"Neither groat nor maravedi Have I got my soul to bless; And I'd feel extremely seedy, Languishing in vile duresse. Therefore listen, ruthless taylzeour, Take my steed and armour free, Pawn them at thy Hebrew uncle's, And I'll work the rest for thee."

Lightly leaped he on the shop-board, Lightly crooked his manly limb, Lightly drove the glancing needle Through the growing doublet's rim Gaberdines in countless number Did the taylzeour knyghte repair, And entirely on cucumber And on cabbage lived he there.

Once his weary task beguiling With a low and plaintive song, That good knyghte o'er miles of broadcloth Drove the hissing goose along; From her lofty latticed window Looked the taylzeour's daughter down, And she instantly discovered That her heart was not her own.

"Canst thou love me, gentle stranger?" Picking at a pink she stood— And the knyghte at once admitted That he rather thought he could. "He who weds me shall have riches, Gold, and lands, and houses free." "For a single pair of—small-clothes, I would roam the world with thee!"

Then she flung him down the tickets Well the knyghte their import knew— "Take this gold, and win thy armour From the unbelieving Jew. Though in garments mean and lowly Thou wouldst roam the world with me, Only as a belted warrior, Stranger, will I wed with thee!"

At the feast of good Saint Stitchem, In the middle of the spring, There was some superior jousting, By the order of the King. "Valiant knyghtes!" proclaimed the monarch, "You will please to understand, He who bears himself most bravely Shall obtain my daughter's hand."

Well and bravely did they bear them, Bravely battled, one and all; But the bravest in the tourney Was a warrior stout and tall. None could tell his name or lineage, None could meet him in the field, And a goose regardant proper Hissed along his azure shield.

"Warrior, thou hast won my daughter!" But the champion bowed his knee, "Royal blood may not be wasted On a simple knyghte like me. She I love is meek and lowly; But her heart is kind and free; Also, there is tin forthcoming, Though she is of low degree."

Slowly rose that nameless warrior, Slowly turned his steps aside, Passed the lattice where the princess Sate in beauty, sate in pride. Passed the row of noble ladies, Hied him to an humbler seat, And in silence laid the chaplet At the taylzeour's daughter's feet.



The Midnight Visit.

It was the Lord of Castlereagh, he sat within his room, His arms were crossed upon his breast, his face was marked with gloom; They said that St Helena's Isle had rendered up its charge, That France was bristling high in arms—the Emperor at large.

'Twas midnight! all the lamps were dim, and dull as death the street, It might be that the watchman slept that night upon his beat, When lo! a heavy foot was heard to creak upon the stair, The door revolved upon its hinge—Great Heaven!—What enters there?

A little man, of stately mien, with slow and solemn stride; His hands are crossed upon his back, his coat is opened wide; And on his vest of green he wears an eagle and a star,— Saint George! protect us! 'tis THE MAN,—the thunder-bolt of war!

Is that the famous hat that waved along Marengo's ridge? Are these the spurs of Austerlitz—the boots of Lodi's bridge? Leads he the conscript swarm again from France's hornet hive? What seeks the fell usurper here, in Britain, and alive?

Pale grew the Lord of Castlereagh, his tongue was parched and dry, As in his brain he felt the glare of that tremendous eye; What wonder if he shrank in fear, for who could meet the glance Of him who rear'd, 'mid Russian snows, the gonfalon of France?

From the side-pocket of his vest a pinch the despot took, Yet not a whit did he relax the sternness of his look: "Thou thoughtst the lion was afar, but he hath burst the chain— The watchword for to-night is France—the answer St Helene.

"And didst thou deem the barren isle, or ocean waves, could bind The master of the universe—the monarch of mankind? I tell thee, fool! the world itself is all too small for me; I laugh to scorn thy bolts and bars—I burst them, and am free.

"Thou thinkst that England hates me! Mark!—This very night my name Was thundered in its capital with tumult and acclaim! They saw me, knew me, owned my power—Proud lord! I say, beware! There be men within the Surrey side, who know to do and dare!

"To-morrow in thy very teeth my standard will I rear— Ay, well that ashen cheek of thine may blanch and shrink with fear! To-morrow night another town shall sink in ghastly flames; And as I crossed the Borodin, so shall I cross the Thames!

"Thou'lt seize me, wilt thou, ere the dawn? Weak lordling, do thy worst! These hands ere now have broke thy chains, thy fetters they have burst. Yet, wouldst thou know my resting-place? Behold, 'tis written there! And let thy coward myrmidons approach me if they dare!"

Another pinch, another stride—he passes through the door— "Was it a phantom or a man was standing on the floor? And could that be the Emperor that moved before my eyes? Ah, yes! too sure it was himself, for here the paper lies!"

With trembling hands Lord Castlereagh undid the mystic scroll, With glassy eye essayed to read, for fear was on his soul— "What's here?—'At Astley's, every night, the play of MOSCOW'S FALL! NAPOLEON, for the thousandth time, by Mr GOMERSAL!'"



The Lay of The Lovelorn.

Comrades, you may pass the rosy. With permission of the chair, I shall leave you for a little, for I'd like to take the air.

Whether 'twas the sauce at dinner, or that glass of ginger-beer, Or these strong cheroots, I know not, but I feel a little queer.

Let me go. Nay, Chuckster, blow me, 'pon my soul, this is too bad! When you want me, ask the waiter; he knows where I'm to be had.

Whew! This is a great relief now! Let me but undo my stock; Resting here beneath the porch, my nerves will steady like a rock.

In my ears I hear the singing of a lot of favourite tunes— Bless my heart, how very odd! Why, surely there's a brace of moons!

See! the stars! how bright they twinkle, winking with a frosty glare, Like my faithless cousin Amy when she drove me to despair.

Oh, my cousin, spider-hearted! Oh, my Amy! No, confound it! I must wear the mournful willow,—all around my heart I've bound it. {117}

Falser than the bank of fancy, frailer than a shilling glove, Puppet to a father's anger, minion to a nabob's love!

Is it well to wish thee happy? Having known me, could you ever Stoop to marry half a heart, and little more than half a liver?

Happy! Damme! Thou shalt lower to his level day by day, Changing from the best of china to the commonest of clay.

As the husband is, the wife is,—he is stomach-plagued and old; And his curry soups will make thy cheek the colour of his gold.

When his feeble love is sated, he will hold thee surely then Something lower than his hookah,—something less than his cayenne.

What is this? His eyes are pinky. Was't the claret? Oh, no, no,— Bless your soul! it was the salmon,—salmon always makes him so.

Take him to thy dainty chamber—soothe him with thy lightest fancies; He will understand thee, won't he?—pay thee with a lover's glances?

Louder than the loudest trumpet, harsh as harshest ophicleide, Nasal respirations answer the endearments of his bride.

Sweet response, delightful music! Gaze upon thy noble charge, Till the spirit fill thy bosom that inspired the meek Laffarge. {119a}

Better thou wert dead before me,—better, better that I stood, Looking on thy murdered body, like the injured Daniel Good! {119b}

Better thou and I were lying, cold and timber-stiff and dead, With a pan of burning charcoal underneath our nuptial bed!

Cursed be the Bank of England's notes, that tempt the soul to sin! Cursed be the want of acres,—doubly cursed the want of tin!

Cursed be the marriage-contract, that enslaved thy soul to greed! Cursed be the sallow lawyer, that prepared and drew the deed!

Cursed be his foul apprentice, who the loathsome fees did earn! Cursed be the clerk and parson,—cursed be the whole concern!

* * * *

Oh, 'tis well that I should bluster,—much I'm like to make of that; Better comfort have I found in singing "All Around my Hat."

But that song, so wildly plaintive, palls upon my British ears. 'Twill not do to pine for ever,—I am getting up in years.

Can't I turn the honest penny, scribbling for the weekly press, And in writing Sunday libels drown my private wretchedness! {121}

Oh, to feel the wild pulsation that in manhood's dawn I knew, When my days were all before me, and my years were twenty-two!

When I smoked my independent pipe along the Quadrant wide, {122a} With the many larks of London flaring up on every side;

When I went the pace so wildly, caring little what might come; Coffee-milling care and sorrow, with a nose-adapted thumb; {122b}

Felt the exquisite enjoyment, tossing nightly off, oh heavens! Brandies at the Cider Cellars, kidneys smoking-hot at Evans'! {122c}

Or in the Adelphi sitting, half in rapture, half in tears, Saw the glorious melodrama conjure up the shades of years!

Saw Jack Sheppard, noble stripling, act his wondrous feats again, Snapping Newgate's bars of iron, like an infant's daisy chain.

Might was right, and all the terrors, which had held the world in awe, Were despised, and prigging prospered, spite of Laurie, {123} spite of law.

In such scenes as these I triumphed, ere my passion's edge was rusted, And my cousin's cold refusal left me very much disgusted!

Since, my heart is sere and withered, and I do not care a curse, Whether worse shall be the better, or the better be the worse.

Hark! my merry comrades call me, bawling for another jorum; They would mock me in derision, should I thus appear before 'em.

Womankind no more shall vex me, such at least as go arrayed In the most expensive satins and the newest silk brocade.

I'll to Afric, lion-haunted, where the giant forest yields Rarer robes and finer tissue than are sold at Spital fields.

Or to burst all chains of habit, flinging habit's self aside, I shall walk the tangled jungle in mankind's primeval pride;

Feeding on the luscious berries and the rich cassava root, Lots of dates and lots of guavas, clusters of forbidden fruit.

Never comes the trader thither, never o'er the purple main Sounds the oath of British commerce, or the accent of Cockaigne.

There, methinks, would be enjoyment, where no envious rule prevents; Sink the steamboats! cuss the railways! rot, O rot the Three per Cents!

There the passions, cramped no longer, shall have space to breathe, my cousin! I will wed some savage woman—nay, I'll wed at least a dozen.

There I'll rear my young mulattoes, as no Bond Street brats are reared: They shall dive for alligators, catch the wild goats by the beard—

Whistle to the cockatoos, and mock the hairy-faced baboon, Worship mighty Mumbo Jumbo in the Mountains of the Moon.

I myself, in far Timbuctoo, leopard's blood will daily quaff, Ride a tiger-hunting, mounted on a thorough-bred giraffe.

Fiercely shall I shout the war-whoop, as some sullen stream he crosses, Startling from their noonday slumbers iron-bound rhinoceroses.

Fool! again the dream, the fancy! But I know my words are mad, For I hold the grey barbarian lower than the Christian cad.

I the swell—the city dandy! I to seek such horrid places,— I to haunt with squalid negroes, blubber-lips, and monkey-faces!

I to wed with Coromantees! I, who managed—very near— To secure the heart and fortune of the widow Shillibeer!

Stuff and nonsense! let me never fling a single chance away; Maids ere now, I know, have loved me, and another maiden may.

'Morning Post' ('The Times' won't trust me) help me, as I know you can; I will pen an advertisement,—that's a never-failing plan.

"WANTED—By a bard, in wedlock, some young interesting woman: Looks are not so much an object, if the shiners be forthcoming!

"Hymen's chains the advertiser vows shall be but silken fetters; Please address to A. T., Chelsea. N.B.—You must pay the letters."

That's the sort of thing to do it. Now I'll go and taste the balmy,— Rest thee with thy yellow nabob, spider-hearted Cousin Amy!



My Wife's Cousin.

Decked with shoes of blackest polish, And with shirt as white as snow, After early morning breakfast To my daily desk I go; First a fond salute bestowing On my Mary's ruby lips, Which, perchance, may be rewarded With a pair of playful nips.

All day long across the ledger Still my patient pen I drive, Thinking what a feast awaits me In my happy home at five; In my small one-storeyed Eden, Where my wife awaits my coming, And our solitary handmaid Mutton-chops with care is crumbing.

When the clock proclaims my freedom, Then my hat I seize and vanish; Every trouble from my bosom, Every anxious care I banish. Swiftly brushing o'er the pavement, At a furious pace I go, Till I reach my darling dwelling In the wilds of Pimlico.

"Mary, wife, where art thou, dearest?" Thus I cry, while yet afar; Ah! what scent invades my nostrils?— 'Tis the smoke of a cigar! Instantly into the parlour Like a maniac, I haste, And I find a young Life-Guardsman, With his arm round Mary's waist.

And his other hand is playing Most familiarly with hers; And I think my Brussels carpet Somewhat damaged by his spurs. "Fire and furies! what the blazes?" Thus in frenzied wrath I call; When my spouse her arms upraises, With a most astounding squall.

"Was there ever such a monster, Ever such a wretched wife? Ah! how long must I endure it, How protract this hateful life? All day long, quite unprotected, Does he leave his wife at home; And she cannot see her cousins, Even when they kindly come!"

Then the young Life-Guardsman, rising, Scarce vouchsafes a single word, But, with look of deadly menace, Claps his hand upon his sword; And in fear I faintly falter— "This your cousin, then he's mine! Very glad, indeed, to see you,— Won't you stop with us, and dine?"

Won't a ferret suck a rabbit?— As a thing of course he stops; And with most voracious swallow Walks into my mutton-chops. In the twinkling of a bed-post Is each savoury platter clear, And he shows uncommon science In his estimate of beer.

Half-and-half goes down before him, Gurgling from the pewter pot; And he moves a counter motion For a glass of something hot. Neither chops nor beer I grudge him, Nor a moderate share of goes; But I know not why he's always Treading upon Mary's toes.

Evermore, when, home returning, From the counting-house I come, Do I find the young Life-Guardsman Smoking pipes and drinking rum. Evermore he stays to dinner, Evermore devours my meal; For I have a wholesome horror Both of powder and of steel.

Yet I know he's Mary's cousin, For my only son and heir Much resembles that young Guardsman, With the self-same curly hair; But I wish he would not always Spoil my carpet with his spurs; And I'd rather see his fingers In the fire, than touching hers.



The Queen in France.

AN ANCIENT SCOTTISH BALLAD.

PART I.

It fell upon the August month, When landsmen bide at hame, That our gude Queen went out to sail Upon the saut-sea faem.

And she has ta'en the silk and gowd, The like was never seen; And she has ta'en the Prince Albert, And the bauld Lord Aberdeen.

"Ye'se bide at hame, Lord Wellington: Ye daurna gang wi' me: For ye hae been ance in the land o' France, And that's eneuch for ye.

"Ye'se bide at hame, Sir Robert Peel, To gather the red and the white monie; And see that my men dinna eat me up At Windsor wi' their gluttonie."

They hadna sailed a league, a league,— A league, but barely twa, When the lift grew dark, and the waves grew wan, And the wind began to blaw.

"O weel weel may the waters rise, In welcome o' their Queen; What gars ye look sae white, Albert? What makes yer ee sae green?"

"My heart is sick, my heid is sair: Gie me a glass o' the gude brandie: To set my foot on the braid green sward, I'd gie the half o' my yearly fee.

"It's sweet to hunt the sprightly hare On the bonny slopes o' Windsor lea, But oh, it's ill to bear the thud And pitching o' the saut saut sea!"

And aye they sailed, and aye they sailed, Till England sank behind, And over to the coast of France They drave before the wind.

Then up and spak the King o' France, Was birling at the wine; "O wha may be the gay ladye, That owns that ship sae fine?

"And wha may be that bonny lad, That looks sae pale and wan I'll wad my lands o' Picardie, That he's nae Englishman."

Then up and spak an auld French lord, Was sitting beneath his knee, "It is the Queen o' braid England That's come across the sea."

"And oh an it be England's Queen, She's welcome here the day; I'd rather hae her for a friend Than for a deadly fae.

"Gae, kill the eerock in the yard, The auld sow in the sty, And bake for her the brockit calf, But and the puddock-pie!"

And he has gane until the ship, As soon as it drew near, And he has ta'en her by the hand— "Ye're kindly welcome here!"

And syne he kissed her on ae cheek, And syne upon the ither; And he ca'd her his sister dear, And she ca'd him her brither.

"Light doun, light doun now, ladye mine, Light doun upon the shore; Nae English king has trodden here This thousand years and more."

"And gin I lighted on your land, As light fu' weel I may, O am I free to feast wi' you, And free to come and gae?"

And he has sworn by the Haly Rood, And the black stane o' Dumblane, That she is free to come and gae Till twenty days are gane.

"I've lippened to a Frenchman's aith," Said gude Lord Aberdeen; "But I'll never lippen to it again, Sae lang's the grass is green.

"Yet gae your ways, my sovereign liege, Sin' better mayna be; The wee bit bairns are safe at hame, By the blessing o' Marie!"

Then doun she lighted frae the ship, She lighted safe and sound; And glad was our good Prince Albert To step upon the ground.

"Is that your Queen, my Lord," she said, "That auld and buirdly dame? I see the crown upon her head; But I dinna ken her name."

And she has kissed the Frenchman's Queen, And eke her daughters three, And gien her hand to the young Princess, That louted upon the knee.

And she has gane to the proud castel, That's biggit beside the sea: But aye, when she thought o' the bairns at hame, The tear was in her ee.

She gied the King the Cheshire cheese, But and the porter fine; And he gied her the puddock-pies, But and the blude-red wine.

Then up and spak the dourest Prince, An admiral was he; "Let's keep the Queen o' England here, Sin' better mayna be!

"O mony is the dainty king That we hae trappit here; And mony is the English yerl That's in our dungeons drear!"

"You lee, you lee, ye graceless loon, Sae loud's I hear ye lee! There never yet was Englishman That came to skaith by me.

"Gae oot, gae oot, ye fause traitour! Gae oot until the street; It's shame that Kings and Queens should sit Wi' sic a knave at meat!"

Then up and raise the young French lord, In wrath and hie disdain— "O ye may sit, and ye may eat Your puddock-pies alane!

"But were I in my ain gude ship, And sailing wi' the wind, And did I meet wi' auld Napier, I'd tell him o' my mind."

O then the Queen leuch loud and lang, And her colour went and came; "Gin ye meet wi' Charlie on the sea, Ye'll wish yersel at hame!"

And aye they birlit at the wine, And drank richt merrilie, Till the auld cock crawed in the castle-yard, And the abbey bell struck three.

The Queen she gaed until her bed, And Prince Albert likewise; And the last word that gay ladye said Was—"O thae puddock-pies!"

PART II.

The sun was high within the lift Afore the French King raise; And syne he louped intil his sark, And warslit on his claes.

"Gae up, gae up, my little foot-page, Gae up until the toun; And gin ye meet wi' the auld harper, Be sure ye bring him doun."

And he has met wi' the auld harper; O but his een were reid; And the bizzing o' a swarm o' bees Was singing in his heid.

"Alack! alack!" the harper said, "That this should e'er hae been! I daurna gang before my liege, For I was fou yestreen."

"It's ye maun come, ye auld harper: Ye daurna tarry lang; The King is just dementit-like For wanting o' a sang."

And when he came to the King's chamber, He loutit on his knee, "O what may be your gracious will Wi' an auld frail man like me?"

"I want a sang, harper," he said, "I want a sang richt speedilie; And gin ye dinna make a sang, I'll hang ye up on the gallows tree."

"I canna do't, my liege," he said, "Hae mercy on my auld grey hair! But gin that I had got the words, I think that I might mak the air."

"And wha's to mak the words, fause loon, When minstrels we have barely twa; And Lamartine is in Paris toun, And Victor Hugo far awa?"

"The diel may gang for Lamartine, And flee away wi' auld Hugo, For a better minstrel than them baith Within this very toun I know.

"O kens my liege the gude Walter, At hame they ca' him BON GAULTIER? He'll rhyme ony day wi' True Thomas, And he is in the castle here."

The French King first he lauchit loud, And syne did he begin to sing; "My een are auld, and my heart is cauld, Or I suld hae known the minstrels' King.

"Gae take to him this ring o' gowd, And this mantle o' the silk sae fine, And bid him mak a maister sang For his sovereign ladye's sake and mine."

"I winna take the gowden ring, Nor yet the mantle fine: But I'll mak the sang for my ladye's sake, And for a cup of wine."

The Queen was sitting at the cards, The King ahint her back; And aye she dealed the red honours, And aye she dealed the black;

And syne unto the dourest Prince She spak richt courteouslie;— "Now will ye play, Lord Admiral, Now will ye play wi' me?"

The dourest Prince he bit his lip, And his brow was black as glaur; "The only game that e'er I play Is the bluidy game o' war!"

"And gin ye play at that, young man, It weel may cost ye sair; Ye'd better stick to the game at cards, For you'll win nae honours there!"

The King he leuch, and the Queen she leuch, Till the tears ran blithely doon; But the Admiral he raved and swore, Till they kicked him frae the room.

The harper came, and the harper sang, And oh but they were fain; For when he had sung the gude sang twice, They called for it again.

It was the sang o' the Field o' Gowd, In the days of auld langsyne; When bauld King Henry crossed the seas, Wi' his brither King to dine.

And aye he harped, and aye he carped, Till up the Queen she sprang— "I'll wad a County Palatine, Gude Walter made that sang."

Three days had come, three days had gane, The fourth began to fa', When our gude Queen to the Frenchman said, "It's time I was awa!

"O, bonny are the fields o' France, And saftly draps the rain; But my bairnies are in Windsor Tower, And greeting a' their lane.

"Now ye maun come to me, Sir King, As I have come to ye; And a benison upon your heid For a' your courtesie!

"Ye maun come, and bring your ladye fere; Ye sall na say me no; And ye'se mind, we have aye a bed to spare For that gawsy chield Guizot."

Now he has ta'en her lily-white hand, And put it to his lip, And he has ta'en her to the strand, And left her in her ship.

"Will ye come back, sweet bird?" he cried, "Will ye come kindly here, When the lift is blue, and the lavrocks sing, In the spring-time o' the year?"

"It's I would blithely come, my Lord, To see ye in the spring; It's I would blithely venture back But for ae little thing.

"It isna that the winds are rude, Or that the waters rise, But I loe the roasted beef at hame, And no thae puddock-pies!"



The Massacre of the Macpherson.

[FROM THE GAELIC.]

I.

Fhairshon swore a feud Against the clan M'Tavish; Marched into their land To murder and to rafish; For he did resolve To extirpate the vipers, With four-and-twenty men And five-and-thirty pipers.

II.

But when he had gone Half-way down Strath Canaan, Of his fighting tail Just three were remainin'. They were all he had, To back him in ta battle; All the rest had gone Off, to drive ta cattle.

III.

"Fery coot!" cried Fhairshon, "So my clan disgraced is; Lads, we'll need to fight, Pefore we touch the peasties. Here's Mhic-Mac-Methusaleh Coming wi' his fassals, Gillies seventy-three, And sixty Dhuinewassails!"

IV.

"Coot tay to you, sir; Are you not ta Fhairshon? Was you coming here To fisit any person? You are a plackguard, sir! It is now six hundred Coot long years, and more, Since my glen was plundered."

V.

"Fat is tat you say? Dare you cock your peaver? I will teach you, sir, Fat is coot pehaviour! You shall not exist For another day more; I will shoot you, sir, Or stap you with my claymore!"

VI.

"I am fery glad, To learn what you mention, Since I can prevent Any such intention." So Mhic-Mac-Methusaleh Gave some warlike howls, Trew his skhian-dhu, An' stuck it in his powels.

VII.

In this fery way Tied ta faliant Fhairshon, Who was always thought A superior person. Fhairshon had a son, Who married Noah's daughter, And nearly spoiled ta Flood, By trinking up ta water:

VIII.

Which he would have done, I at least pelieve it, Had ta mixture peen Only half Glenlivet. This is all my tale: Sirs, I hope 'tis new t'ye! Here's your fery good healths, And tamn ta whusky duty!

[The six following Poems were among those forwarded to the Home Secretary, by the unsuccessful competitors for the Laureateship, on its becoming vacant by the death of Southey. How they came into our possession is a matter between Sir James Graham and ourselves. The result of the contest could never have been doubtful, least of all to the great poet who then succeeded to the bays. His own sonnet on the subject is full of the serene consciousness of superiority, which does not even admit the idea of rivalry, far less of defeat.

Bays! which in former days have graced the brow Of some, who lived and loved, and sang and died; Leaves that were gathered on the pleasant side Of old Parnassus from Apollo's bough; With palpitating hand I take thee now, Since worthier minstrel there is none beside, And with a thrill of song half deified, I bind them proudly on my locks of snow. There shall they bide, till he who follows next, Of whom I cannot even guess the name, Shall by Court favour, or some vain pretext Of fancied merit, desecrate the same,— And think, perchance, he wears them quite as well As the sole bard who sang of Peter Bell!]

The above note, which appeared in the first and subsequent editions of this volume, is characteristic of the audacious spirit of fun in which Bon Gaultier revelled. The sonnet here ascribed to Wordsworth must have been believed by some matter-of-fact people to be really by him. On his death in 1857, in an article on the subject of the vacant Laureate-ship, it was quoted in a leading journal as proof of Wordsworth's complacent estimate of his own supremacy over all contemporary poets. In writing the sonnet I was well aware that there was some foundation for his not unjust high appreciation of his own prowess, as the phrase "sole bard" pretty clearly indicates, but I never dreamt that any one would fail to see the joke.



The Laureates' Tourney.

BY THE HON. T—- B—- M—-.

FYTTE THE FIRST.

"What news, what news, thou pilgrim grey, what news from southern land? How fare the bold Conservatives, how is it with Ferrand? How does the little Prince of Wales—how looks our lady Queen? And tell me, is the monthly nurse once more at Windsor seen?"

"I bring no tidings from the Court, nor from St Stephen's hall; I've heard the thundering tramp of horse, and the trumpet's battle-call; And these old eyes have seen a fight, which England ne'er hath seen, Since fell King Richard sobbed his soul through blood on Bosworth Green.

'He's dead, he's dead, the Laureate's dead!' 'Twas thus the cry began, And straightway every garret-roof gave up its minstrel man; From Grub Street, and from Houndsditch, and from Farringdon Within, The poets all towards Whitehall poured on with eldritch din.

Loud yelled they for Sir James the Graham: {157} but sore afraid was he; A hardy knight were he that might face such a minstrelsie. 'Now by St Giles of Netherby, my patron Saint, I swear, I'd rather by a thousand crowns Lord Palmerston were here!—

'What is't ye seek, ye rebel knaves—what make you there beneath?' 'The bays, the bays! we want the bays! we seek the laureate wreath! We seek the butt of generous wine that cheers the sons of song; Choose thou among us all, Sir Knight—we may not tarry long!'

Loud laughed the good Sir James in scorn—'Rare jest it were, I think, But one poor butt of Xeres, and a thousand rogues to drink! An' if it flowed with wine or beer, 'tis easy to be seen, That dry within the hour would be the well of Hippocrene.

'Tell me, if on Parnassus' heights there grow a thousand sheaves: Or has Apollo's laurel bush yet borne ten hundred leaves? Or if so many leaves were there, how long would they sustain The ravage and the glutton bite of such a locust train?

'No! get ye back into your dens, take counsel for the night, And choose me out two champions to meet in deadly fight; To-morrow's dawn shall see the lists marked out in Spitalfields, And he who wins shall have the bays, and he shall die who yields!'

Down went the window with a crash,—in silence and in fear Each ragged bard looked anxiously upon his neighbour near; Then up and spake young Tennyson—'Who's here that fears for death? 'Twere better one of us should die, than England lose the wreath!

'Let's cast the lot among us now, which two shall fight to-morrow;— For armour bright we'll club our mite, and horses we can borrow; 'Twere shame that bards of France should sneer, and German Dichters too, If none of British song might dare a deed of derring-do!'

'The lists of Love are mine,' said Moore, 'and not the lists of Mars;' Said Hunt, 'I seek the jars of wine, but shun the combat's jars!' 'I'm old,' quoth Samuel Rogers.—'Faith,' says Campbell, 'so am I!' 'And I'm in holy orders, sir!' quoth Tom of Ingoldsby.

'Now out upon ye, craven loons!' cried Moxon, {160} good at need,— 'Bide, if ye will, secure at home, and sleep while others bleed. I second Alfred's motion, boys,—let's try the chance of lot; And monks shall sing, and bells shall ring, for him that goes to pot.'

Eight hundred minstrels slunk away—two hundred stayed to draw,— Now Heaven protect the daring wight that pulls the longest straw! 'Tis done! 'tis done! And who hath won? Keep silence one and all,— The first is William Wordsworth hight, the second Ned Fitzball!

FYTTE THE SECOND.

Oh, bright and gay hath dawned the day on lordly Spitalfields,— How flash the rays with ardent blaze from polished helms and shields! On either side the chivalry of England throng the green, And in the middle balcony appears our gracious Queen.

With iron fists, to keep the lists, two valiant knights appear, The Marquis Hal of Waterford, and stout Sir Aubrey Vere. 'What ho! there, herald, blow the trump! Let's see who comes to claim The butt of golden Xeres, and the Laureate's honoured name!'

That instant dashed into the lists, all armed from head to heel, On courser brown, with vizor down, a warrior sheathed in steel; Then said our Queen—'Was ever seen so stout a knight and tall? His name—his race?'—'An't please your grace, it is the brave Fitzball. {162}

'Oft in the Melodrama line his prowess hath been shown, And well throughout the Surrey side his thirst for blood is known. But see, the other champion comes!'—Then rang the startled air With shouts of 'Wordsworth, Wordsworth, ho! the bard of Rydal's there.'

And lo! upon a little steed, unmeet for such a course, Appeared the honoured veteran; but weak seemed man and horse. Then shook their ears the sapient peers,—'That joust will soon be done: My Lord of Brougham, I'll back Fitzball, and give you two to one!'

'Done,' quoth the Brougham,—'And done with you!' 'Now, Minstrels, are you ready?' Exclaimed the Lord of Waterford,—'You'd better both sit steady. Blow, trumpets, blow the note of charge! and forward to the fight!' 'Amen!' said good Sir Aubrey Vere; 'Saint Schism defend the right!'

As sweeps the blast against the mast when blows the furious squall, So started at the trumpet's sound the terrible Fitzball; His lance he bore his breast before,—Saint George protect the just! Or Wordsworth's hoary head must roll along the shameful dust!

'Who threw that calthrop? Seize the knave!' Alas! the deed is done; Down went the steed, and o'er his head flew bright Apollo's son. 'Undo his helmet! cut the lace! pour water on his head!' 'It ain't no use at all, my lord; 'cos vy? the covey's dead!'

Above him stood the Rydal bard—his face was full of woe. 'Now there thou liest, stiff and stark, who never feared a foe: A braver knight, or more renowned in tourney and in hall, Ne'er brought the upper gallery down than terrible Fitzball!'

They led our Wordsworth to the Queen—she crowned him with the bays, And wished him many happy years, and many quarter-days; And if you'd have the story told by abler lips than mine, You've but to call at Rydal Mount, and taste the Laureate's wine!"



The Royal Banquet.

BY THE HON. G—- B—- S—-.

The Queen she kept high festival in Windsor's lordly hall, And round her sat the gartered knights, and ermined nobles all; There drank the valiant Wellington, there fed the wary Peel, And at the bottom of the board Prince Albert carved the veal.

"What, pantler, ho! remove the cloth! Ho! cellarer, the wine, And bid the royal nurse bring in the hope of Brunswick's line!" Then rose with one tumultuous shout the band of British peers, "God bless her sacred Majesty! Let's see the little dears!"

Now by Saint George, our patron saint, 'twas a touching sight to see That iron warrior gently place the Princess on his knee; To hear him hush her infant fears, and teach her how to gape With rosy mouth expectant for the raisin and the grape!

They passed the wine, the sparkling wine—they filled the goblets up; Even Brougham, the cynic anchorite, smiled blandly on the cup; And Lyndhurst, with a noble thirst, that nothing could appease, Proposed the immortal memory of King William on his knees.

"What want we here, my gracious liege," cried gay Lord Aberdeen, "Save gladsome song and minstrelsy to flow our cups between? I ask not now for Goulburn's voice or Knatchbull's warbling lay, {168} But where's the Poet Laureate to grace our board to-day?"

Loud laughed the Knight of Netherby, and scornfully he cried, "Or art thou mad with wine, Lord Earl, or art thyself beside? Eight hundred Bedlam bards have claimed the Laureate's vacant crown, And now like frantic Bacchanals run wild through London town!"

"Now glory to our gracious Queen!" a voice was heard to cry, And dark Macaulay stood before them all with frenzied eye; "Now glory to our gracious Queen, and all her glorious race, A boon, a boon, my sovran liege! Give me the Laureate's place!

"'Twas I that sang the might of Rome, the glories of Navarre; And who could swell the fame so well of Britain's Isles afar? The hero of a hundred fights—" Then Wellington up sprung, "Ho, silence in the ranks, I say! Sit down and hold your tongue!

"By heaven, thou shalt not twist my name into a jingling lay, Or mimic in thy puny song the thunders of Assaye! 'Tis hard that for thy lust of place in peace we cannot dine. Nurse, take her Royal Highness, here! Sir Robert, pass the wine!"

"No Laureate need we at our board!" then spoke the Lord of Vaux; "Here's many a voice to charm the ear with minstrel song, I know. Even I myself—" Then rose the cry—"A song, a song from Brougham!" He sang,—and straightway found himself alone within the room.



The Bard of Erin's Lament.

BY T—- M—-RE, ESQ.

Oh, weep for the hours, when the little blind boy Wove round me the spells of his Paphian bower; When I dipped my light wings in the nectar of joy, And soared in the sunshine, the moth of the hour! From beauty to beauty I passed, like the wind; Now fondled the lily, now toyed with the Rose; And the fair, that at morn had enchanted my mind, Was forsook for another ere evening's close.

I sighed not for honour, I cared not for fame, While Pleasure sat by me, and Love was my guest; They twined a fresh wreath for each day as it came, And the bosom of Beauty still pillowed my rest: And the harp of my country—neglected it slept— In hall or by greenwood unheard were its songs; From Love's Sybarite dreams I aroused me, and swept Its chords to the tale of her glories and wrongs.

But weep for the hour!—Life's summer is past, And the snow of its winter lies cold on my brow; And my soul, as it shrinks from each stroke of the blast, Cannot turn to a fire that glows inwardly now. No, its ashes are dead—and, alas! Love or Song No charm to Life's lengthening shadows can lend, Like a cup of old wine, rich, mellow, and strong, And a seat by the fire tete-a-tete with a friend.



The Laureate.

BY A—- T—-.

Who would not be The Laureate bold, With his butt of sherry To keep him merry, And nothing to do but to pocket his gold? 'Tis I would be the Laureate bold! When the days are hot, and the sun is strong, I'd lounge in the gateway all the day long, With her Majesty's footmen in crimson and gold. I'd care not a pin for the waiting-lord; But I'd lie on my back on the smooth greensward With a straw in my mouth, and an open vest, And the cool wind blowing upon my breast, And I'd vacantly stare at the clear blue sky, And watch the clouds that are listless as I, Lazily, lazily! And I'd pick the moss and the daisies white, And chew their stalks with a nibbling bite; And I'd let my fancies roam abroad In search of a hint for a birthday ode, Crazily, crazily!

Oh, that would be the life for me, With plenty to get and nothing to do, But to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of blue, And whistle all day to the Queen's cockatoo, Trance-somely, trance-somely! Then the chambermaids, that clean the rooms, Would come to the windows and rest on their brooms, With their saucy caps and their crisped hair, And they'd toss their heads in the fragrant air, And say to each other—"Just look down there, At the nice young man, so tidy and small, Who is paid for writing on nothing at all, Handsomely, handsomely!"

They would pelt me with matches and sweet pastilles, And crumpled-up balls of the royal bills, Giggling and laughing, and screaming with fun, As they'd see me start, with a leap and a run, From the broad of my back to the points of my toes, When a pellet of paper hit my nose, Teasingly, sneezingly. Then I'd fling them bunches of garden flowers, And hyacinths plucked from the Castle bowers; And I'd challenge them all to come down to me, And I'd kiss them all till they kissed me, Laughingly, laughingly.

Oh, would not that be a merry life, Apart from care and apart from strife, With the Laureate's wine, and the Laureate's pay, And no deductions at quarter-day? Oh, that would be the post for me! With plenty to get and nothing to do, But to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of blue, And whistle a tune to the Queen's cockatoo, And scribble of verses remarkably few, And empty at evening a bottle or two, Quaffingly, quaffingly!

'Tis I would be The Laureate bold, With my butt of sherry To keep me merry, And nothing to do but to pocket my gold!



A Midnight Meditation.

BY SIR E—- B—- L—-.

Fill me once more the foaming pewter up! Another board of oysters, ladye mine! To-night Lucullus with himself shall sup. These mute inglorious Miltons {177} are divine And as I here in slippered ease recline, Quaffing of Perkin's Entire my fill, I sigh not for the lymph of Aganippe's rill.

A nobler inspiration fires my brain, Caught from Old England's fine time-hallowed drink; I snatch the pot again and yet again, And as the foaming fluids shrink and shrink, Fill me once more, I say, up to the brink! This makes strong hearts—strong heads attest its charm— This nerves the might that sleeps in Britain's brawny arm!

But these remarks are neither here nor there. Where was I? Oh, I see—old Southey's dead! They'll want some bard to fill the vacant chair, And drain the annual butt—and oh, what head More fit with laurel to be garlanded Than this, which, curled in many a fragrant coil, Breathes of Castalia's streams, and best Macassar oil?

I know a grace is seated on my brow, Like young Apollo's with his golden beams— There should Apollo's bays be budding now:— And in my flashing eyes the radiance beams, That marks the poet in his waking dreams, When, as his fancies cluster thick and thicker, He feels the trance divine of poesy and liquor.

They throng around me now, those things of air That from my fancy took their being's stamp: There Pelham sits and twirls his glossy hair, There Clifford leads his pals upon the tramp; There pale Zanoni, bending o'er his lamp, Roams through the starry wilderness of thought, Where all is everything, and everything is nought.

Yes, I am he who sang how Aram won The gentle ear of pensive Madeline! How love and murder hand in hand may run, Cemented by philosophy serene, And kisses bless the spot where gore has been! Who breathed the melting sentiment of crime, And for the assassin waked a sympathy sublime!

Yes, I am he, who on the novel shed Obscure philosophy's enchanting light! Until the public, 'wildered as they read, Believed they saw that which was not in sight— Of course 'twas not for me to set them right; For in my nether heart convinced I am, Philosophy's as good as any other flam.

Novels three-volumed I shall write no more— Somehow or other now they will not sell; And to invent new passions is a bore— I find the Magazines pay quite as well. Translating's simple, too, as I can tell, Who've hawked at Schiller on his lyric throne, And given the astonished bard a meaning all my own.

Moore, Campbell, Wordsworth, their best days are grassed: Battered and broken are their early lyres, Rogers, a pleasant memory of the past, Warmed his young hands at Smithfield's martyr fires, And, worth a plum, nor bays nor butt desires. But these are things would suit me to the letter, For though this Stout is good, old Sherry's greatly better.

A fico for your small poetic ravers, Your Hunts, your Tennysons, your Milnes, and these! Shall they compete with him who wrote 'Maltravers,' Prologue to 'Alice or the Mysteries'? No! Even now my glance prophetic sees My own high brow girt with the bays about. What ho! within there, ho! another pint of STOUT!



Montgomery.

A POEM.

Like one who, waking from a troublous dream, Pursues with force his meditative theme; Calm as the ocean in its halcyon still, Calm as the sunlight sleeping on the hill; Calm as at Ephesus great Paul was seen To rend his robes in agonies serene; Calm as the love that radiant Luther bore To all that lived behind him and before; Calm as meek Calvin, when, with holy smile, He sang the mass around Servetus' pile,— So once again I snatch this harp of mine, To breathe rich incense from a mystic shrine. Not now to whisper to the ambient air The sounds of Satan's Universal Prayer; Not now to sing, in sweet domestic strife That woman reigns the Angel of our life; But to proclaim the wish, with pious art, Which thrills through Britain's universal heart,— That on this brow, with native honours graced, The Laureate's chaplet should at length be placed!

Fear not, ye maids, who love to hear me speak; Let no desponding tears bedim your cheek! No gust of envy, no malicious scorn, Hath this poor heart of mine with frenzy torn. There are who move so far above the great, Their very look disarms the glance of hate; Their thoughts, more rich than emerald or gold, Enwrap them like the prophet's mantle's fold. Fear not for me, nor think that this our age, Blind though it be, hath yet no Archimage. I, who have bathed, in bright Castalia's tide By classic Isis and more classic Clyde; I, who have handled, in my lofty strain, All things divine, and many things profane; I, who have trod where seraphs fear to tread; I, who on mount—no, "honey-dew" have fed; I, who undaunted broke the mystic seal, And left no page for prophets to reveal; I, who in shade portentous Dante threw; I, who have done what Milton dared not do,— I fear no rival for the vacant throne; No mortal thunder shall eclipse my own!

Let dark Macaulay chant his Roman lays, Let Monckton Milnes go maunder for the bays, Let Simmons call on great Napoleon's shade, Let Lytton Bulwer seek his Aram's aid, Let Wordsworth ask for help from Peter Bell, Let Campbell carol Copenhagen's knell, Let Delta warble through his Delphic groves, Let Elliott shout for pork and penny loaves,— I care not, I! resolved to stand or fall; One down, another on, I'll smash them all!

Back, ye profane! this hand alone hath power To pluck the laurel from its sacred bower; This brow alone is privileged to wear The ancient wreath o'er hyacinthine hair; These lips alone may quaff the sparkling wine, And make its mortal juice once more divine. Back, ye profane! And thou, fair Queen, rejoice: A nation's praise shall consecrate thy choice. Thus, then, I kneel where Spenser knelt before, On the same spot, perchance, of Windsor's floor; And take, while awe-struck millions round me stand, The hallowed wreath from great Victoria's hand.



Little John and the Red Friar.

A LAY OF SHERWOOD.

FYTTE THE FIRST.

The deer may leap within the glade; The fawns may follow free— For Robin is dead, and his bones are laid Beneath the greenwood tree.

And broken are his merry, merry men, That goodly companie: There's some have ta'en the northern road With Jem of Netherbee.

The best and bravest of the band With Derby Ned are gone; But Earlie Grey and Charlie Wood, They stayed with Little John.

Now Little John was an outlaw proud, A prouder ye never saw; Through Nottingham and Leicester shires He thought his word was law, And he strutted through the greenwood wide, Like a pestilent jackdaw.

He swore that none, but with leave of him, Should set foot on the turf so free: And he thought to spread his cutter's rule, All over the south countrie. "There's never a knave in the land," he said, "But shall pay his toll to me!"

And Charlie Wood was a taxman good As ever stepped the ground, He levied mail, like a sturdy thief, From all the yeomen round. "Nay, stand!" quoth he, "thou shalt pay to me Seven pence from every pound!"

Now word has come to Little John, As he lay upon the grass, That a Friar red was in merry Sherwood Without his leave to pass.

"Come hither, come hither, my little foot-page! Ben Hawes, come tell to me, What manner of man is this burly frere Who walks the wood so free?"

"My master good!" the little page said, "His name I wot not well, But he wears on his head a hat so red, With a monstrous scallop-shell.

"He says he is Prior of Copmanshurst, And Bishop of London town, And he comes with a rope from our father the Pope, To put the outlaws down.

"I saw him ride but yester-tide, With his jolly chaplains three; And he swears that he has an open pass From Jem of Netherbee!"

Little John has ta'en an arrow so broad, And broken it o'er his knee; "Now may I never strike doe again, But this wrong avenged shall be!

"And has he dared, this greasy frere, To trespass in my bound, Nor asked for leave from Little John To range with hawk and hound?

"And has he dared to take a pass From Jem of Netherbee, Forgetting that the Sherwood shaws Pertain of right to me?

"O were he but a simple man, And not a slip-shod frere! I'd hang him up by his own waist-rope Above yon tangled brere.

"O did he come alone from Jem, And not from our father the Pope, I'd bring him into Copmanshurst, With the noose of a hempen rope!

"But since he has come from our father the Pope, And sailed across the sea, And since he has power to bind and lose, His life is safe for me; But a heavy penance he shall do Beneath the greenwood tree!"

"O tarry yet!" quoth Charlie Wood, "O tarry, master mine! It's ill to shear a yearling hog, Or twist the wool of swine!

"It's ill to make a bonny silk purse From the ear of a bristly boar; It's ill to provoke a shaveling's curse, When the way lies him before.

"I've walked the forest for twenty years, In wet weather and dry, And never stopped a good fellowe, Who had no coin to buy.

"What boots it to search a beggarman's bags, When no silver groat he has? So, master mine, I rede you well, E'en let the friar pass!"

"Now cease thy prate," quoth Little John, "Thou japest but in vain; An he have not a groat within his pouch, We may find a silver chain.

"But were he as bare as a new-flayed buck, As truly he may be, He shall not tread the Sherwood shaws Without the leave of me!"

Little John has taken his arrows and bow, His sword and buckler strong, And lifted up his quarter-staff, Was full three cloth yards long.

And he has left his merry men At the trysting-tree behind, And gone into the gay greenwood, This burly frere to find.

O'er holt and hill, through brake and brere, He took his way alone— Now, Lordlings, list and you shall hear This geste of Little John.

FYTTE THE SECOND.

'Tis merry, 'tis merry in gay greenwood, When the little birds are singing, When the buck is belling in the fern, And the hare from the thicket springing!

'Tis merry to hear the waters clear, As they splash in the pebbly fall; And the ouzel whistling to his mate, As he lights on the stones so small.

But small pleasaunce took Little John In all he heard and saw; Till he reached the cave of a hermit old Who wonned within the shaw.

"Ora pro nobis!" quoth Little John— His Latin was somewhat rude— "Now, holy father, hast thou seen A frere within the wood?

"By his scarlet hose, and his ruddy nose, I guess you may know him well; And he wears on his head a hat so red, And a monstrous scallop-shell."

"I have served Saint Pancras," the hermit said, "In this cell for thirty year, Yet never saw I, in the forest bounds, The face of such a frere!

"An' if ye find him, master mine, E'en take an old man's advice, An' raddle him well, till he roar again, Lest ye fail to meet him twice!"

"Trust me for that!" quoth Little John— "Trust me for that!" quoth he, with a laugh; "There never was man of woman born, That asked twice for the taste of my quarter-staff!"

Then Little John, he strutted on, Till he came to an open bound, And he was aware of a Red Friar, Was sitting upon the ground.

His shoulders they were broad and strong, And large was he of limb; Few yeomen in the north countrie Would care to mell with him.

He heard the rustling of the boughs, As Little John drew near; But never a single word he spoke, Of welcome or of cheer: Less stir he made than a pedlar would For a small gnat in his ear!

I like not his looks! thought Little John, Nor his staff of the oaken tree. Now may our Lady be my help, Else beaten I well may be!

"What dost thou here, thou strong Friar, In Sherwood's merry round, Without the leave of Little John, To range with hawk and hound?"

"Small thought have I," quoth the Red Friar, "Of any leave, I trow; That Little John is an outlawed thief, And so, I ween, art thou!

"Know, I am Prior of Copmanshurst, And Bishop of London town, And I bring a rope from our father the Pope, To put the outlaws down."

Then out spoke Little John in wrath, "I tell thee, burly frere, The Pope may do as he likes at home, But he sends no Bishops here!

"Up, and away, Red Friar!" he said, "Up, and away, right speedilie; An it were not for that cowl of thine, Avenged on thy body I would be!"

"Nay, heed not that," said the Red Friar, "And let my cowl no hindrance be; I warrant that I can give as good As ever I think to take from thee!"

Little John he raised his quarter-staff, And so did the burly priest, And they fought beneath the greenwood tree A stricken hour at least.

But Little John was weak of fence, And his strength began to fail; Whilst the Friar's blows came thundering down, Like the strokes of a threshing-flail.

"Now hold thy hand, thou stalwart Friar, Now rest beneath the thorn, Until I gather breath enow, For a blast at my bugle-horn!"

"I'll hold my hand," the Friar said, "Since that is your propine, But, an you sound your bugle-horn, I'll even blow on mine!"

Little John he wound a blast so shrill, That it rang o'er rock and linn, And Charlie Wood, and his merry men all, Came lightly bounding in.

The Friar he wound a blast so strong That it shook both bush and tree, And to his side came witless Will, And Jem of Netherbee; With all the worst of Robin's band, And many a Rapparee!

Little John he wist not what to do, When he saw the others come; So he twisted his quarter-staff between His fingers and his thumb.

"There's some mistake, good Friar!" he said, "There's some mistake 'twixt thee and me; I know thou art Prior of Copmanshurst, But not beneath the greenwood tree.

"And if you will take some other name, You shall have ample leave to bide; With pasture also for your Bulls, And power to range the forest wide."

"There's no mistake!" the Friar said; "I'll call myself just what I please. My doctrine is that chalk is chalk, And cheese is nothing else than cheese."

"So be it, then!" quoth Little John; "But surely you will not object, If I and all my merry men Should treat you with reserved respect?

"We can't call you Prior of Copmanshurst, Nor Bishop of London town, Nor on the grass, as you chance to pass, Can we very well kneel down.

"But you'll send the Pope my compliments, And say, as a further hint, That, within the Sherwood bounds, you saw Little John, who is the son-in-law Of his friend, old Mat-o'-the-Mint!"

So ends this geste of Little John— God save our noble Queen! But, Lordlings, say—Is Sherwood now What Sherwood once hath been? {200}



The Rhyme of Sir Launcelot Bogle.

A LEGEND OF GLASGOW.

BY MRS E—- B—- B—-.

There's a pleasant place of rest, near a City of the West, Where its bravest and its best find their grave. Below the willows weep, and their hoary branches steep In the waters still and deep, Not a wave!

And the old Cathedral Wall, so scathed and grey and tall, Like a priest surveying all, stands beyond; And the ringing of its bell, when the ringers ring it well, Makes a kind of tidal swell On the pond!

And there it was I lay, on a beauteous summer's day, With the odour of the hay floating by; And I heard the blackbirds sing, and the bells demurely ring, Chime by chime, ting by ting, Droppingly.

Then my thoughts went wandering back, on a very beaten track, To the confine deep and black of the tomb; And I wondered who he was, that is laid beneath the grass, Where the dandelion has Such a bloom.

Then I straightway did espy, with my slantly-sloping eye, A carved stone hard by, somewhat worn; And I read in letters cold—Here.lyes.Launcelot.ye.bolde, Off.ye.race.off.Bogile.old, Glasgow.borne.

He.wals.ane.valyaunt.knychte.maist.terrible.in.fychte. Here the letters failed outright, but I knew That a stout crusading lord, who had crossed the Jordan's ford, Lay there beneath the sward, Wet with dew.

Time and tide they passed away, on that pleasant summer's day, And around me, as I lay, all grew old: Sank the chimneys from the town, and the clouds of vapour brown No longer, like a crown, O'er it rolled.

Sank the great Saint Rollox stalk, like a pile of dingy chalk; Disappeared the cypress walk, and the flowers; And a donjon-keep arose, that might baffle any foes, With its men-at-arms in rows, On the towers.

And the flag that flaunted there showed the grim and grizzly bear, Which the Bogles always wear for their crest. And I heard the warder call, as he stood upon the wall, "Wake ye up! my comrades all, From your rest!

"For, by the blessed rood, there's a glimpse of armour good In the deep Cowcaddens wood, o'er the stream; And I hear the stifled hum of a multitude that come, Though they have not beat the drum, It would seem!

"Go tell it to my Lord, lest he wish to man the ford With partisan and sword, just beneath; Ho, Gilkison and Nares! Ho, Provan of Cowlairs! We'll back the bonny bears To the death!"

To the tower above the moat, like one who heedeth not, Came the bold Sir Launcelot, half undressed; On the outer rim he stood, and peered into the wood, With his arms across him glued On his breast.

And he muttered, "Foe accurst! hast thou dared to seek me first? George of Gorbals, do thy worst—for I swear, O'er thy gory corpse to ride, ere thy sister and my bride, From my undissevered side Thou shalt tear!

"Ho, herald mine, Brownlee! ride forth, I pray, and see, Who, what, and whence is he, foe or friend! Sir Roderick Dalgleish, and my foster-brother Neish, With his bloodhounds in the leash, Shall attend."

Forth went the herald stout, o'er the drawbridge and without, Then a wild and savage shout rose amain, Six arrows sped their force, and, a pale and bleeding corse, He sank from off his horse On the plain!

Back drew the bold Dalgleish, back started stalwart Neish, With his bloodhounds in the leash, from Brownlee. "Now shame be to the sword that made thee knight and lord, Thou caitiff thrice abhorred, Shame on thee!

"Ho, bowmen, bend your bows! Discharge upon the foes Forthwith no end of those heavy bolts. Three angels to the brave who finds the foe a grave, And a gallows for the slave Who revolts!"

Ten days the combat lasted; but the bold defenders fasted, While the foemen, better pastied, fed their host; You might hear the savage cheers of the hungry Gorbaliers, As at night they dressed the steers For the roast.

And Sir Launcelot grew thin, and Provan's double chin Showed sundry folds of skin down beneath; In silence and in grief found Gilkison relief, Nor did Neish the spell-word, beef, Dare to breathe.

To the ramparts Edith came, that fair and youthful dame, With the rosy evening flame on her face. She sighed, and looked around on the soldiers on the ground, Who but little penance found, Saying grace!

And she said unto her lord, as he leaned upon his sword, "One short and little word may I speak? I cannot bear to view those eyes so ghastly blue, Or mark the sallow hue Of thy cheek!

"I know the rage and wrath that my furious brother hath Is less against us both than at me. Then, dearest, let me go, to find among the foe An arrow from the bow, Like Brownlee!"

"I would soil my father's name, I would lose my treasured fame, Ladye mine, should such a shame on me light: While I wear a belted brand, together still we stand, Heart to heart, hand in hand!" Said the knight.

"All our chances are not lost, as your brother and his host Shall discover to their cost rather hard! Ho, Provan! take this key—hoist up the Malvoisie, And heap it, d'ye see, In the yard.

"Of usquebaugh and rum, you will find, I reckon, some, Besides the beer and mum, extra stout; Go straightway to your tasks, and roll me all the casks, As also range the flasks, Just without.

"If I know the Gorbaliers, they are sure to dip their ears In the very inmost tiers of the drink. Let them win the outer court, and hold it for their sport, Since their time is rather short, I should think!"

With a loud triumphant yell, as the heavy drawbridge fell, Rushed the Gorbaliers pell-mell, wild as Druids; Mad with thirst for human gore, how they threatened and they swore, Till they stumbled on the floor, O'er the fluids.

Down their weapons then they threw, and each savage soldier drew From his belt an iron screw, in his fist; George of Gorbals found it vain their excitement to restrain, And indeed was rather fain To assist.

With a beaker in his hand, in the midst he took his stand, And silence did command, all below— "Ho! Launcelot the bold, ere thy lips are icy cold, In the centre of thy hold, Pledge me now!

"Art surly, brother mine? In this cup of rosy wine, I drink to the decline of thy race! Thy proud career is done, thy sand is nearly run, Never more shall setting sun Gild thy face!

"The pilgrim, in amaze, shall see a goodly blaze, Ere the pallid morning rays flicker up; And perchance he may espy certain corpses swinging high! What, brother! art thou dry? Fill my cup!"

Dumb as death stood Launcelot, as though he heard him not, But his bosom Provan smote, and he swore; And Sir Roderick Dalgleish remarked aside to Neish, "Never sure did thirsty fish Swallow more!

"Thirty casks are nearly done, yet the revel's scarce begun; It were knightly sport and fun to strike in!" "Nay, tarry till they come," quoth Neish, "unto the rum— They are working at the mum, And the gin!"

Then straight there did appear to each gallant Gorbalier Twenty castles dancing near, all around; The solid earth did shake, and the stones beneath them quake, And sinuous as a snake Moved the ground.

Why and wherefore they had come, seemed intricate to some, But all agreed the rum was divine. And they looked with bitter scorn on their leader highly born, Who preferred to fill his horn Up with wine!

Then said Launcelot the tall, "Bring the chargers from their stall; Lead them straight unto the hall, down below: Draw your weapons from your side, fling the gates asunder wide, And together we shall ride On the foe!"

Then Provan knew full well, as he leaped into his selle, That few would 'scape to tell how they fared; And Gilkison and Nares, both mounted on their mares, Looked terrible as bears, All prepared.

With his bloodhounds in the leash, stood the iron-sinewed Neish, And the falchion of Dalgleish glittered bright— "Now, wake the trumpet's blast; and, comrades, follow fast; Smite them down unto the last!" Cried the knight.

In the cumbered yard without, there was shriek, and yell, and shout, As the warriors wheeled about, all in mail. On the miserable kerne fell the death-strokes stiff and stern, As the deer treads down the fern, In the vale!

Saint Mungo be my guide! It was goodly in that tide To see the Bogle ride in his haste; He accompanied each blow with a cry of "Ha!" or "Ho!" And always cleft the foe To the waist.

"George of Gorbals—craven lord! thou didst threat me with the cord; Come forth and brave my sword, if you dare!" But he met with no reply, and never could descry The glitter of his eye Anywhere.

Ere the dawn of morning shone, all the Gorbaliers were down, Like a field of barley mown in the ear: It had done a soldier good to see how Provan stood, With Neish all bathed in blood, Panting near.

"Now bend ye to your tasks—go trundle down those casks, And place the empty flasks on the floor; George of Gorbals scarce will come, with trumpet and with drum, To taste our beer and rum Any more!"

So they bent them to their tasks, and they trundled down the casks, And replaced the empty flasks on the floor; But pallid for a week was the cellar-master's cheek, For he swore he heard a shriek Through the door.

When the merry Christmas came, and the Yule-log lent its flame To the face of squire and dame in the hall, The cellarer went down to tap October brown, Which was rather of renown 'Mongst them all.

He placed the spigot low, and gave the cask a blow, But his liquor would not flow through the pin. "Sure, 'tis sweet as honeysuckles!" so he rapped it with his knuckles, But a sound, as if of buckles, Clashed within.

"Bring a hatchet, varlets, here!" and they cleft the cask of beer: What a spectacle of fear met their sight! There George of Gorbals lay, skull and bones all blanched and grey, In the arms he bore the day Of the fight!

I have sung this ancient tale, not, I trust, without avail, Though the moral ye may fail to perceive; Sir Launcelot is dust, and his gallant sword is rust, And now, I think, I must Take my leave!



ILLUSTRATIONS OF THE PUFF POETICAL

[The following eleven pieces of verse appeared originally with many others in an article called "Puffs and Poetry," from which the following passage is taken:—

"Some people are fond of excursions into the realms of old romance, with their Lancelots and Gueneveres, their enchanted castles, their bearded wizards, 'and such odd branches of learning.' There needs a winged griffin, at the very least, to carry them out of the everyday six-and-eightpenny world, or the whizz of an Excalibur to startle their drowsy imaginations into life. The beauties and the wonders of the universe died for them some centuries ago; they went out with Friar Bacon and the invention of gunpowder. Praised be Apollo! this is not our case. There is a snatch of poetry, to our apprehension, in almost everything. We have detected it pushing its petals forth from the curls of a barrister's wig, and scented its fragrance even in the columns of the 'London Gazette.'

"'The deep poetic voice that hourly speaks within us' is never silent. Like Signor Benedick, it 'will still be talking.' We can scarcely let our eyes dwell upon an object—nay, not even upon a gridiron or a toothpick—but it seems to be transmuted as by the touch of Midas into gold. Our facts accordingly adopt upon occasions a very singular shape. We are not nice to a shade. A trifle here or there never stands in our way. We regard a free play of fancy as the privilege of every genuine Briton, and exclaim with Pistol, 'A fico for all yea and nay rogues.'

"We have often thought of entering the lists against Robins [famous for his imaginative advertisements of properties for sale]. It may be vanity, but we think we could trump him. Robins amplifies well, but we think we could trump him. There is an obvious effort in his best works. The result is a want of unity of effect. Hesiod and Tennyson, the Caverns of Ellora, and the magic caves of the Regent's Park Colosseum, are jumbled confusedly one upon another. He never achieves the triumph of art—repose. Besides, he wants variety. A country box, consisting of twenty feet square of tottering brickwork, a plateau of dirt, with a few diseased shrubs and an open drain, is as elaborately be-metaphored as an island of the Hebrides, with a wilderness of red-deer, Celts, ptarmigan, and other wild animals upon it. Now, this is out of all rule. An elephant's trunk can raise a pin as well as uproot an oak, but it would be ridiculous to employ the same effort for one as for the other. Robins—with reverence to so great a name, be it spoken—does not attend to this. He has yet to acquire the light and graceful touch of the finished artist." Thereupon Bon Gaultier proceeds to illustrate his views by the following, and many other rhyming advertisements.]



The Death of Ishmael.

Died the Jew? "The Hebrew died. On the pavement cold he lay, Around him closed the living tide; The butcher's cad set down his tray; The pot-boy from the Dragon Green No longer for his pewter calls; The Nereid rushes in between, Nor more her 'Fine live mackerel!' bawls."

Died the Jew? "The Hebrew died. They raised him gently from the stone, They flung his coat and neckcloth wide— But linen had that Hebrew none. They raised the pile of hats that pressed His noble head, his locks of snow; But, ah, that head, upon his breast, Sank down with an expiring 'Clo!'"

Died the Jew? "The Hebrew died, Struck with overwhelming qualms From the flavour spreading wide Of some fine Virginia hams. Would you know the fatal spot, Fatal to that child of sin? These fine-flavoured hams are bought AT 50 BISHOPSGATE WITHIN!"



Parr's Life Pills.

'Twas in the town of Lubeck, A hundred years ago, An old man walked into the church, With beard as white as snow; Yet were his cheeks not wrinkled, Nor dim his eagle eye: There's many a knight that steps the street, Might wonder, should he chance to meet That man erect and high!

When silenced was the organ, And hushed the vespers loud, The Sacristan approached the sire, And drew him from the crowd— "There's something in thy visage, On which I dare not look; And when I rang the passing bell, A tremor that I may not tell, My very vitals shook.

"Who art thou, awful stranger? Our ancient annals say, That twice two hundred years ago Another passed this way, Like thee in face and feature; And, if the tale be true, 'Tis writ, that in this very year Again the stranger shall appear. Art thou the Wandering Jew?"

"The Wandering Jew, thou dotard!" The wondrous phantom cried— "'Tis several centuries ago Since that poor stripling died. He would not use my nostrums— See, shaveling, here they are! These put to flight all human ills, These conquer death—unfailing pills, And I'm the inventor, PARR!"



Tarquin and the Augur.

Gingerly is good King Tarquin shaving. Gently glides the razor o'er his chin, Near him stands a grim Haruspex raving, And with nasal whine he pitches in Church extension hints, Till the monarch squints, Snicks his chin, and swears—a deadly sin!

"Jove confound thee, thou bare-legged impostor! From my dressing-table get thee gone! Dost thou think my flesh is double Glo'ster? There again! That cut was to the bone! Get ye from my sight; I'll believe you're right, When my razor cuts the sharpening hone!"

Thus spoke Tarquin with a deal of dryness; But the Augur, eager for his fees, Answered—"Try it, your Imperial Highness; Press a little harder, if you please. There! the deed is done!" Through the solid stone Went the steel as glibly as through cheese.

So the Augur touched the tin of Tarquin, Who suspected some celestial aid; But he wronged the blameless gods; for hearken! Ere the monarch's bet was rashly laid, With his searching eye Did the priest espy ROGERS' name engraved upon the blade.



La Mort d'Arthur,

NOT BY ALFRED TENNYSON.

Slowly, as one who bears a mortal hurt, Through which the fountain of his life runs dry, Crept good King Arthur down unto the lake. A roughening wind was bringing in the waves With cold dull plash and plunging to the shore, And a great bank of clouds came sailing up Athwart the aspect of the gibbous moon, Leaving no glimpse save starlight, as he sank, With a short stagger, senseless on the stones.

No man yet knows how long he lay in swound; But long enough it was to let the rust Lick half the surface of his polished shield; For it was made by far inferior hands, Than forged his helm, his breastplate, and his greaves, Whereon no canker lighted, for they bore The magic stamp of MECHI'S SILVER STEEL.



Jupiter and the Indian Ale.

"Take away this clammy nectar!" Said the king of gods and men; "Never at Olympus' table Let that trash be served again. Ho, Lyaeus, thou the beery! Quick—invent some other drink; Or, in a brace of shakes, thou standest On Cocytus' sulphury brink!"

Terror shook the limbs of Bacchus, Paly grew his pimpled nose, And already in his rearward Felt he Jove's tremendous toes; When a bright idea struck him— "Dash my thyrsus! I'll be bail— For you never were in India— That you know not HODGSON'S ALE!"

"Bring it!" quoth the Cloud-compeller; And the wine-god brought the beer— "Port and claret are like water To the noble stuff that's here!" And Saturnius drank and nodded, Winking with his lightning eyes, And amidst the constellations Did the star of HODGSON rise!



The Lay of the Doudney Brothers.

Coats at five-and-forty shillings! trousers ten-and-six a pair! Summer waistcoats, three a sov'reign, light and comfortable wear! Taglionis, black or coloured, Chesterfield and velveteen! The old English shooting-jacket—doeskins such as ne'er were seen! Army cloaks and riding-habits, Alberts at a trifling cost! Do you want an annual contract? Write to DOUDNEYS' by the post. DOUDNEY BROTHERS! DOUDNEY BROTHERS! Not the men that drive the van, Plastered o'er with advertisements, heralding some paltry plan, How, by base mechanic stinting, and by pinching of their backs, Lean attorneys' clerks may manage to retrieve their Income-tax: But the old established business—where the best of clothes are given At the very lowest prices—Fleet Street, Number Ninety-seven. Wouldst thou know the works of DOUDNEY? Hie thee to the thronged Arcade, To the Park upon a Sunday, to the terrible Parade. There, amid the bayonets bristling, and the flashing of the steel, When the household troops in squadrons round the bold field-marshals wheel, Shouldst thou see an aged warrior in a plain blue morning frock, Peering at the proud battalions o'er the margin of his stock,— Should thy throbbing heart then tell thee, that the veteran worn and grey Curbed the course of Bonaparte, rolled the thunders of Assaye— Let it tell thee, stranger, likewise, that the goodly garb he wears Started into shape and being from the DOUDNEY BROTHERS' shears! Seek thou next the rooms of Willis—mark, where D'Orsay's Count is bending, See the trouser's undulation from his graceful hip descending; Hath the earth another trouser so compact and love-compelling? Thou canst find it, stranger, only, if thou seek'st the DOUDNEYS' dwelling! Hark, from Windsor's royal palace, what sweet voice enchants the ear? "Goodness, what a lovely waistcoat! Oh, who made it, Albert dear? 'Tis the very prettiest pattern! You must get a dozen others!" And the Prince, in rapture, answers—"'Tis the work of DOUDNEY BROTHERS!"



Paris and Helen.

As the youthful Paris presses Helen to his ivory breast. Sporting with her golden tresses, Close and ever closer pressed,

"Let me," said he, "quaff the nectar, Which thy lips of ruby yield; Glory I can leave to Hector, Gathered in the tented field.

"Let me ever gaze upon thee, Look into thine eyes so deep; With a daring hand I won thee, With a faithful heart I'll keep.

"Oh, my Helen, thou bright wonder, Who was ever like to thee? Jove would lay aside his thunder, So he might be blest like me.

"How mine eyes so fondly linger On thy smooth and pearly skin; Scan each round and rosy finger, Drinking draughts of beauty in!

"Tell me, whence thy beauty, fairest? Whence thy cheek's enchanting bloom? Whence the rosy hue thou wearest; Breathing round thee rich perfume?"

Thus he spoke, with heart that panted, Clasped her fondly to his side, Gazed on her with look enchanted, While his Helen thus replied:

"Be no discord, love, between us, If I not the secret tell! 'Twas a gift I had of Venus,— Venus, who hath loved me well;

"And she told me as she gave it, 'Let not e'er the charm be known; O'er thy person freely lave it, Only when thou art alone.'

"'Tis enclosed in yonder casket— Here behold its golden key; But its name—love, do not ask it, Tell't I may not, even to thee!"

Long with vow and kiss he plied her; Still the secret did she keep, Till at length he sank beside her, Seemed as he had dropped to sleep.

Soon was Helen laid in slumber, When her Paris, rising slow, Did his fair neck disencumber From her rounded arms of snow.

Then, her heedless fingers oping, Takes the key and steals away, To the ebon table groping, Where the wondrous casket lay;

Eagerly the lid uncloses, Sees within it, laid aslope, PEARS' LIQUID BLOOM OF ROSES, Cakes of his TRANSPARENT SOAP!



A Warning.

Lose thou no time! A grave and solemn warning, Yet seldom ta'en, to man's eternal cost. Night wanes, day lessens, evening, noon, and morning Flit by unseen, and yet much time is lost.

And why? Are moments useless as the vapour That rises from the lamp's extinguish'd flame! Why do we, like the moth around the taper, Sport with the fire that must consume our frame?

Be wise in time! Arouse thee, oh thou sleeper, Account thy moments dearer than thy gold; While time thou hast, appoint a good time-keeper To treasure up thine hours till thou art old.

Lose but this chance, and thou art lost for ever,— Seek him who keeps a watch for sinking souls— Ask for COX SAVORY'S HORIZONTAL LEVER, With double case, and jewell'd in four holes!



To Persons About to Marry.

Gentle pair, ere Hymen binds you In his fetters, soft but sure, Pray, bethink you, have you ever Had substantial furniture?

Love's a fickle god, they tell us, Giddy-pated, lightly led, Therefore it were well you found him In a comfortable bed.

Olive branches soon will blossom Round your table, two or three; And that table should be made of Good and strong mahogany.

If the cares of life should gather, And we all must look for cares,— Sorrow falls extremely lightly In the midst of rosewood chairs.

Few that walk can 'scape a stumble, Thus hath said The Prophet-King; But your fall will be a light one On Axminster carpeting.

We can keep your little children From collision with the grate— We have wardrobes, we have presses At a reasonable rate;

Mirrors for the queen of beauty Basins of the purest stone, Ottomans which Cleopatra Might have envied on her throne.

Seek us ere you taste with rapture Love's sweet draught of filter'd honey, And you'll find the safest plan is, NO DISCOUNT, AND READY MONEY!



Want Places.

Wants a place a lad, who's seen Pious life at brother Teazle's, Used to cleaning boots, and been Touch'd with grace, and had the measles.

* * * * *

Wants a place as housemaid, or Companion to a bachelor, Up in years, and who'd prefer A person with no character, A female, who in this respect, Would leave him nothing to object.



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS



The Lay of the Lover's Friend.

[AIR—"The days we went a-gypsying."]

I would all womankind were dead, Or banished o'er the sea; For they have been a bitter plague These last six weeks to me: It is not that I'm touched myself, For that I do not fear; No female face has shown me grace For many a bygone year. But 'tis the most infernal bore, Of all the bores I know, To have a friend who's lost his heart A short time ago.

Whene'er we steam it to Blackwall, Or down to Greenwich run, To quaff the pleasant cider-cup, And feed on fish and fun; Or climb the slopes of Richmond Hill, To catch a breath of air: Then, for my sins, he straight begins To rave about his fair. Oh, 'tis the most tremendous bore, Of all the bores I know, To have a friend who's lost his heart A short time ago.

In vain you pour into his ear Your own confiding grief; In vain you claim his sympathy, In vain you ask relief; In vain you try to rouse him by Joke, repartee, or quiz; His sole reply's a burning sigh, And "What a mind it is!" O Lord! it is the greatest bore, Of all the bores I know, To have a friend who's lost his heart A short time ago.

I've heard her thoroughly described A hundred times, I'm sure; And all the while I've tried to smile, And patiently endure; He waxes strong upon his pangs, And potters o'er his grog; And still I say, in a playful way— "Why, you're a lucky dog!" But oh! it is the heaviest bore, Of all the bores I know, To have a friend who's lost his heart A short time ago.

I really wish he'd do like me, When I was young and strong; I formed a passion every week, But never kept it long. But he has not the sportive mood That always rescued me, And so I would all women could Be banished o'er the sea. For 'tis the most egregious bore, Of all the bores I know, To have a friend who's lost his heart A short time ago.



Francesca Da Rimini.

TO BON GAULTIER.

[ARGUMENT.—An impassioned pupil of Leigh Hunt, having met Bon Gaultier at a Fancy Ball, declares the destructive consequences thus.]

Didst thou not praise me, Gaultier, at the ball, Ripe lips, trim boddice, and a waist so small, With clipsome lightness, dwindling ever less, Beneath the robe of pea-y greeniness? Dost thou remember, when, with stately prance, Our heads went crosswise in the country-dance; How soft, warm fingers, tipped like buds of balm, Trembled within the squeezing of thy palm; And how a cheek grew flushed and peachy-wise At the frank lifting of thy cordial eyes? Ah, me! that night there was one gentle thing, Who, like a dove, with its scarce feathered wing, Fluttered at the approach of thy quaint swaggering!

There's wont to be, at conscious times like these, An affectation of a bright-eyed ease,— A crispy cheekiness, if so I dare Describe the swaling of a jaunty air; And thus, when swirling from the waltz's wheel, You craved my hand to grace the next quadrille, That smiling voice, although it made me start, Boiled in the meek o'erlifting of my heart; And, picking at my flowers, I said, with free And usual tone, "O yes, sir, certainly!"

Like one that swoons, 'twixt sweet amaze and fear, I heard the music burning in my ear, And felt I cared not, so thou wert with me, If Gurth or Wamba were our vis-a-vis. So, when a tall Knight Templar ringing came, And took his place amongst us with his dame, I neither turned away, nor bashful shrunk From the stern survey of the soldier-monk, Though rather more than three full quarters drunk; But, threading through the figure, first in rule, I paused to see thee plunge into La Poule.

Ah, what a sight was that! Not prurient Mars, Pointing his toe through ten celestial bars— Not young Apollo, beamily arrayed In tripsome guise for Juno's masquerade— Not smartest Hermes, with his pinion girth, Jerking with freaks and snatches down to earth, Looked half so bold, so beautiful, and strong, As thou, when pranking through the glittering throng! How the calmed ladies looked with eyes of love On thy trim velvet doublet laced above; The hem of gold, that, like a wavy river, Flowed down into thy back with glancing shiver! So bare was thy fine throat, and curls of black, So lightsomely dropped in thy lordly back, So crisply swaled the feather in thy bonnet, So glanced thy thigh, and spanning palm upon it, That my weak soul took instant flight to thee, Lost in the fondest gush of that sweet witchery!

But when the dance was o'er, and arm in arm (The full heart beating 'gainst the elbow warm) We passed into the great refreshment-hall, Where the heaped cheese-cakes and the comfits small Lay, like a hive of sunbeams, brought to burn Around the margin of the negus urn; When my poor quivering hand you fingered twice, And, with inquiring accents, whispered "Ice, Water, or cream?" I could no more dissemble, But dropped upon the couch all in a tremble. A swimming faintness misted o'er my brain, The corks seemed starting from the brisk champagne, The custards fell untouched upon the floor, Thine eyes met mine. That night we danced no more!



The Cadi's Daughter.

A LEGEND OF THE BOSPHORUS.

[FROM ANY OF THE ANNUALS.]

How beauteous is the star of night Within the eastern skies, Like the twinkling glance of the Toorkman's lance, Or the antelope's azure eyes! A lamp of love in the heaven above, That star is fondly streaming; And the gay kiosk and the shadowy mosque In the Golden Horn are gleaming.

Young Leila sits in her jasmine bower, And she hears the bulbul sing, As it thrills its throat to the first full note, That anthems the flowery spring. She gazes still, as a maiden will, On that beauteous eastern star: You might see the throb of her bosom's sob Beneath the white cymar!

She thinks of him who is far away,— Her own brave Galiongee,— Where the billows foam and the breezes roam, On the wild Carpathian sea. She thinks of the oath that bound them both Beside the stormy water; And the words of love, that in Athens' grove He spake to the Cadi's daughter.

"My Selim!" thus the maiden said, "Though severed thus we be By the raging deep and the mountain steep, My soul still yearns to thee. Thy form so dear is mirrored here In my heart's pellucid well, As the rose looks up to Phingari's orb, Or the moth to the gay gazelle.

"I think of the time when the Kaftan's crime Our love's young joys o'ertook, And thy name still floats in the plaintive notes Of my silver-toned chibouque. Thy hand is red with the blood it has shed, Thy soul it is heavy laden; Yet come, my Giaour, to thy Leila's bower; Oh, come to thy Turkish maiden!"

A light step trod on the dewy sod, And a voice was in her ear, And an arm embraced young Leila's waist— "Beloved! I am here!" Like the phantom form that rules the storm, Appeared the pirate lover, And his fiery eye was like Zatanai, As he fondly bent above her.

"Speak, Leila, speak; for my light caique Rides proudly in yonder bay; I have come from my rest to her I love best, To carry thee, love, away. The breast of thy lover shall shield thee, and cover My own jemscheed from harm; Think'st thou I fear the dark vizier, Or the mufti's vengeful arm?

"Then droop not, love, nor turn away From this rude hand of mine!" And Leila looked in her lover's eyes, And murmured—"I am thine!" But a gloomy man with a yataghan. Stole through the acacia-blossoms, And the thrust he made with his gleaming blade Hath pierced through both their bosoms.

"There! there! thou cursed caitiff Giaour! There, there, thou false one, lie!" Remorseless Hassan stands above, And he smiles to see them die. They sleep beneath the fresh green turf, The lover and the lady— And the maidens wail to hear the tale Of the daughter of the Cadi!



The Dirge of the Drinker.

Brothers, spare awhile your liquor, lay your final tumbler down; He has dropped—that star of honour—on the field of his renown! Raise the wail, but raise it softly, lowly bending on your knees, If you find it more convenient, you may hiccup if you please. Sons of Pantagruel, gently let your hip-hurrahing sink, Be your manly accents clouded, half with sorrow, half with drink! Lightly to the sofa pillow lift his head from off the floor; See, how calm he sleeps, unconscious as the deadest nail in door! Widely o'er the earth I've wandered; where the drink most freely flowed, I have ever reeled the foremost, foremost to the beaker strode. Deep in shady Cider Cellars I have dreamed o'er heavy wet, By the fountains of Damascus I have quaffed the rich sherbet, Regal Montepulciano drained beneath its native rock, On Johannis' sunny mountain frequent hiccuped o'er my hock; I have bathed in butts of Xeres deeper than did e'er Monsoon, Sangaree'd with bearded Tartars in the Mountains of the Moon; In beer-swilling Copenhagen I have drunk your Danesman blind, I have kept my feet in Jena, when each bursch to earth declined; Glass for glass, in fierce Jamaica, I have shared the planter's rum. Drunk with Highland dhuine-wassails, till each gibbering Gael grew dumb; But a stouter, bolder drinker—one that loved his liquor more— Never yet did I encounter than our friend upon the floor! Yet the best of us are mortal, we to weakness all are heir, He has fallen who rarely staggered—let the rest of us beware! We shall leave him as we found him,—lying where his manhood fell, 'Mong the trophies of the revel, for he took his tipple well. Better 'twere we loosed his neckcloth, laid his throat and bosom bare, Pulled his Hobies off, and turned his toes to taste the breezy air. Throw the sofa cover o'er him, dim the flaring of the gas, Calmly, calmly let him slumber, and, as by the bar we pass, We shall bid that thoughtful waiter place beside him, near and handy, Large supplies of soda-water, tumblers bottomed well with brandy, So, when waking, he shall drain them, with that deathless thirst of his,— Clinging to the hand that smote him, like a good 'un as he is!



The Death of Duval.

BY W—- H—- A—-TH, ESQ.

["Methinks I see him already in the cart, sweeter and more lovely than the nosegay in his hand! I hear the crowd extolling his resolution and intrepidity! What volleys of sighs are sent from the windows of Holborn, that so comely a youth should be brought to disgrace! I see him at the tree! the whole circle are in tears! even butchers weep!"—BEGGARS OPERA.]

A living sea of eager human faces, A thousand bosoms throbbing all as one, Walls, windows, balconies, all sorts of places, Holding their crowds of gazers to the sun: Through the hushed groups low-buzzing murmurs run; And on the air, with slow reluctant swell, Comes the dull funeral-boom of old Sepulchre's bell.

Oh, joy in London now! in festal measure Be spent the evening of this festive day! For thee is opening now a high-strung pleasure; Now, even now, in yonder press-yard they Strike from his limbs the fetters loose away! A little while, and he, the brave Duval, Will issue forth, serene, to glad and greet you all.