Rhymes Read in the Queens Drawing Room at Aston Hall, January 25, 1859 In Memory of the Birth of Robert Burns, January 25, 1759 [by Sebastian Evans] |
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 | Rhymes Read in the Queens Drawing Room at Aston Hall, January 25, 1859 |  |
1
Rhymes read at Aston Hall,
JANUARY 25, 1859,
At the Supper held in commemoration of the Birth of ROBERT BURNS, JANUARY 25, 1759.
Yes, keep the day with feast and song,
All hearts that love the Poet!
All hearts that own, whate'er their creed,
One human touch below it.
All hearts that love the Poet!
All hearts that own, whate'er their creed,
One human touch below it.
Keep it, to Friendship, Truth, and Love,
With Robin's memory drinking,
Till nether Darkness on her throne
Shall feel her kingdom shrinking!
With Robin's memory drinking,
Till nether Darkness on her throne
Shall feel her kingdom shrinking!
Aye, even Brummagem can feel
Her toiling pulse beat warmer,
And hold a hand from out the smoke
To hail the poet farmer!—
Her toiling pulse beat warmer,
And hold a hand from out the smoke
To hail the poet farmer!—
Here's to ye, Burns, athwart the years;
Though green's the grass above ye!
Here's to ye, Burns!—ye're living yet,
While yet we've hearts to love ye!
Though green's the grass above ye!
Here's to ye, Burns!—ye're living yet,
While yet we've hearts to love ye!
2
Say, is't a fable, all untrue,
The greybeard poet sung us,
Who told how every hundred years
The bard comes back among us?
The greybeard poet sung us,
Who told how every hundred years
The bard comes back among us?
No, by St. Andrew! Here's your health,
Ye're here without a fable!
And though ye can't drink back to us,
We feel ye here at table!
Ye're here without a fable!
And though ye can't drink back to us,
We feel ye here at table!
Yes, here ye are!—D'ye wish to know
How the old world wags with us?—
If lawyers, doctors bleed us still,
And still the parsons tithe us?
How the old world wags with us?—
If lawyers, doctors bleed us still,
And still the parsons tithe us?
Well, thank ye, yes!—We're much the same,
Or, if we're any better,
Not last, nor least, among the rest,
We own the world your debtor.
Or, if we're any better,
Not last, nor least, among the rest,
We own the world your debtor.
Still, like your own, they're naughty times
To sink in or to swim in:—
Yet men, I fancy, still are men,—
Women, I'm sure, are women!
To sink in or to swim in:—
Yet men, I fancy, still are men,—
Women, I'm sure, are women!
Still by the cloth he wears we judge
Of baser and of nobler,
Nor see the man within the king,
The man within the cobbler.—
Of baser and of nobler,
Nor see the man within the king,
The man within the cobbler.—
Still Pious Horror groans in soul
To Candid Friendship's hinting,
While Tender Interest bores the hole
For Conscious Virtue's squinting.
To Candid Friendship's hinting,
While Tender Interest bores the hole
For Conscious Virtue's squinting.
3
Aloud the godly still proclaim
Damnation's joyful tidings,
And deftly shunt dissentient souls
On to the down-train sidings.
Damnation's joyful tidings,
And deftly shunt dissentient souls
On to the down-train sidings.
Still warm and free the great heart beats
Beneath the poet's girdle,
And still the pap in pedant veins
Is mighty apt to curdle.
Beneath the poet's girdle,
And still the pap in pedant veins
Is mighty apt to curdle.
Still Nature pours her wine for one,
For one her water-gruel,
And still the Poet's vice is kind,
The Pedant's virtue cruel.
For one her water-gruel,
And still the Poet's vice is kind,
The Pedant's virtue cruel.
Still practical John Bull prefers
The fleeting to the eternal—
Still pines upon his husks and shells,
And flings aside the kernel.
The fleeting to the eternal—
Still pines upon his husks and shells,
And flings aside the kernel.
Still Pilate-Cant with Herod-Cash
Renews his sweet communion;—
And still the eternal martyr's blood
Seals their accursed union.—
Renews his sweet communion;—
And still the eternal martyr's blood
Seals their accursed union.—
In fact, our English world still turns
On much the same old swivel,—
Respectability's still God,
And want of it the Devil.—
On much the same old swivel,—
Respectability's still God,
And want of it the Devil.—
The Throne?—well, somewhat royaller
Our Queen I think ye'll own is
Than your old king,—or ev'n his son,
The abdominous Adonis!—
Our Queen I think ye'll own is
Than your old king,—or ev'n his son,
The abdominous Adonis!—
4
And though at times, if folk say true,
The grand-dad's blood possess her,
We love the Lady of our Land,
And pray in truth, God bless her!—
The grand-dad's blood possess her,
We love the Lady of our Land,
And pray in truth, God bless her!—
The Prince?—well, don't talk quite so loud!
We don't say much about him:—
I hardly know the how and why,
But yet we somehow doubt him.
We don't say much about him:—
I hardly know the how and why,
But yet we somehow doubt him.
'Tis true, he doesn't drink, nor feed
A pack of titled gypsies,—
But yet we don't quite like his ways,
And don't quite love his Phippses.
A pack of titled gypsies,—
But yet we don't quite like his ways,
And don't quite love his Phippses.
Half-king, half-subject,—all by halves,—
Half-English and Half-German:—
We somehow see the fishy half
Too plainly of the merman.—
Half-English and Half-German:—
We somehow see the fishy half
Too plainly of the merman.—
But halt! Let be the auguster folk
Of Earth's great skittle-alley!—
'Tis dangerous jostling e'en a Duke
Who shies there at Aunt Sally.—
Of Earth's great skittle-alley!—
'Tis dangerous jostling e'en a Duke
Who shies there at Aunt Sally.—
Besides, ye've heard all this long since,—
What need of my repeating,
With yonder thirty-one score one
Great Hothouse bards competing?—
What need of my repeating,
With yonder thirty-one score one
Great Hothouse bards competing?—
These lordlier themes no doubt adorned
Their fifty-pounder pœans;—
My penny trumpet aims alone
To squeak for us plebeians.—
Their fifty-pounder pœans;—
My penny trumpet aims alone
To squeak for us plebeians.—
5
Yet since our age, so Tupper says,
Is th' Œra of Invention,
Haply some minor shreds of news
May still be found worth mention.—
Is th' Œra of Invention,
Haply some minor shreds of news
May still be found worth mention.—
Our fashions?—well, we won't be hard:
Some licence here is lawful.
The height of fashion's well enough,
But O, the width is awful!—
Some licence here is lawful.
The height of fashion's well enough,
But O, the width is awful!—
The Law?—you hanged men out of hand
Who broke our heads or shot us:—
We give them tickets now, of leave
To come back and garotte us.—
Who broke our heads or shot us:—
We give them tickets now, of leave
To come back and garotte us.—
Physic, God bless her, still provides
New murrains to absorb us:—
We're dying of diphtheria now,
And shall of cholera morbus.
New murrains to absorb us:—
We're dying of diphtheria now,
And shall of cholera morbus.
The Church?—But hush!—Her nobler sons
Still half redeem her scandals,
Though Low-church love Geneva schnaps,
And High-church, Roman candles.—
Still half redeem her scandals,
Though Low-church love Geneva schnaps,
And High-church, Roman candles.—
The City?—well, we really shine
Like stars in this direction!—
Your simpler times missed half the ways
How Fraud may shirk detection.—
Like stars in this direction!—
Your simpler times missed half the ways
How Fraud may shirk detection.—
Your highwaymen were men of spunk,
Had honour still among 'em,
And sacked your gold with such an air,
You liked 'em if you hung 'em.—
Had honour still among 'em,
And sacked your gold with such an air,
You liked 'em if you hung 'em.—
6
Besides, they did'nt look like saints,
You knew the rogues were sinners;
And if you kept your pistols cocked,
You still might come off winners.
You knew the rogues were sinners;
And if you kept your pistols cocked,
You still might come off winners.
But we?—If yon bland godly man
With tracts in every pocket,
Advise us where to stow our cash,
How can we but unlock it?—
With tracts in every pocket,
Advise us where to stow our cash,
How can we but unlock it?—
What? can't we trust the gospel zeal
Of bankers, brokers, jobbers?—
How dare we with the house of prayer
Confound the den of robbers?—
Of bankers, brokers, jobbers?—
How dare we with the house of prayer
Confound the den of robbers?—
What, He a swindler?—He, that saint,
That unctuous one, delude us?—
Yea, even so!—we think him Paul,
We find him only Judas!—
That unctuous one, delude us?—
Yea, even so!—we think him Paul,
We find him only Judas!—
Come, drop the pop-gun!—Small the skill
To hit so broad a target!—
The list of half our slips and sins
Would stretch from here to Margate.
To hit so broad a target!—
The list of half our slips and sins
Would stretch from here to Margate.
In your days, too, behind the veil
Dwelt Sin between the Follies,—
We scarcely need display our own
Unholy of Unholies.—
Dwelt Sin between the Follies,—
We scarcely need display our own
Unholy of Unholies.—
We're bad enough, yet still we dream
The many somewhat better—
Some trifle truer to God's law
In spirit and in letter.
The many somewhat better—
Some trifle truer to God's law
In spirit and in letter.
7
'Tis but the mist of years, perchance,
That makes your men look taller;
The giants always lived long since,
And modern men run smaller.
That makes your men look taller;
The giants always lived long since,
And modern men run smaller.
Nor less we dream th' old good abides,
Th' old stuff is still within us,
Howe'er the factory and shop
Case-harden and machine us.
Th' old stuff is still within us,
Howe'er the factory and shop
Case-harden and machine us.
Read how the Birkenhead went down,
And those stout hearts aboard her;
Four hundred, down into the Deep,
Mutely, in marching order!—
And those stout hearts aboard her;
Four hundred, down into the Deep,
Mutely, in marching order!—
How too, on Balaclava's hills,
Two miles of deadly riding,
That “thin red line” charged,—and returned,
How thin! to tell the tiding!
Two miles of deadly riding,
That “thin red line” charged,—and returned,
How thin! to tell the tiding!
(Just ask the Laureate, by the way,
Which lord it was that blundered,
When that same charge to English ears
Hallowed the words Six hundred?)
Which lord it was that blundered,
When that same charge to English ears
Hallowed the words Six hundred?)
Perchance, too, still, who seeks may find
Some few of antique stature—
Some great ones, strong in truth and love,
And faith in human nature.—
Some few of antique stature—
Some great ones, strong in truth and love,
And faith in human nature.—
Some Brougham, who, eagle-like, renews
Even yet his youthful vigour,
So large in both, 'tis hard to say
If brain or heart be bigger.—
Even yet his youthful vigour,
So large in both, 'tis hard to say
If brain or heart be bigger.—
8
Some Thackeray, to whom the muse,
Her humble tribute yielding,
Would fain transfer the double crown
Of Smollett and of Fielding.
Her humble tribute yielding,
Would fain transfer the double crown
Of Smollett and of Fielding.
Carlyle, too—staunch old “might is right”—
Howe'er the mud-larks scout him,
None stronglier 'gainst the tide of time
Has built his works about him.
Howe'er the mud-larks scout him,
None stronglier 'gainst the tide of time
Has built his works about him.
Hallam!—Ah, close the tale!—That name
Is all too dear to Sorrow!—
The grave beside the Severn sea
Joins sire and sons to-morrow!
Is all too dear to Sorrow!—
The grave beside the Severn sea
Joins sire and sons to-morrow!
Farewell! Ay me!—Some bitter still
Dashes the wells of gladness!—
Still wails beneath the merriest song
That undertone of sadness!—
Dashes the wells of gladness!—
Still wails beneath the merriest song
That undertone of sadness!—
Farewell!—The fleeting charm is snapt,
The idle sorcery broken,
Our after-supper Burns had fled
Before the word was spoken!—
The idle sorcery broken,
Our after-supper Burns had fled
Before the word was spoken!—
Lay by the puppets!—We are men!—
Our fathers slew the prophet;
This day we build his sepulchre,
And sing our songs above it.—
Our fathers slew the prophet;
This day we build his sepulchre,
And sing our songs above it.—
And is this all?—If this be all,
His blood is still upon us!—
If this be all, let's go our ways!
And let our sons disown us!
His blood is still upon us!—
If this be all, let's go our ways!
And let our sons disown us!
| Rhymes Read in the Queens Drawing Room at Aston Hall, January 25, 1859 | |