The Book of Ballads Part 12

"Ye maun come, and bring your ladye fere; Ye sall na say me no; And ye'se mind, we have aye a bed to spare For that gawsy chield Guizot."

Now he has ta'en her lily-white hand, And put it to his lip, And he has ta'en her to the strand, And left her in her s.h.i.+p.

"Will ye come back, sweet bird?" he cried, "Will ye come kindly here, When the lift is blue, and the lavrocks sing, In the spring-time o' the year?"

"It's I would blithely come, my Lord, To see ye in the spring; It's I would blithely venture back But for ae little thing.

"It isna that the winds are rude, Or that the waters rise, But I loe the roasted beef at hame, And no thae puddock-pies!"

The Ma.s.sacre of the Macpherson.

[FROM THE GAELIC.]

I.

Fhairshon swore a feud Against the clan M'Tavish; Marched into their land To murder and to rafish; For he did resolve To extirpate the vipers, With four-and-twenty men And five-and-thirty pipers.

II.

But when he had gone Half-way down Strath Canaan, Of his fighting tail Just three were remainin'.

They were all he had, To back him in ta battle; All the rest had gone Off, to drive ta cattle.

III.

"Fery coot!" cried Fhairshon, "So my clan disgraced is; Lads, we'll need to fight, Pefore we touch the peasties.

Here's Mhic-Mac-Methusaleh Coming wi' his fa.s.sals, Gillies seventy-three, And sixty Dhuinewa.s.sails!"

IV.

"Coot tay to you, sir; Are you not ta Fhairshon?

Was you coming here To fisit any person?

You are a plackguard, sir!

It is now six hundred Coot long years, and more, Since my glen was plundered."

V.

"Fat is tat you say?

Dare you c.o.c.k your peaver?

I will teach you, sir, Fat is coot pehaviour!

You shall not exist For another day more; I will shoot you, sir, Or stap you with my claymore!"

VI.

"I am fery glad, To learn what you mention, Since I can prevent Any such intention."

So Mhic-Mac-Methusaleh Gave some warlike howls, Trew his skhian-dhu, An' stuck it in his powels.

VII.

In this fery way Tied ta faliant Fhairshon, Who was always thought A superior person.

Fhairshon had a son, Who married Noah's daughter, And nearly spoiled ta Flood, By trinking up ta water:

VIII.

Which he would have done, I at least pelieve it, Had ta mixture peen Only half Glenlivet.

This is all my tale: Sirs, I hope 'tis new t'ye!

Here's your fery good healths, And tamn ta whusky duty!

[The six following Poems were among those forwarded to the Home Secretary, by the unsuccessful compet.i.tors for the Laureates.h.i.+p, on its becoming vacant by the death of Southey. How they came into our possession is a matter between Sir James Graham and ourselves. The result of the contest could never have been doubtful, least of all to the great poet who then succeeded to the bays. His own sonnet on the subject is full of the serene consciousness of superiority, which does not even admit the idea of rivalry, far less of defeat.

Bays! which in former days have graced the brow Of some, who lived and loved, and sang and died; Leaves that were gathered on the pleasant side Of old Parna.s.sus from Apollo's bough; With palpitating hand I take thee now, Since worthier minstrel there is none beside, And with a thrill of song half deified, I bind them proudly on my locks of snow.

There shall they bide, till he who follows next, Of whom I cannot even guess the name, Shall by Court favour, or some vain pretext Of fancied merit, desecrate the same,-- And think, perchance, he wears them quite as well As the sole bard who sang of Peter Bell!]

The above note, which appeared in the first and subsequent editions of this volume, is characteristic of the audacious spirit of fun in which Bon Gaultier revelled. The sonnet here ascribed to Wordsworth must have been believed by some matter-of-fact people to be really by him. On his death in 1857, in an article on the subject of the vacant Laureate-s.h.i.+p, it was quoted in a leading journal as proof of Wordsworth's complacent estimate of his own supremacy over all contemporary poets. In writing the sonnet I was well aware that there was some foundation for his not unjust high appreciation of his own prowess, as the phrase "sole bard"

pretty clearly indicates, but I never dreamt that any one would fail to see the joke.

The Laureates' Tourney.

BY THE HON. T--- B--- M---.

FYTTE THE FIRST.

"What news, what news, thou pilgrim grey, what news from southern land?

How fare the bold Conservatives, how is it with Ferrand?

How does the little Prince of Wales--how looks our lady Queen?

And tell me, is the monthly nurse once more at Windsor seen?"

"I bring no tidings from the Court, nor from St Stephen's hall; I've heard the thundering tramp of horse, and the trumpet's battle-call; And these old eyes have seen a fight, which England ne'er hath seen, Since fell King Richard sobbed his soul through blood on Bosworth Green.

'He's dead, he's dead, the Laureate's dead!' 'Twas thus the cry began, And straightway every garret-roof gave up its minstrel man; From Grub Street, and from Houndsditch, and from Farringdon Within, The poets all towards Whitehall poured on with eldritch din.

Loud yelled they for Sir James the Graham: {157} but sore afraid was he; A hardy knight were he that might face such a minstrelsie.

'Now by St Giles of Netherby, my patron Saint, I swear, I'd rather by a thousand crowns Lord Palmerston were here!--

'What is't ye seek, ye rebel knaves--what make you there beneath?'

'The bays, the bays! we want the bays! we seek the laureate wreath!

We seek the b.u.t.t of generous wine that cheers the sons of song; Choose thou among us all, Sir Knight--we may not tarry long!'

Loud laughed the good Sir James in scorn--'Rare jest it were, I think, But one poor b.u.t.t of Xeres, and a thousand rogues to drink!

An' if it flowed with wine or beer, 'tis easy to be seen, That dry within the hour would be the well of Hippocrene.

'Tell me, if on Parna.s.sus' heights there grow a thousand sheaves: Or has Apollo's laurel bush yet borne ten hundred leaves?