Ballads By William Makepeace Thackeray Part 23

Quoth fat Father Peter to fat Father Hugh.

The shouts they came clearer, the foe they drew nearer; Oh, how the bolts whistled, and how the lights shone!

"I cannot get further, this running is murther; Come carry me, some one!" cried big Father John.

And even the statue grew frightened, "Od rat you!"

It cried, "Mr. Prior, I wish you'd get on!"

On tugged the good friar, but nigher and nigher Appeared the fierce Russians, with sword and with fire.

On tugged the good prior at Saint Sophy's desire,-- A scramble through bramble, through mud, and through mire, The swift arrows' whizziness causing a dizziness, Nigh done his business, fit to expire.

[And the pursuers fixed arrows into their tayles.]

Father Hyacinth tugged, and the monks they tugged after: The foemen pursued with a horrible laughter, And hurl'd their long spears round the poor brethren's ears, So true, that next day in the coats of each priest, Though never a wound was given, there were found A dozen arrows at least.

[How at the last gasp,]

Now the chase seemed at its worst, Prior and monks were fit to burst; Scarce you knew the which was first, Or pursuers or pursued; When the statue, by heaven's grace, Suddenly did change the face Of this interesting race, As a saint, sure, only could.

For as the jockey who at Epsom rides, When that his steed is spent and punished sore, Diggeth his heels into the courser's sides, And thereby makes him run one or two furlongs more; Even thus, betwixt the eighth rib and the ninth, The saint rebuked the prior, that weary creeper; Fresh strength into his limbs her kicks imparted, One bound he made, as gay as when he started.

[The friars won, and jumped into Borysthenes fluvius.]

Yes, with his brethren clinging at his cloak, The statue on his shoulders--fit to choke-- One most tremendous bound made Hyacinth, And soused friars, statue, and all, slap-dash into the Dnieper!

XIX.

[And how the Russians saw]

And when the Russians, in a fiery rank, Panting and fierce, drew up along the sh.o.r.e; (For here the vain pursuing they forbore, Nor cared they to surpa.s.s the river's bank,) Then, looking from the rocks and rushes dank, A sight they witnessed never seen before, And which, with its accompaniments glorious, Is writ i' the golden book, or liber aureus.

[The statue get off Hyacinth his back, and sit down with the friars on Hyacinth his cloak.]

Plump in the Dnieper flounced the friar and friends-- They dangling round his neck, he fit to choke.

When suddenly his most miraculous cloak Over the billowy waves itself extends, Down from his shoulders quietly descends The venerable Sophy's statue of oak; Which, sitting down upon the cloak so ample, Bids all the brethren follow its example!

[How in this manner of boat they sayled away.]

Each at her bidding sat, and sat at ease; The statue 'gan a gracious conversation, And (waving to the foe a salutation) Sail'd with her wondering happy proteges Gayly adown the wide Borysthenes, Until they came unto some friendly nation.

And when the heathen had at length grown shy of Their conquest, she one day came back again to Kioff.

XX.

[Finis, or the end.]

THINK NOT, O READER, THAT WE'RE LAUGHING AT YOU; YOU MAY GO TO KIOFF NOW, AND SEE THE STATUTE!

t.i.tMARSH'S CARMEN LILLIENSE.

LILLE, Sept. 2, 1843.

My heart is weary, my peace is gone, How shall I e'er my woes reveal?

I have no money, I lie in p.a.w.n, A stranger in the town of Lille.

I.

With twenty pounds but three weeks since From Paris forth did t.i.tmarsh wheel, I thought myself as rich a prince As beggar poor I'm now at Lille.

Confiding in my ample means-- In troth, I was a happy chiel!

I pa.s.sed the gates of Valenciennes, I never thought to come by Lille.

I never thought my twenty pounds Some rascal knave would dare to steal; I gayly pa.s.sed the Belgic bounds At Quievrain, twenty miles from Lille.

To Antwerp town I hasten'd post, And as I took my evening meal I felt my pouch,--my purse was lost, O Heaven! Why came I not by Lille?

I straightway called for ink and pen, To grandmamma I made appeal; Meanwhile a loan of guineas ten I borrowed from a friend so leal.

I got the cash from grandmamma (Her gentle heart my woes could feel,) But where I went, and what I saw, What matters? Here I am at Lille.

My heart is weary, my peace is gone, How shall I e'er my woes reveal?

I have no cash, I lie in p.a.w.n, A stranger in the town of Lille.

II.

To stealing I can never come, To p.a.w.n my watch I'm too genteel, Besides, I left my watch at home, How could I p.a.w.n it then at Lille?

"La note," at times the guests will say.

I turn as white as cold boil'd veal; I turn and look another way, I dare not ask the bill at Lille.

I dare not to the landlord say, "Good sir, I cannot pay your bill;"

He thinks I am a Lord Anglais, And is quite proud I stay at Lille.

He thinks I am a Lord Anglais, Like Rothschild or Sir Robert Peel, And so he serves me every day The best of meat and drink in Lille.

Yet when he looks me in the face I blush as red as cochineal; And think did he but know my case, How changed he'd be, my host of Lille.

My heart is weary, my peace is gone, How shall I e'er my woes reveal?

I have no money, I lie in p.a.w.n, A stranger in the town of Lille.