The Works of John Hall-Stevenson :: :: University of Virginia Library

There is a Castle in the North,
Seated upon a swampy clay,
At present but of little worth;
In former times it had its day.
This ancient Castle is call'd Crazy,
Whose mould'ring walls a moat environs,
Which moat goes heavily and lazy,
Like a poor prisoner in irons.

Many a time I've stood and thought,
Seeing the boat upon this ditch,
It look'd as if it had been brought
For the amusement of a Witch,
To sail amongst applauding frogs,
With water-rats, dead cats and dogs.
The boat so leaky is and old,
That if you're fanciful and merry,
You may conceive without being told,
That it resembles Charon's wherry.
A turret also you may note,
Its glory vanish'd like a dream,
Transform'd into a pigeon-cote,
Nodding beside the sleepy stream.
From whence, by steps with moss o'ergrown,
You mount upon a terrace high,
Where stands that heavy pile of stone,
Irregular and all awry.
If many a buttress did not reach
A kind, and salutary hand,
Did not encourage, and beseech,
The terrace and the house to stand,

Left to themselves and at a loss,
They'd tumble down into the foss.
Over the Castle hangs a tower,
Threat'ning destruction every hour,
Where Owls, and Bats, and the Jackdaw,
Their Vespers and their Sabbath keep,
All night scream horribly, and caw,
And snore all day, in horrid sleep.
Oft at the quarrels and the noise
Of scolding maids or idle boys;
Myriads of rooks rise up and fly,
Like legions of damn'd souls,
As black as coals,
That foul and darken all the sky.
With wood the Castle is surrounded,
Except an opening to a Peak,
Where the beholder stands confounded,
At such a scene of mountains bleak;
Where nothing goes,
Except some solitary pewit,
And carrion crows,
That seem sincerely to rue it,

That look as if they had been banish'd,
And had been sentenc'd to be famish'd.
Where nothing grows,
So keen it blows,
Save here and there a graceless fir,
From Scotland, with its kindred fled,
That moves its arms, and makes a stir,
And tosses its fantastick head,
That seems to make a noise and cry,
Only for want of company.
So a Scotch Minister in pulpit
Is wrought by his gesticulation,
'Till he is taken with a dull fit,
Peculiar to that vocation.
He cries, and throws about his snivel,
Their hearts are harder than the flint,
They let him weep alone, and drivel,
For not a soul will take the hint.
In this retreat, whilom so sweet,
Once Tristram and his Cousin dwelt,
They talk of Crazy when they meet,
As if their tender hearts would melt.

Confounded in Time's common urn,
With Harlots, Ministers, and Kings,
O could such scenes again return!
Like those insipid common things!
Many a grievous, heavy heart,
To Crazy Castle would repair,
That grew, from dragging like a cart,
Elastic and as light as air,
Some fell to fiddling, some to fluting,
Some to shooting, some to fishing,
Others to pishing and disputing,
Or to computing by vain wishing.
And in the evening when they met,
To think on't always does me good,
There never met a jollier set,
Either before, or since the Flood.
As long as Crazy Castle lasts,
Their Tales will never be forgot,
And Crazy may stand many blasts,
And better castles go to pot.

Antony, Lord of Crazy Castle,
Neither a fisher, nor a shooter,
No man's, but any woman's vassal,
If he could find a way to suit her,
Collected all their Tales into a book,
Which you may see if you go there to look.