Rhymes of the East and Re-collected Verses Part 8

ADAM

_After W. W._

An adventure of the Author's, and one designed to show that grievances may be met with in the cottages of the humblest, and may take the most unexpected forms.

When in my white-washed walls confined Till eve her freedom brings, I often turn a musing mind To think awhile of things,

And thus about the noontide glow To-day my thoughts recalled Old Adam, whom I once did know, A dear old thing, though bald.

A village Gravedigger was he With Newgate fringe of grey, The only man that one could see At work on Sat.u.r.day!

For on those evenings (which provide A due release to toil) He shovelled wearily, and plied His task upon the soil.

Therein a sorrow Adam had, And when he knew me well He told this tale, and made me sad, Which now to you I tell.

For once my feet did chance to stray Across the old churchyard, And Adam sighed, and paused to say 'It's werry, werry hard.'

I marvelled much to hear him sigh, And when he paused again, 'Come, come, you quaint old thing,' said I, 'Why thus this tone of pain?'

In silence Adam rose, and gained A seat amid the stones, And thus the veteran complained, The dear old bag of bones.

'Down by the wall the Village goes, How horrid sounds their glee, On Sat.u.r.days they early close, They have their Sundays free;

'And here, on this depressing spot, I cannot choose but moan That I, a labouring man, have not An hour to call my own.

'The Blacksmith in his Sunday things, The Clerk that leaves his till, Can give their thoughts of labour wings, And frolic as they will.

'To me they--drat 'em!--never give A thought; they wander by, An irritation while they live, A nuisance when they die.

'If there be one that needs lament The way these folks behave, 'Tis he whose holidays are spent In digging someone's grave,

'For when a person takes and dies, On Monday though it be, They _never_ hold his obsequies Till Sunday after three.

'And thus it fares through their delay, That I may not begin To dig the grave till Sat.u.r.day,-- On Sunday fill it in.

'My Sabbath ease is broken through, My Sat.u.r.days destroyed; Many employ me; _very few Have left me unemployed_!'

Again did Adam murmur 'Drat!'

And smote the old-churchyard, And said, as on his hands he spat, 'It's werry, werry hard!'

And as I rose, the path to take That led me home again, My head was in my wideawake, His words were in my brain.

ELEGY ON A RHINOCEROS

RECENTLY DECEASED

Come, let us weep for Begum; he is dead.

Dead; and afar, where Thamis' waters lave The busy marge, he lies unvisited, Unsung; above no cypress branches wave, Nor tributary blossoms fringe his grave; Only would these poor numbers advertise His copious charms, and mourn for his demise.

Blithesome was he and beautiful; the Zoo Hath nought to match with Begum. He was one Of infinite humour; well indeed he knew To catch with mobile lips th' impetuous bun Tossed him-ward by some sire-encouraged son, Half-fearful, yet of pride fulfilled to note The dough, swift-homing down th' exultant throat.

Whilom he pensive stood, infoliate Of comfortable mud, and idly stirred His tiny caudal, disproportionate But not ungraceful, while a wanton herd Of revellers the mystic lens preferred; Whereof the focus rightly they addrest; And, Phoebus being kind, the b.u.t.ton prest.

Then, being frolic, he, as one distraught, Would blindly, stumbling, seek the watery verge And sink, nor rise again. But when, untaught In craft, the mourners raised the untimely dirge, Lo! otherwhere himself would swift emerge Incontinent, and crisp his ta.s.selled ears; And, all vivacious, own the sounding cheers.

Nothing of dark suspicion nor of guile Was limned on Begum; his the mirthful glance, The genial port, the comprehensive smile:-- The very sunbeams shimmering loved to dance Within that honest, open countenance;-- And far as eye could pierce, his roomy grin Was pink, as 'twere Aurora dwelt therein.

Yet he is dead! Whether the froward cates Some lawless lodgment found, nor coughs released: Or if adown those hospitable gates Drave the strong North, or shrilled the ravening East, And, ill-requiting, slew the wretched beast, We nothing know; only the news is cried, Begum is dead: we know not how he died.

Still, though the callous bards neglect to hymn Thy praises, Begum; though, on dross intent, The hireling sculptor pauseth not to limn Thy s.p.a.cious visage, kindly hands are bent E'en now to stuff thy frail integument.

Then sleep in peace, Beloved; blest Sultan Of some Rhinokeraunian Devachan.

IN SEVERAL KEYS

No. 1

'MARIE'

We hear the opening refrain, Marie!

We thought so; here you are again, Marie!

A simple tune, in simple thirds, Beloved of after-dinner birds; A legend, self-condemned as 'words,'

Marie!

She lingers by the flowing tide, Marie; A 'fisher-lad' is close beside Marie; He gazes in her 'eyes so blue'; _Marie, Marie, my heart is true_; And then,--you do, you know you do, Marie!--

But vain is every mortal wish, Marie; And 'fisher-lads' have got to fish, Marie; O blinding tears! O cheeks 'so' wet!

_Marie, I come again!_ And yet I shouldn't feel disposed to bet, Marie!

A tempest drives across the wave, Marie; With triplets in the treble stave, Marie; The player pounds. With bulging eyes Th' excited vocalist replies; The maddened octaves drown his cries, Marie!

The storm is past. We hear again, Marie, The simple thirds, the waltz refrain, Marie; We only see some drifting wrack, An empty bunk, a battered smack, Alas! Alas!! Alack!!! Alack!!!!

Marie!

O good old words, O 'tears that rise,'

Marie!

O good young fisher-lad that dies, Marie!

We leave you on the lonely sh.o.r.e;-- You wave your hands for evermore, A bleak, disgusted semaph.o.r.e, Marie!