Ballads

  On deck, beneath the awning,
  I dozing lay and yawning;
  It was the gray of dawning,
    Ere yet the sun arose;
  And above the funnel's roaring,
  And the fitful wind's deploring,
  I heard the cabin snoring
    With universal nose.
  I could hear the passengers snorting—
  I envied their disporting—
  Vainly I was courting
    The pleasure of a doze!

  So I lay, and wondered why light
  Came not, and watched the twilight,
  And the glimmer of the skylight,
    That shot across the deck;
  And the binnacle pale and steady,
  And the dull glimpse of the dead-eye,
  And the sparks in fiery eddy
    That whirled from the chimney neck.
  In our jovial floating prison
  There was sleep from fore to mizzen,
  And never a star had risen
    The hazy sky to speck.

  Strange company we harbored,
  We'd a hundred Jews to larboard,
  Unwashed, uncombed, unbarbered—
    Jews black, and brown, and gray;
  With terror it would seize ye,
  And make your souls uneasy,
  To see those Rabbis greasy,
    Who did naught but scratch and pray:
  Their dirty children puking—
  Their dirty saucepans cooking—
  Their dirty fingers hooking
    Their swarming fleas away.

  To starboard, Turks and Greeks were—
  Whiskered and brown their cheeks were—
  Enormous wide their breeks were,
    Their pipes did puff alway;
  Each on his mat allotted
  In silence smoked and squatted,
  Whilst round their children trotted
    In pretty, pleasant play.
  He can't but smile who traces
  The smiles on those brown faces,
  And the pretty, prattling graces
    Of those small heathens gay.

  And so the hours kept tolling,
  And through the ocean rolling
  Went the brave "Iberia" bowling
    Before the break of day—

  When A SQUALL, upon a sudden,
  Came o'er the waters scudding;
  And the clouds began to gather,
  And the sea was lashed to lather,
  And the lowering thunder grumbled,
  And the lightning jumped and tumbled,
  And the ship, and all the ocean,
  Woke up in wild commotion.
  Then the wind set up a howling,
  And the poodle dog a yowling,
  And the cocks began a crowing,
  And the old cow raised a lowing,
  As she heard the tempest blowing;
  And fowls and geese did cackle,
  And the cordage and the tackle
  Began to shriek and crackle;
  And the spray dashed o'er the funnels,
  And down the deck in runnels;
  And the rushing water soaks all,
  From the seamen in the fo'ksal
  To the stokers whose black faces
  Peer out of their bed-places;
  And the captain he was bawling,
  And the sailors pulling, hauling,
  And the quarter-deck tarpauling
  Was shivered in the squalling;
  And the passengers awaken,
  Most pitifully shaken;
  And the steward jumps up, and hastens
  For the necessary basins.

  Then the Greeks they groaned and quivered,
  And they knelt, and moaned, and shivered,
  As the plunging waters met them,
  And splashed and overset them;
  And they call in their emergence
  Upon countless saints and virgins;
  And their marrowbones are bended,
  And they think the world is ended.

  And the Turkish women for'ard
  Were frightened and behorror'd;
  And shrieking and bewildering,
  The mothers clutched their children;
  The men sung "Allah! Illah!
  Mashallah Bismillah!"
  As the warring waters doused them
  And splashed them and soused them,
  And they called upon the Prophet,
  And thought but little of it.

  Then all the fleas in Jewry
  Jumped up and bit like fury;
  And the progeny of Jacob
  Did on the main-deck wake up
  (I wot those greasy Rabbins
  Would never pay for cabins);
  And each man moaned and jabbered in
  His filthy Jewish gaberdine,
  In woe and lamentation,
  And howling consternation.
  And the splashing water drenches
  Their dirty brats and wenches;
  And they crawl from bales and benches
  In a hundred thousand stenches.

  This was the White Squall famous,
  Which latterly o'ercame us,
  And which all will well remember
  On the 28th September;
  When a Prussian captain of Lancers
  (Those tight-laced, whiskered prancers)
  Came on the deck astonished,
  By that wild squall admonished,
  And wondering cried, "Potztausend,
  Wie ist der Stürm jetzt brausend?"
  And looked at Captain Lewis,
  Who calmly stood and blew his
  Cigar in all the hustle,
  And scorned the tempest's tussle,
  And oft we've thought thereafter
  How he beat the storm to laughter;
  For well he knew his vessel
  With that vain wind could wrestle;
  And when a wreck we thought her,
  And doomed ourselves to slaughter,
  How gayly he fought her,
  And through the hubbub brought her,
  And as the tempest caught her,
  Cried, "GEORGE! SOME BRANDY-AND-WATER!"

  And when, its force expended,
  The harmless storm was ended,
  And as the sunrise splendid
    Came blushing o'er the sea;
  I thought, as day was breaking,
  My little girls were waking,
  And smiling, and making
    A prayer at home for me.

  1844.

  Riding from Coleraine
    (Famed for lovely Kitty),
  Came a Cockney bound
    Unto Derry city;
  Weary was his soul,
    Shivering and sad, he
  Bumped along the road
    Leads to Limavaddy.

  Mountains stretch'd around,
    Gloomy was their tinting,
  And the horse's hoofs
    Made a dismal clinting;
  Wind upon the heath
   Howling was and piping,
  On the heath and bog,
    Black with many a snipe in.
  Mid the bogs of black,
    Silver pools were flashing,
  Crows upon their sides
    Picking were and splashing.
  Cockney on the car
    Closer folds his plaidy,
  Grumbling at the road
    Leads to Limavaddy.

  Through the crashing woods
    Autumn brawld and bluster'd,
  Tossing round about
    Leaves the hue of mustard
  Yonder lay Lough Foyle,
    Which a storm was whipping,
  Covering with mist
    Lake, and shores and shipping.
  Up and down the hill
    (Nothing could be bolder),
  Horse went with a raw
    Bleeding on his shoulder.
  "Where are horses changed?"
    Said I to the laddy
  Driving on the box:
    "Sir, at Limavaddy."

  Limavaddy inn's
    But a humble bait-house,
  Where you may procure
    Whiskey and potatoes;
  Landlord at the door
    Gives a smiling welcome—
  To the shivering wights
    Who to his hotel come.

  Landlady within
    Sits and knits a stocking,
  With a wary foot
    Baby's cradle rocking.
  To the chimney nook
    Having, found admittance,
  There I watch a pup
    Playing with two kittens;
  (Playing round the fire),
    Which of blazing turf is,
  Roaring to the pot
    Which bubbles with the murphies.
  And the cradled babe
    Fond the mother nursed it,
  Singing it a song
    As she twists the worsted!

  Up and down the stair
    Two more young ones patter
  (Twins were never seen
    Dirtier nor fatter).
  Both have mottled legs,
    Both have snubby noses,
  Both have— Here the host
    Kindly interposes:
  "Sure you must be froze
    With the sleet and hail, sir:
  So will you have some punch,
    Or will you have some ale, sir?"

  Presently a maid
    Enters with the liquor
  (Half a pint of ale
    Frothing in a beaker).
  Gads! didn't know
    What my beating heart meant:
  Hebe's self I thought
    Entered the apartment.
  As she came she smiled,
    And the smile bewitching,
  On my word and honor,
    Lighted all the kitchen!

  With a curtsy neat
    Greeting the new comer,
  Lovely, smiling Peg
    Offers me the rummer;
  But my trembling hand
    Up the beaker tilted,
  And the glass of ale
    Every drop I spilt it:
  Spilt it every drop
    (Dames, who read my volumes,
  Pardon such a word)
    On my what-d'ye-call-'ems!

  Witnessing the sight
    Of that dire disaster,
  Out began to laugh
    Missis, maid, and master;
  Such a merry peal
    'Specially Miss Peg's was,
  (As the glass of ale
    Trickling down my legs was,)
  That the joyful sound
    Of that mingling laughter
  Echoed in my ears
    Many a long day after.

  Such a silver peal!
    In the meadows listening,
  You who've heard the bells
    Ringing to a christening;
  You who ever heard
    Caradori pretty,
  Smiling like an angel,
    Singing "Giovinetti;"
  Fancy Peggy's laugh,
    Sweet, and clear, and cheerful,
  At my pantaloons
    With half a pint of beer full!

  When the laugh was done,
    Peg, the pretty hussy,
  Moved about the room
    Wonderfully busy;
  Now she looks to see
    If the kettle keep hot;
  Now she rubs the spoons,
    Now she cleans the teapot;
  Now she sets the cups
    Trimly and secure:
  Now she scours a pot,
    And so it was I drew her.

  Thus it was I drew her
    Scouring of a kettle,
  (Faith! her blushing cheeks
    Redden'd on the metal!)
  Ah! but 'tis in vain
    That I try to sketch it;
  The pot perhaps is like,
    But Peggy's face is wretched.
  No the best of lead
    And of indian-rubber
  Never could depict
    That sweet kettle-scrubber!

  See her as she moves
    Scarce the ground she touches,
  Airy as a fay,
    Graceful as a duchess;
  Bare her rounded arm,
    Bare her little leg is,
  Vestris never show'd
    Ankles like to Peggy's.
  Braided is her hair,
    Soft her look and modest,
  Slim her little waist
    Comfortably bodiced.

  This I do declare,
    Happy is the laddy
  Who the heart can share
    Of Peg of Limavaddy.
  Married if she were
    Blest would be the daddy
  Of the children fair
    Of Peg of Limavaddy.
  Beauty is not rare
    In the land of Paddy,
  Fair beyond compare
    Is Peg of Limavaddy.

  Citizen or Squire,
    Tory, Whig, or Radi-
  cal would all desire
    Peg of Limavaddy.
  Had I Homer's fire,
    Or that of Serjeant Taddy,
  Meetly I'd admire
    Peg of Limavaddy.
  And till I expire,
    Or till I grow mad I
  Will sing unto my lyre
    Peg of Limavaddy!

  But yesterday a naked sod
    The dandies sneered from Rotten Row,
    And cantered o'er it to and fro:
              And see 'tis done!
  As though 'twere by a wizard's rod
    A blazing arch of lucid glass
    Leaps like a fountain from the grass
              To meet the sun!

  A quiet green but few days since,
    With cattle browsing in the shade:
    And here are lines of bright arcade
              In order raised!
  A palace as for fairy Prince,
    A rare pavilion, such as man
    Saw never since mankind began,
              And built and glazed!

  A peaceful place it was but now,
    And lo! within its shining streets
    A multitude of nations meets;
              A countless throng
  I see beneath the crystal bow,
    And Gaul and German, Russ and Turk,
    Each with his native handiwork
              And busy tongue.

  I felt a thrill of love and awe
    To mark the different garb of each,
    The changing tongue, the various speech
              Together blent:
  A thrill, methinks, like His who saw
    "All people dwelling upon earth
    Praising our God with solemn mirth
              And one consent."

  High Sovereign, in your Royal state,
    Captains, and chiefs, and councillors,
    Before the lofty palace doors
              Are open set,—
  Hush ere you pass the shining gate:
    Hush! ere the heaving curtain draws,
    And let the Royal pageant pause
              A moment yet.

  People and prince a silence keep!
    Bow coronet and kingly crown.
    Helmet and plume, bow lowly down,
              The while the priest,
  Before the splendid portal step,
    (While still the wondrous banquet stays,)
    From Heaven supreme a blessing prays
              Upon the feast.

  Then onwards let the triumph march;
    Then let the loud artillery roll,
    And trumpets ring, and joy-bells toll,
              And pass the gate.
  Pass underneath the shining arch,
    'Neath which the leafy elms are green;
    Ascend unto your throne, O Queen!
              And take your state.

  Behold her in her Royal place;
    A gentle lady; and the hand
    That sways the sceptre of this land,
              How frail and weak!
  Soft is the voice, and fair the face:
    She breathes amen to prayer and hymn;
    No wonder that her eyes are dim,
              And pale her cheek.

  This moment round her empire's shores
    The winds of Austral winter sweep,
    And thousands lie in midnight sleep
              At rest to-day.
  Oh! awful is that crown of yours,
    Queen of innumerable realms
    Sitting beneath the budding elms
              Of English May!

  A wondrous scepter 'tis to bear:
    Strange mystery of God which set
    Upon her brow yon coronet,—
              The foremost crown
  Of all the world, on one so fair!
    That chose her to it from her birth,
    And bade the sons of all the earth
              To her bow down.

  The representatives of man
    Here from the far Antipodes,
    And from the subject Indian seas,
              In Congress meet;
  From Afric and from Hindustan,
    From Western continent and isle,
    The envoys of her empire pile
              Gifts at her feet;

  Our brethren cross the Atlantic tides,
    Loading the gallant decks which once
    Roared a defiance to our guns,
              With peaceful store;
  Symbol of peace, their vessel rides!*
    O'er English waves float Star and Stripe,
    And firm their friendly anchors gripe
              The father shore!

  From Rhine and Danube, Rhone and Seine,
    As rivers from their sources gush,
    The swelling floods of nations rush,
              And seaward pour:
  From coast to coast in friendly chain,
  With countless ships we bridge the straits,
  And angry ocean separates
              Europe no more.

  From Mississippi and from Nile—
    From Baltic, Ganges, Bosphorous,
    In England's ark assembled thus
              Are friend and guest.
  Look down the mighty sunlit aisle,
    And see the sumptuous banquet set,
    The brotherhood of nations met.
              Around the feast!

  Along the dazzling colonnade,
    Far as the straining eye can gaze,
    Gleam cross and fountain, bell and vase,
              In vistas bright;
  And statues fair of nymph and maid,
    And steeds and pards and Amazons,
    Writhing and grappling in the bronze,
              In endless fight.

  To deck the glorious roof and dome,
    To make the Queen a canopy,
    The peaceful hosts of industry
              Their standards bear.
  Yon are the works of Brahmin loom;
    On such a web of Persian thread
    The desert Arab bows his head
              And cries his prayer.

  Look yonder where the engines toil:
    These England's arms of conquest are,
    The trophies of her bloodless war:
              Brave weapons these.
  Victorians over wave and soil,
    With these she sails, she weaves, she tills,
    Pierces the everlasting hills
              And spans the seas.

  The engine roars upon its race,
    The shuttle whirs the woof,
    The people hum from floor to roof,
              With Babel tongue.
  The fountain in the basin plays,
    The chanting organ echoes clear,
    An awful chorus 'tis to hear,
              A wondrous song!

  Swell, organ, swell your trumpet blast,
    March, Queen and Royal pageant, march
    By splendid aisle and springing arch
              Of this fair Hall:
  And see! above the fabric vast,
    God's boundless Heaven is bending blue,
    God's peaceful sunlight's beaming through,
              And shines o'er all.

  May, 1851.

  * The U. S. frigate "St. Lawrence."

  A street there is in Paris famous,
    For which no rhyme our language yields,
  Rue Neuve des Petits Champs its name is—
    The New Street of the Little Fields.
  And here's an inn, not rich and splendid,
    But still in comfortable case;
  The which in youth I oft attended,
    To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse.

  This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is—
    A sort of soup or broth, or brew,
  Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes,
    That Greenwich never could outdo;
  Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffron,
    Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace:
  All these you eat at TERRÉ'S tavern,
    In that one dish of Bouillabaisse.

  Indeed, a rich and savory stew 'tis;
    And true philosophers, methinks,
  Who love all sorts of natural beauties,
    Should love good victuals and good drinks.
  And Cordelier or Benedictine
    Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace,
  Nor find a fast-day too afflicting,
    Which served him up a Bouillabaisse.

  I wonder if the house still there is?
    Yes, here the lamp is, as before;
  The smiling red-checked écaillère is
    Still opening oysters at the door.
  Is TERRÉ still alive and able?
    I recollect his droll grimace:
  He'd come and smile before your table,
    And hope you liked your Bouillabaisse.

  We enter—nothing's changed or older.
    "How's Monsieur TERRÉ, waiter, pray?"
  The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder—
    "Monsieur is dead this many a day."
  "It is the lot of saint and sinner,
    So honest TERRÉ'S run his race."
  "What will Monsieur require for dinner?"
    "Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse?"

  "Oh, oui, Monsieur," 's the waiter's answer;
     "Quel vin Monsieur desire-t-il?"
  "Tell me a good one."—"That I can, Sir:
    The Chambertin with yellow seal."
  "So TERRÉ'S gone," I say, and sink in
    My old accustom'd corner-place,
  "He's done with feasting and with drinking,
    With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse."

  My old accustom'd corner here is,
    The table still is in the nook;
  Ah! vanish'd many a busy year is
    This well-known chair since last I took.
  When first I saw ye, cari luoghi,
    I'd scarce a beard upon my face,
  And now a grizzled, grim old fogy,
    I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse.

  Where are you, old companions trusty
    Of early days here met to dine?
  Come, waiter! quick, a flagon crusty—
    I'll pledge them in the good old wine.
  The kind old voices and old faces
    My memory can quick retrace;
  Around the board they take their places,
    And share the wine and Bouillabaisse.

  There's JACK has made a wondrous marriage;
    There's laughing TOM is laughing yet;
  There's brave AUGUSTUS drives his carriage;
    There's poor old FRED in the Gazette;
  On JAMES'S head the grass is growing;
    Good Lord! the world has wagged apace
  Since here we set the Claret flowing,
    And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse.

  Ah me! how quick the days are flitting!
    I mind me of a time that's gone,
  When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting,
    In this same place—but not alone.
  A fair young form was nestled near me,
    A dear, dear face looked fondly up,
  And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me
    —There's no one now to share my cup.

        .      .      .      .      .

  I drink it as the Fates ordain it.
    Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes:
  Fill up the lonely glass, and drain it
    In memory of dear old times.
  Welcome the wine, whate'er the seal is;
    And sit you down and say your grace
  With thankful heart, whate'er the meal is.
    —Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse!

  Christmas is here:
  Winds whistle shrill,
  Icy and chill,
  Little care we:
  Little we fear
  Weather without,
  Sheltered about
  The Mahogany Tree.

  Once on the boughs
  Birds of rare plume
  Sang, in its bloom;
  Night-birds are we:
  Here we carouse,
  Singing like them,
  Perched round the stem
  Of the jolly old tree.

  Here let us sport,
  Boys, as we sit;
  Laughter and wit
  Flashing so free.
  Life is but short—
  When we are gone,
  Let them sing on,
  Round the old tree.

  Evenings we knew,
  Happy as this;
  Faces we miss,
  Pleasant to see.
  Kind hearts and true,
  Gentle and just,
  Peace to your dust!
  We sing round the tree.

  Care, like a dun,
  Lurks at the gate:
  Let the dog wait;
  Happy we'll be!
  Drink, every one;
  Pile up the coals,
  Fill the red bowls,
  Round the old tree!

  Drain we the cup.—
  Friend, art afraid?
  Spirits are laid
  In the Red Sea.
  Mantle it up;
  Empty it yet;
  Let us forget,
  Round the old tree.

  Sorrows, begone!
  Life and its ills,
  Duns and their bills,
  Bid we to flee.
  Come with the dawn,
  Blue-devil sprite,
  Leave us to-night,
  Round the old tree.

  "A surgeon of the United States' army says that on inquiring of
  the Captain of his company, he found that NINE-TENTHS of the men
  had enlisted on account of some female difficulty."—Morning Paper.

  Ye Yankee Volunteers!
  It makes my bosom bleed
  When I your story read,
     Though oft 'tis told one.
  So—in both hemispheres
  The women are untrue,
  And cruel in the New,
     As in the Old one!

  What—in this company
  Of sixty sons of Mars,
  Who march 'neath Stripes and Stars,
     With fife and horn,
  Nine-tenths of all we see
  Along the warlike line
  Had but one cause to join
     This Hope Forlorn?

  Deserters from the realm
  Where tyrant Venus reigns,
  You slipp'd her wicked chains,
     Fled and out-ran her.
  And now, with sword and helm,
  Together banded are
  Beneath the Stripe and Star
     Embroider'd banner!

  And is it so with all
  The warriors ranged in line,
  With lace bedizen'd fine
     And swords gold-hilted—
  Yon lusty corporal,
  Yon color-man who gripes
  The flag of Stars and Stripes—
     Has each been jilted?

  Come, each man of this line,
  The privates strong and tall,
  "The pioneers and all,"
     The fifer nimble—
  Lieutenant and Ensign,
  Captain with epaulets,
  And Blacky there, who beats
     The clanging cymbal—

  O cymbal-beating black,
  Tell us, as thou canst feel,
  Was it some Lucy Neal
     Who caused thy ruin?
  O nimble fifing Jack,
  And drummer making din
  So deftly on the skin,
     With thy rat-tattooing—

  Confess, ye volunteers,
  Lieutenant and Ensign,
  And Captain of the line,
     As bold as Roman—
  Confess, ye grenadiers,
  However strong and tall,
  The Conqueror of you all
     Is Woman, Woman!

  No corselet is so proof
  But through it from her bow
  The shafts that she can throw
     Will pierce and rankle.
  No champion e'er so tough,
  But's in the struggle thrown,
  And tripp'd and trodden down
     By her slim ankle.

  Thus always it was ruled:
  And when a woman smiled,
  The strong man was a child,
     The sage a noodle.
  Alcides was befool'd,
  And silly Samson shorn,
  Long, long ere you were horn,
     Poor Yankee Doodle!

  "I am Miss Catherine's book," the album speaks;
  "I've lain among your tomes these many weeks;
  I'm tired of their old coats and yellow cheeks.

  "Quick, Pen! and write a line with a good grace:
  Come! draw me off a funny little face;
  And, prithee, send me back to Chesham Place."

  PEN.

  "I am my master's faithful old Gold Pen;
  I've served him three long years, and drawn since then
  Thousands of funny women and droll men.

  "O Album! could I tell you all his ways
  And thoughts, since I am his, these thousand days,
  Lord, how your pretty pages I'd amaze!"

  ALBUM.

  "His ways? his thoughts?  Just whisper me a few;
  Tell me a curious anecdote or two,
  And write 'em quickly off, good Mordan, do!"

  PEN.

  "Since he my faithful service did engage
  To follow him through his queer pilgrimage,
  I've drawn and written many a line and page.

  "Caricatures I scribbled have, and rhymes,
  And dinner-cards, and picture pantomimes;
  And merry little children's books at times.

  "I've writ the foolish fancy of his brain;
  The aimless jest that, striking, hath caused pain;
  The idle word that he'd wish back again.

        .      .      .      .      .      .

  "I've help'd him to pen many a line for bread;
  To joke with sorrow aching in his head;
  And make your laughter when his own heart bled.

  "I've spoke with men of all degree and sort—
  Peers of the land, and ladies of the Court;
  Oh, but I've chronicled a deal of sport!

  "Feasts that were ate a thousand days ago,
  Biddings to wine that long hath ceased to flow,
  Gay meetings with good fellows long laid low;

  "Summons to bridal, banquet, burial, ball,
  Tradesman's polite reminders of his small
  Account due Christmas last—I've answered all.

  "Poor Diddler's tenth petition for a half-
  Guinea; Miss Bunyan's for an autograph;
  So I refuse, accept, lament, or laugh,

  "Condole, congratulate, invite, praise, scoff.
  Day after day still dipping in my trough,
  And scribbling pages after pages off.

  "Day after day the labor's to be done,
  And sure as comes the postman and the sun,
  The indefatigable ink must run.

        .      .      .      .      .

  "Go back, my pretty little gilded tome,
  To a fair mistress and a pleasant home,
  Where soft hearts greet us whensoe'er we come!

  "Dear, friendly eyes, with constant kindness lit,
  However rude my verse, or poor my wit,
  Or sad or gay my mood, you welcome it.

  "Kind lady! till my last of lines is penn'd,
  My master's love, grief, laughter, at an end,
  Whene'er I write your name, may I write friend!

  "Not all are so that were so in past years;
  Voices, familiar once, no more he hears;
  Names, often writ, are blotted out in tears.

  "So be it:—joys will end and tears will dry—
  Album! my master bids me wish good-by,
  He'll send you to your mistress presently.

  "And thus with thankful heart he closes you;
  Blessing the happy hour when a friend he knew
  So gentle, and so generous, and so true.

  "Nor pass the words as idle phrases by;
  Stranger! I never writ a flattery,
  Nor sign'd the page that register'd a lie."

  WRITTEN IN A LADY'S ALBUM.

  "Coming from a gloomy court,
  Place of Israelite resort,
  This old lamp I've brought with me.
  Madam, on its panes you'll see
  The initials K and E."

  "An old lantern brought to me?
  Ugly, dingy, battered, black!"
  (Here a lady I suppose
  Turning up a pretty nose)—
  "Pray, sir, take the old thing back.
  I've no taste for bricabrac."

  "Please to mark the letters twain—"
  (I'm supposed to speak again)—
  "Graven on the lantern pane.
  Can you tell me who was she,
  Mistress of the flowery wreath,
  And the anagram beneath—
  The mysterious K E?

  "Full a hundred years are gone
  Since the little beacon shone
  From a Venice balcony:
  There, on summer nights, it hung,
  And her Lovers came and sung
  To their beautiful K E.

  "Hush! in the canal below
  Don't you hear the plash of oars
  Underneath the lantern's glow,
  And a thrilling voice begins
  To the sound of mandolins?
  Begins singing of amore
  And delire and dolore—
  O the ravishing tenore!

  "Lady, do you know the tune?
  Ah, we all of us have hummed it!
  I've an old guitar has thrummed it,
  Under many a changing moon.
  Shall I try it?  Do Re MI . .
  What is this?  Ma foi, the fact is,
  That my hand is out of practice,
  And my poor old fiddle cracked is,
  And a man—I let the truth out,—
  Who's had almost every tooth out,
  Cannot sing as once he sung,
  When he was young as you are young,
  When he was young and lutes were strung,
  And love-lamps in the casement hung."

  Seventeen rosebuds in a ring,
  Thick with sister flowers beset,
  In a fragrant coronet,
  Lucy's servants this day bring.
  Be it the birthday wreath she wears
  Fresh and fair, and symbolling
  The young number of her years,
  The sweet blushes of her spring.

  Types of youth and love and hope!
  Friendly hearts your mistress greet,
  Be you ever fair and sweet,
  And grow lovelier as you ope!
  Gentle nursling, fenced about
  With fond care, and guarded so,
  Scarce you've heard of storms without,
  Frosts that bite or winds that blow!

  Kindly has your life begun,
  And we pray that heaven may send
  To our floweret a warm sun,
  A calm summer, a sweet end.
  And where'er shall be her home,
  May she decorate the place;
  Still expanding into bloom,
  And developing in grace.

  In tattered old slippers that toast at the bars,
  And a ragged old jacket perfumed with cigars,
  Away from the world and its toils and its cares,
  I've a snug little kingdom up four pair of stairs.

  To mount to this realm is a toil, to be sure,
  But the fire there is bright and the air rather pure;
  And the view I behold on a sunshiny day
  Is grand through the chimney-pots over the way.

  This snug little chamber is cramm'd in all nooks
  With worthless old knick-knacks and silly old books,
  And foolish old odds and foolish old ends,
  Crack'd bargains from brokers, cheap keepsakes from friends.

  Old armor, prints, pictures, pipes, china, (all crack'd,)
  Old rickety tables, and chairs broken-backed;
  A twopenny treasury, wondrous to see;
  What matter? 'tis pleasant to you, friend, and me.

  No better divan need the Sultan require,
  Than the creaking old sofa that basks by the fire;
  And 'tis wonderful, surely, what music you get
  From the rickety, ramshackle, wheezy spinet.

  That praying-rug came from a Turcoman's camp;
  By Tiber once twinkled that brazen old lamp;
  A mameluke fierce yonder dagger has drawn:
  'Tis a murderous knife to toast muffins upon.

  Long, long through the hours, and the night, and the chimes,
  Here we talk of old books, and old friends, and old times;
  As we sit in a fog made of rich Latakie
  This chamber is pleasant to you, friend, and me.

  But of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest,
  There's one that I love and I cherish the best:
  For the finest of couches that's padded with hair
  I never would change thee, my cane-bottom'd chair.

  'Tis a bandy-legg'd, high-shoulder'd, worm-eaten seat,
  With a creaking old back, and twisted old feet;
  But since the fair morning when Fanny sat there,
  I bless thee and love thee, old cane-bottom'd chair.

  If chairs have but feeling, in holding such charms,
  A thrill must have pass'd through your wither'd old arms!
  I look'd, and I long'd, and I wish'd in despair;
  I wish'd myself turn'd to a cane-bottom'd chair.

  It was but a moment she sat in this place,
  She'd a scarf on her neck, and a smile on her face!
  A smile on her face, and a rose in her hair,
  And she sat there, and bloom'd in my cane-bottom'd chair.

  And so I have valued my chair ever since,
  Like the shrine of a saint, or the throne of a prince;
  Saint Fanny, my patroness sweet I declare,
  The queen of my heart and my cane-bottom'd chair.

  When the candles burn low, and the company's gone,
  In the silence of night as I sit here alone—
  I sit here alone, but we yet are a pair—
  My Fanny I see in my cane-bottom'd chair.

  She comes from the past and revisits my room;
  She looks as she then did, all beauty and bloom;
  So smiling and tender, so fresh and so fair,
  And yonder she sits in my cane-bottom'd chair.

  LINES WRITTEN TO AN ALBUM PRINT.

  As on this pictured page I look,
  This pretty tale of line and hook
  As though it were a novel-book
      Amuses and engages:
  I know them both, the boy and girl;
  She is the daughter of the Earl,
  The lad (that has his hair in curl)
      My lord the County's page has.

  A pleasant place for such a pair!
  The fields lie basking in the glare;
  No breath of wind the heavy air
      Of lazy summer quickens.
  Hard by you see the castle tall;
  The village nestles round the wall,
  As round about the hen its small
      Young progeny of chickens.

  It is too hot to pace the keep;
  To climb the turret is too steep;
  My lord the earl is dozing deep,
      His noonday dinner over:
  The postern-warder is asleep
  (Perhaps they've bribed him not to peep):
  And so from out the gate they creep,
      And cross the fields of clover.

  Their lines into the brook they launch;
  He lays his cloak upon a branch,
  To guarantee his Lady Blanche
      's delicate complexion:
  He takes his rapier, from his haunch,
  That beardless doughty champion staunch;
  He'd drill it through the rival's paunch
      That question'd his affection!

  O heedless pair of sportsmen slack!
  You never mark, though trout or jack,
  Or little foolish stickleback,
      Your baited snares may capture.
  What care has SHE for line and hook?
  She turns her back upon the brook,
  Upon her lover's eyes to look
      In sentimental rapture.

  O loving pair! as thus I gaze
  Upon the girl who smiles always,
  The little hand that ever plays
      Upon the lover's shoulder;
  In looking at your pretty shapes,
  A sort of envious wish escapes
  (Such as the Fox had for the Grapes)
      The Poet your beholder.

  To be brave, handsome, twenty-two;
  With nothing else on earth to do,
  But all day long to bill and coo:
      It were a pleasant calling.
  And had I such a partner sweet;
  A tender heart for mine to beat,
  A gentle hand my clasp to meet;—
  I'd let the world flow at my feet,
      And never heed its brawling.

  The rose upon my balcony the morning air perfuming,
  Was leafless all the winter time and pining for the spring;
  You ask me why her breath is sweet, and why her cheek is blooming,
  It is because the sun is out and birds begin to sing.

  The nightingale, whose melody is through the greenwood ringing,
  Was silent when the boughs were bare and winds were blowing keen:
  And if, Mamma, you ask of me the reason of his singing,
  It is because the sun is out and all the leaves are green.

  Thus each performs his part, Mamma; the birds have found their voices,
  The blowing rose a flush, Mamma, her bonny cheek to dye;
  And there's sunshine in my heart, Mamma, which wakens and rejoices,
  And so I sing and blush, Mamma, and that's the reason why.

  "Quand vous serez bien vielle, le soir à la chandelle
  Assise auprès du feu devisant et filant,
  Direz, chantant mes vers en vous esmerveillant,
  Ronsard m'a célébré du temps que j'étois belle."

  Some winter night, shut snugly in
    Beside the fagot in the hall,
  I think I see you sit and spin,
    Surrounded by your maidens all.
  Old tales are told, old songs are sung,
    Old days come back to memory;
  You say, "When I was fair and young,
    A poet sang of me!"

  There's not a maiden in your hall,
    Though tired and sleepy ever so,
  But wakes, as you my name recall,
    And longs the history to know.
  And, as the piteous tale is said,
    Of lady cold and lover true,
  Each, musing, carries it to bed,
    And sighs and envies you!

  "Our lady's old and feeble now,"
    They'll say; "she once was fresh and fair,
  And yet she spurn'd her lover's vow,
    And heartless left him to despair:
  The lover lies in silent earth,
    No kindly mate the lady cheers;
  She sits beside a lonely hearth,
    With threescore and ten years!"

  Ah! dreary thoughts and dreams are those,
    But wherefore yield me to despair,
  While yet the poet's bosom glows,
    While yet the dame is peerless fair!
  Sweet lady mine! while yet 'tis time
    Requite my passion and my truth,
  And gather in their blushing prime
    The roses of your youth!

  Although I enter not,
  Yet round about the spot
      Ofttimes I hover:
  And near the sacred gate,
  With longing eyes I wait,
      Expectant of her.

  The Minster bell tolls out
  Above the city's rout,
      And noise and humming:
  They've hush'd the Minster bell:
  The organ 'gins to swell:
      She's coming, she's coming!

  My lady comes at last,
  Timid, and stepping fast,
      And hastening hither,
  With modest eyes downcast:
  She comes—she's here—she's past—
      May heaven go with her!

  Kneel, undisturb'd, fair Saint!
  Pour out your praise or plaint
      Meekly and duly;
  I will not enter there,
  To sully your pure prayer
      With thoughts unruly.

  But suffer me to pace
  Round the forbidden place,
      Lingering a minute
  Like outcast spirits who wait
  And see through heaven's gate
      Angels within it.

  Ho, pretty page, with the dimpled chin,
    That never has known the Barber's shear,
  All your wish is woman to win,
  This is the way that boys begin,—
    Wait till you come to Forty Year.

  Curly gold locks cover foolish brains,
    Billing and cooing is all your cheer;
  Sighing and singing of midnight strains,
  Under Bonnybell's window panes,—
    Wait till you come to Forty Year.

  Forty times over let Michaelmas pass,
    Grizzling hair the brain doth clear—
  Then you know a boy is an ass,
  Then you know the worth of a lass,
    Once you have come to Forty Year.

  Pledge me round, I bid ye declare,
    All good fellows whose beards are gray,
  Did not the fairest of the fair
  Common grow and wearisome ere
    Ever a month was passed away?

  The reddest lips that ever have kissed,
    The brightest eyes that ever have shone,
  May pray and whisper, and we not list,
  Or look away, and never be missed,
    Ere yet ever a month is gone.

  Gillian's dead, God rest her bier,
    How I loved her twenty years syne!
  Marian's married, but I sit here
  Alone and merry at Forty Year,
    Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine.

  WERTHER had a love for Charlotte
    Such as words could never utter;
  Would you know how first he met her?
    She was cutting bread and butter.

  Charlotte was a married lady,
    And a moral man was Werther,
  And, for all the wealth of Indies,
    Would do nothing for to hurt her.

  So he sighed and pined and ogled,
    And his passion boiled and bubbled,
  Till he blew his silly brains out,
    And no more was by it troubled.

  Charlotte, having seen his body
    Borne before her on a shutter,
  Like a well-conducted person,
    Went on cutting bread and butter.