Go, lose or conquer as you can ;
But if you fail, or if you rise.

Be each, pray God, a gentleman.

A gentleman, or old or young !

(Bear kindly with my humble lays) ;
The sacred chorus first was sung

Upon the first of Christmas days :
The shepherds heard it overhead —

The joyful angels raised it then :
Glory to Heaven on high, it said,

And peace on earth to gentle men.

My song, save this, is little worth ;

I lay the weary pen aside.
And wish you health, and love, and mirth,

As fits the solemn Christmas-tide.
As fits the holy Christmas birth,

Be this, good friends, our carol still —
Be peace on eartli, be peace on earth,

To men of gentle will.



Il6 BALLADS.



VANITAS VANITATUM.

How spake of old the Royal Seer?

(His text is one I love to treat on.)
This life of ours, he said, is sheer

Mataiotes Mataioteton.

O Student of this gilded Book,

Declare, while musing on its pages,

If truer words were ever spoke
By ancient or by modern sages ?

The various authors' names but note,*

French, Spanish, English, Russians, Germans

And in the volume polyglot

Sure you may read a hundred sermons !

What histories of life are here,

More wild than all romancers' stories ;

What wondrous transformations queer,
What homilies on human glories !

What theme for sorrow or for scorn !

What chronicle of Fate's surprises —
Of adverse fortune nobly borne,

Of chances, changes, ruins, rises !

Of thrones upset, and sceptres broke,
How strange a record here is written !

Of honors, dealt as if in joke ;
Of brave desert unkindly smitten.



* Between a page by Jules Janin, and a poem by the

Turkish Ambassador, in Madame de R 's album,

containing the autographs of kings, princes, poets, mar-
shals, musicians, diplomatists, statesmen, artists, and men
of letters of all nations.



V ANITAS VANITATUM. llj

How low men were, and how they rise !

How high they were, and how they tumble !

vanity of vanities !

laughable, pathetic jumble !

Here between honest Janin's joke
And his Turk Excellency's firman,

1 write ray name upon the book :

1 write my name — and end my sermon.



O vanity of vanities !

How wayAvard the decrees of Fate are ;
How very weak the very wise.

How very small the very great are !

What mean these stale moralities,

Sir Preacher, from your desk you mumble ?
Why rail against the great and wise.

And tire us with your ceaseless grumble ?

Pray choose us out another text,
O man morose and narrow-minded !

Come turn the page — I read the next.
And then the next, and still I find it.

Read here how Wealth aside was thrust.

And Folly set in place exalted ;
How Princes footed in the dust.

While lackeys in the saddle vaulted.

Though thrice a thousand years are past
Since David's son, the sad and splendid,

The weary King Ecclesiast,

Upon his awful tablets penned it, —



Il8 BALLADS.

Methinks the text is never stale,
And life is every day renewing

Fresh comments on the old old tale
Of Folly, Fortune, Glory, Ruin.

Hark to the Preacher, preaching still
He lifts his voice and cries his sermon.

Here at St. Peter's of Cornhill,

As yonder on the Mount of Hermon :

For you and me to heart to take
(O dear beloved brother readers)

To-day as when the good King spake
Beneath the solemn Syrian cedars.



LOVE-SONGS MADE EASY.



WHAT MAKES MY HEART TO THRILL
AND GLOW?

THE MAYFAIR LOVE-SONG.

Winter and summer, night and morn,
I languish at this table dark ;

My office window has a corn-
er looks into St. James's Park.

I hear the foot-guards' bugle-horn.
Their tramp upon parade I mark ;

I am a gentleman forlorn,
I am a Foreign-Office Clerk.

My toils, my pleasures, every one,

I find are stale, and dull, and slow ;
And yesterday, when work was done,

I felt myself so sad and low,
I could have seized a sentry's gun

My wearied brains out out to blow.
What is it makes my blood to run ?

What makes my heart to beat and glow ?

My notes of hand are burnt, perhaps ?

Some one has paid my tailor's bill ?
No : everj' morn the tailor raps ;

My I O U's are extant still.
I still am prey of debt and dun ;

My elder brother's stout and well.



) LOVE-SONGS MADE EASY.

What is it makes my blood to run ?

What makes my heart to glow and swell ?

I know my chief's distrust and hate ;

He says I'm lazy and I shirk.
Ah ! had I genius like the late

Right Honorable Edmund Burke !
My chance of all promotion's gone,

I know it is, — he hates me so.
What is it makes my blood to run,

And all my heart to swell and glow ?

Why, why is all so bright and gay ?

There is no change, there is no cause ;
My office-time I found to-day

Disgusting as it ever was.
At three, I went and tried the Clubs,

And yawned and saunter'd to and fro ;
And now my heart jumps up and throbs.

And all my soul is in a glow.

At half-past four I had the cab ;
I drove as hard as I could go.

The London sky was dirty drab.
And dirty brown the London snow.

And as I rattled in a cant-
er down by dear old Bolton Row,

A something made my heart to pant,
And caused my cheek to flush and glow.

What could it be that made me find

Old Jawkins pleasant at the Club ?
Why was it that I laughed and grinned

At whist, although I lost the rub ?
What was it made me drink like mad

Thirteen small glasses of Cura5ao ?
That made my inmost heart so glad.

And every fibre thrill and glow ?



THE ROCKS. 121

She's home again ! she's home, she's home !

Away all cares and griefs and pain ;
I knew she would — she's back from Rome ;

She's home again ! she's home again !
"The family's gone abroad," they said,

September last — they told me so ;
Since then my lonely heart is dead.

My blood, I think's forgot to flow.

She's home again ! Away all care !

O fairest form the world can show !
O beaming eyes ! O golden hair !

O tender voice, that breathes so low !
O gentlest, softest, purest heart !

O joy, O hope ! — " My tiger, ho ! "
Fitz-Clarence said ; we saw him start —

He galloped down to Bolton Row.



THE GHAZUL, OR ORIENTAL LOVE-
SONG.

THE ROCKS.

I WAS a timid little antelope ;

My home was in the rocks, the lonely rocks.

I saw the hunters scouring on the plain ;
I lived among the rocks, the lonely rocks.

I was a-thirsty in the summer-heat ;

I ventured to the tents beneath the rocks.

Zuleikah ! brought me water from the well ;
Since then I have been faithless to the rocks.



122 LOVE-SONGS MADE EASY.

I saw her face reflected in the well ;

Her camels since have marched into the rocks.

I look to see her image in the well ;
I only see my eyes, my own sad eyes.
My mother is alone among the rocks.

THE MERRY BARD.

ZuLEiKAH ! The young Agas in the bazaar are
slim-waisted and wear yellow slippers. I am old
and hideous. One of my eyes is out, and the hairs
of my beard are mostly gray. Praise be to
Allah ! I am a merry bard.

There is a bird upon the terrace of the Emir's
chief wife. Praise be to Allah ! He has emer-
alds on his neck, and a ruby tail. I am a merry
bard. He deafens me with his diabolical scream-
ing.

There is a little brown bird in the basket-
maker's cage. Praise be to Allah ! He ravishes
my soul in the moonlight. I am a merry bard.

The peacock is an Aga, but the little bird is a
Bulbul.

I am a little brown Bulbul. Come and listen
in the moonlight. Praise be to Allah ! I am a
merry bard.

THE CAi'QUE.

Yonder to the kiosk, beside the creek.
Paddle the swift caique.

Thou brawny oarsman vvith the sun-burnt cheek,
Quick ! for it soothes my heart to hear the Bulbul
speak.



31 y NORA. 123

Ferry me quickly to the Asian shores,
Swift bending to your oars.
Beneath the melancholy sycamores,
Hark ! what a ravishing note the love-lorn Bulbul
pours !

Behold, the boughs seem quivering with delight.
The stars themselves more bright.
As mid the waving branches out of sight
The Lover of the Rose sits singing through the
night.

Under the boughs I sat and listened still,

I could not have my fill.

" How comes," I said, " such music to his bill ?

Tell me for whom he sings so beautiful a trill."

"Once I was dumb," then did the Bird disclose,
" But looked upon the Rose ;
And in the garden where the loved one grows,
I straightway did begin sweet music to compose."

"O bird of song, there's one in this caique
The Rose would also seek.
So he might learn like you to love and speak."
Then answered me the bird of dusky beak,
" The Rose, the Rose of Love blushes on
Leilah's cheek."



MY NORA.

Beneath the gold acacia buds
My gentle Nora sits and broods.
Far, far away in Boston woods

My gentle Nora !



124 LOVE-SONGS MADE EASY.

I see the tear-drop in her e'e.
Her bosom's heaving tenderly ;
I know — I know she thinks of me,
My darling Nora !

And where am I ' My love, whilst thou
Sitt'st sad beneath the acacia bough.
Where pearl's on neck, and wreath on brow,
I stand, my Nora !

Mid carcanet and coronet.
Where joy-lamps shine and flowers are set —
Where England's chivalry are met,
Behold me Nora !

In this strange scene of revelry.
Amidst this gorgeous chivalry,
A form I saw was like to thee.

My love — my Nora !

She paused amidst her converse glad ;
The lady saw that I was sad,
She pitied the poor lonely lad, —

Dost love her, Nora ?

In sooth, she is a lovely dame,
A lip of red, and eye of flame.
And clustering golden locks, the same
As thine, dear Nora !

Her glance is softer than the dawn's,
Her foot is lighter tlian the fawn s.
Her breast is whiter than the swan's.
Or thine, my Nora !

Oh, gentle breast to pity me !
Oh, lovely Ladye Emily !
Till death— till death I'll think of thee—
Of thee and Nora !



SERENADE. 125



TO MARY.

I SEEM, in the midst of the crowd,

The lightest of all ;
My laughter rings cheery and loud

In banquet and ball.
My lip hath its smiles and its sneers,

For all men to see ;
But my soul, and my truth, and my tears,

Are for thee, are for thee !

Around me they flatter and fawn —

The young and the old,
The fairest are ready to pawn

Their hearts for my gold.
They sue me — I laugh as I spurn

The slaves at my knee ;
But in faith and in fondness I turn

Unto thee, unto thee !



SERENADE.

Now the toils of day are over.
And the sun hath sunk to rest,

Seeking, like a fiery lover.

The bosom of the blushing west —

The faithful night keeps watch and ward,
Raising the moon her silver shield.

And summoning the stars to guard
The slumbers of my fair Mathilde !



126 LOVE-SONGS MADE EASY.

The faithful night ! Now all things lie
Hid by her mantle dark and dim,

In pious hope I hitherhie,

And humbly chant mine evening hymn.

Thou art my prayer, my saint, my shrine !

(For never holy pilgrim kneel'd
Or wept at feet more pure than thine),

My virgin love, my sweet Mathilde !



FIVE GERMAN DITTIES.



A TRAGIC STORY.

BY ADELBERT VON CHAMISSO.

" 's war Einer, dem's zu Herien gieng."

There lived a sage in days of yore,
And he a handsome pigtail wore ;
But wondered much and sorrowed more
Because it hung behind him.

He mused upon this curious case,

And swore he'd change the pigtail's place.

And have it hanging at his face.

Not dangling there behind him.

Says he, " The mystery I've found, —
I'll turn me round," — he turned him round
But still it hung behind him.

Then round, and round, and out and in.
All day the puzzled sage did spin ;
In vain — it mattered not a pin, —

The pigtail hung behind him.

And right, and left, and round about.
And up, and down, and in, and out.
He turned ; but still the pigtail stout
Hung steadily behind him.



128 FIVE GERMAN DITTIES.

And though his efforts never slack,

And though he twist, and whirl, and tack,

Alas ! still faithful to his back

The pigtail hangs behind him.



THE CHAPLET.

FROM UHLAND.

" Es pfliickte Bliimlein mannigfalt."

A LITTLE girl through field and wood
Went plucking flowerets here and there,

When suddenly beside her stood
A lady wondrous fair.

The lovely lady smiled, and laid
A wreath upon the maiden's brow :

" Wear it ; 'twill blossom soon," she said,
"Although 'tis leafless now."

The little maiden older grew

And wandered forth of moonlight eves.
And sighed and loved as maids will do ;

When, lo ! her wreath bore leaves.

Then was our maid a wife, and hung
Upon a joyful bridegroom's bosom ;

When from the garland's leaves there sprung
Fair store of blossom.

And presently a baby fair

Upon iier gentle breast she reared ;
When midst the wreath that bound her hair

Rich golden fruit appeared.



THE KING ON THE TOWER. 1 29

But when her love lay cold in death,
Sunk in the black and silent tomb,

All sere and withered was the wreath
That wont so bright to bloom.

Yet still the withered wreath she wore ;

She wore it at her dying hour ;
When, lo ! the wondrous garland bore

Both leaf, and fruit, and flower !



THE KING ON THE TOWER.

FROM UHLAND.

" Da liegen sie alle, die grauen Hohen."

The cold gray hills they bind me around.
The darksome valleys lie sleeping below.

But the winds, as they pass o'er all this ground.
Bring me never a sound of woe.

Oh ! for all I have suffered and striven.
Care has embittered my cup cind my feast ;

But here is the night and the dark blue heaven.
And my soul shall be at rest.

O golden legends writ in the skies !

I turn toward you with longing soul.
And list to the awful harmonies

Of the Spheres as on they roll.

My hair is gray and my sight nigh gone ;

My sword it rusteth upon the wall ;
Right have I spoken, and right have I done :

When shall I rest me once for all ?



130 FIVE GERMAN DITTIES.

O blessed rest ! O royal night !

Wherefore seemeth the time so long
Till I see yon stars in their fullest light,

And list to their loudest song ?



TO A VERY OLD WOMAN.

LA MOTTE FOUQUtf.

" Und Du gingst einst, die Myrt' im Haare."

And thou wert once a maiden fair,

A blushing virgin warm and young :
With myrtles wreathed in golden hair.
And glossy brow that knew no care —
Upon a bridegroom's arm you hung.

The golden locks are silvered now,

The blushing cheek is pale and wan ;
The spring may bloom, the autumn glow.
All's one — in chimney corner thou
Sitt'st shivering on. —

A moment — and thou sink'st to rest !
To wake perhaps an angel blest

In the bright presence of thy Lord.
Oh, weary is life's path to all !
Hard is the strife, and light the fall,

But wondrous the reward !



-■; CREDO. 131

A CREDO.



For the sole edification
Of this decent congregation,
Goodly people, by your grant
I will sing a holy chant —

I will sing a holy chant.
If the ditty sound but oddly,
'Twas a father, wise and godly.

Sang it so long ago —
Then sing as Martin Luther sang :
*' Who loves not wine, woman, and song.
He is a fool his whole life long !"



He, by custom patriarchal,
Loved to see the beaker sparkle ;
And he thought the wine improved.
Tasted by the lips he loved —

By the kindly lips he loved.
Friends, I wish this custom pious
Duly were observed by us,

To combine love, song, wine.
And sing as Martin Luther sang.
As Doctor Martin Luther sang :
" Who loves not wine, woman, and song,
He is a fool his whole life-long !"



Who refuses this our Credo,
And who will not sing as we do.
Were he holy as John Knox,
I'd pronounce him heterodox I

I'd pronounce him heterodox.



132 FIVE GERMAN DITTIES.

And from out this congregation,
With a solemn commination,
Banish quick the heretic,
Who will not sing as Luther sang,
As Doctor Martin Luther sang :
" Who loves not wine, woman, and sonj
He is a fool his whole life long !"



FOUR
I MIT A TIONS OF BERANGER.

LE ROI D'YVETOT.

Il 6tait un roi d'Yvetot,

Peu connu dans I'histoire ;
Se levant tard, se couchant t6t,

Dormant fort bien sans gloire,
Et couronn6 par Jeanneton
D'un simple bonnet de coton,
Dit-on.
Oh ! oh ! oh ! oh ! ah ! ah ! ah ! ah!
Quel bon petit roi c'6tait la !
La, la.

II fesait ses quatre repas

Dans son palais de chaume,
Et sur un ane, pas i pas,

Parcourait son royaume.
Joyeux, simple et croyant le bien.
Pour toute garde il n'avait rien
Qu'un chien.
Oh ! oh ! oh ! oh ! ah ! ah ! ah ! ah ! &c.

II n'avait de gout onereux

Qu'une soif un deu vive ;
Mais, en rendant son peuple heureux,

II faut bien qu'un roi vive.



134 IMITATIONS OF BER ANGER.

Lui-meme a table, et sans suppot,
Sur chaque muid levait un pot
D'impot.
Oh ! oh ! oh ! oh ' ah I ah ! ah ! ah ! &c,

Aux filles de bonnes maisons

Comme il avait su plaire,
Ses sujets avaient cent raisons

De le nommer leur pere :
D'ailleurs il ne levait de ban
Que pour tirer quatre fois I'an
Au blanc,
Oh ! oh ! oh ! oh ! ah ! ah ! ah ! ah ! &c.

II n'agrandit point ses etats,

Fut un voisin commode,
Et, modele des potentats,
Prit le plaisir pour code,
Ce n'est que lorsqu'il expira,
Que le peuple qui I'enterra
Pleura.
Oh ! oh ! oh ! oh ! ah ! ah ! ah ! ah .' &c.

On conserve en cor le portrait

De ce digne et bon prince ;

C'est I'enseigne d'un carbaret

Fameux dans la province.
Les jours de fete, bien souvent,
La foule s'ecrie en buvant
Devant :
Oh ! oh ! oh ! oh ! ah ! ah ! ah ! ah ! &c.



THE KING YVETOT.

There was a king of Yvetot,
Of whom renown hath little said,



THE KING OF YVETOT. 135

Who let all thoughts of glory go,

And dawdled half his days a-bed ;
And every night, as night came round,
By Jenny with a nightcap crowned,
Slept very sound :
Sing ho, ho, ho ! and he, he, he !
That's the kind of king for me.

And every day it came to pass.

That four lusty meals made he ;
And step by step, upon an ass.

Rode abroad, his realms to see ;
And wherever he did stir.
What think you was his escort, sir?
Why, an old cur.
Sing ho, ho, ho ! &c.

If e'er he went into excess,

'Twas from a somewhat lively thirst ;
But he who would his subjects bless,

Odd's fish ! — must wet his whistle first ;
And so from every cask they got.
Our king did to himself allot
At least a pot.
Sing ho, ho 1 &c.

To all the ladies of the land,

A courteous king, and kind, was he —
The reason why, you'll understand,

They named him Pater Patrice.
Each year he called his fighting men,
And marched a league from home, and then
Marched back again,
Sing ho, ho ! &c.

Neither by force nor false pretence,
He sought lo make his kingdom great,



136 IMITATIONS OF BER ANGER.

And made (O princes, learn from hence) —

" Live and let live," his rule of state.
'Twas only when he came to die.
That his people who stood by,

Were known to cry.
Sing ho, ho ! &c.

The portrait of this best of kings

Is extant still, upon a sign
That on a village tavern swings,

Famed in the country for good wine.
The people in their Sunday trim.
Filling their glasses to the brim.
Look up to him,
Singing ha, ha, ha ! and he, he, he !
That's the sort of king for me.



THE KING OF BRENTFORD.

ANOTHER VERSION.

There was a king in Brentford, — of whom no

legends tell.
But who, without his glory, —could eat and sleep

right well.
His Polly's cotton nightcap, — it was his crov%-n

of state,
He slept of evenings early, — and rose of mornings

late.

All in a fine mud palace, — each day he took four

meals.
And for aguardof honor — a dog ran at his heels,
Sometimes to view his kingdoms, — rode forth this

monarch good.
And then a prancing jackass — he royally bestrod.



THE KING OF BREXTFORD. 137

There were no costly habits — with which this
king was curst,

Except (and where's the harm on't ?) — a some-
what lively thirst ;

But people must pay taxes, — and kings must
have their sport,

So out of every gallon — His Grace he took a
quart.

He pleased the ladles round him, — with manners

soft and bland ;
With reason good, they named him — the father

of his land.
Each year his mighty armies — marched forth in

gallant show ;
Their enemies were targets, — their bullets they

were tow.

He vexed no quiet neighbor, — no useless con-
quest made,

But by the laws of pleasure — his peaceful realm
he swayed.

And in the years he reigned, — through all this
country wide.

There was no cause for weeping, — save when
the good man died.

The faithful men of Brentford — do still their

king deplore.
His portrait yet is swinging — beside an alehouse

door.
And topers, tender-hearted, — regard his honest

phiz,
And envy times departed, — that knew a reign

like his.



138 IMITATION'S OF BERAXGER.



LE GRENIER.

Je viens revoir I'asile ou ma jeunesse
De la misere a subi les le5ons.
J'avais vingt ans, une folle maitresse,
De francs amis et I'amour des chansons.
Bravant le monde et les sots et les sages,
Sans avenir, riche de mon printemps,
Leste et joyeux je montais six etages.
Dans un grenier qu'on est bien a vingt ans !

C'est un grenier, point ne veux qu'on rignore,
I^a fut nion lit, bien chetif et bien dur ;
La fut ma table ; et je retrouve encore
Trois pieds d'un vers charbonnes sur le niur.
Apparaissez, plaisirs de mon bel age,
Que d'un coup d'aile a fustiges le temps :
Vingt fois pour vous j'ai mis ma montre en gage,
Dans un grenier qu'on est bien a vingt ans \

Lisette ici doit surtout apparaitre,
Vive, jolie, avec un frais chapeau ;
Deja sa main a I'etroite fenetre
Suspend son schal, en guise de rideau.
Sa robe aussi va parer ma couchette ;
Respecte, Amour, ses plis longs et fiottans.
T'ai su depuis qui payait sa toilette.
Dans uu grenier qu'on est bien a vingt ans i

A table un jour, jour de grande richesse,
De mes amis les voix brillaient en chceur,
Quand jusqu'ici monte un cri d'allegresse :
A Marengo Bonaparte est vainqucur.
Le canon gronde ; un autre chant commence ;
Nous cel6brons tant de faits eclatans.
Les rois jamais n'envahiront la France,
Dans un grenier qu'on est bien a vingt ans !



THE GARRET. 1 39

Quittons ce toit oil ma raison s'6nivre.
Oh ! quil's sont loin ces jours si regrettes !
J'echanj^erais ce qu'il me reste a vivre
Contre un dcs mois qu'ici Dieu m'a comptes,
Pour rever gloire, amour, plaisir, folie,
P'our depenser sa vie en peu d'instans,
D'un long espoir pour la voir embellie.
Dans un grenier qu'on est bien a vingt ans !



THE GARRET.

With pensive eyes the little room I view,

Where, in my youth, 1 weathered it so long,
With a svild mistress, a stanch friend or two.

And a light heart still breaking into song :
Making a mock of life, and all its cares,

Rich in the glory of my rising sun.
Lightly I vaulted up four pair of stairs,

In the brave days when I was twenty-one.

Yes ; 'tis a garret — let him knov.-'t who will —

There was my bed — full hard it was and small ;
My table there — and I decipher still

Half a lame couplet charcoaled on the v/all.
Ve joys, tliat Time hath swept with him away,

Come to mine eyes, ye dreams of love and fun ;
For you I pawned my watch how many a day.

In the brave days when I was twenty-one.

And see my little Jessy, first of all ;

She comes wilh pouting lips and sparkling
eyes :
Behold, hov.' roguishly she pins her shawl

Across the narrow casement, curtain-wise :



140 IMITATIONS OF BER ANGER.

Now by the bed her petticoat glides down,

And when did women look the worse in none ?

I have heard since who paid for many a gown,
In the brave days when I was twenty-one.

One jolly evening, when my friends and I

Made happy music with our songs and cheers,
A shout of triumph mounted up thus high,

And distant cannon opened on our ears ;
We rise, — we join in the triumphant strain, —

Napoleon conquers — Austerlitz is won —
Tyrants shall never tread us down again,

In the brave days when I was twenty-one.

Let us begone — the place is sad and strange —

How far, far off, these happy times appear ;
All that I have to live I'd gladly change

For one such month as I have wasted here —
To draw long dreams of beauty, love, and power,

From founts of hope that never v/ill outrun,
And drink all life's quintessence in an hour,

Give me the days when I was twenty-one.



ROGER-BONTEMPS.

Aux gens atrabilaires
Pour exemple donne,
En un temps de miseres
Roger-Bontemps est ne.
Vivre obscur a sa guise,
Narguer les mecontens ;
Eh gai 1 c'est la devise
Du gros Roger-Bontemps.



ROGER-BONTEMPS. 141

Du chapeau de son pere
Coiffe dans les grands jours,
De roses ou de lierre
Le rajeunir toujours ;
Mettre un manteau de bure,
Vieil ami de vingt ans ;
Eh gai ! c'est la parure
Du g^os Roger-Bontemps.

Posseder dans sa hutte
Une table, un vieux lit,
Des cartes, une flute,
Un broc que Dieu remplit ;
Un portrait de maitresse,
Un coffre et rien dedans ;