WALTER HAMILTON, (continued 5)

March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale, Why the deil dinna ye march forward in order? March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale, All the blue bonnets are bound for the border. Many a banner spread, Flutters above your head, Many a crest that is famous in story, Mount and make ready then, Sons of the mountain glen, Fight for the Queen and the old Scottish glory! Come from the hills where the hirsels are grazing, Come from the glen of the buck and the roe; Come from the crag where the beacon is blazing, Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow. Trumpets are sounding, War steeds are bounding, Stand to your arms then, and march in good order, England shall many a day Tell of the bloody fray, When the Blue Bonnets came over the border! Walter Scott.

Blue Stockings over the Border. Read, quickly read, for your honours, ye Oxford men! Why don’t you read Greek and Latin in order? Pass o’er the Ass’s Bridge, sons of the Cambridge Fen! All the Blue Stockings are crossing the Border! Their banner is flying, They’re “victory” crying, They’ll solve every problem in Euclid before ye— Come from the rowing match, Glee club, and merry catch, Read for a class and the old College glory! Ye Dons and Professors, arise from your slumbers, Open your books,—set your studies in order— The danger is pressing in spite of your numbers, For the Blue Stockings are crossing the Border. Descend from your Tilburies, Gents of the long robe, Read briefs—for their steps to the Woolsack they bend: The depths of your science, ye Doctors, they’ll soon probe, With old Esculapius the Blues would contend! Their clack is resounding, With hard words abounding, Steam guns their weapons, which cause great disorder. By Gas they’re enlightened— By nothing they’re frightened, The dauntless Blue Stockings who pass’d o’er the Border. Read for your honors, then, Oxford and Cambridge men! Look, lawyers, look, are your Green Bags in order? Oh! Sons of Galen, you will not escape the ken Of the Blue Stockings who pass’d o’er the Border! Look well to your counsels, ye sage Politicians— They’ll change all your projects and plans for the State; Examine your arguments, Metaphysicians— In every department the Blues are first-rate. Famed Craniologists! Learned Phrenologists! You’ll find, though each bump in their skulls is in order; The organ of Prying All others defying, Stands first in the Blues who are crossing the Border. Strain every nerve, then, all ye who have place and sway, From Wellington down to the City Recorder. Ye’ll be found bunglers, in office unfit to stay, If the Blue Stockings come over the Border. Stand to your posts, ye adepts in Astronomy, A comet they’ll see whilst your glass ye arrange— Find out some fault in Dame Nature’s economy— Spots in the moon, which betoken a change. Quake, ye Geologists! Tremble, Conchologists! Put Retorts and Crucibles, Chemists, in order! Beware, Antiquarians, They’re Disciplinarians, These talented Blues who are passing the Border! Put on your spectacles, star-gazing gentlemen— Steam-boat inventors, avoid all disorder— If there’s a blunder committed by Englishmen, Each Blue will see it who passes the Border! ’Tis said they’ve discovered perpetual motion, Attached to their tongues, ’twill be henceforth their own; And this job completed, some folks have a notion They’re all seeking now the Philosopher’s Stone. An enemy slanders Their ablest commanders, Their heads vacuum engines he calls (’tis a joke), Says Watts’ Steamer teaches The plan of their speeches, Beginning in noise, and concluding in smoke, Believe not, my countrymen, this foolish story— Come when they will, let them find you in order— Delay not, I pray, till each Blue, crown’d with glory, By paper kites drawn shall pass o’er the Border.

Write, Write, Tourist and Traveller. Write, write, tourist and traveller, Fill up your pages and write in good order; Write, write, scribbler and driveller, Why leave such margins?—come nearer the border. Many a laurel dead flutters around your head, Many a tome is your memento mori! Come from your garrets, then, sons of the quill and pen, Write for snuff-shops, if you write not for glory. Come from your rooms where the farthing wick’s burning, Come with your tales full of gladness or woe; Come from your small-beer to vinegar turning, Come where the Port and the Burgundy flow! Fame’s trump is sounding, topics abounding, Leave, then, each scribb’ler, your high attic story; Critics shall many a day speak of your book, and say, “He wrote for the snuff-shop, he wrote not for glory!” Write, write, tourist and traveller, Fill up your pages and write in good order; Write, write, scribb’ler and driveller, Why leave such margins?—come nearer the border. Robert Gilfillan, 1828.

Read, Read! Read, read, Woodstock and Waverley, Turn every page and read forward in order; Read, read, every tale cleverly, All the old novels are over the border! 75 Many a book lies dead, dusty, and never read, Many a chiel wants a thread to his story; While Walter, that king o’ men, just with his single pen, Like a giant, well grogged, marches on in his glory! Come from your tales full of murders amazing, Come from romaunts gone to bed long ago; Come from the scribb’lers whom pye-men are praising, Come to Redgauntlet and brave Ivanhoe! Scott’s fame is sounding, readers abounding, May laurels long circle his locks thin and hoary! Scotland shall many a day speak of her bard, and say, “He lived for his country, and wrote for her glory!” Robert Gilfillan, 1831.

Tax, Tax! Tax, tax Income and Property, Why the deuce don’t ye tax both in fair order? Tax, tax, Genius and Industry— Aye; but not so as on plunder to border! Many, by hand or head Earning precarious bread, Suddenly ruin’d’s an often-told story. Do, Johnny Russell, then, Justice to working men; If you refuse, we must call in a Tory! Punch, May 17, 1851.

Valour under Difficulties. March, march, pipe-clayed and belted in, That is to say you must march in good order; March, march, broiling sun melted in, Stocks all so tight that on choking you border. Martinet’s anger dread If you can turn your head, Martinet, stiff as the knights of old story, Shave and make ready then, Half-strangled Englishmen! March on, as well as you’re able, to glory! Punch.

Lobster Salad. Take, take, Lobsters and lettuces; Mind that they send you the fish that you order; Take, take, a decent-sized bowl, One that’s sufficiently deep in the border. Cut into many a slice All of the fish that’s nice, Place in the bowl with due neatness and order; Then hard-boiled eggs you may Add in a neat array All round the bowl, just by way of a border. Take from the cellar of salt a proportion; Take from the castor both pepper and oil, With vinegar, too—but a moderate portion— Too much of acid your salad will spoil. Mix them together; You need not mind whether You blend them exactly in apple-pie order! But when you’ve stirr’d away, Mix up the whole you may— All but the eggs, which are used as a border. Take, take plenty of seasoning; A teaspoon of parsley that’s chopped in small pieces. Though, though, the point will bear reasoning, A small taste of onion the flavour increases. As the sauce curdle may, Should it, the process stay; Patiently do it again in due order. For, if you chance to spoil Vinegar, eggs, and oil. Still to proceed would on lunacy border. Punch.

Song by a Surgeon. Take, take, blue pill and colocynth: Hey, Sir! your liver is much out of order. Take, take, rhubarb and aqua menth: Close on acute inflammation you border. Symptoms about your head, Make me congestion dread, When I take them with the rest in conjunction; Leave off wine, beer and grog: Arrowroot all your prog, Let organs rest to recover their function. Punch, November 12, 1859.

Riflemen both sides of the Border. Drill, drill, London and Manchester, Shoulder your Enfields and shoot in good order; Drill, drill, Glasgow and Edinburgh; Don’t be behind us, on your side the border. Foreigners oft have said BRITAIN’S old fire is dead, Let your array tell a different story: Arm and make ready then, Squires, Shop, and Warehousemen, Scotchman and Englishman, Liberal and Tory. Come from the shops, where your goods you are praising, Come from your moors, from the red deer and roe: Come to the ground where the targets they’re raising, Come from your ledgers, per contra and Co. Bugles are sounding, drill sergeants grounding, Practice your wind in loose skirmishing order, Foes will think twice, I lay, ’ere they provoke a fray— Once Britain stands in arms, both sides the Border. Punch, December 3, 1859.

As the worn warhorse, at the trumpet’s sound, Erects his mane, and neighs, and paws the ground, Disdains the ease his generous lord assigns, And longs to rush on the embattled lines, So I, your plaudits ringing on mine ear, Can scarce sustain to think our parting near; To think my scenic hour for ever past, And that these valued plaudits are my last. * * * * * But my last part is play’d, my knell is rung, When e’en your praise falls faltering from my tongue; And all that you can hear, or I can tell, Is—Friends and Patrons, hail! and Fare you Well!

As the worn show-horse whom Ducrow so long Has taught to prance before the applauding throng, Now all unfit to play his wonted part, Turns the dull mill or tracts the ignoble cart; If, midst his daily toils, perchance he hears Great Wombell’s trumpets, and the attendant cheers, Strives from his rear the cumbrous load to fling, And longs to circle in his ancient ring— So I, when loud your festive laughter swells, Would gladly don once more my cap and bells, So sad it is to deem my triumphs past, And think these joyous plaudits are my last. Warned by some symptoms of a certain age, To-night a veteran quits the mirthful stage; A certain age a certain post requires— Not prematurely Robertson retires. At eight-and-forty, when the locks are grey, ’Tis time to doff one’s comedy array, And leave, while youth’s excesses we retrench, Some space between the banquet and the Bench. Time was, when even the rigid and the wise Might scan my levities with lenient eyes; Cast in a mould denied to other men— (Great Jove will hardly use it soon again)— If not with wit, at least with words at will, The wish to please—and, shall I say, the skill? Peers, parsons, players, applauded as I spoke, And Huntly loved, and Scott endured the joke. Each look would set the table in a roar: And when the look was grave, men laughed the more. Hard task! and how performed, Jove best can tell, To serve two masters, and to serve them well; For Momus can with Mammon ill agree, And jealous Themis hates Euphrosyne. But, now, farewell the mimic look and tone, The general question, and the big trombone That makes the orchestra nothing—Oh! farewell To Oscar’s melody and Ossian’s shell; The stammering cornet, the Italian air; Farewell the bagman, and farewell the beer; Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious fun, Farewell—for Peter’s occupation’s done. Yet still the fire, that burned too fierce before, May shed a chastened light your evenings o’er; Sometimes the mountain may bring forth its mouse To please the laughers in the Outer-House. Nay, even in yonder niche installed on high, Some jest or pun Lord Peter may let fly, Clerk, counsel, agents, mid the weekly roll, Shall vainly strive their muscles to control; Wide spreads the infectious laugh, and even a while The losing litigant consents to smile; * * * * * All but the macer, grieved to see no more The classic gravity that Corehouse wore. But to return: if you have owed to me One witless jest, one pointless repartee— If I at good mens’ feasts too long have lolled, And seldom stirred when bells to church have knolled— If censuring tongues might of my errors tell, As loving mirth, not wisely but too well— If even in caution’s course I missed my aim, Tried jokes by stealth, and blushed to find them fame— The few preposterous efforts I have made By this too partial tribute are repaid. Could my big bosom prop the sinking line, Then I could speak what feelings now are mine. But fancy fails, expression dies away; In feeble murmers I can only say, Amidst my throbbing heart’s tumultuous strife: “This is the proudest moment of my life!”

Lament for Tabby; or, The Cat’s Coronach. And art thou fall’n, and lowly laid, The housewife’s boast, the cellar’s aid, Great mouser of thy day; Whose rolling eyes, and aspect dread, Whole whiskered legions oft have fled In midnight battle fray. There breathes not kitten of thy line, But would have given his life for thine. O! could I match the peerless strain, That wailed for Black Sir Roderic slain, Or that whose milder tone O’er Gertrude, fall’n in beauty’s prime, The grace of Pennsylvania’s clime, Raised the sepulchral moan! Such strain might burst th’ eternal bar, And reach thy spirit from afar. But thou remote from pain and strife. Now reap’st the meed of virtuous life In some Elysian grove, Where endless streams of milk abound, And soft valerian paints the ground, 77 Thy joyous footsteps rove; With Tasso’s cat, by poets named, And Whittington’s in story famed, Requiescat in pace! From The Satirist, March 1814.

Introduction. The way was long, the wind was cold, The Minstrel was infirm and old; His wither’d cheek, and tresses gray, Seem’d to have known a better day! The harp, his sole remaining joy, Was carried by an orphan boy. The last of all the bards was he, Who sung of Border chivalry; For, well a day! their date was fled, His tuneful brethren all were dead; And he, neglected and oppress’d Wish’d to be with them, and at rest. No more on prancing palfrey borne, He caroll’d light as lark at morn; No longer courted and caress’d, High placed in hall, a welcome guest, He pour’d, to lord and lady gay, The unpremeditated lay: Old times were changed, old manners gone A stranger fill’d the Stuarts’ throne; The bigots of the iron time Had called his harmless art a crime. A wandering Harper, scorn’d and poor, He begg’d his bread from door to door, And tuned, to please a peasant’s ear, The harp, a king had loved to hear. Walter Scott. * * * * *

Another Lay of the Last Minstrel. The Tide was low, the wind was cold, Upon the sands the minstrel strolled; His burnt-cork cheek and croaking lay Seemed to have known a better day; His banjo, sole remaining joy, Was thrummed by an obstreperous boy; The last of all the band was he Who sang of nigger minstrelsy. For, well a day! their date was fled— His tuneful brethren earned their bread In other channels. He confessed That had he done so it were best. No more to fiddle, harp and horn, He sang his melodies forlorn; No longer courted and caressed, The tenor squared his manly chest, And poured to lord and lady gay His unpremeditated lay. Old times were changed, old music gone, The folks had “scientific” grown, Neglected his untutored chime, Pronouncing Wagner quite sublime. A wandering nigger, scorned and poor, He hummed and strummed from door to door, And tuned, to please a vagrant ear, The banjo swells had loved to hear. Funny Folks, May 22, 1875.

The sun was hot, the day was bright, The statesman found his collars tight; He threw the starchy things aside, And round his neck no choker tied; In summer suit he quickly dressed— True Paisley cloth, and of the best, Presented by admiring Scots Who gave him presents, lots on lots. “Ah, now,” he cried, in accents gay, “I think I’ll take a walk to-day; The crowd that oft my footsteps dogs, Will never know me in these togs; Not one can recognise in me, The potent statesmen, W.G.!” He first from Richmond Terrace hied, Without policeman at his side; And then up Whitehall took the air Until he reached Trafalgar Square; By twos and threes the folks came out And welcomed Gladstone with a shout; Others, attracted by the sound, In tens and dozens gathered round; Desiring but to be alone, The baffled Statesman hurried on; With eager steps he paced along, But always followed by the throng; He fled from crowded street to street, Precipitately in retreat; And yet, despite the pace he flew, The crowd only the greater grew; And now, though several days have gone, That Statesman still is hurrying on; And strangers in a London street Perchance may any moment meet An old man in a summer suit Endeavouring to avoid pursuit, But vainly; for where’er he goes The crowd behind him cheers and grows. The Weekly Echo, July 25, 1885.

The Lay of the Last Cab-hack. The way was long, the wind was cold, The cab-hack was infirm and old. His withered hide, a dirty grey, Seemed to have known a better day; His nose-bag, sole remaining joy, Was pilfered by a ragged boy. The last of all the hacks was he, Of bony frame and broken knee: For, well-a-day, their date was fled, His wretched brethren all were dead; And he, neglected and oppressed, Wished to be with them, and at rest. No more ’neath damsel lightly borne, He caracolled like lark at morn; No longer curried and caressed, Snug placed in stall of corn the best, He pranced for lord and lady gay Throughout the equine-octial day. His form was changed, his strength was gone, A stranger owned his frame of bone; His master of the iron time To starve him thought it not a crime— A wandering cabby, scorned and poor, He urged his hack from door to door, And drove, to win a peasant’s fare, The horse that once a lord did bear. He crawled where London’s smoky Tower Looks out from Thames’ muddy bower; The cab-hack gazed with wistful eye, Alas! no resting-place was nigh, With weak and faltering step at last The glaring sausage-shop he passed, Whose ponderous chopping-up machine The rest of all his race had seen. The shopman marked his weary pace, His hang-dog mien and bony face, And bade his boy the cabby tell He’d buy if he the hack would sell; For he had bought much worse than he, Though born of racing pedigree, In pride of power, in beauty’s bloom— They’d gone unwept to this same tomb. Funny Folks.

The Bray of the Last Donkey. The way was long, the wind was cold, The donkey was infirm and old; His wrinkled nose and rough coat grey, Seemed to have known a better day; A whip, that sadden’d all his joy, Was wielded by an awful boy; The last of all his race was he, Who lived in age of chivalry. For, well-a-day, their date had fled, His long-ear’d brethren all were dead; And he, o’er-loaded and oppress’d, Would soon be with them—and at rest. No more with light load gladly borne, He caracolled from night till morn; No longer well-fed and caress’d. High placed in stall, a welcome guest, He pour’d to lord and lady gay His most unmusical of bray; Old steeds were changed, the donkeys gone, The stalls with horses filled alone, Proud favourites of degenerate time— Even his braying call’d a crime, A groggy donkey, starved and poor, He carried sand from door to door, Hard words and blows still doomed to bear. Till death relieves him from his care. Anonymous.

The Lay of the Last Ministry. The way was long, the voters cold, The Minister was weak—not old; His wither’d hopes and messes gay Seem’d to have known a better day; The lyre, his sole remaining joy, Was carried by the Office Boy; The last of the stop-gaps was he, And which his name was Salisbury. His brethren to the towns had fled, Expecting to be shortly dead, And he, dejected and oppress’d, Wished they were back, and feared for rest. No more on wings of fancy borne He chortled light as lark at morn; No longer standing on the boards As leader of the House of Lords, To nobles young, and nobles grey, He pour’d the Governmental lay: His occupation nearly gone, He felt he must vacate his throne; For many at Election-time Look’d on his policy as crime. A Premier on a touting tour, He begged for votes from door to door, And tried to please the peasant’s ear With tunes that few might care to hear. Et cetera. Fun, November 18, 1885.

CANTO III. And said I that my limbs were old, And said I that my blood was cold, And that my kindly fire was fled, And my poor wither’d heart was dead, And that I might not sing of love;— How could I, to the dearest theme That ever warm’d a minstrel’s dream, So foul, so false a recreant prove! How could I name love’s very name, Nor wake my heart to notes of flame! In peace, love tunes the shepherd’s reed; In war, he mounts the warrior’s steed; In halls, in gay attire is seen; In hamlets, dances on the green, Love rules the court, the camp, the grove, And men below, and saints above; For love is heaven, and heaven is love. Walter Scott. * * * * *

W. E. Gladstone in March, 1880. And thought they I was growing old? And hoped they that my hate was cold; And that my vengeful fire was fled, And that my hopes of power were dead; And that I might not sigh for place? How could I to the dearest theme That ever warmed a statesman’s dream Prove recreant so foul and base? How could I name its very name, Nor wake to life its smould’ring flame? In Session prudence tunes the reed, ’Tis otherwise across the Tweed! In Parliament, one’s forced to wear Restraint that one can doft elsewhere! St. Stephen’s needs a smoothened tongue, In Scotland fierce can be my song! Blest he who has a double face, When place is Heaven and Heaven is place! From They are Five, by W. E. G. (London, David Bogue, 1880.)

CANTO VI. Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself has said, This is my own, my native land! Whose heart hath ne’er within him burn’d, As home his footsteps he hath turn’d, From wandering on a foreign strand! If such there breathe, go, mark him well; For him no minstrel raptures swell; High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim; The wretch, concentred all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonour’d, and unsung. O Caledonia! stern and wild, Meet nurse for a poetic child! Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, Land of the mountain and the flood, Land of my sires! what mortal hand Can e’er untie the filial band That knits me to thy rugged strand! * * * * * Walter Scott.

A Declamation. By Miss Mudge, the Blue Stocking. Breathes there the man with soul so dead, Who never several times has read The works of Spencer and of Mill! Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned, As o’er the pages he has turned Of Hamilton upon the Will! If such there breathe, go rate him well, For him no student’s raptures swell. High though his titles, what of them? I want a man whose diadem Is the Binomial Theorem! What matters it how proud his look, He knows not Euclid’s second book! His wealth is boundless—that may be; But how about his Rule of Three? Despite his titles, pride and pelf, And all the books upon his shelf, The wretch not knowing Algebra, Shall greeted be with shouts of “Bah!” Whilst many an one, his soul to vex, Shall ask him what’s the power of x And give him, heeding not his groans, Equations with the three unknowns. Until at last, his torture’s o’er, He seeks a School Board’s open door; And there, by jeers to action stung, Begins on learning’s lowest rung, O Conic Sections! oft reviled, How sweet thou art to this young child! And book eleven of Euclid too, How sweet it is thy props, to do! And then to draw from them deductions! There’s but one thing still better—Fluxions! Geometry! what mortal hand Can e’er untie the knotted band That knits me to thy propositions, Thy postulates and definitions! Strong too’s the cord which fastens me To Statics and Geology! Still stronger those which me affiance To thee, my own, my Natural Science! But strongest are the heavenly ones That join me to Mars’ late-found suns! [She collapses. From Finis.

On Scotch Patriotism. Breathes there a Scot with soul so dead, Who never to himself has said Farewell for aye, my native land! Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned As he his willing steps hath turned To wander on a foreign strand! Who has not with a spirit gay From his loved Scotia trudged away To join the fortune-hunting band! If such there breathe, go, mark him well; For him no canny raptures swell; High though his titles, proud his name, He is an idiot all the same. No pupil apt of Gaelic school, He is a patriotic fool, A simple and un-Scottish clown Who, living, forfeits fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust from whence he sprung, Unsnuffed, unwhiskied, and unsung. O Caledonia! stern and wild, Thou did’st not suit the Scottish child! Thy lovely scenery but tells On those brave Scots who keep hotels; Thy plain and mountain, loch and moor, Are only dear to those who tour. Land of my sires! what mortal hand Could e’er invite me to thy strand? Still, as I view each well-known scene, I think of what things might have been 80 And shudder as I think once more That I might ne’er have left thy shore. Whilst songs of triumph fill my mouth, That I so early went down South. O. P. Q. P. Smiff. The Figaro, August 1, 1874.

Pilosagine. Breathes there a man with soul so dead Who never to himself hath said, “To have moustaches would be grand.” Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned As o’er the paper he hath turned And Wright’s advertisement hath scanned? If such there be, go, mark him well, And in his ears the good news tell: Pilosagine has gained a name, All who have tried it own its fame: While thousands prove its great renown By the moustaches they have grown; Whiskers and beards on many a face Their origin likewise to it trace, It contains no oil, is free from grease, And now forsooth our rhyme must cease. But what, you ask, is the expense? ’Tis sent post free for eighteenpence. Old Advertisement.

Lives there a man with soul so dead, Who never to his wife has said, “I love a bit of home-made bread!” Or can a man of aught be prouder, Than to have cried in tones still louder, “I like it made with Borwick’s Powder!”

The Poetic Style. Breathes there a man with taste so dead, Who never to himself hath said, “This is the spirit of my choice,” As he his steaming glass hath stirred? Who hath not slightly raised his voice, So that his words might all be heard— O something Whiskey, strong yet mild, Sweet spirit, pure and undefiled; From thee, as doctors oft have proved, The fusil oil has been removed; Unlike the other spirits, thou Bring’st not an aching to the brow. Of thee no biliousness is born, No coppers hot the following morn; Men drink of thee at noon, at night, And rise quite fresh at morning light; Men drink of thee, and drink again, To guard ’gainst rheumatism’s pain. * * * * * But there are some, I grieve to say, Who act in quite a silly way; Who every day their vitals spoil, By drinking lots of fusil oil. Yes, such there be, go—mark them well! Their sallow cheeks the secret tell. Sound though their stomachs may have been, Their livers active, palates clean; Yet, thanks to fusil’s deadly force, Fell indigestion comes, of course. The Figaro, October 4, 1876.

Canto vii. O, Caledonia! very stern and wild,[34] And only dear to those who travel through you: The poet says you’re lov’d by each Scotch child, But you do not believe such nonsense, do you? What Scotchman is there that would not be riled, If he was bound for life to stick close to you? No, Land of heath, and loch, and shaggy moor, You’re only dear, say we, to those who tour. O, Land of Whisky, Oatmeal, Bastards, Bibles; O Land of Kirks, Kilts, Claymores, Kail, and Cant,— Of lofty mountains and of very high hills, Of dreary “Sawbaths,” and of patriot rant O land which Dr. Johnson foully libels, To sound thy praises does our hero pant; And to relate how, from engagements freed, He calmly vegetated north of Tweed. He saw “Auld Reekie,” climbed up Arthur’s Seat, And thought the modern Athens a fine city; Admired the view he got from Prince’s Street, And wished the lassies could have been more pretty— With smaller bones, and less decided feet; He found the cabmen insolent, though witty: The Castle “did,” and, ere he slept, had been on The Calton Hill, and seen the new Parthenon. The Edinburgh “Sawbath” bored him, though, ’Twas like being in a city of the dead; With solemn steps, and faces full of woe, The people to their kirks and chapels sped, Heard damning doctrines, droned some psalms, and so Went home again with Puritanic tread; Pulled down their blinds, and in the evening glooms, Got very drunk in their back sitting-rooms. * * * * * From Jon Duan.

The Don’s Midnight Vigil. The sky was dark, the air was cold, But firm Don Salisbury was and bold, As, undeterred by nights alarms, He vigil kept to watch his arms. Above him, as he humbly kneel’d, Rose the bronze form of Beaconsfield— The man whom once he had reviled, But whom long since, with fervour wild, He’d seemed to love; but who looked down As ’twere with a sardonic frown, As, very far from being at ease, Don Salisbury groaned upon his knees. Each side him, on the Statue’s base, He for his armour’d found a place, And there he watch’d it, till, so sore, That he could bear to kneel no more, He staggered to his feet again, And sighing from excessive pain, His lance he grasped, and with a moan Limped lamely on his vigil lone. The gas-jets round but flickered dim, And in their light it seemed to him That with a look of scorn intent The Statue’s eyes were on him bent. Nay, more, as he returned the gaze, He thought he saw the Statue raise Its dexter arm and point south-west, As though his notice to arrest. Nor was the intimation vain, For as the Don his eye did strain, He saw folks in Victoria Street, Caught, too, the tramp of many feet; And, listening still, soon overheard Such sounds that he at once inferred, It was the promised delegation Sent by the Primrose Habitation To take him to the Hall of Light Where he was to be dubbed a Knight. * * * * * Truth, Christmas Number, 1885.

Albert Graeme. It was an English ladye bright, (The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,) And she would marry a Scottish Knight, For love will still be lord of all. Blithely they saw the rising sun, When he shone fair on Carlisle wall; But they were sad ere day was done, Though Love was still the lord of all. * * * * * Now all ye lovers, that faithful prove, (The sun shines fair on Carlisle Wall,) Pray for their souls who died for love, For Love shall still be lord of all! Walter Scott. The Lay of the Last Minstrel, Canto VI.

The Lay of the Poor Fiddler. Willie. It was a toper one Saturday night, (The fire shines bright on yon Ale-house wall,) And he would spend a shilling so bright, For strong liquor will still be lord of all. Blithely he posted with jolly red face, To where the fire shines on yon Ale-house wall, But that night was scarce o’er when in piteous case, He found that strong liquor was lord of all. He pawned his shirt and his breeches both, Where the fire shines bright on yon Ale-house wall; He then did swear a terrible oath, For ire that liquor was lord of all. In a hurry home he naked ran From where the fire shines on yon ale-house wall; The night was too cold for a naked man, Tho’ strong liquor was still the lord of all. His limbs were cold, though his face was red As the fire that shines on yon ale-house wall; He craved for admission, his wife was in bed, For strong liquor was there the lord of all. She looked through the window and bade him go Where the fire shines bright on yon ale-house wall; Or she on his hot skull would throw The liquor that is not lord of all! He shivering ran with might and main, To where the fire shines on yon ale-house wall; But the door was locked he bawled in vain, For strong liquor was there the lord of all. When morning came, quite dead he lay, Close by the door in yon ale-house wall; The frost his blood had chilled they say, And strong liquor is still the lord of all. Now all ye topers when ye view The fire shining bright on an ale-house wall; Pray for his soul who once did rue That strong liquor was e’er the lord of all.

Introduction. The night was dark, the wind did howl, When Tom the Fiddler left his bowl; His nose once of a fiery hue, Was now deep tinged with modest blue; Fierce o’er the heath the wind did blow, And swiftly fell the drifting snow. Tom was returning from the fair With lightsome heart devoid of care; His fiddle, as I’ve heard it sung, Across one ample shoulder hung In leathern case, and by his side, 82 A horn of snuff was well supplied; A huge nob-stick he firmly grasped, And to his breast a loaf he clasped,— Poor Tom had once seen better days Than fiddling for a looby’s praise; At country club, or wake, or fair, He would have scorned to scrape a hair; But now alas! old times are gone, He roams neglected and unknown; And strangers claim that high renown Which Tommy once had thought his own.

The lady happened to be nigh, She heard his voice and language high, She marked his wet and dirty clothes, His pimpled cheek and reverend nose, And bade her maid the servants tell, That they should use the fiddler well: For she had known adversity, Tho’ raised to such a high degree; And sorrow too, for in her bloom She wept o’er her third husband’s tomb.

I. And said I that my throat was dry; And said I that no cheer was nigh, And that all giving souls were dead, And that the good to heaven were fled. And that I ne’er should put my nose Again into a tankard’s brim; And that I ne’er again should dose, Before an ale-house hearth so grim? How could I fancy such mishap, Would e’er fall from Dame Fortune’s lap, On me the happiest of mankind, The merriest mortal you may find? II. In peace, malt liquor’s cheap and good; In war, ’tis poor and badly brewed; In kitchens, now they drink small beer; Malt, hops and water, grow so dear. Good liquor rules both church and state, It brightens many a stupid pate; And men and saints, to my own thinking, Are often prone unto hard drinking. Heaven, we are told, through a glass is seen; A glass of grog is what they mean. * * * * *

Hushed is the fiddle—Tommy’s gone; But did he roam, unhoused, unknown, Again thro’ wilds and deserts drear? No succour nigh, or alehouse near? Oh no:—close by this stately hall, So snug, with newly white-washed wall, Appears Tom’s cot; with lattice clean, And window-shutters painted green, A garden, hen-pen, and a stye, Well stock’d with sundries, stand close by; And every want is well supplied, And every blessing is enjoyed. * * * * *

Breathes there a Man with Soul so Dead. Breathes there a man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, Confound that horrid Little-Go Whose heart within him ne’er has burned, As from the papers he has turned, When them he found he did’nt know. If such there be—go! mark him well For him no Poll will do as well As honours high, or wrangler’s name A fellowship’s his only aim. Not his to lie upon the shelf; Poor wretch sustainer of himself A living comes thro’ his renown. Nor unrewarded goes he down To the small hamlet whence he sprung, A hero great as bards have sung. From The Lays of the Mocking Sprite. (Metcalfe and Sons, Cambridge.)

The Lay of the First Minstrel. By Sir Walter Scott-free, Bart. It was an Oxford Scholar bright, (The sun shone fair on Charsley’s Hall,) And he would get him thoroughly tight, For Gilbey’ll still be lord of all. Blithely he saw the coming dun, As bright as sun on Charsley’s Hall, Alas! his race was well nigh run And Gilbey’ll still be lord of all. The dun drinks wine, and tastes it well, (The sun shone fair on Charsley’s Hall,) Then came Cremation and he fell, So Gilbey’ll still be lord of all. He fell not by the “Old Red Heart,” (The sun shone fair on Charsley’s Hall,) He fell by Gilbey’s fiery art, To prove that Gilbey’s lord of all. The scholar spurned the knife and fork, (The sun shone fair on Charsley’s Hall,) And cut his throat with Gilbey’s cork, So Gilbey’ll still be lord of all. From The Shotover Papers (Oxford), October 17, 1874.

St. Fillan’s Arm. (A Lay of Scott-land.) Harp of the North, that hangs, or used to hang, “On the witch-elm that shades St. Fillan’s spring” (Which elm I know not), wake thy tuneful twang, And keep thy wires in order while I sing In verse of true Sir Walter Scottish ring; And lest your Minstrel’s strength should haply faint Glenlivat shall its inspiration bring; Thus will we make the Sassenach acquaint With blessed Fillan’s life, thy friend and patron Saint.

I. If thou would’st view old Pittenweem aright, Go visit it by the broad daylight, For if the night were murky, pray How couldst thou ken that fair Abbaye! And should it eke come on to rain, Thy pleasure would be turn’d to pain; But when the golden sunbeams smile On ruin’d nave and barren aisle, When noontide rays enlivening fall On thirstly floor and weedy wall. So that thou need’st not break thy bones Or shins against the rugged stones, Then go, but take a trusty guide Who knows the country far and wide, And give him half-a-crown or so, To tell thee all that he may know; But should he show thee Fillan’s tomb Within some cloister’s ivied gloom, Believe him not, although he swear, Because the Saint’s not buried there. II. Breathes there the man who having read All that the Northern Bard has said, All the particulars supplied By travellers’ tomes and Murray’s Guide, Of Scotia’s landscapes fair and grand, Longs not to see that favour’d land? Oh, would that I could get the chance To view those regions of romance, What pleasure to be climbing now Ben Dizzy’s stern and lofty brow! How sweet to stand beside the Frith That owes its waters to Loch Smith, To mark Bel-hangar’s ruin’d pile, And Ion-munga’s charmed isle, Whilst in the distance can be seen The giant peaks of Ben Zoleen,[35] And, if the weather be not dull, The fragrant isle of Sneeshin-Mull; And, floating like a mirage there, That phantom ship, the “Brig of Ayr” Sails where Loch Toddy’s smile creates A beauty that intoxicates. Then view, my fancy, if thou wilt, Knights tourneying within Glen-Tilt, Hear Roderick Dhu and brave Fitz-James Calling each other dreadful names, And see them chase, through bosky dells The hart that “in the Highlands” dwells. Oh, if some friend would pay my fare, How “like a bird” I’d wander there! III. The meal was over at Pittenweem; The monks had gone to their cells to dream, Or heavily sleep, as the case might be, Till waked by the bell at half-past three; The Abbot had gone to his private tower, For he sat up till a later hour, And oft he would have his under-prior To sit and talk by the cosy fire; For Abbots of old, you may suppose, Could do in such matters as they chose, And here, from the mill-stream’s outer loch To the tippest top of the weather-cock, Good Fillan the Abbot ruled supreme— Such was the custom of Pittenweem. IV. The night was long, the weather cold; A Minstrel, neither young nor old, Whose ragged coat and shoes in holes Wrung pity from those monkish souls, Entered the Abbey’s lower hall, Whence, duteous to the Abbot’s call, He brought himself and harp upstairs And ’gan show off his Scottish airs. It was a charity to bring Such warbler in the place to sing. St. Fillan gave him ample cheer And copious draughts of home-made beer, Till, while that inspiration work’d, This music from the wires he jerk’d:—

V. BALLAD. The Blue Brother. (Parody of a Ballad in “Percy’s Reliques.”) ’Twas on Maxwelton’s bonny braes (“Where early fa’s the dew.”) That at the set of sun I met A Friar of Orders blue. With sigh, and frown, and eyes cast down, His face was sad to see; Some heavy care was settled there— Whatever could it be? “Come hither, come hither, thou Holy Friar, Why dost thou look so blue?” He answer’d stern—“I’ve yet to learn What that’s to do with you.” “Wert thou,” I asked, “a baron bold, Who sought a hermit’s lot, Because thy love so false did prove?” He answer’d, “I was not.” “And hast thou fought in distant climes, Seen mighty cities fall, 84 And wounded been a score of times?” He answered, “Not at all.” “And did thy true love follow thee, In page’s garb disguised? And when thou foundest it was she, Say, wert thou not surprised?” “No true love ever follow’d me Thus garbed; or if she had, At once, I ween, I must have seen ’Twas she, and not a lad.” “And did she, stricken by thy side In thy embrace expire?” “Good gracious! no—who told you so? He must have been a liar.” “Or hadst thou woed some ladye fair, And wast about to wed, But saw or heard that she preferr’d Another knight instead? “And didst thou seek their trysting-place, And fiercely slay them both, And there inter both him and her?” “I did’nt, on my oath!” “Or did’st thou quarrel with a maid, Who loved thee all the time, And seek a hermitage’s shade? Far in a foreign clime; “And did the maiden seek thee out, Dress’d like a pilgrim-boy? And, having found thee safe and sound, Die, there and then, for joy?” Fire flash’d from that Blue Brother’s eye; “’Tis well,” he cried, “for you, That I’m a Friar, else in mine ire Some mischief might I do! “Why should I tell to such as thou The story of my youth? My patience is exhausted now, Denying each untruth. “You’re right, so far, if you suppose I’ve seen some woes and cares, But, mark you well, I never tell To strangers my affairs.” The vesper-bell rang thro’ the dell; Abrupt he sped away, And not another syllable Did to this minstrel say. And tho’ upon Maxwelton’s braes Since then I’ve often been, I know not why, but never I Have that Blue Brother seen. VI. The Abbot praised the Minstrel’s skill, And gave him siller—better still; What wonder that such vagrant men, Encouraged thus, should come agen? For Fillan’s heart was warm and large, He never gave these folks in charge, And tho’ the bagpipe made him groan, He let his torturer alone. Well used, I wot, were one and all Within St. Fillan’s Abbey-wall; Even the cats were fed on cream— Such was the custom of Pittenweem. * * * * *

“O woman! in our hours of ease, Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, And variable as the shade By the light quivering aspen made; When pain and anguish wring the brow, A ministering angel thou!”— * * * * *

An English Poet to a Scotch Critic, Oh! Scotsman! in thine hour of ease Uncanny, slow, and hard to please,— And querulous in thy tirade As shrewish wife or sour old maid— When too much “whusky” stings thy brow, An unco’ sarcy devil thou! (Slightly!) altered from Scott (to Scot).

“Oh, woman! in our hours of ease, Impatient, coy, and hard to please: As ineffectual as the shade By a defective gingham made: As difficult wherewith to deal As any sly and cunning eel; But, oh! when hoarseness grasps the thorax, How nimble, thou, with soothing borax!”

A Dedication. O woman! in our hours of ease Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, Yet, barring pins, how soft to squeeze! Unequall’d too at making cheese— And variable as the shade By the light quivering aspen made; And “very able,” too thou jade, In managing a shopping raid— When pain and anguish wring the brow, Well, one of two things then art thou: That is, thou’rt either a born nurse; Or else a nuisance, if not worse! O Woman! too, in hours of woe, Into hysterics apt to go: When trouble levies its distraint, How prompt art thou thereon to faint! When danger’s for the time supreme, How ready art thou, too, to scream! In fact, what hour of night or day Is there when thou’rt not in the way? From Finis, 1877.

The City Carlton merrily With wassail rung, and mirth and glee, For Tory City-Fathers there Feasted the Marquis and Lord Mayor. The spread outshone all banquets past; The wine and wit flowed free and fast; Till, ’midst approving sound, The loyal toasts were drunk in turn; And then, whilst civic hearts waxed stern, The Loving-Cup went round. And easy was the task, I trow, The Marquis’ manly form to know, When, his great courtesy to show, He drank with Fowler, bending low To meet the goblet’s brim; And City men who saw the sight, Demonstrative in their delight, Gave several cheers for him. Ere long, uprising from his chair To toast the City, Mr. Mayor Stood, in his new-found fame; But for some moments could not speak— His Tory heart swelled nigh to break— And presently adown his cheek A bitter tear there came. Then memory did his wrath inspire, Then burn’d his furrow’d face with fire, And shook his very beard with ire, As “This to me!” he cried. “From Forster, too, a friend who knows How I persistently oppose Reforms on every side! He little kens the thoughts that roll, Like storm-clouds, through my haughty soul, Or he would not declare That I, a City Tory true, Would of the Corporation new Become the first Lord Mayor!” Still on his cheek the flush of rage O’ercame the ashen hue of age, As he went on, “How dare he, then, Thus beard the Lion in his den— The Fowler at Guildhall! Or thinks he Harcourt can o’erthrow, And lay our Corporation low? No! by St. Margaret Pattens, No! Up, Tories, then! What, Carden, ho! For your stout aid I call.” Then Fowler turned and laughed, “Ha! ha!” Deep quaffed the bowl and shouted “Bah! Let Harcourt know, if he dare try The City Fathers to defy, That London has its treasures great— Its funds invested, and its plate; That turtle now is cheap as beef (That Conger canard’s past belief); And that, ere his vile Bill be passed, Those hoards of wealth we have amassed Shall be entirely spent, In Swords of Honour by the score; In Golden Boxes, rained galore, In Banquets gross as those of yore, In jobs still grosser than before, And greater in extent! “That we will many a time persist In opening a Subscription List, Far-off distress to aid; Whilst those who starve about our gate, We’ll leave to their unhappy fate, And hunger unallayed. Know, too, that ere from power we start, We’ll patronise again High Art, And raise the Griffin’s counterpart To dominate the City; That Billingsgate unmoved shall stay, And block the fish-producing-way, Spite what in Parliament they say, Or argue in Committee. “Know, too, that ere all London taste This new reform, we oft will haste Funds left in Charity to waste In gorging and in guzzling; 86 And we, as Aldermen, will mock At justice still; and surely shock Those who are bound to us to flock For our decisions puzzling. “Yes, know, ere Harcourt shall succeed, Shall many a poor man die of need, And thousands suffer for the greed Of our smug Corporation; And London for long years shall bear Fresh burdens that we still may share The plunder, and well bait the snare With which we trap the nation, Pretending that at our own cost We’ve freed the lands the City’d lost, With generous intent; Whereas it safely might be sworn No penny from our hoard’s been torn— ’Tis duties placed on coal and corn That we’ve so freely spent!” Again, ’midst vehement applause, Did Fowler for a moment pause; Then, facing round to his brave band, And fiercely shaking his clenched hand, He with a sip his voice restored, And once again defiance poured: “Let Harcourt, Firth, and all their crew,” Cried he, “their spiteful ends pursue, I still am here, my friends, with you, My opposition to renew; And ere that Bill shall pass, Full many a brother shall secure Knighthood by rank expenditure; Full many a Scandal we’ll commit; Absorb full many a perquisite; Full many a well-known man we’ll bribe To join some Civic thievish tribe; Full many a day reforms oppose; Full many a time strike coward’s blows; And often to the nation show How small we are, how rude, how low, How stubborn, ignorant, and dense, How totally devoid of sense, And how intensely crass!” Here Fowler ceased, and sat him down, While cheers from all sides came to crown His spirited appeal; Thrice went the Loving Cup around, And thrice did fresh applause resound As those brave City Tories found Fresh impulse for their zeal! Truth, November 29, 1883.

O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west! Through all the wide border his steed was the best; And, save his good broad-sword, he weapon had none; He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone! So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar! He staid not for brake, and he stopped not for stone, He swam the Esk river where ford there was none— But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate, The bride had consented!—the gallant came late!— For, a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar! So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, ’Mong bride’s-men and kinsmen, and brothers, and all: Then spoke the bride’s father, his hand on his sword— For the poor, craven bridegroom said never a word— “O, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war?— Or to dance at our bridal?—young Lord Lochinvar!” “I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied: Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide! And now am I come, with this lost love of mine To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine!— There are maidens in Scotland, more lovely by far, That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar!” The bride kissed the goblet! The knight took it up, He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup! She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh— With a smile on her lip, and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,— “Now tread we a measure!” said young Lochinvar. So stately his form, and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace! While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume; And the bride-maidens whispered, “’Twere better by far To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar!” One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reached the hall door, and the charger stood near— So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung! “She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur! They’ll have fleet steeds that follow!” quoth young Lochinvar. There was mounting ’mong Græmes of the Netherby clan: Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran; There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lea— But the lost bride of Netherby ne’er did they see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? Walter Scott.

Lock-and-Bar. A Botany Bay Eclogue. O Gallant Sir James is come out of the North, Through all that wild region his fame had gone forth; Yet, save the Vice-Chancellor, friend he had none; He came all unask’d, and he came all alone. So daring in heart, and so dauntless in pith, There ne’er was Professor like President Smith. He staid not for frown, and he stopp’d not for groan; He put in his clamour where claim he had none; But e’er he arriv’d at a Lecturer’s state, The tutors conspir’d—and the lectures came late. For a Churchman, God wot! and a botanist too, Was to sit in the chair that Sir James had in view. 87 In a rage, then, he stalk’d into College and Hall, Among Bedmakers, Bachelors, Doctors, and all; Then spoke Mr. Marsh in a civilish way, (For some of the Tutors had little to say), “O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dine with the Fellows, or—what come ye for?” “I long wish’d to lecture, my suit you denied, I know you’d have lik’d them, if once you had tried; And now am I come with this Pamphlet of mine, To try a last measure—then leave you to pine; There are students in London more civil by far, That would gladly have welcom’d so brilliant a star.” Sir James shew’d his Pamphlet, and Monk read it through; He gulp’d the hard bits, but he saw ’twoul’d not do; He look’d down to laugh, and pretended to sigh, With a smile on his lip, and a sneer in his eye, Then down comes the rogue with an “answer” forthwith. “This is dealing hard measure!” says President Smith. So stately the tone, and so lovely the print, Even Freshmen conceiv’d there must something be in’t. While Socinians did fret, and Professors did clap, And Webb tore the tassel that deck’d his new cap; And Reviewers did whisper, “’Twere better by far To have match’d your brave knight in some gooseberry war.” A hint such as this had just rung in his ear, When he reach’d the stage-coach, and the coachman stood near; So light to the box that tight coachman he sprung, So snugly the reins o’er the dickey were flung— We are off! we are off! over bank and o’er hill, “Your pamphlet may follow,” cried James, “if it will.” There is quizzing ’mong wags of the Trinity clan; King’s, Queen’s-men, and Johnians, they all laugh that can, There is joking and smoking in Norwich citiè, But the lost Knight of Botany ne’er do we see, —So daring in heart, and so dauntless in pith: Was there e’er such a callant as President Smith.

Songs of the Rail. O young William Jones is come out of the West, Of all the bright engines, his engine’s the best! And save his grim stoker, he helper had none, He drove all unhelp’d, and he drove all alone, So dauntless he rush’d midst his engine’s loud moans; Did you e’er hear of driver like young William Jones? He stopp’d not for water, he stopp’d not for coke, And he skimm’d o’er the streams render’d black by his smoke; But when at the station he slacken’d his rate, The up-train had started, the down-train came late; And a laggard in travel, a luggage-train guard, Was to wed the fair Polly of Jones’s regard. “I long woo’d your daughter, my suit you denied; Love swells like a steam-valve, and bursts when it’s tied; And now I am come, with my lost Polly B. To walk once the platform, drink one cup of tea: There are maidens who’d gladly give body and bones, To jump at the tender of young William Jones.” The bride stirred the Congou, the spoon took it up, He quaff’d off the tea, and he put down the cup; She stoop’d on the pavement her sandal to tie, And she show’d her neat foot with a tear in her eye: He took her soft hand, ere her mother said nay; “Now walk on the platform,” said young William J. So stately his form, and so beauteous her face, That never a plank such a couple did grace; While the stoker did fret; and the engine did fume, And the station-clerk wink’d in his little back-room, And the navvys all whisper’d, “Ay, Bill, what d’ye say? They’d make a neat couple, that gal and young J.” One touch of her hand, and one word in her ear, And they open’d a carriage that by them stood near; So light o’er the cushions the fair lady sprung— So light the policeman the bright brass bell rung— “She is won! we are off! there’s no train in the way, And the next does not stop here” said young William J. There was laughing and roaring with every man; They laugh’d and they roar’d till their eyes briny ran: They must get a new maiden to hand out the tea, For the fair Mrs. Jones there they never will see; And each one that knows her will laughingly say, “That’s a deucid ’cute fellow, that young William J.!” Punch, January 22, 1848.

The big-booted Czar had his eye on the East, For treaties and truces he cares not the least, And save his good pleasure he conscience hath none, He talks like the Vandal and acts like the Hun. So faithless in peace, and so ruthless in war, Have ye e’er heard of King like the big-booted Czar? He stayed not for speech, but with sabre and gun, He rushed into Turkey, though cause there was none; But when he got near to the old Iron Gate, He found certain reasons which urged him to wait. For down by the Danube stood Omar Pasha, Prepared to encounter our big-booted Czar, So he drew up his legions—serf, vassal and thrall, His footmen, and horsemen, and cannons, and all, Then out spake bold Omar, his hand on his sword, In an attitude fitting an Ottoman Lord, “O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to see St. Sophia, you big-booted Czar?” “I’ve long asked your homage, my suit you denied, And my holy religion you’ve scorned and decried, So now I’ve come down with this army of mine, The rights and the wrongs of the case to define, And you have not a chance, for the Musselman star Must pale when it looks on the flag of the Czar.” He flung down his challenge, the Turk took it up (Remarking on slips ’twixt the lip and the cup), 88 And deigned to his logic the briefest reply, “That the claim was unjust, and its proof was a lie,” And he brought up some thousands of swords as a bar To further advance by the big-booted Czar. So before Oltenitza the battle took place, And the Russian thought proper to right about face, For the guns of Stamboul had a menacing boom, And a bombshell sent flying the Dannenburg plume, And the Cossacks all grumbled, “’Twere better by far To eat tallow at home than dine out with the Czar”, One hint would not do, nor one word in his ear, The despot commands, and his men persevere— So again to the breezes their standards are flung, And Kalafat echoes the war-trumpet tongue, And the Ottoman, charging, has scattered afar The ill-fated troops of the big-booted Czar. There was wild disarray in the rear and the van, The Moslem they rode, and the Cossacks they ran. There was racing and chasing—’twas pleasing to see The Russ as well beat as a Russian can be. May this, and much worse, be all fortune of war That awaits the old pirate, the big-booted Czar. Shirley Brooks, 1854.

It was Albert of Wales and his troop of Hussars, Who took horse one fine day to go off to the wars; And their trappings were brilliant, their sabres were bright, As they rode to the Sham (for it was a sham) Fight. “And if any would take the wind out of our sails, They must look sharp about it!” says Albert of Wales. “It is rather slow work, this,” then Albert said he. “And to stand and do nothing will hardly suit me. At the side of yon hill, where those clouds of smoke hang, Are the enemy’s cannon—hark! there they go—Bang! Let us try to surprise them—a rush seldom fails: Balaclava the Second!” shouts Albert of Wales. With a crash and a waving of sabres in air, Down they swoop on the gunners—and how these last stare! But although they are startled, not one of them runs: They are Britons, and doggedly stick to their guns, “Now surrender!” (a bombardier thus the Prince hails): “Do you yield?”—“No, but you do!” says Albert of Wales. “You are captured, each man Jack!” says he with a laugh.— “I beg pardon, your Highness, it’s you and your staff.”— “Oh dear, no!”—“Yes, yes, really,” the umpire submits, “As your Highness’s men would be knocked all to bits, You must yield yourselves up—no resistance avails.”— “Don’t you wish you may get it?” says Albert of Wales. With a jerk at his rein, and a stroke of his whip, Then the Prince turns his charger, and gives them the slip. “You have not got me yet,” says he: “follow who may, He must gallop who’s going to take me to-day! You’ll excuse my not stopping to talk of details— I am off in a hurry!” says Albert of Wales. Then in haste follows Staveley, and off gallops Grant: “Hallo there!”—“Hold him, now!”—“Oh, I’ll stop him!”—“You Can’t!” Down the Hill the Prince goes, seeming little to reck That the Heir to the Throne can break only one neck. “It’s at this sort of speed that they carry the mails; Let who can overtake me!” cries Albert of Wales. Judy, October 11, 1871.

The Late Light of the Bar. Choice of Stoke-upon-Trent, lo, Kenealy[36] confest, Pledged to see the foul wrongs of Sir Roger redressed! Save his grievance and gingham he weapons had none; He went unabashed, and he went all alone, As though stainless in ’scutcheon, in fame without scar,— Who e’er equalled for brass this late Light of the Bar? He stayed not for scoff, and he stopped not for groan; What were “Orders” to him, who takes orders from none? But ere he alighted at Westminster Gate, The House was well-filled, though the doctor came late; For the night’s blushing honours were shared, and at par, ’Twixt John Mitchel and him, this late Light of the Bar. So boldly he entered the High Commons’ hall, Among Whigs, Rads, Conservatives, alien all, While calm, cold, and cutting, the Speaker was heard, Through the silence, unbroken by cheer or by word, “In breach of the House-Standing-Order you are, Without introducers thus passing our Bar!” “I stuck to the Claimant: his claims were denied: Bench might beard me and Bar; Bar and Bench I defied! And now I am come, with this lost cause of mine, Like Cromwell, to bid hence that ‘bauble’ of thine: Learn how wide-spread my fame, whom the much-wrongèd Gaikwâr Had retained,[37] had there not been that sinister Bar.” 89 Dropped by all like hot poker, John Bright took him up— “Not e’en from such lips should this House dash the cup. If Whalley has spirit to lend me a hand, By Stoke-upon-Trent’s new-made Member I’ll stand.” But Disraeli moved, “Waive the rule, better far: Some will force their way over, some under, the Bar.” So the Order was waived, and unblushing in face He shook hands with the Speaker, swore, scowled at the Mace; ’Twas some time e’er the House could its business resume, What with Decency’s fret and Propriety’s fume: While an old stager whispered, “We’re best as we are; Stick to Orders, that serve, now and then, as a Bar.” He touched Whalley’s hand, who fought shy, it was clear, And he reached the Hall-door, with the cabs standing near; So light in the air his green gingham he swung; So light to his faithful four-wheeler he sprung— “I have won! The trick’s done! To the knife it is war! See The Englishman!”—quoth this Ex-light of the Bar. There were posters (four-sheet) on The Englishman’s van With its damp quires the newsboys they roared and they ran: Vollied dirt at M.P.’s, as at Judges, there flew. But the lost case of Orton they would not review! So persistent to pelt, from the mark though so far, Was e’er Member like this late Light of the Bar! Punch, March 6, 1875.

Young Stephey Cave.[38] O, young Stephey Cave is come out of the East, Through borders Levantine his steed was the beast! And save his grey goosequill he weapon had none; He rode all unharm’d, and he rode all alone. So renowned at accounts, so financially brave, There never was knight like the young Stephey Cave. He staid not for passport, he stopped not for Stone; He took the first steamer where train there was none; But ere he alighted at Ismail’s gate The Khedive was ruined; the banker came late, For a babe at accounts and a scripholding slave Had forestalled the proud mission of young Stephey Cave. So boldly he entered proud Ismail’s hall, Among Pashas and Agas, Effendis and all. Then spoke those Egyptians, ineffably bored, (For the poor craven Khedive said never a word,) “O, come ye to fleece us, or come ye to save, Or to prove us insolvent, thou young Stephey Cave?” “I long thought ye bankrupt—the truth ye denied; Loans swell like the Solway, but ebb like its tide, And now I am come with this ledger of mine To go through your figures. You dare not decline! There are countries in Europe as bankrupt, proud knave, Who’d gladly be tipped by the young Stephey Cave.” They threw down the records, bills, bonds, and such stuff; He tested the figures through sums on his cuff; He bent down to blush, and he got up to sigh, With a curl on his lip and disdain in his eye; He gave his right hand a most tragical wave— “They’ve swindled thee proper,” said young Stephey Cave. One pull at the bell, and one crocodile’s tear, And they ope’d the hall-door, and the Khedive stood near. So plain to his Highness the plan that he showed, So strongly perceiving the same he avowed— “We are saved! We are saved! spite of loan, bond, and knave!” “They’ll have sharp wits that beat us,” said young Stephey Cave. There was raving and stamping ’mong Pashas galore; Frenchmen, Germans, and Yankees, they cursed and they swore; There was hoping and waiting ’mong bondholders free, But the fruits of his mission ne’er did they see. So renowned at accounts, so financially brave, Have ye e’er heard of banker like young Stephey Cave? Benjamin D——. His Little Dinner, 1876.

Young Lochinvar. The True Story in Blank Verse. Oh! young Lochinvar has come out of the West, Thro’ all the wide border his horse has no equal, Having cost him forty-five dollars at the market, Where good nags, fresh from the country, With burrs still in their tails are selling For a song; and save his good broad sword He weapon had none, except a seven-shooter Or two, a pair of brass knuckles, and an Arkansaw Toothpick in his boot, so, comparatively speaking, He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone, Because there was no one going his way. He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for Toll-gates; he swam the Erke River where ford There was none, and saved fifteen cents In ferriage, but lost his pocket-book, containing Seventeen dollars and a half, by the operation. Ere he alighted at the Netherby mansion He stopped to borrow a dry suit of clothes, And this delayed him considerably, so when He arrived the bride had consented—the gallant Came late—for a laggard in love and a dastard in war Was to wed the fair Ellen, and the guests had assembled. So, boldly he entered the Netherby Hall Among bridesmen and kinsmen and brothers and Brothers-in-law and forty or fifty cousins; Then spake the bride’s father, his hand on his sword (For the poor craven bridegroom ne’er opened his head): “Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in anger, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?” “I long wooed your daughter, and she will tell you I have the inside track in the free-for-all For her affections! my suit you denied; but let That pass, while I tell you, old fellow, that love Swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide, And now I am come with this lost love of mine To lead but one measure, drink one glass of beer; There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far That would gladly be bride to yours very truly.” The bride kissed the goblet, the knight took it up, He quaffed off the nectar and threw down the mug, Smashing it into a million pieces, while He remarked that he was the son of a gun 90 From Seven-up and run the Number Nine. She looked down to blush, but she looked up again For she well understood the wink in his eye; He took her soft hand ere her mother could Interfere, “Now tread we a measure; first four Half right and left; swing,” cried young Lochinvar. One touch to her hand and one word in her ear, When they reached the hall door and the charger Stood near on three legs eating post hay; So light to the croup the fair lady he swung, Then leaped to the saddle before her. “She is won! we are gone! over bank, bush, and spar, They’ll have swift steeds that follow”—but in the Excitement of the moment he had forgotten To untie the horse, and the poor brute could Only gallop in a little circus around the Hitching-post; so the old gent collared The youth and gave him the awfullest lambasting That was ever heard of on Canobie Lee; So dauntless in war and so daring in love, Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? Free Press Flashes, 1883.

’Tis Woman that seduces all mankind; By her we first are taught the wheedling arts; Her very eyes can cheat when most she’s kind; She tricks us of our money with our hearts.

The Bishop. O, a Bishop from Surrey is come here to pray, Throughout our dominions no man is more gay; And save one in a corner, he favourites had none, For he was so moderate, he lov’d only one; So faithful in love and so fervent in pray’rs That never did man better manage affairs. He staid not for cash—tho’ he ask’d for a loan, But he that cur’d tooth-aches, provided him none; And ere he’d neglect things of love or of state He came without money, for fear he’d come late, For a laggard in love, is a fool, he declares, Unworthy of Cupid, or e’en state affairs. To worship his saint did he thus take a trip, And, quite pilgrim-like, with no cash in his scrip; When one of the vestals, the Bishop attacked, (It seems that the altar some sacrifice lack’d), Oh! come you with money, or come you with pray’rs, Or come you with vows that you’ll settle affairs? Without you have cash must your suit be denied, Love swells like the ocean but ebbs like its tide; So now I observe—and observe very true, That if you’ve no money, your kissing won’t do; Your Grace need not take empty pockets upstairs, It is a long-purse that must manage affairs. The saint then appear’d and the Bishop soon pray’d; His vows—but not one of the house-bills—were paid. She look’d up for more and she look’d down in vain, For searching his small clothes, they nought did contain. She wish’d to know how she should settle arrears, “Good morrow,” said he, and thus managed affairs. How sudden his exit—how wild was her look, For now his departure she scarcely could brook; While her sister did fret and her housemaid did fume, And her friends in a passion walk’d all round the room, 91 And the servants too whisper’d, “She’s wrong, who e’er dares, To meddle so much with a Bishop’s affairs.” One hint by the way—and one word in your ear If ever you wish to be darling and dear— Ne’er talk to a Bishop ’bout mammon, but know His blessing’s enough, as the sequel will show; “She is false—then farewell—let her rail, but who cares; Another I’ll find that can manage affairs.” And to manage affairs is a business of art, A secret which prudence forbids to impart, A secret which e’en in the Cabinet reigns, For statesmen can always display ways and means; In love or in war whoe’er stratagem spares, Deserves not a blessing to prosper affairs.

“The stag at eve had drunk his fill, Where danced the moon on Monan’s rill, And deep his midnight lair had made In lone Glenartney’s hazel shade.”

“The Pig, at eve, was lank, and faint, Where Patrick is the Patron Saint, And with his peasant Lord, unfed, Went, grunting, to their common bed: But when black night her sables threw Athwart the slough of Ballyloo, The deep-mouth’d thunder’s angry roar Re-bellow’d on the Ulster shore, And hailstones pelted, mighty big, The Towers of Castle Blarneygig. * * * * * And all the Vassals’ senses lay Drown’d in the whisky of the day. Still raged the storm!—still, records run, All slept in Blarneygig, save one, Lord of the Castle, and Domain, Sir Tooleywhagg O’Shaughnashane.”

Boat Song. Hail to the Chief who in triumph advances! Honour’d and bless’d be the ever-green Pine! Long may the tree, in his banner that glances, Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line! 92 Heaven send it happy dew, Earth lend it sap anew, Gaily to bourgeon, and broadly to grow, While every Highland glen Sends our shout back agen, “Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!” * * * * * Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the Highlands, Stretch to your oars for the ever-green Pine! O that the rose-bud that graces yon islands Were wreathed in a garland around him to twine! O that some seedling gem, Worthy such noble stem, Honour’d and bless’d in their shadow might grow! Loud should Clan-Alpine then Ring from the deepmost glen, “Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!”

“Soon did the deep Cream Crutin twang, And, thus, as loud the chorus rang, The Vassals, at the Banquet, sang.”

Banquet Song.[40] Hail our Chief! now he’s wet through with whiskey; Long life to the Lady come from the salt seas! Strike up, blind harpers! skip high to be frisky! For what is so gay as a bag-full of fleas? Crest of O’Shaughnashane!— That’s a Potato, plain,— Long may your root every Irishman know! Pats long have stuck to it, Long bid good luck to it; Whack for O’Shaughnashane! Tooleywhagg, ho! Our’s is an esculent lusty and lasting; No turnip nor other weak babe of the ground; Waxy or mealy, it hinders from fasting Half Erin’s inhabitants, all the year round. Wants the soil, where ’tis flung, Hog’s, cow’s, or horse’s dung, Still does the Crest of O’Shaughnashane grow; Shout for it, Ulster men, Till the bogs quake again! Whack for O’Shaughnashane! Tooleywhagg, ho! Drink, Paddies, drink to the Lady so shining! While flouret shall open, and bog-trotter dig, So long may the sweet Rose of Beauty be twining Around the potato of proud Blarneygig! While the plant vegetates, While whisky recreates, Wash down the root from the horns that o’erflow; Shake your shillalahs, boys! Screeching drunk, scream your joys! Whack for O’Shaughnashane! Tooleywhagg, ho!

The heath this night must be my bed, The bracken curtain for my head, My lullaby the warder’s tread, Far, far, from love and thee, Mary; To-morrow eve, more stilly laid, My couch may be my bloody plaid, My vesper song thy wail, sweet maid! It will not waken me, Mary! * * * * *

Song of the Bridegroom. Don’t, now, be after being coy; Sit still upon my lap, dear joy! And let us at our breakfast, toy, For thou art Wife to me, Judy! And I am bound, by wedlock’s chain, Thy humble sarvant to remain, Sir Tooleywhagg O’Shaughnashane, The Husband unto thee, Judy! * * * * * The skins of Wolves,—by me they bled,— Are covers to our Marriage-Bed; Should one, in hunting, bite me dead, A widow thou wilt be, Judy! Howl at my wake! ’twill be but kind; And if I leave, as I’ve design’d, Some little Tooleywhaggs behind, They’ll sarve to comfort thee, Judy!