The Book of Ballads Part 8

Forth rushed I. O. Uwins, faster Than all winking--much afraid That the orders of the master Would be punctually obeyed: Sought his club, and then the sentence Of expulsion first he saw; No one dared to own acquaintance With a Bailiff's son-in-law.

Uselessly, down Bond Street strutting, Did he greet his friends of yore: Such a universal cutting Never man received before: Till at last his pride revolted-- Pale, and lean, and stern he grew; And his wife Rebecca bolted With a missionary Jew.

Ye who read this doleful ditty, Ask ye where is Uwins now?

Wend your way through London city, Climb to Holborn's lofty brow; Near the sign-post of the "n.i.g.g.e.r,"

Near the baked-potato shed, You may see a ghastly figure With three hats upon his head.

When the evening shades are dusky, Then the phantom form draws near, And, with accents low and husky, Pours effluvium in your ear; Craving an immediate barter Of your trousers or surtout; And you know the Hebrew martyr, Once the peerless I. O. U.

The Knyghte and the Taylzeour's Daughter.

Did you ever hear the story-- Old the legend is, and true-- How a knyghte of fame and glory All aside his armour threw; Spouted spear and p.a.w.ned habergeon, Pledged his sword and surcoat gay, Sate down cross-legged on the shop-board, Sate and st.i.tched the livelong day?

"Taylzeour! not one single shilling Does my breeches-pocket hold: I to pay am really willing, If I only had the gold.

Farmers none can I encounter, Graziers there are none to kill; Therefore, prithee, gentle taylzeour, Bother not about thy bill."

"Good Sir Knyghte, just once too often Have you tried that slippery trick; Hearts like mine you cannot soften, Vainly do you ask for tick.

Christmas and its bills are coming, Soon will they be showering in; Therefore, once for all, my rum un, I expect you'll post the tin.

"Mark, Sir Knyghte, that gloomy bayliffe In the palmer's amice brown; He shall lead you unto jail, if Instantly you stump not down."

Deeply swore the young crusader, But the taylzeour would not hear; And the gloomy, bearded bayliffe Evermore kept sneaking near.

"Neither groat nor maravedi Have I got my soul to bless; And I'd feel extremely seedy, Languishing in vile duresse.

Therefore listen, ruthless taylzeour, Take my steed and armour free, p.a.w.n them at thy Hebrew uncle's, And I'll work the rest for thee."

Lightly leaped he on the shop-board, Lightly crooked his manly limb, Lightly drove the glancing needle Through the growing doublet's rim Gaberdines in countless number Did the taylzeour knyghte repair, And entirely on cuc.u.mber And on cabbage lived he there.

Once his weary task beguiling With a low and plaintive song, That good knyghte o'er miles of broadcloth Drove the hissing goose along; From her lofty latticed window Looked the taylzeour's daughter down, And she instantly discovered That her heart was not her own.

"Canst thou love me, gentle stranger?"

Picking at a pink she stood-- And the knyghte at once admitted That he rather thought he could.

"He who weds me shall have riches, Gold, and lands, and houses free."

"For a single pair of--_small-clothes_, I would roam the world with thee!"

Then she flung him down the tickets Well the knyghte their import knew-- "Take this gold, and win thy armour From the unbelieving Jew.

Though in garments mean and lowly Thou wouldst roam the world with me, Only as a belted warrior, Stranger, will I wed with thee!"

At the feast of good Saint St.i.tchem, In the middle of the spring, There was some superior jousting, By the order of the King.

"Valiant knyghtes!" proclaimed the monarch, "You will please to understand, He who bears himself most bravely Shall obtain my daughter's hand."

Well and bravely did they bear them, Bravely battled, one and all; But the bravest in the tourney Was a warrior stout and tall.

None could tell his name or lineage, None could meet him in the field, And a goose regardant proper Hissed along his azure shield.

"Warrior, thou hast won my daughter!"

But the champion bowed his knee, "Royal blood may not be wasted On a simple knyghte like me.

She I love is meek and lowly; But her heart is kind and free; Also, there is tin forthcoming, Though she is of low degree."

Slowly rose that nameless warrior, Slowly turned his steps aside, Pa.s.sed the lattice where the princess Sate in beauty, sate in pride.

Pa.s.sed the row of n.o.ble ladies, Hied him to an humbler seat, And in silence laid the chaplet At the taylzeour's daughter's feet.

The Midnight Visit.

It was the Lord of Castlereagh, he sat within his room, His arms were crossed upon his breast, his face was marked with gloom; They said that St Helena's Isle had rendered up its charge, That France was bristling high in arms--the Emperor at large.

'Twas midnight! all the lamps were dim, and dull as death the street, It might be that the watchman slept that night upon his beat, When lo! a heavy foot was heard to creak upon the stair, The door revolved upon its hinge--Great Heaven!--What enters there?

A little man, of stately mien, with slow and solemn stride; His hands are crossed upon his back, his coat is opened wide; And on his vest of green he wears an eagle and a star,-- Saint George! protect us! 'tis THE MAN,--the thunder-bolt of war!

Is that the famous hat that waved along Marengo's ridge?

Are these the spurs of Austerlitz--the boots of Lodi's bridge?

Leads he the conscript swarm again from France's hornet hive?

What seeks the fell usurper here, in Britain, and alive?

Pale grew the Lord of Castlereagh, his tongue was parched and dry, As in his brain he felt the glare of that tremendous eye; What wonder if he shrank in fear, for who could meet the glance Of him who rear'd, 'mid Russian snows, the gonfalon of France?

From the side-pocket of his vest a pinch the despot took, Yet not a whit did he relax the sternness of his look: "Thou thoughtst the lion was afar, but he hath burst the chain-- The watchword for to-night is France--the answer St Helene.

"And didst thou deem the barren isle, or ocean waves, could bind The master of the universe--the monarch of mankind?

I tell thee, fool! the world itself is all too small for me; I laugh to scorn thy bolts and bars--I burst them, and am free.

"Thou thinkst that England hates me! Mark!--This very night my name Was thundered in its capital with tumult and acclaim!

They saw me, knew me, owned my power--Proud lord! I say, beware!

There be men within the Surrey side, who know to do and dare!

"To-morrow in thy very teeth my standard will I rear-- Ay, well that ashen cheek of thine may blanch and shrink with fear!

To-morrow night another town shall sink in ghastly flames; And as I crossed the Borodin, so shall I cross the Thames!

"Thou'lt seize me, wilt thou, ere the dawn? Weak lordling, do thy worst!

These hands ere now have broke thy chains, thy fetters they have burst.

Yet, wouldst thou know my resting-place? Behold, 'tis written there!

And let thy coward myrmidons approach me if they dare!"

Another pinch, another stride--he pa.s.ses through the door-- "Was it a phantom or a man was standing on the floor?

And could that be the Emperor that moved before my eyes?

Ah, yes! too sure it was himself, for here the paper lies!"

With trembling hands Lord Castlereagh undid the mystic scroll, With gla.s.sy eye essayed to read, for fear was on his soul-- "What's here?--'At Astley's, every night, the play of MOSCOW'S FALL!

NAPOLEON, for the thousandth time, by Mr GOMERSAL!'"

The Lay of The Lovelorn.