Songs of the Cavaliers and Roundheads Jacobite Ballads, &c. &c. By George W. Thornbury ... with illustrations by H. S. Marks |
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THE DANCE ROUND THE PLAGUE-PIT. |
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 | Songs of the Cavaliers and Roundheads |  |
77
THE DANCE ROUND THE PLAGUE-PIT.
'Twas when the plague was mowing
God's creatures down in heaps,
That five good men of the Temple
Awoke from their drunken sleeps,
And flask in hand, and arm in arm,
Went over the fields together,
To see the plague-pit at Mary-la-bonne,
In the bright and golden weather.
God's creatures down in heaps,
That five good men of the Temple
Awoke from their drunken sleeps,
And flask in hand, and arm in arm,
Went over the fields together,
To see the plague-pit at Mary-la-bonne,
In the bright and golden weather.
They strolled along, and at every stile
Drank to some beauty's health;
And on their knees (good Lord, to see
Such uses made of wealth!)
They pledged the king, and toasted the duke,
And hailed the Muses nine;
At every death-bell tolling
Held up to the sun the wine.
Drank to some beauty's health;
And on their knees (good Lord, to see
Such uses made of wealth!)
They pledged the king, and toasted the duke,
And hailed the Muses nine;
At every death-bell tolling
Held up to the sun the wine.
78
On the green grass and the cowslip flowers
The sad, calm sunshine slept;
Then one laughed out, and another sighed,
And a third man fairly wept:
For one had lost his wife and child,
And one his younger brother;
A third had fled but yesterday
From the black corse of his mother.
The sad, calm sunshine slept;
Then one laughed out, and another sighed,
And a third man fairly wept:
For one had lost his wife and child,
And one his younger brother;
A third had fled but yesterday
From the black corse of his mother.
And when the milk-girls singing passed,
They kissed them one and all:
“We are Death's five good brothers,
Very good men and tall.”
They flourished their swords and capered,
And such mad antics played:
Thinking them madmen broke away,
Fast flew each milking-maid.
They kissed them one and all:
“We are Death's five good brothers,
Very good men and tall.”
They flourished their swords and capered,
And such mad antics played:
Thinking them madmen broke away,
Fast flew each milking-maid.
'Twas very quiet in the old churchyard;
The bees in the nettle flowers
Moved not; the swallows flew
Silent between the showers.
But the chasm, black and gaping,
No cloud or sunshine lit:
It struck them cold to the heart and bone
To see the path to it.
The bees in the nettle flowers
Moved not; the swallows flew
Silent between the showers.
But the chasm, black and gaping,
No cloud or sunshine lit:
It struck them cold to the heart and bone
To see the path to it.
79
Trodden like any highway
Over the meadow grass,
Where the dead-cart wheels by night and day,
Creak rumbling as they pass.
Through suburb road and village street,
Where playing boys stand still,
Where ploughmen stop to hear the bell,
And the white face stares from the mill.
Over the meadow grass,
Where the dead-cart wheels by night and day,
Creak rumbling as they pass.
Through suburb road and village street,
Where playing boys stand still,
Where ploughmen stop to hear the bell,
And the white face stares from the mill.
Oh, how they laugh to see the pit
So black and deep below!
Yet above the sky was blue and clear,
And the clouds were all of a glow.
And the sunrise, bright and rosy,
Turned the distant roofs to flame;
And one looked long, with pallid cheeks,
And called the rest by name.
So black and deep below!
Yet above the sky was blue and clear,
And the clouds were all of a glow.
And the sunrise, bright and rosy,
Turned the distant roofs to flame;
And one looked long, with pallid cheeks,
And called the rest by name.
One of the band was grey and wan,
Another was fresh and fair,
And on his comely shoulders fell
A flood of dark brown hair.
A third was sour and sneering,
Thin lip, and cold grey eye;
The last were fat-cheeked gluttons,
Who dreaded much to die.
Another was fresh and fair,
And on his comely shoulders fell
A flood of dark brown hair.
A third was sour and sneering,
Thin lip, and cold grey eye;
The last were fat-cheeked gluttons,
Who dreaded much to die.
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“I see the old curmudgeon,”
Cried one, with a drunken scream,
And flung his glass at the mocking eyes
Of the dead, that glisten and gleam.
“My father turned me over
To beg or rob on the road;
Good-day, old lad, with the drooping jaw,
D'ye like your new abode?”
Cried one, with a drunken scream,
And flung his glass at the mocking eyes
Of the dead, that glisten and gleam.
“My father turned me over
To beg or rob on the road;
Good-day, old lad, with the drooping jaw,
D'ye like your new abode?”
“I swear it moves,” cried one, aghast,
And let his full glass fall:
“Oh, God! if my gentle brother Will
Should be there at the bottom of all!
They writhe—egad, they struggle—
Like fish in a bellying net;
I'd rather than forty shillings
We never here had met.”
And let his full glass fall:
“Oh, God! if my gentle brother Will
Should be there at the bottom of all!
They writhe—egad, they struggle—
Like fish in a bellying net;
I'd rather than forty shillings
We never here had met.”
“There's Chloe yonder, sleeping,
Her arms round a dead man's neck;
I call her twice, and kiss my hand,
But she comes not at my beck,
Her cheeks are still warm crimson,
The rouge is not washed off,
But her curls are lost, and the bald-pate hag
Is fit for a sexton's scoff.”
Her arms round a dead man's neck;
I call her twice, and kiss my hand,
But she comes not at my beck,
Her cheeks are still warm crimson,
The rouge is not washed off,
But her curls are lost, and the bald-pate hag
Is fit for a sexton's scoff.”
81
The sun in the old church window
Glistened with wavering gold,
Calm praying figures carved in stone
You may through the panes behold.
The poplar slowly wavered,
And stately bent its head,
As if in homage to the wind,
Or reverence to the dead.
Glistened with wavering gold,
Calm praying figures carved in stone
You may through the panes behold.
The poplar slowly wavered,
And stately bent its head,
As if in homage to the wind,
Or reverence to the dead.
“Sink me!” cried one, “Canary
Will wash our dull eyes clear,
And brace our hearts. You quakers,
I can see nothing here
But a hole in the ground, and faces pale,
That seem to grin and stare.
Let us away—I feel a qualm—
There's death in the hot thick air.”
Will wash our dull eyes clear,
And brace our hearts. You quakers,
I can see nothing here
But a hole in the ground, and faces pale,
That seem to grin and stare.
Let us away—I feel a qualm—
There's death in the hot thick air.”
“Rot me!” a third voice bellows,
And flung down a shower of wine;
“This rain'll wake the fools to life,
And make their white lips shine.
There, in a snug nook crouching,
I see my mother sits,
She's rather warped and shrunken,
She was always whining in fits.”
And flung down a shower of wine;
“This rain'll wake the fools to life,
And make their white lips shine.
There, in a snug nook crouching,
I see my mother sits,
She's rather warped and shrunken,
She was always whining in fits.”
82
“Born devil,” cried another,
“My little Will lies there,
His blue eyes cold and faded,
Red worms in his golden hair;
Crushed by those black heaps livid,
Without a coffin or shroud,
Thrown in, dog-like, without a prayer.”
The strong man wept aloud.
“My little Will lies there,
His blue eyes cold and faded,
Red worms in his golden hair;
Crushed by those black heaps livid,
Without a coffin or shroud,
Thrown in, dog-like, without a prayer.”
The strong man wept aloud.
“Excuse me now proposing,
My gallant friends, a toast:
Here's a health to good old Rowley—
Long may he rule the roast—
To Nell and Mall, the pretty Whig,
The queen of Hearts and all!”
The sneerer knelt, and “In a grove”
Began to shout and bawl:
My gallant friends, a toast:
Here's a health to good old Rowley—
Long may he rule the roast—
To Nell and Mall, the pretty Whig,
The queen of Hearts and all!”
The sneerer knelt, and “In a grove”
Began to shout and bawl:
“We all go mad together,
If once we dare to think”—
He dashed out the wine with a shaking hand
And staring eyeballs—“Drink—
Drink till the brain grows fiery,
Till the veins run o'er with joy;
When I'm drunk, lads, then twist my neck,
And let me join my boy.”
If once we dare to think”—
He dashed out the wine with a shaking hand
And staring eyeballs—“Drink—
Drink till the brain grows fiery,
Till the veins run o'er with joy;
When I'm drunk, lads, then twist my neck,
And let me join my boy.”
83
Then one pulled out the loaded dice,
And threw them on a tomb;
And another flung some greasy cards
Filched from a tavern room.
And all the while the lark rose up,
Gay singing overhead,
As if the earth were newly made,
And Adam were not dead.
And threw them on a tomb;
And another flung some greasy cards
Filched from a tavern room.
And all the while the lark rose up,
Gay singing overhead,
As if the earth were newly made,
And Adam were not dead.
“Room, room for a dance!—the sexton
With a dead-cart comes not yet—
A saraband or a minuet:
Well are we five lads met!
Come, pass the flask, and fill the cup,
Quick send the bumper round,
And drink a health to our friends and foes,
So snugly under ground.”
With a dead-cart comes not yet—
A saraband or a minuet:
Well are we five lads met!
Come, pass the flask, and fill the cup,
Quick send the bumper round,
And drink a health to our friends and foes,
So snugly under ground.”
Then round the plague-pit footing
A measure one or two,
With scarf and spangled feather,
Roses on every shoe,
All hand-in-hand, in circles,
With many a mad grimace,
Round the hole, thick black with bodies,
The drunken dancers race.
A measure one or two,
With scarf and spangled feather,
Roses on every shoe,
All hand-in-hand, in circles,
With many a mad grimace,
Round the hole, thick black with bodies,
The drunken dancers race.
84
Round and round in madness
The noisy dancers flew,
Shaking off hat and feather,
Kicking off stocking and shoe;
But a quicker reel flung one man in,
Swift as a stone from a sling;
Down—down—down! In the loathsome pit
They hear the fellow sing.
The noisy dancers flew,
Shaking off hat and feather,
Kicking off stocking and shoe;
But a quicker reel flung one man in,
Swift as a stone from a sling;
Down—down—down! In the loathsome pit
They hear the fellow sing.
He holds his glass to a dead maid's mouth.
And pledges the plague-struck men;
He shouts to his fellows far above
To fill the bowl again.
But a sudden shiver seizes him,
And he leaps at the side of the grave,
Then weeps and screams for life and help,
But none of them care to save.
And pledges the plague-struck men;
He shouts to his fellows far above
To fill the bowl again.
But a sudden shiver seizes him,
And he leaps at the side of the grave,
Then weeps and screams for life and help,
But none of them care to save.
They lie down flat at the brink of the pit,
And hold the red glass up,
They drink his health, and fling in his eyes
The dregs of the empty cup.
He draws his sword in madness,
Hews at the dead around,
And tries to carve out steps to climb
In the crumbling, reeking ground.
And hold the red glass up,
They drink his health, and fling in his eyes
The dregs of the empty cup.
He draws his sword in madness,
Hews at the dead around,
And tries to carve out steps to climb
In the crumbling, reeking ground.
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The dance renews with frantic speed,
They leap round the open pit,
Till another reels, with a cry of “Lost!”
Far in the womb of it.
Then at him, like a panther,
The first who lay there leaps:
They roll and fight, and curse and stab,
Tossing the dead in heaps.
They leap round the open pit,
Till another reels, with a cry of “Lost!”
Far in the womb of it.
Then at him, like a panther,
The first who lay there leaps:
They roll and fight, and curse and stab,
Tossing the dead in heaps.
Now, looking down, the dancers laugh,
And clap their hands, and sing,
Just as they'd goad a bull and dog
In the Paris Garden ring.
A groan—then perfect silence—
Both wretches are struck dead—
One smitten by the vapour,
The other with cloven head.
And clap their hands, and sing,
Just as they'd goad a bull and dog
In the Paris Garden ring.
A groan—then perfect silence—
Both wretches are struck dead—
One smitten by the vapour,
The other with cloven head.
The dead cart comes in the heat of noon,
The dancers were all dead,
And each had sunk like men asleep,
The earth-heap for a bed.
“Kind gentlemen,” the sexton said,
“To save me trouble sure,
Food'll be all the cheaper
For so many mouths the fewer.”
The dancers were all dead,
And each had sunk like men asleep,
The earth-heap for a bed.
“Kind gentlemen,” the sexton said,
“To save me trouble sure,
Food'll be all the cheaper
For so many mouths the fewer.”
| Songs of the Cavaliers and Roundheads | |