The Book of Ballads, edited by Bon Gaultier [pseud.]

“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!”

“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.

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.

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.

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!”

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.

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!

“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.]

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!’”

’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!

“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?”

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!”

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.

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.

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!”

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.

“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.’

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!

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!

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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!”

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!

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.

“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!”

“Speak, Leila, speak; for my light caïque
  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.

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.

“Why comes he not?  Say, wherefore doth he tarry?”
  Starts the inquiry loud from every tongue.
“Surely,” they cry, “that tedious Ordinary
  His tedious psalms must long ere this have sung,—
  Tedious to him that’s waiting to be hung!”
But hark! old Newgate’s doors fly wide apart.
“He comes, he comes!”  A thrill shoots through each gazer’s heart.

Joined in the stunning cry ten thousand voices,
  All Smithfield answered to the loud acclaim.
“He comes, he comes!” and every breast rejoices,
  As down Snow Hill the shout tumultuous came,
  Bearing to Holborn’s crowd the welcome fame.
“He comes, he comes!” and each holds back his breath—
Some ribs are broke, and some few scores are crushed to death.

His was the transport—his the exultation
  Of Rome’s great generals, when from afar,
Up to the Capitol, in the ovation,
  They bore with them, in the triumphal car,
  Rich gold and gems, the spoils of foreign war.
Io Triumphe!  They forgot their clay.
E’en so Duval, who rode in glory on his way.

His laced cravat, his kids of purest yellow,
  The many-tinted nosegay in his hand,
His large black eyes, so fiery, yet so mellow,
  Like the old vintages of Spanish land,
  Locks clustering o’er a brow of high command,
Subdue all hearts; and, as up Holborn’s steep
Toils the slow car of death, e’en cruel butchers weep.

He quailed not, save when, as he raised the chalice,—
  St Giles’s bowl,—filled with the mildest ale,
To pledge the crowd, on her—his beauteous Alice—
  His eye alighted, and his cheek grew pale.
  She, whose sweet breath was like the spicy gale,
She, whom he fondly deemed his own dear girl,
Stood with a tall dragoon, drinking long draughts of purl.

He bit his lip—it quivered but a moment—
  Then passed his hand across his flushing brows:
He could have spared so forcible a comment
  Upon the constancy of woman’s vows.
  One short sharp pang his hero-soul allows;
But in the bowl he drowned the stinging pain,
And on his pilgrim course went calmly forth again.

And now, his bright career of triumph ended,
  His chariot stood beneath the triple tree.
The law’s grim finisher to its boughs ascended,
  And fixed the hempen bandages, while he
  Bowed to the throng, then bade the cart go free.
The car rolled on, and left him dangling there,
Like famed Mohammed’s tomb, uphung midway in air.

As droops the cup of the surchargèd lily
  Beneath the buffets of the surly storm,
Or the soft petals of the daffodilly,
  When Sirius is uncomfortably warm,
  So drooped his head upon his manly form,
While floated in the breeze his tresses brown.
He hung the stated time, and then they cut him down.

Oh, wake thee, my dearest! the muftis are still,
And the tschocadars sleep on the Franguestan hill;
No sullen aleikoum—no derveesh is here,
And the mosques are all watching by lonely Kashmere!
Oh, come in the gush of thy beauty so full,
I have waited for thee, my adored attar-gul!

I see thee—I hear thee—thy antelope foot
Treads lightly and soft on the velvet cheroot;
The jewelled amaun of thy zemzem is bare,
And the folds of thy palampore wave in the air.
Come, rest on the bosom that loves thee so well,
My dove! my phingari! my gentle gazelle!

When folks, with headstrong passion blind,
To play the fool make up their mind,
They’re sure to come with phrases nice
And modest air, for your advice.
But as a truth unfailing make it,
They ask, but never mean to take it.
’Tis not advice they want, in fact,
But confirmation in their act.
Now mark what did, in such a case,
A worthy priest who knew the race.

  “Too true,” she cried, “there’s not a doubt:
What could my ears have been about?”
She had forgot, that, as fools think,
The bell is ever sure to clink.

I’m weary, and sick, and disgusted
  With Britain’s mechanical din;
Where I’m much too well known to be trusted,
  And plaguily pestered for tin;
Where love has two eyes for your banker,
  And one chilly glance for yourself;
Where souls can afford to be franker,
  But when they’re well garnished with pelf.

I’m sick of the whole race of poets,
  Emasculate, misty, and fine;
They brew their small-beer, and don’t know its
  Distinction from full-bodied wine.
I’m sick of the prosers, that house up
  At drowsy St Stephen’s,—ain’t you?
I want some strong spirits to rouse up
  A good revolution or two!

There the passions shall revel unfettered,
  And the heart never speak but in truth,
And the intellect, wholly unlettered,
  Be bright with the freedom of youth!
There the earth can rejoice in her blossoms,
  Unsullied by vapour or soot,
And there chimpanzees and opossums
  Shall playfully pelt me with fruit.

There my couch shall be earth’s freshest flowers,
  My curtains the night and the stars,
And my spirit shall gather new powers,
  Uncramped by conventional bars.
Love for love, truth for truth ever giving,
  My days shall be manfully sped;
I shall know that I’m loved while I’m living,
  And be wept by fond eyes when I’m dead!

[Why has Satan’s own Laureate never given to the world his marvellous threnody on the “Death of Space”?  Who knows where the bays might have fallen, had he forwarded that mystic manuscript to the Home Office?  If unwonted modesty withholds it from the public eye, the public will pardon the boldness that tears from blushing obscurity the following fragments of this unique poem.]

Eternity shall raise her funeral-pile
  In the vast dungeon of the extinguished sky,
And, clothed in dim barbaric splendour, smile,
  And murmur shouts of elegiac joy.

While those that dwell beyond the realms of space,
  And those that people all that dreary void,
When old Time’s endless heir hath run his race,
  Shall live for aye, enjoying and enjoyed.

And ’mid the agony of unsullied bliss,
  Her Demogorgon’s doom shall Sin bewail,
The undying serpent at the spheres shall hiss,
  And lash the empyrean with his tail.

And when the King of Terrors breathes his last,
  Infinity shall creep into her shell,
Cause and effect shall from their thrones be cast,
  And end their strife with suicidal yell:

While from their ashes, burnt with pomp of kings,
  ’Mid incense floating to the evanished skies,
Nonenity, on circumambient wings,
  An everlasting Phœnix shall arise.

Lightsome, brightsome, cousin mine,
  Easy, breezy Caroline!
With thy locks all raven-shaded,
From thy merry brow up-braided,
And thine eyes of laughter full,
  Brightsome cousin mine!
Thou in chains of love hast bound me—
Wherefore dost thou flit around me,
  Laughter-loving Caroline?

When a sudden sound I hear,
Much my nervous system suffers,
  Shaking through and through.
Cousin Caroline, I fear,
  ’Twas no other, now, but you,
Put gunpowder in the snuffers,
  Springing such a mine!
Yes, it was your tricksy self,
Wicked-trickèd little elf,
  Naughty Caroline!

Would she only say she’d love me,
  Winsome, tinsome Caroline,
Unto such excess ’twould move me,
  Teazing, pleasing, cousin mine!
That she might the live-long day
Undermine the snuffer-tray,
Tickle still my hookèd nose,
Startle me from calm repose
  With her pretty persecution;
Throw the tongs against my shins,
Run me through and through with pins,
  Like a piercèd cushion;
Would she only say she’d love me,
Darning-needles should not move me;
But, reclining back, I’d say,
“Dearest! there’s the snuffer-tray;
Pinch, O pinch those legs of mine!
Cork me, cousin Caroline!”

found in my emporium of love-tokens.

Sweet flower, that with thy soft blue eye
  Didst once look up in shady spot,
To whisper to the passer-by
  Those tender words—Forget-me-not!

Though withered now, thou art to me
  The minister of gentle thought,—
And I could weep to gaze on thee,
  Love’s faded pledge—Forget-me-not!

Thou speak’st of hours when I was young,
  And happiness arose unsought;
When she, the whispering woods among,
  Gave me thy bloom—Forget-me-not!

Alas for love! alas for truth!
  Alas for man’s uncertain lot!
Alas for all the hopes of youth
  That fade like thee—Forget-me-not!

Alas for that one image fair,
  With all my brightest dreams inwrought!
That walks beside me everywhere,
  Still whispering—Forget-me-not!

Oh, Memory! thou art but a sigh
  For friendships dead and loves forgot,
And many a cold and altered eye
  That once did say—Forget-me-not!

And I must bow me to thy laws,
  For—odd although it may be thought—
I can’t tell who the deuce it was
  That gave me this Forget-me-not!

Once I lay beside a fountain,
  Lulled me with its gentle song,
And my thoughts o’er dale and mountain
  With the clouds were borne along.

There I saw old castles flinging
  Shadowy gleams on moveless seas,
Saw gigantic forests swinging
  To and fro without a breeze;

And in dusky alleys straying,
  Many a giant shape of power,
Troops of nymphs in sunshine playing,
  Singing, dancing, hour on hour.

I, too, trod these plains Elysian,
  Heard their ringing tones of mirth,
But a brighter, fairer vision
  Called me back again to earth.

Straight I rose, and ran to meet her,
  Seized her hand—the heavenly blue
Of her eyes smiled brighter, sweeter,
  As she asked me—“Who are you?”

To that question came another—
  What its aim I still must doubt—
And she asked me, “How’s your mother?
  Does she know that you are out?”

“No! my mother does not know it,
  Beauteous, heaven-descended muse!”
“Then be off, my handsome poet,
  And say I sent you with the news!”

“Then tell me why those tear-drops?
  What means this woeful mood
Say, has the tax-collector
  Been calling, and been rude?

“Or has that hateful grocer,
  The slave! been here to-day?
Of course he had, by morrow’s noon,
  A heavy bill to pay!

“Come, on thy brother’s bosom
  Unburden all thy woes;
Look up, look up, sweet sister;
  Nay, sob not through thy nose.”

“Oh, John, ’tis not the grocer
  Or his account, although
How ever he is to be paid
  I really do not know.

“Nor that Augustus Howard,
  Whom I despise almost,—
But the soot’s come down the chimney, John,
  And fairly spoilt the roast!”

“Wherefore starts my bosom’s lord?
  Why this anguish in thine eye?
Oh, it seems as thy heart’s chord
  Had broken with that sigh!

“Rest thee, my dear lord, I pray,
  Rest thee on my bosom now!
And let me wipe the dews away,
  Are gathering on thy brow.

“There, again! that fevered start!
  What, love! husband! is thy pain?
There is a sorrow on thy heart,
  A weight upon thy brain!

“Nay, nay, that sickly smile can ne’er
  Deceive affection’s searching eye;
’Tis a wife’s duty, love, to share
  Her husband’s agony.

“Oh, what joy it was to see
  My gentle lord once more awake!
Tell me, what is amiss with thee?
  Speak, or my heart will break!”

“Mary, thou angel of my life,
  Thou ever good and kind;
’Tis not, believe me, my dear wife,
  The anguish of the mind!

“It is not in my bosom, dear,
  No, nor my brain, in sooth;
But Mary, oh, I feel it here,
  Here in my wisdom tooth!

“Then give,—oh, first best antidote,—
  Sweet partner of my bed!
Give me thy flannel petticoat
  To wrap around my head!”

“Brother, thou art very weary,
  And thine eye is sunk and dim,
And thy neckcloth’s tie is crumpled,
  And thy collar out of trim;
There is dust upon thy visage,—
  Think not, Charles, I would hurt ye,
When I say, that altogether
  You appear extremely dirty.

“Frown not, brother, now, but hie thee
  To thy chamber’s distant room;
Drown the odours of the ledger
  With the lavender’s perfume.
Brush the mud from off thy trousers,
  O’er the china basin kneel,
Lave thy brows in water softened
  With the soap of Old Castile.

“Haste thee, for I ordered dinner,
  Waiting to the very last,
Twenty minutes after seven,
  And ’tis now the quarter past.
’Tis a dinner which Lucullus
  Would have wept with joy to see,
One, might wake the soul of Curtis
  From death’s drowsy atrophy.

“There a stag, whose branching forehead
  Spoke him monarch of the herds,
He whose flight was o’er the heather
  Swift as through the air the bird’s,
Yields for thee a dish of cutlets;
  And the haunch that wont to dash
O’er the roaring mountain-torrent,
  Smokes in most delicious hash.

“There, besides, are amber jellies
  Floating like a golden dream;
Ginger from the far Bermudas,
  Dishes of Italian cream;
And a princely apple-dumpling,
  Which my own fair fingers wrought,
Shall unfold its nectared treasures
  To thy lips all smoking hot.