University of Virginia Library

Child Barbara was a modest maid;
She was white as a lily that's grown in the shade,
And her two pretty eyes were soft and blue
As wild-wood violets, moist with dew.
But her voice.—O children, Maud, Mabel, and Nancy,
Do, just to oblige me now, try and fancy
The rarest of song-birds all piping together,
'Neath the bluest sky, in the brightest weather;
And when you've a clear idea of the sweetness
Of that bird-chorus, in its completeness,
Of Barbara's singing . . . you'll know no more,
I am sorry to say, than you knew before.
It was past all fancy—sometimes, in dreaming,
We may hear such music swelling and streaming,
Warbling and piping, pour'd out like a river
Of sunshine and song, that makes us quiver
And smile and tremble, by turns, and pray
Such rapture may never pass away.
But in this work-a-day world . . . ah no!
That sort of singing ceased long ago!
But that Barbara's voice had charms, you'll own,
When I tell you that, by its aid alone,
She slew a Dragon—ah! yes, a Dragon,
As broad as the hugest, broadest wheel'd waggon,
And so long, I am sure you'd turn terribly pale,
If I mention'd the marvellous length of his tail.
Through the wretched country, near and far,
This monster waged a pitiless war
On all the poor people; and not a day
But he snapp'd up a good round dozen for play,
And fifty, at least, for an early dinner,
And as many for supper, as I'm a sinner,
So the population grew thinner and thinner.
This Dragon was green as grass, the colour
Of Venetian blinds, or a trifle duller,
With a head in the style of the crocodile's,
And a tail like a snake's, that for miles and miles
Lay coiled and knotted, in rings upon rings,
Round rocks and hill-tops, and all such things.
He had but one eye, and that was yellow,
Like a great flaming onyx—a fright of a fellow:
He look'd, I assure you, when, turning round,
He stared you full in the face and frown'd.
Now over this eye grew three long, tough
Lashes, like brambles, and just as rough.
And much was talk'd of a prophecy,
Made by a wizard in days gone by,
Which declared this monster would come to his end
Whenever an innocent child should wend
To his den on the mountain top, and creep
To his side and fairly sing him to sleep;
And then, with a jerk, courageous and stout,
Pull one of those long rough eyelashes out.

But alas! the children, at such a thought,
Shiver'd and shook, and went clean distraught;
All the singing ceased, and nothing was heard
But squalling and screaming, which, on my word,
Little folks, is the most ridiculous fashion
Of lulling a Dragon that's in a passion.
But so it was, and the world went round,
And the Dragon went round as well, and found
Pretty fair pickings; for one good feature
'Tis well to point out in this odious creature—
He was never dainty. Old man or dame,
Or boy or baby, 'twas all the same
To his ravenous maw, and he'd mumble and munch
E'en cats and pet puppy-dogs, for a lunch,
If he found nought better. Well, one dark day,
He rush'd to the mouth of his den and lay
Roaring, like thunder—just fancy his roar,
As it peal'd the mountain battlements o'er!—
No, don't take the trouble; you'd never conceive it,
'Twas past all fancy; you'd scarce believe it,
If told of its horror.—In dreams, such thunder
May startle and strike us with awe and wonder,
Rattling and rumbling the black skies under,
But in this work-a-day world . . ah! no,
That sort of roaring ceased long ago!
Well, he roar'd and he roar'd, so the people knew
He was out of temper, and off they flew,
Helter-skelter, pell-mell, like the wind;
And owing, no doubt, to the state of their mind,
They left all the little children behind!
There was a terrible piece of business!
Judge the fright and confusion and dizziness—
Up the stairs and down the stairs,
Little feet patter'd and rush'd, by pairs,
Out in the garden, and down in the street,
They flock and hurry, and part and meet.
What's to be done; oh, what's to be done?
This way they stop, that way they run—
Screaming and crying, now one by one,
Now all together—oh, what's to be done?
At last, a little damsel, called Bridget,
A sharp little child, though a bit of a fidget,
Said, “Let us all go together and see
If Barbara will help us, for it may be
She'll be good and kind, and have courage to creep
Up the mountain and sing the dragon to sleep!”
So away they went, by hundreds and dozens,
Little twin sisters, small wee cousins,
Mites of brothers, and all alone,
Here and there, a motherless orphan'd one.
When Barbara saw this fairy throng
Come sweeping the meadow-path along,
She trembled and turn'd quite pale, and seem'd
To know what the strange sight meant—had she dream'd,
The fair meek child, of the trial of woe,
And the terrible deed she was born to do?
She dropp'd her lute—she sprang to the door—
Up came the children, some fifty score,
Panting and screaming. “Help! help!” cried they;
“All our fathers and mothers have run away,
And the Dragon has got neither bite nor sup,
And he'll gobble us up! he'll gobble us up!
O dear Child Barbara, be kind, now, do;
There's nobody sings so nicely as you.
Oh! take your wonderful lute, and creep
Up the mountain and sing the Dragon to sleep—
Just sing him those sweet little lullaby things,
That make the birds tuck their heads under their wings,
And the butterflies leave off their frolicsome play,
And the wee pretty dormice drop dozing away;
And, when he's asleep, steal up to his snout,
And before he has time to know what you're about,
Oh! pull his ugly great eyelash out!”

Child Barbara smiled; Child Barbara took
Her lute from the floor, but her young voice shook
A little, the while she softly said,
“I will go, dear children, but ere I tread,
Alone, those dreary and perilous ways,
Let me say my prayer, as on other days!”
Then she knelt, and the children silently
Knelt too—'twas the sweetest sight to see!
Such a swarm of little innocent creatures,
With the tears undried on their pretty features,
Drooping their bright heads, meek and low,
As flowers droop their bells, when the storm-winds blow.
When Child Barbara rose, no more, no more,
Her voice shook, cheerily, as of yore;
She spoke and smiled—o'er her head she threw
A little hood, with a mantle of blue,—
One comforting word, one grave good-bye,
Then she turn'd to the mountain pathway nigh,
The track, untrodden by feet of men,
That led to the grisly Dragon's den.

Roar upon roar, roar upon roar,
Shook the mountains, haggard and hoar—
Bellow'd the thunder, sobb'd the breeze,
Shiver'd and shudder'd the mountain trees—
And halfway up, ah! what should she see
But a green slimy coil, curl'd round a tree,
Twitching and twisting continually!
'Twas the Dragon's tail, and as thin as a whip—
How she wish'd his eyelashes hung on the tip!
But as she went up, oh! it grew and grew,
And now it look'd black, and now it look'd blue,
And now a livid and ghastly yellow,
As if the wrath of the fierce old fellow
And all his malice were rankling within,
Up and down, 'neath his venomous skin!
And soon, from the brow of the hill, there came
A black smoky cloud, with flashes of flame—
A fashion the Dragon had, you must know,
Of sending his victims to sleep below;
For this murky and poisonous cloud would creep,
From his nostrils, down the hill-side steep,
And whoever breathed it was sure to be found
Stone-cold, when the Dragon went his round.
Child Barbara crouch'd deep down in the grass,
That the menacing cloud might have time to pass,
And hid her sweet little face so fair,
'Neath a dock-leaf that chanced to be growing there.
Spitting and sputtering above her head
The cloud and its lightnings slowly sped,
And one flash darted so near, so near,
That it scorch'd the tip of Child Barbara's ear.
But she held her breath, and ere long the blue,
Clear sky, through the branches, gleam'd anew;
So she struggled up, over stocks and stones,
And millions on millions of bare bleach'd bones,
'Till she reach'd the mouth of the Dragon's den,
By the edge of a reeking and stagnant fen.
How his one eye stared, when he saw her coming!
While his fore-paws set up a sort of strumming,
And his tail, on a sudden, gave such a haul,
That it tore up, bodily, roots and all,
Fifty great fir-trees! Barbara grew
Like a poor little frost-bitten snow-drop, in hue;
But she master'd her fear, and sitting down,
(With her face turn'd somewhat away, I must own,)
She avail'd herself of a sudden quiet,
That follow'd the Dragon's ruinous riot,
And sweeping her hand across the strings,
Sang one of her sweet little lullaby things.

They were simple words, but a sort of spell
Was in Barbara's voice, and I know full well
That had lily or hyacinth chanced to be there,
In that horrible desert, so barren and bare,
'Twould have taken to closing its bells, and reposing
Its delicate leaves, and dreamily dozing.
As for the Dragon, he wink'd and wink'd,
And yawn'd, and stretch'd, and lazily blink'd;
And once, while the song went on, the child
Saw a wrinkled smile beam, vast and wild,
On his visage, and run, as if brimming o'er,
Round his jaws, a good half mile or more.
And when Barbara left off singing, a smother
In his throat, said plainly, “Come, sing me another.”
Then the child drew nearer, and softly, lowly,
Swayed to and fro, and warbled slowly
A cradle song, that, times without number,
Had woo'd her own pretty eyes into slumber.

“Oh willow, willow,
Weeping willow,
Drooping so drowsily over my pillow:
Willow, willow,
Green as the billow,
Washing so wearily round my pillow:
Willow, willow,
Whispering willow,
Soften my slumber and shade my pillow.”

This time the Dragon closed his eye
Outright, and his head droop'd sleepily.
Child Barbara thought he was dropping off;
But no! on a sudden he gave a cough
And an angry start, and stretching his jaws,
He propp'd them up on his two fore-paws,
As if determined not to give way,
And be coax'd into sleeping at that time of day!
So the child took heart of grace, and crept
Nearer and nearer, and now she swept
The chords more lightly, and murmur'd a strain
That seem'd to strew poppy-leaves over his brain.

“Lullaby, lullaby!
Cool falls the gloaming;
Lullaby, lullaby!
Now sleep is coming.
Down from the quiet sky,
Through the deep gloaming;
Lullaby, lullaby!
Now sleep is coming!
Lul-la-by!”

A deep hush follow'd, then, down dropp'd the paws,—
Down dropp'd the leathery, clanking jaws—
Down dropp'd the lid o'er the blazing eye,
Fast seal'd, as if for a century;
And, ere five minutes were fairly o'er,
The spell-bound Dragon began to snore!
Up sprang Child Barbara, gasping, panting,
And I fear within an ace of fainting,
For now came the ticklish part of the business,
And enough to excuse a moment's dizziness.
The beast was a huge unwieldy wight,
While poor little Barbara was but a mite;
And though his head lay flat on the ground,
The child, on tip-toe, paced round and round,
Striving in vain to reach over his snout,
And pull his ugly long eyelash out!
She could not get near it. What was to be done?
No chance was left but a desperate one—
From the jaws of the monster a single fang
Stuck out—Child Barbara shudder'd, but sprang
On this venomous step, and then, with a strain,
She reach'd the eyelash and tugg'd amain.
She began with a little, light, slight pull—
Then tried an obstinate, tight pull—
And then a strong pull,
And then a long pull—
And then a feeble, fluttering, fast pull—
And at last a vehement, vigorous, vast pull—
When out it came!
And away went the child, over stocks and stones,
And rocks and rubbish and bare bleach'd bones:
Away and away, for a burst of flame
Wither'd the daylight. With hideous roar
The Dragon leap'd up, and a flood of gore
Rush'd from his jaws like an inky fountain,
And stream'd in a torrent down the mountain!
He howl'd, he bellow'd, he lash'd with his tail;
He struck down the forests as with a flail:
But his fury and spite were of no avail,—
Ere the child reach'd safely the lower land,
The long lash clutch'd in her little hand,
He had dropp'd down stark in a sea of gore,
Where he slept on, soundly, for evermore!

Now what you may fancy is Barbara's meeting
With her little friends, and their clamorous greeting—
The hugging and kissing, the crowding and pressing,
The happy crowing, the fond caressing;
And the shame of those cowardly fathers and mothers,
When they came—first some, and then the others—
And found that a child, so valiantly,
Had fought their battle and set them free.
That the people did Child Barbara honour
May be judged by the tribute her courage won her;
For, if ever you visit those foreign lands,
You will see an ancient statue, that stands
In a great chief city, full and fair,
In the stately market-place, and there
You will recognise this wonderful child—
Sweet little Barbara—modest and mild,
With her lute in her hand, and to tell her tale,
A Dragon crushed 'neath the pedestal.
And still, in ballad and ancient story,
The people rehearse Child Barbara's glory,
Which brings me at last to the end of my lay;
So now, dear children, I've only to say,
That, like Child Barbara, I hope you'll ever
Be self-denying, true-hearted, and never
Shrink from your trials and duties, howe'er
They may look the reverse of pleasant and fair.
For ah! little folks, Maud, Mabel, and Nancy,
If we keep our eyes very wide open, I fancy
We may, without over much searching, each day
Find some sort of ugly great Dragon to slay.