Songs of the Cavaliers and Roundheads Jacobite Ballads, &c. &c. By George W. Thornbury ... with illustrations by H. S. Marks |
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 | DRAMATIC MONOLOGUES. |
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 | Songs of the Cavaliers and Roundheads |  |
139
DRAMATIC MONOLOGUES.
141
THE WITCH'S CHAMPION.
Look here! see how I spill this wine,
Crushing the crystal with my heel;
So his heart's blood shall run to waste,
And his clay-house with griding steel
I will deface—and why? because the beast
Dares to defame my lady. Sot!
He says her fame is spotted black;
Who says it, lies; I say 'tis not.
Crushing the crystal with my heel;
So his heart's blood shall run to waste,
And his clay-house with griding steel
I will deface—and why? because the beast
Dares to defame my lady. Sot!
He says her fame is spotted black;
Who says it, lies; I say 'tis not.
Look how I slice this falcon's neck;
Let knaves beware, the wolf's at bay;
Stand from the door—here, Watkin, ho!
Plant back to back, and chop a way.
He says—it makes me froth with rage—
Her white hand has a stain. The sot!
I know her pure as her babe's soul.
Who says she's false, he lies; I say she's not.
Let knaves beware, the wolf's at bay;
Stand from the door—here, Watkin, ho!
Plant back to back, and chop a way.
He says—it makes me froth with rage—
Her white hand has a stain. The sot!
I know her pure as her babe's soul.
Who says she's false, he lies; I say she's not.
142
O bring my helmet, visor up—
My eyes are dimmer than they were.
Here, Ralph, my heaviest tilting-spear!
And grind it sharp, Ralph—have a care;
For I will lop him limb to limb,
And throw the flesh to dogs. The sot!
The drunken beast to call her false!
Who says it, lies; I say she's not.
My eyes are dimmer than they were.
Here, Ralph, my heaviest tilting-spear!
And grind it sharp, Ralph—have a care;
For I will lop him limb to limb,
And throw the flesh to dogs. The sot!
The drunken beast to call her false!
Who says it, lies; I say she's not.
A witch, too! 'cause her golden bird
Flew to her bosom at her call—
A witch! because last holy night
She was found praying in the hall.
O devils! bring that toughest axe
With the oak shaft, and give me—Sot!
She's purer than the new-sprung flower.
Who calls her witch? I say she's not.
Flew to her bosom at her call—
A witch! because last holy night
She was found praying in the hall.
O devils! bring that toughest axe
With the oak shaft, and give me—Sot!
She's purer than the new-sprung flower.
Who calls her witch? I say she's not.
She liked me not; “Old Steady Dick”
Was my name at their spinning-wheel.
I know she shudder'd when I rose
From table, clashing in my steel;
And yet to save one golden hair,
I'd give my blood. Oh, fevers rot
The villain's tongue that called her false!
Who says it, lies; I say she's not.
Was my name at their spinning-wheel.
I know she shudder'd when I rose
From table, clashing in my steel;
And yet to save one golden hair,
I'd give my blood. Oh, fevers rot
The villain's tongue that called her false!
Who says it, lies; I say she's not.
143
Girth me up tight look—wax the shaft
Of the steel axe. No—blood shall glue
This hand to hilt. What's that? Who laughed?
Can see him coming! Call the Jew,
And bid him burn the bond he signed.
But one debt now, then red dew robs
His tongue and jaw, to call her false.
Who says it, lies; I say she's not.
Of the steel axe. No—blood shall glue
This hand to hilt. What's that? Who laughed?
Can see him coming! Call the Jew,
And bid him burn the bond he signed.
But one debt now, then red dew robs
His tongue and jaw, to call her false.
Who says it, lies; I say she's not.
And he, the husband, simple fool,
Led by this buzzard's poison tongue.
O God! now on my knees, but this—
Once let his throat be clutched and wrung,
Once foot to foot, and eye to eye—
In lowest hell, he'll roll and rot—
She pure as seraphim. She false?
Who dare say that? I say she's not.
Led by this buzzard's poison tongue.
O God! now on my knees, but this—
Once let his throat be clutched and wrung,
Once foot to foot, and eye to eye—
In lowest hell, he'll roll and rot—
She pure as seraphim. She false?
Who dare say that? I say she's not.
Where's William, he who kissed her shoe,
And kept the paring of her nail?
Where Robert, who, with bow and smile,
Ran for her swift as April gale?
All gone! all faithless—not one left!
Only old Dick—she feared so—sot!—
What, devil! down to hell—down, down!—
Who says she's false? He lies! she's not.
And kept the paring of her nail?
Where Robert, who, with bow and smile,
Ran for her swift as April gale?
All gone! all faithless—not one left!
Only old Dick—she feared so—sot!—
What, devil! down to hell—down, down!—
Who says she's false? He lies! she's not.
144
God has adjudged her pure. Look, fool!
Your sinless lady calm and white:
Dead—dead! her soul has flown to rest—
Gone to the angels of light—
And here the toad I crush, his viperous mouth
Silent at last—so let him rot.
Who says this holy saint was ever false?
He lies, lies, lies, for she was not.
Your sinless lady calm and white:
Dead—dead! her soul has flown to rest—
Gone to the angels of light—
And here the toad I crush, his viperous mouth
Silent at last—so let him rot.
Who says this holy saint was ever false?
He lies, lies, lies, for she was not.
Perish thy gold—I want no fees—
Or give it to the priest to sing
Masses for this dead angel's soul,
Where the old bell may jog and ring.
Good-bye, old Roger, I'm bound over sea;
Yes, Cyprus 'gainst the Turk—O sot,
And see so dear a lady dead. Farewell!
Once more, who calls her false? I proved her not.
Or give it to the priest to sing
Masses for this dead angel's soul,
Where the old bell may jog and ring.
Good-bye, old Roger, I'm bound over sea;
Yes, Cyprus 'gainst the Turk—O sot,
And see so dear a lady dead. Farewell!
Once more, who calls her false? I proved her not.
145
THE CONVENT DRUDGE.
(Temp. Alfred.)
No, do not jeer; my brain is old and strained
With many years of trouble, so 'twill not bend
To these new labours. This King David psalm
I cannot learn; and when I reach the end,
The prelude I forget. But do not, brothers, mock,
I know the chapel boys can run it off
While I am tracing every letter's rim
With my chopped finger; but yet do not scoff,
My sense is dull—this horny eye grows dim.
With many years of trouble, so 'twill not bend
To these new labours. This King David psalm
I cannot learn; and when I reach the end,
The prelude I forget. But do not, brothers, mock,
I know the chapel boys can run it off
While I am tracing every letter's rim
With my chopped finger; but yet do not scoff,
My sense is dull—this horny eye grows dim.
I was a sea-king once, and drove the keel
Through sand and wrack, and now the convent's drudge,
I split the firing-wood, and wash the bowl,
And clean the Abbot's horse, and do not grudge,
Knowing dear Jesus died upon the tree
For serf as well as jarl, although the prior
Smite my thin cheek because I try to sing,
And do it hoarsely, putting out the quire.
Through sand and wrack, and now the convent's drudge,
I split the firing-wood, and wash the bowl,
And clean the Abbot's horse, and do not grudge,
Knowing dear Jesus died upon the tree
For serf as well as jarl, although the prior
Smite my thin cheek because I try to sing,
And do it hoarsely, putting out the quire.
146
Sometimes, all weary with this toil of brain,
I let my psalter drop, and fall asleep
Under the Abbot's desk, and dream of seas
Frothed white with the rough wind that ploughs so deep
Round Arrow Point. The organ's like the breeze,
I start and shout, “Luff, luff;” and a rough blow
Drives me awake, and then the broad sunshine
Falls on me, and when I wake, as if in heaven,
They send me out to prune the hill-side vine.
I let my psalter drop, and fall asleep
Under the Abbot's desk, and dream of seas
Frothed white with the rough wind that ploughs so deep
Round Arrow Point. The organ's like the breeze,
I start and shout, “Luff, luff;” and a rough blow
Drives me awake, and then the broad sunshine
Falls on me, and when I wake, as if in heaven,
They send me out to prune the hill-side vine.
And when I sit me down beside the stub,
To prune, and rest, and try to read the hymn,
The chapel boys draw round and point and mock:
And if I chase them from the copse-wood dim,
Sing their lewd songs, and call me “Danish churl,”
“Ale-bibbing Dane,” and “Pirate,” bid me go
And watch the wreck, or strip the dying serf.
They steal my meal, and give me mock and blow.
To prune, and rest, and try to read the hymn,
The chapel boys draw round and point and mock:
And if I chase them from the copse-wood dim,
Sing their lewd songs, and call me “Danish churl,”
“Ale-bibbing Dane,” and “Pirate,” bid me go
And watch the wreck, or strip the dying serf.
They steal my meal, and give me mock and blow.
Yet I am happy when the windows shine,
And the strong organ thunders jar the quire,
When the angelic voices soar and rise,
And perfume rises from the incense fire;
Then sound, and scent, and colours fill the sense
With Paradise delights, and David's songs
Go up and cleave the sky, and seraphs come
And fill the place, and mingle with the throngs.
And the strong organ thunders jar the quire,
When the angelic voices soar and rise,
And perfume rises from the incense fire;
147
With Paradise delights, and David's songs
Go up and cleave the sky, and seraphs come
And fill the place, and mingle with the throngs.
“The Danes!” what! Norsemen clashing at the gate?
Thank God, I die a saint. Bring me the axe
I threw by when I sought this convent gate:
Where are those scoffers now? I pay the tax,
And lead the sally. Soon a martyr's blood,
Shall save the shrine. Look out the stoutest men,
And arm. Quick, quick, bring out the good king's crown,
The relics, and the image; to his den
We will drive Odin down—ye pagans, down.
Thank God, I die a saint. Bring me the axe
I threw by when I sought this convent gate:
Where are those scoffers now? I pay the tax,
And lead the sally. Soon a martyr's blood,
Shall save the shrine. Look out the stoutest men,
And arm. Quick, quick, bring out the good king's crown,
The relics, and the image; to his den
We will drive Odin down—ye pagans, down.
148
THE SUICIDE IN DRURY-LANE.
(1856.)
“Done!” the tired sexton said, and dug his spade
A foot deep in the plashy London clay.
“What's his name?—Mitchell. Oh, ah! cut his throat;
Shovel him in, of course, the usual way.
What was his age?—Eighteen. Why, what a fool!
O drat these nettles, how the beggars sting!
You haven't got a sixpence? When I've done,
An' O be joyful's what I always sing.
A foot deep in the plashy London clay.
“What's his name?—Mitchell. Oh, ah! cut his throat;
Shovel him in, of course, the usual way.
What was his age?—Eighteen. Why, what a fool!
O drat these nettles, how the beggars sting!
You haven't got a sixpence? When I've done,
An' O be joyful's what I always sing.
The Jolly Brewer's handy—so it is.
O curse this drizzle! how I reek and sweat!
The ground, you see's so greasy hereabout,
For we are over-crowded—three deep;—yet
I will be bound the parish would find room,
If one-third Leper-lane were to hop off.
Look at this skull, it's my old friend, the groom's.
O curse this drizzle! how I reek and sweat!
The ground, you see's so greasy hereabout,
For we are over-crowded—three deep;—yet
I will be bound the parish would find room,
If one-third Leper-lane were to hop off.
Look at this skull, it's my old friend, the groom's.
149
No plumes you see to-night, I don't suppose,
Only a black box, and just half a prayer.
No one to cry and sob, or watch the dust
I fling, a dratting of the damp night air.
O Lord! this rheumatiz! damn suicides!
Don't they know wrong from right? Bah! cutting throats—
And costs the parish something, too, besides.”
Only a black box, and just half a prayer.
No one to cry and sob, or watch the dust
I fling, a dratting of the damp night air.
O Lord! this rheumatiz! damn suicides!
Don't they know wrong from right? Bah! cutting throats—
And costs the parish something, too, besides.”
150
HOW THE PASTY WAS POISONED.
(Temp. Elizabeth.)
This is the pasty for the wedding dinner,
The high-wall'd pasty lordly in its dish;
Cupids dance round the crust, as I'm a sinner.—
The cook's away, scraping the spangled fish,
Say that I lift the paste and add a spice;—
No harm, I trow—bad seasoning's a vice.
The high-wall'd pasty lordly in its dish;
Cupids dance round the crust, as I'm a sinner.—
The cook's away, scraping the spangled fish,
Say that I lift the paste and add a spice;—
No harm, I trow—bad seasoning's a vice.
Ah, ah! the supper!—he who wrong'd us, smiling,
Bowing, the grace cup lifted in his hand,
The foolish guests by turns with grins beguiling,
And counting to himself the dowry land.
Of course, red blushing at the eyes that gaze,
The bride beside him with his sword knot plays.
Bowing, the grace cup lifted in his hand,
The foolish guests by turns with grins beguiling,
And counting to himself the dowry land.
Of course, red blushing at the eyes that gaze,
The bride beside him with his sword knot plays.
Now for next morning, when the music comes
To wake the pair—they must play very loud;
Away with fluting whistles! send for drums;
Beat till your hearts ache, foolish piping crowd.
At the gilt chamber door the varlets wait,
And wonder why the couple sleep so late.
To wake the pair—they must play very loud;
Away with fluting whistles! send for drums;
Beat till your hearts ache, foolish piping crowd.
At the gilt chamber door the varlets wait,
And wonder why the couple sleep so late.
151
Never was pasty season'd quite so well;
Ten grains of stibium smear'd the venison round,
Never was fool so neatly sent to hell.
Snug goes my master's rival under ground—
Now, then, for home—and fully worth the gold,
Twenty-four angels by the steward told.
Ten grains of stibium smear'd the venison round,
Never was fool so neatly sent to hell.
Snug goes my master's rival under ground—
Now, then, for home—and fully worth the gold,
Twenty-four angels by the steward told.
He weigh'd the spices with such anxious skill,
In his glass scales upon the furnace shelf;
Could not have done it with more kindly will,
Though measuring doses for his lady's self.
He smiled (his mouth, not eyes) when he wrapp'd up
This precious drug, and pointed to a cup.
In his glass scales upon the furnace shelf;
Could not have done it with more kindly will,
Though measuring doses for his lady's self.
He smiled (his mouth, not eyes) when he wrapp'd up
This precious drug, and pointed to a cup.
Now for confession, just to take the taste
Out of my mouth, then to old Darcy's mask,
To talk all night, as the sweet tapers waste,
Of poor Trelawney's sudden death, and ask
If the thing's true?—for silly stories fly
From tongue to tongue, then hear the thing, and sigh.
Out of my mouth, then to old Darcy's mask,
To talk all night, as the sweet tapers waste,
Of poor Trelawney's sudden death, and ask
If the thing's true?—for silly stories fly
From tongue to tongue, then hear the thing, and sigh.
152
THE SUCCORY WATER.
(Louis Quatorze.)
Why who could fancy now Montesson there—
She with that fairy little crimson shoe,
Puffed round with swans' down, balanced with such care
On tiptoe of her dancing foot—but two
Or three short minutes—only when the hour
The gilded cupid touched—with half shut eye,
Dropped something deadly in the succory jug,
Falling back languid—and I watching by.
She with that fairy little crimson shoe,
Puffed round with swans' down, balanced with such care
On tiptoe of her dancing foot—but two
Or three short minutes—only when the hour
The gilded cupid touched—with half shut eye,
Dropped something deadly in the succory jug,
Falling back languid—and I watching by.
Thinking no eye was on her—painted whore!
Now by her love-knot hanging to my sword,
And by this favour stolen from her curls;
I will disclose it to her wittol lord:
Yes, by her glove, still faint with wanton scent,
I will prick out this viper from her lair,
Unmask her in the full flush of the court,
Brand the lewd harlot on her whitewashed cheek,
Now by her love-knot hanging to my sword,
And by this favour stolen from her curls;
I will disclose it to her wittol lord:
Yes, by her glove, still faint with wanton scent,
I will prick out this viper from her lair,
Unmask her in the full flush of the court,
Brand the lewd harlot on her whitewashed cheek,
And open out this plague-den to the air.
But first unmask her; see, she shams asleep,
Her rounded brow propped by her dainty hand.
Fool! I remember when to buy one kiss
I would have beggared self of house and land;
But now, ah, well! there have been other fools!
Cæsar, for instance;—Sampson—yes, well, well!
Poison for me, to cure my doting;—Jules,
Bring me a flambeau when I clash the bell.
153
Her rounded brow propped by her dainty hand.
Fool! I remember when to buy one kiss
I would have beggared self of house and land;
But now, ah, well! there have been other fools!
Cæsar, for instance;—Sampson—yes, well, well!
Poison for me, to cure my doting;—Jules,
Bring me a flambeau when I clash the bell.
Now for a rough hand on her velvet arm;
Awake my lady—I am off to court.
This succory water's curdled, Rosa lapped,
And died five minutes since. Ah! harlot caught.
No tricks for me: how pale the witch's face—
Cold, dead. Ring the alarm bell—she has escaped.
Death has tricked Justice! cut her boddice lace;
Bring water; beautiful devil, how she's shaped!
Awake my lady—I am off to court.
This succory water's curdled, Rosa lapped,
And died five minutes since. Ah! harlot caught.
No tricks for me: how pale the witch's face—
Cold, dead. Ring the alarm bell—she has escaped.
Death has tricked Justice! cut her boddice lace;
Bring water; beautiful devil, how she's shaped!
154
SAVED!
(Temp. George I.)
I cannot hope to win her—I, uncouth,
With the stain'd scarlet ever on my back,
And voice all hoarse with bawling to the dogs
Through the thick covert—I, good lord, alack!
Not fit for such as her, and when I touch
Her hand and wring it like a farmer's paw,
She strikes me with her fan and cries, “Have done!”
And I am drunk, or stammer out, “Why, law!”
With the stain'd scarlet ever on my back,
And voice all hoarse with bawling to the dogs
Through the thick covert—I, good lord, alack!
Not fit for such as her, and when I touch
Her hand and wring it like a farmer's paw,
She strikes me with her fan and cries, “Have done!”
And I am drunk, or stammer out, “Why, law!”
She flung the fox brush in my stupid teeth,
That I thought trophy for a queen to wear;
I blew my horn to please her, and she cried,
‘For that fool's flute!’—I frowned—O ass and bear,
Look at them riding now across the chase,
How close their cheeks are—God! a loaded gun
And I could stop that fooling. Curse his teeth!
How white they shine, a twinkling in the sun.
That I thought trophy for a queen to wear;
I blew my horn to please her, and she cried,
‘For that fool's flute!’—I frowned—O ass and bear,
Look at them riding now across the chase,
How close their cheeks are—God! a loaded gun
And I could stop that fooling. Curse his teeth!
How white they shine, a twinkling in the sun.
155
Sound, for I see them just upon the crown
Of the park hill, and I must sally out
Quick ere the scent is found. A horse, a horse!
The fire-hot chestnut. Ah! they wheel about;
Now for a burst full in the trooper's face;
'Tis but a bullet sting, and then a groan,
Tell her I kiss'd this rose before I went—
And pray her come to see my burial place.
Of the park hill, and I must sally out
Quick ere the scent is found. A horse, a horse!
The fire-hot chestnut. Ah! they wheel about;
Now for a burst full in the trooper's face;
'Tis but a bullet sting, and then a groan,
Tell her I kiss'd this rose before I went—
And pray her come to see my burial place.
I'll save the Jacobin—for life to me,
Is a suck'd orange that I fling away.
They may be happy—she will be the heir,
And when the trouble's gone, he'll have his way,
And wed the prettiest maid in Rutlandshire.—
Well, sirs, to covert; give the horse a lash;
We ride as at a bulfinch. Yoicks! hurrah!
Yoicks! tally ho! yoicks! forward—now the crash.
Is a suck'd orange that I fling away.
They may be happy—she will be the heir,
And when the trouble's gone, he'll have his way,
And wed the prettiest maid in Rutlandshire.—
Well, sirs, to covert; give the horse a lash;
We ride as at a bulfinch. Yoicks! hurrah!
Yoicks! tally ho! yoicks! forward—now the crash.
To face a rasper, man, or breast a gate;
To leap a yawner, clear a slapping brook,
We yield to none in Rutland—but a dunce
Am I in all this cursed dance and music book,
Fal lal and ribbons!—know not how to smile.
When I am hurt or stung, and do not know
How to well thank the fool who bruis'd my heart,
But long to tear his throat and blow for blow.
To leap a yawner, clear a slapping brook,
We yield to none in Rutland—but a dunce
Am I in all this cursed dance and music book,
Fal lal and ribbons!—know not how to smile.
When I am hurt or stung, and do not know
How to well thank the fool who bruis'd my heart,
But long to tear his throat and blow for blow.
156
Troopers, by heaven! two, four, six—yes, eight,
And all fast coming through the avenue
After young Vernon—I'll be sworn, he's trapp'd.
Not much love lost, all know, between us two.
Yet still he loves her, and she him to death.
What, then, this white rose that the fellow dropp'd.
She kiss'd it first just at the staircase foot;—
I stick it in my button-hole, pull down my hat,
Ride hotly out, they challenge me and shoot.
And all fast coming through the avenue
After young Vernon—I'll be sworn, he's trapp'd.
Not much love lost, all know, between us two.
Yet still he loves her, and she him to death.
What, then, this white rose that the fellow dropp'd.
She kiss'd it first just at the staircase foot;—
I stick it in my button-hole, pull down my hat,
Ride hotly out, they challenge me and shoot.
157
THE UNJUST STEWARD
(Temp. James I.)
Am I not master here? Whose inn is this?
Are not my horses and my dogs without?
Am I not lord of all the Compton lands?
The mad Sir Francis dead, this year about,
Away at Venice, or else with the Turk—
What means this insolence of yours, Sir Host?
You quit this house at Lent: I'll not be chid
With frowns. We'll see who rules the roast.
Are not my horses and my dogs without?
Am I not lord of all the Compton lands?
The mad Sir Francis dead, this year about,
Away at Venice, or else with the Turk—
What means this insolence of yours, Sir Host?
You quit this house at Lent: I'll not be chid
With frowns. We'll see who rules the roast.
Nothing to vex me? Not his puling wife,
Who mopes and pines because I choose to chide?
Not in those lying varlets, bound and signed
To cheat, steal, drink, and fool in lust and pride?
Why are these rascals silent? You, sir, you
Toss me a pottle off, and clear your throat,
And tell me who it was who dared cry “Jew.”
Who mopes and pines because I choose to chide?
Not in those lying varlets, bound and signed
To cheat, steal, drink, and fool in lust and pride?
Why are these rascals silent? You, sir, you
Toss me a pottle off, and clear your throat,
And tell me who it was who dared cry “Jew.”
158
Out on these squirting cups, give me a jug.
What, sir, not drink! here, drawer, pour out wine;
And look, you gallants, if he's forced to hug,
This bear is rough; take care who pays the fine.
Here, lads, to you, down on your knees and drink.
Villain the sack is limed! I quarrelsome?
I hate to see a lubber try and think
Before canary's made him ripe or dumb.
What, sir, not drink! here, drawer, pour out wine;
And look, you gallants, if he's forced to hug,
This bear is rough; take care who pays the fine.
Here, lads, to you, down on your knees and drink.
Villain the sack is limed! I quarrelsome?
I hate to see a lubber try and think
Before canary's made him ripe or dumb.
And Roger run and bring your lady here;
I want to try her mettle. If she dare
Refuse to come, drag her by force—and look!
You wait not to stick jewels in her hair;
I'll have the dame obedient, like this dog.
Who laughs?—and bring us out another cup,
And pile the fire on; shall a Compton squire
Be treated like a knave, and put it up.
I want to try her mettle. If she dare
Refuse to come, drag her by force—and look!
You wait not to stick jewels in her hair;
I'll have the dame obedient, like this dog.
Who laughs?—and bring us out another cup,
And pile the fire on; shall a Compton squire
Be treated like a knave, and put it up.
Who's that dark scullion frowning at the door,
With his hat o'er his eyes? Marry! come now,
Are gentle folks to be snubbed out by clowns?
Here, Walter, rap the varlet on the brow.
Who dares to laugh? Look, you, I slit his throat,
Or cut his thumbs off. No, I didn't ask
Was the door tight: that rogue there in the coat
Of blue and silver I will now unmask.
With his hat o'er his eyes? Marry! come now,
Are gentle folks to be snubbed out by clowns?
Here, Walter, rap the varlet on the brow.
Who dares to laugh? Look, you, I slit his throat,
Or cut his thumbs off. No, I didn't ask
Was the door tight: that rogue there in the coat
Of blue and silver I will now unmask.
159
Glove in my face! here, Bellamy, my sword,
By a clown, too—why fire and thunder crack?
Who am I?—where am I?—who is this
That beards me? devils—squinting mongrel pack!
Blood wipes the scar out. What, put up a scoff!
There goes the table, now the field is clear;
I'll tap his heart—the doddy-peck—the ass—
Unmask, fair sir. Good God! my master here!
By a clown, too—why fire and thunder crack?
Who am I?—where am I?—who is this
That beards me? devils—squinting mongrel pack!
Blood wipes the scar out. What, put up a scoff!
There goes the table, now the field is clear;
I'll tap his heart—the doddy-peck—the ass—
Unmask, fair sir. Good God! my master here!
| Songs of the Cavaliers and Roundheads | |