Historical & Legendary Ballads & Songs By Walter Thornbury. Illustrated by J. Whistler, F. Walker, John Tenniel, J. D. Watson, W. Small, F. Sandys, G. J. Pinwell, T. Morten, M. J. Lawless, and many others |
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Charles Lamb and the Chimney-sweeps.
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Charles Lamb and the Chimney-sweeps.
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[Of all this great humorist's drolleries, one of the most extravagant was the supper he and some fellow-wits once gave a party of chimney-sweeps in Bartholomew Fair. He describes the feast himself in one of his essays, with irresistible and matchless quaintness. Three tables were set for the black boys among the pens, where, in spite of occasional charges of cattle, the guests contrived, amid all the fun of the fair, to bolt a barrowful of hissing sausages, and toss off countless pots of small beer. The host's fun consisted in keeping up all the forms of a ceremonious festive dinner, much to the astonishment and amusement of the black brothers. I here beg the spirit-rappers of the metropolis to apologize to the ghost of Southey for my indirect parody of his admirable “Battle of Blenheim.”]
The whirligigs swung up and down,
The penny trumpet blew,
Yet nought disturbed the boist'rous mirth
Of that young sable crew—
I know not what the month might be,
But 't was the fair of Bartlemy.
The penny trumpet blew,
Yet nought disturbed the boist'rous mirth
Of that young sable crew—
I know not what the month might be,
But 't was the fair of Bartlemy.
75
The spangled ladies' pirouettes
Entranced the bumpkins' eyes,
As yet unmarred by tears or blows,
And of the natural size—
I know not what the month might be,
But 't was the fair of Bartlemy.
Entranced the bumpkins' eyes,
As yet unmarred by tears or blows,
And of the natural size—
I know not what the month might be,
But 't was the fair of Bartlemy.
The hornpipes and the broad-sword fight
Were sounding on each hand,
The flabby, bragging drum tried hard
To drown the rival band—
I know not what the month might be,
But 't was the fair of Bartlemy.
Were sounding on each hand,
The flabby, bragging drum tried hard
To drown the rival band—
I know not what the month might be,
But 't was the fair of Bartlemy.
The cards went out a week ago,
The festive day had come;
Smithfield was echoing with the sound
Of showman's gong and drum—
I know not what the month might be,
But 't was the fair of Bartlemy.
The festive day had come;
Smithfield was echoing with the sound
Of showman's gong and drum—
I know not what the month might be,
But 't was the fair of Bartlemy.
The mob was singing all around;
You heard the Cheap Jack's shout
Above the clamour of the quacks,
Who duped the giddy rout—
I know not what the month might be,
But 't was the fair of Bartlemy.
You heard the Cheap Jack's shout
Above the clamour of the quacks,
Who duped the giddy rout—
I know not what the month might be,
But 't was the fair of Bartlemy.
Among the pens the seats were set,
The sausages were hissing;
The fat cooks, ruddy faced, were there:
No sable guest was missing—
I know not what the month might be,
But 't was the fair of Bartlemy.
The sausages were hissing;
The fat cooks, ruddy faced, were there:
No sable guest was missing—
I know not what the month might be,
But 't was the fair of Bartlemy.
The dishes all were silvery white,
The guests all jetty black;
The beer was frothing in the jugs,
Of nothing there was lack—
I know not what the month might be,
But 't was the fair of Bartlemy.
The guests all jetty black;
The beer was frothing in the jugs,
Of nothing there was lack—
I know not what the month might be,
But 't was the fair of Bartlemy.
Jem White was “grand” that festal day,
Watching each youngster's mouth,
With careful eyes and ready jug
Anticipating doubt—
I know not what the month might be,
But 't was the fair of Bartlemy.
Watching each youngster's mouth,
With careful eyes and ready jug
Anticipating doubt—
I know not what the month might be,
But 't was the fair of Bartlemy.
And if, by chance, a sausage came
Half-burst or underdone,
Back to the pan he hurried it,
Bidding the fat cook “run!”—
I know not what the month might be,
But 't was the fair of Bartlemy.
Half-burst or underdone,
Back to the pan he hurried it,
Bidding the fat cook “run!”—
I know not what the month might be,
But 't was the fair of Bartlemy.
'T was, “Mr. Chairman, may I beg?”
And, “Silence for the Chair!”
And “A song from Master Rattlebrush
To celebrate the fair”—
I know not what the month might be,
But 't was the fair of Bartlemy.
And, “Silence for the Chair!”
And “A song from Master Rattlebrush
To celebrate the fair”—
I know not what the month might be,
But 't was the fair of Bartlemy.
Oh, happy host and happy guests!
The Golden Age again
Come back, with love, and hope, and trust
Exulting in its train—
I know not what the month might be,
But 't was the fair of Bartlemy.
The Golden Age again
Come back, with love, and hope, and trust
Exulting in its train—
I know not what the month might be,
But 't was the fair of Bartlemy.
The toast went round in brimming cups,
“The brush above the laurel,”
“The cloth,” “The gentlemen in black,”
Then, for relief, a carol—
I know not what the month might be,
But 't was the fair of Bartlemy.
“The brush above the laurel,”
“The cloth,” “The gentlemen in black,”
Then, for relief, a carol—
I know not what the month might be,
But 't was the fair of Bartlemy.
'Twas very droll to see the host
Put on the “grand monsieur.”
With “Gentlemen, I pray your leave,
This beer, I fear is new”—
I know not what the month might be,
But 't was the fair of Bartlemy.
Put on the “grand monsieur.”
With “Gentlemen, I pray your leave,
This beer, I fear is new”—
I know not what the month might be,
But 't was the fair of Bartlemy.
76
Then how the dark boys' ivories gleamed,
Scaring the negro night;
They rose, the conclave, with a shout,
Exuberant with delight!—
I know not what the month might be,
But 't was the fair of Bartlemy.
Scaring the negro night;
They rose, the conclave, with a shout,
Exuberant with delight!—
I know not what the month might be,
But 't was the fair of Bartlemy.
Next morning, in the chilly grey,
These urchins black were seen
Poking their heads through chimney-pots,
Their white teeth glist'ning clean;
Forgetful of their feast, maybe,
And of the fair of Bartlemy.
These urchins black were seen
Poking their heads through chimney-pots,
Their white teeth glist'ning clean;
Forgetful of their feast, maybe,
And of the fair of Bartlemy.
| Historical & Legendary Ballads & Songs | |