The Book of Ballads, by Various

"For, by the blessed rood, there's a glimpse of armour
           good
In the deep Cowcaddens wood, o'er the stream;
And I hear the stifled hum of a multitude that come,
      Though they have not beat the drum,
                               It would seem!

"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!

"Ho, herald mine, Brownlee! ride forth, I pray, and see,
Who, what, and whence is he, foe or friend!
Sir Roderick Dalgleish, and my foster-brother Neish,
With his bloodhounds in the leash,
Shall attend."

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!

"Ho, bowmen, bend your bows! Discharge upon the
           foes
     Forthwith no end of those heavy bolts.
Three angels to the brave who finds the foe a grave,
     And a gallows for the slave
                              Who revolts!"

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.

To the ramparts Edith came, that fair and youthful dame,
      With the rosy evening flame on her face.
She sighed, and looked around on the soldiers on the ground,
      Who but little penance found,
                                 Saying grace!

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!"

"I would soil my father's name, I would lose my treasured
            fame,
     Ladye mine, should such a shame on me light:
While I wear a belted brand, together still we stand,
     Heart to heart, hand in hand!"
                               Said the knight.

"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.

"If I know the Gorbaliers, they are sure to dip their ears
      In the very inmost tiers of the drink.
Let them win the outer court, and hold it for their sport,
     Since their time is rather short,
                                 I should think!"

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 re-
           strain,
     And indeed was rather fain
                                  To assist.

With a beaker in his hand, in the midst he took his stand,
     And silence did command, all below—
"Ho! Launcelot the bold, ere thy lips are icy cold,
     In the centre of thy hold,
                             Pledge me now!

"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!"

Dumb as death stood Launcelot, as though he heard him
           not,
     But his bosom Provan smote, and he swore:
And Sir Roderick Dalgleish remarked aside to Neish,
     "Never sure did thirsty fish
                          Swallow more!

"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.

Why and wherefore they had come, seemed intricate to
           some,
     But all agreed the rum was divine.
And they looked with bitter scorn on their leader highly
           born,
     Who preferred to fill his horn
                              Up with wine!

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.

With his bloodhounds in the leash, stood the iron-sinewed
           Neish,
      And the falchion of Dalgleish glittered bright—
"Now, wake the trumpet's blast; and, comrades, follow
           fast;
     Smite them down unto the last!"
                               Cried the knight.

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.

"George of Gorbals—craven lord! thou didst threat me
           with the cord;
     Come forth and brave my sword, if you dare!"
But he met with no reply, and never could descry
     The glitter of his eye
                           Anywhere.

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 ply ye to your tasks—go carry 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!"

So they plied them to their tasks, and they carried down
            the casks,
      And replaced the empty flasks on the floor;
But pallid for a week was the cellar-master's cheek,.
     For he swore he heard a shriek
                              Through the door.

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.

"Bring a hatchet, varlets, here!" and they cleft the cask
            of beer:
      What a spectacle of fear met their sight!
There George of Gorbals lay, skull and bones all blanched
            and grey,
     In the arms he bore the day
                                   Of the fight!

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!

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THE LAY OF THE LOVER'S FRIEND

[Air—"The days we went a-gypsying."]

   I would all womankind were dead,
   Or banished o'er the sea;
   For they have been a bitter plague
   These last six weeks to me:
   It is not that I'm touched myself,
   For that I do not fear;
   No female face has shown me grace
                 For many a bygone year.
   But 'tis the most infernal bore,
   Of all the bores I know,
        To have a friend who's lost his heart
                       A short time ago.

Whene'er we steam it to Black wall,
        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.

In vain you pour into his ear
              Your own confiding grief;
In vain you claim his sympathy,
         In vain you ask relief;
In vain you try to rouse him by
         Joke, repartee, or quiz;
His sole reply's a burning sigh,
And "What a mind it is!"
O Lord! it is the greatest 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.

I really wish he'd do like me,
     When I was young and strong;
I formed a passion every week,
But never kept it long.
But he has not the sportive mood
That always rescued me,
And so I would all women could
Be banished o'er the sea.
         For 'tis the most egregious bore,
Of all the bores I know,
         To have a friend who's lost his heart
             A short time ago.

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FRANCESCA DA RIMINI

TO BON GAULTIER.

[Argument.—An impassioned pupil of Leigh Hunt, having met Bon Gaultier at a Fancy Ball, declares the destructive consequences thus.]

Didst thou not praise me, Gaultier, at the hall,
Ripe lips, trim boddice, and a waist so small,
With clipsome lightness, dwindling ever less,
Beneath the robe of pea-y greeniness?

Dost thou remember, when, with stately prance,
Our heads went crosswise in the country-dance;
How soft, warm fingers, tipped like "buds of balm,
Trembled within the squeezing of thy palm;
And how a cheek grew flushed and peachy-wise
At the frank lifting of thy cordial eyes?

Ah, me! that night there was one gentle thing,
Who, like a dove, with its scarce feathered wing,
Fluttered at the approach of thy quaint swaggering!

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!"

Like one that swoons, 'twixt sweet amaze and fear,
I heard the music burning in my ear,
And felt I cared not, so thou wert with me,
If Gurth or Wamba were our vis-à-vis.

So, when a tall Knight Templar ringing came,
And took his place amongst us with his dame,
I neither turned away, nor bashful shrunk
From the stern survey of the soldier-monk,
Though, rather more than three full quarters drunk;
But, threading through the figure, first in rule,
I paused to see thee plunge into La Poule.

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!

But when the dance was o'er, and arm in arm
(The full heart beating 'gainst the elbow warm)
We passed into the great refreshment-hall,
Where the heaped cheese-cakes and the comfits small
Lay, like a hive of sunbeams, brought to burn
Around the margin of the negus urn;
When my poor quivering hand you fingered twice,
And, with inquiring accents, whispered "Ice,
Water, or cream?" I could no more dissemble,
But dropped upon the couch all in a tremble.
A swimming faintness misted o'er my brain,
The corks seemed starting from the brisk champagne,
The custards fell untouched upon the floor,
Thine eyes met mine. That night we danced no more!

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THE CADI'S DAUGHTER, A LEGEND OF THE BOSPHORUS.

How beauteous is the star of night
Within the eastern skies,
Like the twinkling glance of the Toorkman's lance,
Or the antelope's azure eyes!

A lamp of love in the heaven above,
That star is fondly streaming;
And the gay kiosk and the shadowy mosque
In the Golden Horn are gleaming.

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.

"My Selim!" thus the maiden said,
"Though severed thus we be,
By the raging deep and the mountain steep,
My soul still yearns to thee.

Thy form so dear is mirrored here
In my heart's pellucid well,
As the rose looks up to Phingari's orb,
Or the moth to the gay gazelle.

"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!"

A light step trod on the dewy sod,
And a voice was in her ear,
And an arm embraced young Leila's waist—
"Beloved! I am here!"

Like the phantom form that rules the storm,
Appeared the pirate lover,
And his fiery eye was like Zatanai,
As he fondly bent above her.

"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.

"There! there! thou cursed caitiff Giaour!
There, there, thou false one, lie!"
Remorseless Hassan stands above,
And he smiles to see them die.

They sleep beneath the fresh green turf.
The lover and the lady—
And the maidens wail to hear the tale
Of the daughter of the Cadi!

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THE DIRGE OF THE DRINKER

Brothers, spare awhile your liquor, lay your final tumbler
          down;
He has dropped—that star of honour—on the field of his
         renown!
Raise the wail, but raise it softly, lowly bending on your
         knees,
If you find it more convenient, you may hiccup if you
         please.

Sons of Pantagruel, gently let your hip-hurrahing sink,
Be your manly accents clouded, half with sorrow, half
with drink!
Lightly to the sofa pillow lift his head from off the floor;
See, how calm he sleeps, unconscious as the deadest nail
in door!

Widely o'er the earth I've wandered; where the drink
         most freely flowed,
I have ever reeled the foremost, foremost to the beaker
         strode.
Deep in shady Cider Cellars I have dreamed o'er heavy wet,
By the fountains of Damascus I have quaffed the rich
        sherbet,

Regal Montepulciano drained beneath its native rock,
On Johannis' sunny mountain frequent hiccuped o'er my
        hock;
I have bathed in butts of Xeres deeper than did e'er
        Monsoon,
Sangaree'd with bearded Tartars in the Mountains of the
         Moon;

In beer-swilling Copenhagen I have drunk your Danesman
         blind,
I have kept my feet in Jena, when each bursch to earth
         declined;
Glass for glass, in fierce Jamaica, I have shared the plant-
         er's rum,
Drunk with Highland dhuiné-wassails, till each gibbering
         Gael grew dumb;

But a stouter, bolder drinker—one that loved his liquor
         more—
Never yet did I encounter than our friend upon the floor!
Yet the best of us are mortal, we to weakness all are
        heir,
He has fallen who rarely staggered—let the rest of us
         beware!

We shall leave him as we found him,—lying where his
        manhood fell,
'Mong the trophies of the revel, for he took his tipple well.
Better 'twere we loosed his neckcloth, laid his throat and
         bosom bare,
Pulled his Hobies off, and turned his toes to taste the
          breezy air.

Throw the sofa-cover o'er him, dim the flaring of the gas,
Calmly, calmly let him slumber, and, as by the bar we
         pass,
We shall bid that thoughtful waiter place beside him, near
         and handy,
Large supplies of soda-water, tumblers bottomed well with
         brandy,

So, when waking, he shall drain them, with that deathless
thirst of his,—
Clinging to the hand that smote him, like a good 'un as
he is!

THE DEATH OF DUBAL

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 Holbom, 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.

Oh, joy in London now! in festal measure
Be spent the evening of this festive day!
For thee is opening now a high-strung pleasure;
Now, even now, in yonder press-yard they
Strike from his limbs the fetters loose away!
A little while, and he, the brave Duval,
Will issue forth, serene, to glad and greet you all.
"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.

With step majestic to the cart advances
The dauntless Claude, and springs into his seat.
He feels that on him now are fixed the glances
Of many a Briton bold and maiden sweet,
Whose hearts responsive to his glories beat.

In him the honour of "The Road" is centred,
And all the hero's fire into his bosom entered.
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 saw it, but he heeded not. His story,
     He knew, was graven on the page of Time.
Tyburn to him was as a field of glory,
     Where he must stoop to death his head sublime,
     Hymned in full many an elegiac rhyme.
He left his deeds behind him, and his name—
For he, like Cæsar, had lived long enough for fame.

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.

A princely group of England's noble daughters
Stood in a balcony suffused with grief,
Diffusing fragrance round them, of strong waters,
And waving many a snowy handkerchief;
Then glowed the prince of highwayman and thief!
His soul was touched with a seraphic gleam—
That woman could be false was but a mocking dream.

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 car 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.

With soft and tender care the trainbands bore him,
     Just as they found him, nightcap, robe, and all,
And placed this neat though plain inscription o'er him,
     Among the atomies in Surgeons' Hall:
     "These are the Bones of the Renowned Duval!"
There still they tell us, from their glassy case,
He was the last, the best of all that noble race!

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