The Book of Ballads, by Various

Or in the Adelphi sitting, half in rapture, half in tears,
Saw the glorious melodrama conjure up the shades of
         years!
Saw Jack Sheppard, noble stripling, act his wondrous feats
         again,
Snapping Newgate's bars of iron, like an infant's daisy
         chain.

Might was right, and all the terrors, which had held the
         world in awe,
Were despised, and prigging prospered, spite of Laurie,
         spite of law.
In such scenes as these I triumphed, ere my passion's
         edge was rusted,
And my cousin's cold refusal left me very much dis-
        gusted!

Since, my heart is sere and withered, and I do not care a
         curse,
Whether worse shall be the better, or the better be the
         worse.
Hark! my merry comrades call me, bawling for another
        jorum;
They would mock me in derision, should I thus appear
        before 'em.

Womankind no more shall vex me, such at least as go
arrayed.
In the most expensive satins and the newest silk brocade.
I'll to Afric, lion-haunted, where the giant forest yields
Rarer robes and finer tissue than are sold at Spital-
fields.

Or to burst all chains of habit, flinging habit's self
        aside,
I shall walk the tangled jungle in mankind's primeval
        pride;
Feeding on the luscious berries and the rich cassava root,
Lots of dates and lots of guavas, clusters of forbidden
         fruit.

Never comes the trader thither, never o'er the purple
         main
Sounds the oath of British commerce, or the accents of
        Cockaigne.
There, methinks, would be enjoyment, where no envious
        rule prevents;
Sink the steamboats! cuss the railways! rot, O rot the
         Three per Cents!

There the passions, cramped no longer, shall have space
         to breathe, my cousin!
I will wed some savage woman—nay, I'll wed at least a
        dozen.
There I'll rear my young mulattoes, as no Bond Street
        brats are reared:
They shall dive for alligators, catch the mid 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 rhino-
         ceroses.
Fool! again the dream, the fancy! But I know my words
         are mad,
For I hold the grey barbarian lower than the Christian
        cad.

I the swell—the city dandy! I to seek such horrid
        places,—
I to haunt with squalid negroes, blubber-lips, and monkey-
         faces!
I to wed with Coromantees! I, who managed—very
        near—
To secure theheart and fortune of the widow Shilli-
        beer!

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.

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"Wanted—By a bard, in wedlock, some young
        interesting woman:
Looks are not so much an object, if the shiners
         be forthcoming!
"Hymen's chains the advertiser vows shall be
         but silken fetters;
Please address to A. T., Chelsea. N.B.—You
         must pay the letters."
That's the sort of thing to do it. Now I'll go
         and taste the balmy,—
Rest thee with thy yellow nabob, spider-hearted
         Cousin Amy!

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MY WIFE'S COUSIN

Decked with shoes of blackest polish,
And with shirt as white as snow,
After matutinal breakfast
To my daily desk I go;

First a fond salute bestowing
On my Mary's ruby lips,
Which, perchance, may be rewarded
With a pair of playful nips.

All day long across the ledger
Still my patient pen I drive,
Thinking what a feast awaits me
In my happy home at five;

In my small one-storeyed Eden,
Where my wife awaits my coming,
And our solitary handmaid
Mutton-chops with care is crumbing.

When the clock proclaims my freedom,
Then my hat I seize and vanish;
Every trouble from my bosom,
Every anxious care I banish.

Swiftly brushing o'er the pavement,
At a furious pace I go,
Till I reach my darling dwelling
In the wilds of Pimlico.

"Mary, wife, where art thou, dearest?"
Thus I cry, while yet afar;
Ah! what scent invades my nostrils?—
'Tis the smoke of a cigar!

Instantly into the parlour
Like a maniac I haste,
And I find a young Life-Guardsman,
With his arm round Mary's waist.

And his other hand is playing
Most familiarly with hers;
And I think my Brussels carpet
Somewhat damaged by his spurs.

"Fire and furies! what the blazes?"
Thus in frenzied wrath I call;
When my spouse her arms upraises,
With a most astounding squall.

"Was there ever such a monster,
Ever such a wretched wife?
Ah! how long must I endure it,
How protract this hateful life?

All day long, quite unprotected,
Does he leave his wife at home;
And she cannot see her cousins,
Even when they kindly come!"

Then the young Life-Guardsman, rising,
Scarce vouchsafes a single word,
But, with look of deadly menace,
Claps his hand upon his sword;

And in fear I faintly falter—
"This your cousin, then he's mine!
Very glad, indeed, to see you,-
Won't you stop with us, and dine?"

Won't a ferret suck a rabbit?—
As a thing of course he stops;
And with most voracious swallow
Walks into my mutton-chops.

In the twinkling of a bed-post
Is each savoury platter clear,
And he shows uncommon science
In his estimate of beer.

Half-and-half goes down before him,
Gurgling from the pewter pot;
And he moves a counter motion
For a glass of something hot.

Neither chops nor beer I grudge him,
Nor a moderate share of goes;
But I know not why he's always
Treading upon Mary's toes.

Evermore, when, home returning,
From the counting-house I come,
Do I find the young Life-Guardsman
Smoking pipes and drinking rum.

Evermore he stays to dinner,
Evermore devours my meal;
For I have a wholesome horror
Both of powder and of steel.

Yet I know he's Mary's cousin,
For my only son and heir
Much resembles that young Guardsman,
"With the self-same curly hair;

But I wish he would not always
Spoil my carpet with his spurs;
And I'd rather see his fingers
In the fire, than touching hers.

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THE QUEEN IN FRANCE

An Ancient Scottish Ballad.

PART I.

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

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

"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 enench 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 your ee sae green?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PART II.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was the sang o' the Field o' Gowd,
In the days of anld 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 barnies are in Windsor Tower,
And greeting a' their lane.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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THE MASSACRE OF MACPHERSON

[From the Gaelic.]

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

II.

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

III.

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

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."

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

VI.

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

VII.

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

VIII.

Which he would have done,
I at least believe 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!

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THE YOUNG STOCKBROKER'S BRIDE

"O swiftly speed the gallant bark!—
I say, you mind my luggage, porter!
I do not heed yon storm-cloud dark,
I go to wed old Jenkin's daughter.
I go to claim my own Mariar,
The fairest flower that blooms in Harwich;
My panting bosom is on fire,
And all is ready for the marriage."

Thus spoke young Mivins, as he stepped
On hoard the "Firefly," Harwich packet;
The bell rang out, the paddles swept
Plish-plashing round with noisy racket.
The louring clouds young Mivins saw,
But fear, he felt, was only folly;
And so he smoked a fresh cigar,
Then fell to whistling "Nix my dolly!"

The wind it roared; the packet's hulk
Rocked with a most unpleasant motion;
Young Mivins leant him o'er a bulk,
And poured his sorrows to the ocean.
Tints—blue and yellow—signs of woe—
Flushed, rainbow like, his noble face in,
As suddenly he rushed below,
Crying, "Steward, steward, bring a basin!"

On sped the bark: the howling storm
The funnel's tapering smoke did blow far;
Unmoved, young Mivins' lifeless form
Was stretched upon a haircloth sofar.
All night he moaned, the steamer groaned,
And he was hourly getting fainter;
When it came bump against the pier,
And there was fastened by the painter.
Young Mivins rose, arranged his clothes,
Caught wildly at his small portmanteau;
He was unfit to lie or sit,
And found it difficult to stand, too.

He sought the deck, he sought the shore,
He sought the lady's house like winking,
And asked, low tapping at the door,
"Is this the house of Mr Jenkin?"
A short man came—he told his name—
Mivins was short—he cut him shorter,
For in a fury he exclaimed,
"Are you the man as vants my darter?
Yot kim'd on you, last night, young sqvire?"
"It was the steamer, rot and scuttle her!"
"Mayhap it vos, but our Mariar
Yalked off last night with Bill the butler."

"And so you've kim'd a post too late."
"It was the packet, sir, miscarried!"
"Vy, does you think a gal can vait
As sets 'er 'art on being married?
Last night she vowed she'd be a bride,
And 'ave a spouse for vuss or better:
So Bill struck in; the knot vos tied,
And now I vishes you may get her!"

Young Mivins turned him from the spot,
Bewildered with the dreadful stroke, her
Perfidy came like a shot—
He was a thunder-struck stockbroker.
"A curse on steam and steamers too!
By their delays I have been undone!"
He cried, as, looking very blue,
He rode a bachelor to London.

THE LAUREATES' TOURNEY

By the Hon. T- B——M'A-.

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

     Bays! which in former days have graced the brow
     Of some, who lived and loved, and sang and died;
     Leaves that were gathered on the pleasant side
     Of old Parnassus from Apollo's bough;
     With palpitating hand I take ye 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!]

FYTTE THE FIRST.

"What news, what news, thou pilgrim grey, what news
from southern land?
How fare the bold Conservatives, how is it with Ferrand?
How does the little Prince of Wales—how looks our lady
Queen?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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