SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.
Reading edition
THE TWA BURDIES.
BY THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD.
When the winter day had past an' gane, Twa wee burdies came into our hearth stane; An' they lookit a'round them wi' little din, As if they had living souls within. "O, bonny burdies, come tell to me If ye are twa burdies o' this countrye? An' where ye were gaun when ye tint your gate, A-winging the winter shower sae late?" "We are cauld, we are cauld—ye maun let us bide, For our father's gane, an' our mother's a bride: But in her bride's bed though she be, We would rather cour on the earth wi' thee!" "O, bonny burdies, my heart is sair To see twa motherless broods sae fair. But flee away, burdies! flee away! For I darenae bide wi' you till day." "Ye maun let us bide till our feathers dry, For the time of our trial's drawing nigh. A voice will call at the hour eleven, An' a naked sword appear in heaven! "There's an offering to make, but not by men, On altar as white as the snow of the glen— There's a choice to be made, and a vow to pay, And blood to spill ere the break of day." "O, tell me, beings of marvellous birth, If ye are twa creatures of heaven or earth? For ye look an' ye speak, I watnae how— But I'm fear'd, I'm fear'd, little burdies for you!" "Ye needna be fear'd, for it's no our part To injure the kind and the humble heart; And those whose trust is in heaven high, The Angel of God will aye be nigh. We were twa sisters bred in a bower, As gay as the lark an' as fair as the flower; But few of the ills of this world we proved, Till we were slain by the hands we loved. Our bodies into the brake were flung, To feed the hawks and the ravens young; And there our little bones reclined, And white they bleach'd in the winter wind. Our youngest sister found them there, And wiped them clean wi' her yellow hair; And every day she sits and grieves, And covers them o'er wi' the wabron leaves. Then our twin souls they sought the sky, And were welcome guests in the heavens high; And we gat our choice through all the spheres What lives to lead for a thousand years. Then humble, old matron, lend us thine aid, For this night the choice is to be made; And we have sought thy lowly hearth For the last advice thou giv'st on earth. Say, shall we skim o'er this earth below, Beholding its scenes of joy and woe; And try to reward the virtuous heart, And make the unjust and the sinner smart? Or shall we choose the star of love, In a holy twilight still to move; Or fly to frolic, light and boon, On the silver mountains of the moon? O, tell us, for we hae nane beside! Our daddy's gane, and our mammy's a bride. She is blitliely laid in her bridal sheet, But a spirit stands at her bed feet. Ay, though she be laid in her bridal bed, There is guiltless blood upon her head; And on her soul the hue of a crime, That will never wash out till the end of time. Advise, advise! dear matron, advise! For you are humble, devout, and wise. We ask a last advice from you— Our hour is come—what shall we do?" "O, wondrous creatures, ye maun allow I naething can ken of beings like you; But ere the voice calls at eleven, Go ask your Father who is in heaven." Away, away, the burdies flew Aye singing, "Adieu, kind heart, adieu! They that hae blood on their hands may rue Afore the day-beam kiss the dew. There's naught sae heinous in human life As taking a helpless baby's life; There's naething sae kind aneath the sky As cheering the heart that soon maun die." The morning came wi' drift an' snaw, And with it news frae the bridal-ha', That death had been busy, and blood was spilt, May Heaven preserve us all from guilt! They tell of a deed—Believe't who can? Such tale was never told by man; The bridegroom is gone in fire and flood, And the bridal-bed is steep'd with blood! The poor auld matron died ere day, And was found as life was passing away; And twa bonny burdies sang in the bed, The one at the feet, the other the head. Now I have heard tales, and told them too, Hut this is beyond what I could do; And far hae I ridden, and far hae I gane, But burdies like these I never saw nane.
Fraser's Magazine.
ELLISTON AND THE ASS' HEAD.
Elliston was, in his day, the Napoleon of Drury-lane, but, like the conqueror at Austerlitz, he suffered his declensions, and the Surrey became to him a St. Helena. However, once an eagle always an eagle; and Robert William was no less aquiline in the day of adversity than in his palmy time of patent prosperity. He was born to carry things with a high hand, and he but fulfilled his destiny. The anecdote which we are about to relate, is one of the ten thousand instances of his lordly bearing. When, the season before last, "no effects" was written over the treasury-door of Covent-garden theatre, it will be remembered that several actors proffered their services gratis, in aid of the then humble, but now arrogant and persecuting establishment. Among these patriots was Mr. T.P. Cooke—(it was just after his promotion to the honorary rank of Admiral of the Blue). The Covent-garden managers jumped at the offer of the actor, who was in due time announced as having, in the true play-bill style, "most generously volunteered his services for six nights!" Cooke was advertised for William; Elliston having "most generously lent [N.B. this was not put in the bill] his musical score of Black-Eyed Susan, together with the identical captains' coats, worn at a hundred-and-fifty court-martials at the Surrey Theatre!" Cooke—the score—the coats, were all accepted, and made the most of by the now prosecuting managers of Covent-garden, who cleared out of the said Cooke, score, and coats, one thousand pounds at half-price on the first six nights of their exhibition. This is a fact; nay, we have lately heard it stated that all the sum was specially banked, to be used in a future war against the minors. Cooke was then engaged for twelve more nights, at ten pounds per night—a hackney-coach bringing him each night, hot from the Surrey stage, where he had previously made bargemen weep, and thrown nursery-maids into convulsions. Well, time drove on, and Cooke drove into the country. Elliston, who was always classical, having a due veneration for that divine "creature," Shakspeare, announced, on the anniversary of the poet's birth-day, a representation of the Stratford Jubilee. The wardrobe was ransacked, the property-man was on the alert; and, after much preparation, every thing was in readiness for the imposing spectacle.—No! There was one thing forgotten—one important "property!" Bottom must be a "feature" in the procession, and there was no ass's head! it would not do for the acting manager to apologize for the absence of the head—no, he could not have the face to do it. A head must be procured! Every one was in doubt and trepidation, when hope sounded in the clarion-like voice of Robert William. "Ben!" exclaimed Elliston, "take pen, ink, and paper, and write as follows!" Ben (Mr. Benjamin Fairbrother, the late manager's most trusty secretary) sat, "all ear" and Elliston, with finger on nether lip, proceeded.—
"My dear Charles, I am about to represent, 'with entirely new dresses, scenery, and decorations,' the Stratford Jubilee, in honour of the sweet swan of Avon. My scene-painter is the finest artist (except your Grieve) in Europe—my tailor is no less a genius, and I lately raised the salary of my property-man. This will give you some idea of the capabilities of the Surrey Theatre. However, in the hurry of "getting up," we have forgotten one property—every thing is well with us but our Bottom, and he wants a head. As it is too late to manufacture, not but that my property-man is the cleverest in the world (except the property-man of Covent-garden), can you, lend me an ass's head, and believe me, my dear Charles, Yours ever truly, ROBERT WILLIAM ELLISTON." "P.S. I had forgotten to acknowledge the return of the Black-Eyed Susan score, and coats. You were most welcome to them."
The letter was dispatched to Covent-garden Theatre, and in a brief time the bearer returned with the following answer:—
"MY DEAR ROBERT, It is with the most acute pain that I am compelled to refuse your trifling request. You are aware, my dear Sir, of the unfortunate situation of Covent-garden Theatre; it being at the present moment, with all the 'dresses, scenery, and decorations,' in the Court of Chancery, I cannot exercise that power which my friendship would dictate. I have spoken to Bartley, and he agrees with me (indeed, he always does), that I cannot lend you an ass's head—he is an authority on such a subject—without risking a reprimand from the Lord High Chancellor. Trusting to your generosity, and to your liberal construction of my refusal—and hoping that it will in no way interrupt that mutually cordial friendship that has ever subsisted between us. Believe me, ever yours, CHARLES KEMBLE." "P.S. When I next see you advertised for Rover, I intend to leave myself out of the bill to come and see it."
Of course this letter did not remain long unanswered. Ben was again in requisition, and the following was the result of his labours:—
"DEAR CHARLES, I regret the situation of Covent-garden Theatre—I also, for your sake, deeply regret that the law does not permit you to send me the 'property' in question. I knew that law alone could prevent you; for were it not for the vigilance of Equity, such is my opinion of the management of Covent-garden, that I am convinced, if left to the dictates of its own judgment, it would be enabled to spare asses' heads, not to the Surrey atone, but to every theatre in Christendom. Yours ever truly, ROBERT WILLIAM ELLISTON." "P.S. My wardrobe-keeper informs me that there are no less than seven buttons missing from the captains' coats. However, I have ordered their places to be instantaneously filled by others."
We entreat our readers not to receive the above as a squib of invention. We will not pledge ourselves that the letters are verbatim from the originals; but the loan of the Surrey music and coats to Covent-garden, with the refusal of Covent-garden's ass's head to the Surrey, is "true as holy writ."
Monthly Magazine.