Rhyme? and reason?

“And how wad I ken ye loved me, Sir,
That have been sae lang away?
And how wad I ken ye loved me, Sir?
Ye never telled me sae.”

Said—“Ladye dear,” and the salt, salt tear
Cam’ rinnin’ doon his cheek,
“I have sent thee tokens of my love
This many and many a week.

“O didna ye get the rings, Ladye,
The rings o’ the gowd sae fine?
I wot that I have sent to thee
Four score, four score and nine.”

“They cam’ to me,” said that fair ladye.
“Wow, they were flimsie things!”
Said—“that chain o’ gowd, my doggie to howd,
It is made o’ thae self-same rings.”

“And didna ye get the locks, the locks,
The locks o’ my ain black hair,
Whilk I sent by post, whilk I sent by box,
Whilk I sent by the carrier?”

“They cam’ to me,” said that fair ladye;
“And I prithee send nae mair!”
Said—“that cushion sae red, for my doggie’s head,
It is stuffed wi’ thae locks o’ hair.”

“And didna ye get the letter, Ladye,
Tied wi’ a silken string,
Whilk I sent to thee frae the far countrie,
A message of love to bring?”

“It cam’ to me frae the far countrie
Wi’ its silken string and a’;
But it wasna prepaid,” said that high-born maid,
“Sae I gar’d them tak’ it awa’.”

“O ever alack that ye sent it back,
It was written sae clerkly and well!
Now the message it brought, and the boon that it sought,
I must even say it mysel’.”

Then up and spake the popinjay,
Sae wisely counselled he.
“Now say it in the proper way:
Gae doon upon thy knee!”

The lover he turned baith red and pale,
Went doon upon his knee:
“O Ladye, hear the waesome tale
That must be told to thee!

“For five lang years, and five lang years,
I coorted thee by looks;
By nods and winks, by smiles and tears,
As I had read in books.

“For ten lang years, O weary hours!
I coorted thee by signs;
By sending game, by sending flowers,
By sending Valentines.

“For five lang years, and five lang years,
I have dwelt in the far countrie,
Till that thy mind should be inclined
Mair tenderly to me.

“Now thirty years are gane and past,
I am come frae a foreign land:
I am come to tell thee my love at last—
O Ladye, gie me thy hand!”

The ladye she turned not pale nor red,
But she smiled a pitiful smile:
“Sic’ a coortin’ as yours, my man,” she said
“Takes a lang and a weary while!”

And out and laughed the popinjay,
A laugh of bitter scorn:
“A coortin’ done in sic’ a way,
It ought not to be borne!”

“AND OUT AND LAUGHED THE POPINJAY”

Wi’ that the doggie barked aloud,
And up and doon he ran,
And tugged and strained his chain o’ gowd,
All for to bite the man.

“O hush thee, gentle popinjay!
O hush thee, doggie dear!
There is a word I fain wad say,
It needeth he should hear!”

Aye louder screamed that ladye fair
To drown her doggie’s bark:
Ever the lover shouted mair
To make that ladye hark:

Shrill and more shrill the popinjay
Upraised his angry squall:
I trow the doggie’s voice that day
Was louder than them all!

The serving-men and serving-maids
Sat by the kitchen fire:
They heard sic’ a din the parlour within
As made them much admire.

“O HUSH THEE, GENTLE POPINJAY!”

Out spake the boy in buttons
(I ween he wasna thin),
“Now wha will tae the parlour gae,
And stay this deadlie din?”

And they have taen a kerchief,
Casted their kevils in,
For wha should tae the parlour gae,
And stay that deadlie din.

When on that boy the kevil fell
To stay the fearsome noise,
“Gae in,” they cried, “whate’er betide,
Thou prince of button-boys!”

Syne, he has taen a supple cane
To swinge that dog sae fat:
The doggie yowled, the doggie howled
The louder aye for that.

Syne, he has taen a mutton-bane—
The doggie ceased his noise,
And followed doon the kitchen stair
That prince of button-boys!

“THE DOGGIE CEASED HIS NOISE”

Then sadly spake that ladye fair,
Wi’ a frown upon her brow:
“O dearer to me is my sma’ doggie
Than a dozen sic’ as thou!

“Nae use, nae use for sighs and tears:
Nae use at all to fret:
Sin’ ye’ve bided sae well for thirty years,
Ye may bide a wee langer yet!”

Sadly, sadly he crossed the floor
And tirlëd at the pin:
Sadly went he through the door
Where sadly he cam’ in.

“O gin I had a popinjay
To fly abune my head,
To tell me what I ought to say,
I had by this been wed.

“O gin I find anither ladye,”
He said wi’ sighs and tears,
“I wot my coortin’ sall not be
Anither thirty years:

“For gin I find a ladye gay,
Exactly to my taste,
I’ll pop the question, aye or nay,
In twenty years at maist.”

FOUR RIDDLES.

[These consist of two Double Acrostics and two Charades.

No. I. was written at the request of some young friends, who had gone to a ball at an Oxford Commemoration—and also as a specimen of what might be done by making the Double Acrostic a connected poem instead of what it has hitherto been, a string of disjointed stanzas, on every conceivable subject, and about as interesting to read straight through as a page of a Cyclopædia. The first two stanzas describe the two main words, and each subsequent stanza one of the cross “lights.”

No. II. was written after seeing Miss Ellen Terry perform in the play of “Hamlet.” In this case the first stanza describes the two main words.

No. III. was written after seeing Miss Marion Terry perform in Mr. Gilbert’s play of “Pygmalion and Galatea.” The three stanzas respectively describe “My First,” “My Second,” and “My Whole.”]

I.

There was an ancient City, stricken down
With a strange frenzy, and for many a day
They paced from morn to eve the crowded town,
And danced the night away.

I asked the cause: the aged man grew sad:
They pointed to a building gray and tall,
And hoarsely answered “Step inside, my lad,
And then you’ll see it all.”

Yet what are all such gaieties to me
Whose thoughts are full of indices and surds?
x² + 7x + 53
= ¹¹⁄3.

But something whispered “It will soon be done:
Bands cannot always play, nor ladies smile:
Endure with patience the distasteful fun
For just a little while!”

A change came o’er my Vision—it was night:
We clove a pathway through a frantic throng:
The steeds, wild-plunging, filled us with affright:
The chariots whirled along.

Within a marble hall a river ran—
A living tide, half muslin and half cloth:
And here one mourned a broken wreath or fan,
Yet swallowed down her wrath;

And here one offered to a thirsty fair
(His words half-drowned amid those thunders tuneful)
Some frozen viand (there were many there),
A tooth-ache in each spoonful.

There comes a happy pause, for human strength
Will not endure to dance without cessation;
And every one must reach the point at length
Of absolute prostration.

At such a moment ladies learn to give,
To partners who would urge them over-much,
A flat and yet decided negative—
Photographers love such.

There comes a welcome summons—hope revives,
And fading eyes grow bright, and pulses quicken:
Incessant pop the corks, and busy knives
Dispense the tongue and chicken.

Flushed with new life, the crowd flows back again:
And all is tangled talk and mazy motion—
Much like a waving field of golden grain,
Or a tempestuous ocean.

And thus they give the time, that Nature meant
For peaceful sleep and meditative snores,
To ceaseless din and mindless merriment
And waste of shoes and floors.

And One (we name him not) that flies the flowers,
That dreads the dances, and that shuns the salads,
They doom to pass in solitude the hours,
Writing acrostic-ballads.

How late it grows! The hour is surely past
That should have warned us with its double-knock?
The twilight wanes, and morning comes at last—
“Oh, Uncle, what’s o’clock?”

The Uncle gravely nods, and wisely winks.
It may mean much, but how is one to know?
He opes his mouth—yet out of it, methinks,
No words of wisdom flow.

II.

Empress of Art, for thee I twine
This wreath with all too slender skill.
Forgive my Muse each halting line,
And for the deed accept the will!

O day of tears! Whence comes this spectre grim,
Parting, like Death’s cold river, souls that love?
Is not he bound to thee, as thou to him,
By vows, unwhispered here, yet heard above?

And still it lives, that keen and heavenward flame,
Lives in his eye, and trembles in his tone:
And these wild words of fury but proclaim
A heart that beats for thee, for thee alone!

But all is lost: that mighty mind o’erthrown,
Like sweet bells jangled, piteous sight to see!
“Doubt that the stars are fire,” so runs his moan,
“Doubt Truth herself, but not my love for thee!”

A sadder vision yet: thine aged sire
Shaming his hoary locks with treacherous wile!
And dost thou now doubt Truth to be a liar?
And wilt thou die, that hast forgot to smile?

Nay, get thee hence! Leave all thy winsome ways
And the faint fragrance of thy scattered flowers:
In holy silence wait the appointed days,
And weep away the leaden-footed hours.

III.

The air is bright with hues of light
And rich with laughter and with singing:
Young hearts beat high in ecstasy,
And banners wave, and bells are ringing:
But silence falls with fading day,
And there’s an end to mirth and play.
Ah, well-a-day!

Rest your old bones, ye wrinkled crones!
The kettle sings, the firelight dances.
Deep be it quaffed, the magic draught
That fills the soul with golden fancies!
For Youth and Pleasance will not stay,
And ye are withered, worn, and gray.
Ah, well-a-day!

O fair cold face! O form of grace,
For human passion madly yearning!
O weary air of dumb despair,
From marble won, to marble turning!
“Leave us not thus!” we fondly pray.
“We cannot let thee pass away!”
Ah, well-a-day!

IV.

My First is singular at best:
More plural is my Second:
My Third is far the pluralest—
So plural-plural, I protest
It scarcely can be reckoned!

My First is followed by a bird:
My Second by believers
In magic art: my simple Third
Follows, too often, hopes absurd
And plausible deceivers.

My First to get at wisdom tries—
A failure melancholy!
My Second men revered as wise:
My Third from heights of wisdom flies
To depths of frantic folly.

My First is ageing day by day:
My Second’s age is ended:
My Third enjoys an age, they say,
That never seems to fade away,
Through centuries extended.

My Whole? I need a poet’s pen
To paint her myriad phases:
The monarch, and the slave, of men—
A mountain-summit, and a den
Of dark and deadly mazes—

A flashing light—a fleeting shade—
Beginning, end, and middle
Of all that human art hath made
Or wit devised! Go, seek her aid,
If you would read my riddle!

FAME’S PENNY-TRUMPET.

[Affectionately dedicated to all “original researchers” who pant for “endowment.”]

Blow, blow your trumpets till they crack,
Ye little men of little souls!
And bid them huddle at your back—
Gold-sucking leeches, shoals on shoals!

Fill all the air with hungry wails—
“Reward us, ere we think or write!
Without your Gold mere Knowledge fails
To sate the swinish appetite!”

And, where great Plato paced serene,
Or Newton paused with wistful eye,
Rush to the chace with hoofs unclean
And Babel-clamour of the sty!

Be yours the pay: be theirs the praise:
We will not rob them of their due,
Nor vex the ghosts of other days
By naming them along with you.

They sought and found undying fame:
They toiled not for reward nor thanks:
Their cheeks are hot with honest shame
For you, the modern mountebanks!

Who preach of Justice—plead with tears
That Love and Mercy should abound—
While marking with complacent ears
The moaning of some tortured hound:

Who prate of Wisdom—nay, forbear,
Lest Wisdom turn on you in wrath,
Trampling, with heel that will not spare,
The vermin that beset her path!

Go, throng each other’s drawing-rooms,
Ye idols of a petty clique:
Strut your brief hour in borrowed plumes,
And make your penny-trumpets squeak:

“GO, THRONG EACH OTHER’S DRAWING-ROOMS”

Deck your dull talk with pilfered shreds
Of learning from a nobler time,
And oil each other’s little heads
With mutual Flattery’s golden slime:

And when the topmost height ye gain,
And stand in Glory’s ether clear,
And grasp the prize of all your pain—
So many hundred pounds a year—

Then let Fame’s banner be unfurled!
Sing Pæans for a victory won!
Ye tapers, that would light the world,
And cast a shadow on the Sun—

Who still shall pour His rays sublime,
One crystal flood, from East to West,
When ye have burned your little time
And feebly flickered into rest!

THE END.

[TURN OVER.

WORKS BY LEWIS CARROLL.

ALICE’S ADVENTURES IN WONDERLAND. With Forty-two Illustrations by Tenniel. Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt edges, price 6s. Seventy-first Thousand.

TRANSLATIONS OF THE SAME—into French, by Henri Bué—into German, by Antonie Zimmermann—and into Italian, by T. Pietrocòla Rossetti—with Tenniel’s Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt edges, price 6s. each.

THROUGH THE LOOKING-GLASS, AND WHAT ALICE FOUND THERE. With Fifty Illustrations by Tenniel. Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt edges, price 6s. Fifty-second Thousand.

RHYME? AND REASON? With Sixty-five Illustrations by Arthur B. Frost, and Nine by Henry Holiday. (This book is a reprint, with a few additions, of the comic portion of “Phantasmagoria and other Poems,” and of “The Hunting of the Snark.” Mr. Frost’s pictures are new.) Crown 8vo, cloth, coloured edges, price 7s.

N.B. In selling the above-mentioned books to the Trade, Messrs. Macmillan and Co. will abate 2d. in the shilling (no odd copies), and allow 5 per cent. discount for payment within six months, and 10 per cent. for cash. In selling them to the Public (for cash only) they will allow 10 per cent. discount.

Mr. Lewis Carroll, having been requested to allow “An Easter Greeting” (a leaflet, addressed to children, and frequently given with his books) to be sold separately, has arranged with Messrs. HARRISON, of 59, Pall Mall, who will supply a single copy for 1d., or 12 for 9d., or 100 for 5s.

MACMILLAN & CO., LONDON.

LONDON: R. CLAY, SONS, AND TAYLOR, PRINTERS.

Footnote:

[1] This office was usually undertaken by the Boots, who found in it a refuge from the Baker’s constant complaints about the insufficient blacking of his three pair of boots.

About This Book

FOUR RIDDLES.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

FAME’S PENNY-TRUMPET.

WORKS BY LEWIS CARROLL.