Ballads by William Makepeace Thackeray

This etext was prepared by Donald Lainson, BALLADS by William Makepeace Thackeray CONTENTS The Chronicle of the Drum. Part I Part II Abd-el-Kader at Toulon; or, The Caged Hawk The King of Brentford’s Testament The White Squall Peg of Limavaddy May-Day Ode The Ballad of Bouillabaisse The Mahogany Tree The Yankee Volunteers The Pen
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This etext was prepared by Donald Lainson,


by William Makepeace Thackeray


The Chronicle of the Drum. Part I
Part II
Abd-el-Kader at Toulon; or, The Caged Hawk The King of Brentford’s Testament
The White Squall
Peg of Limavaddy
May-Day Ode
The Ballad of Bouillabaisse
The Mahogany Tree
The Yankee Volunteers
The Pen and the Album
Mrs. Katherine’s Lantern
Lucy’s Birthday
The Cane-Bottom’d Chair
Piscator and Piscatrix
The Rose upon my Balcony
Ronsard to his Mistress
At the Church Gate
The Age of Wisdom
Sorrows of Werther
A Doe in the City
The Last of May
“Ah, Bleak and Barren was the Moor” Song of the Violet
Fairy Days
From Pocahontas


What makes my Heart to Thrill and Glow? The Ghazul, or, Oriental Love-Song:–
The Rocks
The Merry Bard
The Caïque
My Nora
To Mary
The Minaret Bells
Come to the Greenwood Tree


A Tragic Story
The Chaplet
The King on the Tower
On a very Old Woman
A Credo


Le Roi d’Yvetot
The King of Yvetot
The King of Brentford
Le Grenier
The Garret
Roger Bontemps
Jolly Jack


To his Serving Boy
Ad Ministram


The Knightly Guerdon
The Almack’s Adieu
When the Gloom is on the Glen.
The Red Flag
Dear Jack
Commanders of the Faithful
When Moonlike ore the Hazure Seas
King Canute
Friar’s Song
Atra Cura
Lines upon my Sister’s Portrait
The Legend of St. Sophia of Kioff
Titmarsh’s Carmen Lilliense
The Willow-Tree
The Willow-Tree (another version)


The Pimlico Pavilion
The Crystal Palace
Molony’s Lament
Mr. Molony’s Account of the Ball given to the Nepaulese Ambassador by the Peninsular and Oriental Company The Battle of Limerick
Larry O’Toole
The Rose of Flora
The Last Irish Grievance


The Wofle New Ballad of Jane Roney and Mary Brown The Three Christmas Waits
Lines on a Late Hospicious Ewent
The Ballad of Eliza Davis
Damages, Two Hundred Pounds
The Knight and the Lady
Jacob Homnium’s Hoss
The Speculators
A Woeful New Ballad of the Protestant Conspiracy to take the Pope’s Life
The Lamentable Ballad of the Foundling of Shoreditch The Organ Boy’s Appeal

Little Billee
The End of the Play
Vanitas Vanitatum




At Paris, hard by the Maine barriers, Whoever will choose to repair,
Midst a dozen of wooden-legged warriors May haply fall in with old Pierre.
On the sunshiny bench of a tavern
He sits and he prates of old wars, And moistens his pipe of tobacco
With a drink that is named after Mars.

The beer makes his tongue run the quicker, And as long as his tap never fails,
Thus over his favorite liquor
Old Peter will tell his old tales. Says he, “In my life’s ninety summers
Strange changes and chances I’ve seen,– So here’s to all gentlemen drummers
That ever have thump’d on a skin.

“Brought up in the art military
For four generations we are;
My ancestors drumm’d for King Harry, The Huguenot lad of Navarre.
And as each man in life has his station According as Fortune may fix,
While Condé was waving the baton,
My grandsire was trolling the sticks.

“Ah! those were the days for commanders! What glories my grandfather won,
Ere bigots, and lackeys, and panders The fortunes of France had undone!
In Germany, Flanders, and Holland,– What foeman resisted us then?
No; my grandsire was ever victorious, My grandsire and Monsieur Turenne.

“He died: and our noble battalions
The jade fickle Fortune forsook;
And at Blenheim, in spite of our valiance, The victory lay with Malbrook.
The news it was brought to King Louis; Corbleu! how his Majesty swore
When he heard they had taken my grandsire: And twelve thousand gentlemen more.

“At Namur, Ramillies, and Malplaquet
Were we posted, on plain or in trench: Malbrook only need to attack it
And away from him scamper’d we French. Cheer up! ’tis no use to be glum, boys,– ‘Tis written, since fighting begun,
That sometimes we fight and we conquer, And sometimes we fight and we run.

“To fight and to run was our fate:
Our fortune and fame had departed. And so perish’d Louis the Great,–
Old, lonely, and half broken-hearted. His coffin they pelted with mud,
His body they tried to lay hands on; And so having buried King Louis
They loyally served his great-grandson.

“God save the beloved King Louis!
(For so he was nicknamed by some,) And now came my father to do his
King’s orders and beat on the drum. My grandsire was dead, but his bones
Must have shaken I’m certain for joy, To hear daddy drumming the English
From the meadows of famed Fontenoy.

“So well did he drum in that battle
That the enemy show’d us their backs; Corbleu! it was pleasant to rattle
The sticks and to follow old Saxe! We next had Soubise as a leader,
And as luck hath its changes and fits, At Rossbach, in spite of dad’s drumming, ‘Tis said we were beaten by Fritz.

“And now daddy cross’d the Atlantic,
To drum for Montcalm and his men;
Morbleu! but it makes a man frantic To think we were beaten again!
My daddy he cross’d the wide ocean, My mother brought me on her neck,
And we came in the year fifty-seven To guard the good town of Quebec.

“In the year fifty-nine came the Britons,– Full well I remember the day,–
They knocked at our gates for admittance, Their vessels were moor’d in our bay.
Says our general, ‘Drive me yon redcoats Away to the sea whence they come!’
So we marched against Wolfe and his bull-dogs, We marched at the sound of the drum.

“I think I can see my poor mammy
With me in her hand as she waits,
And our regiment, slowly retreating, Pours back through the citadel gates.
Dear mammy she looks in their faces, And asks if her husband is come?
–He is lying all cold on the glacis, And will never more beat on the drum.

“Come, drink, ’tis no use to be glum, boys, He died like a soldier in glory;
Here’s a glass to the health of all drum-boys, And now I’ll commence my own story.
Once more did we cross the salt ocean, We came in the year eighty-one;
And the wrongs of my father the drummer Were avenged by the drummer his son.

“In Chesapeake Bay we were landed.
In vain strove the British to pass: Rochambeau our armies commanded,
Our ships they were led by De Grasse. Morbleu! How I rattled the drumsticks
The day we march’d into Yorktown;
Ten thousand of beef-eating British Their weapons we caused to lay down.

“Then homewards returning victorious, In peace to our country we came,
And were thanked for our glorious actions By Louis Sixteenth of the name.
What drummer on earth could be prouder Than I, while I drumm’d at Versailles
To the lovely court ladies in powder, And lappets, and long satin-tails?

“The Princes that day pass’d before us, Our countrymen’s glory and hope;
Monsieur, who was learned in Horace, D’Artois, who could dance the tightrope. One night we kept guard for the Queen
At her Majesty’s opera-box,
While the King, that majestical monarch, Sat filing at home at his locks.

“Yes, I drumm’d for the fair Antoinette, And so smiling she look’d and so tender, That our officers, privates, and drummers, All vow’d they would die to defend her. But she cared not for us honest fellows, Who fought and who bled in her wars,
She sneer’d at our gallant Rochambeau, And turned Lafayette out of doors.

“Ventrebleu! then I swore a great oath, No more to such tyrants to kneel.
And so just to keep up my drumming, One day I drumm’d down the Bastille.
Ho, landlord! a stoup of fresh wine. Come, comrades, a bumper we’ll try,
And drink to the year eighty-nine
And the glorious fourth of July!

“Then bravely our cannon it thunder’d As onwards our patriots bore.
Our enemies were but a hundred,
And we twenty thousand or more.
They carried the news to King Louis. He heard it as calm as you please,
And, like a majestical monarch,
Kept filing his locks and his keys.

“We show’d our republican courage,
We storm’d and we broke the great gate in, And we murder’d the insolent governor
For daring to keep us a-waiting.
Lambesc and his squadrons stood by: They never stirr’d finger or thumb.
The saucy aristocrats trembled
As they heard the republican drum.

“Hurrah! what a storm was a-brewing:
The day of our vengeance was come! Through scenes of what carnage and ruin
Did I beat on the patriot drum!
Let’s drink to the famed tenth of August: At midnight I beat the tattoo,
And woke up the Pikemen of Paris
To follow the bold Barbaroux.

“With pikes, and with shouts, and with torches March’d onwards our dusty battalions,
And we girt the tall castle of Louis, A million of tatterdemalions!
We storm’d the fair gardens where tower’d The walls of his heritage splendid.
Ah, shame on him, craven and coward, That had not the heart to defend it!

“With the crown of his sires on his head, His nobles and knights by his side,
At the foot of his ancestors’ palace ‘Twere easy, methinks, to have died.
But no: when we burst through his barriers, Mid heaps of the dying and dead,
In vain through the chambers we sought him– He had turn’d like a craven and fled.

. . . . .

“You all know the Place de la Concorde? ‘Tis hard by the Tuilerie wall.
Mid terraces, fountains, and statues, There rises an obelisk tall.
There rises an obelisk tall,
All garnish’d and gilded the base is: ‘Tis surely the gayest of all
Our beautiful city’s gay places.

“Around it are gardens and flowers,
And the Cities of France on their thrones, Each crown’d with his circlet of flowers Sits watching this biggest of stones!
I love to go sit in the sun there,
The flowers and fountains to see,
And to think of the deeds that were done there In the glorious year ninety-three.

“‘Twas here stood the Altar of Freedom; And though neither marble nor gilding
Was used in those days to adorn
Our simple republican building,
Corbleu! but the MERE GUILLOTINE
Cared little for splendor or show, So you gave her an axe and a beam,
And a plank and a basket or so.

“Awful, and proud, and erect,
Here sat our republican goddess.
Each morning her table we deck’d
With dainty aristocrats’ bodies.
The people each day flocked around
As she sat at her meat and her wine: ‘Twas always the use of our nation
To witness the sovereign dine.

“Young virgins with fair golden tresses, Old silver-hair’d prelates and priests, Dukes, marquises, barons, princesses,
Were splendidly served at her feasts. Ventrebleu! but we pamper’d our ogress
With the best that our nation could bring, And dainty she grew in her progress,
And called for the head of a King!

“She called for the blood of our King, And straight from his prison we drew him; And to her with shouting we led him,
And took him, and bound him, and slew him. ‘The monarchs of Europe against me
Have plotted a godless alliance
I’ll fling them the head of King Louis,’ She said, ‘as my gage of defiance.’

“I see him as now, for a moment,
Away from his jailers he broke;
And stood at the foot of the scaffold, And linger’d, and fain would have spoke. ‘Ho,drummer! quick! silence yon Capet,’
Says Santerre, ‘with a beat of your drum.’ Lustily then did I tap it,
And the son of Saint Louis was dumb.


“The glorious days of September
Saw many aristocrats fall;
‘Twas then that our pikes drunk the blood In the beautiful breast of Lamballe.
Pardi, ’twas a beautiful lady!
I seldom have looked on her like;
And I drumm’d for a gallant procession, That marched with her head on a pike.

“Let’s show the pale head to the Queen, We said–she’ll remember it well.
She looked from the bars of her prison, And shriek’d as she saw it, and fell.
We set up a shout at her screaming, We laugh’d at the fright she had shown
At the sight of the head of her minion; How she’d tremble to part with her own.

“We had taken the head of King Capet, We called for the blood of his wife;
Undaunted she came to the scaffold, And bared her fair neck to the knife.
As she felt the foul fingers that touch’d her, She shrunk, but she deigned not to speak: She look’d with a royal disdain,
And died with a blush on her cheek!

“‘Twas thus that our country was saved; So told us the safety committee!
But psha! I’ve the heart of a soldier, All gentleness, mercy, and pity.
I loathed to assist at such deeds,
And my drum beat its loudest of tunes As we offered to justice offended
The blood of the bloody tribunes.

“Away with such foul recollections!
No more of the axe and the block;
I saw the last fight of the sections, As they fell ‘neath our guns at Saint Rock. Young BONAPARTE led us that day;
When he sought the Italian frontier, I follow’d my gallant young captain,
I follow’d him many a long year.

“We came to an army in rags,
Our general was but a boy
When we first saw the Austrian flags Flaunt proud in the fields of Savoy.
In the glorious year ninety-six,
We march’d to the banks of the Po; I carried my drum and my sticks,
And we laid the proud Austrian low.

“In triumph we enter’d Milan,
We seized on the Mantuan keys;
The troops of the Emperor ran,
And the Pope he tell down on his knees.– Pierre’s comrades here call’d a fresh bottle, And clubbing together their wealth,
They drank to the Army of Italy,
And General Bonaparte’s health.

The drummer now bared his old breast, And show’d us a plenty of scars,
Rude presents that Fortune had made him, In fifty victorious wars.
“This came when I follow’d bold Kleber– ‘Twas shot by a Mameluke gun;
And this from an Austrian sabre,
When the field of Marengo was won.

“My forehead has many deep furrows,
But this is the deepest of all:
A Brunswicker made it at Jena,
Beside the fair river of Saal.
This cross, ’twas the Emperor gave it; (God bless him!) it covers a blow;
I had it at Austerlitz fight,
As I beat on my drum in the snow.

“‘Twas thus that we conquer’d and fought; But wherefore continue the story?
There’s never a baby in France
But has heard of our chief and our glory,– But has heard of our chief and our fame, His sorrows and triumphs can tell,
How bravely Napoleon conquer’d,
How bravely and sadly he fell.

“It makes my old heart to beat higher, To think of the deeds that I saw;
I follow’d bold Ney through the fire, And charged at the side of Murat.”
And so did old Peter continue
His story of twenty brave years;
His audience follow’d with comments– Rude comments of curses and tears.

He told how the Prussians in vain
Had died in defence of their land; His audience laugh’d at the story,
And vow’d that their captain was grand! He had fought the red English, he said,
In many a battle of Spain;
They cursed the red English, and prayed To meet them and fight them again.

He told them how Russia was lost,
Had winter not driven them back;
And his company cursed the quick frost, And doubly they cursed the Cossack.
He told how the stranger arrived;
They wept at the tale of disgrace: And they long’d but for one battle more, The stain of their shame to efface!

“Our country their hordes overrun,
We fled to the fields of Champagne, And fought them, though twenty to one,
And beat them again and again!
Our warrior was conquer’d at last;
They bade him his crown to resign; To fate and his country he yielded
The rights of himself and his line.

“He came, and among us he stood,
Around him we press’d in a throng: We could not regard him for weeping,
Who had led us and loved us so long. ‘I have led you for twenty long years,’
Napoleon said, ere he went
‘Wherever was honor I found you,
And with you, my sons, am content!

“‘Though Europe against me was arm’d, Your chiefs and my people are true;
I still might have struggled with fortune, And baffled all Europe with you.

“‘But France would have suffer’d the while, ‘Tis best that I suffer alone;
I go to my place of exile,
To write of the deeds we have done.

“‘Be true to the king that they give you, We may not embrace ere we part;
But, General, reach me your hand,
And press me, I pray, to your heart.’

“He called for our battle standard;
One kiss to the eagle he gave.
‘Dear eagle!’ he said, ‘may this kiss Long sound in the hearts of the brave!’ ‘Twas thus that Napoleon left us;
Our people were weeping and mute,
As he pass’d through the lines of his guard, And our drums beat the notes of salute.

. . . . .

“I look’d when the drumming was o’er, I look’d, but our hero was gone;
We were destined to see him once more, When we fought on the Mount of St. John. The Emperor rode through our files;
‘Twas June, and a fair Sunday morn; The lines of our warriors for miles
Stretch’d wide through the Waterloo corn.

“In thousands we stood on the plain,
The red-coats were crowning the height; ‘Go scatter yon English,’ he said;
‘We’ll sup, lads, at Brussels tonight.’ We answered his voice with a shout;
Our eagles were bright in the sun; Our drums and our cannon spoke out,
And the thundering battle begun.

“One charge to another succeeds,
Like waves that a hurricane bears; All day do our galloping steeds
Dash fierce on the enemy’s squares. At noon we began the fell onset:
We charged up the Englishman’s hill; And madly we charged it at sunset–
His banners were floating there still.

“–Go to! I will tell you no more;
You know how the battle was lost.
Ho! fetch me a beaker of wine,
And, comrades, I’ll give you a toast. I’ll give you a curse on all traitors,
Who plotted our Emperor’s ruin;
And a curse on those red-coated English, Whose bayonets help’d our undoing.

“A curse on those British assassins,
Who order’d the slaughter of Ney;
A curse on Sir Hudson, who tortured The life of our hero away.
A curse on all Russians–I hate them– On all Prussian and Austrian fry;
And oh! but I pray we may meet them, And fight them again ere I die.”

‘Twas thus old Peter did conclude
His chronicle with curses fit.
He spoke the tale in accents rude,
In ruder verse I copied it.

Perhaps the tale a moral bears,
(All tales in time to this must come,) The story of two hundred years
Writ on the parchment of a drum.

What Peter told with drum and stick,
Is endless theme for poet’s pen:
Is found in endless quartos thick,
Enormous books by learned men.

And ever since historian writ,
And ever since a bard could sing,
Doth each exalt with all his wit
The noble art of murdering.

We love to read the glorious page,
How bold Achilles kill’d his foe:
And Turnus, fell’d by Trojans’ rage, Went howling to the shades below.

How Godfrey led his red-cross knights, How mad Orlando slash’d and slew;
There’s not a single bard that writes But doth the glorious theme renew.

And while, in fashion picturesque,
The poet rhymes of blood and blows, The grave historian at his desk
Describes the same in classic prose.

Go read the works of Reverend Cox,
You’ll duly see recorded there
The history of the self-same knocks Here roughly sung by Drummer Pierre.

Of battles fierce and warriors big,
He writes in phrases dull and slow, And waves his cauliflower wig,
And shouts “Saint George for Marlborow!”

Take Doctor Southey from the shelf,
An LL. D,–a peaceful man;
Good Lord, how doth he plume himself Because we beat the Corsican!

From first to last his page is filled With stirring tales how blows were struck. He shows how we the Frenchmen kill’d,
And praises God for our good luck.

Some hints, ’tis true, of politics
The doctors give and statesman’s art: Pierre only bangs his drum and sticks,
And understands the bloody part.

He cares not what the cause may be,
He is not nice for wrong and right; But show him where’s the enemy,
He only asks to drum and fight.

They bid him fight,–perhaps he wins. And when he tells the story o’er,
The honest savage brags and grins,
And only longs to fight once more.

But luck may change, and valor fail,
Our drummer, Peter, meet reverse,
And with a moral points his tale–
The end of all such tales–a curse.

Last year, my love, it was my hap
Behind a grenadier to be,
And, but he wore a hairy cap,
No taller man, methinks, than me.

Prince Albert and the Queen, God wot, (Be blessings on the glorious pair!)
Before us passed, I saw them not,
I only saw a cap of hair.

Your orthodox historian puts
In foremost rank the soldier thus, The red-coat bully in his boots,
That hides the march of men from us.

He puts him there in foremost rank,
You wonder at his cap of hair:
You hear his sabre’s cursed clank,
His spurs are jingling everywhere.

Go to! I hate him and his trade:
Who bade us so to cringe and bend, And all God’s peaceful people made
To such as him subservient?

Tell me what find we to admire
In epaulets and scarlet coats.
In men, because they load and fire, And know the art of cutting throats?

. . . . .

Ah, gentle, tender lady mine!
The winter wind blows cold and shrill, Come, fill me one more glass of wine,
And give the silly fools their will.

And what care we for war and wrack,
How kings and heroes rise and fall; Look yonder,* in his coffin black,
There lies the greatest of them all!

To pluck him down, and keep him up,
Died many million human souls;
‘Tis twelve o’clock, and time to sup, Bid Mary heap the fire with coals.

He captured many thousand guns;
He wrote “The Great” before his name; And dying, only left his sons
The recollection of his shame.

Though more than half the world was his, He died without a rood his own;
And borrowed from his enemies
Six foot of ground to lie upon.

He fought a thousand glorious wars,
And more than half the world was his, And somewhere now, in yonder stars,
Can tell, mayhap, what greatness is.


* This ballad was written at Paris at the time of the Second Funeral of Napoleon.



No more, thou lithe and long-winged hawk, of desert-life for thee; No more across the sultry sands shalt thou go swooping free: Blunt idle talons, idle beak, with spurning of thy chain, Shatter against thy cage the wing thou ne’er may’st spread again.

Long, sitting by their watchfires, shall the Kabyles tell the tale Of thy dash from Ben Halifa on the fat Metidja vale; How thou swept’st the desert over, bearing down the wild El Riff, From eastern Beni Salah to western Ouad Shelif;

How thy white burnous welit streaming, like the storm-rack o’er the sea, When thou rodest in the vanward of the Moorish chivalry; How thy razzia was a whirlwind, thy onset a simoom, How thy sword-sweep was the lightning, dealing death from out the gloom!

Nor less quick to slay in battle than in peace to spare and save, Of brave men wisest councillor, of wise councillors most brave; How the eye that flashed destruction could beam gentleness and love, How lion in thee mated lamb, how eagle mated dove!

Availéd not or steel or shot ‘gainst that charmed life secure, Till cunning France, in last resource, tossed up the golden lure; And the carrion buzzards round him stooped, faithless, to the cast, And the wild hawk of the desert is caught and caged at last.

Weep, maidens of Zerifah, above the laden loom! Scar, chieftains of Al Elmah, your cheeks in grief and gloom! Sons of the Beni Snazam, throw down the useless lance, And stoop your necks and bare your backs to yoke and scourge of France!

Twas not in fight they bore him down; he never cried amàn; He never sank his sword before the PRINCE OF FRANGHISTAN; But with traitors all around him, his star upon the wane, He heard the voice of ALLAH, and he would not strive in vain.

They gave him what he asked them; from king to king he spake, As one that plighted word and seal not knoweth how to break; “Let me pass from out my deserts, be’t mine own choice where to go, I brook no fettered life to live, a captive and a show.”

And they promised, and he trusted them, and proud and calm he came, Upon his black mare riding, girt with his sword of fame. Good steed, good sword, he rendered both unto the Frankish throng; He knew them false and fickle–but a Prince’s word is strong.

How have they kept their promise? Turned they the vessel’s prow Unto Acre, Alexandria, as they have sworn e’en now? Not so: from Oran northwards the white sails gleam and glance, And the wild hawk of the desert is borne away to France!

Where Toulon’s white-walled lazaret looks southward o’er the wave, Sits he that trusted in the word a son of Louis gave. O noble faith of noble heart! And was the warning vain, The text writ by the BOURBON in the blurred black book of Spain?

They have need of thee to gaze on, they have need of thee to grace The triumph of the Prince, to gild the pinchbeck of their race. Words are but wind, conditions must be construed by GUIZOT; Dash out thy heart, thou desert hawk, ere thou art made a show!


The noble King of Brentford
Was old and very sick,
He summon’d his physicians
To wait upon him quick;
They stepp’d into their coaches
And brought their best physick.

They cramm’d their gracious master
With potion and with pill;
They drench’d him and they bled him; They could not cure his ill.
“Go fetch,” says he, “my lawyer,
I’d better make my will.”

The monarch’s royal mandate
The lawyer did obey;
The thought of six-and-eightpence
Did make his heart full gay.
“What is’t,” says he, “your Majesty Would wish of me to-day?”

“The doctors have belabor’d me
With potion and with pill:
My hours of life are counted,
O man of tape and quill!
Sit down and mend a pen or two,
I want to make my will.

“O’er all the land of Brentford
I’m lord, and eke of Kew:
I’ve three-per-cents and five-per-cents; My debts are but a few;
And to inherit after me
I have but children two.

Prince Thomas is my eldest son,
A sober Prince is he,
And from the day we breech’d him
Till now, he’s twenty-three,
He never caused disquiet
To his poor Mamma or me.

“At school they never flogg’d him,
At college, though not fast,
Yet his little-go and great-go
He creditably pass’d,
And made his year’s allowance
For eighteen months to last.

“He never owed a shilling.
Went never drunk to bed,
He has not two ideas
Within his honest head–
In all respects he differs
From my second son, Prince Ned.

“When Tom has half his income
Laid by at the year’s end,
Poor Ned has ne’er a stiver
That rightly he may spend,
But sponges on a tradesman,
Or borrows from a friend.

“While Tom his legal studies
Most soberly pursues,
Poor Ned most pass his mornings
A-dawdling with the Muse:
While Tom frequents his banker,
Young Ned frequents the Jews.

“Ned drives about in buggies,
Tom sometimes takes a ‘bus;
Ah, cruel fate, why made you
My children differ thus?
Why make of Tom a DULLARD,
And Ned a GENIUS?”

“You’ll cut him with a shilling,”
Exclaimed the man of wits:
“I’ll leave my wealth,” said Brentford, “Sir Lawyer, as befits;
And portion both their fortunes
Unto their several wits.”

“Your Grace knows best,” the lawyer said “On your commands I wait.”
“Be silent, Sir,” says Brentford,
“A plague upon your prate!
Come take your pen and paper,
And write as I dictate.”

The will as Brentford spoke it
Was writ and signed and closed;
He bade the lawyer leave him,
And turn’d him round and dozed;
And next week in the churchyard
The good old King reposed.

Tom, dressed in crape and hatband,
Of mourners was the chief;
In bitter self-upbraidings
Poor Edward showed his grief:
Tom hid his fat white countenance
In his pocket-handkerchief.

Ned’s eyes were full of weeping,
He falter’d in his walk;
Tom never shed a tear,
But onwards he did stalk,
As pompous, black, and solemn,
As any catafalque.

And when the bones of Brentford–
That gentle king and just–
With bell and book and candle
Were duly laid in dust,
“Now, gentleman,” says Thomas,
“Let business be discussed.

“When late our sire beloved
Was taken deadly ill,
Sir Lawyer, you attended him
(I mean to tax your bill);
And, as you signed and wrote it,
I prithee read the will.”

The lawyer wiped his spectacles,
And drew the parchment out;
And all the Brentford family
Sat eager round about:
Poor Ned was somewhat anxious,
But Tom had ne’er a doubt.

“My son, as I make ready
To seek my last long home,
Some cares I had for Neddy,
But none for thee, my Tom:
Sobriety and order
You ne’er departed from.

“Ned hath a brilliant genius,
And thou a plodding brain;
On thee I think with pleasure,
On him with doubt and pain.”
(“You see, good Ned,” says Thomas,
“What he thought about us twain.”

“Though small was your allowance,
You saved a little store;
And those who save a little
Shall get a plenty more.”
As the lawyer read this compliment, Tom’s eyes were running o’er.

“The tortoise and the hare, Tom,
Set out, at each his pace;
The hare it was the fleeter,
The tortoise won the race;
And since the world’s beginning
This ever was the case.

“Ned’s genius, blithe and singing,
Steps gayly o’er the ground;
As steadily you trudge it
He clears it with a bound;
But dulness has stout legs, Tom,
And wind that’s wondrous sound.

“O’er fruits and flowers alike, Tom,
You pass with plodding feet;
You heed not one nor t’other
But onwards go your beat,
While genius stops to loiter
With all that he may meet;

“And ever as he wanders,
Will have a pretext fine
For sleeping in the morning,
Or loitering to dine,
Or dozing in the shade,
Or basking in the shine.

“Your little steady eyes, Tom,
Though not so bright as those
That restless round about him
His flashing genius throws,
Are excellently suited
To look before your nose.

“Thank heaven, then, for the blinkers It placed before your eyes;
The stupidest are weakest,
The witty are not wise;
Oh, bless your good stupidity,
It is your dearest prize!

“And though my lands are wide,
And plenty is my gold,
Still better gifts from Nature,
My Thomas, do you hold–
A brain that’s thick and heavy,
A heart that’s dull and cold.

“Too dull to feel depression,
Too hard to heed distress,
Too cold to yield to passion
Or silly tenderness.
March on–your road is open
To wealth, Tom, and success.

“Ned sinneth in extravagance,
And you in greedy lust.”
(“I’ faith,” says Ned, “our father
Is less polite than just.”)
“In you, son Tom, I’ve confidence,
But Ned I cannot trust.

“Wherefore my lease and copyholds,
My lands and tenements,
My parks, my farms, and orchards,
My houses and my rents,
My Dutch stock and my Spanish stock, My five and three per cents,

“I leave to you, my Thomas”–
(“What, all?” poor Edward said.
“Well, well, I should have spent them, And Tom’s a prudent head”)–
“I leave to you, my Thomas,–
To you in TRUST for Ned.”

The wrath and consternation
What poet e’er could trace
That at this fatal passage
Came o’er Prince Tom his face;
The wonder of the company,
And honest Ned’s amaze!

“‘Tis surely some mistake,”
Good-naturedly cries Ned;
The lawyer answered gravely,
“‘Tis even as I said;
‘Twas thus his gracious Majesty
Ordain’d on his death-bed.

“See, here the will is witness’d,
And here’s his autograph.”
“In truth, our father’s writing,”
Says Edward, with a laugh;
“But thou shalt not be a loser, Tom, We’ll share it half and half.”

“Alas! my kind young gentleman,
This sharing cannot be;
‘Tis written in the testament
That Brentford spoke to me,
‘I do forbid Prince Ned to give
Prince Tom a halfpenny.

“‘He hath a store of money,
But ne’er was known to lend it;
He never help’d his brother;
The poor he ne’er befriended;
He hath no need of property
Who knows not how to spend it.

“‘Poor Edward knows but how to spend, And thrifty Tom to hoard;
Let Thomas be the steward then,
And Edward be the lord;
And as the honest laborer
Is worthy his reward,

“‘I pray Prince Ned, my second son,
And my successor dear,
To pay to his intendant
Five hundred pounds a year;
And to think of his old father,
And live and make good cheer.'”

Such was old Brentford’s honest testament, He did devise his moneys for the best,
And lies in Brentford church in peaceful rest. Prince Edward lived, and money made and spent; But his good sire was wrong, it is confess’d To say his son, young Thomas, never lent. He did. Young Thomas lent at interest,
And nobly took his twenty-five per cent.

Long time the famous reign of Ned endured O’er Chiswick, Fulham, Brentford, Putney, Kew, But of extravagance he ne’er was cured.
And when both died, as mortal men will do, ‘Twas commonly reported that the steward Was very much the richer of the two.


On deck, beneath the awning,
I dozing lay and yawning;
It was the gray of dawning,
Ere yet the sun arose;
And above the funnel’s roaring,
And the fitful wind’s deploring,
I heard the cabin snoring
With universal nose.
I could hear the passengers snorting– I envied their disporting–
Vainly I was courting
The pleasure of a doze!

So I lay, and wondered why light
Came not, and watched the twilight, And the glimmer of the skylight,
That shot across the deck;
And the binnacle pale and steady,
And the dull glimpse of the dead-eye, And the sparks in fiery eddy
That whirled from the chimney neck. In our jovial floating prison
There was sleep from fore to mizzen, And never a star had risen
The hazy sky to speck.

Strange company we harbored,
We’d a hundred Jews to larboard,
Unwashed, uncombed, unbarbered–
Jews black, and brown, and gray;
With terror it would seize ye,
And make your souls uneasy,
To see those Rabbis greasy,
Who did naught but scratch and pray: Their dirty children puking–
Their dirty saucepans cooking–
Their dirty fingers hooking
Their swarming fleas away.

To starboard, Turks and Greeks were– Whiskered and brown their cheeks were–
Enormous wide their breeks were,
Their pipes did puff alway;
Each on his mat allotted
In silence smoked and squatted,
Whilst round their children trotted In pretty, pleasant play.
He can’t but smile who traces
The smiles on those brown faces,
And the pretty, prattling graces
Of those small heathens gay.

And so the hours kept tolling,
And through the ocean rolling
Went the brave “Iberia” bowling
Before the break of day–

When A SQUALL, upon a sudden,
Came o’er the waters scudding;
And the clouds began to gather,
And the sea was lashed to lather,
And the lowering thunder grumbled,
And the lightning jumped and tumbled, And the ship, and all the ocean,
Woke up in wild commotion.
Then the wind set up a howling,
And the poodle dog a yowling,
And the cocks began a crowing,
And the old cow raised a lowing,
As she heard the tempest blowing;
And fowls and geese did cackle,
And the cordage and the tackle
Began to shriek and crackle;
And the spray dashed o’er the funnels, And down the deck in runnels;
And the rushing water soaks all,
From the seamen in the fo’ksal
To the stokers whose black faces
Peer out of their bed-places;
And the captain he was bawling,
And the sailors pulling, hauling,
And the quarter-deck tarpauling
Was shivered in the squalling;
And the passengers awaken,
Most pitifully shaken;
And the steward jumps up, and hastens For the necessary basins.

Then the Greeks they groaned and quivered, And they knelt, and moaned, and shivered, As the plunging waters met them,
And splashed and overset them;
And they call in their emergence
Upon countless saints and virgins;
And their marrowbones are bended,
And they think the world is ended.

And the Turkish women for’ard
Were frightened and behorror’d;
And shrieking and bewildering,
The mothers clutched their children; The men sung “Allah! Illah!
Mashallah Bismillah!”
As the warring waters doused them
And splashed them and soused them,
And they called upon the Prophet,
And thought but little of it.

Then all the fleas in Jewry
Jumped up and bit like fury;
And the progeny of Jacob
Did on the main-deck wake up
(I wot those greasy Rabbins
Would never pay for cabins);
And each man moaned and jabbered in His filthy Jewish gaberdine,
In woe and lamentation,
And howling consternation.
And the splashing water drenches
Their dirty brats and wenches;
And they crawl from bales and benches In a hundred thousand stenches.

This was the White Squall famous,
Which latterly o’ercame us,
And which all will well remember
On the 28th September;
When a Prussian captain of Lancers
(Those tight-laced, whiskered prancers) Came on the deck astonished,
By that wild squall admonished,
And wondering cried, “Potztausend,
Wie ist der Stürm jetzt brausend?”
And looked at Captain Lewis,
Who calmly stood and blew his
Cigar in all the hustle,
And scorned the tempest’s tussle,
And oft we’ve thought thereafter
How he beat the storm to laughter;
For well he knew his vessel
With that vain wind could wrestle;
And when a wreck we thought her,
And doomed ourselves to slaughter,
How gayly he fought her,
And through the hubbub brought her, And as the tempest caught her,

And when, its force expended,
The harmless storm was ended,
And as the sunrise splendid
Came blushing o’er the sea;
I thought, as day was breaking,
My little girls were waking,
And smiling, and making
A prayer at home for me.



Riding from Coleraine
(Famed for lovely Kitty),
Came a Cockney bound
Unto Derry city;
Weary was his soul,
Shivering and sad, he
Bumped along the road
Leads to Limavaddy.

Mountains stretch’d around,
Gloomy was their tinting,
And the horse’s hoofs
Made a dismal clinting;
Wind upon the heath
Howling was and piping,
On the heath and bog,
Black with many a snipe in.
Mid the bogs of black,
Silver pools were flashing,
Crows upon their sides
Picking were and splashing.
Cockney on the car
Closer folds his plaidy,
Grumbling at the road
Leads to Limavaddy.

Through the crashing woods
Autumn brawld and bluster’d,
Tossing round about
Leaves the hue of mustard
Yonder lay Lough Foyle,
Which a storm was whipping,
Covering with mist
Lake, and shores and shipping.
Up and down the hill
(Nothing could be bolder),
Horse went with a raw
Bleeding on his shoulder.
“Where are horses changed?”
Said I to the laddy
Driving on the box:
“Sir, at Limavaddy.”

Limavaddy inn’s
But a humble bait-house,
Where you may procure
Whiskey and potatoes;
Landlord at the door
Gives a smiling welcome–
To the shivering wights
Who to his hotel come.

Landlady within
Sits and knits a stocking,
With a wary foot
Baby’s cradle rocking.
To the chimney nook
Having, found admittance,
There I watch a pup
Playing with two kittens;
(Playing round the fire,
Which of blazing turf is,
Roaring to the pot
Which bubbles with the murphies.
And the cradled babe
Fond the mother nursed it,
Singing it a song
As she twists the worsted!

Up and down the stair
Two more young ones patter
(Twins were never seen
Dirtier nor fatter).
Both have mottled legs,
Both have snubby noses,
Both have– Here the host
Kindly interposes:
“Sure you must be froze
With the sleet and hail, sir:
So will you have some punch,
Or will you have some ale, sir?”

Presently a maid
Enters with the liquor
(Half a pint of ale
Frothing in a beaker).
Gads! didn’t know
What my beating heart meant:
Hebe’s self I thought
Entered the apartment.
As she came she smiled,
And the smile bewitching,
On my word and honor,
Lighted all the kitchen!

With a curtsy neat
Greeting the new comer,
Lovely, smiling Peg
Offers me the rummer;
But my trembling hand
Up the beaker tilted,
And the glass of ale
Every drop I spilt it:
Spilt it every drop
(Dames, who read my volumes,
Pardon such a word)
On my what-d’ye-call-’ems!

Witnessing the sight
Of that dire disaster,
Out began to laugh
Missis, maid, and master;
Such a merry peal
‘Specially Miss Peg’s was,
(As the glass of ale
Trickling down my legs was,)
That the joyful sound
Of that mingling laughter
Echoed in my ears
Many a long day after.

Such a silver peal!
In the meadows listening,
You who’ve heard the bells
Ringing to a christening;
You who ever heard
Caradori pretty,
Smiling like an angel,
Singing “Giovinetti;”
Fancy Peggy’s laugh,
Sweet, and clear, and cheerful,
At my pantaloons
With half a pint of beer full!

When the laugh was done,
Peg, the pretty hussy,
Moved about the room
Wonderfully busy;
Now she looks to see
If the kettle keep hot;
Now she rubs the spoons,
Now she cleans the teapot;
Now she sets the cups
Trimly and secure:
Now she scours a pot,
And so it was I drew her.

Thus it was I drew her
Scouring of a kettle,
(Faith! her blushing cheeks
Redden’d on the metal!)
Ah! but ’tis in vain
That I try to sketch it;
The pot perhaps is like,
But Peggy’s face is wretched.
No the best of lead
And of indian-rubber
Never could depict
That sweet kettle-scrubber!

See her as she moves
Scarce the ground she touches,
Airy as a fay,
Graceful as a duchess;
Bare her rounded arm,
Bare her little leg is,
Vestris never show’d
Ankles like to Peggy’s.
Braided is her hair,
Soft her look and modest,
Slim her little waist
Comfortably bodiced.

This I do declare,
Happy is the laddy
Who the heart can share
Of Peg of Limavaddy.
Married if she were
Blest would be the daddy
Of the children fair
Of Peg of Limavaddy.
Beauty is not rare
In the land of Paddy,
Fair beyond compare
Is Peg of Limavaddy.

Citizen or Squire,
Tory, Whig, or Radi-
cal would all desire
Peg of Limavaddy.
Had I Homer’s fire,
Or that of Serjeant Taddy,
Meetly I’d admire
Peg of Limavaddy.
And till I expire,
Or till I grow mad I
Will sing unto my lyre
Peg of Limavaddy!


But yesterday a naked sod
The dandies sneered from Rotten Row, And cantered o’er it to and fro:
And see ’tis done!
As though ’twere by a wizard’s rod
A blazing arch of lucid glass
Leaps like a fountain from the grass To meet the sun!

A quiet green but few days since,
With cattle browsing in the shade: And here are lines of bright arcade
In order raised!
A palace as for fairy Prince,
A rare pavilion, such as man
Saw never since mankind began,
And built and glazed!

A peaceful place it was but now,
And lo! within its shining streets A multitude of nations meets;
A countless throng
I see beneath the crystal bow,
And Gaul and German, Russ and Turk, Each with his native handiwork
And busy tongue.

I felt a thrill of love and awe
To mark the different garb of each, The changing tongue, the various speech Together blent:
A thrill, methinks, like His who saw “All people dwelling upon earth
Praising our God with solemn mirth And one consent.”

High Sovereign, in your Royal state,
Captains, and chiefs, and councillors, Before the lofty palace doors
Are open set,–
Hush ere you pass the shining gate: Hush! ere the heaving curtain draws,
And let the Royal pageant pause
A moment yet.

People and prince a silence keep!
Bow coronet and kingly crown.
Helmet and plume, bow lowly down,
The while the priest,
Before the splendid portal step,
(While still the wondrous banquet stays,) From Heaven supreme a blessing prays
Upon the feast.

Then onwards let the triumph march;
Then let the loud artillery roll,
And trumpets ring, and joy-bells toll, And pass the gate.
Pass underneath the shining arch,
‘Neath which the leafy elms are green; Ascend unto your throne, O Queen!
And take your state.

Behold her in her Royal place;
A gentle lady; and the hand
That sways the sceptre of this land, How frail and weak!
Soft is the voice, and fair the face: She breathes amen to prayer and hymn;
No wonder that her eyes are dim,
And pale her cheek.

This moment round her empire’s shores The winds of Austral winter sweep,
And thousands lie in midnight sleep At rest to-day.
Oh! awful is that crown of yours,
Queen of innumerable realms
Sitting beneath the budding elms
Of English May!

A wondrous scepter ’tis to bear:
Strange mystery of God which set
Upon her brow yon coronet,–
The foremost crown
Of all the world, on one so fair!
That chose her to it from her birth, And bade the sons of all the earth
To her bow down.

The representatives of man
Here from the far Antipodes,
And from the subject Indian seas,
In Congress meet;
From Afric and from Hindustan,
From Western continent and isle,
The envoys of her empire pile
Gifts at her feet;

Our brethren cross the Atlantic tides, Loading the gallant decks which once
Roared a defiance to our guns,
With peaceful store;
Symbol of peace, their vessel rides!* O’er English waves float Star and Stripe, And firm their friendly anchors gripe
The father shore!

From Rhine and Danube, Rhone and Seine, As rivers from their sources gush,
The swelling floods of nations rush, And seaward pour:
From coast to coast in friendly chain, With countless ships we bridge the straits, And angry ocean separates
Europe no more.

From Mississippi and from Nile–
From Baltic, Ganges, Bosphorous,
In England’s ark assembled thus
Are friend and guest.
Look down the mighty sunlit aisle,
And see the sumptuous banquet set, The brotherhood of nations met.
Around the feast!

Along the dazzling colonnade,
Far as the straining eye can gaze, Gleam cross and fountain, bell and vase, In vistas bright;
And statues fair of nymph and maid, And steeds and pards and Amazons,
Writhing and grappling in the bronze, In endless fight.

To deck the glorious roof and dome,
To make the Queen a canopy,
The peaceful hosts of industry
Their standards bear.
Yon are the works of Brahmin loom;
On such a web of Persian thread
The desert Arab bows his head
And cries his prayer.

Look yonder where the engines toil:
These England’s arms of conquest are, The trophies of her bloodless war:
Brave weapons these.
Victorians over wave and soil,
With these she sails, she weaves, she tills, Pierces the everlasting hills
And spans the seas.

The engine roars upon its race,
The shuttle whirs the woof,
The people hum from floor to roof, With Babel tongue.
The fountain in the basin plays,
The chanting organ echoes clear,
An awful chorus ’tis to hear,
A wondrous song!

Swell, organ, swell your trumpet blast, March, Queen and Royal pageant, march
By splendid aisle and springing arch Of this fair Hall:
And see! above the fabric vast,
God’s boundless Heaven is bending blue, God’s peaceful sunlight’s beaming through, And shines o’er all.

May, 1851.

* The U. S. frigate “St. Lawrence.”


A street there is in Paris famous,
For which no rhyme our language yields, Rue Neuve des Petits Champs its name is– The New Street of the Little Fields.
And here’s an inn, not rich and splendid, But still in comfortable case;
The which in youth I oft attended,
To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse.

This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is–
A sort of soup or broth, or brew,
Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes, That Greenwich never could outdo;
Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffron, Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace: All these you eat at TERRÉ’S tavern,
In that one dish of Bouillabaisse.

Indeed, a rich and savory stew ’tis;
And true philosophers, methinks,
Who love all sorts of natural beauties, Should love good victuals and good drinks. And Cordelier or Benedictine
Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace, Nor find a fast-day too afflicting,
Which served him up a Bouillabaisse.

I wonder if the house still there is? Yes, here the lamp is, as before;
The smiling red-checked écaillère is Still opening oysters at the door.
Is TERRÉ still alive and able?
I recollect his droll grimace:
He’d come and smile before your table, And hope you liked your Bouillabaisse.

We enter–nothing’s changed or older. “How’s Monsieur TERRÉ, waiter, pray?”
The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder– “Monsieur is dead this many a day.”
“It is the lot of saint and sinner, So honest TERRÉ’S run his race.”
“What will Monsieur require for dinner?” “Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse?”

“Oh, oui, Monsieur,” ‘s the waiter’s answer; “Quel vin Monsieur desire-t-il?”
“Tell me a good one.”–“That I can, Sir: The Chambertin with yellow seal.”
“So TERRÉ’S gone,” I say, and sink in My old accustom’d corner-place
He’s done with feasting and with drinking, With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse.”

My old accustom’d corner here is,
The table still is in the nook;
Ah! vanish’d many a busy year is
This well-known chair since last I took. When first I saw ye, cari luoghi,
I’d scarce a beard upon my face,
And now a grizzled, grim old fogy,
I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse.

Where are you, old companions trusty
Of early days here met to dine?
Come, waiter! quick, a flagon crusty– I’ll pledge them in the good old wine.
The kind old voices and old faces
My memory can quick retrace;
Around the board they take their places, And share the wine and Bouillabaisse.

There’s JACK has made a wondrous marriage; There’s laughing TOM is laughing yet;
There’s brave AUGUSTUS drives his carriage; There’s poor old FRED in the Gazette;
On JAMES’S head the grass is growing; Good Lord! the world has wagged apace
Since here we set the Claret flowing, And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse.

Ah me! how quick the days are flitting! I mind me of a time that’s gone,
When here I’d sit, as now I’m sitting, In this same place–but not alone.
A fair young form was nestled near me, A dear, dear face looked fondly up,
And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me –There’s no one now to share my cup.

. . . . .

I drink it as the Fates ordain it.
Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes: Fill up the lonely glass, and drain it
In memory of dear old times.
Welcome the wine, whate’er the seal is; And sit you down and say your grace
With thankful heart, whate’er the meal is. –Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse!


Christmas is here:
Winds whistle shrill,
Icy and chill,
Little care we:
Little we fear
Weather without,
Sheltered about
The Mahogany Tree.

Once on the boughs
Birds of rare plume
Sang, in its bloom;
Night-birds are we:
Here we carouse,
Singing like them,
Perched round the stem
Of the jolly old tree.

Here let us sport,
Boys, as we sit;
Laughter and wit
Flashing so free.
Life is but short–
When we are gone,
Let them sing on,
Round the old tree.

Evenings we knew,
Happy as this;
Faces we miss,
Pleasant to see.
Kind hearts and true,
Gentle and just,
Peace to your dust!
We sing round the tree.

Care, like a dun,
Lurks at the gate:
Let the dog wait;
Happy we’ll be!
Drink, every one;
Pile up the coals,
Fill the red bowls,
Round the old tree!

Drain we the cup.–
Friend, art afraid?
Spirits are laid
In the Red Sea.
Mantle it up;
Empty it yet;
Let us forget,
Round the old tree.

Sorrows, begone!
Life and its ills,
Duns and their bills,
Bid we to flee.
Come with the dawn,
Blue-devil sprite,
Leave us to-night,
Round the old tree.


“A surgeon of the United States’ army says that on inquiring of the Captain of his company, he found that NINE-TENTHS of the men had enlisted on account of some female difficulty.”–Morning Paper.

Ye Yankee Volunteers!
It makes my bosom bleed
When I your story read,
Though oft ’tis told one.
So–in both hemispheres
The women are untrue,
And cruel in the New,
As in the Old one!

What–in this company
Of sixty sons of Mars,
Who march ‘neath Stripes and Stars, With fife and horn,
Nine-tenths of all we see
Along the warlike line
Had but one cause to join
This Hope Forlorn?

Deserters from the realm
Where tyrant Venus reigns,
You slipp’d her wicked chains,
Fled and out-ran her.
And now, with sword and helm,
Together banded are
Beneath the Stripe and Star
Embroider’d banner!

And is it so with all
The warriors ranged in line,
With lace bedizen’d fine
And swords gold-hilted–
Yon lusty corporal,
Yon color-man who gripes
The flag of Stars and Stripes–
Has each been jilted?

Come, each man of this line,
The privates strong and tall,
“The pioneers and all,”
The fifer nimble–
Lieutenant and Ensign,
Captain with epaulets,
And Blacky there, who beats
The clanging cymbal–

O cymbal-beating black,
Tell us, as thou canst feel,
Was it some Lucy Neal
Who caused thy ruin?
O nimble fifing Jack,
And drummer making din
So deftly on the skin,
With thy rat-tattooing–

Confess, ye volunteers,
Lieutenant and Ensign,
And Captain of the line,
As bold as Roman–
Confess, ye grenadiers,
However strong and tall,
The Conqueror of you all
Is Woman, Woman!

No corselet is so proof
But through it from her bow
The shafts that she can throw
Will pierce and rankle.
No champion e’er so tough,
But’s in the struggle thrown,
And tripp’d and trodden down
By her slim ankle.

Thus always it was ruled:
And when a woman smiled,
The strong man was a child,
The sage a noodle.
Alcides was befool’d,
And silly Samson shorn,
Long, long ere you were horn,
Poor Yankee Doodle!


“I am Miss Catherine’s book,” the album speaks; “I’ve lain among your tomes these many weeks; I’m tired of their old coats and yellow cheeks.

“Quick, Pen! and write a line with a good grace: Come! draw me off a funny little face;
And, prithee, send me back to Chesham Place.”


“I am my master’s faithful old Gold Pen; I’ve served him three long years, and drawn since then Thousands of funny women and droll men.

“O Album! could I tell you all his ways And thoughts, since I am his, these thousand days, Lord, how your pretty pages I’d amaze!”


“His ways? his thoughts? Just whisper me a few; Tell me a curious anecdote or two,
And write ’em quickly off, good Mordan, do!”


“Since he my faithful service did engage To follow him through his queer pilgrimage, I’ve drawn and written many a line and page.

“Caricatures I scribbled have, and rhymes, And dinner-cards, and picture pantomimes; And merry little children’s books at times.

“I’ve writ the foolish fancy of his brain; The aimless jest that, striking, hath caused pain; The idle word that he’d wish back again.

. . . . . .

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