The Bon Gaultier Ballads

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And Sir Launcelot grew thin, and Provan's double chin
Showed sundry folds of skin down beneath;
In silence and in grief found Gilkison relief,
Nor did Neish the spell-word, beef,
Dare to breathe.

To the ramparts Edith came, that fair and youthful dame,
With the rosy evening flame on her face.
She sighed, and looked around on the soldiers on the ground,
Who but little penance found,
Saying grace!

And she said unto her lord, as he leaned upon his sword,
"One short and little word may I speak?
I cannot bear to view those eyes so ghastly blue,
Or mark the sallow hue
Of thy cheek!

"I know the rage and wrath that my furious brother hath
Is less against us both than at me.
Then, dearest, let me go, to find among the foe
An arrow from the bow,
Like Brownlee!"

"I would soil my father's name, I would lose my treasured fame,
Ladye mine, should such a shame on me light:
While I wear a belted brand, together still we stand,
Heart to heart, hand in hand!"
Said the knight.

"All our chances are not lost, as your brother and his host
Shall discover to their cost rather hard!
Ho, Provan! take this key--hoist up the Malvoisie,
And heap it, d'ye see,
In the yard.

"Of usquebaugh and rum, you will find, I reckon, some,
Besides the beer and mum, extra stout;
Go straightway to your tasks, and roll me all the casks,
As also range the flasks,
Just without.

"If I know the Gorbaliers, they are sure to dip their ears
In the very inmost tiers of the drink.
Let them win the outer court, and hold it for their sport,
Since their time is rather short,
I should think!"

With a loud triumphant yell, as the heavy drawbridge fell,
Rushed the Gorbaliers pell-mell, wild as Druids;
Mad with thirst for human gore, how they threatened and they swore,
Till they stumbled on the floor,
O'er the fluids.

Down their weapons then they threw, and each savage soldier drew
From his belt an iron screw, in his fist;
George of Gorbals found it vain their excitement to restrain,
And indeed was rather fain
To assist.

With a beaker in his hand, in the midst he took his stand,
And silence did command, all below--
"Ho! Launcelot the bold, ere thy lips are icy cold,
In the centre of thy hold,
Pledge me now!

"Art surly, brother mine? In this cup of rosy wine,
I drink to the decline of thy race!
Thy proud career is done, thy sand is nearly run,
Never more shall setting sun
Gild thy face!

"The pilgrim, in amaze, shall see a goodly blaze,
Ere the pallid morning rays flicker up;
And perchance he may espy certain corpses swinging high!
What, brother! art thou dry?
Fill my cup!"

Dumb as death stood Launcelot, as though he heard him not,
But his bosom Provan smote, and he swore;
And Sir Roderick Dalgleish remarked aside to Neish,
"Never sure did thirsty fish
Swallow more!

"Thirty casks are nearly done, yet the revel's scarce begun;
It were knightly sport and fun to strike in!"
"Nay, tarry till they come," quoth Neish, "unto the rum--
They are working at the mum,
And the gin!"

Then straight there did appear to each gallant Gorbalier
Twenty castles dancing near, all around;
The solid earth did shake, and the stones beneath them quake,
And sinuous as a snake
Moved the ground.

Why and wherefore they had come, seemed intricate to some,
But all agreed the rum was divine.
And they looked with bitter scorn on their leader highly born,
Who preferred to fill his horn
Up with wine!

Then said Launcelot the tall, "Bring the chargers from their stall;
Lead them straight unto the hall, down below:
Draw your weapons from your side, fling the gates asunder wide,
And together we shall ride
On the foe!"

Then Provan knew full well, as he leaped into his selle,
That few would 'scape to tell how they fared;
And Gilkison and Nares, both mounted on their mares,
Looked terrible as bears,
All prepared.

With his bloodhounds in the leash, stood the iron-sinewed Neish,
And the falchion of Dalgleish glittered bright--
"Now, wake the trumpet's blast; and, comrades, follow fast;
Smite them down unto the last!"
Cried the knight.

In the cumbered yard without, there was shriek, and yell, and shout,
As the warriors wheeled about, all in mail.
On the miserable kerne fell the death-strokes stiff and stern,
As the deer treads down the fern,
In the vale!

Saint Mungo be my guide! It was goodly in that tide
To see the Bogle ride in his haste;
He accompanied each blow with a cry of "Ha!" or "Ho!"
And always cleft the foe
To the waist.

"George of Gorbals--craven lord! thou didst threat me with the cord;
Come forth and brave my sword, if you dare!"
But he met with no reply, and never could descry
The glitter of his eye
Anywhere.

Ere the dawn of morning shone, all the Gorbaliers were down,
Like a field of barley mown in the ear:
It had done a soldier good to see how Provan stood,
With Neish all bathed in blood,
Panting near.

"Now bend ye to your tasks--go trundle down those casks,
And place the empty flasks on the floor;
George of Gorbals scarce will come, with trumpet and with drum,
To taste our beer and rum
Any more!"

So they bent them to their tasks, and they trundled down the casks,
And replaced the empty flasks on the floor;
But pallid for a week was the cellar-master's cheek,
For he swore he heard a shriek
Through the door.

When the merry Christmas came, and the Yule-log lent its flame
To the face of squire and dame in the hall,
The cellarer went down to tap October brown,
Which was rather of renown
'Mongst them all.

He placed the spigot low, and gave the cask a blow,
But his liquor would not flow through the pin.
"Sure, 'tis sweet as honeysuckles!" so he rapped it with his knuckles,
But a sound, as if of buckles,
Clashed within.

"Bring a hatchet, varlets, here!" and they cleft the cask of beer:
What a spectacle of fear met their sight!
There George of Gorbals lay, skull and bones all blanched and grey,
In the arms he bore the day
Of the fight!

I have sung this ancient tale, not, I trust, without avail,
Though the moral ye may fail to perceive;
Sir Launcelot is dust, and his gallant sword is rust,
And now, I think, I must
Take my leave!

ILLUSTRATIONS
OF
THE PUFF POETICAL

[The following eleven pieces of verse appeared originally with many
others in an article called "Puffs and Poetry," from which the following
passage is taken:--

"Some people are fond of excursions into the realms of old romance, with
their Lancelots and Gueneveres, their enchanted castles, their bearded
wizards, 'and such odd branches of learning.' There needs a winged
griffin, at the very least, to carry them out of the everyday
six-and-eightpenny world, or the whizz of an Excalibur to startle their
drowsy imaginations into life. The beauties and the wonders of the
universe died for them some centuries ago; they went out with Friar Bacon
and the invention of gunpowder. Praised be Apollo! this is not our case.
There is a snatch of poetry, to our apprehension, in almost everything.
We have detected it pushing its petals forth from the curls of a
barrister's wig, and scented its fragrance even in the columns of the
'London Gazette.'

"'The deep poetic voice that hourly speaks within us' is never silent.
Like Signor Benedick, it 'will still be talking.' We can scarcely let
our eyes dwell upon an object--nay, not even upon a gridiron or a
toothpick--but it seems to be transmuted as by the touch of Midas into
gold. Our facts accordingly adopt upon occasions a very singular shape.
We are not nice to a shade. A trifle here or there never stands in our
way. We regard a free play of fancy as the privilege of every genuine
Briton, and exclaim with Pistol, 'A fico for all yea and nay rogues.'

"We have often thought of entering the lists against Robins [famous for
his imaginative advertisements of properties for sale]. It may be
vanity, but we think we could trump him. Robins amplifies well, but we
think we could trump him. There is an obvious effort in his best works.
The result is a want of unity of effect. Hesiod and Tennyson, the
Caverns of Ellora, and the magic caves of the Regent's Park Colosseum,
are jumbled confusedly one upon another. He never achieves the triumph
of art--repose. Besides, he wants variety. A country box, consisting of
twenty feet square of tottering brickwork, a plateau of dirt, with a few
diseased shrubs and an open drain, is as elaborately be-metaphored as an
island of the Hebrides, with a wilderness of red-deer, Celts, ptarmigan,
and other wild animals upon it. Now, this is out of all rule. An
elephant's trunk can raise a pin as well as uproot an oak, but it would
be ridiculous to employ the same effort for one as for the other.
Robins--with reverence to so great a name, be it spoken--does not attend
to this. He has yet to acquire the light and graceful touch of the
finished artist." Thereupon Bon Gaultier proceeds to illustrate his
views by the following, and many other rhyming advertisements.]

The Death of Ishmael.

Died the Jew? "The Hebrew died.
On the pavement cold he lay,
Around him closed the living tide;
The butcher's cad set down his tray;
The pot-boy from the Dragon Green
No longer for his pewter calls;
The Nereid rushes in between,
Nor more her 'Fine live mackerel!' bawls."

Died the Jew? "The Hebrew died.
They raised him gently from the stone,
They flung his coat and neckcloth wide--
But linen had that Hebrew none.
They raised the pile of hats that pressed
His noble head, his locks of snow;
But, ah, that head, upon his breast,
Sank down with an expiring 'Clo!'"

Died the Jew? "The Hebrew died,
Struck with overwhelming qualms
From the flavour spreading wide
Of some fine Virginia hams.
Would you know the fatal spot,
Fatal to that child of sin?
These fine-flavoured hams are bought
AT 50 BISHOPSGATE WITHIN!"

Parr's Life Pills.

'Twas in the town of Lubeck,
A hundred years ago,
An old man walked into the church,
With beard as white as snow;
Yet were his cheeks not wrinkled,
Nor dim his eagle eye:
There's many a knight that steps the street,
Might wonder, should he chance to meet
That man erect and high!

When silenced was the organ,
And hushed the vespers loud,
The Sacristan approached the sire,
And drew him from the crowd--
"There's something in thy visage,
On which I dare not look;
And when I rang the passing bell,
A tremor that I may not tell,
My very vitals shook.

"Who art thou, awful stranger?
Our ancient annals say,
That twice two hundred years ago
Another passed this way,
Like thee in face and feature;
And, if the tale be true,
'Tis writ, that in this very year
Again the stranger shall appear.
Art thou the Wandering Jew?"

"The Wandering Jew, thou dotard!"
The wondrous phantom cried--
"'Tis several centuries ago
Since that poor stripling died.
He would not use my nostrums--
See, shaveling, here they are!
_These_ put to flight all human ills,
These conquer death--unfailing pills,
And I'm the inventor, PARR!"

Tarquin and the Augur.

Gingerly is good King Tarquin shaving.
Gently glides the razor o'er his chin,
Near him stands a grim Haruspex raving,
And with nasal whine he pitches in
Church extension hints,
Till the monarch squints,
Snicks his chin, and swears--a deadly sin!

"Jove confound thee, thou bare-legged impostor!
From my dressing-table get thee gone!
Dost thou think my flesh is double Glo'ster?
There again! That cut was to the bone!
Get ye from my sight;
I'll believe you're right,
When my razor cuts the sharpening hone!"

Thus spoke Tarquin with a deal of dryness;
But the Augur, eager for his fees,
Answered--"Try it, your Imperial Highness;
Press a little harder, if you please.
There! the deed is done!"
Through the solid stone
Went the steel as glibly as through cheese.

So the Augur touched the tin of Tarquin,
Who suspected some celestial aid;
But he wronged the blameless gods; for hearken!
Ere the monarch's bet was rashly laid,
With his searching eye
Did the priest espy
ROGERS' name engraved upon the blade.

La Mort d'Arthur,

NOT BY ALFRED TENNYSON.

Slowly, as one who bears a mortal hurt,
Through which the fountain of his life runs dry,
Crept good King Arthur down unto the lake.
A roughening wind was bringing in the waves
With cold dull plash and plunging to the shore,
And a great bank of clouds came sailing up
Athwart the aspect of the gibbous moon,
Leaving no glimpse save starlight, as he sank,
With a short stagger, senseless on the stones.

No man yet knows how long he lay in swound;
But long enough it was to let the rust
Lick half the surface of his polished shield;
For it was made by far inferior hands,
Than forged his helm, his breastplate, and his greaves,
Whereon no canker lighted, for they bore
The magic stamp of MECHI'S SILVER STEEL.

Jupiter and the Indian Ale.

"Take away this clammy nectar!"
Said the king of gods and men;
"Never at Olympus' table
Let that trash be served again.
Ho, Lyaeus, thou the beery!
Quick--invent some other drink;
Or, in a brace of shakes, thou standest
On Cocytus' sulphury brink!"

Terror shook the limbs of Bacchus,
Paly grew his pimpled nose,
And already in his rearward
Felt he Jove's tremendous toes;
When a bright idea struck him--
"Dash my thyrsus! I'll be bail--
For you never were in India--
That you know not HODGSON'S ALE!"

"Bring it!" quoth the Cloud-compeller;
And the wine-god brought the beer--
"Port and claret are like water
To the noble stuff that's here!"
And Saturnius drank and nodded,
Winking with his lightning eyes,
And amidst the constellations
Did the star of HODGSON rise!

The Lay of the Doudney Brothers.

Coats at five-and-forty shillings! trousers ten-and-six a pair!
Summer waistcoats, three a sov'reign, light and comfortable wear!
Taglionis, black or coloured, Chesterfield and velveteen!
The old English shooting-jacket--doeskins such as ne'er were seen!
Army cloaks and riding-habits, Alberts at a trifling cost!
Do you want an annual contract? Write to DOUDNEYS' by the post.
DOUDNEY BROTHERS! DOUDNEY BROTHERS! Not the men that drive the van,
Plastered o'er with advertisements, heralding some paltry plan,
How, by base mechanic stinting, and by pinching of their backs,
Lean attorneys' clerks may manage to retrieve their Income-tax:
But the old established business--where the best of clothes are given
At the very lowest prices--Fleet Street, Number Ninety-seven.
Wouldst thou know the works of DOUDNEY? Hie thee to the thronged Arcade,
To the Park upon a Sunday, to the terrible Parade.
There, amid the bayonets bristling, and the flashing of the steel,
When the household troops in squadrons round the bold field-marshals
wheel,
Shouldst thou see an aged warrior in a plain blue morning frock,
Peering at the proud battalions o'er the margin of his stock,--
Should thy throbbing heart then tell thee, that the veteran worn and grey
Curbed the course of Bonaparte, rolled the thunders of Assaye--
Let it tell thee, stranger, likewise, that the goodly garb he wears
Started into shape and being from the DOUDNEY BROTHERS' shears!
Seek thou next the rooms of Willis--mark, where D'Orsay's Count is
bending,
See the trouser's undulation from his graceful hip descending;
Hath the earth another trouser so compact and love-compelling?
Thou canst find it, stranger, only, if thou seek'st the DOUDNEYS'
dwelling!
Hark, from Windsor's royal palace, what sweet voice enchants the ear?
"Goodness, what a lovely waistcoat! Oh, who made it, Albert dear?
'Tis the very prettiest pattern! You must get a dozen others!"
And the Prince, in rapture, answers--"'Tis the work of DOUDNEY BROTHERS!"

Paris and Helen.

As the youthful Paris presses
Helen to his ivory breast.
Sporting with her golden tresses,
Close and ever closer pressed,

"Let me," said he, "quaff the nectar,
Which thy lips of ruby yield;
Glory I can leave to Hector,
Gathered in the tented field.

"Let me ever gaze upon thee,
Look into thine eyes so deep;
With a daring hand I won thee,
With a faithful heart I'll keep.

"Oh, my Helen, thou bright wonder,
Who was ever like to thee?
Jove would lay aside his thunder,
So he might be blest like me.

"How mine eyes so fondly linger
On thy smooth and pearly skin;
Scan each round and rosy finger,
Drinking draughts of beauty in!

"Tell me, whence thy beauty, fairest?
Whence thy cheek's enchanting bloom?
Whence the rosy hue thou wearest;
Breathing round thee rich perfume?"

Thus he spoke, with heart that panted,
Clasped her fondly to his side,
Gazed on her with look enchanted,
While his Helen thus replied:

"Be no discord, love, between us,
If I not the secret tell!
'Twas a gift I had of Venus,--
Venus, who hath loved me well;

"And she told me as she gave it,
'Let not e'er the charm be known;
O'er thy person freely lave it,
Only when thou art alone.'

"'Tis enclosed in yonder casket--
Here behold its golden key;
But its name--love, do not ask it,
Tell't I may not, even to thee!"

Long with vow and kiss he plied her;
Still the secret did she keep,
Till at length he sank beside her,
Seemed as he had dropped to sleep.

Soon was Helen laid in slumber,
When her Paris, rising slow,
Did his fair neck disencumber
From her rounded arms of snow.

Then, her heedless fingers oping,
Takes the key and steals away,
To the ebon table groping,
Where the wondrous casket lay;

Eagerly the lid uncloses,
Sees within it, laid aslope,
PEARS' LIQUID BLOOM OF ROSES,
Cakes of his TRANSPARENT SOAP!

A Warning.

Lose thou no time! A grave and solemn warning,
Yet seldom ta'en, to man's eternal cost.
Night wanes, day lessens, evening, noon, and morning
Flit by unseen, and yet much time is lost.

And why? Are moments useless as the vapour
That rises from the lamp's extinguish'd flame!
Why do we, like the moth around the taper,
Sport with the fire that must consume our frame?

Be wise in time! Arouse thee, oh thou sleeper,
Account thy moments dearer than thy gold;
While time thou hast, appoint a good time-keeper
To treasure up thine hours till thou art old.

Lose but this chance, and thou art lost for ever,--
Seek him who keeps a watch for sinking souls--
Ask for COX SAVORY'S HORIZONTAL LEVER,
With double case, and jewell'd in four holes!

To Persons About to Marry.

Gentle pair, ere Hymen binds you
In his fetters, soft but sure,
Pray, bethink you, have you ever
Had substantial furniture?

Love's a fickle god, they tell us,
Giddy-pated, lightly led,
Therefore it were well you found him
In a comfortable bed.

Olive branches soon will blossom
Round your table, two or three;
And that table should be made of
Good and strong mahogany.

If the cares of life should gather,
And we all must look for cares,--
Sorrow falls extremely lightly
In the midst of rosewood chairs.

Few that walk can 'scape a stumble,
Thus hath said The Prophet-King;
But your fall will be a light one
On Axminster carpeting.

We can keep your little children
From collision with the grate--
We have wardrobes, we have presses
At a reasonable rate;

Mirrors for the queen of beauty
Basins of the purest stone,
Ottomans which Cleopatra
Might have envied on her throne.

Seek us ere you taste with rapture
Love's sweet draught of filter'd honey,
And you'll find the safest plan is,
NO DISCOUNT, AND READY MONEY!

Want Places.

Wants a place a lad, who's seen
Pious life at brother Teazle's,
Used to cleaning boots, and been
Touch'd with grace, and had the measles.

* * * * *

Wants a place as housemaid, or
Companion to a bachelor,
Up in years, and who'd prefer
A person with no character,
A female, who in this respect,
Would leave him nothing to object.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS

The Lay of the Lover's Friend.

[AIR--"_The days we went a-gypsying_."]

I would all womankind were dead,
Or banished o'er the sea;
For they have been a bitter plague
These last six weeks to me:
It is not that I'm touched myself,
For that I do not fear;
No female face has shown me grace
For many a bygone year.
But 'tis the most infernal bore,
Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who's lost his heart
A short time ago.

Whene'er we steam it to Blackwall,
Or down to Greenwich run,
To quaff the pleasant cider-cup,
And feed on fish and fun;
Or climb the slopes of Richmond Hill,
To catch a breath of air:
Then, for my sins, he straight begins
To rave about his fair.
Oh, 'tis the most tremendous bore,
Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who's lost his heart
A short time ago.

In vain you pour into his ear
Your own confiding grief;
In vain you claim his sympathy,
In vain you ask relief;
In vain you try to rouse him by
Joke, repartee, or quiz;
His sole reply's a burning sigh,
And "What a mind it is!"
O Lord! it is the greatest bore,
Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who's lost his heart
A short time ago.

I've heard her thoroughly described
A hundred times, I'm sure;
And all the while I've tried to smile,
And patiently endure;
He waxes strong upon his pangs,
And potters o'er his grog;
And still I say, in a playful way--
"Why, you're a lucky dog!"
But oh! it is the heaviest bore,
Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who's lost his heart
A short time ago.

I really wish he'd do like me,
When I was young and strong;
I formed a passion every week,
But never kept it long.
But he has not the sportive mood
That always rescued me,
And so I would all women could
Be banished o'er the sea.
For 'tis the most egregious bore,
Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who's lost his heart
A short time ago.

Francesca Da Rimini.

TO BON GAULTIER.

[ARGUMENT.--An impassioned pupil of Leigh Hunt, having met Bon Gaultier
at a Fancy Ball, declares the destructive consequences thus.]

Didst thou not praise me, Gaultier, at the ball,
Ripe lips, trim boddice, and a waist so small,
With clipsome lightness, dwindling ever less,
Beneath the robe of pea-y greeniness?
Dost thou remember, when, with stately prance,
Our heads went crosswise in the country-dance;
How soft, warm fingers, tipped like buds of balm,
Trembled within the squeezing of thy palm;
And how a cheek grew flushed and peachy-wise
At the frank lifting of thy cordial eyes?
Ah, me! that night there was one gentle thing,
Who, like a dove, with its scarce feathered wing,
Fluttered at the approach of thy quaint swaggering!

There's wont to be, at conscious times like these,
An affectation of a bright-eyed ease,--
A crispy cheekiness, if so I dare
Describe the swaling of a jaunty air;
And thus, when swirling from the waltz's wheel,
You craved my hand to grace the next quadrille,
That smiling voice, although it made me start,
Boiled in the meek o'erlifting of my heart;
And, picking at my flowers, I said, with free
And usual tone, "O yes, sir, certainly!"

Like one that swoons, 'twixt sweet amaze and fear,
I heard the music burning in my ear,
And felt I cared not, so thou wert with me,
If Gurth or Wamba were our vis-a-vis.
So, when a tall Knight Templar ringing came,
And took his place amongst us with his dame,
I neither turned away, nor bashful shrunk
From the stern survey of the soldier-monk,
Though rather more than three full quarters drunk;
But, threading through the figure, first in rule,
I paused to see thee plunge into La Poule.

Ah, what a sight was that! Not prurient Mars,
Pointing his toe through ten celestial bars--
Not young Apollo, beamily arrayed
In tripsome guise for Juno's masquerade--
Not smartest Hermes, with his pinion girth,
Jerking with freaks and snatches down to earth,
Looked half so bold, so beautiful, and strong,
As thou, when pranking through the glittering throng!
How the calmed ladies looked with eyes of love
On thy trim velvet doublet laced above;
The hem of gold, that, like a wavy river,
Flowed down into thy back with glancing shiver!
So bare was thy fine throat, and curls of black,
So lightsomely dropped in thy lordly back,
So crisply swaled the feather in thy bonnet,
So glanced thy thigh, and spanning palm upon it,
That my weak soul took instant flight to thee,
Lost in the fondest gush of that sweet witchery!

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