The Wiccamical Chaplet a selection of original poetry; comprising smaller poems, serious and comic; classical trifles; sonnets; inscriptions and epitaphs; songs and ballads; mock-heroics, epigrams, fragments, &c. &c. Edited by George Huddesford |
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A NEW BALLAD OF DEATH AND THE LADY. |
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 | The Wiccamical Chaplet |  |
120
A NEW BALLAD OF DEATH AND THE LADY.
'Twas eve: the labours of the toilet ceas'd;
And blooming Isabel sat proudly dress'd:
By her stood Betty, much less fine and fair;
But she had her own colour, clothes, and hair.
And blooming Isabel sat proudly dress'd:
By her stood Betty, much less fine and fair;
But she had her own colour, clothes, and hair.
When lo! a Stranger enter'd: in he bounc'd
Abrupt, unintroduc'd and unannounc'd:
And without bow or preface, as became
A courteous person, thus address'd the dame.
Abrupt, unintroduc'd and unannounc'd:
And without bow or preface, as became
A courteous person, thus address'd the dame.
“Fair Lady, lay your costly robes aside—”
Ah! 'tis Death, Madam, frighten'd Betty cried:
I know him by his blind-man song; but he
Comes to your Ladyship, and not to me.
Ah! 'tis Death, Madam, frighten'd Betty cried:
I know him by his blind-man song; but he
Comes to your Ladyship, and not to me.
Alarm'd she heard; for well his name she knew,
And sadly fear'd that Betty told her true:
But strait with wily speeches thus she tried
To baffle Death, and thus the fiend replied.
LADY.And sadly fear'd that Betty told her true:
But strait with wily speeches thus she tried
To baffle Death, and thus the fiend replied.
Sir, you have made a small mistake I fear;
At least you first will send a Doctor here;
For sure your interest with them must be large:
Pray ar'n't you well acquainted with Sir George?
121
By chance we meet, we ne'er were intimate;
But he and I have quarrell'd much of late:
He practis'd, I know where, to keep me out:
Still I have friends i'th' Faculty no doubt.
LADY.
They should have introduc'd you: can I go
So suddenly, and with a stranger too?
Excuse me, Sir; but if you'll take my Maid—
The man is civil, Betty, don't be 'fraid.
DEATH.
To your face I speak it, if I came to woo,
I'd rather take your waiting-maid than you:
That's not my business: come without delay:
I've twenty visits still to make to-day.
LADY.
Whate'er your hurry be, Sir, please to wait:
Why sure no dun is more importunate:
Then, for a stranger, your request is bold;
I cannot stir abroad—I've got a cold.
DEATH.
Ne'er mind your cold, this jaunt will carry 't off;
It always cures the cold, sore throat and cough:
I soon shall lodge you where you'll feel no more on't,
But lie and sleep most quietly, I warrant.
LADY.
You're jesting! what, without provision made,
To sleep at inns perhaps, in a strange bed?
I carry my own sheets—they must be air'd:
My night-cloaths too—You see I'm not prepar'd.
122
That's true, no question; but it matters not!
There's many a fool hath this excuse, God wot!
Small need of sheets or night-cloaths will you have,
Your Inn's the Church-yard, and your Bed's the Grave.
LADY.
Heav'ns, how you fright one! Can't I be allow'd
A little, little while to make a shroud?
And then the Grave—I cannot think of it:
'Twill take a month to make one warm and fit.
DEATH.
For shrouds, some of the trade, I understand,
Will sell them ready-made or second-hand:
And graves are sooner dug than you may think;
You'll be in one to-morrow, if you stink.
LADY.
Stink, Mr. Death, I stink! that never yet
In all my life knew what it was to sweat?
Stink, you foul carrion! don't you smell perfume
In every corner of my dressing-room?
DEATH.
Faith, Madam , he that said it was no fool:
At best you're like the --- of your --- ---;
Made of the same materials, aye, and hold
Within you the same trash: now huff and scold.
LADY.
Ah, Sir, we all are vile! but 'tis inhuman
To set your wit to a defenceless woman.
123
And bring a cordial too for Mr. Death.
DEATH.
Madam, spare both your waters; you will see
Cordials and tears are thrown away on me:
Death's not a man to be abus'd and bullied,
Nor with your tears and wheedling coax'd and fooled.
LADY.
Pity me, gentle Death, or if not me,
Pity my husband and my family:
My poor dear children else must fare the worse,
She at the boarding-school, and he at nurse.
DEATH.
Mother unnatural, and thriftless wife!
To live, yet loath the business of your life:
All you can do is breed, give suck, and teach;
Does not your husband think you are a beech!
124
Alas! I strive and labour all I can,
My husband is a poor unthinking man:
I might have gone long since for ought he car'd,
Tho' he, poor creature! might be better spar'd.
DEATH.
I never heard so: well, if this be true,
Your children may be pitied, yet not you:
But let him know, 'twill surely come, the day
Of his account, how soon I will not say.
LADY.
Believe me, Death, he is a wretch indeed:
Could you spare me and take him now in stead?
Do so, dear Death; you must have pow'r to chuse,
And you sha'n't ask the thing that I'll refuse.
125
I take your meaning, and perhaps I may.—
Why, Madam, you look temptingly to-day;
No bloom of roses with this cheek can vie,
And then, I vow, you have a roguish eye.
LADY.
Dear Mr. Death, I hope you'll not be rude;
Pardon me, Sir, that I suspect you wou'd:
One may see clearly in your face and mien
The Man of Fashion, so genteel and thin.
DEATH.
My charming Jezabel! let me embrace;
Nay, don't be coy, and turn aside your face:
My dear, what, so offended! won't you speak,
When, I protest, I only touch'd your cheek?
LADY.
Ah! trait'rous Murderer!—What is this I feel?
My limbs are sinewless, my blood is chill:
A deadly torpor seizes every part;
And, oh! what sickness weighs me down at heart!
DEATH.
Accuse not Me: Riot hath hurt thee more,
And that bad heart was palsy-struck before:
Thou thing, like mine own coffers; painted skin,
And all-consuming rottenness within.
DEATH.
again.
Madam, adieu! my errand was but this,
To give you warning in a gentle kiss:
But since I know you hate to think on Me,
Tell what you wish:—perchance we may agree.
126
Then, monster, thus: Avaunt, and quit the room!
Nor once return these fifty years to come.
Yet hear—I would not leave my husband last;
Come soon for him, and I'll forgive the past.
DEATH.
Are these your terms? My answer shall be plain;
I think I never will come here again.
What! to be scolded so, and coax'd and vex'd?
No, no; I'll send the Devil to you next.
It is pleasant to trace the progress of an Author's ideas, when it can be done with clearness and certainty. The Poet conceived that a woman, such as he is here delineating, must be a continual source of uneasiness to her husband: this he intended to express by calling her a Thorn in his side; but, as the rhime and measure admitted not this phrase, he was obliged to substitute “Beech” for Thorn, which it must be owned falls short of the original idea in propriety and force. Steevens.
By calling her a Beech I believe the Poet means that she is like that Tree, beautiful in appearance, but unprofitable, not bearing Fruit as the Apple tree does. Malone.
Naturalists say that some sorts of Trees flourish outwardly, and make a fair shew, when they are rotten at heart: perhaps the Poet has heard, or knew of this property in the Beech. Tyrwhitt.
The Transcriber of this Line was a blockhead, and the Commentators fools; the Author had nothing in his mind of Apple-trees, Beeches, or Thorns—but he thought that a woman so depraved as This is might be taken for what a plain man (even if, instead of breakfasting with Queen Bess's carnivorous Maids of Honour, he had, with Me, successfully cultivated the Humanities by eating pulse for thirty years, and breathed in consequence the whole spirit of my benignity and meekness) would plainly call her: “a Bitch.” Ritson.
| The Wiccamical Chaplet | |