The Bon Gaultier Ballads

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When I went the pace so wildly, caring little what might come;
Coffee-milling care and sorrow, with a nose-adapted thumb; {122b}

Felt the exquisite enjoyment, tossing nightly off, oh heavens!
Brandies at the Cider Cellars, kidneys smoking-hot at Evans'! {122c}

Or in the Adelphi sitting, half in rapture, half in tears,
Saw the glorious melodrama conjure up the shades of years!

Saw Jack Sheppard, noble stripling, act his wondrous feats again,
Snapping Newgate's bars of iron, like an infant's daisy chain.

Might was right, and all the terrors, which had held the world in awe,
Were despised, and prigging prospered, spite of Laurie, {123} spite of
law.

In such scenes as these I triumphed, ere my passion's edge was rusted,
And my cousin's cold refusal left me very much disgusted!

Since, my heart is sere and withered, and I do not care a curse,
Whether worse shall be the better, or the better be the worse.

Hark! my merry comrades call me, bawling for another jorum;
They would mock me in derision, should I thus appear before 'em.

Womankind no more shall vex me, such at least as go arrayed
In the most expensive satins and the newest silk brocade.

I'll to Afric, lion-haunted, where the giant forest yields
Rarer robes and finer tissue than are sold at Spital fields.

Or to burst all chains of habit, flinging habit's self aside,
I shall walk the tangled jungle in mankind's primeval pride;

Feeding on the luscious berries and the rich cassava root,
Lots of dates and lots of guavas, clusters of forbidden fruit.

Never comes the trader thither, never o'er the purple main
Sounds the oath of British commerce, or the accent of Cockaigne.

There, methinks, would be enjoyment, where no envious rule prevents;
Sink the steamboats! cuss the railways! rot, O rot the Three per Cents!

There the passions, cramped no longer, shall have space to breathe, my
cousin!
I will wed some savage woman--nay, I'll wed at least a dozen.

There I'll rear my young mulattoes, as no Bond Street brats are reared:
They shall dive for alligators, catch the wild goats by the beard--

Whistle to the cockatoos, and mock the hairy-faced baboon,
Worship mighty Mumbo Jumbo in the Mountains of the Moon.

I myself, in far Timbuctoo, leopard's blood will daily quaff,
Ride a tiger-hunting, mounted on a thorough-bred giraffe.

Fiercely shall I shout the war-whoop, as some sullen stream he crosses,
Startling from their noonday slumbers iron-bound rhinoceroses.

Fool! again the dream, the fancy! But I know my words are mad,
For I hold the grey barbarian lower than the Christian cad.

I the swell--the city dandy! I to seek such horrid places,--
I to haunt with squalid negroes, blubber-lips, and monkey-faces!

I to wed with Coromantees! I, who managed--very near--
To secure the heart and fortune of the widow Shillibeer!

Stuff and nonsense! let me never fling a single chance away;
Maids ere now, I know, have loved me, and another maiden may.

'Morning Post' ('The Times' won't trust me) help me, as I know you can;
I will pen an advertisement,--that's a never-failing plan.

"WANTED--By a bard, in wedlock, some young interesting woman:
Looks are not so much an object, if the shiners be forthcoming!

"Hymen's chains the advertiser vows shall be but silken fetters;
Please address to A. T., Chelsea. N.B.--You must pay the letters."

That's the sort of thing to do it. Now I'll go and taste the balmy,--
Rest thee with thy yellow nabob, spider-hearted Cousin Amy!

My Wife's Cousin.

Decked with shoes of blackest polish,
And with shirt as white as snow,
After early morning breakfast
To my daily desk I go;
First a fond salute bestowing
On my Mary's ruby lips,
Which, perchance, may be rewarded
With a pair of playful nips.

All day long across the ledger
Still my patient pen I drive,
Thinking what a feast awaits me
In my happy home at five;
In my small one-storeyed Eden,
Where my wife awaits my coming,
And our solitary handmaid
Mutton-chops with care is crumbing.

When the clock proclaims my freedom,
Then my hat I seize and vanish;
Every trouble from my bosom,
Every anxious care I banish.
Swiftly brushing o'er the pavement,
At a furious pace I go,
Till I reach my darling dwelling
In the wilds of Pimlico.

"Mary, wife, where art thou, dearest?"
Thus I cry, while yet afar;
Ah! what scent invades my nostrils?--
'Tis the smoke of a cigar!
Instantly into the parlour
Like a maniac, I haste,
And I find a young Life-Guardsman,
With his arm round Mary's waist.

And his other hand is playing
Most familiarly with hers;
And I think my Brussels carpet
Somewhat damaged by his spurs.
"Fire and furies! what the blazes?"
Thus in frenzied wrath I call;
When my spouse her arms upraises,
With a most astounding squall.

"Was there ever such a monster,
Ever such a wretched wife?
Ah! how long must I endure it,
How protract this hateful life?
All day long, quite unprotected,
Does he leave his wife at home;
And she cannot see her cousins,
Even when they kindly come!"

Then the young Life-Guardsman, rising,
Scarce vouchsafes a single word,
But, with look of deadly menace,
Claps his hand upon his sword;
And in fear I faintly falter--
"This your cousin, then he's mine!
Very glad, indeed, to see you,--
Won't you stop with us, and dine?"

Won't a ferret suck a rabbit?--
As a thing of course he stops;
And with most voracious swallow
Walks into my mutton-chops.
In the twinkling of a bed-post
Is each savoury platter clear,
And he shows uncommon science
In his estimate of beer.

Half-and-half goes down before him,
Gurgling from the pewter pot;
And he moves a counter motion
For a glass of something hot.
Neither chops nor beer I grudge him,
Nor a moderate share of goes;
But I know not why he's always
Treading upon Mary's toes.

Evermore, when, home returning,
From the counting-house I come,
Do I find the young Life-Guardsman
Smoking pipes and drinking rum.
Evermore he stays to dinner,
Evermore devours my meal;
For I have a wholesome horror
Both of powder and of steel.

Yet I know he's Mary's cousin,
For my only son and heir
Much resembles that young Guardsman,
With the self-same curly hair;
But I wish he would not always
Spoil my carpet with his spurs;
And I'd rather see his fingers
In the fire, than touching hers.

The Queen in France.

AN ANCIENT SCOTTISH BALLAD.

PART I.

It fell upon the August month,
When landsmen bide at hame,
That our gude Queen went out to sail
Upon the saut-sea faem.

And she has ta'en the silk and gowd,
The like was never seen;
And she has ta'en the Prince Albert,
And the bauld Lord Aberdeen.

"Ye'se bide at hame, Lord Wellington:
Ye daurna gang wi' me:
For ye hae been ance in the land o' France,
And that's eneuch for ye.

"Ye'se bide at hame, Sir Robert Peel,
To gather the red and the white monie;
And see that my men dinna eat me up
At Windsor wi' their gluttonie."

They hadna sailed a league, a league,--
A league, but barely twa,
When the lift grew dark, and the waves grew wan,
And the wind began to blaw.

"O weel weel may the waters rise,
In welcome o' their Queen;
What gars ye look sae white, Albert?
What makes yer ee sae green?"

"My heart is sick, my heid is sair:
Gie me a glass o' the gude brandie:
To set my foot on the braid green sward,
I'd gie the half o' my yearly fee.

"It's sweet to hunt the sprightly hare
On the bonny slopes o' Windsor lea,
But oh, it's ill to bear the thud
And pitching o' the saut saut sea!"

And aye they sailed, and aye they sailed,
Till England sank behind,
And over to the coast of France
They drave before the wind.

Then up and spak the King o' France,
Was birling at the wine;
"O wha may be the gay ladye,
That owns that ship sae fine?

"And wha may be that bonny lad,
That looks sae pale and wan
I'll wad my lands o' Picardie,
That he's nae Englishman."

Then up and spak an auld French lord,
Was sitting beneath his knee,
"It is the Queen o' braid England
That's come across the sea."

"And oh an it be England's Queen,
She's welcome here the day;
I'd rather hae her for a friend
Than for a deadly fae.

"Gae, kill the eerock in the yard,
The auld sow in the sty,
And bake for her the brockit calf,
But and the puddock-pie!"

And he has gane until the ship,
As soon as it drew near,
And he has ta'en her by the hand--
"Ye're kindly welcome here!"

And syne he kissed her on ae cheek,
And syne upon the ither;
And he ca'd her his sister dear,
And she ca'd him her brither.

"Light doun, light doun now, ladye mine,
Light doun upon the shore;
Nae English king has trodden here
This thousand years and more."

"And gin I lighted on your land,
As light fu' weel I may,
O am I free to feast wi' you,
And free to come and gae?"

And he has sworn by the Haly Rood,
And the black stane o' Dumblane,
That she is free to come and gae
Till twenty days are gane.

"I've lippened to a Frenchman's aith,"
Said gude Lord Aberdeen;
"But I'll never lippen to it again,
Sae lang's the grass is green.

"Yet gae your ways, my sovereign liege,
Sin' better mayna be;
The wee bit bairns are safe at hame,
By the blessing o' Marie!"

Then doun she lighted frae the ship,
She lighted safe and sound;
And glad was our good Prince Albert
To step upon the ground.

"Is that your Queen, my Lord," she said,
"That auld and buirdly dame?
I see the crown upon her head;
But I dinna ken her name."

And she has kissed the Frenchman's Queen,
And eke her daughters three,
And gien her hand to the young Princess,
That louted upon the knee.

And she has gane to the proud castel,
That's biggit beside the sea:
But aye, when she thought o' the bairns at hame,
The tear was in her ee.

She gied the King the Cheshire cheese,
But and the porter fine;
And he gied her the puddock-pies,
But and the blude-red wine.

Then up and spak the dourest Prince,
An admiral was he;
"Let's keep the Queen o' England here,
Sin' better mayna be!

"O mony is the dainty king
That we hae trappit here;
And mony is the English yerl
That's in our dungeons drear!"

"You lee, you lee, ye graceless loon,
Sae loud's I hear ye lee!
There never yet was Englishman
That came to skaith by me.

"Gae oot, gae oot, ye fause traitour!
Gae oot until the street;
It's shame that Kings and Queens should sit
Wi' sic a knave at meat!"

Then up and raise the young French lord,
In wrath and hie disdain--
"O ye may sit, and ye may eat
Your puddock-pies alane!

"But were I in my ain gude ship,
And sailing wi' the wind,
And did I meet wi' auld Napier,
I'd tell him o' my mind."

O then the Queen leuch loud and lang,
And her colour went and came;
"Gin ye meet wi' Charlie on the sea,
Ye'll wish yersel at hame!"

And aye they birlit at the wine,
And drank richt merrilie,
Till the auld cock crawed in the castle-yard,
And the abbey bell struck three.

The Queen she gaed until her bed,
And Prince Albert likewise;
And the last word that gay ladye said
Was--"O thae puddock-pies!"

PART II.

The sun was high within the lift
Afore the French King raise;
And syne he louped intil his sark,
And warslit on his claes.

"Gae up, gae up, my little foot-page,
Gae up until the toun;
And gin ye meet wi' the auld harper,
Be sure ye bring him doun."

And he has met wi' the auld harper;
O but his een were reid;
And the bizzing o' a swarm o' bees
Was singing in his heid.

"Alack! alack!" the harper said,
"That this should e'er hae been!
I daurna gang before my liege,
For I was fou yestreen."

"It's ye maun come, ye auld harper:
Ye daurna tarry lang;
The King is just dementit-like
For wanting o' a sang."

And when he came to the King's chamber,
He loutit on his knee,
"O what may be your gracious will
Wi' an auld frail man like me?"

"I want a sang, harper," he said,
"I want a sang richt speedilie;
And gin ye dinna make a sang,
I'll hang ye up on the gallows tree."

"I canna do't, my liege," he said,
"Hae mercy on my auld grey hair!
But gin that I had got the words,
I think that I might mak the air."

"And wha's to mak the words, fause loon,
When minstrels we have barely twa;
And Lamartine is in Paris toun,
And Victor Hugo far awa?"

"The diel may gang for Lamartine,
And flee away wi' auld Hugo,
For a better minstrel than them baith
Within this very toun I know.

"O kens my liege the gude Walter,
At hame they ca' him BON GAULTIER?
He'll rhyme ony day wi' True Thomas,
And he is in the castle here."

The French King first he lauchit loud,
And syne did he begin to sing;
"My een are auld, and my heart is cauld,
Or I suld hae known the minstrels' King.

"Gae take to him this ring o' gowd,
And this mantle o' the silk sae fine,
And bid him mak a maister sang
For his sovereign ladye's sake and mine."

"I winna take the gowden ring,
Nor yet the mantle fine:
But I'll mak the sang for my ladye's sake,
And for a cup of wine."

The Queen was sitting at the cards,
The King ahint her back;
And aye she dealed the red honours,
And aye she dealed the black;

And syne unto the dourest Prince
She spak richt courteouslie;--
"Now will ye play, Lord Admiral,
Now will ye play wi' me?"

The dourest Prince he bit his lip,
And his brow was black as glaur;
"The only game that e'er I play
Is the bluidy game o' war!"

"And gin ye play at that, young man,
It weel may cost ye sair;
Ye'd better stick to the game at cards,
For you'll win nae honours there!"

The King he leuch, and the Queen she leuch,
Till the tears ran blithely doon;
But the Admiral he raved and swore,
Till they kicked him frae the room.

The harper came, and the harper sang,
And oh but they were fain;
For when he had sung the gude sang twice,
They called for it again.

It was the sang o' the Field o' Gowd,
In the days of auld langsyne;
When bauld King Henry crossed the seas,
Wi' his brither King to dine.

And aye he harped, and aye he carped,
Till up the Queen she sprang--
"I'll wad a County Palatine,
Gude Walter made that sang."

Three days had come, three days had gane,
The fourth began to fa',
When our gude Queen to the Frenchman said,
"It's time I was awa!

"O, bonny are the fields o' France,
And saftly draps the rain;
But my bairnies are in Windsor Tower,
And greeting a' their lane.

"Now ye maun come to me, Sir King,
As I have come to ye;
And a benison upon your heid
For a' your courtesie!

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

Now he has ta'en her lily-white hand,
And put it to his lip,
And he has ta'en her to the strand,
And left her in her ship.

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

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

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

The Massacre of the Macpherson.

[FROM THE GAELIC.]

I.

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

II.

But when he had gone
Half-way down Strath Canaan,
Of his fighting tail
Just three were remainin'.
They were all he had,
To back him in ta battle;
All the rest had gone
Off, to drive ta cattle.

III.

"Fery coot!" cried Fhairshon,
"So my clan disgraced is;
Lads, we'll need to fight,
Pefore we touch the peasties.
Here's Mhic-Mac-Methusaleh
Coming wi' his fassals,
Gillies seventy-three,
And sixty Dhuinewassails!"

IV.

"Coot tay to you, sir;
Are you not ta Fhairshon?
Was you coming here
To fisit any person?
You are a plackguard, sir!
It is now six hundred
Coot long years, and more,
Since my glen was plundered."

V.

"Fat is tat you say?
Dare you cock your peaver?
I will teach you, sir,
Fat is coot pehaviour!
You shall not exist
For another day more;
I will shoot you, sir,
Or stap you with my claymore!"

VI.

"I am fery glad,
To learn what you mention,
Since I can prevent
Any such intention."
So Mhic-Mac-Methusaleh
Gave some warlike howls,
Trew his skhian-dhu,
An' stuck it in his powels.

VII.

In this fery way
Tied ta faliant Fhairshon,
Who was always thought
A superior person.
Fhairshon had a son,
Who married Noah's daughter,
And nearly spoiled ta Flood,
By trinking up ta water:

VIII.

Which he would have done,
I at least pelieve it,
Had ta mixture peen
Only half Glenlivet.
This is all my tale:
Sirs, I hope 'tis new t'ye!
Here's your fery good healths,
And tamn ta whusky duty!

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

Bays! which in former days have graced the brow
Of some, who lived and loved, and sang and died;
Leaves that were gathered on the pleasant side
Of old Parnassus from Apollo's bough;
With palpitating hand I take thee now,
Since worthier minstrel there is none beside,
And with a thrill of song half deified,
I bind them proudly on my locks of snow.
There shall they bide, till he who follows next,
Of whom I cannot even guess the name,
Shall by Court favour, or some vain pretext
Of fancied merit, desecrate the same,--
And think, perchance, he wears them quite as well
As the sole bard who sang of Peter Bell!]

The above note, which appeared in the first and subsequent editions of
this volume, is characteristic of the audacious spirit of fun in which
Bon Gaultier revelled. The sonnet here ascribed to Wordsworth must have
been believed by some matter-of-fact people to be really by him. On his
death in 1857, in an article on the subject of the vacant Laureate-ship,
it was quoted in a leading journal as proof of Wordsworth's complacent
estimate of his own supremacy over all contemporary poets. In writing
the sonnet I was well aware that there was some foundation for his not
unjust high appreciation of his own prowess, as the phrase "sole bard"
pretty clearly indicates, but I never dreamt that any one would fail to
see the joke.

The Laureates' Tourney.

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

FYTTE THE FIRST.

"What news, what news, thou pilgrim grey, what news from southern land?
How fare the bold Conservatives, how is it with Ferrand?
How does the little Prince of Wales--how looks our lady Queen?
And tell me, is the monthly nurse once more at Windsor seen?"

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

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

Loud yelled they for Sir James the Graham: {157} but sore afraid was he;
A hardy knight were he that might face such a minstrelsie.
'Now by St Giles of Netherby, my patron Saint, I swear,
I'd rather by a thousand crowns Lord Palmerston were here!--

'What is't ye seek, ye rebel knaves--what make you there beneath?'
'The bays, the bays! we want the bays! we seek the laureate wreath!
We seek the butt of generous wine that cheers the sons of song;
Choose thou among us all, Sir Knight--we may not tarry long!'

Loud laughed the good Sir James in scorn--'Rare jest it were, I think,
But one poor butt of Xeres, and a thousand rogues to drink!
An' if it flowed with wine or beer, 'tis easy to be seen,
That dry within the hour would be the well of Hippocrene.

'Tell me, if on Parnassus' heights there grow a thousand sheaves:
Or has Apollo's laurel bush yet borne ten hundred leaves?
Or if so many leaves were there, how long would they sustain
The ravage and the glutton bite of such a locust train?

'No! get ye back into your dens, take counsel for the night,
And choose me out two champions to meet in deadly fight;
To-morrow's dawn shall see the lists marked out in Spitalfields,
And he who wins shall have the bays, and he shall die who yields!'

Down went the window with a crash,--in silence and in fear
Each ragged bard looked anxiously upon his neighbour near;
Then up and spake young Tennyson--'Who's here that fears for death?
'Twere better one of us should die, than England lose the wreath!

'Let's cast the lot among us now, which two shall fight to-morrow;--
For armour bright we'll club our mite, and horses we can borrow;
'Twere shame that bards of France should sneer, and German _Dichters_
too,
If none of British song might dare a deed of _derring-do_!'

'The lists of Love are mine,' said Moore, 'and not the lists of Mars;'
Said Hunt, 'I seek the jars of wine, but shun the combat's jars!'
'I'm old,' quoth Samuel Rogers.--'Faith,' says Campbell, 'so am I!'
'And I'm in holy orders, sir!' quoth Tom of Ingoldsby.

'Now out upon ye, craven loons!' cried Moxon, {160} good at need,--
'Bide, if ye will, secure at home, and sleep while others bleed.
I second Alfred's motion, boys,--let's try the chance of lot;
And monks shall sing, and bells shall ring, for him that goes to pot.'

Eight hundred minstrels slunk away--two hundred stayed to draw,--
Now Heaven protect the daring wight that pulls the longest straw!
'Tis done! 'tis done! And who hath won? Keep silence one and all,--
The first is William Wordsworth hight, the second Ned Fitzball!

FYTTE THE SECOND.

Oh, bright and gay hath dawned the day on lordly Spitalfields,--
How flash the rays with ardent blaze from polished helms and shields!
On either side the chivalry of England throng the green,
And in the middle balcony appears our gracious Queen.

With iron fists, to keep the lists, two valiant knights appear,
The Marquis Hal of Waterford, and stout Sir Aubrey Vere.
'What ho! there, herald, blow the trump! Let's see who comes to claim
The butt of golden Xeres, and the Laureate's honoured name!'

That instant dashed into the lists, all armed from head to heel,
On courser brown, with vizor down, a warrior sheathed in steel;
Then said our Queen--'Was ever seen so stout a knight and tall?
His name--his race?'--'An't please your grace, it is the brave Fitzball.
{162}

'Oft in the Melodrama line his prowess hath been shown,
And well throughout the Surrey side his thirst for blood is known.
But see, the other champion comes!'--Then rang the startled air
With shouts of 'Wordsworth, Wordsworth, ho! the bard of Rydal's there.'

And lo! upon a little steed, unmeet for such a course,
Appeared the honoured veteran; but weak seemed man and horse.
Then shook their ears the sapient peers,--'That joust will soon be done:
My Lord of Brougham, I'll back Fitzball, and give you two to one!'

'Done,' quoth the Brougham,--'And done with you!' 'Now, Minstrels, are
you ready?'
Exclaimed the Lord of Waterford,--'You'd better both sit steady.
Blow, trumpets, blow the note of charge! and forward to the fight!'
'Amen!' said good Sir Aubrey Vere; 'Saint Schism defend the right!'

As sweeps the blast against the mast when blows the furious squall,
So started at the trumpet's sound the terrible Fitzball;
His lance he bore his breast before,--Saint George protect the just!
Or Wordsworth's hoary head must roll along the shameful dust!

'Who threw that calthrop? Seize the knave!' Alas! the deed is done;
Down went the steed, and o'er his head flew bright Apollo's son.
'Undo his helmet! cut the lace! pour water on his head!'
'It ain't no use at all, my lord; 'cos vy? the covey's dead!'

Above him stood the Rydal bard--his face was full of woe.
'Now there thou liest, stiff and stark, who never feared a foe:
A braver knight, or more renowned in tourney and in hall,
Ne'er brought the upper gallery down than terrible Fitzball!'

They led our Wordsworth to the Queen--she crowned him with the bays,
And wished him many happy years, and many quarter-days;
And if you'd have the story told by abler lips than mine,
You've but to call at Rydal Mount, and taste the Laureate's wine!"

The Royal Banquet.

BY THE HON. G--- B--- S---.

The Queen she kept high festival in Windsor's lordly hall,
And round her sat the gartered knights, and ermined nobles all;
There drank the valiant Wellington, there fed the wary Peel,
And at the bottom of the board Prince Albert carved the veal.

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