'tis the most egregious bore, Of all the bores I know, To have a friend who's lost his heart A short time ago.

Francesca Da Rimini.

TO BON GAULTIER.

[ARGUMENT.--An impassioned pupil of Leigh Hunt, having met Bon Gaultier at a Fancy Ball, declares the destructive consequences thus.]

Didst thou not praise me, Gaultier, at the ball, Ripe lips, trim boddice, and a waist so small, With clipsome lightness, dwindling ever less, Beneath the robe of pea-y greeniness? Dost thou remember, when, with stately prance, Our heads went crosswise in the country-dance; How soft, warm fingers, tipped like buds of balm, Trembled within the squeezing of thy palm; And how a cheek grew flushed and peachy-wise At the frank lifting of thy cordial eyes? Ah, me! that night there was one gentle thing, Who, like a dove, with its scarce feathered wing, Fluttered at the approach of thy quaint swaggering!

There's wont to be, at conscious times like these, An affectation of a bright-eyed ease,-- A crispy cheekiness, if so I dare Describe the swaling of a jaunty air; And thus, when swirling from the waltz's wheel, You craved my hand to grace the next quadrille, That smiling voice, although it made me start, Boiled in the meek o'erlifting of my heart; And, picking at my flowers, I said, with free And usual tone, "O yes, sir, certainly!"

Like one that swoons, 'twixt sweet amaze and fear, I heard the music burning in my ear, And felt I cared not, so thou wert with me, If Gurth or Wamba were our vis-a-vis. So, when a tall Knight Templar ringing came, And took his place amongst us with his dame, I neither turned away, nor bashful shrunk From the stern survey of the soldier-monk, Though rather more than three full quarters drunk; But, threading through the figure, first in rule, I paused to see thee plunge into La Poule.

Ah, what a sight was that! Not prurient Mars, Pointing his toe through ten celestial bars-- Not young Apollo, beamily arrayed In tripsome guise for Juno's masquerade-- Not smartest Hermes, with his pinion girth, Jerking with freaks and snatches down to earth, Looked half so bold, so beautiful, and strong, As thou, when pranking through the glittering throng! How the calmed ladies looked with eyes of love On thy trim velvet doublet laced above; The hem of gold, that, like a wavy river, Flowed down into thy back with glancing shiver! So bare was thy fine throat, and curls of black, So lightsomely dropped in thy lordly back, So crisply swaled the feather in thy bonnet, So glanced thy thigh, and spanning palm upon it, That my weak soul took instant flight to thee, Lost in the fondest gush of that sweet witchery!

But when the dance was o'er, and arm in arm (The full heart beating 'gainst the elbow warm) We passed into the great refreshment-hall, Where the heaped cheese-cakes and the comfits small Lay, like a hive of sunbeams, brought to burn Around the margin of the negus urn; When my poor quivering hand you fingered twice, And, with inquiring accents, whispered "Ice, Water, or cream?" I could no more dissemble, But dropped upon the couch all in a tremble. A swimming faintness misted o'er my brain, The corks seemed starting from the brisk champagne, The custards fell untouched upon the floor, Thine eyes met mine. That night we danced no more!

The Cadi's Daughter.

A LEGEND OF THE BOSPHORUS.

[FROM ANY OF THE ANNUALS.]

How beauteous is the star of night Within the eastern skies, Like the twinkling glance of the Toorkman's lance, Or the antelope's azure eyes! A lamp of love in the heaven above, That star is fondly streaming; And the gay kiosk and the shadowy mosque In the Golden Horn are gleaming.

Young Leila sits in her jasmine bower, And she hears the bulbul sing, As it thrills its throat to the first full note, That anthems the flowery spring. She gazes still, as a maiden will, On that beauteous eastern star: You might see the throb of her bosom's sob Beneath the white cymar!

She thinks of him who is far away,-- Her own brave Galiongee,-- Where the billows foam and the breezes roam, On the wild Carpathian sea. She thinks of the oath that bound them both Beside the stormy water; And the words of love, that in Athens' grove He spake to the Cadi's daughter.

"My Selim!" thus the maiden said, "Though severed thus we be By the raging deep and the mountain steep, My soul still yearns to thee. Thy form so dear is mirrored here In my heart's pellucid well, As the rose looks up to Phingari's orb, Or the moth to the gay gazelle.

"I think of the time when the Kaftan's crime Our love's young joys o'ertook, And thy name still floats in the plaintive notes Of my silver-toned chibouque. Thy hand is red with the blood it has shed, Thy soul it is heavy laden; Yet come, my Giaour, to thy Leila's bower; Oh, come to thy Turkish maiden!"

A light step trod on the dewy sod, And a voice was in her ear, And an arm embraced young Leila's waist-- "Beloved! I am here!" Like the phantom form that rules the storm, Appeared the pirate lover, And his fiery eye was like Zatanai, As he fondly bent above her.

"Speak, Leila, speak; for my light caique Rides proudly in yonder bay; I have come from my rest to her I love best, To carry thee, love, away. The breast of thy lover shall shield thee, and cover My own jemscheed from harm; Think'st thou I fear the dark vizier, Or the mufti's vengeful arm?

"Then droop not, love, nor turn away From this rude hand of mine!" And Leila looked in her lover's eyes, And murmured--"I am thine!" But a gloomy man with a yataghan. Stole through the acacia-blossoms, And the thrust he made with his gleaming blade Hath pierced through both their bosoms.

"There! there! thou cursed caitiff Giaour! There, there, thou false one, lie!" Remorseless Hassan stands above, And he smiles to see them die. They sleep beneath the fresh green turf, The lover and the lady-- And the maidens wail to hear the tale Of the daughter of the Cadi!

The Dirge of the Drinker.

Brothers, spare awhile your liquor, lay your final tumbler down; He has dropped--that star of honour--on the field of his renown! Raise the wail, but raise it softly, lowly bending on your knees, If you find it more convenient, you may hiccup if you please. Sons of Pantagruel, gently let your hip-hurrahing sink, Be your manly accents clouded, half with sorrow, half with drink! Lightly to the sofa pillow lift his head from off the floor; See, how calm he sleeps, unconscious as the deadest nail in door! Widely o'er the earth I've wandered; where the drink most freely flowed, I have ever reeled the foremost, foremost to the beaker strode. Deep in shady Cider Cellars I have dreamed o'er heavy wet, By the fountains of Damascus I have quaffed the rich sherbet, Regal Montepulciano drained beneath its native rock, On Johannis' sunny mountain frequent hiccuped o'er my hock; I have bathed in butts of Xeres deeper than did e'er Monsoon, Sangaree'd with bearded Tartars in the Mountains of the Moon; In beer-swilling Copenhagen I have drunk your Danesman blind, I have kept my feet in Jena, when each bursch to earth declined; Glass for glass, in fierce Jamaica, I have shared the planter's rum. Drunk with Highland dhuine-wassails, till each gibbering Gael grew dumb; But a stouter, bolder drinker--one that loved his liquor more-- Never yet did I encounter than our friend upon the floor! Yet the best of us are mortal, we to weakness all are heir, He has fallen who rarely staggered--let the rest of us beware! We shall leave him as we found him,--lying where his manhood fell, 'Mong the trophies of the revel, for he took his tipple well. Better 'twere we loosed his neckcloth, laid his throat and bosom bare, Pulled his Hobies off, and turned his toes to taste the breezy air. Throw the sofa cover o'er him, dim the flaring of the gas, Calmly, calmly let him slumber, and, as by the bar we pass, We shall bid that thoughtful waiter place beside him, near and handy, Large supplies of soda-water, tumblers bottomed well with brandy, So, when waking, he shall drain them, with that deathless thirst of his,-- Clinging to the hand that smote him, like a good 'un as he is!

The Death of Duval.

BY W--- H--- A---TH, ESQ.

["Methinks I see him already in the cart, sweeter and more lovely than the nosegay in his hand! I hear the crowd extolling his resolution and intrepidity! What volleys of sighs are sent from the windows of Holborn, that so comely a youth should be brought to disgrace! I see him at the tree! the whole circle are in tears! even butchers weep!"--BEGGARS OPERA.]

A living sea of eager human faces, A thousand bosoms throbbing all as one, Walls, windows, balconies, all sorts of places, Holding their crowds of gazers to the sun: Through the hushed groups low-buzzing murmurs run; And on the air, with slow reluctant swell, Comes the dull funeral-boom of old Sepulchre's bell.

Oh, joy in London now! in festal measure Be spent the evening of this festive day! For thee is opening now a high-strung pleasure; Now, even now, in yonder press-yard they Strike from his limbs the fetters loose away! A little while, and he, the brave Duval, Will issue forth, serene, to glad and greet you all.

"Why comes he not? Say, wherefore doth he tarry?" Starts the inquiry loud from every tongue. "Surely," they cry, "that tedious Ordinary His tedious psalms must long ere this have sung,-- Tedious to him that's waiting to be hung!" But hark! old Newgate's doors fly wide apart. "He comes, he comes!" A thrill shoots through each gazer's heart.

Joined in the stunning cry ten thousand voices, All Smithfield answered to the loud acclaim. "He comes, he comes!" and every breast rejoices, As down Snow Hill the shout tumultuous came, Bearing to Holborn's crowd the welcome fame. "He comes, he comes!" and each holds back his breath-- Some ribs are broke, and some few scores are crushed to death.

With step majestic to the cart advances The dauntless Claude, and springs into his seat. He feels that on him now are fixed the glances Of many a Briton bold and maiden sweet, Whose hearts responsive to his glories beat. In him the honour of "The Road" is centred, And all the hero's fire into his bosom entered.

His was the transport--his the exultation Of Rome's great generals, when from afar, Up to the Capitol, in the ovation, They bore with them, in the triumphal car, Rich gold and gems, the spoils of foreign war. _Io Triumphe_! They forgot their clay. E'en so Duval, who rode in glory on his way.

His laced cravat, his kids of purest yellow, The many-tinted nosegay in his hand, His large black eyes, so fiery, yet so mellow, Like the old vintages of Spanish land, Locks clustering o'er a brow of high command, Subdue all hearts; and, as up Holborn's steep Toils the slow car of death, e'en cruel butchers weep.

He saw it, but he heeded not. His story, He knew, was graven on the page of Time. Tyburn to him was as a field of glory, Where he must stoop to death his head sublime, Hymned in full many an elegiac rhyme. He left his deeds behind him, and his name-- For he, like Caesar, had lived long enough for fame.

He quailed not, save when, as he raised the chalice,-- St Giles's bowl,--filled with the mildest ale, To pledge the crowd, on her--his beauteous Alice-- His eye alighted, and his cheek grew pale. She, whose sweet breath was like the spicy gale, She, whom he fondly deemed his own dear girl, Stood with a tall dragoon, drinking long draughts of purl.

He bit his lip--it quivered but a moment-- Then passed his hand across his flushing brows: He could have spared so forcible a comment Upon the constancy of woman's vows. One short sharp pang his hero-soul allows; But in the bowl he drowned the stinging pain, And on his pilgrim course went calmly forth again.

A princely group of England's noble daughters Stood in a balcony suffused with grief, Diffusing fragrance round them, of strong waters, And waving many a snowy handkerchief; Then glowed the prince of highwayman and thief! His soul was touched with a seraphic gleam-- That woman could be false was but a mocking dream.

And now, his bright career of triumph ended, His chariot stood beneath the triple tree. The law's grim finisher to its boughs ascended, And fixed the hempen bandages, while he Bowed to the throng, then bade the cart go free. The car rolled on, and left him dangling there, Like famed Mohammed's tomb, uphung midway in air.

As droops the cup of the surcharged lily Beneath the buffets of the surly storm, Or the soft petals of the daffodilly, When Sirius is uncomfortably warm, So drooped his head upon his manly form, While floated in the breeze his tresses brown. He hung the stated time, and then they cut him down.

With soft and tender care the trainbands bore him, Just as they found him, nightcap, robe, and all, And placed this neat though plain inscription o'er him, Among the atomies in Surgeons' Hall: "THESE ARE THE BONES OF THE RENOWNED DUVAL!" There still they tell us, from their glassy case, He was the last, the best of all that noble race!

Eastern Serenade.

BY THE HONOURABLE SINJIN MUFF.

The minarets wave on the plain of Stamboul, And the breeze of the evening blows freshly and cool; The voice of the musnud is heard from the west, And kaftan and kalpac have gone to their rest. The notes of the kislar re-echo no more, And the waves of Al Sirat fall light on the shore.

Where art thou, my beauty; where art thou, my bride? Oh, come and repose by thy dragoman's side! I wait for thee still by the flowery tophaik-- I have broken my Eblis for Zuleima's sake. But the heart that adores thee is faithful and true, Though it beats 'neath the folds of a Greek Allah-hu!

Oh, wake thee, my dearest! the muftis are still, And the tschocadars sleep on the Franguestan hill; No sullen aleikoum--no derveesh is here, And the mosques are all watching by lonely Kashmere! Oh, come in the gush of thy beauty so full, I have waited for thee, my adored attar-gul!

I see thee--I hear thee--thy antelope foot Treads lightly and soft on the velvet cheroot; The jewelled amaun of thy zemzem is bare, And the folds of thy palampore wave in the air. Come, rest on the bosom that loves thee so well, My dove! my phingari! my gentle gazelle!

Nay, tremble not, dearest! I feel thy heart throb, 'Neath the sheltering shroud of thy snowy kiebaub; Lo, there shines Muezzin, the beautiful star! Thy lover is with thee, and danger afar: Say, is it the glance of the haughty vizier, Or the bark of the distant effendi, you fear?

Oh, swift fly the hours in the garden of bliss! And sweeter than balm of Gehenna thy kiss! Wherever I wander--wherever I roam, My spirit flies back to its beautiful home; It dwells by the lake of the limpid Stamboul, With thee, my adored one! my own attar-gul! {269}

Dame Fredegonde.

When folks, with headstrong passion blind, To play the fool make up their mind, They're sure to come with phrases nice And modest air, for your advice. But as a truth unfailing make it, They ask, but never mean to take it. 'Tis not advice they want, in fact, But confirmation in their act. Now mark what did, in such a case, A worthy priest who knew the race.

A dame more buxom, blithe, and free, Than Fredegonde you scarce would see. So smart her dress, so trim her shape, Ne'er hostess offered juice of grape, Could for her trade wish better sign; Her looks gave flavour to her wine, And each guest feels it, as he sips, Smack of the ruby of her lips. A smile for all, a welcome glad,-- A jovial coaxing way she had; And,--what was more her fate than blame,-- A nine months' widow was our dame. But toil was hard, for trade was good, And gallants sometimes will be rude. "And what can a lone woman do? The nights are long and eerie too. Now, Guillot there's a likely man, None better draws or taps a can; He's just the man, I think, to suit, If I could bring my courage to't." With thoughts like these her mind is crossed: The dame, they say, who doubts, is lost. "But then the risk? I'll beg a slice Of Father Haulin's good advice."

Prankt in her best, with looks demure, She seeks the priest; and, to be sure, Asks if he thinks she ought to wed: "With such a business on my head, I'm worried off my legs with care, And need some help to keep things square. I've thought of Guillot, truth to tell! He's steady, knows his business well. What do you think?" When thus he met her: "Oh, take him, dear, you can't do better!" "But then the danger, my good pastor, If of the man I make the master. There is no trusting to these men." "Well, well, my dear, don't have him, then!" "But help I must have; there's the curse. I may go farther and fare worse." "Why, take him, then!" "But if he should Turn out a thankless ne'er-do-good-- In drink and riot waste my all, And rout me out of house and hall?" "Don't have him, then! But I've a plan To clear your doubts, if any can. The bells a peal are ringing,--hark! Go straight, and what they tell you mark. If they say 'Yes!' wed, and be blest-- If 'No,' why--do as you think best."

The bells rang out a triple bob: Oh, how our widow's heart did throb, As thus she heard their burden go, "Marry, mar-marry, mar-Guillot!" Bells were not then left to hang idle: A week,--and they rang for her bridal. But, woe the while, they might as well Have rung the poor dame's parting knell. The rosy dimples left her cheek, She lost her beauties plump and sleek; For Guillot oftener kicked than kissed, And backed his orders with his fist, Proving by deeds as well as words That servants make the worst of lords.

She seeks the priest, her ire to wreak, And speaks as angry women speak, With tiger looks and bosom swelling, Cursing the hour she took his telling. To all, his calm reply was this,-- "I fear you've read the bells amiss: If they have lead you wrong in aught, Your wish, not they, inspired the thought. Just go, and mark well what they say." Off trudged the dame upon her way, And sure enough their chime went so,-- "Don't have that knave, that knave Guillot!"

"Too true," she cried, "there's not a doubt: What could my ears have been about?" She had forgot, that, as fools think, The bell is ever sure to clink.

Song of the Ennuye.

I'm weary, and sick, and disgusted With Britain's mechanical din; Where I'm much too well known to be trusted, And plaguily pestered for tin; Where love has two eyes for your banker, And one chilly glance for yourself; Where souls can afford to be franker, But when they're well garnished with pelf.

I'm sick of the whole race of poets, Emasculate, misty, and fine; They brew their small-beer, and don't know its Distinction from full-bodied wine. I'm sick of the prosers, that house up At drowsy St Stephen's,--ain't you? I want some strong spirits to rouse up A good revolution or two!

I'm sick of a land, where each morrow Repeats the dull tale of to-day, Where you can't even find a new sorrow To chase your stale pleasures away. I'm sick of blue-stockings horrific, Steam, railroads, gas, scrip, and consols; So I'll off where the golden Pacific Round Islands of Paradise rolls.

There the passions shall revel unfettered, And the heart never speak but in truth, And the intellect, wholly unlettered, Be bright with the freedom of youth! There the earth can rejoice in her blossoms, Unsullied by vapour or soot, And there chimpanzees and opossums Shall playfully pelt me with fruit.

There I'll sit with my dark Orianas, In groves by the murmuring sea, And they'll give, as I suck the bananas, Their kisses, nor ask them from me. They'll never torment me for sonnets, Nor bore me to death with their own; They'll ask not for shawls nor for bonnets, For milliners there are unknown.

There my couch shall be earth's freshest flowers, My curtains the night and the stars, And my spirit shall gather new powers, Uncramped by conventional bars. Love for love, truth for truth ever giving, My days shall be manfully sped; I shall know that I'm loved while I'm living, And be wept by fond eyes when I'm dead!

The Death of Space.

[Why has Satan's own Laureate never given to the world his marvellous threnody on the "Death of Space"? Who knows where the bays might have fallen, had he forwarded that mystic manuscript to the Home Office? If unwonted modesty withholds it from the public eye, the public will pardon the boldness that tears from blushing obscurity the following fragments of this unique poem.]

Eternity shall raise her funeral-pile In the vast dungeon of the extinguished sky, And, clothed in dim barbaric splendour, smile, And murmur shouts of elegiac joy.

While those that dwell beyond the realms of space, And those that people all that dreary void, When old Time's endless heir hath run his race, Shall live for aye, enjoying and enjoyed.

And 'mid the agony of unsullied bliss, Her Demogorgon's doom shall Sin bewail, The undying serpent at the spheres shall hiss, And lash the empyrean with his tail.

And Hell, inflated with supernal wrath, Shall open wide her thunder-bolted jaws, And shout into the dull cold ear of Death, That he must pay his debt to Nature's laws.

And when the King of Terrors breathes his last, Infinity shall creep into her shell, Cause and effect shall from their thrones be cast, And end their strife with suicidal yell:

While from their ashes, burnt with pomp of kings, 'Mid incense floating to the evanished skies, Nonenity, on circumambient wings, An everlasting Phoenix shall arise.

Caroline.

Lightsome, brightsome, cousin mine, Easy, breezy Caroline! With thy locks all raven-shaded, From thy merry brow up-braided, And thine eyes of laughter full, Brightsome cousin mine! Thou in chains of love hast bound me-- Wherefore dost thou flit around me, Laughter-loving Caroline?

When I fain would go to sleep In my easy-chair, Wherefore on my slumbers creep-- Wherefore start me from repose, Tickling of my hooked nose, Pulling of my hair? Wherefore, then, if thou dost love me, So to words of anger move me, Corking of this face of mine, Tricksy cousin Caroline?

When a sudden sound I hear, Much my nervous system suffers, Shaking through and through. Cousin Caroline, I fear, 'Twas no other, now, but you, Put gunpowder in the snuffers, Springing such a mine! Yes, it was your tricksy self, Wicked-tricked little elf, Naughty Caroline!

Pins she sticks into my shoulder, Places needles in my chair, And, when I begin to scold her, Tosses back her combed hair, With so saucy-vexed an air, That the pitying beholder Cannot brook that I should scold her: Then again she comes, and bolder, Blacks anew this face of mine, Artful cousin Caroline!

Would she only say she'd love me, Winsome, tinsome Caroline, Unto such excess 'twould move me, Teazing, pleasing, cousin mine! That she might the live-long day Undermine the snuffer-tray, Tickle still my hooked nose, Startle me from calm repose With her pretty persecution; Throw the tongs against my shins, Run me through and through with pins, Like a pierced cushion; Would she only say she'd love me, Darning-needles should not move me; But, reclining back, I'd say, "Dearest! there's the snuffer-tray; Pinch, O pinch those legs of mine! Cork me, cousin Caroline!"

To a Forget-Me-Not,

FOUND IN MY EMPORIUM OF LOVE-TOKENS.

Sweet flower, that with thy soft blue eye Didst once look up in shady spot, To whisper to the passer-by Those tender words--Forget-me-not!

Though withered now, thou art to me The minister of gentle thought,-- And I could weep to gaze on thee, Love's faded pledge--Forget-me-not!

Thou speak'st of hours when I was young, And happiness arose unsought; When she, the whispering woods among, Gave me thy bloom--Forget-me-not!

That rapturous hour with that dear maid From memory's page no time shall blot, When, yielding to my kiss, she said, "Oh, Theodore--Forget me not!"

Alas for love! alas for truth! Alas for man's uncertain lot! Alas for all the hopes of youth That fade like thee--Forget-me-not!

Alas for that one image fair, With all my brightest dreams inwrought! That walks beside me everywhere, Still whispering--Forget-me-not!

Oh, Memory! thou art but a sigh For friendships dead and loves forgot, And many a cold and altered eye That once did say--Forget-me-not!

And I must bow me to thy laws, For--odd although it may be thought-- I can't tell who the deuce it was That gave me this Forget-me-not!

The Meeting.

Once I lay beside a fountain, Lulled me with its gentle song, And my thoughts o'er dale and mountain With the clouds were borne along.

There I saw old castles flinging Shadowy gleams on moveless seas, Saw gigantic forests swinging To and fro without a breeze;

And in dusky alleys straying, Many a giant shape of power, Troops of nymphs in sunshine playing, Singing, dancing, hour on hour.

I, too, trod these plains Elysian, Heard their ringing tones of mirth, But a brighter, fairer vision Called me back again to earth.

From the forest shade advancing, See, where comes a lovely May; The dew, like gems, before her glancing, As she brushes it away!

Straight I rose, and ran to meet her, Seized her hand--the heavenly blue Of her eyes smiled brighter, sweeter, As she asked me--"Who are you?"

To that question came another-- What its aim I still must doubt-- And she asked me, "How's your mother? Does she know that you are out?"

"No! my mother does not know it, Beauteous, heaven-descended muse!" "Then be off, my handsome poet, And say I sent you with the news!"

The Mishap.

"Why art thou weeping, sister? Why is thy cheek so pale? Look up, dear Jane, and tell me What is it thou dost ail?

"I know thy will is froward, Thy feelings warm and keen, And that _that_ Augustus Howard For weeks has not been seen.

"I know how much you loved him; But I know thou dost not weep For him;--for though his passion be, His purse is noways deep.

"Then tell me why those tear-drops? What means this woeful mood Say, has the tax-collector Been calling, and been rude?

"Or has that hateful grocer, The slave! been here to-day? Of course he had, by morrow's noon, A heavy bill to pay!

"Come, on thy brother's bosom Unburden all thy woes; Look up, look up, sweet sister; Nay, sob not through thy nose."

"Oh, John, 'tis not the grocer Or his account, although How ever he is to be paid I really do not know.

"'Tis not the tax-collector; Though by his fell command They've seized our old paternal clock, And new umbrella-stand!

"Nor that Augustus Howard, Whom I despise almost,-- But the soot's come down the chimney, John, And fairly spoilt the roast!"

Comfort in Affliction.

"Wherefore starts my bosom's lord? Why this anguish in thine eye? Oh, it seems as thy heart's chord Had broken with that sigh!

"Rest thee, my dear lord, I pray, Rest thee on my bosom now! And let me wipe the dews away, Are gathering on thy brow.

"There, again! that fevered start! What, love! husband! is thy pain? There is a sorrow on thy heart, A weight upon thy brain!

"Nay, nay, that sickly smile can ne'er Deceive affection's searching eye; 'Tis a wife's duty, love, to share Her husband's agony.

"Since the dawn began to peep, Have I lain with stifled breath; Heard thee moaning in thy sleep, As thou wert at grips with death.

"Oh, what joy it was to see My gentle lord once more awake! Tell me, what is amiss with thee? Speak, or my heart will break!"

"Mary, thou angel of my life, Thou ever good and kind; 'Tis not, believe me, my dear wife, The anguish of the mind!

"It is not in my bosom, dear, No, nor my brain, in sooth; But Mary, oh, I feel it here, Here in my wisdom tooth!

"Then give,--oh, first best antidote,-- Sweet partner of my bed! Give me thy flannel petticoat To wrap around my head!"

The Invocation.

"Brother, thou art very weary, And thine eye is sunk and dim, And thy neckcloth's tie is crumpled, And thy collar out of trim; There is dust upon thy visage,-- Think not, Charles, I would hurt ye, When I say, that altogether You appear extremely dirty.

"Frown not, brother, now, but hie thee To thy chamber's distant room; Drown the odours of the ledger With the lavender's perfume. Brush the mud from off thy trousers, O'er the china basin kneel, Lave thy brows in water softened With the soap of Old Castile.

"Smooth the locks that o'er thy forehead Now in loose disorder stray; Pare thy nails, and from thy whiskers Cut those ragged points away; Let no more thy calculations Thy bewildered brain beset; Life has other hopes than Cocker's, Other joys than tare and tret.

"Haste thee, for I ordered dinner, Waiting to the very last, Twenty minutes after seven, And 'tis now the quarter past. 'Tis a dinner which Lucullus Would have wept with joy to see, One, might wake the soul of Curtis From death's drowsy atrophy.

"There is soup of real turtle, Turbot, and the dainty sole; And the mottled roe of lobsters Blushes through the butter-bowl. There the lordly haunch of mutton, Tender as the mountain grass, Waits to mix its ruddy juices With the girdling caper-sauce.

"There a stag, whose branching forehead Spoke him monarch of the herds, He whose flight was o'er the heather Swift as through the air the bird's, Yields for thee a dish of cutlets; And the haunch that wont to dash O'er the roaring mountain-torrent, Smokes in most delicious hash.

"There, besides, are amber jellies Floating like a golden dream; Ginger from the far Bermudas, Dishes of Italian cream; And a princely apple-dumpling, Which my own fair fingers wrought, Shall unfold its nectared treasures To thy lips all smoking hot.

"Ha! I see thy brow is clearing, Lustre flashes from thine eyes; To thy lips I see the moisture Of anticipation rise. Hark! the dinner-bell is sounding!" "Only wait one moment, Jane: I'll be dressed, and down, before you Can get up the iced champagne!"

The Husband's Petition.

Come hither, my heart's darling, Come, sit upon my knee, And listen, while I whisper A boon I ask of thee. You need not pull my whiskers So amorously, my dove; 'Tis something quite apart from The gentle cares of love.

I feel a bitter craving-- A dark and deep desire, That glows beneath my bosom Like coals of kindled fire. The passion of the nightingale, When singing to the rose, Is feebler than the agony That murders my repose!

Nay, dearest! do not doubt me, Though madly thus I speak-- I feel thy arms about me, Thy tresses on my cheek: I know the sweet devotion That links thy heart with mine,-- I know my soul's emotion Is doubly felt by thine:

And deem not that a shadow Hath fallen across my love: No, sweet, my love is shadowless, As yonder heaven above: These little taper fingers-- Ah, Jane! how white they be!-- Can well supply the cruel want That almost maddens me.

Thou wilt not sure deny me My first and fond request; I pray thee, by the memory Of all we cherish best-- By all the dear remembrance Of those delicious days, When, hand in hand, we wandered Along the summer braes;

By all we felt, unspoken, When 'neath the early moon, We sat beside the rivulet, In the leafy month of June; And by the broken whisper That fell upon my ear, More sweet than angel music, When first I wooed thee, dear!

By thy great vow which bound thee For ever to my side, And by the ring that made thee My darling and my bride! Thou wilt not fail nor falter, But bend thee to the task-- A BOILED SHEEP'S-HEAD ON SUNDAY Is all the boon I ask!

Sonnet to Britain.

BY THE D--- OF W---

Halt! Shoulder arms! Recover! As you were! Right wheel! Eyes left! Attention! Stand at ease! O Britain! O my country! Words like these Have made thy name a terror and a fear To all the nations. Witness Ebro's banks, Assaye, Toulouse, Nivelle, and Waterloo, Where the grim despot muttered--_Sauve qui peut_! And Ney fled darkling.--Silence in the ranks! Inspired by these, amidst the iron crash Of armies, in the centre of his troop The soldier stands--unmoveable, not rash-- Until the forces of the foeman droop; Then knocks the Frenchmen to eternal smash, Pounding them into mummy. Shoulder, hoop!

THE END.

PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS.

NOTES.

{vii} Prologue de premiere livre.

{ix} A fact. That such a subject for cathedral chimes, and in Scotland, too, could ever have been chosen, will scarcely be believed. But my astonished ears often heard it.

{7} W. Gomersal, for many years a leading actor and rider at Astley's Amphitheatre.

{8} John Esdaile Widdicomb, from 1819 to 1852 riding-master and conductor of the ring at Astley's Amphitheatre.

{11} Stickney, a very dashing and graceful rider at Astley's.

{12} A not uncommon tribute from the gallery at Astley's to the dash and daring of the heroes of the ring was half-eaten oranges or fragments of orange-peel. Either oranges are less in vogue, or manners are better in the galleries of theatres and circuses in the present day.

{18} The allusion here is to one of Ducrow's remarkable feats. Entering the ring with the reins in his hands of five horses abreast, and standing on the back of the centre horse, he worked them round the ring at high speed, changing now and then with marvellous dexterity their relative positions, and with his feet always on more than one of them, ending with a foot on each of the extreme two, so that, as described, "the outer and the inner felt the pressure of his toes."

{44} The value of these Bonds at the time this poem was written was precisely nil.

{49} A fact.

{64} The Yankee substitute for the _chapeau de soie_.

{97} The Marquis of Waterford,

{99} The fashionable abbreviation for a thousand pounds.

{117} The reference here and in a subsequent verse is to a song very popular at the time:--

"All round my hat I vears a green villow, All round my hat for a twelvemonth and a day, And if any van should arsk you the reason vy I vears it, Say, all for my true love that's far, far away. 'Twas agoin of my rounds on the streets I first did meet her, 'Twas agoin of my rounds that first she met my heye, And I never heard a voice more louder nor more sweeter, As she cried, 'Who'll buy my cabbages, my cabbages who'll buy?'"

There were several more verses, and being set to a very taking air, it was a reigning favourite with the "Social Chucksters" of the day. Even scholars thought it worth turning into Latin verse. I remember reading in some short-lived journal a very clever version of it, the first verse of which ran thus--

"Omne circa petusum sertum gero viridem Per annum circa petasum et unum diem plus. Si quis te rogaret, cur tale sertum gererem, Dic, 'Omne propter corculum qui est inpartibus.'"

Allusions to the willow, as an emblem of grief, are of a very old date. "Sing all, a green willow must be my garland," is the refrain of the song which haunted Desdemona on the eve of her death (Othello, act iv. sc. 3). That exquisite scene, and the beautiful air to which some contemporary of Shakespeare wedded it, will make "The Willow Song" immortal.

{119a} {119b} Madame Laffarge and Daniel Good were the two most talked about criminals of the time when these lines were written. Madame Laffarge was convicted of poisoning her husband under extenuating circumstances, and was imprisoned for life, but many believed in her protestations of innocence--this, of course, she being a woman and unhappily married. Daniel Good died on the scaffold on the 23rd of May 1842, protesting his innocence to the last, and asserting that his victim, Jane Sparks, had killed herself, an assertion which a judge and jury naturally could not reconcile with the fact that her head, arms, and legs had been cut off and hidden with her body in a stable. He, too, found people to maintain that his sentence was unjust.

{121} The two papers here glanced at were 'The Age' and 'The Satirist,' long since dead.

{122a} The colonnaded portion of Regent Street, immediately above the Regent Circus, was then called the Quadrant. Being sheltered from the weather, it was a favourite promenade, but became so favourite a resort of the "larking" population--male and female--that the Colonnade was removed in the interests of social order and decorum.

{122b} The expression of contemptuous defiance, signified by the application of the thumb of one hand to the nose, spreading out the fingers, and attaching to the little finger the stretched-out fingers of the other hand, and working them in a circle. Among the graffiti in Pompeii are examples of the same subtle symbolism.

{122c} Well known to readers of Thackeray's 'Newcomes' as "The Cave of Harmony."

{123} Sir Peter Laurie, Lord Mayor; afterwards Alderman, and notable for his sagacity and severity as a magistrate in dealing with evil-doers.

{157} Sir James Graham was then, and had been for some years, Secretary Of State under Sir Robert Peel.

{160} Moxon was Tennyson's publisher.

{162} Edward Fitzball, besides being the prolific author of the most sulphurous and sanguinary melodramas, flirted also with the Muses. His triumph in this line was the ballad, "My Jane, my Jane, my pretty Jane," who was for many long years implored in the delightful tenor notes of Sims Reeves "never to look so shy, and to meet him, meet him in the evening when the bloom was on the rye." Fitzball, I have heard, was the meekest and least bellicose of men, and this was probably the reason why he was dubbed by Bon Gaultier "the terrible Fitzball."

{168} Two less poetically-disposed men than Goulburn and Knatchbull could not well be imagined.

{177} The most highly reputed oysters of the day.

{200} Lord John Russell's vehement letter on Papal Aggression in November 1850 to the Bishop of Durham, provoked by the Papal Bull creating Catholic bishops in England, and the angry controversy to which it led, were followed by the passing of the Ecclesiastic Titles Bill in 1857. Aytoun was not alone in thinking that Cardinal Wiseman, the first to act upon the mandate from Rome, was more than a match for Lord John, and that the Bill would become a dead letter, as it did. The controversy was at its hottest when Aytoun expressed his view of the probable result of the conflict in the preceding ballad.

{269} This poem appeared in a review by Bon Gaultier of an imaginary volume, 'The Poets of the Day,' and was in ridicule of the numerous verses of the time, to which the use of Turkish words was supposed to impart a poetical flavour. His reviewer's comment upon it was as follows:--

"Had Byron been alive, or Moore not ceased to write, we should have bidden them look to their laurels. 'Nonsense,' says Dryden, 'shall be eloquent in love,' and here we find the axiom aptly illustrated, for in this Eastern Serenade are comprised nonsense and eloquence in perfection. But, apart from its erotic and poetical merits, it is a great curiosity, as exhibiting in a very marked manner the singular changes which the stride of civilisation and the bow-string of the Sultan Mahmoud have made in the Turkish language and customs within a very few years. Thus we learn from the writer that a 'musnud,' which in Byron's day was a sofa, now signifies a nightingale. A 'tophaik,' which once fired away in Moore's octosyllabics as a musket, is metamorphosed into a bank of flowers. 'Zemzem,' the sacred well, now makes shift as a chemise; while the rallying-cry of 'Allah-hu' closes in a stanza as a military cloak. Even 'Gehenna,' the place of torment, is mitigated into a valley, rich in unctuous spices. But the most singular of all these transmutations of the Turkish vocabulary is that of the word 'Effendi,' which used to be a respectful epithet applied to a Christian gentleman, but is now the denomination of a dog. Most of these changes are certainly highly poetical, and, while we admire their ingenuity, we do not impugn their correctness. But with all respect for the author, the Honourable Sinjin Muff, we think that, in one or two instances, he has sacrificed propriety at the shrine of imagination. We do not allude to such little incongruities as the waving of a minaret, or the watching of a mosque. These may be accounted for; but who--who, we ask with some earnestness, ever heard of cheroots growing ready-made among the grass, or of a young lady keeping an appointment in a scarf trimmed with mutton cutlets? We say nothing to the bold idea of a dragoman, who snaps Eblis in twain, as a gardener might snap a frosted carrot; but we will not give up our own interpretation of 'kiebaubs,' seeing that we dined upon them not two months ago at the best chop-house in Constantinople."