 | Reuben and Other Poems |  |
153
MISCELLANEOUS.
155
HOUSE-HUNTING.
The fact is too well known for repetition,
That man is never pleased with his condition,
And yet it is a truth that, even though old,
Consoles poor fallen mortals when re-told.
However home into the heart it strike,
E'en be content—all mankind are alike:
However out of place your lives may be,
What matter if, when changed, no change you see?
So each takes to his own again, right glad
To think his neighbours' troubles are as bad;
Or that his lot unto another's mind
May seem as good as he need wish to find.
That man is never pleased with his condition,
And yet it is a truth that, even though old,
Consoles poor fallen mortals when re-told.
However home into the heart it strike,
E'en be content—all mankind are alike:
However out of place your lives may be,
What matter if, when changed, no change you see?
So each takes to his own again, right glad
To think his neighbours' troubles are as bad;
Or that his lot unto another's mind
May seem as good as he need wish to find.
Now if the text thus given need extension,
Take for the sermon Brown, his wife and mansion.
Take for the sermon Brown, his wife and mansion.
Their present house seem'd all that man and wife
Could want to make a comfortable life—
That is, so far as earthly mansion can
Comfort the heart of any wife or man;
But yet they growl'd, in accents shrill and gruff;
They both were tired of it—and that's enough:
And so to Robins, the great auctioneer,
Brown gave instructions, definite and clear,
To advertise it to be let or sold,
Its tenements, messuages, field and fold.
But lest a curious public should effect
Too easily admission to inspect,
Locality and name of the domain
Should be withheld—inquirers to obtain
These at the office of the auctioneer,
Also the terms of sale, or rent per year.
Could want to make a comfortable life—
That is, so far as earthly mansion can
Comfort the heart of any wife or man;
But yet they growl'd, in accents shrill and gruff;
They both were tired of it—and that's enough:
And so to Robins, the great auctioneer,
Brown gave instructions, definite and clear,
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Its tenements, messuages, field and fold.
But lest a curious public should effect
Too easily admission to inspect,
Locality and name of the domain
Should be withheld—inquirers to obtain
These at the office of the auctioneer,
Also the terms of sale, or rent per year.
To find a new house Mr. and Mrs. Brown
Had been all round the outskirts of the town.
In order to economise the day,
They went exploring in a separate way,
And home at eve, each eager to express
The day's exploits, both radiant with success;
And as they chatted o'er their tea and toast,
'Twas hard to say which had succeeded most:—
Had been all round the outskirts of the town.
In order to economise the day,
They went exploring in a separate way,
And home at eve, each eager to express
The day's exploits, both radiant with success;
And as they chatted o'er their tea and toast,
'Twas hard to say which had succeeded most:—
“Believe me, Brown, it is the finest thing
We've seen—almost a palace for a king—
So closely wooded, and so snug withal,
The rooms so large, yes, and the rent so small;
A mansion built when building was more rare,
With labour cheap, and plenty ground to spare;
Grandly palatial in its gates and walls,
Broad flights of steps and spacious entrance halls,
Elizabethan windows, gables, towers,
An ample garden, stock'd with fruits and flowers,
And, bless your heart, a rookery of rooks,
Wherein the library or study looks,
Throstles and blackbirds in perpetual song—
A sort of paradise the whole day long.”
We've seen—almost a palace for a king—
So closely wooded, and so snug withal,
The rooms so large, yes, and the rent so small;
A mansion built when building was more rare,
With labour cheap, and plenty ground to spare;
Grandly palatial in its gates and walls,
Broad flights of steps and spacious entrance halls,
Elizabethan windows, gables, towers,
An ample garden, stock'd with fruits and flowers,
And, bless your heart, a rookery of rooks,
Wherein the library or study looks,
Throstles and blackbirds in perpetual song—
A sort of paradise the whole day long.”
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Here Brown broke in, “Restrain yourself, my dear,
Nor be so jubilant, until you hear
The sort of house that I have seen to-day,
And then you'll change your note, I'm bound to say.
Not one of those mediæval haunted halls,
Where every footstep echoes and appals,
But one of modern build, with all the best
Improvements of the age—among the rest,
High ceilings, ventilation, faultless drains,
Great windows, each of two strong plate-glass panes;
(And light, by modern science has been shown
A requisite of health—a thing not known
In former times;) then water, cold and hot,
Through all the house, with bath-rooms, and what not?
All heretofore unused, too, I presume,—
And by the way, there's gas in every room.
But what about the garden, do you say?
The ground's too precious to be thrown away,
And so there's none—'twill be a care the less;
Each luxury is but one more distress.—
Where is the house? That's where the attraction lies;
The situation is the thing we'll prize.
It overlooks the Alexandra Drive—
The newest line of fashion, and alive
With all the pomp and beauty of the town.”
Nor be so jubilant, until you hear
The sort of house that I have seen to-day,
And then you'll change your note, I'm bound to say.
Not one of those mediæval haunted halls,
Where every footstep echoes and appals,
But one of modern build, with all the best
Improvements of the age—among the rest,
High ceilings, ventilation, faultless drains,
Great windows, each of two strong plate-glass panes;
(And light, by modern science has been shown
A requisite of health—a thing not known
In former times;) then water, cold and hot,
Through all the house, with bath-rooms, and what not?
All heretofore unused, too, I presume,—
And by the way, there's gas in every room.
But what about the garden, do you say?
The ground's too precious to be thrown away,
And so there's none—'twill be a care the less;
Each luxury is but one more distress.—
Where is the house? That's where the attraction lies;
The situation is the thing we'll prize.
It overlooks the Alexandra Drive—
The newest line of fashion, and alive
With all the pomp and beauty of the town.”
“Humph—beauty!” cried the lady, with a frown:
“I will not have the house, no, dearest Brown,
Just think of my house as with yours compared;
Indeed, comparisons may well be spared—
They are as different as night and day—”
“I will not have the house, no, dearest Brown,
Just think of my house as with yours compared;
Indeed, comparisons may well be spared—
They are as different as night and day—”
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“The very words,” cried Brown, “I was to say—
As different, in fact, as day and night;
But of the two mine's the more fair and bright,
And consequently stands for day, you know.”
As different, in fact, as day and night;
But of the two mine's the more fair and bright,
And consequently stands for day, you know.”
“Comparisons are odious, Brown, and so,
To save dispute, you may as well resign
All thoughts about your house. Just look to mine—
The sweet seclusion, the abundant room,
The grand antiquity, the wooded gloom,
The rookery, the garden and the birds,
With all the etceteras such a place affords!
My dearest Brown, I wonder that you don't
Jump after such a house!—”
To save dispute, you may as well resign
All thoughts about your house. Just look to mine—
The sweet seclusion, the abundant room,
The grand antiquity, the wooded gloom,
The rookery, the garden and the birds,
With all the etceteras such a place affords!
My dearest Brown, I wonder that you don't
Jump after such a house!—”
Cried Brown, “I won't;
Your dim secluded dens, have ever been
The nurseries of ennui and the spleen;
Your gardens are rheumatic, trees are damp,
And to a person of a studious stamp
Your birds were an intrusion; as for rooks,
Their din would drive the devil from his books!
I must have life and quietude combined—
Something to cheer as well as soothe the mind;
And this is in the mansion of my choice—
Light, airy, free from all gross rural noise—
Seclusion broken only by the rush
Of cheerful carriages and glints of plush.”
Your dim secluded dens, have ever been
The nurseries of ennui and the spleen;
Your gardens are rheumatic, trees are damp,
And to a person of a studious stamp
Your birds were an intrusion; as for rooks,
Their din would drive the devil from his books!
I must have life and quietude combined—
Something to cheer as well as soothe the mind;
And this is in the mansion of my choice—
Light, airy, free from all gross rural noise—
Seclusion broken only by the rush
Of cheerful carriages and glints of plush.”
“Hum—plush!” sneered Mrs. Brown, and toss'd her head:
“We seem to differ in our tastes,” she said;
“And so I think we'd better go to bed.”
“We seem to differ in our tastes,” she said;
“And so I think we'd better go to bed.”
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They went, and it may fairly be presumed
They took their houses with them, and resumed
The subject, each in solitary guise—
A mood wherein we all are wondrous wise.
They took their houses with them, and resumed
The subject, each in solitary guise—
A mood wherein we all are wondrous wise.
Next morning, over breakfast, they at first
Were silent, though 'twas clear both were athirst
To speak their minds—it might be said they burn'd—
And therefore to the subject they return'd.
Were silent, though 'twas clear both were athirst
To speak their minds—it might be said they burn'd—
And therefore to the subject they return'd.
Said Mrs. Brown, “My dear, you could not guess
What I've been thinking—for I will confess
I am myself surprised to find it so—
The house you've been so pleased with, do you know,
On second thoughts, I rather like it too”—
What I've been thinking—for I will confess
I am myself surprised to find it so—
The house you've been so pleased with, do you know,
On second thoughts, I rather like it too”—
“But I've had second thoughts as well as you,”
Cried Brown; “and if the truth must be confess'd,
I like your Elizabethan house the best.
There's that about these fine old halls which blends
Divinely with our thoughts, and even lends
The mind a touch of the dramatic age,
When England's best possession was the stage.
I even think the cawing of the rooks
Would help to deeper meaning in my books.
And then the high-wall'd garden, with its walks
Of ancient-smelling boxwood and sweet stalks
Of hoary lavender,—there's much in this”—
Cried Brown; “and if the truth must be confess'd,
I like your Elizabethan house the best.
There's that about these fine old halls which blends
Divinely with our thoughts, and even lends
The mind a touch of the dramatic age,
When England's best possession was the stage.
I even think the cawing of the rooks
Would help to deeper meaning in my books.
And then the high-wall'd garden, with its walks
Of ancient-smelling boxwood and sweet stalks
Of hoary lavender,—there's much in this”—
“No, no, as for the house, it's not amiss;
But this is merely sentimental stuff,
Of which, between us two, we've had enough.
Last evening I was wrong, and you were right;
I've turn'd the matter over in the light
Of common sense, which says, with ready tongue,
This morning I am right, and you are wrong.
Thus being equal, dearest Brown, agree
To leave the taking of the house to me.”
But this is merely sentimental stuff,
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Last evening I was wrong, and you were right;
I've turn'd the matter over in the light
Of common sense, which says, with ready tongue,
This morning I am right, and you are wrong.
Thus being equal, dearest Brown, agree
To leave the taking of the house to me.”
“Peace, peace,” replied her lord; “pray who made you
The judge of right and wrong, of false and true,
And taught you such glib verdicts to dispense
'Tween sentimental stuff and common sense?
And now you would consign me to the shelf,
And have the taking of the house yourself!
With all my heart, if you will leave alone
What you miscal my house, and take your own.”
The judge of right and wrong, of false and true,
And taught you such glib verdicts to dispense
'Tween sentimental stuff and common sense?
And now you would consign me to the shelf,
And have the taking of the house yourself!
With all my heart, if you will leave alone
What you miscal my house, and take your own.”
“No, never, Brown, dear Brown, will I consent
To have my fixed determination bent.
I've thought the houses over, one by one,
And this is the conclusion—yours or none!”
To have my fixed determination bent.
I've thought the houses over, one by one,
And this is the conclusion—yours or none!”
Now what could Brown, or any other man,
Do after this? He took the quiet plan;
And since the grey mare was the better horse,
Fell to the morning papers, mute, of course.
Do after this? He took the quiet plan;
And since the grey mare was the better horse,
Fell to the morning papers, mute, of course.
But long he had not rustled them and read,
When, turning to his spouse, he blandly said,
“My love, there's plenty houses to be had—
Houses of all sorts, good as well as bad.
Now here's a house embracing, I opine,
The best attractions of both yours and mine.
‘Strong-built, substantial mansion,’ and so forth.
‘A southerly exposure; on the north
Well sheltered by a thickly-wooded range
Of hills. About an hour's walk from the Exchange.
Extensive suites of rooms’—and all the rest.
‘The situation is pronounced the best
Within ten miles of town. Romantic view.
Fine vista, with the river peeping through.
An opportunity not to be lost.’
A likely place,” continued he, and toss'd
The paper to his wife, and bade her read:
“It is,” said she, “a likely place indeed;
Yes, lawn in front, and garden in the rear.
Apply to Robins, our own auctioneer!
We should not lose a moment; go at once:
I look upon it as a lucky chance—
A providential, accidental miss—
We did not fix before we look'd at this.”
When, turning to his spouse, he blandly said,
“My love, there's plenty houses to be had—
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Now here's a house embracing, I opine,
The best attractions of both yours and mine.
‘Strong-built, substantial mansion,’ and so forth.
‘A southerly exposure; on the north
Well sheltered by a thickly-wooded range
Of hills. About an hour's walk from the Exchange.
Extensive suites of rooms’—and all the rest.
‘The situation is pronounced the best
Within ten miles of town. Romantic view.
Fine vista, with the river peeping through.
An opportunity not to be lost.’
A likely place,” continued he, and toss'd
The paper to his wife, and bade her read:
“It is,” said she, “a likely place indeed;
Yes, lawn in front, and garden in the rear.
Apply to Robins, our own auctioneer!
We should not lose a moment; go at once:
I look upon it as a lucky chance—
A providential, accidental miss—
We did not fix before we look'd at this.”
“Well then,” said Brown, “in order to agree
About this house, I hold it safe that we
Go after it together.”
About this house, I hold it safe that we
Go after it together.”
So they went,
And found the busy Robins all intent
Framing advertisements. First they desired
To know if any one had yet inquired
After their own house, but seem'd not to look
For any ready answer; for Brown took
The paper from his pocket, and said, “Here's
A house that, from the advertisement, appears
The very thing for us. Is it yet sold?
What is the price? and is it new or old?
Where situate? Is its present owner dead?
Or wherefore—”
Robins laugh'd and wagg'd his head:
“Excuse me—dead! no, no,—he and his wife,
I'm glad to see, are in exuberant life.
But, sure, a plain description might have shown
This house that took your fancy was your own!”
And found the busy Robins all intent
Framing advertisements. First they desired
To know if any one had yet inquired
After their own house, but seem'd not to look
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The paper from his pocket, and said, “Here's
A house that, from the advertisement, appears
The very thing for us. Is it yet sold?
What is the price? and is it new or old?
Where situate? Is its present owner dead?
Or wherefore—”
Robins laugh'd and wagg'd his head:
“Excuse me—dead! no, no,—he and his wife,
I'm glad to see, are in exuberant life.
But, sure, a plain description might have shown
This house that took your fancy was your own!”
Brown stared at Robins, Robins at them both,
And they look'd puzzl'd, half perplex'd, and loath
To own they could have made the strange mistake;
But, seeming from their muddle to awake,
Rejoiced so fair a mansion was unsold—
Nor would they sell it for its weight in gold.
And they look'd puzzl'd, half perplex'd, and loath
To own they could have made the strange mistake;
But, seeming from their muddle to awake,
Rejoiced so fair a mansion was unsold—
Nor would they sell it for its weight in gold.
163
SIR PETER'S CURE.
Some masters are so puff'd up with conceit,
They think their servants dirt beneath their feet.
At best mere cattle to be driven in reins,
Not fellow-beings with the use of brains,
Further than comprehend their brief commands,
Then execute them—not with heads but hands.
But old Sir Peter, who was of this class,
Got cured, and this was how it came to pass.
They think their servants dirt beneath their feet.
At best mere cattle to be driven in reins,
Not fellow-beings with the use of brains,
Further than comprehend their brief commands,
Then execute them—not with heads but hands.
But old Sir Peter, who was of this class,
Got cured, and this was how it came to pass.
A favourite horse, that cost five hundred pounds,
Was sent to grass outside the manor grounds,
For some disorder, as was understood,
That wanted rest, free air, and change of food;
And once a-day, at least, the Knight contrived
To walk across and see how Roland thrived.
Was sent to grass outside the manor grounds,
For some disorder, as was understood,
That wanted rest, free air, and change of food;
And once a-day, at least, the Knight contrived
To walk across and see how Roland thrived.
One sultry day, when strolling in the park,
He spied some distance off, all stiff and stark,
This famous hunter lying on his side,
With legs and tail outstretch'd, and nostrils wide.
“Yes, yes, I knew 'twould come to that,” he said;
“A noble beast—five hundred pounds—dead, dead!”
Then straightway to the hall his steps retraced,
And called his groom: “Here, sirrah, sharp, make haste,
Be off, get all the needed help you can,
And skin me Roland!” “But, sir—” cried the man,
“You have your orders, go, bring me the skin—
A sorry prize by such a horse to win.”
He spied some distance off, all stiff and stark,
This famous hunter lying on his side,
With legs and tail outstretch'd, and nostrils wide.
“Yes, yes, I knew 'twould come to that,” he said;
“A noble beast—five hundred pounds—dead, dead!”
Then straightway to the hall his steps retraced,
And called his groom: “Here, sirrah, sharp, make haste,
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And skin me Roland!” “But, sir—” cried the man,
“You have your orders, go, bring me the skin—
A sorry prize by such a horse to win.”
After some hours the groom came up the road
Behind the manor, bending with his load;
And with Sir Peter chancing there to meet,
He laid the burden at his master's feet:—
“Sir, there is Roland's skin. I think he knew
We came to take it, for he up and flew
At such a sweep as only bird could match—
Never before was he so ill to catch!”
“You thoughtless rascal! skin a living horse!
Was he not dead, you villain?”
Behind the manor, bending with his load;
And with Sir Peter chancing there to meet,
He laid the burden at his master's feet:—
“Sir, there is Roland's skin. I think he knew
We came to take it, for he up and flew
At such a sweep as only bird could match—
Never before was he so ill to catch!”
“You thoughtless rascal! skin a living horse!
Was he not dead, you villain?”
“Yes, of course,
After we killed him—dead enough, and still;
But he was ill to catch and hard to kill.”
After we killed him—dead enough, and still;
But he was ill to catch and hard to kill.”
“You fool, you implement, you brainless man,
You've killed the noblest horse that ever ran:
Roland the brave, Roland my only pride,
Slain by an ass, diminish'd to a hide!
See what it is to want a thinking head!
You might have known I thought the horse was dead.”
You've killed the noblest horse that ever ran:
Roland the brave, Roland my only pride,
Slain by an ass, diminish'd to a hide!
See what it is to want a thinking head!
You might have known I thought the horse was dead.”
“Ay, so I might, Sir Peter,” cried the groom,
“If in your orders you had left me room
To use this brainless and unthinking head;
But what are orders, sir, if not obeyed?”
“True, John,” replied Sir Peter, “you are right;
So take this gory record from my sight.
I still must order, and you must obey;
But there's the literal, and the other way;
And if you take the latter, I will wink
At the offence, and give you leave to think.”
“If in your orders you had left me room
To use this brainless and unthinking head;
But what are orders, sir, if not obeyed?”
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So take this gory record from my sight.
I still must order, and you must obey;
But there's the literal, and the other way;
And if you take the latter, I will wink
At the offence, and give you leave to think.”
166
FORBIDDEN FRUIT.
Sir Peter and his groom were on their way
To Foxdale Castle, there to spend the day,
Perhaps the morrow also, if they found
The dogs in fettle and the sport abound.
To Foxdale Castle, there to spend the day,
Perhaps the morrow also, if they found
The dogs in fettle and the sport abound.
They rode along in silence. When not quite
A mile upon their way, the thoughtful Knight
Pulled up his horse, and, turning to his man,
“Ride back,” he said, “as smartly as you can,
And tell my lady that she's not to speak
To Binns the butler, when I am from home,
Not even if I tarry for a week;
Be off, and I'll ride slowly till you come.”
A mile upon their way, the thoughtful Knight
Pulled up his horse, and, turning to his man,
“Ride back,” he said, “as smartly as you can,
And tell my lady that she's not to speak
To Binns the butler, when I am from home,
Not even if I tarry for a week;
Be off, and I'll ride slowly till you come.”
Now as the groom rides back, it may be told,
That while Sir Peter was both gray and old,
Her ladyship was in her blooming prime—
'Twas Hebe in the hoary arms of Time.
The butler, too, to make the matter worse,
Was pleasing to the eye, and young of course.
But that Sir Peter had the slightest cause
For jealousy, 'twere wrong even to suppose.
That while Sir Peter was both gray and old,
Her ladyship was in her blooming prime—
'Twas Hebe in the hoary arms of Time.
The butler, too, to make the matter worse,
Was pleasing to the eye, and young of course.
But that Sir Peter had the slightest cause
For jealousy, 'twere wrong even to suppose.
As up the avenue he rode, the groom
Espied the lady in the drawing-room,
At open window, with the gauze withdrawn,
And just one step between her and the lawn.
She stood enrapt within a new romance,
But startled by the groom's abrupt advance,
She in sweet consternation dropt the book,
And cast on him a fine, defiant look.
“Fellow, what brings you back? What seek you here?
Get to your stables! Is Sir Peter near?”
Espied the lady in the drawing-room,
At open window, with the gauze withdrawn,
And just one step between her and the lawn.
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But startled by the groom's abrupt advance,
She in sweet consternation dropt the book,
And cast on him a fine, defiant look.
“Fellow, what brings you back? What seek you here?
Get to your stables! Is Sir Peter near?”
“No, madam; but he sends me back to say—
And, first, your pardon I would beg and pray,
For I am but the instrument, the horn
Through which Sir Peter's warning note is borne.”
And, first, your pardon I would beg and pray,
For I am but the instrument, the horn
Through which Sir Peter's warning note is borne.”
“Quick, quick,” she cried, what need of this delay?
Sir Peter's horse has fallen, you would say,
And dash'd Sir Peter's head against a stone,
Broken his limbs, his ribs, his collar-bone;
Or horse and rider headlong in a ditch!
Speak, fellow, speak this instant! tell me which.”
Sir Peter's horse has fallen, you would say,
And dash'd Sir Peter's head against a stone,
Broken his limbs, his ribs, his collar-bone;
Or horse and rider headlong in a ditch!
Speak, fellow, speak this instant! tell me which.”
“Fear nothing, madam, he is safe and well,
And, with your pardon, I have but to tell
The message that to me he did confide,
Which is, ‘That you on no account must ride
On the Newfoundland dog!’”
And, with your pardon, I have but to tell
The message that to me he did confide,
Which is, ‘That you on no account must ride
On the Newfoundland dog!’”
With that he spurr'd
His steed, and left without another word;
As if he could not venture to engage
The dreaded onset of my lady's rage.
For rage she did, and storm'd at dogs and men;
And, like a pretty panther in its den,
Pac'd to and fro across the drawing room,
Railing at old Sir Peter and his groom:—
“Newfoundland dog!” she cried, “the dotard fool!
Am I a child? a girl let loose from school?
I must not ride on the Newfoundland dog!
Who wanted to? Sir Peter, O Sir P!
Your brains are in a muddle, in a fog,
Your reason stranded, and your wits at sea.”
His steed, and left without another word;
As if he could not venture to engage
The dreaded onset of my lady's rage.
For rage she did, and storm'd at dogs and men;
And, like a pretty panther in its den,
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Railing at old Sir Peter and his groom:—
“Newfoundland dog!” she cried, “the dotard fool!
Am I a child? a girl let loose from school?
I must not ride on the Newfoundland dog!
Who wanted to? Sir Peter, O Sir P!
Your brains are in a muddle, in a fog,
Your reason stranded, and your wits at sea.”
Then, 'mid the scented breezes of her fan,
And with the prettiest laugh that ever ran
The gamut of hysteria, she took
Her seat, and tried to settle at her book;
The words she read, but knew not what she read,—
Sir Peter's paltry message came instead;
And as she threw the fruitless book aside,
Behold, the dog, in all his strength and pride,
Came bouncing o'er the lawn. “Ah, ha, my steed!
I must not ride upon you! no, indeed!
Sir Peter says I must not,—but I will.
Come in, good dog. There, now, be still, be still.
If he can bear me, what a jolly thing,
To turn this room into a circus ring!
Now then, my Shetland; steady, Neptune, steady!
Sir Peter, hem! your most obedient lady!
Bravo, brave dog, thus round and round we go,
Whether Sir Peter like the pace or no.
Yo ho! yo ho! how nice, how jolly nice!
Thanks, good Sir Peter, for your good advice.”
And with the prettiest laugh that ever ran
The gamut of hysteria, she took
Her seat, and tried to settle at her book;
The words she read, but knew not what she read,—
Sir Peter's paltry message came instead;
And as she threw the fruitless book aside,
Behold, the dog, in all his strength and pride,
Came bouncing o'er the lawn. “Ah, ha, my steed!
I must not ride upon you! no, indeed!
Sir Peter says I must not,—but I will.
Come in, good dog. There, now, be still, be still.
If he can bear me, what a jolly thing,
To turn this room into a circus ring!
Now then, my Shetland; steady, Neptune, steady!
Sir Peter, hem! your most obedient lady!
Bravo, brave dog, thus round and round we go,
Whether Sir Peter like the pace or no.
Yo ho! yo ho! how nice, how jolly nice!
Thanks, good Sir Peter, for your good advice.”
But here bold Neptune, in his circling sweep,
Over a footstool made a sudden leap,
And though she rode as do the masculine gender,
He pitch'd her, heels o'er head, inside the fender,
And left her, as they say, all in a heap.
The maids and footman, summon'd by the crash
Of tongs and shovel, burst upon the scene.
They found her swooning, bleeding, and between
Her nose and jewell'd ear a frightful gash.
Some call'd for water, and some call'd for wine,
Rags, balsam, bandages, and anodyne:
They marvell'd how it happen'd, and agreed
The shovel or the grate had done the deed.
But soon her pale lips show'd returning bloom,
And whisper'd, as they bore her from the room,
“Bravo, my Shetland! quicker, quicker, there!
Now stop us, poor Sir Peter, if you dare.”
Over a footstool made a sudden leap,
169
He pitch'd her, heels o'er head, inside the fender,
And left her, as they say, all in a heap.
The maids and footman, summon'd by the crash
Of tongs and shovel, burst upon the scene.
They found her swooning, bleeding, and between
Her nose and jewell'd ear a frightful gash.
Some call'd for water, and some call'd for wine,
Rags, balsam, bandages, and anodyne:
They marvell'd how it happen'd, and agreed
The shovel or the grate had done the deed.
But soon her pale lips show'd returning bloom,
And whisper'd, as they bore her from the room,
“Bravo, my Shetland! quicker, quicker, there!
Now stop us, poor Sir Peter, if you dare.”
A messenger to Foxdale Castle sent
Inform'd Sir Peter of the accident,
Just as the dogs were ready for the fray,
And all gave promise of a glorious day.
His heart was braced to join the clanging pack,
But duty and affection held him back.
“Homeward, my men!” And as they homeward bent,
He question'd much about the sad event;
But all the breathless messenger could tell
Was, that some sort of accident befell
Her ladyship soon after he had gone,
Its nature, how, and wherefore, all unknown.
“We found her in a swoon; I saw her bleed.”
At hearing which Sir Peter mends his speed;
The sudden fire leaps from his horse's heels,
The road-side trees fly past, the landscape reels.
Nor breaks his pace until he halts to wait
The drowsy porter coming to the gate.
And, in a breath, dismounting at the hall,
He seeks his lady's room, boots, whip and all.
Inform'd Sir Peter of the accident,
Just as the dogs were ready for the fray,
And all gave promise of a glorious day.
His heart was braced to join the clanging pack,
But duty and affection held him back.
“Homeward, my men!” And as they homeward bent,
He question'd much about the sad event;
But all the breathless messenger could tell
Was, that some sort of accident befell
Her ladyship soon after he had gone,
Its nature, how, and wherefore, all unknown.
“We found her in a swoon; I saw her bleed.”
At hearing which Sir Peter mends his speed;
The sudden fire leaps from his horse's heels,
The road-side trees fly past, the landscape reels.
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The drowsy porter coming to the gate.
And, in a breath, dismounting at the hall,
He seeks his lady's room, boots, whip and all.
“Let him not enter!” cried a voice inside;
And when Sir Peter finds himself denied,
He turns in anger to the maids, who tell
All how their lady's sad mishap befell,
And how it was a shame, a cruel shame
That gentlemen could find no better game.
If they had husbands, they would let them know
Them and their grooms and messages—
And when Sir Peter finds himself denied,
He turns in anger to the maids, who tell
All how their lady's sad mishap befell,
And how it was a shame, a cruel shame
That gentlemen could find no better game.
If they had husbands, they would let them know
Them and their grooms and messages—
“Go, go,”
Sir Peter cried, and left their loosen'd tongues,
In rising clamour about woman's wrongs.
He reason'd with himself, “I cannot see
How this Newfoundland accident can be
Connected with the message that I sent.
The butler's name through all the strange event
Never appears;—but stay,—does that not add
Suspicion to a case already bad?
It does, it does; I've been befool'd, 'tis clear:
His absence from this female clamour here,
And my exclusion from my lady's room—
What mean they but—Ah, come, my trusty groom,
And help me to unwind this ravell'd clue.
The very thing we told her not to do,
She's done,—but find the butler, bring him here.”
Sir Peter cried, and left their loosen'd tongues,
In rising clamour about woman's wrongs.
He reason'd with himself, “I cannot see
How this Newfoundland accident can be
Connected with the message that I sent.
The butler's name through all the strange event
Never appears;—but stay,—does that not add
Suspicion to a case already bad?
It does, it does; I've been befool'd, 'tis clear:
His absence from this female clamour here,
And my exclusion from my lady's room—
What mean they but—Ah, come, my trusty groom,
And help me to unwind this ravell'd clue.
The very thing we told her not to do,
She's done,—but find the butler, bring him here.”
“My master, I have been to get my beer,
After this hot ride home, and him I found
Drunk in the cellar, snoring on the ground.”
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Drunk in the cellar, snoring on the ground.”
“'Tis well, my man; I'd rather have him there,
Drunk as he may be, than some other where.
Why, he's an honest fellow, after all—
No way connected with these women's squall.
But what about this drawing-room ado—
My lady's fiction?”
Drunk as he may be, than some other where.
Why, he's an honest fellow, after all—
No way connected with these women's squall.
But what about this drawing-room ado—
My lady's fiction?”
“Sir, I fear it's true,
E'en to the rumour'd wound upon her cheek.
Your orders were, ‘That she was not to speak
To Binns, the butler;’ but for once I lied;
I said your orders were, ‘She must not ride
On the Newfoundland dog,’ and tho' I knew
It was the likeliest thing that she would do,
I did not think 'twould end as it has ended.
Forgive me, sir, 'twas Duty that offended.”
E'en to the rumour'd wound upon her cheek.
Your orders were, ‘That she was not to speak
To Binns, the butler;’ but for once I lied;
I said your orders were, ‘She must not ride
On the Newfoundland dog,’ and tho' I knew
It was the likeliest thing that she would do,
I did not think 'twould end as it has ended.
Forgive me, sir, 'twas Duty that offended.”
“Forgive you, groom of grooms and sage of sages!
You are forgiven, and I'll raise your wages;
For you have rid my bosom of its thorns,
And saved me from a noble head of horns.—
I'm sorry for my lady; but her case
Is curable. A scratch upon the face
Is not so bad, e'en tho' it leave a scar,
As many matrimonial scratches are.—
Take this;” and from his purse's silken fold,
He gave the groom a piece of shining gold.
Well pleas'd the solid offering to receive,
He took it, and went, laughing in his sleeve.
You are forgiven, and I'll raise your wages;
For you have rid my bosom of its thorns,
And saved me from a noble head of horns.—
I'm sorry for my lady; but her case
Is curable. A scratch upon the face
Is not so bad, e'en tho' it leave a scar,
As many matrimonial scratches are.—
Take this;” and from his purse's silken fold,
He gave the groom a piece of shining gold.
Well pleas'd the solid offering to receive,
He took it, and went, laughing in his sleeve.
172
THE ROOKERY.
So far as I know, there's no one knows
Much of the inner life of the crows;
But there's something human intertwin'd
With all their habits, and to my mind
The ancient, noisy Rookery
Is as haunted a place as well can be.
The trees with old age are hollow and hoar,
With a rent near the root, like a half-open door;
And the ghastly sound of the hollow ground,
Starts up like a warning wherever you tread;
While the croaking, cawing overhead
Some quaint old woodland brogue appears;
For they say the crow lives a hundred years,—
And you'll often see patriarchal crows
With big white carbuncles on their nose,
That must have taken that time to grow;
And by their cracked old croaks you may know
They are come of an antiquated people:
The creak of the rusty vane on the steeple,
Or the swinging signboard over the way,
Speaks not from an older world than they.
Much of the inner life of the crows;
But there's something human intertwin'd
With all their habits, and to my mind
The ancient, noisy Rookery
Is as haunted a place as well can be.
The trees with old age are hollow and hoar,
With a rent near the root, like a half-open door;
And the ghastly sound of the hollow ground,
Starts up like a warning wherever you tread;
While the croaking, cawing overhead
Some quaint old woodland brogue appears;
For they say the crow lives a hundred years,—
And you'll often see patriarchal crows
With big white carbuncles on their nose,
That must have taken that time to grow;
And by their cracked old croaks you may know
They are come of an antiquated people:
The creak of the rusty vane on the steeple,
Or the swinging signboard over the way,
Speaks not from an older world than they.
And there's the dilapidated hall,
With its gothic gables and chimneys tall:
It is part of the Rookery now, I suppose,
Grown into the old-fashion'd life of the crows;
And I make no doubt if the chimneys could speak,
They would tell us the same old carbuncled beak
That croak'd on the roof when the old squire lay,
Fighting with Death for one more breath,
May be heard in the Rookery croaking to-day.
With its gothic gables and chimneys tall:
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Grown into the old-fashion'd life of the crows;
And I make no doubt if the chimneys could speak,
They would tell us the same old carbuncled beak
That croak'd on the roof when the old squire lay,
Fighting with Death for one more breath,
May be heard in the Rookery croaking to-day.
There's the old churchyard, too, they know full well,
Without being told by the funeral bell,
When anything deadly is doing there,
And make narrowing circles in the air,
To reconnoitre, from on high,
The grave where the well-known corpse is to lie.
The well-known corpse, did I say? Ay, ay;
For they know a deal better than you or I
The neighbour that's ailing and going to die.
Without being told by the funeral bell,
When anything deadly is doing there,
And make narrowing circles in the air,
To reconnoitre, from on high,
The grave where the well-known corpse is to lie.
The well-known corpse, did I say? Ay, ay;
For they know a deal better than you or I
The neighbour that's ailing and going to die.
One evening, when passing the Rookery,
I heard two crows on an outside tree:—
“Quhare haif yo bein, gossip Croak?“ quoth the one:—
Quoth the other, “Just to see quhat good could be done
In the old kirkyard—” “And what your reward?”
“Red worms all over and fine white grubs
At the new-happ'd grave of honest John Stubbs.”—
Quoth the first, “Then to-morrow we'll all of us go,
And hold a grand hilario!”
I heard two crows on an outside tree:—
“Quhare haif yo bein, gossip Croak?“ quoth the one:—
Quoth the other, “Just to see quhat good could be done
In the old kirkyard—” “And what your reward?”
“Red worms all over and fine white grubs
At the new-happ'd grave of honest John Stubbs.”—
Quoth the first, “Then to-morrow we'll all of us go,
And hold a grand hilario!”
At weddings, too, have you never seen,
When the couples prance o'er the village green,
With a smile and smirk on their way to the kirk,
What a skelloching hulla-baloo would arise
As the Rookery emptied into the skies:
For the gossiping rooks without papers or books
Know all the news of the country side—
Croak for the corpse and caw for the bride.
When the couples prance o'er the village green,
174
What a skelloching hulla-baloo would arise
As the Rookery emptied into the skies:
For the gossiping rooks without papers or books
Know all the news of the country side—
Croak for the corpse and caw for the bride.
What a busy, busy time in the Rookery,
When spring comes round and nests to be found,
Almost a dozen on every tree!
Four nests deep, how they manage to keep
Each pair to their own, is a marvel to me!
Building the new, and repairing the old,
What a Babel of tongues! how they clamour and scold!
No doubt like us, they have rights to defend,
And perhaps like us, too, they borrow and lend;
While some will thieve, and some show their greed,
By massing up more than they'll ever need—
Which of course will give rise to many a plea,
And they'll have their lawsuits as well as we.
How else account for all this babble,
This “plucking of crows,” and perpetual squabble?
When spring comes round and nests to be found,
Almost a dozen on every tree!
Four nests deep, how they manage to keep
Each pair to their own, is a marvel to me!
Building the new, and repairing the old,
What a Babel of tongues! how they clamour and scold!
No doubt like us, they have rights to defend,
And perhaps like us, too, they borrow and lend;
While some will thieve, and some show their greed,
By massing up more than they'll ever need—
Which of course will give rise to many a plea,
And they'll have their lawsuits as well as we.
How else account for all this babble,
This “plucking of crows,” and perpetual squabble?
The cawing clamour grows wilder still
When eggs are hatched and mouths are to fill,
Four or five gaping in every nest,
And the old ones alighting from east and west,
From north and south, and far and wide,
With their dainty pickings to dole and divide.
When eggs are hatched and mouths are to fill,
Four or five gaping in every nest,
And the old ones alighting from east and west,
From north and south, and far and wide,
With their dainty pickings to dole and divide.
But there comes yet a noisier racket than all
When the callow young crows flap out on the boughs,
Tempted to fly, yet afraid they fall;
And shooters appear from far and near,
Round the old dilapidated hall—
For the lord of the manor appoints a day,
To come who will and shoot who may;
And the shopkeeper leaves both scoop and scale,
The carpenter stops at a half-driven nail,
The smith drops the hammer, his bellows their blast,
The cobbler kicks into a corner his last,
The tailor jumps up with three cuts and a caper,
Hops over his goose, and is off with the draper,
And student and clerk throw aside their books,—
For all are bent on the same intent—
A regular racketing day at the rooks!
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Tempted to fly, yet afraid they fall;
And shooters appear from far and near,
Round the old dilapidated hall—
For the lord of the manor appoints a day,
To come who will and shoot who may;
And the shopkeeper leaves both scoop and scale,
The carpenter stops at a half-driven nail,
The smith drops the hammer, his bellows their blast,
The cobbler kicks into a corner his last,
The tailor jumps up with three cuts and a caper,
Hops over his goose, and is off with the draper,
And student and clerk throw aside their books,—
For all are bent on the same intent—
A regular racketing day at the rooks!
And hark! what a row at the Rookery,
As the shooters make head with their powder and lead,
And the lärum is spread from tree to tree;
The young on the branches, the old in the air,
Screaming a curse and cawing a pray'r;
And as crack, crack, crack go the belching pieces,
The madden'd roar of the siege increases,
Till the quietest sepulchres in the wood
Are shrieking of broken solitude.
As the shooters make head with their powder and lead,
And the lärum is spread from tree to tree;
The young on the branches, the old in the air,
Screaming a curse and cawing a pray'r;
And as crack, crack, crack go the belching pieces,
The madden'd roar of the siege increases,
Till the quietest sepulchres in the wood
Are shrieking of broken solitude.
But the long and noisy summer day,
Comes to a close; and, with slaughtered crows,
In bunches their foes go marching away;
Stopping at Publics along the roads
To wet their weazens and rest their loads.—
The evening breeze lifts away the smoke,
And the roar of the Rookery sinks to a croak,—
Croak, croak, half the night through,
About this battle of Rookieloo.
Comes to a close; and, with slaughtered crows,
In bunches their foes go marching away;
176
To wet their weazens and rest their loads.—
The evening breeze lifts away the smoke,
And the roar of the Rookery sinks to a croak,—
Croak, croak, half the night through,
About this battle of Rookieloo.
A few more days of golden June,
And the Rookery rises to famous tune.
The young that were spared from the fiery assault,
With full-fledged quill arise at will,
And tumble and wheel through the azure vault.
Both old and young let loose the tongue,
And lord! what a song of madcap glee:
For now their days are idle and long,
And every one a jubilee.
Up, up in the morning, up and away
To some chosen field to feed and play,
And home at night in gossiping flight
And daft delight of their merry day;
All fearless now of the treacherous gun,
Or lure of the wiliest mother's son;
For they scent his powder, see through his trick,
And know when a gun is a gun or a stick:
So a good wide berth they give to their foe,
Slanting aside with an easy glide,
And a fine contempt for all below.
And the Rookery rises to famous tune.
The young that were spared from the fiery assault,
With full-fledged quill arise at will,
And tumble and wheel through the azure vault.
Both old and young let loose the tongue,
And lord! what a song of madcap glee:
For now their days are idle and long,
And every one a jubilee.
Up, up in the morning, up and away
To some chosen field to feed and play,
And home at night in gossiping flight
And daft delight of their merry day;
All fearless now of the treacherous gun,
Or lure of the wiliest mother's son;
For they scent his powder, see through his trick,
And know when a gun is a gun or a stick:
So a good wide berth they give to their foe,
Slanting aside with an easy glide,
And a fine contempt for all below.
If they knew what an old-fashion'd love I bear
For them, I am sure they would not care
Though I sat up beside them in a tree
And took down all their history.
For I know they have something worth our ear,
Which all my life I have yearn'd to hear;
But woe is me! it may not be,
They never will let me come so near.
So this is all I may hear or see,
About the rooks and the Rookery.
For them, I am sure they would not care
Though I sat up beside them in a tree
177
For I know they have something worth our ear,
Which all my life I have yearn'd to hear;
But woe is me! it may not be,
They never will let me come so near.
So this is all I may hear or see,
About the rooks and the Rookery.
178
THE WEASEL'S CAIRN.
“They are varmints for money,” old Denis said,As he took off his hat and scratched his head,
Where he stood in the field with his foot on his spade,—
“Money they never in honesty made.”
“And where do they get it?” “Steal it, to be sure;
For a weasel will rob both rich and poor;
Steal from the cabin, the church or the hall,
Without any conscience for helpless or old,
And not for a hap'orth of use at all,
But just for the love of the silver and gold.
Wherever the miser may bury his store,—
In the garden three feet deep or more,
In a hole of the wall or under the floor,
Or behind the cross-beam over the door,
Hidden, however securely or dim,
It's known to the weasel as well as to him.—
Sometimes it lives in the miser's house,
In the crannied walls, like rat or mouse;
But rats and mice leave their cozy homes
When the bold little cunning weasel comes.
Or it worms its way through the mouldy thatch,
And up in the rafters keeps secret watch
179
To see where their money is hidden, you know.—
When the careful housewife counts her gear,
Half dead for fear of anyone near,
Stretch'd on a joist it leans its ear,
For the clink, clink, clink, and chink, chink, chink,
Is the sweetest music a weasel can hear.
Its little black diamonds gleam at the sight,
And its pretty white waistcoat heaves with delight:
And aye, as the housewife clink, clink, clinks,
That silver and gold shall be mine, it thinks.
Or perhaps, it lies crouch'd inside of the wall,
And peeps thro' a crevice so round and small,
That anyone catching the glance of its eye,
Takes it for the sheen of a blue-bottle fly.
Then the miser, thinking all safe and sound,
Creeps to his hoard, looking round and round,
Pausing and list'ning in horrible fear
At the thought of a footstep coming near,
Falls down, and worships his god in the pose;
But he little knows, he little knows
That the blue-bottle fly is the weasel's eye
Peering at him wherever he goes.”
“But, when does the weasel help itself,
And where keeps it all this ill-gotten pelf?—”
“Why, just at the gray of the morning, sir,
That sound sleeping hour when no one's astir.
Ay, then may the weasel be seen on the hearth,
A perfect wonder of playful mirth,
180
A bright gold coin it has stolen or found.
But, ere the red streaks light up the gray,
It nips up its guinea and scampers away,
Without e'en the faintest patter or noise,
And up through the walls to the place of its choice;
Or down through the floor to its crannied store,
Somewhere about the foundation-stone,
And drops its guinea among many more,
To lie unknown, long, long unknown,
Till all the folks are dead or away
To the Irishman's home in Amerikay;
When the poor old cabin is pull'd to the ground,
And the long hidden wealth of the weasel found,
As much as had kept them here at home
For generations and years to come.
You don't believe it, sir! By the lord,
It's truth I tell ye, every word,
And none knows the truth of it better than I;
Just listen a minute and I'll tell you why.
This very ground on which we stand—
Twenty acres of arable land,
Ten of old pasture, and ten of bog,
And five of gnarly woody scrog—
Five and forty acres all told
My grandfather bought with a weasel's gold.—
It's an old, old story, and it would not have done
In his day to tell it to everyone,
For fear of the treasure-trove, you know.
But all are dead, both women and men,
And in their graves an age ago.
In this very field, he rented it then—
On a sweet summer day as ever shone,
He was digging potatoes here alone;
And, raising his body to ease his bones,
He look'd across at yon cairn of stones,
The gathering of many a bygone day,
With moss and mould all green and gray,
And there he spied a weasel at play,
Out and in through cranny and seam,
And down the cairn like a jaggëd gleam
Of lightning in a leaden sky,
Or, leaving the cairn, it would scamper by,
And down the potato furrows pass,
Like a sunny brook through the meadow grass,
Now leaping, now lost to the watcher's eye;
Yet, ever and aye 'twould again return,
To one little hole in the stony cairn,
Where it hid for a while, then came peeping out,
Looking up and down and round about.
But once when it left, cried he, ‘By my soul,
I'll see what there is in the weasel's hole.’
So he ran to the spot, and with nimble stroke
Into its little castle broke,
Picked out the stones, and the mossy mould,
Deeper and deeper let in the light,
Till he reached the last chamber, and lord, what a sight
Of shining silver and gleaming gold!
He could do nothing but stand and gaze,
And his very heart stood still with amaze!
He gazed till he felt himself gazing blind;
But he heard the brush of the weasel behind,
And then, oh dear, oh dear what a sound
Of piteous misery and dismay
Pierced through that quiet summer day
When the weasel saw that its treasure was found!
It sprang with one leap to its golden heap,
Bewail'd and wrung its little fore-paws,
And then with one of its sharpest claws—
Would you believe it? it's past all belief!—
Ript up its belly from tail to throat,
Put off its skin like a cast-off coat,
Lay down in its flesh, and died with grief!
In his day to tell it to everyone,
For fear of the treasure-trove, you know.
181
And in their graves an age ago.
In this very field, he rented it then—
On a sweet summer day as ever shone,
He was digging potatoes here alone;
And, raising his body to ease his bones,
He look'd across at yon cairn of stones,
The gathering of many a bygone day,
With moss and mould all green and gray,
And there he spied a weasel at play,
Out and in through cranny and seam,
And down the cairn like a jaggëd gleam
Of lightning in a leaden sky,
Or, leaving the cairn, it would scamper by,
And down the potato furrows pass,
Like a sunny brook through the meadow grass,
Now leaping, now lost to the watcher's eye;
Yet, ever and aye 'twould again return,
To one little hole in the stony cairn,
Where it hid for a while, then came peeping out,
Looking up and down and round about.
But once when it left, cried he, ‘By my soul,
I'll see what there is in the weasel's hole.’
So he ran to the spot, and with nimble stroke
Into its little castle broke,
Picked out the stones, and the mossy mould,
Deeper and deeper let in the light,
Till he reached the last chamber, and lord, what a sight
Of shining silver and gleaming gold!
He could do nothing but stand and gaze,
182
He gazed till he felt himself gazing blind;
But he heard the brush of the weasel behind,
And then, oh dear, oh dear what a sound
Of piteous misery and dismay
Pierced through that quiet summer day
When the weasel saw that its treasure was found!
It sprang with one leap to its golden heap,
Bewail'd and wrung its little fore-paws,
And then with one of its sharpest claws—
Would you believe it? it's past all belief!—
Ript up its belly from tail to throat,
Put off its skin like a cast-off coat,
Lay down in its flesh, and died with grief!
It's beyond belief, but true for all that—
When he counted the money into his hat,
There were spade-ace guineas three hundred and five,
And ten pounds in silver, as I'm alive!
When he counted the money into his hat,
There were spade-ace guineas three hundred and five,
And ten pounds in silver, as I'm alive!
So he laid the weasel and its skin
Into the place where the money had lain,
Built the cairn all up again,
And pray'd for the honour'd dead within.
And unto this day man, woman and bairn
Give it the name of the ‘Weasel's Cairn.’”
Into the place where the money had lain,
Built the cairn all up again,
And pray'd for the honour'd dead within.
And unto this day man, woman and bairn
Give it the name of the ‘Weasel's Cairn.’”
183
THE LOTTERY TICKET.
John Skippangoe was footman to a squire,Willing and prompt as master could desire,
And oftentimes his faithful service got
Such recompense as all good service ought—
The kindly word, the patronising joke,
Which condescension in its turn awoke
Familiar reverence in the breast of John.
Full many gifts he gave him and anon
A ticket for the lottery, sure to gain—
The lottery of Frankfort-on-the-Maine.
But honest John, though prodigal of thanks,
Knew well his master's luck was all for blanks:
In truth, both John and squire knew well enough
The ticket was not worth a pinch of snuff.
But, one day, when the squire was snugly set
Over his breakfast, reading the Gazette,
His eyes fell carelessly upon the list
Of Frankfort prizes. Suddenly his fist
Came down upon the table with a thump
That made his egg out off the egg-cup jump:—
“Can I believe my eyes? No, no,—yet zounds!
It is John's ticket! eighty thousand pounds!
For years and years have I this lottery tried,
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The most unlucky dog may have his day,
But I, poor whelp, have given my turn away.
Had it but been a hundred pounds or so,
I could have bid my disappointment go;
I would have e'en congratulated John,
And sworn how glad I was that he had won.
But eighty thousand pounds all in a crack!
'Twere well I think to get my ticket back.—
No, no, not even a mint of money can
Outweigh the honour of a gentleman,
Whereas this breach of honour would distrain
The very worth of its unworthy gain.
John shall enjoy it; I will realise
More interest from his joy than from his prize.
And John's no common footman; I have seen
A dash of higher breeding in his mien—
A sort of gentleman in short; and Fate,
Having seen the same, bequeaths him an estate.”
Thus mused and mused the squire, till in the end
Poor John seem'd not his footman but his friend.
Such sudden wealth he thought as suddenly gave
The attributes a gentleman should have;
And, acting in the same becoming way,
Invited John to dine with him that day.
John marvell'd greatly how he could deserve
This honour, he whose business was to serve,
But stopp'd no fine-spun theory to draw,
For well he knew his master's word was law;
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John's only argument was to obey.
He knew their modes and manners just as well
As any of the quality could tell;
He knew the cut of collar, coat or vest,
And came to dinner in the very best;
So that, to judge of them by their attire,
You could not tell the footman from the squire.
It matters little how the squire had plann'd
To let his wife and daughter understand
John's new position; but their looks confess'd
He was no more their servant, but their guest.
The lady, ripen'd by long years and grief,
Was falling fast into the yellow leaf:
The daughter, though unwater'd by a tear,
Was falling just as fast into the sere,
And so, if all the truth must needs be told,
Was shelv'd as something that could not be sold.
Who knows but that the squire began to dream
Already of some matrimonial scheme?
A daughter ancient—and a footman rich—
Might well suggest the hymeneal hitch.
Nor does it matter how the dinner sped,
How John was drunk to, patronized and fed.
The viands and the wines went round galore,
His health was drunk a score of times and more,
As he some proper gentleman had been,
And much he wonder'd what it all could mean.
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At length the ladies curtsey and retire,
And John is left hobnobbing with the squire.
“Fill up your glass John; try those sugar'd plums;
Or there's some nuts to exercise your gums.
And, hearken John—believe me if you can—
You are in truth a perfect gentleman.”
And John is left hobnobbing with the squire.
“Fill up your glass John; try those sugar'd plums;
Or there's some nuts to exercise your gums.
And, hearken John—believe me if you can—
You are in truth a perfect gentleman.”
“True, sir, I've often heard your honour say
An honest man, a man that paid his way,
That stood his bets and never sold his vote,
Although reduced to one last threadbare coat,
Was still a gentleman.”
An honest man, a man that paid his way,
That stood his bets and never sold his vote,
Although reduced to one last threadbare coat,
Was still a gentleman.”
“Yes, yes, true, true;
But that's not what I mean; I say that you,
John Skippangoe, plain John, may now aspire
To dub yourself John Skippangoe, Esquire.”
But that's not what I mean; I say that you,
John Skippangoe, plain John, may now aspire
To dub yourself John Skippangoe, Esquire.”
“I've done my duty, sir, that's all I know;
And if it be your will that I must go,
I cannot help it; but, at least, you'll give
Me back my character—a man must live.”
And if it be your will that I must go,
I cannot help it; but, at least, you'll give
Me back my character—a man must live.”
“Your character! pooh, pooh—who spoke of going?
But certainly your character's worth knowing:
A man of most uncommon common sense,
Preserving honour without wasting pence;
An instinct that requires no settled plan,
But does the stroke that makes the prosperous man,
And takes the world for what it really is;
As fit to be my master as I his.”
But certainly your character's worth knowing:
A man of most uncommon common sense,
Preserving honour without wasting pence;
An instinct that requires no settled plan,
But does the stroke that makes the prosperous man,
And takes the world for what it really is;
As fit to be my master as I his.”
“Yes, yes, your honour, I can take a jest;
But, since you've made me in some sort your guest,
I'd be so bold as ask you how it comes
That you and I should meet like equal chums?”
But, since you've made me in some sort your guest,
I'd be so bold as ask you how it comes
That you and I should meet like equal chums?”
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“Because we are equal, both in means and mind;
Your wisdom have I proved, and now I find
That you are even wealthier than wise;
For, hark ye John, your ticket's won a prize
Of eighty thousand pounds!”
Your wisdom have I proved, and now I find
That you are even wealthier than wise;
For, hark ye John, your ticket's won a prize
Of eighty thousand pounds!”
“Alas, alas,”
Cried John, “that such a thing should come to pass!”
Then fumbled in his pockets, pulled his hair,
And on his master fixed a stupid stare.
Cried John, “that such a thing should come to pass!”
Then fumbled in his pockets, pulled his hair,
And on his master fixed a stupid stare.
“Why, what's the matter? Do you not rejoice?
Your ticket—is it lost? or but your voice?
Confound you, what's the matter? speak, man speak!”
Your ticket—is it lost? or but your voice?
Confound you, what's the matter? speak, man speak!”
John scratch'd his head and said, “One night last week,
While waiting for you at the Opera door,
I dropt into the Bull with two-three more—
All servants, sir—and having no money handy,
I swapt my ticket for a glass of brandy.”
While waiting for you at the Opera door,
I dropt into the Bull with two-three more—
All servants, sir—and having no money handy,
I swapt my ticket for a glass of brandy.”
“O fool! O stupid and enormous ass!
Your ticket—eighty thousand—for a glass!
You blockhead, simpleton, you worse than knave—
Fate made you master, Folly keeps you slave:
Go from my presence!”—and, to seal his doom,
His furious master kick'd him from the room.
Your ticket—eighty thousand—for a glass!
You blockhead, simpleton, you worse than knave—
Fate made you master, Folly keeps you slave:
Go from my presence!”—and, to seal his doom,
His furious master kick'd him from the room.
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THE WIDOW AND THE PRIEST.
Outside our village, up within a croft,Shelter'd from all the winds except the soft
Sweet clover breath that comes out of the west,
There lived a widow in a lonely nest—
A clay-built cottage in against a bank,
Choked up with brambles, docks and nettles rank;
Before the door a small potato bed,
A bush or two of roses, white and red,
Some herbs we used to know in days of old,
As rue, and thyme, and balm and marigold;
And one tall willow, in whose wiry top
A pair of pyets came to jibe and hop:
A sleepy place but for the little stream
That brattled through the croft and broke its dream.
For thirty years of lonely widow-hood
She strove to make ends meet as best she could,
Her chief support one small milk-cow that housed
Within a little byre at night, and browsed
All day among the whins, or took a turn
About the herby borders of the burn:
And if she straggled from the widow's ken
A gentle calling brought her back again.
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The little beast would at the door be found,
Crooning of well-fill'd udders. Little need
The widow had for watching, and indeed
Long hours within the willow shade would sit,
Or on some hillock, in the sun, and knit
The coarse gray woollen stockings, which she sold
About the village when the days grew cold.—
This, with her scanty butter, milk and cheese,
Made up her little stock-in-trade: and these
Found ready market; for 'twas thought and said,
The natural herbs whereon her cow was fed
Gave to the milk rare virtues, and in turn
The products of her chizzard and her churn.
Thus did she by her merchandise provide
The livelihood that never is denied
To honest, careful labour, and could give
A portion to the priest, as well as live.
But here it was her brooding trouble lay;
For left alone all thro' the thoughtful day,
With priestly terrors rankling in her brain,
And penal fears, and everlasting pain,
She conjured up a load of outward sin
Far more than one might carry, and within
A poor, weak, helpless soul. “Alas!” cried she,
“The holy Jesus never comes to me,
To loose me from this burden of my cares;
Nor will, save thro' a world of costly pray'rs:
And what can my small pittance do to bring
A poor old woman to her Lord and King!”
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While thus she mourn'd one day, her priest, as oft
It was his wont to do, came up the croft.
It was his wont to do, came up the croft.
“O, reverend father, Heaven's own peace and grace
Thou bearest with thee, shining in thy face!
Grant only that their sunshine fall on me,
And make me strong, yet thou no weaker be.”
“Good woman, I have pray'd for thee, and sure
Thou bearest with thee, shining in thy face!
Grant only that their sunshine fall on me,
And make me strong, yet thou no weaker be.”
Such loud and fervid pray'rs for one so poor
Never went up before. Peter and Paul,
The powerfullest among the older saints, and all
The weightiest of the new, have been implored
That thou to Christian comfort be restored.”
“Ah, woe is me! so many holy saints
To strengthen me, and yet my poor heart faints
Beneath its load! Good father, what beside
Is in thy power? Can nothing else be tried?”
“No, nothing else: I have already given
Thy money's worth in daily pray'rs to Heaven,
And, out of charity, some aves more,
For which I ask no pay.”
Thy money's worth in daily pray'rs to Heaven,
And, out of charity, some aves more,
For which I ask no pay.”
“And yet no door
Will open! Like a beggar I must wait,
Pleading, with all my rags, outside the gate!
Will no good saint take pity? Would a pray'r
To God's own mother, Mary—”
Will open! Like a beggar I must wait,
Pleading, with all my rags, outside the gate!
Will no good saint take pity? Would a pray'r
To God's own mother, Mary—”
“Woman, forbear!
Think'st thou a person of thy mean estate
Need look for what we grant but to the great!
No, no. 'Tis true the Virgin is alone,
Of all heaven's holy hierarchy, the one
Through whom an intercession could not fail;
But what can thy small worldly means avail?”
“Ah, reverend father, in good Mary's sight
Think'st thou a person of thy mean estate
Need look for what we grant but to the great!
No, no. 'Tis true the Virgin is alone,
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Through whom an intercession could not fail;
But what can thy small worldly means avail?”
Perhaps my little, like the widow's mite,
Would find much favour: try, good father, try;
And if great faith be needed, that have I.”
“Great faith is needed; but the price is much
Above thy means, the intercession such
As only wealth indulges in. Yet thou,
I just bethink me, hast a good milk cow—
And what are worldly goods to sins forgiven,
A cleansëd heart, a place secured in heaven?
What profits it a man to gain the whole
Of earth, if, gaining that, he lose his soul?
And, earth possessing, it were well he gave
All up, if thereby he his soul could save.”
Some while the widow sat without a word—
Although her breast with much unrest was stirr'd—
Brooding, with downcast eyes and thoughtful brow,
Between her soul's salvation and her cow;
And when she spoke 'twas with a sigh:—
“Alas!
We know not what a day may bring to pass:
Why need we set our hearts on worldly gear,
And death, that severs us and it, so near—
So ever near that any footslip may
From all our clinging hoards snatch us away!
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O, reverend father, thou shalt have my cow.
But pray for me to Mary, Mother in Heaven,
On bended knees, till I am wholly shriven.”
It was agreed that he should pray and pray,
And keep the courts of heaven, both night and day,
For one whole week, with supplications plied—
Enough to purify a soul, though dyed
As black as sin itself—far more than lift
Her burden off, and give her peaceful shrift.—
All that was needed on both sides was this—
Unbounded faith on hers, fervour on his.
And for the rest, the cow might nibble there,
About the croft, until the Lammas fair,
A fortnight hence, when he would have her sold.
Meanwhile the widow's grief grew manifold.
If all those holy saints and all those pray'rs
Have fail'd to rid her of her sinful cares,
How great must these now be! So greatly more
Than ever she had dreamt they were before,
That even the Virgin's interceding word
Unto the bar of Heaven may rise unheard!
And to her crowding sorrows she has now
To add the speedy parting with her cow:—
“Alas! alas! the world has never seen
Such friends, poor Crum, as thou and I have been.
And must we part at last! And must we part—
To save my soul—ay, ay—but break my heart!”
193
Into its eyes, until she thought a haze
Rose from their deeps and gather'd in a tear;
And as the day grew nearer and more near
When they must part, her fondness for the beast,
Her fondness and her kindness, still increased.—
She moved beside it both by burn and brake,
And sadly shared with it her oaten cake.
Now when the week of prayers was at an end,
Up through the croft the priest was seen to wend,
And coming on the widow and her cow,
“Woman,” said he, “how is it with thee now?”
“No better, reverend father, none, but worse;
And all my life seems blacken'd with some curse
That even holy church has not the power,
I fear, to charm away, or priest to scour.
O, reverend father, hast thou pray'd thy best?”
“Good woman, I perceive thy great unrest
Arises from a want of faith as great.
For one whole week I've pray'd, early and late,
For thee and thee alone, and am assured
Thy soul's salvation is right well secured.
Believe it, just believe it is, and lo!
That very instant thou wilt find it so.
This want of faith, my woman, is thy hell,—
Yes, think all well with thee, and all is well.—”
And ere she well knew what to think or say,
194
While, in a trance of curious, mute surprise,
Up through the croft she track'd him with her eyes,
Beyond the knolls till through the upland gap
His long, black breezy skirts were seen to flap.
And then she sank into her own sad breast,
As to the last extremity distress'd,
All outward trust cut off, the last hope gone,
Her sole reliance in herself alone.
And long she brooded over her despair:—
“If I have but to think his week of prayer
Has brought me peace from Heaven, why might I not
Myself raise comfort by the power of thought?
My thinking or his praying—which, ay which,
It matters not. If I could think me rich,
Believe myself a duchess or a queen,
I should not feel that I am poor and mean;
If I can think away my sins, what need
Of priest or holy church to intercede?”
But while she reason'd thus, the priest's man came,
With quick official strides. Said he, “Old dame,
I'm come to fetch the cow.” She look'd him—Nay!
“Go back to him that sent thee, man, and say
He's got the cow: if not, be his the blame;
Tell him to think he has—it's all the same!”
And there was such commanding in her look
As plainly told the man that she could brook
No parley with him, so he turned and left.
Alone again, she felt as one bereft
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'Twere wise to break with priest and church together;
“For though they fail'd to rid me of my grief,
The thought that yet they would, gave some relief;
But, now I've cast them off, I see their worth,
And feel the desolation of this earth.”
Her eyes fell on the damp earth where she stood,
And there a daisy in sweet solitude
Was meekly folding to the setting sun,
And all around it not another one.
Its loneliness so touch'd her heart that she
Let go her sorrow, and on bended knee
Gazed deep into the being of the flower,
And seem'd its sweet existence to devour:
“Dear God, dear God, what need have I to doubt
Thy far-descending care, which leaves not out
Even this lowly daisy? Dear, dear, look!
Within its leaves a spray-drop from the brook
Gleams like a star; Thy sun that rules the day
E'en stoops to glorify a drop of spray!
O, nothing is too lowly for Thy light,
Nor any soul unworthy in Thy sight.
If this poor daisy, looking to the sky,
Is dower'd with such radiance, may not I,
By looking unto Thee, O God, receive
The spirit, at whose touch all troubles leave?
When Thou thyself didst walk this earth, God-Christ,
'Twas not the rich man, not the learned priest
That got Thy benedictions, but the poor;
Yea, even those that begg'd from door to door,
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If they but kneel'd unto thee and confess'd
Their sins, as I do now, they rose up pure—
Lord of the lowly, thou! friend of the poor!”
While thus she kneel'd, she seem'd to look right thro'
This frame of earth that hides from mortal view
The real world behind; and when she came
Back to her common self, the glori-flame
In which departed spirits, as 'tis said,
And all angelic beings are array'd,
Came flickering with her, as if she had been
Within the unseen world behind the scene.
She rose with such meek majesty and grace
As though she had seen Jesus face to face,
And softly to her dumb companion talk'd,
Patting its neck as side by side they walk'd
Along the croft into their clay-built home,
Where never more the priest was known to come.
208
SEVEN CHURCHES OF CLONMACNOISE.
There's a place in the middle of Ireland called
Seven Churches of Clonmacnoise—
As noisy a place as ever squalled,
If the Churches have each a different voice.
I never was there myself, or mayhap
I'd say something authentic of my own,
Only, I see the place on the map,
Some miles on the south side of Athlone;
And it strikes me, as the name I read,
That it must be a very queer place indeed.
Seven Churches of Clonmacnoise—
As noisy a place as ever squalled,
If the Churches have each a different voice.
I never was there myself, or mayhap
I'd say something authentic of my own,
Only, I see the place on the map,
Some miles on the south side of Athlone;
And it strikes me, as the name I read,
That it must be a very queer place indeed.
In what year of our Lord did it get such a name?
When the ranting protestant sects began?
Or farther back, when St. Patrick came,
And fashioned the heathen on the Roman plan?
And for what good reason was such a name given?
Did he actually seven churches raise?
Was the necromantic number seven
Supposed to be all essential for praise?
No; Patrick had too much equipoise
To pitch the whole seven at Clonmacnoise.
When the ranting protestant sects began?
Or farther back, when St. Patrick came,
And fashioned the heathen on the Roman plan?
And for what good reason was such a name given?
Did he actually seven churches raise?
Was the necromantic number seven
Supposed to be all essential for praise?
No; Patrick had too much equipoise
To pitch the whole seven at Clonmacnoise.
209
I rather think place and name arose
Subsequent to Luther, Calvin and Knox—
Three of the Pope's most terrible foes,
Who broke up his fold into many flocks.
Then seven of the sects, for all one knows,
Had made their way to this central spot,
And seven churches, we may suppose;
Might then be built as well as not.
Hence Clonmacnoise when the noisy seven
Sang each in a different key to Heaven.
Subsequent to Luther, Calvin and Knox—
Three of the Pope's most terrible foes,
Who broke up his fold into many flocks.
Then seven of the sects, for all one knows,
Had made their way to this central spot,
And seven churches, we may suppose;
Might then be built as well as not.
Hence Clonmacnoise when the noisy seven
Sang each in a different key to Heaven.
210
THE NEGLECTED CANARY.
Overhead, in the lattice high,
Our little golden songster hung,
Singing, piping merrily,
With dulcet throat and clipping tongue;
Singing from the peep of morning
To the evening's closing eye;
When the sun in blue was burning,
Or when clouds shut out the sky;
Foul or fair, morn, eve, or noon,
Its little pipe was still in tune.
Our little golden songster hung,
Singing, piping merrily,
With dulcet throat and clipping tongue;
Singing from the peep of morning
To the evening's closing eye;
When the sun in blue was burning,
Or when clouds shut out the sky;
Foul or fair, morn, eve, or noon,
Its little pipe was still in tune.
Its breast was fill'd with fairy shells
That gave sweet echo to its note,
And strings of tiny silver bells
Rang with the pulsings of its throat;
Song all through its restless frame,
Its very limbs were warbling strings;
I well believe that music came
E'en from the tippings of its wings;
Piping early, late and long,
Mad with joy, and drunk with song!
O, welcome to thy little store,
Thy song repays it o'er and o'er.
That gave sweet echo to its note,
And strings of tiny silver bells
Rang with the pulsings of its throat;
Song all through its restless frame,
Its very limbs were warbling strings;
I well believe that music came
E'en from the tippings of its wings;
Piping early, late and long,
Mad with joy, and drunk with song!
O, welcome to thy little store,
Thy song repays it o'er and o'er.
211
But playful June brought holidays,
And bade our city hearts prepare
To leave a while our beaten ways
For sandy shore and breezy air.
Some busy days the needles flew,
And, though no special heed it drew,
Our warbler up above us there
Was each one's joy—but no one's care.—
The noise of preparation rang
From room to room, from head to head,
Until our little minstrel sang
Almost unheeded, and—unfed;
Singing on with trustful lay,
Piping through the livelong day!
And bade our city hearts prepare
To leave a while our beaten ways
For sandy shore and breezy air.
Some busy days the needles flew,
And, though no special heed it drew,
Our warbler up above us there
Was each one's joy—but no one's care.—
The noise of preparation rang
From room to room, from head to head,
Until our little minstrel sang
Almost unheeded, and—unfed;
Singing on with trustful lay,
Piping through the livelong day!
But how it spared its ebbing well,
Or how eked out its lessening meal,
We may but guess, we cannot tell—
We only think, and sadly feel.
It saw the kittens on the floor
Regaled with plenty from our board;
It saw the crumbs swept from our door,
Feeding the sparrows in the yard.
Ah, were those prison wires away,
And were it only free as they!
Or how eked out its lessening meal,
We may but guess, we cannot tell—
We only think, and sadly feel.
It saw the kittens on the floor
Regaled with plenty from our board;
It saw the crumbs swept from our door,
Feeding the sparrows in the yard.
Ah, were those prison wires away,
And were it only free as they!
We know not if its song grew weak
As thirst and hunger gnaw'd apace;
And when to the accustom'd place,
It came its food or drink to seek,
We cannot tell if bleak despair
Rose in its breast when none was there!
Or whether, springing to its perch,
It piped again the merry strain,
Alighting to renew its search—
Search and sing again, again:
We cannot tell, our busy brains
Unconsciously drank in its strains;
Nor missed at morning, noon, or night,
The sweet unrecognised delight.
As thirst and hunger gnaw'd apace;
And when to the accustom'd place,
It came its food or drink to seek,
212
Rose in its breast when none was there!
Or whether, springing to its perch,
It piped again the merry strain,
Alighting to renew its search—
Search and sing again, again:
We cannot tell, our busy brains
Unconsciously drank in its strains;
Nor missed at morning, noon, or night,
The sweet unrecognised delight.
But when our day to leave came round,
“Ah! who will tend the bird?” we said.
“Chirp, chirp! sweet, sweet!—Alas! no sound
Of wing or note! And is it fled?”
We look'd into the cage, and found
Our little minstrel cold and dead!
And scatter'd on its sanded floor
The chaffy remnants of its store.
The last drop in its well was drain'd,
And not a grain of seed remain'd.
“Ah! who will tend the bird?” we said.
“Chirp, chirp! sweet, sweet!—Alas! no sound
Of wing or note! And is it fled?”
We look'd into the cage, and found
Our little minstrel cold and dead!
And scatter'd on its sanded floor
The chaffy remnants of its store.
The last drop in its well was drain'd,
And not a grain of seed remain'd.
We laid it in a little grave,
And wonder'd how so small a thing
Had ever piped the merry stave
That made our hearts and household ring.
Surely it was not this that sung,
But something that has pass'd away—
The life that ran through limb and tongue—
Ay, call it spirit, if we may;
Which haply in some other sphere
Repeats the song that charm'd us here.
For life is sacred—great and small,—
And He that notes the sparrow's fall
May keep a higher home for all.
And wonder'd how so small a thing
Had ever piped the merry stave
That made our hearts and household ring.
Surely it was not this that sung,
But something that has pass'd away—
The life that ran through limb and tongue—
Ay, call it spirit, if we may;
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Repeats the song that charm'd us here.
For life is sacred—great and small,—
And He that notes the sparrow's fall
May keep a higher home for all.
THE LAIRD OF BRETHERTON.
The Laird of Bretherton lives in the north,
Far, far up in the north countrie,
Beyond the Tweed, the Clyde and the Forth,
Even Beyond the Tay and the Dee;
In a green sunny glen,
Almost out of our ken,
And a somewhat mysterious man is he.
Far, far up in the north countrie,
Beyond the Tweed, the Clyde and the Forth,
Even Beyond the Tay and the Dee;
In a green sunny glen,
Almost out of our ken,
And a somewhat mysterious man is he.
Children or wife he never knew—
His only companion a big tame goose:
At the jambs of the fireside sit these two—
He silent and thoughtful, it silent and croose;
And whether his thought
Be something or nought,
He's at least what the Scotch call “unco douce.”
His only companion a big tame goose:
At the jambs of the fireside sit these two—
He silent and thoughtful, it silent and croose;
And whether his thought
Be something or nought,
He's at least what the Scotch call “unco douce.”
214
To gentle or simple he seldom speaks
More than the syllable no or ay;
And often his tongue lies silent for weeks,
Unless when the goose gives a cackling cry:
Then a guttural note
Wells up in his throat,
But unknown the nature of his reply.
More than the syllable no or ay;
And often his tongue lies silent for weeks,
Unless when the goose gives a cackling cry:
Then a guttural note
Wells up in his throat,
But unknown the nature of his reply.
He can read, but he handles never a book;
As for papers they rarely come up the glen,
And never at all to his chimla nook—
For what are to him the doings of men?
They may love, they may hate,
They may legislate,—
He cares not a button how or when.
As for papers they rarely come up the glen,
And never at all to his chimla nook—
For what are to him the doings of men?
They may love, they may hate,
They may legislate,—
He cares not a button how or when.
A grown-up man was he when they pass'd
The ten-pound bill of '32;
Household suffrage has come at last,
Yet his manhood seems but half gone through.
The whole of the time
He's been in his prime,
But with their Reform had nothing to do.
The ten-pound bill of '32;
Household suffrage has come at last,
Yet his manhood seems but half gone through.
The whole of the time
He's been in his prime,
But with their Reform had nothing to do.
And the mighty battles have run their day—
Alma and misty Inkermann,
And the black revolt in India,
Where innocent blood in torrents ran,
And the gory well
Remains to tell
The dire success of a traitor's plan.
Alma and misty Inkermann,
And the black revolt in India,
Where innocent blood in torrents ran,
And the gory well
Remains to tell
The dire success of a traitor's plan.
215
And Solferino's terrific fray,
Where lips of iron decided fates;
The sharp week's war in Germany;
And the grapple of death in the Western States,
When the world look'd on,
From Charleston
To Richmond's slowly yielding gates.
Where lips of iron decided fates;
The sharp week's war in Germany;
And the grapple of death in the Western States,
When the world look'd on,
From Charleston
To Richmond's slowly yielding gates.
Great reputations have gone to the deuce,
And small ones come to immortal fame;
But what to Bretherton and his goose
How the one class went or the other came?
No requiem
Ever comes to them,
Or blatant sound of a living name.
And small ones come to immortal fame;
But what to Bretherton and his goose
How the one class went or the other came?
No requiem
Ever comes to them,
Or blatant sound of a living name.
They sit at the fire, the goose and the laird,
And he seems to be thinking hard and deep.
'Tween the goose and the fire his looks are shared;
The goose sits churming half asleep;
The tongues of fire
Lick higher, higher,
And with the smoke up the chimney leap.
And he seems to be thinking hard and deep.
'Tween the goose and the fire his looks are shared;
The goose sits churming half asleep;
The tongues of fire
Lick higher, higher,
And with the smoke up the chimney leap.
He seems to delight in the churming goose,
And he seems to enjoy the curling reek;
To the tongues that play so fast and loose,
He listens, and thinks he can hear them speak:
No doubt they do,
And he knows too
That language older than Latin or Greek.
And he seems to enjoy the curling reek;
To the tongues that play so fast and loose,
He listens, and thinks he can hear them speak:
No doubt they do,
And he knows too
That language older than Latin or Greek.
216
But list when the chimney begins to growl,
And the winds break out in their highest key,
And the glen is alive with whoop and howl,
All the spirits of air in jubilee,—
O then may be heard
The goose and the laird
Enjoying it all with a chuckling glee.
And the winds break out in their highest key,
And the glen is alive with whoop and howl,
All the spirits of air in jubilee,—
O then may be heard
The goose and the laird
Enjoying it all with a chuckling glee.
Or see them on sky-blue summer days,
When the laird's loved silence is all supreme,
And the bee on its tiny bugle plays
To deepen the glen in its noonday dream;
And the sheep are still,
In the shade of the hill,
And the tail-tossing cows knee-deep in the stream.
When the laird's loved silence is all supreme,
And the bee on its tiny bugle plays
To deepen the glen in its noonday dream;
And the sheep are still,
In the shade of the hill,
And the tail-tossing cows knee-deep in the stream.
They leave their seats on the sleepy hearthstone,
And out to the drowsier braes they come,
Or, like creeping mist up the whinny loan,
They slowly wander a mile from home,
List'ning at times
To the grasshoppers' rhymes,
That spin in the grass their monotonous thrum.
And out to the drowsier braes they come,
Or, like creeping mist up the whinny loan,
They slowly wander a mile from home,
List'ning at times
To the grasshoppers' rhymes,
That spin in the grass their monotonous thrum.
The laird sits down on the mossy banks,
The goose goes nibbling the grass in the loan.
He snuffs the whins with half-uttered thanks,
Or a blue-bell peeps by the side of a stone,
And he kneels to gaze,
His eyes in a haze,
And his thoughts—but his thoughts remain his own.
The goose goes nibbling the grass in the loan.
He snuffs the whins with half-uttered thanks,
Or a blue-bell peeps by the side of a stone,
And he kneels to gaze,
His eyes in a haze,
And his thoughts—but his thoughts remain his own.
217
Who knows but that this quiet man—
To all our worldly ways so blind—
Can see some farther than others can
Into the world this world behind,
And through the cell
Of the little blue-bell,
And into the very soul of the wind?
To all our worldly ways so blind—
Can see some farther than others can
Into the world this world behind,
And through the cell
Of the little blue-bell,
And into the very soul of the wind?
And knowing all men are geese, his choice
Is a goose that pretends to be nothing more.
He leaves the rest to their scramble and noise,
Their empty pretensions and blustering roar;—
Their risings and fallings,
Professions and callings,
An unheard sea on an unseen shore.
Is a goose that pretends to be nothing more.
He leaves the rest to their scramble and noise,
Their empty pretensions and blustering roar;—
Their risings and fallings,
Professions and callings,
An unheard sea on an unseen shore.
218
A CHRISTMAS CAROL.
Christmas, come! and ere you go,
Give us a taste of Christmas weather—
Tinkling ice or silent snow,
Wind and hail, or all together.—
Days of drizzle, quit the scene,
And let the snow-clad monarch enter:
Christmas, come, and bring us Winter,
Crowned with hollies, red and green.
Give us a taste of Christmas weather—
Tinkling ice or silent snow,
Wind and hail, or all together.—
Days of drizzle, quit the scene,
And let the snow-clad monarch enter:
Christmas, come, and bring us Winter,
Crowned with hollies, red and green.
Spread upon the earth's blacken'd floor
Your carpet white with gleaming spangles;
Bring the robin to our door;
Fringe the eaves with icy tangles;
On the shrubs hang coral chains;
Paint the forests in the panes;
From the apple-tree or oak,
Bring a bunch of mistletoe;
And pass around the song and joke,
Ere you go, ere you go.
Your carpet white with gleaming spangles;
Bring the robin to our door;
Fringe the eaves with icy tangles;
On the shrubs hang coral chains;
Paint the forests in the panes;
From the apple-tree or oak,
Bring a bunch of mistletoe;
And pass around the song and joke,
Ere you go, ere you go.
Pile the logs upon the hearth;
Warm our hearts, and make us merry,
And further to increase our mirth,
Fill the cups with elderberry.
Read us tales of ghostly awe
Out of Extra Double Numbers,
Until the fireside listeners draw
Closer round the crackling embers.
Warm our hearts, and make us merry,
And further to increase our mirth,
Fill the cups with elderberry.
219
Out of Extra Double Numbers,
Until the fireside listeners draw
Closer round the crackling embers.
But, while cosily we sit,
Touch our hearts, lest we forget
The shivering singers in the snow;
They only ask what we can spare—
A little of our Christmas fare:
Freely give and let them go.
Take their simple benediction;
And as they go onward singing,
Let us hear the mingled ringing
Of the joyful city bells,
Chiming with their song that tells
The marvel of the Crucifixion.
Touch our hearts, lest we forget
The shivering singers in the snow;
They only ask what we can spare—
A little of our Christmas fare:
Freely give and let them go.
Take their simple benediction;
And as they go onward singing,
Let us hear the mingled ringing
Of the joyful city bells,
Chiming with their song that tells
The marvel of the Crucifixion.
Christmas, come! and ere you go,
Lead us to the dying year;
Lying there beside his bier,
Conning o'er his weal and woe,
And his many faults confessing.
All past life feels weak we know.
But let us kneel and get his blessing
Ere he go, ere he go.
Lead us to the dying year;
Lying there beside his bier,
Conning o'er his weal and woe,
And his many faults confessing.
All past life feels weak we know.
But let us kneel and get his blessing
Ere he go, ere he go.
220
A' BURDENS ARE LICHT, EXCEPT TO THE BEARER.
Wi' handfuls o' hardships and heartfuls o' care,
Guidwife, you and I ha'e a hantle to bear,
We've scrimpit an' clootit to mak baith ends meet,
Yet for a', there's but little between's and the street.
There's something far wrang whan the like o' us want,
And plenty for Idleness, Quack'ry, and Cant.
The fat o' the land is enjoy'd by sic gentry,
While hard handed Wark has a beggarly pantry.
Guidwife, you and I ha'e a hantle to bear,
We've scrimpit an' clootit to mak baith ends meet,
Yet for a', there's but little between's and the street.
There's something far wrang whan the like o' us want,
And plenty for Idleness, Quack'ry, and Cant.
The fat o' the land is enjoy'd by sic gentry,
While hard handed Wark has a beggarly pantry.
Guidman, we ha'e troubles and hardships enew,
But we've comforts and joys neither little nor few.
We gree weel thegither, our bare leggit weans
Are lichtsome as linties and sturdy as stanes:
Hard wark and sound sleep, a clear conscience and peace;
And richly we dine when guid health says the grace.
Awa' wi' your envy o' lots that look fairer—
A' burdens are licht, except to the bearer.
But we've comforts and joys neither little nor few.
We gree weel thegither, our bare leggit weans
Are lichtsome as linties and sturdy as stanes:
Hard wark and sound sleep, a clear conscience and peace;
And richly we dine when guid health says the grace.
Awa' wi' your envy o' lots that look fairer—
A' burdens are licht, except to the bearer.
But think o' your thousands exempt frae a' toil,
The heirs o' the siller, the lords o' the soil;
Your limbs o' the law, wi' a scart o' the pen
Each makin' as muckle's wad sair ony ten;
Your parsons, whase heaviest wark is to speak,
And that, too, for only ae day in the week;
Your doctors, your merchants, your traders and tricksters,
That live by their lees and their villainous mixtures!
The heirs o' the siller, the lords o' the soil;
Your limbs o' the law, wi' a scart o' the pen
Each makin' as muckle's wad sair ony ten;
221
And that, too, for only ae day in the week;
Your doctors, your merchants, your traders and tricksters,
That live by their lees and their villainous mixtures!
The last I wad envy's the rich idle crew,
For the weariest labour is—naething to do;
Nor wad I the lawyer, though cramm'd be his purse,
Ilk penny that fills it is paid wi' a curse:
The parson's hard set for his seventh day's scrieve,
And aften maun preach what he canna believe:
Wi' doctor and dealer, Death and Debt deal nae fairer:—
A' burdens are licht, except to the bearer.
For the weariest labour is—naething to do;
Nor wad I the lawyer, though cramm'd be his purse,
Ilk penny that fills it is paid wi' a curse:
The parson's hard set for his seventh day's scrieve,
And aften maun preach what he canna believe:
Wi' doctor and dealer, Death and Debt deal nae fairer:—
A' burdens are licht, except to the bearer.
Ay, ay, but to slave frae the dawn to the dark,
And aften denied e'en the curse o' hard wark;
Ilka day eatin' up what the ither has won,
Wi' nocht to fa' back or look forrad upon;
Yet plenty for a' in the lap o' the earth,
To whilk we've a richt by the charter o' birth!
It's hard to be borne, and wrang to defend it;—
We shouldna put up wi't—plain Justice cries “mend it!”
And aften denied e'en the curse o' hard wark;
Ilka day eatin' up what the ither has won,
Wi' nocht to fa' back or look forrad upon;
Yet plenty for a' in the lap o' the earth,
To whilk we've a richt by the charter o' birth!
It's hard to be borne, and wrang to defend it;—
We shouldna put up wi't—plain Justice cries “mend it!”
It's mended already—ay mair than we ken;
The troubles o' life are the makin' o' men:
Ilk ane gets his share, and what matter the kind,
Be this through the body or that through the mind.
Ah, mony's the licht-seemin' heart on the road,
Wad part wi' its pack for your wearisome load.
The mair we repeat it, the proverb grows clearer—
A' burdens are licht, except to the bearer.
The troubles o' life are the makin' o' men:
Ilk ane gets his share, and what matter the kind,
Be this through the body or that through the mind.
Ah, mony's the licht-seemin' heart on the road,
Wad part wi' its pack for your wearisome load.
The mair we repeat it, the proverb grows clearer—
A' burdens are licht, except to the bearer.
222
DRUMM'D OUT.
The never a trade at all had I been,
But as proper a lad as could be seen,
So I 'listed for to serve the Queen
In the Seventy-second Regiment.
But as proper a lad as could be seen,
So I 'listed for to serve the Queen
In the Seventy-second Regiment.
But soon I tired of sodger play,
And being the worse of drink one day,
I cut my stick and ran away
From the Seventy-second Regiment.
And being the worse of drink one day,
I cut my stick and ran away
From the Seventy-second Regiment.
The redcoats had me in a crack,
They gave me fifty on the back,
Which, being my first, was a very small whack
For the Seventy-second Regiment.
They gave me fifty on the back,
Which, being my first, was a very small whack
For the Seventy-second Regiment.
I tried the same game on once more,
But they hauled me back, as they did before,
And they doubled my punishment three times o'er,
Did the Seventy-second Regiment.
But they hauled me back, as they did before,
And they doubled my punishment three times o'er,
Did the Seventy-second Regiment.
Of picking and stealing I had the knack,
And in using my fingers I was not slack,
But soon it became a well-known fac'
In the Seventy-second Regiment.
And in using my fingers I was not slack,
But soon it became a well-known fac'
In the Seventy-second Regiment.
223
Desertion, drink, and thieverie,
They played the hangi-ment with me,
Likewise disgraced her Majestie,
And the Seventy-second Regiment.
They played the hangi-ment with me,
Likewise disgraced her Majestie,
And the Seventy-second Regiment.
They tried the Cat, on my well-tann'd skin,
They tried me with prison discipline;
But they saw that I did not care a pin
For the Seventy-second Regiment.
They tried me with prison discipline;
But they saw that I did not care a pin
For the Seventy-second Regiment.
So the facings off my coat they tore,
And turned it round with the tails before,
Then marched me down to the barrack door,
And kicked me out of the Regiment.
And turned it round with the tails before,
Then marched me down to the barrack door,
And kicked me out of the Regiment.
They played the “Rogue's March” all the way,
On a cracked old fife that would hardly play;
With tootle-teetle-toot, and r-r-r-r-rummy-dummy day
They drumm'd me out of the Regiment.
On a cracked old fife that would hardly play;
With tootle-teetle-toot, and r-r-r-r-rummy-dummy day
They drumm'd me out of the Regiment.
Now the case stands thus, and thus it stands—
I have no trade within my hands,
And live by breaking the ten commands,
Since they drumm'd me out of the Regiment.
I have no trade within my hands,
And live by breaking the ten commands,
Since they drumm'd me out of the Regiment.
I ply my craft both night and day,
I do not fear the face of clay,
The devil himself, or Botany Bay,
Or the Seventy-second Regiment.
I do not fear the face of clay,
The devil himself, or Botany Bay,
Or the Seventy-second Regiment.
228
LONDON.
To live in London was my young wood-dream—London, where all the books come from, the lode
That draws into its centre from all points
The bright steel of the world; where Shakspere wrote,
And Eastcheap is, with all its memories
Of gossip Quickly, Falstaff and Prince Hal;
Where are the very stones that Milton trod,
And Johnson, Garrick, Goldsmith and the rest;
Where even now, our Dickens builds a shrine
That pilgrims thro' all time will come to see;
London! whose street names breathe such home to all:
Cheapside, the Strand, Fleet Street and Ludgate-hill,
Each name a very story in itself.
To live in London! London, the buskin'd stage
Of history, the archive of the past—
The heart, the centre of the living world!
Wake, dreamer, to your village, and your work.
229
THE ALBUM.
A household treasury, where all that comeMay leave the impression of the varied mind
In pencil's breathing lines, that speak, though dumb;
Or words that give a picture to the blind:
A casket where the gems of thought and art
We gather on life's rugged way are set
In lasting beauty, to renew the heart
When sear'd and sadden'd with this worldly fret;
A glass in which our future will behold
Our present feature, and compare the two.
O may the characters we now unfold
Be such as bear progressive Time's review,
That in these pages eyes unborn may glean
A worthy glimpse of what our lives have been!
SONNET.
[Since, twenty years ago, you took this hand]
Since, twenty years ago, you took this hand,And robed me in the mantle of your name,
My raven locks are gray with time's white sand,
But yet this heart, then young, remains the same.
230
I see no wrinkle of the aged man;
For love's eyes look all inwardly, and know
A deeper truth than outward vision can.—
O wherefore need we ever think of age,
Or mourn the lapse of time, unless to learn
That life is endless, and time but a gauge
Whereby we comprehend the great eterne?—
Then, grow we old or young, what matter whether,
So long as you and I grow on together.
STRATFORD-ON-AVON.
To Stratford-on-the-Avon. And we pass'dThrough aisles and avenues of the princeliest trees
That ever eyes beheld. None such with us
Here in the bleaker north. And as we went
Through Lucy's park, the red day dropt i' th' west;
A crimson glow, like blood in lovers' cheeks,
Spread up the soft green sky and pass'd away;
The mazy twilight came down on the lawns,
And all those huge trees seem'd to fall asleep;
The deer went past like shadows. All the park
Lay round us like a dream; and one fine thought
Hung over us, and hallow'd all. Yea, he,
The pride of England, glisten'd like a star,
And beckon'd us to Stratford.
231
TO JANET,
With a small book, entitled, “Ears of Corn, from various Sheaves.”
If cares in others may be understoodBy feeling what ourselves bear and have borne,
Then may I judge your spirit sometimes lorn,
And often craving for a higher good.
How precious, then, the stores of heavenly food
Bequeathed in books! And these few “Ears of corn,
From various sheaves,” by various reapers shorn,
May help the longings of your upward mood.
For, as the body lives by nourishment,
So does the spirit; and its daily bread
Is truth and beauty, God's fine mystery blent
Through art and nature; and the hopes that shed
Perpetual morning in our way; yea, all
Of joy or grief that can our day befal.
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