The Book of Ballads Part 24

"Smooth the locks that o'er thy forehead Now in loose disorder stray; Pare thy nails, and from thy whiskers Cut those ragged points away; Let no more thy calculations Thy bewildered brain beset; Life has other hopes than c.o.c.ker's, Other joys than tare and tret.

"Haste thee, for I ordered dinner, Waiting to the very last, Twenty minutes after seven, And 'tis now the quarter past.

'Tis a dinner which Lucullus Would have wept with joy to see, One, might wake the soul of Curtis From death's drowsy atrophy.

"There is soup of real turtle, Turbot, and the dainty sole; And the mottled roe of lobsters Blushes through the b.u.t.ter-bowl.

There the lordly haunch of mutton, Tender as the mountain gra.s.s, Waits to mix its ruddy juices With the girdling caper-sauce.

"There a stag, whose branching forehead Spoke him monarch of the herds, He whose flight was o'er the heather Swift as through the air the bird's, Yields for thee a dish of cutlets; And the haunch that wont to dash O'er the roaring mountain-torrent, Smokes in most delicious hash.

"There, besides, are amber jellies Floating like a golden dream; Ginger from the far Bermudas, Dishes of Italian cream; And a princely apple-dumpling, Which my own fair fingers wrought, Shall unfold its nectared treasures To thy lips all smoking hot.

"Ha! I see thy brow is clearing, l.u.s.tre flashes from thine eyes; To thy lips I see the moisture Of antic.i.p.ation rise.

Hark! the dinner-bell is sounding!"

"Only wait one moment, Jane: I'll be dressed, and down, before you Can get up the iced champagne!"

The Husband's Pet.i.tion.

Come hither, my heart's darling, Come, sit upon my knee, And listen, while I whisper A boon I ask of thee.

You need not pull my whiskers So amorously, my dove; 'Tis something quite apart from The gentle cares of love.

I feel a bitter craving-- A dark and deep desire, That glows beneath my bosom Like coals of kindled fire.

The pa.s.sion of the nightingale, When singing to the rose, Is feebler than the agony That murders my repose!

Nay, dearest! do not doubt me, Though madly thus I speak-- I feel thy arms about me, Thy tresses on my cheek: I know the sweet devotion That links thy heart with mine,-- I know my soul's emotion Is doubly felt by thine:

And deem not that a shadow Hath fallen across my love: No, sweet, my love is shadowless, As yonder heaven above: These little taper fingers-- Ah, Jane! how white they be!-- Can well supply the cruel want That almost maddens me.

Thou wilt not sure deny me My first and fond request; I pray thee, by the memory Of all we cherish best-- By all the dear remembrance Of those delicious days, When, hand in hand, we wandered Along the summer braes;

By all we felt, unspoken, When 'neath the early moon, We sat beside the rivulet, In the leafy month of June; And by the broken whisper That fell upon my ear, More sweet than angel music, When first I wooed thee, dear!

By thy great vow which bound thee For ever to my side, And by the ring that made thee My darling and my bride!

Thou wilt not fail nor falter, But bend thee to the task-- A BOILED SHEEP'S-HEAD ON SUNDAY Is all the boon I ask!

Sonnet to Britain.

BY THE D--- OF W---

Halt! Shoulder arms! Recover! As you were!

Right wheel! Eyes left! Attention! Stand at ease!

O Britain! O my country! Words like these Have made thy name a terror and a fear To all the nations. Witness Ebro's banks, a.s.saye, Toulouse, Nivelle, and Waterloo, Where the grim despot muttered--_Sauve qui peut_!

And Ney fled darkling.--Silence in the ranks!

Inspired by these, amidst the iron crash Of armies, in the centre of his troop The soldier stands--unmoveable, not rash-- Until the forces of the foeman droop; Then knocks the Frenchmen to eternal smash, Pounding them into mummy. Shoulder, hoop!

THE END.

PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS.

NOTES.

{vii} Prologue de premiere livre.

{ix} A fact. That such a subject for cathedral chimes, and in Scotland, too, could ever have been chosen, will scarcely be believed. But my astonished ears often heard it.

{7} W. Gomersal, for many years a leading actor and rider at Astley's Amphitheatre.

{8} John Esdaile Widdicomb, from 1819 to 1852 riding-master and conductor of the ring at Astley's Amphitheatre.

{11} Stickney, a very das.h.i.+ng and graceful rider at Astley's.

{12} A not uncommon tribute from the gallery at Astley's to the dash and daring of the heroes of the ring was half-eaten oranges or fragments of orange-peel. Either oranges are less in vogue, or manners are better in the galleries of theatres and circuses in the present day.

{18} The allusion here is to one of Ducrow's remarkable feats. Entering the ring with the reins in his hands of five horses abreast, and standing on the back of the centre horse, he worked them round the ring at high speed, changing now and then with marvellous dexterity their relative positions, and with his feet always on more than one of them, ending with a foot on each of the extreme two, so that, as described, "the outer and the inner felt the pressure of his toes."

{44} The value of these Bonds at the time this poem was written was precisely nil.

{49} A fact.

{64} The Yankee subst.i.tute for the _chapeau de soie_.

{97} The Marquis of Waterford,

{99} The fas.h.i.+onable abbreviation for a thousand pounds.

{117} The reference here and in a subsequent verse is to a song very popular at the time:--

"All round my hat I vears a green villow, All round my hat for a twelvemonth and a day, And if any van should arsk you the reason vy I vears it, Say, all for my true love that's far, far away.

'Twas agoin of my rounds on the streets I first did meet her, 'Twas agoin of my rounds that first she met my heye, And I never heard a voice more louder nor more sweeter, As she cried, 'Who'll buy my cabbages, my cabbages who'll buy?'"

There were several more verses, and being set to a very taking air, it was a reigning favourite with the "Social Chucksters" of the day. Even scholars thought it worth turning into Latin verse. I remember reading in some short-lived journal a very clever version of it, the first verse of which ran thus--

"Omne circa petusum sertum gero viridem Per annum circa petasum et unum diem plus.

Si quis te rogaret, cur tale sertum gererem, Dic, 'Omne propter corculum qui est inpartibus.'"

Allusions to the willow, as an emblem of grief, are of a very old date.

"Sing all, a green willow must be my garland," is the refrain of the song which haunted Desdemona on the eve of her death (Oth.e.l.lo, act iv. sc. 3).

That exquisite scene, and the beautiful air to which some contemporary of Shakespeare wedded it, will make "The Willow Song" immortal.