The Ingoldsby Legends :: :: University of Virginia Library

Oh, Salisbury Plain is bleak and bare,—
At least so I've heard many people declare,
For I fairly confess I never was there;—
Not a shrub nor a tree, Nor a bush can you see:
No hedges, no ditches, no gates, no stiles,
Much less a house, or a cottage for miles;—
—It's a very sad thing to be caught in the rain
When night's coming on upon Salisbury Plain.

Now, I'd have you to know That a great while ago,—
The best part of a century, may be, or so,—
Across this same plain, so dull and so dreary,
A couple of Travellers, way-worn and weary,
Were making their way; Their profession, you'd say,
At a single glance did not admit of a query;
The pump-handled pig-tail, and whiskers worn then,
With scarce an exception, by sea-faring men,
The jacket,—the loose trousers “bows'd up together”—all
Guiltless of braces, as those of Charles Wetherall,—
The pigeon-toed step, and the rollicking motion,
Bespoke them two genuine sons of the Ocean,
And show'd in a moment their real charácters,
(The accent so placed on this word by our Jack Tars).

The one in advance was sturdy and strong,
With arms uncommonly bony and long,
And his Guernsey shirt Was all pitch and dirt,
Which sailors don't think inconvenient or wrong.
He was very broad-breasted, And very deep-chested;
His sinewy frame correspond with the rest did,

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Except as to height, for he could not be more
At the most, you would say, than some five feet four.
And, if measured, perhaps had been found a thought lower.
Dame Nature, in fact,—whom some person or other,
—A Poet,—has call'd a “capricious step-mother,”—
You saw when beside him, Had somehow denied him
In longitude what she had granted in latitude.
A trifling defect You'd the sooner detect
From his having contracted a stoop in his attitude.
Square-built and broad-shoulder'd, good-humour'd and gay,
With his collar and countenance open as day,
The latter—'twas mark'd with small-pox, by the way,—
Had a sort of expression good-will to bespeak;
He'd a smile in his eye, and a quid in his cheek!
And, in short, notwithstanding his failure in height,
He was just such a man as you'd say, at first sight,
You would much rather dine, or shake hands, with than fight!

The other, his friend and companion, was taller,
By five or six inches, at least, than the smaller;—
From his air and his mien It was plain to be seen,
That he was, or had been, A something between
The real “Jack Tar” and the “Jolly Marine.”
For, though he would give an occasional hitch,
Sailor-like to his “slops,” there was something, the which,
On the whole savour'd more of the pipeclay than pitch.—
Such were now the two men who appear'd on the hill,
Harry Waters the tall one, the short “Spanking Bill.”

To be caught in the rain, I repeat it again,
Is extremely unpleasant on Salisbury Plain;
And when with a good soaking shower there are blended
Blue lightnings and thunder, the matter's not mended;
Such was the case In this wild dreary place,
On the day that I'm speaking of now, when the brace
Of trav'llers alluded to quicken'd their pace,
Till a good steady walk became more like a race
To get quit of the tempest which held them in chace.

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Louder, and louder Than mortal gunpowder,
The heav'nly artillery kept crashing and roaring,
The lightning kept flashing, the rain too kept pouring,
While they, helter-skelter, In vain sought for shelter
From what I have heard term'd, “a regular pelter;”
But the deuce of a screen Could be anywhere seen,
Or an object except that on one of the rises,
An old way-post show'd Where the Lavington road
Branch'd off to the left from the one to Devizes;
And thither the footsteps of Waters seem'd tending,
Though a doubt might exist of the course he was bending,
To a landsman, at least, who, wherever he goes,
Is content, for the most part to follow his nose;—
While Harry kept “backing And filling”—and “tacking,”—
Two nautical terms which, I'll wager a guinea, are
Meant to imply What you, Reader, and I
Would call going zig-zag, and not rectilinear.

But here, once for all, let me beg you'll excuse
All mistakes I may make in the words sailors use—
'Mongst themselves, on a cruise, Or ashore with the Jews,
Or in making their court to their Polls and their Sues,
Or addressing those slop-selling females afloat—women
Known in our navy as oddly-named boat-women.
The fact is, I can't say, I'm versed in the school
So ably conducted by Marryat and Poole;
(See the last-mentioned gentleman's “Admiral's Daughter”)
The grand vade mecum For all who to sea come,
And get, the first time in their lives, in blue water;
Of course in the use of sea terms you'll not wonder
If I now and then should fall into some blunder,
For which Captain Chamier, or Mr. T. P. Cooke
Would call me a “Lubber,” and “Son of a Sea-cook.”

To return to our muttons—This mode of progression
At length upon Spanking Bill made some impression,

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—“Hillo, messmate, what cheer? How queer you do steer!”
Cried Bill, whose short legs kept him still in the rear,
“Why, what's in the wind, Bo?—what is it you fear?”
For he saw in a moment that something was frightening
His shipmate much more than the thunder and lightning.

“Fear?” stammer'd out Waters, “why, Him!—don't you see
What faces that Drummer-boy's making at me?”
—How he dodges me so Wherever I go?—
What is it he wants with me, Bill,—do you know?”

“What Drummer-boy, Harry?” cries Bill in surprise,
(With a brief explanation, that ended in “eyes,”)
“What Drummer-boy, Waters?—the coast is all clear,
We haven't got never no Drummer-boy here!”

—“Why, there?—don't you see How he's following me?
Now this way, now that way, and won't let me be!
Keep him off, Bill—look here— Don't let him come near!
Only see how the blood-drops his features besmear!
What, the dead come to life again!—Bless me!—Oh dear!”

Bill remark'd in reply, “This is all very queer—
What, a Drummer-boy—bloody, too—eh!—well, I never—
I can't see no Drummer-boy here whatsumdever!”
“Not see him!—why there;—look!—he's close by the post—
Hark!—hark!—how he drums at me now!—he's a Ghost!”

“A what?” returned Bill,—at that moment a flash
More than commonly awful preceded a crash
Like what's call'd in Kentucky “an Almighty Smash.”—
And down Harry Waters went plump on his knees,
While the sound, though prolong'd, died away by degrees:
In its last sinking echoes, however, were some
Which, Bill could not help thinking, resembled a drum!

“Hollo! Waters!—I says,” Quoth he in amaze,
“Why, I never see'd nuffin in all my born days
Half so queer As this here,
And I'm not very clear
But that one of us two has good reason for fear—

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You to jaw about drummers with nobody near us!—
I must say as how that I thinks it's mysterus.”

“Oh, merey!” roar'd Waters, “do keep him off, Bill,
And, Andrew, forgive!—I'll confess all!—I will!
I'll make a clean breast, And as for the rest,
You may do with me just what the lawyers think best
But haunt me not thus!—let these visitings cease,
And your vengeance accomplish'd, Boy, leave me in peace!”
—Harry paused for a moment,—then turning to Bill,
Who stood with his mouth open, steady and still,
Began “spinning” what nauticals term “a tough yarn,”
Viz.: his tale of what Bill call'd “this precious consarn,”