“Look! the land is crowned with minsters, which your Grace’s bounty raised;
Abbeys filled with holy men, where you and Heaven are daily praised: YOU, my lord, to think of dying? on my conscience I’m amazed!”
“Nay, I feel,” replied King Canute, “that my end is drawing near.” “Don’t say so,” exclaimed the courtiers (striving each to squeeze a tear).
“Sure your Grace is strong and lusty, and may live this fifty year.”
“Live these fifty years!” the Bishop roared, with actions made to suit. “Are you mad, my good Lord Keeper, thus to speak of King Canute! Men have lived a thousand years, and sure his Majesty will do’t.
“Adam, Enoch, Lamech, Cainan, Mahaleel, Methusela, Lived nine hundred years apiece, and mayn’t the King as well as they?” “Fervently,” exclaimed the Keeper, “fervently I trust he may.”
“HE to die?” resumed the Bishop. He a mortal like to US? Death was not for him intended, though communis omnibus: Keeper, you are irreligious, for to talk and cavil thus.
“With his wondrous skill in healing ne’er a doctor can compete, Loathsome lepers, if he touch them, start up clean upon their feet; Surely he could raise the dead up, did his Highness think it meet.
“Did not once the Jewish captain stay the sun upon the hill, And, the while he slew the foemen, bid the silver moon stand still? So, no doubt, could gracious Canute, if it were his sacred will.”
“Might I stay the sun above us, good sir Bishop?” Canute cried; “Could I bid the silver moon to pause upon her heavenly ride? If the moon obeys my orders, sure I can command the tide.
“Will the advancing waves obey me, Bishop, if I make the sign?” Said the Bishop, bowing lowly, “Land and sea, my lord, are thine.” Canute turned towards the ocean–“Back!” he said, “thou foaming brine.
“From the sacred shore I stand on, I command thee to retreat; Venture not, thou stormy rebel, to approach thy master’s seat: Ocean, be thou still! I bid thee come not nearer to my feet!”
But the sullen ocean answered with a louder, deeper roar, And the rapid waves drew nearer, falling sounding on the shore; Back the Keeper and the Bishop, back the king and courtiers bore.
And he sternly bade them never more to kneel to human clay, But alone to praise and worship That which earth and seas obey: And his golden crown of empire never wore he from that day. King Canute is dead and gone: Parasites exist alway.
Some love the matin-chimes, which tell The hour of prayer to sinner:
But better far’s the mid-day bell,
Which speaks the hour of dinner;
For when I see a smoking fish,
Or capon drown’d in gravy,
Or noble haunch on silver dish,
Full glad I sing my ave.
My pulpit is an alehouse bench,
Whereon I sit so jolly;
A smiling rosy country wench
My saint and patron holy.
I kiss her cheek so red and sleek,
I press her ringlets wavy,
And in her willing ear I speak
A most religious ave.
And if I’m blind, yet heaven is kind, And holy saints forgiving;
For sure he leads a right good life Who thus admires good living.
Above, they say, our flesh is air,
Our blood celestial ichor:
Oh, grant! mid all the changes there, They may not change our liquor!
Before I lost my five poor wits,
I mind me of a Romish clerk,
Who sang how Care, the phantom dark, Beside the belted horseman sits.
Methought I saw the grisly sprite
Jump up but now behind my Knight.
And though he gallop as he may,
I mark that cursed monster black
Still sits behind his honor’s back, Tight squeezing of his heart alway.
Like two black Templars sit they there, Beside one crupper, Knight and Care.
No knight am I with pennoned spear,
To prance upon a bold destrere:
I will not have black Care prevail
Upon my long-eared charger’s tail,
For lo, I am a witless fool,
And laugh at Grief and ride a mule.
Under the stone you behold,
Buried, and coffined, and cold,
Lieth Sir Wilfrid the Bold.
Always he marched in advance,
Warring in Flanders and France,
Doughty with sword and with lance.
Famous in Saracen fight,
Rode in his youth the good knight,
Scattering Paynims in flight.
Brian the Templar untrue,
Fairly in tourney he slew,
Saw Hierusalem too.
Now he is buried and gone,
Lying beneath the gray stone:
Where shall you find such a one?
Long time his widow deplored,
Weeping the fate of her lord,
Sadly cut off by the sword.
When she was eased of her pain,
Came the good Lord Athelstane,
When her ladyship married again.
LINES UPON MY SISTER’S PORTRAIT.
BY THE LORD SOUTHDOWN.
The castle towers of Bareacres are fair upon the lea, Where the cliffs of bonny Diddlesex rise up from out the sea: I stood upon the donjon keep and view’d the country o’er, I saw the lands of Bareacres for fifty miles or more. I stood upon the donjon keep–it is a sacred place,– Where floated for eight hundred years the banner of my race; Argent, a dexter sinople, and gules an azure field: There ne’er was nobler cognizance on knightly warrior’s shield.
The first time England saw the shield ’twas round a Norman neck, On board a ship from Valery, King William was on deck. A Norman lance the colors wore, in Hastings’ fatal fray– St. Willibald for Bareacres! ’twas double gules that day! O Heaven and sweet St. Willibald! in many a battle since A loyal-hearted Bareacres has ridden by his Prince! At Acre with Plantagenet, with Edward at Poictiers, The pennon of the Bareacres was foremost on the spears!
‘Twas pleasant in the battle-shock to hear our war-cry ringing: Oh grant me, sweet St. Willibald, to listen to such singing! Three hundred steel-clad gentlemen, we drove the foe before us, And thirty score of British bows kept twanging to the chorus! O knights, my noble ancestors! and shall I never hear St. Willibald for Bareacres through battle ringing clear? I’d cut me off this strong right hand a single hour to ride, And strike a blow for Bareacres, my fathers, at your side!
Dash down, dash down, yon Mandolin, beloved sister mine! Those blushing lips may never sing the glories of our line: Our ancient castles echo to the clumsy feet of churls, The spinning-jenny houses in the mansion of our Earls. Sing not, sing not, my Angeline! in days so base and vile, ‘Twere sinful to be happy, ’twere sacrilege to smile. I’ll hie me to my lonely hall, and by its cheerless hob I’ll muse on other days, and wish–and wish I were–A SNOB.
THE LEGEND OF ST. SOPHIA OF KIOFF.
AN EPIC POEM, IN TWENTY BOOKS.
[The Poet describes the city and spelling of Kiow, Kioff, or Kiova.]
A thousand years ago, or more,
A city filled with burghers stout, And girt with ramparts round about,
Stood on the rocky Dnieper shore.
In armor bright, by day and night,
The sentries they paced to and fro. Well guarded and walled was this town, and called By different names, I’d have you to know; For if you looks in the g’ography books, In those dictionaries the name it varies, And they write it off Kieff or Kioff, Kiova or Kiow.
[Its buildings, public works, and ordinances, religious and civil.]
Thus guarded without by wall and redoubt, Kiova within was a place of renown,
With more advantages than in those dark ages Were commonly known to belong to a town. There were places and squares, and each year four fairs, And regular aldermen and regular lord-mayors; And streets, and alleys, and a bishop’s palace; And a church with clocks for the orthodox– With clocks and with spires, as religion desires; And beadles to whip the bad little boys
Over their poor little corduroys,
In service-time, when they DIDN’T make a noise; And a chapter and dean, and a cathedral-green With ancient trees, underneath whose shades Wandered nice young nursery-maids.
[The poet shows how a certain priest dwelt at Kioff, a godly clergyman, and one that preached rare good sermons.]
Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-ding-a-ring-ding, The bells they made a merry merry ring,
From the tall tall steeple; and all the people (Except the Jews) came and filled the pews– Poles, Russians and Germans,
To hear the sermons
Which HYACINTH preached godly to those Germans and Poles, For the safety of their souls.
[How this priest was short and fat of body;]
A worthy priest he was and a stout–
You’ve seldom looked on such a one; For, though he fasted thrice in a week,
Yet nevertheless his skin was sleek; His waist it spanned two yards about
And he weighed a score of stone.
[And like unto the author of “Plymley’s Letters.”]
A worthy priest for fasting and prayer And mortification most deserving;
And as for preaching beyond compare, He’d exert his powers for three or four hours, With greater pith than Sydney Smith
Or the Reverend Edward Irving.
[Of what convent he was prior, and when the convent was built.]
He was the prior of Saint Sophia
(A Cockney rhyme, but no better I know)– Of St. Sophia, that Church in Kiow,
Built by missionaries I can’t tell when; Who by their discussions converted the Russians, And made them Christian men.
[Of Saint Sophia of Kioff; and how her statue miraculously travelled thither.]
Sainted Sophia (so the legend vows)
With special favor did regard this house; And to uphold her converts’ new devotion Her statue (needing but her legs for HER ship) Walks of itself across the German Ocean; And of a sudden perches
In this the best of churches,
Whither all Kiovites come and pay it grateful worship.
[And how Kioff should have been a happy city; but that]
Thus with her patron-saints and pious preachers Recorded here in catalogue precise,
A goodly city, worthy magistrates,
You would have thought in all the Russian states The citizens the happiest of all creatures,– The town itself a perfect Paradise.
[Certain wicked Cossacks did besiege it,]
No, alas! this well-built city
Was in a perpetual fidget;
For the Tartars, without pity,
Did remorselessly besiege it.
Tartars fierce, with sword and sabres, Huns and Turks, and such as these,
Envied much their peaceful neighbors By the blue Borysthenes.
[Murdering the citizens,]
Down they came, these ruthless Russians, From their steppes, and woods, and fens, For to levy contributions
On the peaceful citizens.
Winter, Summer, Spring, and Autumn,
Down they came to peaceful Kioff,
Killed the burghers when they caught ’em, If their lives they would not buy off.
[Until they agreed to pay a tribute yearly.]
Till the city, quite confounded
By the ravages they made,
Humbly with their chief compounded, And a yearly tribute paid.
[How they paid the tribute, and suddenly refused it,]
Which (because their courage lax was) They discharged while they were able:
Tolerated thus the tax was,
Till it grew intolerable,
[To the wonder of the Cossack envoy.]
And the Calmuc envoy sent,
As before to take their dues all,
Got, to his astonishment,
A unanimous refusal!
[Of a mighty gallant speech]
“Men of Kioff!” thus courageous
Did the stout lord-mayor harangue them, “Wherefore pay these sneaking wages
To the hectoring Russians? hang them!
[That the lord-mayor made,]
“Hark! I hear the awful cry of
Our forefathers in their graves;
“‘Fight, ye citizens of Kioff!
Kioff was not made for slaves.’
[Exhorting the burghers to pay no longer.]
“All too long have ye betrayed her;
Rouse, ye men and aldermen,
Send the insolent invader–
Send him starving back again.”
[Of their thanks and heroic resolves.]
He spoke and he sat down; the people of the town, Who were fired with a brave emulation,
Now rose with one accord, and voted thanks unto the lord- Mayor for his oration:
[They dismiss the envoy, and set about drilling.]
The envoy they dismissed, never placing in his fist So much as a single shilling;
And all with courage fired, as his lordship he desired, At once set about their drilling.
[Of the City guard: viz. Militia, dragoons, and bombardiers, and their commanders.]
Then every city ward established a guard, Diurnal and nocturnal:
Militia volunteers, light dragoons, and bombardiers, With an alderman for colonel.
[Of the majors and captains.]
There was muster and roll-calls, and repairing city walls, And filling up of fosses:
And the captains and the majors, gallant and courageous, A-riding about on their hosses.
[The fortifications and artillery.]
To be guarded at all hours they built themselves watch-towers, With every tower a man on;
And surely and secure, each from out his embrasure, Looked down the iron cannon!
[Of the conduct of the actors and the clergy.]
A battle-song was writ for the theatre, where it Was sung with vast enérgy
And rapturous applause; and besides, the public cause, Was supported by the clergy.
The pretty ladies’-maids were pinning of cockades, And tying on of sashes;
And dropping gentle tears, while their lovers bluster’d fierce, About gunshot and gashes;
[Of the ladies;]
The ladies took the hint, and all day were scraping lint, As became their softer genders;
And got bandages and beds for the limbs and for the heads Of the city’s brave defenders.
[And, finally, of the taylors.]
The men, both young and old, felt resolute and bold, And panted hot for glory;
Even the tailors ‘gan to brag, and embroidered on their flag, “AUT WINCERE AUT MORI.”
[Of the Cossack chief,–his stratagem;]
Seeing the city’s resolute condition, The Cossack chief, too cunning to despise it, Said to himself, “Not having ammunition
Wherewith to batter the place in proper form, Some of these nights I’ll carry it by storm, And sudden escalade it or surprise it.
[And the burghers’ sillie victorie.]
“Let’s see, however, if the cits stand firmish.” He rode up to the city gates; for answers, Out rushed an eager troop of the town élite, And straightway did begin a gallant skirmish: The Cossack hereupon did sound retreat,
Leaving the victory with the city lancers.
[What prisoners they took,]
They took two prisoners and as many horses, And the whole town grew quickly so elate With this small victory of their virgin forces, That they did deem their privates and commanders So many Caesars, Pompeys, Alexanders,
Napoleons, or Fredericks the Great.
[And how conceited they were.]
And puffing with inordinate conceit
They utterly despised these Cossack thieves; And thought the ruffians easier to beat
Than porters carpets think, or ushers boys. Meanwhile, a sly spectator of their joys, The Cossack captain giggled in his sleeves.
[Of the Cossack chief,–his orders;]
“Whene’er you meet yon stupid city hogs.” (He bade his troops precise this order keep), “Don’t stand a moment–run away, you dogs!” ‘Twas done; and when they met the town battalions, The Cossacks, as if frightened at their valiance, Turned tail, and bolted like so many sheep.
[And how he feigned a retreat.]
They fled, obedient to their captain’s order: And now this bloodless siege a month had lasted, When, viewing the country round, the city warder (Who, like a faithful weathercock, did perch Upon the steeple of St. Sophy’s church), Sudden his trumpet took, and a mighty blast he blasted.
[The warder proclayms the Cossacks’ retreat, and the citie greatly rejoyces.]
His voice it might be heard through all the streets (He was a warder wondrous strong in lung), Victory, victory! the foe retreats!”
“The foe retreats!” each cries to each he meets; “The foe retreats!” each in his turn repeats. Gods! how the guns did roar, and how the joy-bells rung!
Arming in haste his gallant city lancers, The mayor, to learn if true the news might be, A league or two out issued with his prancers. The Cossacks (something had given their courage a damper) Hastened their flight, and ‘gan like mad to scamper: Blessed be all the saints, Kiova town was free!
Now, puffed with pride, the mayor grew vain, Fought all his battles o’er again;
And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain. ‘Tis true he might amuse himself thus,
And not be very murderous;
For as of those who to death were done The number was exactly NONE,
His lordship, in his soul’s elation, Did take a bloodless recreation–
[The manner of the citie’s rejoycings,]
Going home again, he did ordain
A very splendid cold collation
For the magistrates and the corporation; Likewise a grand illumination,
For the amusement of the nation.
That night the theatres were free,
The conduits they ran Malvolsie;
Each house that night did beam with light And sound with mirth and jollity;
[And its impiety.]
But shame, O shame! not a soul in the town, Now the city was safe and the Cossacks flown, Ever thought of the bountiful saint by whose care The town had been rid of these terrible Turks– Said even a prayer to that patroness fair, For these her wondrous works!
[How the priest, Hyacinth, waited at church, and nobody came thither.]
Lord Hyacinth waited, the meekest of priors– He waited at church with the rest of his friars; He went there at noon and he waited till ten, Expecting in vain the lord-mayor and his men. He waited and waited from mid-day to dark; But in vain–you might search through the whole of the church, Not a layman, alas! to the city’s disgrace, From mid-day to dark showed his nose in the place. The pew-woman, organist, beadle, and clerk, Kept away from their work, and were dancing like mad Away in the streets with the other mad people, Not thinking to pray, but to guzzle and tipple Wherever the drink might be had.
[How he went forth to bid them to prayer.]
Amidst this din and revelry throughout the city roaring, The silver moon rose silently, and high in heaven soaring; Prior Hyacinth was fervently upon his knees adoring: “Towards my precious patroness this conduct sure unfair is; I cannot think, I must confess, what keeps the dignitaries And our good mayor away, unless some business them contraries.” He puts his long white mantle on and forth the prior sallies– (His pious thoughts were bent upon good deeds and not on malice): Heavens! how the banquet lights they shone about the mayor’s palace!
[How the grooms and lackeys jeered him.]
About the hall the scullions ran with meats both and fresh and potted;
The pages came with cup and can, all for the guests allotted; Ah, how they jeered that good fat man as up the stairs he trotted!
He entered in the ante-rooms where sat the mayor’s court in; He found a pack of drunken grooms a-dicing and a-sporting; The horrid wine and ‘bacco fumes, they set the prior a-snorting! The prior thought he’d speak about their sins before he went hence, And lustily began to shout of sin and of repentance; The rogues, they kicked the prior out before he’d done a sentence!
And having got no portion small of buffeting and tussling, At last he reached the banquet-hall, where sat the mayor a- guzzling,
And by his side his lady tall dressed out in white sprig muslin.
[And the mayor, mayoress, and aldermen, being tipsie refused to go church.]
Around the table in a ring the guests were drinking heavy; They’d drunk the church, and drunk the king, and the army and the navy;
In fact they’d toasted everything. The prior said, “God save ye!”
The mayor cried, “Bring a silver cup–there’s one upon the beaufét; And, Prior, have the venison up–it’s capital rechauffé. And so, Sir Priest, you’ve come to sup? And pray you, how’s Saint Sophy?”
The prior’s face quite red was grown, with horror and with anger; He flung the proffered goblet down–it made a hideous clangor; And ‘gan a-preaching with a frown–he was a fierce haranguer.
He tried the mayor and aldermen–they all set up a-jeering: He tried the common-councilmen–they too began a-sneering; He turned towards the may’ress then, and hoped to get a hearing. He knelt and seized her dinner-dress, made of the muslin snowy, “To church, to church, my sweet mistress!” he cried; “the way I’ll show ye.”
Alas, the lady-mayoress fell back as drunk as Chloe!
[How the prior went back alone.]
Out from this dissolute and drunken court Went the good prior, his eyes with weeping dim: He tried the people of a meaner sort–
They too, alas, were bent upon their sport, And not a single soul would follow him! But all were swigging schnaps and guzzling beer.
He found the cits, their daughters, sons, and spouses, Spending the live-long night in fierce carouses: Alas, unthinking of the danger near!
One or two sentinels the ramparts guarded, The rest were sharing in the general feast: “God wot, our tipsy town is poorly warded; Sweet Saint Sophia help us!” cried the priest.
Alone he entered the cathedral gate,
Careful he locked the mighty oaken door; Within his company of monks did wait,
A dozen poor old pious men–no more. Oh, but it grieved the gentle prior sore, To think of those lost souls, given up to drink and fate!
[And shut himself into Saint Sophia’s chapel with his brethren.]
The mighty outer gate well barred and fast, The poor old friars stirred their poor old bones, And pattering swiftly on the damp cold stones, They through the solitary chancel passed. The chancel walls looked black and dim and vast, And rendered, ghost-like, melancholy tones.
Onward the fathers sped, till coming nigh a Small iron gate, the which they entered quick at, They locked and double-locked the inner wicket And stood within the chapel of Sophia.
Vain were it to describe this sainted place, Vain to describe that celebrated trophy, The venerable statue of Saint Sophy,
Which formed its chiefest ornament and grace.
Here the good prior, his personal griefs and sorrows In his extreme devotion quickly merging, At once began to pray with voice sonorous; The other friars joined in pious chorus, And passed the night in singing, praying, scourging, In honor of Sophia, that sweet virgin.
[The episode of Sneezoff and Katinka.]
Leaving thus the pious priest in
Humble penitence and prayer,
And the greedy cits a-feasting,
Let us to the walls repair.
Walking by the sentry-boxes,
Underneath the silver moon,
Lo! the sentry boldly cocks his–
Boldly cocks his musketoon.
Sneezoff was his designation,
Fair-haired boy, for ever pitied;
For to take his cruel station,
He but now Katinka quitted.
Poor in purse were both, but rich in
Tender love’s delicious plenties;
She a damsel of the kitchen,
He a haberdasher’s ‘prentice.
‘Tinka, maiden tender-hearted,
Was dissolved in tearful fits,
On that fatal night she parted
From her darling, fair-haired Fritz.
Warm her soldier lad she wrapt in
Comforter and muffettee;
Called him “general” and “captain,” Though a simple private he.
“On your bosom wear this plaster,
‘Twill defend you from the cold;
In your pipe smoke this canaster,
Smuggled ’tis, my love, and old.
“All the night, my love, I’ll miss you.” Thus she spoke; and from the door
Fair-haired Sneezoff made his issue, To return, alas, no more.
He it is who calmly walks his
Walk beneath the silver moon;
He it is who boldly cocks his
He the bland canaster puffing,
As upon his round he paces,
Sudden sees a ragamuffin
Clambering swiftly up the glacis.
“Who goes there?” exclaims the sentry; “When the sun has once gone down
No one ever makes an entry
Into this here fortified town!”
[How the sentrie Sneezoff was surprised and slayn.]
Shouted thus the watchful Sneezoff;
But, ere any one replied,
Wretched youth! he fired his piece off Started, staggered, groaned, and died!
[How the Cossacks rushed in suddenly and took the citie.]
Ah, full well might the sentinel cry, “Who goes there!” But echo was frightened too much to declare. Who goes there? who goes there? Can any one swear To the number of sands sur les bords de la mer, Or the whiskers of D’Orsay Count down to a hair? As well might you tell of the sands the amount, Or number each hair in each curl of the Count, As ever proclaim the number and name
Of the hundreds and thousands that up the wall came!
[Of the Cossack troops,]
Down, down the knaves poured with fire and with sword: There were thieves from the Danube and rogues from the Don; There were Turks and Wallacks, and shouting Cossacks; Of all nations and regions, and tongues and religions– Jew, Christian, Idolater, Frank, Mussulman: Ah, horrible sight was Kioff that night!
[And of their manner of burning, murdering, and ravishing.]
The gates were all taken–no chance e’en of flight; And with torch and with axe the bloody Cossacks Went hither and thither a-hunting in packs: They slashed and they slew both Christian and Jew– Women and children, they slaughtered them too. Some, saving their throats, plunged into the moats, Or the river–but oh, they had burned all the boats!
. . . . .
[How they burned the whole citie down, save the church,]
But here let us pause–for I can’t pursue further This scene of rack, ravishment, ruin, and murther. Too well did the cunning old Cossack succeed! His plan of attack was successful indeed! The night was his own–the town it was gone; ‘Twas a heap still a-burning of timber and stone.
[Whereof the bells began to ring.]
One building alone had escaped from the fires, Saint Sophy’s fair church, with its steeples and spires, Calm, stately, and white,
It stood in the light;
And as if ‘twould defy all the conqueror’s power,– As if nought had occurred,
Might clearly be heard
The chimes ringing soberly every half-hour!
The city was defunct–silence succeeded Unto its last fierce agonizing yell;
And then it was the conqueror first heeded The sound of these calm bells.
[How the Cossack chief bade them burn the church too.]
Furious towards his aides-de-camp he turns, And (speaking as if Byron’s works he knew) “Villains!” he fiercely cries, “the city burns, Why not the temple too?
Burn me yon church, and murder all within!”
[How they stormed it, and of Hyacinth, his anger thereat.]
The Cossacks thundered at the outer door; And Father Hyacinth, who, heard the din, (And thought himself and brethren in distress, Deserted by their lady patroness)
Did to her statue turn, and thus his woes outpour.
[His prayer to the Saint Sophia.]
“And is it thus, O falsest of the saints, Thou hearest our complaints?
Tell me, did ever my attachment falter To serve thy altar?
Was not thy name, ere ever I did sleep, The last upon my lip?
Was not thy name the very first that broke From me when I awoke?
Have I not tried with fasting, flogging, penance, And mortified counténance
For to find favor, Sophy, in thy sight? And lo! this night,
Forgetful of my prayers, and thine own promise, Thou turnest from us;
Lettest the heathen enter in our city, And, without pity,
Murder out burghers, seize upon their spouses, Burn down their houses!
Is such a breach of faith to be endured? See what a lurid
Light from the insolent invader’s torches Shines on your porches!
E’en now, with thundering battering-ram and hammer And hideous clamor;
With axemen, swordsmen, pikemen, billmen, bowmen, The conquering foemen,
O Sophy! beat your gate about your ears, Alas! and here’s
A humble company of pious men,
Like muttons in a pen,
Whose souls shall quickly from their bodies be thrusted, Because in you they trusted.
Do you not know the Calmuc chiefs desires– KILL ALL THE FRIARS!
And you, of all the saints most false and fickle, Leave us in this abominable pickle.”
[The statue suddenlie speaks;]
(Here, to the astonishment of all her backers, Saint Sophy, opening wide her wooden jaws, Like to a pair of German walnut-crackers, Began), “I did not think you had been thus,– O monk of little faith! Is it because
A rascal scum of filthy Cossack heathen Besiege our town, that you distrust in ME, then? Think’st thou that I, who in a former day Did walk across the Sea of Marmora
(Not mentioning, for shortness, other seas),– That I, who skimmed the broad Borysthenes, Without so much as wetting of my toes,
Am frightened at a set of men like THOSE? I have a mind to leave you to your fate: Such cowardice as this my scorn inspires.”
[But is interrupted by the breaking in of the Cossacks.]
Saint Sophy was here
Cut short in her words,–
For at this very moment in tumbled the gate, And with a wild cheer,
And a clashing of swords,
Swift through the church porches,
With a waving of torches,
And a shriek and a yell
Like the devils of hell,
With pike and with axe
In rushed the Cossacks,–
In rushed the Cossacks, crying,
“MURDER THE FRIARS!”
[Of Hyacinth, his outrageous address;]
Ah! what a thrill felt Hyacinth,
When he heard that villanous shout Calmuc! Now, thought he, my trial beginneth;
Saints, O give me courage and pluck! “Courage, boys, ’tis useless to funk!”
Thus unto the friars he began:
“Never let it be said that a monk
Is not likewise a gentleman.
Though the patron saint of the church, Spite of all that we’ve done and we’ve pray’d, Leaves us wickedly here in the lurch,
Hang it, gentlemen, who’s afraid!”
[And preparation for dying.]
As thus the gallant Hyacinthus spoke, He, with an air as easy and as free as
If the quick-coming murder were a joke, Folded his robes around his sides, and took Place under sainted Sophy’s legs of oak, Like Caesar at the statue of Pompeius.
The monks no leisure had about to look (Each being absorbed in his particular case), Else had they seen with what celestial race A wooden smile stole o’er the saint’s mahogany face.
[Saint Sophia, her speech.]
“Well done, well done, Hyacinthus, my son!” Thus spoke the sainted statue.
“Though you doubted me in the hour of need, And spoke of me very rude indeed,
You deserve good luck for showing such pluck, And I won’t be angry at you.”
[She gets on the prior’s shoulder straddle-back,]
The monks by-standing, one and all,
Of this wondrous scene beholders,
To this kind promise listened content, And couldn’t contain their astonishment, When Saint Sophia moved and went
Down from her wooden pedestal,
And twisted her legs, sure as eggs is eggs, Round Hyacinthus’s shoulders!
[And bids him run.]
“Ho! forwards,” cried Sophy, “there’s no time for waiting, The Cossacks are breaking the very last gate in: See the glare of their torches shines red through the grating; We’ve still the back door, and two minutes or more. Now boys, now or never, we must make for the river, For we only are safe on the opposite shore. Run swiftly to-day, lads, if ever you ran,– Put out your best leg, Hyacinthus, my man; And I’ll lay five to two that you carry us through, Only scamper as fast as you can.”
Away went the priest through the little back door, And light on his shoulders the image he bore: The honest old priest was not punished the least, Though the image was eight feet, and he measured four. Away went the prior, and the monks at his tail Went snorting, and puffing, and panting full sail; And just as the last at the back door had passed, In furious hunt behold at the front
The Tartars so fierce, with their terrible cheers; With axes, and halberts, and muskets, and spears, With torches a-flaming the chapel now came in. They tore up the mass-book, they stamped on the psalter, They pulled the gold crucifix down from the altar; The vestments they burned with their blasphemous fires, And many cried, “Curse on them! where are the friars?” When loaded with plunder, yet seeking for more, One chanced to fling open the little back door, Spied out the friars’ white robes and long shadows In the moon, scampering over the meadows, And stopped the Cossacks in the midst of their arsons, By crying out lustily, “THERE GO THE PARSONS!”
[And the Tartars after him.]
With a whoop and a yell, and a scream and a shout, At once the whole murderous body turned out; And swift as the hawk pounces down on the pigeon, Pursued the poor short-winded men of religion.
[How the friars sweated.]
When the sound of that cheering came to the monks’ hearing, O heaven! how the poor fellows panted and blew! At fighting not cunning, unaccustomed to running, When the Tartars came up, what the deuce should they do? “They’ll make us all martyrs, those bloodthirsty Tartars!” 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!
[And how the Russians saw]
And when the Russians, in a fiery rank, Panting and fierce, drew up along the shore; (For here the vain pursuing they forbore, Nor cared they to surpass 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 protégés 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.
[Finis, or the end.]
THINK NOT, O READER, THAT WE’RE LAUGHING AT YOU; YOU MAY GO TO KIOFF NOW, AND SEE THE STATUTE!
TITMARSH’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 pawn,
A stranger in the town of Lille.
With twenty pounds but three weeks since From Paris forth did Titmarsh 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 passed 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 passed the Belgic bounds
At Quiévrain, 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 pawn,
A stranger in the town of Lille.
To stealing I can never come,
To pawn my watch I’m too genteel,
Besides, I left my watch at home,
How could I pawn 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 pawn,
A stranger in the town of Lille.
The sun bursts out in furious blaze,
I perspirate from head to heel;
I’d like to hire a one-horse chaise, How can I, without cash at Lille?
I pass in sunshine burning hot
By cafés where in beer they deal;
I think how pleasant were a pot,
A frothing pot of beer of Lille!
What is yon house with walls so thick, All girt around with guard and grille?
O gracious gods! it makes me sick,
It is the PRISON-HOUSE of Lille!
O cursed prison strong and barred,
It does my very blood congeal!
I tremble as I pass the guard,
And quit that ugly part of Lille.
The church-door beggar whines and prays, I turn away at his appeal
Ah, church-door beggar! go thy ways! You’re not the poorest man in Lille.
My heart is weary, my peace is gone,
How shall I e’er any woes reveal?
I have no money, I lie in pawn,
A stranger in the town of Lille.
Say, shall I to you Flemish church,
And at a Popish altar kneel?
Oh, do not leave me in the lurch,– I’ll cry, ye patron-saints of Lille!
Ye virgins dressed in satin hoops,
Ye martyrs slain for mortal weal,
Look kindly down! before you stoops The miserablest man in Lille.
And lo! as I beheld with awe
A pictured saint (I swear ’tis real), It smiled, and turned to grandmamma!–
It did! and I had hope in Lille!
‘Twas five o’clock, and I could eat,
Although I could not pay my meal:
I hasten back into the street
Where lies my inn, the best Lille.
What see I on my table stand,–
A letter with a well-known seal?
‘Tis grandmamma’s! I know her hand,– “To Mr. M. A. Titmarsh, Lille.”
I feel a choking in my throat,
I pant and stagger, faint and reel! It is–it is–a ten-pound note,
And I’m no more in pawn at Lille!
[He goes off by the diligence that evening, and is restored to the bosom of his happy family.]
Know ye the willow-tree
Whose gray leaves quiver,
To yon pale river;
Lady, at even-tide
Wander not near it,
They say its branches hide
A sad, lost spirit?
Once to the willow-tree
A maid came fearful,
Pale seemed her cheek to be,
Her blue eye tearful;
Soon as she saw the tree,
Her step moved fleeter,
No one was there–ah me!
No one to meet her!
Quick beat her heart to hear
The far bell’s chime
Toll from the chapel-tower
The trysting time:
But the red sun went down
In golden flame,
And though she looked round,
Yet no one came!
Presently came the night,
Sadly to greet her,–
Moon in her silver light,
Stars in their glitter;
Then sank the moon away
Under the billow,
Still wept the maid alone–
There by the willow!
Through the long darkness,
By the stream rolling,
Hour after hour went on
Tolling and tolling.
Long was the darkness,
Lonely and stilly;
Shrill came the night-wind,
Piercing and chilly.
Shrill blew the morning breeze,
Biting and cold,
Bleak peers the gray dawn
Over the wold.
Bleak over moor and stream
Looks the grey dawn,
Gray, with dishevelled hair,
Still stands the willow there–
THE MAID IS GONE!
Sing we a litany,–
Sing for poor maiden-hearts broken and weary; Domine, Domine!
Sing we a litany,
Wail we and weep we a wild Miserere!
Long by the willow-trees
Vainly they sought her,
Wild rang the mother’s screams
O’er the gray water:
“Where is my lovely one?
Where is my daughter?
“Rouse thee, sir constable–
Rouse thee and look;
Fisherman, bring your net,
Boatman your hook.
Beat in the lily-beds,
Dive in the brook!”
Vainly the constable
Shouted and called her;
Vainly the fisherman
Beat the green alder,
Vainly he flung the net,
Never it hauled her!
Mother beside the fire
Sat, her nightcap in;
Father, in easy chair,
When at the window-sill
Came a light tapping!
And a pale countenance
Looked through the casement.
Loud beat the mother’s heart,
Sick with amazement,
And at the vision which
Came to surprise her,
Shrieked in an agony–
“Lor! it’s Elizar!”
Yes, ’twas Elizabeth–
Yes, ’twas their girl;
Pale was her cheek, and her
Hair out of curl.
“Mother!” the loving one,
“Let not your innocent
Lizzy be blamed.
“Yesterday, going to aunt
Jones’s to tea,
Mother, dear mother, I
FORGOT THE DOOR-KEY!
And as the night was cold,
And the way steep,
Mrs. Jones kept me to
Breakfast and sleep.”
Whether her Pa and Ma
Fully believed her,
That we shall never know,
Stern they received her;
And for the work of that
Cruel, though short, night,
Sent her to bed without
Tea for a fortnight.
Hey diddle diddlety,
Cat and the Fiddlety,
Maidens of England take caution by she! Let love and suicide
Never tempt you aside,
And always remember to take the door-key.
THE POEMS OF THE MOLONY OF KILBALLYMOLONY.
THE PIMLICO PAVILION.
Ye pathrons of janius, Minerva and Vanius, Who sit on Parnassus, that mountain of snow, Descind from your station and make observation Of the Prince’s pavilion in sweet Pimlico.
This garden, by jakurs, is forty poor acres, (The garner he tould me, and sure ought to know;) And yet greatly bigger, in size and in figure, Than the Phanix itself, seems the Park Pimlico.
O ’tis there that the spoort is, when the Queen and the Court is Walking magnanimous all of a row,
Forgetful what state is among the pataties And the pine-apple gardens of sweet Pimlico.
There in blossoms odorous the birds sing a chorus, Of “God save the Queen” as they hop to and fro; And you sit on the binches and hark to the finches, Singing melodious in sweet Pimlico.
There shuiting their phanthasies, they pluck polyanthuses That round in the gardens resplindently grow, Wid roses and jessimins, and other sweet specimins, Would charm bould Linnayus in sweet Pimlico.
You see when you inther, and stand in the cinther, Where the roses, and necturns, and collyflowers blow, A hill so tremindous, it tops the top-windows Of the elegant houses of famed Pimlico.
And when you’ve ascinded that precipice splindid You see on its summit a wondtherful show– A lovely Swish building, all painting and gilding, The famous Pavilion of sweet Pimlico.
Prince Albert, of Flandthers, that Prince of Commandthers, (On whom my best blessings hereby I bestow,) With goold and vermilion has decked that Pavilion, Where the Queen may take tay in her sweet Pimlico.
There’s lines from John Milton the chamber all gilt on, And pictures beneath them that’s shaped like a bow; I was greatly astounded to think that that Roundhead Should find an admission to famed Pimlico.
O lovely’s each fresco, and most picturesque O; And while round the chamber astonished I go, I think Dan Maclise’s it baits all the pieces Surrounding the cottage of famed Pimlico.
Eastlake has the chimney, (a good one to limn he,) And a vargin he paints with a sarpent below; While bulls, pigs, and panthers, and other enchanthers, Are painted by Landseer in sweet Pimlico.
And nature smiles opposite, Stanfield he copies it; O’er Claude or Poussang sure ’tis he that may crow: But Sir Ross’s best faiture is small mini-áture– He shouldn’t paint frescoes in famed Pimlico.
There’s Leslie and Uwins has rather small doings; There’s Dyce, as brave masther as England can show; And the flowers and the sthrawherries, sure he no dauber is, That painted the panels of famed Pimlico.
In the pictures from Walther Scott, never a fault there’s got, Sure the marble’s as natural as thrue Scaglio; And the Chamber Pompayen is sweet to take tay in, And ait butther’d muffins in sweet Pimlico.
There’s landscapes by Gruner, both solar and lunar, Them two little Doyles too, deserve a bravo; Wid de piece by young Townsend, (for janins abounds in’t;) And that’s why he’s shuited to paint Pimlico.
That picture of Severn’s is worthy of rever’nce, But some I won’t mintion is rather so so; For sweet philoso’phy, or crumpets and coffee, O where’s a Pavilion like sweet Pimlico?
O to praise this Pavilion would puzzle Quintilian, Daymosthenes, Brougham, or young Cicero; So heavenly Goddess, d’ye pardon my modesty, And silence, my lyre! about sweet Pimlico.
THE CRYSTAL PALACE.
With ganial foire
Thransfuse me loyre,
Ye sacred nympths of Pindus,
The whoile I sing
That wondthrous thing,
The Palace made o’ windows!
Say, Paxton, truth,
Thou wondthrous youth,
What sthroke of art celistial,
What power was lint
You to invint
This combineetion cristial.
O would before
That Thomas Moore,
Likewoise the late Lord Boyron,
Thim aigles sthrong
Of godlike song,
Cast oi on that cast oiron!
And saw thim walls,
And glittering halls,
Thim rising slendther columns,
Which I poor pote,
Could not denote,
No, not in twinty vollums.
My Muse’s words
Is like the bird’s
That roosts beneath the panes there; Her wing she spoils
‘Gainst them bright toiles,
And cracks her silly brains there.
This Palace tall,
This Cristial Hall,
Which Imperors might covet,
Stands in High Park
Like Noah’s Ark,
A rainbow bint above it.
The towers and fanes,
In other scaynes,
The fame of this will undo,
Saint Paul’s big doom,
Saint Payther’s Room,
And Dublin’s proud Rotundo.
‘Tis here that roams,
As well becomes
Her dignitee and stations,
And houlds in state
The Congress of the Nations.
Her subjects pours
From distant shores,
Her Injians and Canajians;
And also we,
Her kingdoms three,
Attind with our allagiance.
Here come likewise
Her bould allies,
Both Asian and Europian;
From East and West
They send their best
To fill her Coornucopean.
I seen (thank Grace!)
This wonthrous place
(His Noble Honor Misther
H. Cole it was
That gave the pass,
And let me see what is there).
With conscious proide
I stud insoide
And look’d the World’s Great Fair in, Until me sight
Was dazzled quite,
And couldn’t see for staring.
There’s holy saints
And window paints,
By Maydiayval Pugin;
Did paint the tones
Of yellow and gambouge in.
There’s fountains there
And crosses fair;
There’s water-gods with urrns:
There’s organs three,
To play, d’ye see?
“God save the Queen,” by turrns.
There’s Statues bright
Of marble white,
Of silver, and of copper;
And some in zinc,
And some, I think,
That isn’t over proper.
There’s staym Ingynes,
That stands in lines,
Enormous and amazing,
That squeal and snort
Like whales in sport,
Or elephants a-grazing.
There’s carts and gigs,
And pins for pigs,
There’s dibblers and there’s harrows. And ploughs like toys
For little boys,
And ilegant wheelbarrows.
For thim genteels
Who ride on wheels,
There’s plenty to indulge ’em:
There’s Droskys snug
And vayhycles from Bulgium.
There’s Cabs on Stands
And Shandthry danns;
There’s Waggons from New York here; There’s Lapland Sleighs
Have cross’d the seas,
And Jaunting Cyars from Cork here.
Amazed I pass
From glass to glass,
Deloighted I survey ’em;
Fresh wondthers grows
Before me nose
In this sublime Musayum!
Look, here’s a fan
From far Japan,
A sabre from Damasco:
There’s shawls ye get
From far Thibet,
And cotton prints from Glasgow.
There’s German flutes,
And Naples Macaronies;
Has sent Bohay;
Polonia her polonies.
There’s granite flints
That’s quite imminse,
There’s sacks of coals and fuels,
There’s swords and guns,
And soap in tuns,
And Gingerbread and Jewels.
There’s taypots there,
And cannons rare;
There’s coffins fill’d with roses;
There’s canvas tints,
And shuits of clothes by MOSES.
There’s lashins more
Of things in store,
But thim I don’t remimber;
Nor could disclose
Did I compose
From May time to Novimber!
Ah, JUDY thru!
With eyes so blue,
That you were here to view it!
And could I screw
But tu pound tu,
‘Tis I would thrait you to it!
So let us raise
And Albert’s proud condition,
That takes his ayse
As he surveys
This Cristial Exhibition.
O TIM, did you hear of thim Saxons,
And read what the peepers report?
They’re goan to recal the Liftinant, And shut up the Castle and Coort!
Our desolate counthry of Oireland,
They’re bint, the blagyards, to desthroy, And now having murdthered our counthry,
They’re goin to kill the Viceroy, Dear boy; ‘Twas he was our proide and our joy!
And will we no longer behould him,
Surrounding his carriage in throngs, As he weaves his cocked-hat from the windies, And smiles to his bould aid-de-congs?
I liked for to see the young haroes, All shoining with sthripes and with stars, A horsing about in the Phaynix,
And winking the girls in the cyars, Like Mars,
A smokin’ their poipes and cigyars.
Dear Mitchell exoiled to Bermudies,
Your beautiful oilids you’ll ope,
And there’ll be an abondance of croyin’ From O’Brine at the Keep of Good Hope,
When they read of this news in the peepers, Acrass the Atlantical wave,
That the last of the Oirish Liftinints Of the oisland of Seents has tuck lave. God save The Queen–she should betther behave.
And what’s to become of poor Dame Sthreet, And who’ll ait the puffs and the tarts, Whin the Coort of imparial splindor
From Doblin’s sad city departs?
And who’ll have the fiddlers and pipers, When the deuce of a Coort there remains? And where’ll be the bucks and the ladies, To hire the Coort-shuits and the thrains? In sthrains,
It’s thus that ould Erin complains!
There’s Counsellor Flanagan’s leedy
‘Twas she in the Coort didn’t fail, And she wanted a plinty of popplin,
For her dthress, and her flounce, and her tail; She bought it of Misthress O’Grady,
Eight shillings a yard tabinet,
But now that the Coort is concluded, The divvle a yard will she get; I bet,
Bedad, that she wears the old set.
There’s Surgeon O’Toole and Miss Leary, They’d daylings at Madam O’Riggs’;
Each year at the dthrawing-room sayson, They mounted the neatest of wigs.
When Spring, with its buds and its dasies, Comes out in her beauty and bloom,
Thim tu’ll never think of new jasies, Becase there is no dthrawing-room,
They’d choose the expense to ashume.
There’s Alderman Toad and his lady,
‘Twas they gave the Clart and the Poort, And the poine-apples, turbots, and lobsters, To feast the Lord Liftinint’s Coort.
But now that the quality’s goin,
I warnt that the aiting will stop, And you’ll get at the Alderman’s teeble
The devil a bite or a dthrop,
And the butcher may shut up his shop.
Yes, the grooms and the ushers are goin, And his Lordship, the dear honest man,
And the Duchess, his eemiable leedy, And Corry, the bould Connellan,
And little Lord Hyde and the childthren, And the Chewter and Governess tu;
And the servants are packing their boxes,– Oh, murther, but what shall I due
O Meery, with ois of the blue!
MR. MOLONY’S ACCOUNT OF THE BALL.
GIVEN TO THE NEPAULESE AMBASSADOR BY THE PENINSULAR AND ORIENTAL COMPANY.
O will ye choose to hear the news,
Bedad I cannot pass it o’er:
I’ll tell you all about the Ball
To the Naypaulase Ambassador.
Begor! this fête all balls does bate At which I’ve worn a pump, and I
Must here relate the splendthor great Of th’ Oriental Company.
These men of sinse dispoised expinse, To fête these black Achilleses.
“We’ll show the blacks,” says they, “Almack’s, And take the rooms at Willis’s.”
With flags and shawls, for these Nepauls, They hung the rooms of Willis up,
And decked the walls, and stairs, and halls, With roses and with lilies up.
And Jullien’s band it tuck its stand, So sweetly in the middle there,
And soft bassoons played heavenly chunes, And violins did fiddle there.
And when the Coort was tired of spoort, I’d lave you, boys, to think there was
A nate buffet before them set,
Where lashins of good dhrink there was.
At ten before the ball-room door,
His moighty Excellincy was,
He smoiled and bowed to all the crowd, So gorgeous and immense he was.
His dusky shuit, sublime and mute,
Into the door-way followed him;
And O the noise of the blackguard boys, As they hurrood and hollowed him!
The noble Chair* stud at the stair,
And bade the dthrums to thump; and he Did thus evince, to that Black Prince,
The welcome of his Company.
O fair the girls, and rich the curls, And bright the oys you saw there, was;
And fixed each oye, ye there could spoi, On Gineral Jung Bahawther, was!
This Gineral great then tuck his sate, With all the other ginerals,
(Bedad his troat, his belt, his coat, All bleezed with precious minerals;)
And as he there, with princely air, Recloinin on his cushion was,
All round about his royal chair
The squeezin and the pushin was.
O Pat, such girls, such Jukes, and Earls, Such fashion and nobilitee!
Just think of Tim, and fancy him
Amidst the hoigh gentilitee!
There was Lord De L’Huys, and the Portygeese Ministher and his lady there,
And I reckonized, with much surprise, Our messmate, Bob O’Grady, there;
There was Baroness Brunow, that looked like Juno, And Baroness Rehausen there,
And Countess Roullier, that looked peculiar Well, in her robes of gauze in there.
There was Lord Crowhurst (I knew him first, When only Mr. Pips he was),
And Mick O’Toole, the great big fool, That after supper tipsy was.
There was Lord Fingall, and his ladies all, And Lords Killeen and Dufferin,
And Paddy Fife, with his fat wife:
I wondther how he could stuff her in. There was Lord Belfast, that by me past, And seemed to ask how should I go there? And the Widow Macrae, and Lord A Hay,
And the Marchioness of Sligo there.
Yes, Jukes, and Earls, and diamonds, and pearls, And pretty girls, was sporting there;
And some beside (the rogues!) I spied, Behind the windies, coorting there.
O there’s one I know, bedad would show As beautiful as any there,
And I’d like to hear the pipers blow, And shake a fut with Fanny there!
* James Matheson, Esq., to whom, and the Board of Directors of the Peninsular and Oriental Company, I, Timotheus Molony, late stoker on board the “Iberia,” the “Lady Mary Wood,” the “Tagus,” and the Oriental steamships, humbly dedicate this production of my grateful muse.
THE BATTLE OF LIMERICK.
Ye Genii of the nation,
Who look with veneration.
And Ireland’s desolation onsaysingly deplore; Ye sons of General Jackson,
Who thrample on the Saxon,
Attend to the thransaction upon Shannon shore,
When William, Duke of Schumbug,
A tyrant and a humbug,
With cannon and with thunder on our city bore, Our fortitude and valiance
Insthructed his battalions
To respict the galliant Irish upon Shannon shore.
Since that capitulation,
No city in this nation
So grand a reputation could boast before, As Limerick prodigious,
That stands with quays and bridges, And the ships up to the windies of the Shannon shore.
A chief of ancient line,
‘Tis William Smith O’Brine
Reprisints this darling Limerick, this ten years or more: O the Saxons can’t endure
To see him on the flure,
And thrimble at the Cicero from Shannon shore!
This valliant son of Mars
Had been to visit Par’s,
That land of Revolution, that grows the tricolor; And to welcome his returrn
From pilgrimages furren,
We invited him to tay on the Shannon shore.
Then we summoned to our board
Young Meagher of the sword:
‘Tis he will sheathe that battle-axe in Saxon gore; And Mitchil of Belfast
We bade to our repast,
To dthrink a dish of coffee on the Shannon shore.
Convaniently to hould
These patriots so bould,
We tuck the opportunity of Tim Doolan’s store; And with ornamints and banners
(As becomes gintale good manners)
We made the loveliest tay-room upon Shannon shore.
‘Twould binifit your sowls,
To see the butthered rowls,
The sugar-tongs and sangwidges and craim galyore, And the muffins and the crumpets,
And the band of hearts and thrumpets, To celebrate the sworry upon Shannon shore.
Sure the Imperor of Bohay
Would be proud to dthrink the tay
That Misthress Biddy Rooney for O’Brine did pour; And, since the days of Strongbow,
There never was such Congo–
Mitchil dthrank six quarts of it–by Shannon shore.
But Clarndon and Corry
Connellan beheld this sworry
With rage and imulation in their black hearts’ core; And they hired a gang of ruffins
To interrupt the muffins,
And the fragrance of the Congo on the Shannon shore.