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.

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.

“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!

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.

“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!”

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.

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.

“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?”

“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.”

“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.

“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!”

“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.

“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!

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!”

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.”

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?”

“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.”

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.

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.

“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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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?”

‘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 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.

‘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 raggèd 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!

‘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.

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.

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!’

‘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!’

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!”

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!

“’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!”

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.

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 tête-à-tête with a friend.

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 kissèd me,
          Laughingly, laughingly.

          ’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!

by sir e--- b--- l---.

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.

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.

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 poem.

  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!

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!”

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.

“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 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!

“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!”

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!

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!

“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.

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.”

“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.

“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!

“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?

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 I straightway did espy, with my slantly-sloping eye,
  A carvèd 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.

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!

“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!

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!

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.

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!”

“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.

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.