Songs, Ballads, and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Songs, Ballads, and Other Poems

by the late Thomas Haynes Bayly; Edited by his Widow. With A Memoir of the Author. In Two Volumes

Bayly, Thomas Haynes (1797-1839)

II.

FASHIONABLE ECLOGUES.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

SONGS OF THE DAYS OF CHIVALRY.

THE WREATH.

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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

FRIAR LAURENCE AND JULIET.

FRIAR.

Who is calling Friar Laurence?
Madam Juliet! how d'ye do?
Dear me—talk of the—beg pardon—
I've been talking about you.
Mistress Montague, they tell me
You on Thursday mean to wed!
It is strange you never told me
That poor Mister M. was dead!

JULIET.

M.'s alive! yet County Paris
I'm to marry, people say!
(I shall marry the whole county
If I go on in this way:)
Once you've wedded me already,
If I wed again, you see,
Though in you a little error,
'Twill be very big o' me.

FRIAR.

'Pon my life, it's very awkward!
I'll on some expedient hit.
If you'll find me ready money,
I will find you ready wit:
I can't let you wed a second,
Ere I know the first has died;
Think of faggots! for such deeds, ma'am,
Holy friars have been fried!

JULIET.

'Tan't my wish, sir, nor intention,—
Any scheme of yours I'll hail;
To escape from County Paris,
Put me in the county jail.
Kill me dead! and make me food for
Earthworm, viper, toad or rat;
Make a widower of Ro-me-
-O,—('twill hurt me to do that!)

FRIAR.

If you've really resolution
That your life-blood should be spilt,
I will save you, for I'll have you
Not quite killed, but merely kilt.
Could you in a vault be buried—
Horizontal—in a niche?
And of death so good a copy,
None could find out which is which?

JULIET.

I would vault into a vault, sir,
With a dead man in his shroud;
I'd do any dirty work, sir,
Though my family's so proud!
I'll do whatsoe'er you bid me,
'Till you say I've done enough:
Nay, sir, much as I dislike it,
I'll take 'poticary's stuff!

FRIAR.

Then go home, ma'am, and be merry;
Say that Paris you will wed;
Tell your nurse you've got a headache,
And go quietly to bed.
Ask for something warm,—some negus,
Grog, or gruel, or egg-flip,
Put in this, and then drink quickly,—
'Tis so nauseous if you sip.

JULIET.

Give, oh! give me quick that phial,
From the trial I'll not shrink;
Is it shaken when it's taken?
Gracious me! it's black as ink!
There's no fear, I trust, of failure?
No, I doubt not its effect;
From your conversation's tenor
No base phial I expect.

FRIAR.

You will have the bridegroom follow
Where he generally leads;
'Stead of hymeneal flowers,
He will wear sepulchral weeds:
I to Romeo will quickly
Write a letter by the post;
He will wake you, and should Paris
Meet you,—say you are your ghost!

JULIET.

'Tis an excellent arrangement,
As you bid me I will act;
But within the tomb, dear friar,
Place a basket nicely pack'd;—
Just a loaf, a tongue, a chicken,
Port and sherry, and some plums;
'Twill really be a comfort,
Should I wake e'er Romeo comes!

THE ABBESS AND THE DUCHESS.

ABBESS.

Who is knocking for admission,
At the convent's outer gate?
Is it possible a lady
Can be wandering so late?
Let me see her through the lattice,
And her story let me hear.
Oh! your most obedient madam;
May I ask what brings you here?

DUCHESS.

You will very much applaud me,
When you hear what I have done;
I've been naughty,—I'm a penitent,
and want to be a nun.
I've been treated most unfairly,
Though 'tis said I am most fair;
I am rich, ma'am, and a duchess,
And my name's La Vallière.

ABBESS.

Get along, you naughty woman,
You'll contaminate us all;
When you touch'd the gate, I wonder
That the convent did not fall!
Stop! I think you mention'd money,
That is—penitence, I mean.
Let her in—I'm too indulgent;
Pray how are the King and Queen?

DUCHESS.

Lady Abbess, you delight me;
Oh! had Louis been as kind!
But he used me ungenteelly,
To my fondness deaf and blind.

Oh! methinks that now I view him,
With his feathers in his hat!
Hem!—beg pardon—I'm aware, ma'am,
That I mustn't speak of that.

ABBESS.

Not by no means, madam, never;
No—you mustn't even think;
Put your feet upon the fender
And here's something warm to drink.
Is it strong enough?—pray stir it.
What on earth could make you go
From a palace to a convent?
Come, I'm curious to know.

DUCHESS.

Can you wonder, Lady Abbess,
At the change I should rejoice;
I of vanities was weary,
And a convent was my choice.
I have had a troubled conscience,
And court manners did condemn,
Ever since I saw King Louis
Making eyes at Madame M.

ABBESS.

Oh! I think I comprehend you;
But take care what you're about;
Though 'tis easy to get in here,
'Tan't so easy to get out.
You'll for beads resign your jewels,
And your robes for garments plain;
Ere you cut the world, remember—
'Tis not cut and come again.

DUCHESS.

I am willing in a cloister
That my days and nights should pass;
This is very nice indeed, ma'am,
If you please, another glass)

As for courtiers, I'll hereafter
Lay the odious topic by;
Oh! their crooked ways enough are
For to turn a nun awry.

ABBESS.

Very proper. To the sisters
'Twould be wrong to chatter thus;
Now and then, when snug and cosey,
'Twill do very well for us.
It is strange how tittle-tattle
All about the convent spreads,
When the barber from the village
Comes to shave the sisters' heads.

DUCHESS.

Do you really mean to tell me
I must lose my raven locks?
Then I'll tie 'em up with ribbon,
And I'll keep 'em in my box.
Oh! how Louis used to praise 'em!
Hem! I think I'll go to bed.
Not another drop, I thank you,
It would get into my head.

ABBESS.

Benedicte! my daughter,
You'll be soon used to the place;
Though at meals our only duchess,
You will have to say your grace.
And when none can interrupt us,
You of courtly scenes shall tell,
When I bring a drop of comfort
From my cellar to my cell!

THE FEMALE CONVICT-SHIP.

I

The tide is in, the breeze is fair,
The vessel under weigh;
The gallant prow glides swiftly on,
And throws aside the spray.
The tranquil ocean, mirror-like,
Reflects the deep blue skies;
And, pointing to the destin'd course,
The straighten'd pennon flies.

II

Oh! none of those heart-cradled prayers
That never reach the lip,
No benedictions wait upon
That fast-receding ship.
No tearful eyes are strain'd to watch
Its progress from the land;
And there are none to wave the scarf,
And none to kiss the hand.

III

Yet women throng that vessel's deck,
The haggard and the fair,
The young in guilt, and the depraved
Are intermingled there!
The girl, who from her mother's arms
Was early lured away;
The harden'd hag, whose trade hath been
To lead the pure astray.

IV

A young and sickly mother kneels
Apart from all the rest;
And with a song of home she lulls
The babe upon her breast.

She falters—for her tears must flow,
She cannot end the verse;
And nought is heard among the crowd
But laughter, shout, or curse!

V

'Tis sunset. Hark! the signal gun;—
All from the deck are sent,
The young, the old, the best, the worst,
In one dark dungeon pent!
Their wailings, and their horrid mirth
Alike are hush'd in sleep;
And now the female convict-ship
In silence ploughs the deep.

VI

But long the lurid tempest-cloud
Hath brooded o'er the waves;
And suddenly the winds are roused,
And leave their secret caves.
And up aloft the ship is borne,
And down again as fast,
And every mighty billow seems
More dreadful than the last.

VII

Oh! who that loves the pleasure-barque
By summer breezes fann'd,
Shall dare to paint the ocean-storm,
Terrifically grand?
When helplessly the vessel drifts,
Each torn sail closely furl'd,
When not a man of all the crew
Knows whither she is hurl'd!

IX

And who shall tell the agony
Of those confined beneath,
Who in the darkness dread to die—
How unprepared for death!

100

Who, loathing, to each other cling,
When every hope hath ceased,
And beat against their prison door,
And shriek to be released!

X

Three times the ship hath struck. Again!
She never more will float.
Oh! wait not for the rising tide;
Be steady—man the boat!
And see, assembled on the shore
The merciful, the brave:
Quick, set the female convicts free,
There still is time to save!

XI

It is in vain! what demon blinds
The captain and the crew?
The rapid rising of the tide
With mad delight they view.
They hope the coming waves will waft
The convict ship away!
The foaming monster hurries on,
Impatient for his prey!

XII

And he is come! the rushing flood
In thunder sweeps the deck;
The groaning timbers fly apart,
The vessel is a wreck!
One moment, from the female crowd
There comes a fearful cry;
The next, they're hurl'd into the deep,
To struggle, and to die!

XIII

Their corses strew a foreign shore,
Left by the ebbing tide;
And sixty in a ghastly row
Lie number'd, side by side!

101

The lifeless mother's bleeding form
Comes floating from the wreck;
And lifeless is the babe she bound
So fondly round her neck!

XIV

'Tis morn; the anxious eye can trace
No vessel on the deep;
But gather'd timber on the shore
Lies in a gloomy heap.
In winter time those brands will blaze,
Our tranquil homes to warm,
Though torn from that poor convict ship
That perish'd in the storm!

TWENTY YEARS!

I

They tell me twenty years are past,
Since I have look'd upon thee last,
And thought thee fairest of the fair,
With thy sylph-like form and light-brown hair!
I can remember every word
That from those smiling lips I heard.
Oh! how little it appears
Like the lapse of twenty years!

II

Thou art changed! in thee I find
Beauty of another kind;
Those rich curls lie on thy brow
In a darker cluster now;
And the sylph hath given place
To the matron's form of grace.
Yet, how little it appears
Like the lapse of twenty years!

102

III

Still thy cheek is round and fair;
'Mid thy curls not one grey hair;
Not one lurking sorrow lies
In the lustre of those eyes.
Thou hast felt, since last we met,
No affliction, no regret!
Wonderful! to shed no tears
In the lapse of twenty years!

IV

But what means that changing brow?
Tears are in those dark eyes now!
Have my rash, incautious, words
Waken'd feeling's slumbering chords?
Wherefore dost thou bid me look
At yon dark-bound journal-book?
There the register appears
Of the lapse of twenty years!

V

Thou hast been a happy bride,
Kneeling by a lover's side;
And unclouded was thy life,
As his loved and loving wife.
Thou hast worn the garb of gloom,
Kneeling by that husband's tomb;
Thou hast wept a widow's tears
In the lapse of twenty years!

VI

Oh! I see my error now,
To suppose, in cheek and brow,
Strangers may presume to find
Treasured secrets of the mind.
There fond Memory still will keep
Her vigil, when she seems to sleep;
Though composure re-appears
In the lapse of twenty years!

103

VII

Where's the hope that can abate
The grief of hearts thus desolate?
That can youth's keenest pangs assuage,
And mitigate the gloom of age?
Religion bids the tempest cease,
And leads her to a port of peace;
And on, the lonely pilot steers
Through the lapse of future years!

A PARTY OF PLEASURE.

BEING A PAINFUL RETROSPECT OF A TRIP.

I

A party of pleasure! a party of four,
Too few if one less, too many if more;
A man and his wife, a beau and a belle
Set out on a journey from—whence I shan't tell.

II

One sketch'd upon paper a plan of the tour,
A peep at all places of note to ensure:
Oh! think how divine, when the weather is fine,
To go via Brussels as far as the Rhine!

III

The Rhine is a river all tourists should see;
That any can miss it astonishes me!
No place of repute on the road we'll let slip,
But we look to the Rhine as the pride of our trip.

104

IV

The bachelor beau, when we landed in France,
Was judiciously placed at the head of finance;
And ere we set out, as a matter of course,
He put in his pocket a very big purse.

V

I hate English money; I own that I doat
On the high-sounding name of a hundred-franc note;
Four pounds may sound paltry, but tell it in francs,
And we fear not a check to our travelling pranks.

VI

But when four times four English pounds we can count,
(Which, changed into francs, to four hundred amount,)
To Constantinople away we may dash,
Without the least fear of exhausting our cash.

VII

We changed it to dollars before we set out;
We like solid coin, and a purse that is stout;
So the bachelor beau bought a sort of a sack,
And he totter'd away with his load on his back.

VIII

We travell'd by day, and we rested by night;
Our purse it was heavy, our hearts they were light;
We feasted like princes, but, sipping our wine,
Said we, “We'll drink Hock, when we get to the Rhine.”

IX

At Brussels, delighted, we rose with the lark,
The play-bill we read ere we walk'd in the park:
“'Tis Robert le Diable! how very divine!
And to-morrow, of course, we set out for the Rhine!”

105

X

Gods! what has befallen the man of finance?
How pallid his cheek! how distracted his glance!
Can the bachelor beau wear that visage of gloom?
Sure 'tis Robert le Diable just fresh from the tomb!

XI

“We're lost! we're undone!” cried the man of finance,
“Sure never had mortal so sad a mischance!
What demon possess'd us? Ah! why did we come?
We havn't got money to carry us home!”

XII

“No money!” exclaimed Mr. Dee, in despair;
“No money!” cried Mrs. Dee, tearing her hair;
“No money!” said frantic Elizabeth Roe;
“No money!” responded the bachelor beau.

XIII

“I've only got money to take us half-way.”
“What! none for a dinner? what! none for the play?”
“What! none!” said Elizabeth Roe, turning pale,
“I wanted to purchase the sweetest lace veil!”

XIV

No dinner! no coffee! no supper! no lace!
And though we were each of us book'd for a place,
'Twas no place at the play;—no, we started at nine,
By a coach that did not go the road to the Rhine.

XV

Oh! had you but seen us at Lisle the next day!
How could we have breakfast with nothing to pay?
And the man of finance just awoke from a nap,
With the purse on his head for a travelling cap!

106

XVI

Cried poor Mr. Dee, “Let our watches be sold;
“And here,” said his wife, “is my chain of pure gold;”
“And here are my ear-rings,” Elizabeth mutter'd;
“Oh! get me some coffee, and toast that is buttered.”

XVII

But oh! in that moment of panic and grief
An elderly gentleman gave us relief;
When he heard of our wants, he unbutton'd his coat,
And obligingly lent us a hundred-franc note.

MORAL.

Ye tourists, attend, and my moral discern;
Wherever you go, bear in mind your return;
And, in some little pocket, be sure that you pack
Just money sufficient to carry you back!

MY PENSION.

I

What, take away my Pension! a word with you, Lord Grey;
You cannot be so barbarous! you mean not what you say;
I have enjoyed, for seven years, twelve hundred pounds a-year,
'Twas granted me by George the Fourth, how can you interfere?
I really hoped you'd think it right to grant me an extension;
It never once occurr'd to me you'd take away my Pension!

II

The thing's so inconvenient, you'll force me to retrench—
Indeed, retrenchment will not do, you'll send me to the bench!

107

How can you serve a lady so! oh! if I were a man,
I'd call you out, my noble lord, and end you with your plan.
You might retrench in many little ways that I could mention,
But what on earth possesses you to take away my Pension!

III

You ask about my services; but surely to intrude,
And ask a lady such a thing, is little less than rude.
Of course I could explain to you—My Lord, I say again,
If 'twas my pleasure so to do, of course I could explain;
I'm sure I've many female friends of vastly less pretension,
Who've met with greater recompense—then don't disturb my Pension!

IV

Reform may all be very proper, in a certain line,
I never can object to it, it's no affair of mine.
Reform the House of Commons, and correct abuses there,
But don't reform my little house in Green-street Grosvenor-square.
Don't seize my jewels, to allay the popular dissension—
You can't appease the radicals with my poor little Pension.

V

The revolutionists abroad have stirr'd up all this fuss:
But can your lordship tell me, what are Paris mobs to us?
Because the papers bore one so about the row at Brussels;
Must English ladies interfere with foreign people's bustles?
Now be assured, my noble lord, 'twas folly set the French on;
You really are not call'd upon to take away my Pension.

VI

Propriety might prompt your economical design,
In many cases doubtless,—but believe me not in mine;
Were I alone, I now might make a sacrifice, 'tis true,
But all my family, you know, have little pensions too;
My brothers and my cousins would go mad, were I to mention
The revolutionary scheme of giving up a pension!

108

VII

I think it would be setting an extremely bad example
In times like these, when people are endeavouring to trample
On all our ancient usages, and raising such a storm
About the place and pension list, and radical reform.
I say, my Lord, that I should feel deserving reprehension,
If I—by these intimidated—threw away my pension.

VIII

I'm quite convinced the only way of setting matters right,
And making common people see things in a proper light,
Is keeping up the ancient aristocracy of course,
And keeping down plebeians with a military force;
The lower orders really are so dull of comprehension,
They can't see the utility of granting me a pension.

IX

The truth is this—(you must not deem these few remarks intrusive)—
The aristocracy are not sufficiently exclusive.
They call on mistress this and that, and curtsey at a ball
To people who, in point of fact, are nobodies at all!
I never could perceive the use of smiling condescension—
It makes the upstarts insolent, they cavil at a pension.

X

When I am at my country seat, I shun this growing evil,
No member of the middling ranks presumes to call me civil.
I never call on them, and if one dares pay me a visit,
She comes in some old-fashion'd gown, and I and Laura quiz it;
And at the race-ball once a year, I set the upper bench on,
In high unbending dignity,—so I deserve my pension.

XI

Now pray, my lord, consider this, you're ruined if you grant
Concessions of this sweeping kind the common people want.
The aristocracy must not be interfered with thus:
Pray tell me what are starving individuals to us?
To pacify the radicals, and end all this contention,
We'll call my little income by some other name than pension.

109

XII

Of course, my lord, you can retrench in ev'ry other way,
The clerks in public offices may scribble on half-pay;
The captains and the cornets, and the curates may be fleeced,
(The incomes of the bishops, by the by, should be increased).
I see you are convinced, my lord, and through your intervention,
I trust, in spite of Mr. Hume, you'll let me keep my pension!

A PROLOGUE TO AN AMATEUR PLAY,

PERFORMED AT BATH, IN AID OF A CHARITY.

Another prologue?—zounds! let others speak,
I spoke a prologue, Sirs, last Friday week.
Besides, I'm Romeo, feathers, frills and all,
Equipt for Lady Sykes's fancy ball!
Well, if it must be so, I'll e'en commence,
And speak of motives and benevolence,
Of first attempts, and fears, and arduous parts,
And debutants with palpitating hearts;
And I'll just hint, before the play begins,
Charity hides a multitude of sins.
Blame not the novice for his want of skill,
Ye critics, say not he is acting ill;
May those relieved by this night's profit tell
That we, at least for once, have acted well.
Then wherefore should I labour to excite
A charitable feeling here to-night?
It is in charity we face you thus:
Then pray look down with charity on us.
Who would not take a part in such a cause,
Then take our parts and give us your applause.

110

Your plaudits give me confidence, and yet
'Tis strange, I almost hear them with regret.
This season—which in radiant pride appears,
After the twinkling lights of former years—
This brilliant season, so supremely graced
With rank, wealth, worth, with beauty, talent, taste,
Is drawing to a close, and those I fear
Who linger still to aid our efforts here,
Will soon be packing trunks and ordering chaises,
And seeking rival scenes, and gathering daisies.
Yet ere you seek sea breezes, deign to cast
One hearty glance on mirthful moments past.
Confess that pleasure reigns despotic here,
And promise to come back again next year.

Farewell—but let me offer, ere we part,
Earnest good wishes, spoken from the heart.
Some during the past season have it seems,
Arranged some little matrimonial schemes,
And now dream every night of turtle doves,
Of wedding favours, cake and white kid gloves.
Oh, may they all be happy, and possess
Bliss far beyond their single blessedness.
Reside in Bath from January to June,
And find in every month a honeymoon.
May the town prosper, may the wealthy aid
With liberal hand her charities and trade;
And whilst her leading stars combine to plot
New sports to animate this favoured spot—
Oh! may the counter-plot be just as pleasant,
And the Town Hall be merry as the Crescent.
May fashion still strew roses in our path,
And each year add prosperity to Bath.

111

IS THERE AN UNBELIEVER?

I

Is there an unbeliever!
One man who walks the earth,
And madly doubts that providence
Watch'd o'er him at his birth?
He robs mankind for ever
Of hope beyond the tomb;
What gives he as a recompense?—
The brute's unhallow'd doom!

II

In manhood's loftiest hour,
In health, and strength, and pride,
Oh! lead his steps through alleys green,
Where rills 'mid cowslips glide.
Climb nature's granite tower,
Where man hath rarely trod;
And will he then, in such a scene,
Deny there is a God?

III

Yes,—the proud heart will ever
Prompt the false tongue's reply!
An Omnipotent providence
Still madly he'll deny.
But see the unbeliever
Sinking in death's decay;
And hear the cry of penitence!
He never learnt to pray!

112

LINES OCCASIONED BY A VISIT TO MR. JOHN BANIM, IN HIS LAST ILLNESS.

I

I saw him on his couch of pain,
And when I heard him speak,
It was of Hope long nurs'd in vain,
And tears stole down his cheek.
He spoke of honours early won,
Which youth could rarely boast;
Of high endeavours well begun,
But prematurely lost.

II

I saw him on a brighter day,
Among the first spring flow'rs;
Despairing thoughts had pass'd away,
He spoke of future hours;
He spoke of health, of spirits freed
To take a noble aim;
Of efforts that were sure to lead
To fortune and to fame!

III

They bear him to a genial land
The cradle of the weak;
Oh! may it nerve the feeble hand,
And animate the cheek!
Oh! may he, when we meet again,
Those flattering hopes recall,
And smiling say,—“They were not vain,
I've realised them all!”