Songs of the Cavaliers and Roundheads Jacobite Ballads, &c. &c. By George W. Thornbury ... with illustrations by H. S. Marks |
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HOW THE PASTY WAS POISONED.
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 | Songs of the Cavaliers and Roundheads |  |
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.
| Songs of the Cavaliers and Roundheads | |