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Heliconundrums

[by W. J. Linton]

Linton, W. J. (1812-1897)

[section]

ST. PATRICK'S FEAST

MERRY HANNAH

HOW THEY BROUGHT THE NEWS

A SPANISH LADY'S LOVE

SAUER KRAUT

TWO PENN'ORTH O' PROVERBS

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Parodies are the shadows of words. Mahomet.

ST. PATRICK'S FEAST

[A POWER OF SOUND]

Then they all got blind drunk, which completed their bliss:
And we keep up the custom from that day to this.
Lover's History of Ireland.

'Twas at the yearly Feast for Oireland won
By Oireland's Sainted Son:
The Feast we keep in state,
(May be kept up too late),
And meet, nor mate alone,
But whiskey-fixins, I'll be bound,—
Lashins o' that unstinted going round,
So should His mimory be crown'd,
Wid juicy lemons, sugar lumps beside,
An some hot wather too supplied,
But more of the potheen our pride.
Happy, happy thim who share!
Come o'er the wave!
Come o'er the wave!
Come o'er the wave and we'll drink fair!

Chorus
— The whiskey wave, and we'll drink fair.

Tim O' Thews, placed on high,
Amid the tuneful quire,
Wid flying fingers touch'd his lyre
(It was a bagpipes, by the bye,—
The more 'tis to admire).
His song began from when
The ugly varmint made their den
(A power of varmint among men)
In Oireland. Dragons there abode
And many a sarpient, many a toad,
Till Patrick to the work address'd
His saintly soul. He smote his breast,
And swore the Oirish waists, where curl'd
The sarpients, should be sarpient-free, the first floor of the world.
The listening crowd admire the lofty swear:
St. Pathrick to the fore! they see him there;
St. Pathrick! shure he 's here, so all outside declare.
Wid ravish'd ears
Each Paddy hears,
Flings off his hod,
And, wid a nod,
Repates the moighty shout that seems to shake the spheres.

Chorus
— Repate, and shake the spheres!

The praise of Pathrick then the swate musician sang,
Of Pathrick wid the oily wily tongue:

The jolly Saint in triumph comes:
Blow the trumpets! thump the drums!
Flush'd, and wid a purple grace,
He shows his honest face:
Now give the pipes your wind! he comes! he comes!
Pathrick, first of saints among,
Whiskey-drinkin did invint:
Pathrick's lavings are a treasure,
Wid matarials, widout measure:
Widout measure
Swater pleasure,
Swatest pleasure widout stint.

Chorus
— Swatest pleasure widout stint!

Soothed with his drink, he sang amain:
Fought the Saint's battles o'er again
And thrice he druv the varmints out and nine times slew the slain.
Then saw a master madness rise
In reddening cheeks and rolling eyes;
So, while another mixin he supplied,
He changed his hand; his voice it died,
Sinking to a mournful muse,
The Spirit did infuse.
He sang a Dragon purty good
Disturb'd by what he ate,
Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen into a wakely state,
Rejectin of his food.
Refusing at his utmost need

The wholesome drink, and off his feed,
On the bare earth exposed he lies:
The divil a headache shuts his eyes.
With downcast glance at empty glass they sate,
Revolving in each alter'd soul
The various turns of chance below;
And one did sigh and sighing stole
More whiskey for his woe.

Chorus
— More whiskey for his woe!

Then Master Tim he smiled as he
Another noggin mix'd, to see
He'd but a kindred sound to move,
To lade from pity unto love.
Softly swate, in ladian measures,
Sang he them to dhreamy pleasures.
Life, he sung, 's a wathry bubble;
Whiskey, is it worth the throuble?
Ending almost when beginning.
But his joy who loves a maid is
Double, striving for and winning:
Think, O think then of the Ladies!
Lovely They is sits beside ye:
Take the first the Gods provide ye!
Then many smash 'their glasses wid applause;
But others more particular did pause;
And one, unable to conceal his pain,
Gazed on the Fair
Who caused his care,

And sigh'd and look'd, and sidelong look'd, sigh'd, look'd, and sigh'd again,
Until wid love and whiskey much opprest,
His beautiful head droop'd down on his own manly breast.

Chorus
— His beautiful head droop'd down on his own manly breast.

Now blow the bagpipes wonst again!
A noisier yet, and yet a noisier strain!
Break his bands of sleep asunder,
And rouse him wid a rattlin peal o' thunder!
Hark! hark! the horrid sound
Has pick'd up his head;
He awakes from the dead
Drunk and dazed looks around.
Thread on his coat! Tim O' Thews cries:
That will give him a rise.
See the bhoys all uprare
Their red heads — in the hair!
See the jewels that flash from their eyes!
By me sowl, it 's a band,
Wid shillalagh in hand,
To make ghosts o' the kilt and the slain.
Faith, he 's hit him again!
Inglorious on the plain,
Give the bhoys their due,
Will be very few.
Behold how they toss their shellalaghs on high!
How they jump on each other when down!
And the Ladies look on and don't swoun,

But admire and applaud wid a 'preshative joy,
Till Tim went for the gas-jets in zeal to destroy.
Then they led him away.
Wid no light for his prey,
And no end of hurrahs for a rale Oirish bhoy!

Chorus
— No end of hurrahs for a rale Oirish bhoy!

Thus long ago,
Long as his bellows had the wind to blow,
Till whiskey made him mute,
Tim O' Thews could his bagpipes shute
To saintly ire
Or praises ov the malt's swate juice or rollicking desire.
At last good Father Mathew came
And well-nigh squelch'd St. Pathrick's game.
The Temprate Saint broke all the worms asthore,
Doubled the drinker's narrow bounds,
Caught him upon teetotal grounds,
And stopp'd his native drink with a pledge unknown before.
Yet, ould St. Pathrick! keep thy bays,
Or each take half a crown!
You druv the sarpients to the says;
Both put the whiskey down.

Grand Chorus
— Put the whiskey down!

MERRY HANNAH

AT HER KITCHEN RANGE

Never say die till you're dead!—
Good Old Proverb.

With blackest soot the chimney pots
Were thickly crusted, one and all:
The crock was crusted too, and lots
Of soot rubb'd from it blear'd the wall:
The unwash'd sherds look'd sad and strange,
Odd plates and cups that did not match
(He in his cups had smash'd the batch)
Scatter'd before the kitchen range.
She only said — He just was beery:
Where is he now? she said:
I wish he would not get so beery;
It 's time to be a-bed.

And yet she had no tears that even;
And all the morning had not cried;
She was so used to see her Stephen
Beery both morn and eventide.

So, after flitting of the bats,
Before thick dark did trance the sky,
She put the half-darn'd stocking by,
And skurried off the neighbours' cats.
She only said — Again he 's beery;
He cometh not, she said:
She said — I guess he 's beery, beery,
It 's time to be abed.

Upon the middle of the night
Waking she heard a rooster crow;
And half an hour before the light
From her near shed she heard the cow
Call to her. Without hope of change
Awake she lay, alone, forlorn;
So got up earlier than the Morn,
And laid a fire in her kitchen range.
She only said — It 's very queer he
Has not come; she said—
He must have been so very beery
To sleep out of his bed.

About a stone-cast from the wall
A ditch through willow-pollards crept,
Where poor Lord Stephen had a fall,
And lay there since, and snoring slept.
Hard by his terrier sate alway,
With tender whine or rougher bark:
For leagues no other dog did mark
A sleepier drunkard where he lay.

She only said — I 'd best be cheery;
And light the fire, she said:
She said —It 's best be always cheery,
And not die till you're dead.

The sun was getting up, though slow;
But the quick winds were up and away:
The casement curtain to and fro
Swung, and she saw the shadow sway,
And thought it was for whom she yearn'd;
And look'd, and found it was a sell;
And then she went out to the well
And fill'd her kettle and return'd.
And only said — It 's very queer he
Stay'd out all night; she said,
But in her thought half put the query,
Suppose that he were dead?

All day within the dreamy house
The doors upon their hinges creak'd;
A blue fly rapp'd o' the pane, a mouse
Jump'd out, and then she almost shriek'd;
Her cat went with her all about;
They saw him sneaking through the door,
They heard his big boots on the floor,
They heard him cursing from without,—
Not he. And yet she kept her cheery:
He cometh not, she said:
She said — He 's beery, very beery:
Quite a long drunk, she said.

She heard the swallows on the roof,
Heard the clock ticking, and the sound
A horse made with his hinder hoof
Against the fore; she did confound
All drunkards once — for half an hour:
But when the sun at noon of day
Was high, and when the sunbeams lay
Quite level, even when night 'gan lower,
She held her cheer, would not be dreary,
He 'll come some time, she said:
It 's best all ways to keep one cheery,
And not die till one 's dead.

HOW THEY BROUGHT THE NEWS

TO A GENT

[_]

Robert's own rhymes.

Bob Browning and Timothy Titcombe and Me
Had to take him the news: I was boss of the three,
For I strode a donkey, they stump'd. Peggy threw,
As we left her front gate, for good luck her old shoe;
Then we heard the door slam, and we started abreast.
Peggy's ass it was lame, and they ran at their best.

Not a word to each other, we just went the pace,—
Me and jack soon ahead, then them two in our place.
I turn'd in my saddle and made the girths tight,
Then shorten'd the stirrups and saw each was right,
And the rein-buckle fix'd, though I knew not a whit
Would that hard-mouth'd old jackass attend to the bit.

'Twas dinner-time leaving: so when we drew near
To the end of the common our stomachs felt queer:
There was blackberries there, quite a plenty to see;
But Tim said he would not be waiting for me,

Though I tried to persuade him the berries was prime;
Till Bob bursted out with — We sha'nt have no time.

In the mid o' the common out came the hot sun,
And I thought that my donkey look'd most overdone,
And the thought made me wild as the others ran past;
But I wallop'd him well till he gallop'd at last,
With ram-headed shoulders a-butting away
At Bob, which upset him. And I let him lay.

Cross the common Tim weaken'd, but choked out — You Sir!
You wait or I 'll lick you. I thought that that were
A thing to remember; I saw his weak knees
As he stagger'd and leant against one of the trees,
Out of wind, and then down on his marrowbones sank
And Me and Bob went on, we two in one rank.

We kept a round trot: Bob did, so did I,
Down the hill, up the next one. But Bob he was dry
With the dust. So at that I began for to laugh
('Twas the donkey that work'd, I had leisure to chaff),
Till at top o' the next hill Bob's gills they turn'd white,
And he dropp'd there, quite blown, with the Gent's house in sight

There I left Robert fetching his breath on a stone,
And Me and my donkey we rode on alone.
I was jolly, I 'd time enough even to wait,
If I look'd out behind, between that and the gate;
But donkey, it hadn't been all play to him,
And I saw, as his head turn'd, his eyeballs were dim.

So I slid from my jacket, my cap I let fall,
Then stripp'd off my pants, my suspenders, and all
But my shirt and my tie, so of weight made him clear,
And patted his lean ribs and call'd him a dear,
And shouted and holler'd and gave him the wood
On his ears and his crupper; and he understood.

And next I remember was folk standing round,
As I sate with my knees in my shirt on the ground,
And all of them praising this donkey of mine,
As they fed him with thistles and ask'd me to dine.
I was voted a brick too by general consent:
But nary a nickel I got from the Gent.

THE LAST OF THE HERD

THE ORIGINAL DRAFT

[_]

Was it Lamb, or Coleridge in his offical capacity as one of the Queen's Beefeaters, who suggested the unlikelihood of a small family devouring fifty beeves, and reduced the supply to mutton, as in The Last of the Flock.

In distant countries have I been,
And yet I have not often seen
A healthy man, a man full-grown,
Weep in the public roads alone:
But such a one, on English ground
And in the broad highway I met.
Along the broad highway he came;
His cheeks with tears were wet.
Sturdy he seem'd, though he was sad,
And at his heels a bullock lad.

He saw me and he turn'd aside,
As if he wish'd himself to hide

Behind the beast, and did essay
With sleeve to wipe his tears away.
I dodged him though, and said, My friend!
What ails you? wherefore weep you so?
—Shame on me, Sir! this bullock here
He makes my tears to flow.
To-day I fetch'd him: on my word
He is the last of all my herd.

When I was young, a single man,
And after youthful follies ran,
Though little given to care and thought,
Yet so it was a cow I bought;
And other cows from her I raised,
As healthy cows as you might see;
And then I married, and was rich
As I could wish to be:
Bullocks and cows I told a score,
And every year increased my store,

Year after year my stock did grow;
And from this one, this single cow,
Full fifty cows and bulls I raised,
As fine a herd as ever grazed!
Some black and white and others red!
They throve and we at home did thrive.
— This lusty bullock of my store
Is all that is alive:
And now I care not if we die
And perish all of poverty.

Six children, Sir! had I to feed,—
Hard labour in a time of need!
And never one of us touch'd beef.
So I from the parish sought relief.
They said I was a wealthy man:
My cattle on the uplands fed,
And it was meet that I should cook
My beef before I begg'd for bread.
“Do this! how can we give to you,”
Said they, “what to the poor is due?”

I cook'd a bullock, as they said;
My children ate it without bread,
And they were healthy with their food.
For me, it never did me good.
A woeful time it was for me
To see my bullocks cut in steaks,
The pretty bullocks I had raised
All slaughter'd for my children's sakes,
And melting tallowly away.
Ah me! but I was cow'd that day.

Another still! and still another!
A little calf — and then its mother!
It was a vein that never stopt,—
Like blood-drops from my heart they dropt
Till thirty were not left alone,
My dun cows dribbling one by one;
And I may say that many a time
I wish'd they all were gone:

Reckless of what might come at last
Were but the bitter struggle past.

Sir! 'twas a precious herd to me,
As dear as my own children be:
For daily with my growing store
I loved my children more and more.
Alas! it was an evil time,
Cursed with diminished beefiness.
I pray'd, yet every day I thought
I loved my children less;
And every week and every day
Cows, bullocks, seem'd to melt away.

They dwindled, Sir! sad sight to see!
From ten to five, from five to three,
A calf, a bullock, and a cow;
And then at last from three to two;
And of my fifty yesterday
I had but only one.
And here it follows at my heels:
Alas! and I have none.
To-day I fetch'd it. Seems absurd,
But 'tis the last of all my herd!

THE PARROT

[WORDS! WORDS! WORDS!]

Once, upon a midnight skeery,
Like an eagle in his eyrie,
In my room, a garret cheery
(Reckoning sky-from, the first floor),
Lo, I heard a sound of screeching,
Like some file a saw beseeching,
Or some irate school-ma'am teaching
Stupid school-girls —half a score:
What can that be? said I inly;
Some ill-manner'd wind or bore
At my key hole, nothing more.

In my chamber, yes! my garret,—
Truly I am not a parrot,
I don't care a pickled carrot
To recall it the first-floor,—
I had been — I well remember

'Twas the middle of September,
Sure it was, and not November,
Because August came before
And October after, — so I 'm
Certain, I need say no more:
I remember, nothing more.

I remind me of the ballet:
'Twas “The Vision of the Valet,”
I had play'd the part of Sally
On the very night before.
This an off-night was: I sat there
In my room, a-skimming fat there
Off some broth, and then so pat there
Came the screech against my door,
Such a screech, my poor ears splitting
Through the key-hole of the door,
Screech I never heard before.

Haply, thought I, 'tis a neighbour
(Friends come in to lighten labour),
So my heart play'd pipe and tabor
Though the screech near split the door;
Then again I thought, what wretched
Thing is this so to have fetched
Such a screech? My breath I catched
Thereat, saying — I implore,
Wretch or neighbour! sick or welcome,
Cease to split my chamber door!
Split my screeched ears no more!

Presently my soul grew bolder:
Looking round then o'er my shoulder,
By this broth, I said, I 'll scold her—
Her, I knew that, if no more;
And I call'd out — You just stop that
Screech! if you don't quickly drop that
Screech, by this same broth, I 'll whop that
Head of yours off on the floor!
At my speech there came a scratching,
And the screech-split in the door
Stretch'd twice open, then once more.

Partly bolden'd by the scratching
I began the door unlatching,
Only first, in haste upsnatching,
Spilt the broth upon the floor;
Surely, said I, that the cat is,
Couldn't pass the window-lattice,
She is hungry, knows the fat is
Always her's the skimming o'er;
Let my heart be still a moment
While this mystery I explore,—
It is the cat, and nothing more.

Quick the chamber door I flung wide;
Puss! puss! puss! I with swift tongue cried,
Or had, but my tongue, it hung dried,
For no cat was at the door:
But — before me stood a creature
On one leg,— it was the Screecher:

Well I knew then every feature
Of a bird — Not that of yore,
The Raven, Cat-bird then or harpy?
What! a lark? No! at my door
Was a Parrot, nothing more.

But no common parrot, bet you!
No such bird had ever met you
Though in the Brazils they set you
Plump upon that parrot shore:
Blazing brilliant in his plumage,
That had surely devil-groomage,
Like a Jap in it's first bloomage,
Stamp'd. wlth colours, three or four.
Like a pansy grown to feathers
So that it might live all weathers,
Proving Darwin's belle of whethers,
How the less becomes the more:
Pansy-parrot, flower of yore.

Why, my last new Sunday bonnet
Has not finer feathers on it,
Though for taste — my word upon it!
Better than a bird e'er wore:
French, surpassing parrot fashion:
It would move a saint's compassion
(Though indeed I may be rash on
Saints, I 've known but three or four)
For such feathers to be worn on

Parrot bodies. Well, no more!
But they were feathers at the door.

Such this Parrot was that, screeching
Of his gentlest, hung beseeching,
Sucking-dove-like, and outreaching
For the handle of my door:
Till my heart; to all things tender,
Made to him complete surrender,
And I said — I can but lend or
Give the entrance you implore;
Pray, Sir! enter, screech and feathers!
Then I open'd wide the door,
And I gave my guest the floor.

Though I held the door wide open,
This strange bird would sidle, slope in,
Just as if he wanted scope in
Getting through the chamber door;
Then, O Babel, Babelmandel!
The wild beast flew in the candle,
And then hung on to the handle
Of my, — a Lady's chamber door,
Claw'd and whirl'd nine times around it,
Round the knob inside the door:
'Twill unscrew, a little more.

Now I 'm fond of all dumb critturs,
Beast or bird, crawls, flies or flitters,
Cat whose glaring eyeball glitters,

Pig, or puppy blind no more;
But a dumb thing that still screeches
With an echo that outreaches,
I would say to Plymouth beach, is
Worse than even the dumbest bore:
And he screech'd and stopp'd not screeching
And I stopp'd my ears before—
Dear! no! he took breath, and swore.

I had dropp'd down in my rocking
Chair, in hope to mend a stocking
While he stay'd, when such a shocking
Word came from his repertoire;
Swiftly then as thought allow'd me,
Fears and feelings getting crowdy,
I at him the stocking throw'd; he
Never winced, but from the door,
From the knob he whirl'd on leaning,
Snatch'd it, and again he swore:
Darn'd, he said, and nothing more.

And since then, since when I threw it
(I 'm so sorry I could do it),
Nothing I can say unto it
Takes this creature from my door:
On the door-knob he sits rocking,
Whirling, with his beak i' the stocking,
Muffling screeches, and half mocking
Screeches, swearing, Darn'd! no more.
But meseems that 's very shocking:

Darn'd! darn'd! darn'd! and evermore
That word flung in at my door.

There this Parrot, ever whirling
Still is swirling, still is twirling,
Till my hair forgets its curling,
Horrent at the foul uproar;
And he hurls his screeches shocking
Through a big hole in the stocking,
Screeching in his parrot mocking
Just the oath I said before.
There he hangs from night till morning,
My unhappy door adorning—
If the landlord gives me warning
He 'll not let me pass the door:
Darn'd! darn'd! darn'd! for evermore.

THE CUMBERLAND STILE

[NOT IN THE COLLECTED WORKS]

I stood with Robin at the four-barr'd stile:
Robin on one side, I stood on the other.
We only stood there a brief kissing-while,
For Robin, you may know, is not my brother.

Rob measures six feet, taking off his shoes;
They call me Little Joan because I 'm small;
Rob ask'd to kiss me; how could I refuse
Him stooping down to me? he is so tall.

I gave him back his kiss: it was not right,
I thought, to take his kiss and give him none.
'Twas evening time, not dark, nor yet so light,
Not light for folk to notice what was done.

Rob set me on the top bar of the stile,
His arm was round me. Rob is not my brother.
We only stay'd there just a kissing-while:
Is it not good we should kiss one another?

OUR RIDE

MILLER CORRECTED, BY OLD REVELS

We was out on the prairies— Jo. Miller and me
And the girl. So far true! There was only us three.
“And Kit Carson?”

O no! All of that is a lie.
Take the truth of old Revels, the man Jo. “saw die!”

This is how it all happen'd. The girl, she was — Well,
We 'd play'd for her, Jo. and me. Dern'd but I'll tell
The truth all clean out. We had been at the lodge
Of her father. He's all-free, is Jo. for a dodge,
And had trick'd — But, no matter! you only would learn
The rights o' that ride when we 'scaped from the burn,
For we all three got through. It was only a skeer,
And the girl a bit scorch'd. Master Jo. didn't keer
A red cent was she burnt or unburnt: that's the one
Touch of truth in the vagabond's tale of the run.
For the rest, he was gassing. All that about Kit,—
Why, I tell you again, it 's a lie, all of it.

Kit Carson would never have left in distress
A friend, nor a stranger, a girl too. Ask Jess,—
Well, I 'm rough: I mean Madam our general's wife.
Bless you, she knew Kit Carson the whole of his life.
I'll read you her letter: just wait till I get
Where she says that Jo. Miller 's a liar, you bet.
Needn't tell you he 'll gas: all us know how he gasses.
Let that go! As we lay half asleep in the grasses
We saw that the prairie was all in a flame;
And the smoke druv before as right on us it came.
We jump'd on our horses, we only had two;
And Jo. took the best. Now don't say So would you!
Though may be I would, for the girl had to ride,
And as he had won her and call'd her his bride
'Twas for him to look for her. He leapt in the saddle
And — blest but the mean crittur went to skedaddle
And leave her, but she was too spry for the varmint
And clim up behind with a grip on his garment,
So holding him fast, with both arms round his waist.
He had flung her off then, but was too much in haste.
So we start.

What the — “gold-mounted Colt's”! Nary one
Had we got. And we stript? The hell, you poke fun
At a fellow. The fire was upon us; suppose
We 'd stop to be singed while we took off our clothes?
We just went as we were, with the fire at our backs,
And lost no fool's time, nor no words, to make tracks.
Their horse was the best, by long odds, but for load:
So I kept close beside them, and onward we rode
Well ahead of the fire. 'Twas no great thing to fear,

But that lying scoundrel was bound for a skeer;
And I saw, as the girl only loosen'd her grip,
He was ready and, shifting her hand from his hip,
Twist her off and, one moment, she lay on the sward.
He turn'd to look at her, then spurr'd on more hard.
Damn your soul, you — I leant to catch hold of his rein
But miss'd and I knew there was no hope to gain
On that beast, so I pull'd in my own; you may bet
She was not long awaiting. One moment to get
On the crupper, one look of her thanks in my face,
And we were again making head in our race
With the fire. And we beat.

There is no more to say.
You see I 'm not dead. Nor the girl. To this day
I 've not set eyes on Jo. Yes! perhaps it 's as well.
If he meets me, or Betsy, you bet he gets hell.

MAUD MULLER AGAIN

[LATEST INTELLIGENCE]

Maud muller on a summer's day
Raked the meadow sweet with hay.

And so far all of us agree:
Whittier and Bret Harte with me.

The rest — Well, only the other day
I call'd at the House. I need to say

No name but, knowing the family well,
Can best inform you how all befell.

The Judge did marry her: so Harte 's right,
But very far wrong of the after plight.

And the Whittier needed not his moan
For the left or the poorer leaving one.

The Judge was also a man of will:
So turn'd where Maud was raking still,

And on the wind with the scent o' the grass
Fragranter words of love did pass;

And ever the hay was housed in hold
A llttle circle of purest gold —

His mother's, with just one amethyst,
Was on the finger the young Judge kiss'd.

No Lord of Burleigh he whose pride
Stoop'd to make a peasant his bride;

But a good republican who knew
The growth of a woman simple and true,

A woman whose sons might be real men,
Such as trod on the old hills when

The Sons of Heaven came down to earth,
And giants sprang of heavenly birth.

Poor and low may be yet not rough:
Harte should have better known the stuff

Granite and heaven can make out West,
Due East too when we take the best.

Better than Saratoga knows —
Fashion'd of only whims and clothes.

Her kin were honest and goodly folk:
What if some with an accent spoke?

If they hadn't a many fine words tu hum,
What is that to the poor outcome

From hearts, that are only diamond dust
Harden'd under the upper crust,

Of those who the human engine shunt
Out of life in a brown stone front?

This is perhaps o'erflow of spleen:
But the thing I want to say, and mean

Is this:— The Judge was a judge of life
When he took a healthy woman to wife;

And Maud, whatever her kith and kin,
Was a woman worth a man's while to win.

They lived together long years of joy;
Fair girls and more than one sturdy boy

Our happy Maud to her husband bore.
Long ere their heads were silver'd o'er

None could have told that higher birth
Was his or whose the more native worth:

For the soul of a queen inform'd her face
And gave to her every motion grace;

And the haughtier Judge's dignified mien
Mated but well with her port serene.

Health she brought to a stock outworn:
And all of his sons were gentle born;

And her girls had grace to keep their share
Of the proud old family's beauty rare,

And she and her lover the lesson taught,
How Love and Nature have ever wrought,

Raising the low, redeeming the high,
With strength and beauty for marriage tie.

Sad are the words — It might have been:
And sadder whenever the will was mean.

But a cheerier thought may leap the bar
To what may be from the things that are.

BALLAD

OF A CERTAIN C. KING AND A BEGGAR MAID QUEEN

Cophetua king in the days now gone
Lived in a brick house, all alone:
'Twas a red brick house just over the way
With a lean-to beside for a one-horse shay.

Cophetua King leant over his gate,
Smoking his pipe in his kingly state;
“Give me a penny, kind Sir!” she said,—
The beggar maid of whom you have read.

She was only a beggar girl;
But her cheek was red and her hair did curl,
And she stept with a lively hinge in her gait
Noticing King in his kingly state.

The day it was hot, a day of drouth;
Cophetua took the pipe from his mouth;
One glance he gives to the beggar's eyes,
Scarcely a wink, and the girl replies.

Cophetua King thought — Odd's my life!
I reckon I'd like this lass for a wife.
So he wiped his lips and proffer'd a kiss,
Like saying — Madam! you 're not amiss.

The girl she was simple enough to frown
Till the King he promised her half a crown.
It was little perhaps for a wedding gift,
But the Queen was one with a single shift.

The tale is most true: for I 've heard say,
In the red brick house there over the way
King and his beggar Queen still reside,—
And a one-horse shay if she likes to ride.

THE FASHIONS

AN ODE

When beauty, heavenly made, was young
(Time since round Eve the fig-leaves hung)
The Fashions had no wares to sell:
Young Beauty's charms were known too well.
Awaking, sleeping, active, fainting,
She needed nought of Fashion's painting:
Health to her rounded cheek gave bloom,
And freshness was her one perfume;
For stays and suchlike woman gear
She had no heed, she had no fear;
For whalebones to support her round
She cared not, and her lungs were sound.
No thought had she for “taste” or “art,”
Nor dream'd that dress would make her smart,
Till (for Madness ruled that hour)
The Fashions came to bring her dower.

First Love, his loving skill to try,
Pluck'd the wild blossoms, and essay'd
With trembling hands, he knew not why,
To weave a garland for his maid.

Then rush'd in Vanity, on fire
To invent and do more daring things,
That all might envy and admire;
And hung her neck with beaded strings.

What woeful measures rend the air?
What shriek is that from Nature's Child?
Poor Nose! the ring is pendant there.
The savage mother saw and smiled.

But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair,
What was thy delightful measure?
Still it whisper'd promised pleasure
And bade the lovely ornaments All hail!
Still would her touch the strain prolong
That held o'er natural defects a veil.
She made the feet grow less, the ears more long;
And when a beauteous form she chose,
She hid the native grace in any length of clothes.
And Hope enchanted smiled and waved her golden hair.
And longer had she smiled, but with a frown
More rampant Folly rose,
And tore the old Greek robes in tatters down,
And with a withering look
The shape-distorting corset took
And pull'd and pull'd at every thread.
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe!
And ever and anon her feet
Set to the back, to make it meet.

And though at times each labour'd breath between
Pains-taking Beauty to her side
Her supplicating hands applied,
Yet still did Folly's purpose supervene,
While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from her head.
Fashion! thy freaks to nought were ever fix'd,
Sad proof of thy distressful state!
On different modes thy veering wills get mix'd,
And what thou affectest now is what thou scorn'dst of late,
With eyes upraised as one inspired,
Another Fashion walk'd, attired
In robes too scanty much to meet;
While her high heels, a daring feat,
Drove down the narrow shoes her crippled toes,
And one stuck small black patches round
Her lips and nose, as if unsound;
And later Fashions came as strange as those.
Some scented in a sort of hybrid way,
Round a perfumed air diffusing,
Rose or musk or other choosing:
No flowers ever stank as they.
Among them paced a sprightlier scented one,
Hight Full-Dress, nymph-like (some said), pale of hue:
Nothing across her shoulders flung,
Her jewel'd bust exposed to view,
And an imposing air, and voice that loudly rung
A hunter's call,— to Nymph or Faun unknown,

To oak-crown'd Sisters or their chaste-eyed Queen.
Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen.
Low peeping there, the jolly green
Were exercised, the staider thought it queer;
But Sport leapt up and laugh'd and gave a cheer.

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial,
When with faltering step advancing,
And Grecian Bend, the Hump was fully dress'd.
One might as well embrace a physic vial,
Or a lay figure — which perhaps were best.
They who of old admired the virgin train
In Tempe's vale, and saw her native maids
Amidst the festal sounding shades
To some unwearied minstrel dancing,
While as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings
Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round,
With tresses flowing loose and zone unbound,
Might wonder if such earnest play
Could be attempted in this Grecian day
By our poor hump'd and high-heel'd fashionable things.

O Beauty! heaven-descended Maid!
Friend of Fashions, duty paid!
Why, Goddess! unto us denied
Lay'st thou thy pristine grace aside?
As in that loved Athenian bower
Unbent thou held'st supremest power,
Thy form, O Mimic most endear'd!

Appear now as it then appear'd,
Where was thy native simple part,
Devote to Virtue, Truth, and Art.
Arise as in that Golden Time,
Warm, energetic, chaste, sublime!
Thy wonders in that glorious age
Fill thy recording Sister's page:
'Tis said, and I believe the tale,
Thy lightest smile did more avail
Than all the wiles our schools enact.
Thou unadorn'd didst more attract
Than all the modern trappings bound
A spoil'd and tramell'd figure round.
O, bid such vain endeavours cease!
Revive the pure design to please;
And once again in simple state
Attract our love, escape our hate!

THE BURGLAR

Lady! untaught and without leisure,
Where gat you this heroic measure?
Wordsworth

He was a brick! It may be said
Over my noble Burglar — dead.
Dead as a herring and — “well hang'd!”
I know not. Though at times he bang'd
My head about — when he was tight
(I 've had his marks a full fortnight),
He was kind to me out of drink
(I don't care what some folk may think)
And gentle as a wild cat is
When wild cats one another kiss.
He was a brick! I say again.
Let worse men contradict: that 's plain.
Plain as a stale unbutter'd roll.
I loved my Burglar — on my soul!
And many an eve when he had plann'd
To crack a crib with his own hand,

I have said — Jem! do not go to-night!
Jem Walker was my master hight.
They call'd him Conrad too beside.
But no Gullnary was his bride
Save only me, Dora 's my name:
He call'd me Dolly all the same.
He loved me well: he swore my mouth
Was roses that had been grow'd South;
And said, though he met unawares
No end of angels on the stairs,
Wide-open-mouth'd to meet his lips,
That nary one of them 'd eclipse
This mouth of mine. He would not kiss
The lips of that Semira miss
(A girl, he said, loved him long since)
Not if the queen made him a prince,
Instead of mine. So wonder not
I loved him. And though you may blot
His record with an ugly word,
He was a brick. Yes! that 's the third.

And you had loved him, sitting thar
Smoking,— he cared for his cigar;
Had loved him for his level brows
And eyes — No! not a bit like cows';
Yea! loved him for his manly mouth,
Too often drooping in the drouth;
And for that sinewy crow-bar,
His arm, more nimble-finger'd far
Than any arm you ever knew.

A vice-like grip his hand had too,
A grip that left the griped part blue.
And who would shape a Hercules,
Looking on limbs and thews like these
(I seem to feel them once again)
Had tried to match their brawn in vain,
Ay! though he built a shrine thereat.
And for his spirit: talk of that!
A spirit that would surge and swell
And lash and boom like — why, like hell.
Samoa's heaving seas be blown,
Wreck'd, toss'd, himself a sea alone.

What strange goat-bearded men were they
Who came to him at close of day!
Men whom you gave the widest berth;
Whose histories, if they were told,
Would make the hearer's blood run cold;
Men who were often run to earth,
But seldom caught, or caught broke loose.
Men with Goliath's, Samson's thews,
Men of the olden iron time
When war and rapine were sublime,
Men cursed for every crime and vice
Except the one of cowardice.

They came, the troop of bearded men,
That eve, and rested in our room.

But when the night was thick with gloom
They took a parting drink, and then
Went one by one into the town.
What for? I ask'd. Jem, with a frown,
Bade me shut up, and follow'd them.
I heard the slamming of the door,
Shut with an oath, and nothing more.
And thought what matter'd it to me?
And said — they 've gone out on a spree.
And I was anxious about Jem.

He held his head down very low,
A streak of sadness in his air:
Then silent touch'd my yellow hair
And took the long locks in his hand,
Toy'd with them, smiled, and let them go;
And made a sort of awkward bow —
And said some words — I hear them now—
Of Conrad taken, and the how.

He led us up the marble steps:
He led, his jemmy in his hand,
And closed the door, when down there leaps,
Down the hall stairs, an armed band.
Though coming on us unprepared,
We bore ourselves as men who dared;

Burst through the door and in the gap
Fought rat-like to escape the trap.
Then hot to barter life for life
Did Walker thrust his trusty knife
Through the first man and to the stone,
The brown stone of the outer wall,
Stuck him upright: he could not fall,
Upheld there by the knife alone.

I never saw my man again.
Long time in quod for burglary
And murder,— so they said to me;
And hope to get him off was vain.
He swung upon the gallows-tree:
An easy death, with not much pain.

Speak ill or well of him, he died
In all disgrace. Say of the Dead —
His heart was black, his hands were red;
But add — the Law was satisfied.
The captain of a pirate's deck,
He might have slain his hundred men;
A conqueror, he had murder'd then
His thousands, made some land a wreck,
And won like his great namesake praise
From “poet” lips: but evil days

He fell upon, and lieth there
In his low grave, with none to care —
But one, the widow that he left.
And she,— her heart is sorrow-cleft.

Yet was he mean'd for better things, had wrong
Not warp'd him early, crook'd him right along.
Perchance had any taught, the man had known
Some better way of living than the one
He took with no more feeling of remorse
Than redder Walker o'er an Indian's corse.
Perchance — O vainly curious fool! be still!
The man did but his destiny fulfil
Mark'd out from childhood. Ruffian if he were,
A woman loved — and loves him, whose despair
Has raised the Felon's simple monument.
She faithful spite of all, on grief intent,
Mourneth the wretch none may lament beside.

A SPANISH LADY'S LOVE

WORDSWORTH WITH SWINBURNE

You have heard of a Spanish Lady:
How she would an Englishman;
How, lest fond arms should persuade, he
From her loving grip outran:
Hear now what he said, such grace had he
Who would not countenance her love, in no degree.

Cold eyelids that hide like a jewel
Warm glances! hard eyes for an hour
Seeming soft! O most gentle and cruel
Young Englishman, conscious of power —
But he answer'd — The man you adore is
A husband, mayn't marry again:
So it 's best he should leave you, Dolores!
Young Lady of Spain!

O most gallant Captain! have pity!
Though thy wives they were seventy times seven,

Yet leave me not here in this city,
Still sighing for thee unforgiven —
But he answer'd — Albeit at core he 's
A Mormon and knows not disdain,
They 'd not have you at Rydal, Dolores!
Sweet Lady of Spain!

I am lovely and youthful and tender,
And love is likewise my desert:
When my hope comes to you in its splendour,
Will you call cold despair for my hurt? —
But he answer'd — By all thy soft glories,
Though I love and to wed you were fain,
'Twould be bigamy. That 's so, Dolores!
Fair Lady of Spain!

Ah, beautiful passionless body
That never has ached with a heart!
Ay, kill me! your hands will be bloody;
But love me before you depart! —
But he answer'd — The love you implore is
Not mine: must I tell you again
I 've a wife, and strong-minded, Dolores!
Fond Lady of Spain!

By the hunger for change and emotion,
By the thirst for impossible things,
If you leave me, across the wide ocean
My love will pursue on swift wings. —
But he answer'd — A love gone before is
The oftenest follow'd in vain:

You 'll be safer at home, my Dolores!
Dear Lady of Spain!

O God of moist seasons and moister!
By the pearls on these hot cheeks of mine,
Would that I were the pearl of an oyster
So he were that bivalve divine! —
But he answer'd — The sea I pass o'er is
Too stormy for natives: your gain
Would be peril, not pearl, dear Dolores!
Bold Lady of Spain!

Yet break from the bonds that have girt you,
And sunder your spirit from clay!
Renounce your sub-Rydaline virtue!
My father will give me away. —
But he answer'd — At Rydal my store is:
I go home: no use to complain.
Yet I leave you my heart, my Dolores!
Loved Lady of Spain!

So he left the lovely lady.
But he took her chain of gold
And her bracelets two, which laid he
Down before his helpmate old:
Saying smiling,— Presents these for thee.
I do not tell my wife who gave them unto me.

SAUER KRAUT

THE TEUTON TO THE CABBAGE

Next to mein pipe, a ding for want,
Mein allerliebst is de Cabbage Plant.

Dat 's so: but eince, sweice, in de year
I lofes most vell mein Lager Bier.

Next to them both I lofe de root
Mit leafes of beauty for Sauer Kraut.

Many are Boets, but none like me
Can sing of de brode-leaf'd Cabbage Tree.

Slim is mein bronzèd meerschaum's stalk,
Round de big Cabbage stem I walk.

He folds his leafs across his heart,
As a fat man's arms on a lowlier part.

Full of flavour and shuice is he,
Dreaming where can de pickler be.

Und ven de frosts make clear de skies,
He reaches out to his fullest size.

Quickening odours, salted vell:
Gott in himmel! dass Kraut do smell.

If I vere a king, O stateliest Tree!
Many 's the barrel I 'd build of thee.

Und in dem kellar ein thron for me,
Smokin mein Pipe perpetually.

Mit matches to set de veeds a-blaze
Und bier for de topers in Cabbage praise.

Und dere vould I sit vhile de bier run out
Smokin und eatin mein Sauer Kraut.

Trinkin large healths to the plant divine:
Und none, O Cabbage! to equal mein.

I lofe mein Pipe auf's first of all:
Tausend teufels! I make him fall.

Mein beautiful Pipe! mein herz vos its:
Is broken into ein hoonderd bits.

Und de frau she tell me our Sauer Kraut
De lieblich barrel hafe given out.

Angel of Pity! let go a tear!
Dere is nodings to lofe but de Lager Bier.

IZAAK TAILOR

TWO PENN'ORTH O' PROVERBS

“Five bunches a penny, Sweet Lavender!”
London Cries

INTRODUCTION

I Martin am, the most enlighten'd Fàkir.
Rightly pronounce my name, good folk! and hark here!
I wisdom have, although my verses are queer.

1— OF ENDS PROVERBIAL

Like to a needle whose point protrudes from the side of a hay-stack,
So is the proverb's end, keen but unseen by the eyes of the thousand.
Is it the fault of the proverb? Rather the thousands' when they, slack
To sight any meaning at all, would miss even a four story house-end.

2— OF TRUSTING IN PROVERBS

Put not your whole trust in proverbs even if Solomon seal them!
Holes may be pick'd on both sides; in a third may be hollow and wrangle:
As this — that keen eyes has Charity, sometimes tho' lashes conceal them.
The same was made known to the soldier, for forty tied to the triangle.

3— OF IDLE PRAYING

Pax vobiscum! said one to the pedlars, not buying of their wares.
So is the soap-less woman would clean her house with the noise and th' esteam of prayers.

4— OF GROUNDS OF PROPHECY

A duck laid — an egg (with a hen) that her chicken would turn out a duckling;
And it took to the water at once.
So a man not a dunce
Is much the best fitted for prophet, and a dern'd sight more certain of chuckling.

5— OF WISDOM ALWAYS

Every goose counts for sage in due season; the wise one is wise in all weathers;
And the wiser may keep himself warm when the fool has been pluck'd of his feathers.

6— OF A DRUNKARD

The drunkard hath swallow'd a leak: wherefore is his thirst never sated.
Truly the sire of the Danaids this father of sieves may be rated.
Through the whole of his life he perceives how man's debts may be all liquidated.

7— OF WOMAN

Says David — The virtuous woman is good as a crown to her gaffer;
Says Emerson — Happen what may, compensation will probably follor.
Good balanceth Evil, albeit the rate of exchanges may differ:
Out of Concord the woman not virtuous her holder may rate as a dolour.

8— OF THE WAYS OF INFERIORS

It is well, as old Isaac (not Walton)
Observes, to be duly observant of the ways of inferior beasts.
Is the Ant (Go to, Sluggard!) at fault in
His store for his Thanksgiving Feasts?
Shall Man, the beasts' hub,
Be less wise than a web-footed Spider?
Now sit thou beside her,
And learn — Will they teach us? the beasts.
There's the rub.

9— OF MEANS AND NATURE

Though an ass bray in a mortar, yet will the shell not depart;
Though a nut 's stript to the kernel, all the same it 's a nut at the heart.
Means, I remark, may be many: only do thou choose the right!
Nature is one and eternal: her robes fitting loosely or tight.

10— OF TEACHING

Thou canst not hope thy fellow's thought to shape to fit thy frame:
The brain, yea! of the veriest Ape shall escape thy spinal notions.
Wherefore though I should write a book thy need may skip the same:
Leaving my words as weeds, flung from my mind's vast oceans.

CAUDLE CUPS

[A DOMESTIC IDYLL]

[_]

The speakers' names in this poem are abbreviated as follows:

For C. read Caudle
For Mrs. C. read Mrs. Caudle

Enter from the Club Ferry Caudle, “quite sober.”
Caudle
—My Dear!

Mrs. C.
Well, Jerry!

C.
I say well, my dear!
What have you two — you 'nd Jenny been 'nd done
With the — with the I say — thstreetdoor key,—
I mean the keyhole? Dont I always say
Just leave the keyhole out and — dont — sit — up!

Mrs. C.
—Jerry!

C.
My dear! I'm Jeremiah'dear.

Mrs. C.
— Mired: that you are indeed. Where have you been?

C.
— Been? been to th'Club; they 'dmired me; said they did
When I said wife at home.

Mrs. C.
O yes! you thought —

C.
— Didnt say thought, hadnt all time to think.
'Postle, or is it 'pistle? one of them
Said good to drink sometimes for stomach's ache;
But woman not 'loud speak: else I 'd. The Club

Dont 'dmit young women. Why did — you sit up?
Didnt I tell you t'leave the keyhole out?
Where 's Mother?

Mrs. C.
Gone to bed.

C.
Not sober. So
You 'nd Mother drink while I 'm at Club.
Brandy-in-tea. Why, Bess! you 're not upright:
Nearly upset me. Have to hold you up.
Call Jane! Bring slippers!

Mrs. C.
Jane has gone to bed.
Aren't you a —

C.
Jane gone too? which of 'ems got
The keyhole? Jenny 'nd Mother both gone drunk!
I mustn't go to th'Club, but stay at home
To keep y' all sober — sober. Look at me!
There, you'll be down again.

Mrs. C.
Look at your boots!

C.
— My boots, that's joke, it's your boots never wiped
Boots on the mat. 'D like to know where you been.
Hate tipsywoman. What'd the baby think?
Jane gone t'bed drunk. What 's use of candlestick?
Lay hold o' th' bannisters! I 'll keep you up. —
Well, if you will sit down on the stairs, I must.
But it is time for bed. You 're drunk, Elithabeth!

THE END OF CHILDHOOD

[A PROSE POEM]

[_]

After the manner of Mistress Baabauld

Child of artificiality!— whence comèst thou? Thy nose is red with thy dyspepsia, and the curvature of thy spine increaseth daily.
I come, O my Mamma! from sweet perusal of a tale of good children, and from other rambles through the Magazine of the Daughter of good King Herod.
Truly therein have I found much edificatien and a fostering of a desire for my improvement.
I come, O my Mamma! from mailing a conundrum for the Magazine of St. Herodias.
And also I have written, O my Mamma! a poem to appear in the forthcoming issue.
Finally I come from founding The Good Children's Society, against abuse of the whole inferior creation; and your daughter, O my Mamma! has been elected President of the same.

Is not this my ninth birthday? O dearest Mamma! Is it not time I was enrolled among the doers?
I come from instructing my ignorant grandparent in the improved method of withdrawing the albumenous particles from a gallinaceous deposit.
I come from thankfully reflecting on the happiness of my own youth.. O dearest Mamma! the Magazine of the Daughter of good King Herod was not printed in your childhood.
Sweet is knowledge, O my Mamma! sweeter even than either gum or goodies, or than a large amount of the best maple candy.

And I looked. And that Mother laid her Child on the lap of her motherly solicitude.
There was wailing. Also the Child wept.
The face of that Child was hidden from me. What I saw rejoiced me exceedingly. Verily, I said, there is yet a Mother in Israel. Haply a remnant that has not bowed down to the Baalambs.

TO A SPIDER

Spider! Spider! hid from sight
Till some hapless fly alight,
What fore-thoughtful brain and eye
Fashion'd thy web's nice symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Grew those rare geometries?
In what far-off home of fire
Forgèd was that slender wire?

And what cunning, what wise art,
Stow'd all in so small a part,
Prompt to weave and to repeat,
And gave thee such nimble feet?

Not the stars, through myriad years
Traveling in appointed spheres,
Tell more surely of design
Than that frail web's curious line.

What the hand and what the brain
Made thee, and made not in vain?
Did he smile thy craft to see?
Did he who made the Fly make thee?

Spider! Spider! hanging light
On thy web but seen dew-bright,
What fore-thoughtful brain and eye
Framed that fearful symmetry?

BUDDHA

If the read writer think he writes,
Or if the reader think he reads,
He knows not half their subtil sleights
Whose written rede is writ in deeds.

Read or unread to me is clear,
Downside or up to me the same,
The words between the lines appear,
And understanding is my game.

They reckon ill who leave me out,
I am the writer's, reader's wings,
My voice both whisper is and shout,
And silence is the hymn it sings.

True knowledge hath with me abode,
One word to me is more than seven,
But thou, vain thinker! fling thy load
And mount upon my back to heaven!

THE BEE

(CORISCA — NERINA — HYLAS)

CORISCA
Help me, Nerina! it has stung me.

NERINA
Where?
I see: your lip swells. Dear! I know a charm
My mother taught me,— only you must share
Its utterance. Silly child! it will not harm,
But heal you almost in a moment. — There!
Are not you out of pain?

HYLAS
Help! help! the bee
Has stung me too. Nerina! have some ruth!

NERINA
His lip 's not swell'd: and yet — I would not he
Should suffer — Hylas! let me go! In sooth
You kiss too close, and leave the sting with me.

QUATRAINS

The fly that thought he turn'd the coach-wheel round
Lies crush'd between the iron and the ground:
As silently the wheel revolves again,
Must some memorial of the Fly be found?

What are we? Grains of the wide Desert's sand;
Or as mere rain-drops shaken from Time's hand
Into the Ocean. Shall the swallow'd drop
Pretend the Ocean-Heart to understand!

We live, and work, and through our little day
Our parts conspicuous or unnoticed play:
Some brief Hours may remember us, and then
Oblivion passeth o'er us on its way.

THE KINGS' WAKE

[A SURPRISE PARTY]

Good fellows were they all
Who toward Tom King's that winter evening hied,
To give friend King a call:
With drink — they said 'twas fair — and likewise meat supplied.
When leaves nor shade nor strew the street,
And underneath unresting feet
The crunch'd crisp snow we hear,
When in high heaven the stars are hung
So bright they seem like diamonds strung
To grace the new-come Year,
We have a custom like the snow
To go a-drifting, to and fro,
Among our friends:

The when we never let them know,
But for amends
With baskets and caskets
Their tables we throng,
And bottles, with throttles
Impatient for song.
This party was of various clime:
Beshrew me, they were worthy rhyme
As any of that antique time
Your laureate sings.
Surprises may not be sublime,—
But kings are kings.
King (Tom), of royal heart was he,
And this same day from o'er the sea
Came home: is any doubt that we
Shall be well-come?
His Wife too 'd like us to make free
And feel “tu hum.”
So thought our party:—but ere they're astir
It may be well to note the kind o' folk they were.
Chief of the gang was Enoch, tall and dry,
Square-shoulder'd, hatchet-faced, lank-hair'd, and spry:
He said Vermont had raised him; others said
He was a right New-Yorker, thorough bred.
Wherever borh, a level head had he,
And spake outside his nose sonorously.
Not quite his height was Bull, but fleshier far,

And ruddy-cheek'd as Baldwin apples are,
With somewhat of a mid protuberance:
Yet was he strong and active, and could dance
With any girl, and sing in tones so sweet
Two or three bars would take you off your feet:
Well-featured, with curl'd hair of chestnut hue,
And all good in him like a chestnut too.
The third was a young German, Ernest call'd
By friends: he wore green spectacles, was bald,
And beardless, but full pleasant was his face,
With kind blue eyes his glasses did disgrace:
His figure short, much rounded, not ill-made:
Serene his look, and his demeanour staid,
And all unlike the Frenchman at his side,
Brave Monsieur Jean Belleisle, quick, lively-eyed,
And windmill-action'd when he 'gan to talk.
Three steps to Ernest's two he took in his walk,
Yet hardly kept pace with him. Behind them
Sandy McIvor came, a man of phlegm
And moods sarcastic,—but he mean'd no harm:
A hard dry-manner'd Scot, but with a warm
Leal spirit Always he was arm in arm
With Denis 'Shaughnessy, his other self,
His supplement: for Denis was an elf,
Frolicsome, careless, noisy, and o'errun
With mirth and jest and unrelenting fun,
As champagne flasks are overflow'd with froth.
Certes this boy had fun enough for both
Himself and Sawney: all with pure intent
And consciènce. He shouted as he went

And gambol'd like the Bedlamkin he was.
This was the jovial crowd that mean'd to pass
A quiet night with King, their old-time friend;
And, as the fashion bade, a grace to lend
To their intrusion, take with them their treat,
Some drink material, some odd things to eat:
Mere punkin-pies and strawberry-jam short-cake,
An oyster stew, and eke a fair clam-bake
(“Unseasonable,” but then for friendship's sake):
These their regalia. Beside these they bore
Crackers and cheese and goodies, a good store,
And fixins whereof rooster-tails are made,
Apples for Jack, and herald-like display'd
A mighty demijohn upheld on high
As if they thought to flout the temperate sky;
And from their pockets out-poked many a neck
Of bottles label'd variously. What reck
We of the labels till the corks are out?

French—Dame Jeanne.

By now the party passes, with a shout,
Through King's front gate; he, having drawn aside
His window-curtain, look'd forth and espied
His pied acquaintance hammering at his door,
Clamorous to enter. Did I say before
He had that day from a long voyage return'd?
And in his early chamber the light burn'd.
Scarcely a-bed was he when all this din
As of police or burglars breaking in,

And he must rise and don his wearied clothes
(His bettermost suit unpack'd yet, I suppose)
To welcome these invaders, and with thanks:
Welcome as sudden floods that o'er low banks
Some unexpected thaw with thankless heat
Has brought unwanted. On his naked feet
Descends he, and assists them to a light;
Then turns to put him in more gueslly plight.
So enter they. And in a little while
King and his Wife bring down a cheerful smile
To help the gas; and all the game's a-blaze.
Bull first gave tongue: Why, this is like old days.
I said we could not come too soon. Leastways,
Chimed Enoch, Nary one of us could wait.
Too soon? said Denis: shure it's most too late.
But pardon, Gentles! I have left too long
Our hostess standing these wild men among.
A jolly dame King's Better-half, though young:
With a sweet mouth and a sweet saucy tongue.
Well could she meet the wags at any hour.
She came in blooming, fresh as the may-flower,
No one had thought that she could be so quick;
And, leaning on her husband as a stick,
Gave greeting to each unexpected guest,
To each her hand, with proffer of the best.
The flre was not yet out; would they but sit
And wait a while. More silent King; but lit
A spill for all in turn. Not fluent of speech

Was he, but of most things within his reach
Could give account: a fidgety small man,
Restless, although 'twas said he never ran,—
His gait as suited one whose thoughts were wise:
He saw no gain in hurried exercise.
Wrizled his face was, his jaw lean; so thin
His body too, there was no room for sin
If any had suspected him of it.
But they who knew th' inside knew there was wit
With guilelessness beneath that wrinkled crust.
He was a man you might both love and trust:
(Might is a wrong word here, I would say must).
Grave as he was he could accept a joke;
And gravely smiled when Bull the night-hours woke,
As 'bacco-laureate for the present time,
With hasty snatch like this of Moorish rhyme.
I know by the smoke all so gracefully curl'd
Round the mouth o' the meerschaum that Lone Jack is lit,
And I say, if there's peace to be found in the world
With a chimney that smokes, this is it! this is it!
And here, if the wine may have leave to come forth
We mad devils have brought into this blissful sphere,
We would pledge to our Host truest service and love,
And the same to our Hostess most charming and dear.
With leave, Tom! (Bull went on to say) I will move
(As he uncork'd the Clicquot) we start fair with this.
And I think you will own, if good wine's to be had,
Here it is! here it is!

And now, the snow-white damask spread,
The viands in fit order placed,
With Enoch at the table's head,
Tom at his right, the left side graced
By Madam — “next his heart”
(So Denis for his part
Apostrophising as the rest took seats),
They pass'd around the dainty meats,
The sandwiches of chaff and wine.
Admit the chaff is not cut fine:
Say badinage! when hearts are young
Some waggery's allow'd: the tongue
Serves as salt-cellar. While I prate
These chafferers empty every plate;
And having fully bribed their throats
Prepare for warbling. Take we notes!
Of course Bull must lay down the law.
The Scot remonstrates: Hoot awa!
Let me begin!
A hieland laddie I was born:
A' laaland laws I haud in scorn—
Denis breaks in—
Och! I was born in Liverpool,
And I hate the English laws,
For me father was an Irishman:
Shure I've the plinty cause.
Then Bull, half wroth, with look to make a pause,
Be hangd t' ye both! we'll have no politics.
Choose other singing! Denis! do you mix!
Perhaps Miss Belle will favour us the first

With her sweet voice? Whereat a general burst,
Applause! Miss Belle bow'd gracefully at this.
How came she of the party? I shall miss
Her song to tell. A winsome lassie she,
Like yet unlike her sister Queen: some see
No likeness, Belle being little, as yet slim:
If scant of fun, without caprice or whim,
And all straight-forward as an arrow is:
A maiden many have to love, I wis.—
Unhesitating, although used to sing,
She trill'd unquaveringly a pretty thing
Of love — a man's love-song: it is the way
Young virgins teach shy bachelors what to say.
That over, praised, Bull clear'd his ample throat,
And stuck his thumbs in sleeve-holes of his coat,
And closed his eyes, and lay back in his chair,
And gave as his opinion Jane was fair
But cruel, and his heart was breaking fast,
Nigh sixteen stone. And when that woe was past
Enoch, all asking, led a college chaunt sublime
(Writ by the Sage of Concord in the days
Of studious youth and more poetic haze):
How the Bull-Frog and the Squirrel
Had a quarrel, both one time.
'Twas a mountain of a bull-frog (quite an Og
Of Bashan, said our Englishman): the mess
Was Squirrel he was riled to be thought less
Than this mud-mounting bully of a frog.
But here's the strain:—
Bull-Frog and Squirrel, turn and turn again.

The Bull-Frog and the Squirrel came to blows,
Metaphoric: and Skug hit him on the nose.

Chorus
— In among the sedges,
On the edges
Where the bull-frogs doze.

Then Bull-Frog revenged him: Little Put!
You wish you was amphibious. Shade of Phut!

Chorus
— In among the sedges,
The green edges.
Who the bull-frog's Phut?

Phut was that Egyptian who of frogs first ate,
When Moses made them cheap, I calculate.

Chorus
— In among the sedges,
On the edges
Of a China plate.

Then the Squirrel took his tale up, parabole:
Says he — You have a mean and muddy soul!

Chorus
— 'Mid the dirty sedges
On the edges
Of the Bull-Frog's hole.

You sing? you a bull-frog? you? you're hoarse.
Whereat the Bull-Frog croak'd again with forty bull-frog force.

Chorus
— In among the sedges,
All their edges
Bow'd to him of course.

But Skug in half a second him upshut
With — You're not spry enough to crack a nut.

Chorus
— Down among the sedges,
On the ledges
Where the Bull-Frog's mouth is shut.

Needs not be said, at every pause in this
Glasses get emptied, while the refill'd kiss,
Lip against lip, as custom stands with friends.
The punch was excellent. A good punch lends
A fillip to enjoyment. Let them hunch
Teetotal shoulders! Tea, well put in punch,
Helps temperance, corrects the spirituous part,
And cheer'd by it gives warmth unto the heart.
Try tea with lemon-juice! a little bit
Of sugar added: there's no harm in it.
Good lemon aids the tea. Nor is there wrong
In some stomachic, taken not too strong.
But pass the punch! We wait another song.
Our hostess call'd the German forth:
She knew that he had quires of worth.
He blush'd, but said he vould sing den
(The air it vos by Beethoven)
A German Lied, perhaps vould please,
Translated by an English pen.
They vould not mind his qs and ps.

Silently, silently, did they embrace,
Tenderly, tenderly, face illumed face,

Deliciously beam'd her sweet passionate eyes:
Fondly confiding the maiden's embrace.
Woe for the prize of love easily won!
Dark is the nightfall that follows the day.

Silently, silently, did they embrace,
Gloomily, gloomily, face shadow'd face,
Despairingly gleam'd her sweet sorrowful eyes:
Sadly, despairingly, did she embrace.
Hastily flies the love easily won!
Summer has gone and the winter is grey.

It's nae so hamely, to my mind,
As our ain sangs. Ye ken that one
Of Bonnie Poll, a screed of Burns.
So Sandy, off fu' yet some turns;
And scarcely waiting for his wind,
Ere they had ask'd he had begun.

Fetch me anither stoup of ale,
And froth it in the pewter tassie,
That I may drink — I wadna fail —
A health to her, my ain wee lassie.
The snaw it drives atween my teeth,
The cauld keen wind is na so jolly,
It's cozie here the neuk beneath;
But I'll gang hame to bonnie Polly.

I'll tak' nae mair, I'm no that saft,
Tho' unco laith to leave guid liquor,

The winds may blow as they were daft,
And let the snaw be sax-time thicker,
And gin I tint the vera best
O' barley-bree,— it's aiblins folly,—
I'll wrap my plaidie owre my breast,
And gang hame, sune, to bonnie Polly.

'Troth, Poll is hamely — wid respect,
Quoth Denis, as the Hostess check'd
His jeering tone; but by me sowl,
It's our own Oirish lovers bowl
The worrrld of song from off its legs.
Like potheen running out in kegs,
And no one axin' them ashore.
Jist hear this now, by Ror' O'More!

Dermot's Uproar.

Och, Norah, me jewel!
So keen-eyed and cruel,
Yur heart is as hard as a di'mond or purl:
Me red and white coral!
Ye niver can quarrel
Wid Dermot who loves ye, the jew'l of a girl.

Like the purl o' the mornin,
The daylight adornin,
So early uphoister'd from out the salt sea,
Like a fresh flowrin sea-weed,
'Ts meself has of thee need:
Shure Dermot and Norah were made to agree.

Och, Norah, me jewel!
You can't be so cruel:
Yur heart's like a ruby or tough amethyst.
Ye're a rock, I'm a-thinkin,
That don't care a winkin
How yur purty white throat by the fond waves is kist.

Is it waves? I've a notion,
Were Dermot the ocean,
Or say but a bay batt'rin spray at yur feet,
Och, I'd crown ye wid laurel
If ye'd make up our quarrel,
And whisper — O Say-God! thim kisses are sweet.

The Frenchman's turn came next. Pardòn!
His hand to ze fair dames he keess,
And he vould sing a small chanson
He turn himself to Eenglish, Meess!
The song, he said, came à-propos,
For Meess had tell him that she know
French of de Beranger, and he
Was proud of taste with hers agree.
Belle smiled, but bravely bit her lips.
Jean kiss'd again his finger-tips;
Then sang, in English beyond quarrel,
How Charles the Seventh loved Agnes Sorel.

I go combat — thy will, my Own!
Adieu, pleasùre! adieu, repose!

I will have, to revenge my crown,
God and my love and these heròes.
Englishmen! may my Lady's name
Carry into your ranks terròr!
Near her I had forgotten fame:
Agnes me renders to honòur.

Amidst my games — my idle reign
Frenchman and king, from danger far
I did my France let to the chain,
A captive to the stranger's war.
One word my Lady's mous did name
My front with redness cover'd o'er.
Near her I had forgotten fame:
Agnes me render'd to honòur.

If Victory my blood must take,
Agnes! my blood will all run down.
But no! for love and glory's sake
Charles will be conqueror of renown.
I ought to conquer, in thy name,
With thy favòurs and thy colòur.
Near her I had forgotten fame:
Agnes me renders to honòur.

Dunois! La Tremouille! Saintrailles!
O Frenchmen! what a day, how sweet,
When twenty battles going by
Lay laurel crowns at Beauty's feet.
Frenchmen! speak gratefully her name
Of glory and good-hap donòr!

Near her I had forgotten fame:
Agnes me renders to honòur

One guest, yet undescribed, sat Belle beside:
A gentle youth, mustached and tender-eyed,
Of nice behaviour, in his Sunday's best.
How came he there we will not make iuquest
At present. Ere the plausive echoes died,
Was it a blush Belle sought to hide
That made her turn away?
Or something in those youthful eyes
That met her own sweet thought,
Whereat she started as with shamed surprise?
That start the Sister caught,
And at her word the gentle youngster brought
And sang as a true lover ought

A Roundelay.

O love! true love, that asks not for return!
O love, true love, that asks but leave to love!
True love that only lives, and likes, to prove
His own sweet wealth, with never need to earn!

O love, pure love, still well content to yearn,
To stand afar, to pray, yet never move!
O most untired desire to give all love
For love's dear sake and ask for no return!

O love, true love, the loved in vain may spurn!
Unheeded love, that in the desert strove!
Unchanging, faithful, never-failing love!

Be sure some day there shall be fair return!

That's in the high-falutin' key,
Said Enoch. How in Vairmount we
Go courtin', would you keer to know?
The words are by Hosee Biglow,
Music my own. Yes, Sir! that's so.

to query by Sandy.

Uncle Zekle came tu woo —
Ha, ha, the wooin o't!
Huldy skeer'd tu buckle tu —
Ha, ha, the wooin o't!
Heer'd him hawkin up the street;
Smiled ez apples wern't all sweet;
Pucker'd up her mouth tu meet,
Ha, ha, the wooin o't!

Uncle Zek peep'd thru the glaze —
Ha, ha, the wooin o't!
She show'd pooty in the blaze —
Ha, ha, the wooin o't!
Peelin apples fast ez sin,
Hadn't time tu cry — Come in!
He fer parin wuz too thin!
Ha, ha, the wooin o't!

Uncle's skin wuz crinkled oak —
Ha, ha, the wooin o't!
And his v'ice a kinder croak —
Ha, ha, the wooin o't!

Wen he dror his cheer and sot
Jest too near her she look'd hot:
Fire or blushes, which? he tho't.
Ha, ha, the wooin o't!

Uncle talk'd sum of his hogs —
Ha, ha, the wooin o't!
Huldy heer'd the cracklin logs!
Ha, ha, the wooin o't!
Uncle kep in Bank, he sed:
Huldy wuz too young tu wed:
Wintry cold an old man's bed:
Ha, ha, the wooin o't!

Uncle Zek wuz here tu-night —
Ha, ha, the wooin o't!
Sparkin in the chimbly light —
Ha, ha, the wooin o't!
Wut does Huldy in the snow?
“One more kiss before I go!”
Mind if Huldy answer No! —
That's our Vairmount wooin o't.

By this the punch was like to fail;
But Denis cried — A double gale!
And echoed all the cry.
A shadow o'er the pale Host pass'd,
A half-rebuke, his first, his last;—
He held his glass on high
And, waving it above his head,

Sang out, as his heart's blood were shed,
Whiskey and liberty!
Another bowl before you're gone —
Were his last words. And only one!
Our Hostess graciously appends:
Though seldom such a sheaf of friends
(She glanced around upon them all)
Comes with such will without a call.

And now the final punch was mix'd
And every glass refill'd.
Then Bull, supremely rising, fix'd
His hand upon his heart;
And — Ere we must depart,
(So spake he) little as I'm skill'd
In compliment, you will permit me say —
Of our good friend now sitting here before us
— Hip, hip, hooray!

Was chorus.
Who shall count the drinks were had
While mad mirth grew more and more as
Momus steep'd the moments' noses
In the mixture that disposes
Even Sorrow to be glad:
Softer Sorrow!
On the morrow
Sick as Pharoah's Court of Moses.
Fairer fate my Muse discloses,
Lifting of our night the blanket:
No wet Banquo at this banquet;

King's friends' scullery at the least
Brought no death's head to our Feast;
Death was not in pot or pottle.
Shade of Southey (name is Cottle)
Reinspire me, that the end may be
Applied to this high theme with fit full dignity!
Help, Apollo! for the Hours
Are bowling off and, by the Powers,
Night's watchman from his misty towers
Is hurrying down.
Kirke White's the last two lines: I would claim but my own.
Thou too, Goddess, fancy free,
In heaven clep'd Mnemosynè!
Memory, with the slender waist
And back-turn'd visage, hither haste!
Whether without weight of wage
Thou porèst o'er some antique page,
Some palimpset whose record
Might suffice for thy reward;
Whether thy late thoughts explore
The prehistoric Cushite shore,
Haply looking for some lost
Berosian bricabrac; or, tost
Back from the sharp Sierras' flanks
To muddy Mississipian banks,
Thou seekest amid ancient mounds
For the earlier river bounds;
Or circlest the unwirèd world
For forty minutes; or with curl'd

And radiant head bow'd to thy knees
Dream'st of the far Symplegades:
Goddess excellently bright!
Thou that makèst day of night!
Goddess memorably wise!
Help the tale of our Surprise!
Benevolent Goddess! plume thy swiftest wing;
Attend this fond complaint, and prompt more words to sing.
Sandy! you do not drink, said Denis. Dry
And sandy's the same thing — was his reply.
I'll tak' a mere sup just to moist my mou',
Syne croon my verse again. I'm no that fu'
But I'll sing brawly, and the sabject's guid,
And present Comp'ny! ye'll no ca' me rude
For singing out o' turns.
I'm like the burns,
Aye tuneful. So he hugs
Conceit with both arms tightly to his breast,
(His glass got leave of rest)
And flings ane ither Scotch sang i' their lugs.

The ait 's a callant fine and guid
To meet i' the mornin' airlie:
But gie me for the ingle neuk
My gossip — bearded Barley!
Kail-brose at noon is weel eneuch,
I'll gar it welcome rarely;
But ilka hour frae dawn till night
For rantin' Bree o' Barley!

Is it potheen, scream'd Denis, ye mane?
As the song has it, ane o' your ain:—
When Pathrick brew'd a power o' malt,
And Tim Dahomy cam' to prie,
They found the brewin' had one fault:
It was not quite enough for three.
They were na fu'
But yet it's thrue
That baith thegither counted three,
Whyles each ane saw
The ither twa
Thru mixins o' the barley-bree.

Ye've corrapted the taxt athegither,
As ye do wi' our auld bonnie sangs,
Meanin' airs. To believe ye the thrang's
A' frae Ireland. It's thrue, by the Powers.
Then Bull: Why, the most of them's ours.
Weel, weel, it's a' made i' the heather:
There's little of choice, I'm a-thinking.
Only gie me the drinking!
Glenlivat or potheen's all one.
Bedad, but that's thrue whin all's done.
Whereat but they all cried Hear! hear!
And Sandy with fresh cheer
Loosen'd anither stave.
(Holy — Madam! without lave.)
I will na ask for silk attire,
And siller I can spare,
Gin I've a toddy by the fire

And on the sideboard mair.
For Barley is my darlin,' my darlin,' my darlin';
For Barley is my darlin'—
His christen'd name is Beer.
Give me our home-brew'd English ales,
For breakfast, lunch, or stirrup-cup,
And our old English madrigals
For music!

—May be just a sup
O' the brandy poonch? You haven't named your drink.
Waal! replied Enoch, Cocktails, not to wink
At Cobblers in desult'ry times.—
Weel! different drinks suit differing climes.
Let ilka poet choose his rhymes!
We've nae sae like laws as in France.—
The Ladies might prefer a dance,
Said Denis, and arose,
And tow'rd an Irish jig his toes
Accommodating made advance.
— But hauding wi' our drappies,
Under favour o' the Leddies,
Seeing toddy's on the tapis,
That's a vile drink, your Bourbon, sae quickly it unsteadies.
— Yaas! ze Bourbon is canaille.
— Whereon Enoch took a smile,
Acting contempt; and Wait awhile
Until good Bourbon you've known.

Mayn't be good for mixing; take it straight!
Then you'll own —
But I reckon it's some late.
And the Frenchman rose with him:
For the dawn a kinder dim
Light slid between the blinds.
Our Host was playing with the rinds
Of lemons; but our Hostess rose serene,
Like as the harvest moon is seen,
And, standing royal as a Queen,
Said — We thank you for your presence here last night —
Afforded much delight —
King and myself are owing
And beholden to your friendship much
(The slightest touch
Of irony); but King has been
A traveler — travel-spent.
Stand not upon the order of your going,
But go at once!

We went.