Eh gai ! c'est la richesse
Du gros Roger-Bontemps.
Aux enfans de la ville
Montrer de petits jeux ;
Etre fesseur habile
De contes graveleux ;
Ne parler que de danse
Et d'almanachs chautans :
Eh gai ! c'est la science
Du gros Roger-Bontemps.
Faute de vins d 'elite,
Sabler ceux du canton :
Aux dames du grand ton :
De joie et de tendresse
Remplir tous ses instans :
Eh gai ! c'est la sagesse
Du gros Roger-Bontemps.
Dire au ciel : Je me fie,^
Mon pfere, h. ta bonte ;
142 IMITATIONS OF BER ANGER.
De ma philosophie
Pardonne le gaite :
Que ma saisoii derniere
Soit encore un printemps ;
Eh gai ! c'est la priere
Du gros Roger-Bontemps.
Vous pauvres pleins d'envie,
Vous riches desireux,
Vous, dont le char devie
Apres un cours heureux ;
Vous, qui perdrez peut-etre
Des litres eclatans,
Eh gai ! prenez pour maitre
Le gros Roger-Bontemps.
When fierce political debate
Throughout the isle was storming.
And Rads attacked the throne and state.
And Tories the reforming.
To claim the furious rage of each,
And right the land demented.
Heaven sent us Jolly Jack, to teach
The way to be contented.
Jack's bed was straw, 'twas warm and soft,
His chair, a three-legged stool ;
His broken jug was emptied oft,
Yet, somehow, always full.
His mistress' portrait decked the wall.
His mirror had a crack ;
Yet, gay and glad, though this was all
His wealth, lived Jolly Jack.
JOLLY JACK. 143
To gdve advice to avarice,
Teach pride its mean condition,
And preach good sense to dull pretence,
Was honest Jack's high mission.
Our simple statesman found his rule
Of moral in the flagon,
7\nd held his philosophic school
Beneath the " George and Dragon."
When village Solons cursed the Lords,
And called the malt-ta.x sinful.
Jack heeded not their angry words.
But smiled and drank his skinful.
And when men wasted health and life
In search of rank and riches,
Jacic marked aloc^the paltry strife,
And wore his tffreadbare breeches.
" I enter not the church," he said,
" But I'll not seek to rob it ;"
So worthy Jack Joe Miller read.
While others studied Cobbett.
His talk it was of feast and fun ;
His guide the Almanack ;
From youth to age thus gayly run
The Hfe of Jolly Jack.
And when Jack prayed, as oft he would,
He humbly thanked his IMaker ;
" I am," said he. " O Father good !
Nor Catholic nor Quaker :
Give each his creed, let each proclaim
His catalogue of curses ;
I trust in Thee, and not in them.
In Thee and in Thy mercies !
" Forgive me if, midst all Thy works,
No hint I see of damning ;
144 IMITATIONS OF BER ANGER.
And think there's faith among the Turks,
And hope for e'en the Brahmin.
Harmless my mind is, and my mirth,
And kindly is my laughter ;
I cannot see the smiling earth.
And think there's hell hereafter."
Jack died ; he left no legacy,
Save that his story teaches : â€”
Content to peevish poverty ;
Humility to riches.
Ye scornful great, ye envious small,
Come follow in his track ;
We all were happier, if we all
Would copy Jolly Jack.
IMITATION OF HORACE.
TO HIS SERVING BOY.
Puer, apparatus ;
Philyra coronae :
Rosa quo locorum
Sedulus, euro :
Neque te ministrum
Neque me sub arcta
Dear Lucy, you know what my wish is,
I hate all your Frenchified fuss :
Your silly entries and made dishes
Were never intended for us.
146 IMITATION OF HORACE.
No footman in lace and in ruffles
Need dangle behind my arm-chair ;
And never mind seeking for truffles,
Although they be ever so rare.
But a plain leg of mutton, my Lucy,
I prithee get ready at three :
Have it smoking, and tender and juicy.
And what better meat can there be ?
And when it has feasted the master,
'Twill amply suffice for the m.aid ;
Meanwhile I will smoke my canaster,
And tipple my ale in the shade.
OLD FRIENDS WITH NEW
THE KNIGHTLY GUERDON.*
Untrue to my Ulric I never could be,
I vow by the saints and the blessed Marie,
Since the desolate hour when we stood by the
And your dark galley waited to carry you o'er :
My faith then I plighted, my love 1 confess'd,
As I gave you the Battle-axe marked with your
â™¦"WAPPING OLD STAIRS."
" Your Molly has never been false, she declares.
Since ihe last time we parted at Wapping Old Stairs ;
When I said that I would continue the same,
And gave you the 'bacco-box marked with my name.
When I passed a whole fortnight between decks with you,
Did I e'er give a kiss, Tom, to one of your crew ?
To be useful and kind to my Thomas 1 stay'd,
For his trousers I washed, and his grog too I made.
" Though you promised la>;t Sund ly to walk in the Mall
With Susan from Deptford and likewise with Sail,
In silence I stood your unkindness to hear,
And only upbraided my Tom with a tear.
Why should Sail, or should Susan, than me be more
For the heart that is true, Tom, should ne'er be despised.
Then be constant and kind, nor your MoUy forsake ;
Still your trousers I'll wash, and your grog too I '11 make,"
148 OLD FRIENDS WITH NEW FACES.
When the bold barons met in my father's old hall,
Was not Edith the flower of the banquet and ball ?
In the festival hour, on the lips of your bride,
Was there ever a smile save with Thee at my
Alone in my turret I loved to sit best,
To blazon your Banner and broider your crest.
The knights were assembled, the tourney was
Sir Ulric rode first in the warrior-melee.
In the dire battle-hour, when the tourney was
And you gave to another the wreath you had won !
Though I never reproached thee, cold, cold was
As I thought of that Battle-axe, ah ! and that
But away with remembrance, no more will I pine
That others usurped for a time what was mine !
There's a Festival Hour for my Ulric and me :
Once more, as of old, shall he bend at my knee ;
Once more by the side of the knight I love best
Shall I blazon his Banner and broider his crest.
THE ALMACK'S ADIEU.
Your Fanny was never false-hearted.
And this she protests and she vows.
From the trist^ moment when we parted
On the staircase of Devonshire House !
I blushed when you asked me to marrj-,
I vowed I would never forget ;
And at parting I gave my dear Harry
A beautiful vinegarette !
WHEN THE GLOOM IS ON. 1 49
We spent en province all December,
And I ne'er condescended to look
At Sir Charles, or the rich county member.
Or even at that darling old Duke.
You were busy with dogs and with horses.
Alone in my chamber 1 sat,
And made you the nicest of purses.
And the smartest black satin cravat !
At night with that vile Lady Frances
(^Fe faisois iiioi iaj)isserie)
You danced every one of the dances,
And never once thought of poor me !
Man pauvre petit caiu- 1 what a shiver
I felt as she danced the last set ;
And you gave, O mon Dieu ! to revive her
My beautiful vinegarette !
Return, love ! away with coquetting ;
This flirting disgraces a man !
And ah ! all the while you're forgetting
The heart of your poor little Fan !
Reviens ! break away from those Circes,
Reviens, for a nice little chat ;
And I've made you the sweetest of purses,
And a lovely black satin cravat !
WHEN THE GLOOM IS ON THE GLEN.
When the moonlight's on the mountain
And the gloom is on the glen,
At the cross beside the fountain
There is one will meet thee then.
At the cross beside the fountain.
Yes, the cross beside the fountain,
There is one will meet thee then !
150 OLD FRIENDS WITH NEW FACES.
I have braved, since first we met, love,
Many a danger in my course ;
But I never can forget, love,
That dear fountain, that old cross.
Where, her mantle shrouded o'er her â€”
For the winds were chilly then â€”
First I met my Leonora,
When the gloom was on the glen.
Many a clime Fve ranged since then, love,
l^.Iany a land I've wandered o'er ;
But a valley like that glen, love,
Half so dear I never sor !
Ne'er saw maiden fairer, coyer.
Than wert thou, my true love, when
In the gloaming first I saw yer.
In the gloaming of the glen !
THE RED FLAG.
Where the quivering lightning flings
His arrows from out the clouds.
And the howling tempest sings
And whistles among the shrouds,
'Tis pleasant, 'tis pleasant to ride
Along the foaming brine â€”
Wilt be the Rover's bride ?
Wilt follow him, lady mine ?
For the bonny, bonny brine.
Amidst the storm and rack.
You shall see our galley pass.
As a serpent, lithe and biack,
Glides through the waving grass.
DEAR JACK. I
As the vulture, swift and dark,
Down on the ring-dove flies,
You shall see the Rover's bark
Swoop down upon his prize.
For the bonny, bonny prize.
Over her sides we dash,
We gallop across her deck â€”
Ha ! there's a ghastly gash
On the merchant-captain's neck â€”
Well shot, well shot, old Ned !
Well struck, well struck, black James !
Our arms are red, and our foes are dead,
And we leave a ship in flames I
For the bonny, bonny flames \
Dear Jack, this white mug that with Guinness I
And drink to the health of sweet Nan of the Hill,
Was once Tommy Tosspot's, as jovial a sot
As e'er drew a spigot, or drained a full pot â€”
In drinking all round 'twas his joy to surpass.
And with all merry tipplers he swigg'd off his
One morning in summer, while seated so snug,
In the porch of his garden, discussing his jug.
Stern Death on a sudden, to Tom did appear.
And said, "Honest Thomas, come take your
We kneaded his clay in the shape of this can.
From which let us drink to the health of my Nan.
1 5 2 OLD FRIENDS WITH NEW FACES.
COMMANDERS OF THE FAITHFUL.
The Pope he is a happy man,
His Palace is the Vatican,
And there he sits and drains his can :
The Pope he is a happy man.
I often say when I'm at home,
I'd Hke to be the Pope of Rome.
And then there's Sultan Saladin,
That Turkish Soldan full of sin ;
He has a hundred wives at least.
By which his pleasure is increased :
I've often wished, I hope no sin.
That I were Sultan Saladin.
But no, the Pope no wife may choose,
And so I would not wear his shoes ;
No wine may drink the proud Paynim,
And so I'd rather not be him :
My wife, my wine, I love, I hope,
And would be neither Turk, nor Pope.
WHEN MOONLIKE ORE THE
When moonlike ore the hazure seas
In soft effulgence swells,
When silver jews and balmy breaze
Bend down the Lily's bells ;
When calm and deap, the rosy sleap
Has lapt your soal in dreems,
R Hangeline ! R lady mine !
Dost thou remember Jeames ?
KING CANUTE. 1 53
I mark thee in the Marble All,
Where England's loveliest shine â€”
I say the fairest of them hall
Is Lady Hangeline.
My soul, in desolate eclipse,
With recollection teems â€”
And then I hask, with weeping lips,
Dost thou remember Jeames ?
Away ! I may not tell thee hall
This soughring heart endures â€”
There is a lonely sperrit-call
That Sorrow never cures ;
There is a little, little Star,
That still above me beams ;
It is the Star of Hope â€” but ar !
Dost thou remember Jeames ?
King Canute was weary-hearted ; he had
reigned for years a score,
Battling, struggling, pushing, fighting, killing
much and robbing more ;
And he thought upon his actions, walking by the
'Twixt the Chancellor and Bishop walked the
King with steps sedate,
Chamberlains and grooms came after, silversticks
and goldsticks great.
Chaplains, aides-de-camp, and pages, â€” all the
officers of state.
154 OLD FRIENDS WITH NEW FACES.
Sliding ter like his shadow, pausing when he
chose to pause,
If a frown his face contracted, straight the court-
iers dropped their jaws ;
If to laugh the King was minded, out they burst
in loud hee-haws.
But that day a something vexed him, that was
clear to old and young :
Thrice his Grace had yawned at table, when his
favorite glecmen sung,
Once the Queen would have consoled him, but
he bade her hold her tongue.
" Something ails my g^racious master," cried the
Keeper of the Seal.
" Sure, my lord, it is the lampreys served to din-
ner, or the veal ?"
" Psha !" exi'laimed the angry monarch. " Keep-
er, 'tis not that I feel.
" 'Tis the heart, and not the dinner, fool, that
doth my rest impair :
Can a king be great as I am, prithee, and yet
know no care ?
Oh, I'm sick, and tired, and weary." â€” Some one
cried, " The King's arm-chair !"
Then towards the lackeys turning, quick my Lord
the Keeper nodded.
Straight the King's great chair was brought him
by two footmen able-bodied ;
Languidly he sank into it : it was comfortably
" Leading on my fierce companions," cried he,
over storm and brine,
I have fought and I have conquered ! Where
was gloiy Hke to mine ?"
Loudly all the courtiers echoed : " Where is
glory like to thine ?"
' ' What avail me all my kingdoms ? Weary am
I now and old ;
Those fair sons I have begotten long to see me
dead and cold ;
Would I were, and quiet buried underneath the
silent mould !
" Oh, remorse, the writhing serpent ! at my bo-
som tears and bites ;
Horrid, horrid things I look on, though I put
out all the lights ;
Ghosts of ghastly recollections troop about my
bed at nights.
"Cities burning, convents blazing, red with sac-
rilegious fires ;
Mothers weeping, virgins screaming vainly for
their slaughtered sires." â€”
" Such a tender conscience," cries the Bishop,
' ' ever)' one admires.
"But for such unpleasant bygones cease, my
gracious lord, to search.
They're forgotten and forgiven by our Holy
Mother Church ;
Never, never does she leave her benefactors in
" Look ! the land is crowned with minsters,
which your Grace's bounty raised ;
Abbeys rilled with holy men, where you and
Heaven are daily praised :
156 OLD FRIENDS WITH NEW FACES.
You, my lord, to think of dying ? on my con-
science 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,
Lived nine hundred years apiece, and mayn't the
King as well as they ?"
" Fervently," exclaimed the Keeper, "Fervent-
ly I trust he may."
'''He to die?" resumed the Bishop. "He a
mortal like to us?
Death was not for him intended, though coÂ»iÂ»nt-
nis omnibus :
Keeper, you are irreligious for to talk and cavil
' ' With his wondrous skill in healing ne'er a doc-
Loathsome lepers, if he touch them, start up clean
upon their feet ;
Surely he could raise the dead up, did his High-
ness think it meet.
KING CANUTE. 157
" 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 Bish-
op ?" Canute cried ;
" Could I bid the silver moon to pause upon her
heavenly ride ?
If the moon obeys my orders, sure I can com-
mand 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 â€” " 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,
And the rapid waves drew nearer, falling sound-
ing 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
158 OLD FRIENDS WITH NEW FACES.
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
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,
Doughtly with sword and with lance.
l6o OLD FRIENDS WITH NEW FACES.
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
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.
THE WILLOW-TREE. l6l
Soon as she saw the tree,
Her step moved fleeter ;
No one was there â€” ah me !
No one to meet her !
Quick beat her heart to hear
The far bells' 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, â€”
Moon in her silver light.
Stars in their glitter ;
Then sank the moon away
Under the billow.
Still wept the maid alone â€”
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.
1 62 OLD FRIENDS WITH NEW FACES.
Bleak over moor and stream
Looks the gray dawn,
Gray, with dishevelled hair.
Still stands the willow there â€”
The maid is gone !
, Dotnine, Doniine !
Sing we a litany, â€”
Sing for the poor maiden-hearts broken and weary;
Doinine, Domine I
Sing we a litany.
Wail we and weep we a wild Miserere !
Long by the willow-tree
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 â€”
Rouse thee and look ;
Fisherman, bring your net.
Boatman your hook.
Beat in the lily-beds.
Dive in the brook '"
THE WJLLOVV-TREE. l6^
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 â€”
" Lor! it'Â§ Elizar !"
Yes, 'twas Elizabeth â€”
Yes, 'twas their girl ;
Pale was her cheek, and her
Hair out of curl.
" Mother !" the loving one,
" Let not your innocent
Lizzv be blamed.
164 OLD FRIENDS WITH NEW FACES.
" 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
KILBALL Y MOLONY.
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
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 Coort is
Walking magnanimous all of a row.
Forgetful what state is among the pataties
And the pineapple gardens of sweet Pimlico.
There in blossoms odorous the birds sing a
Of " God save the Queen" as they hop to and
l66 LYRA HIBERNICA.
And you sit on the binches and hark to the
Singing melodious in sweet Pimlico.
There shuiting their phanthasies, they pluck poly-
That round in the gardens resplindently grow,
Wid roses and jessimins, and other sweet speci-
Would charm bould Linnayus in sweet Pimlico.
Vou see when you inther, and stand in the cin-
Where the roses, and necturns, and collyflow-
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 â€”
A lovely Swish building, all painting and gilding,
The famous Pavilion of sweet Pimlico.
Prince Albert, of Flandthers, that Prince of Com-
(On whom my best blessings hereby I bestow,)
With goold and vermilion has decked that Pavil-
Where the Queen may take tay in her sweet
There's lines from John Milton the chamber all
And pictures beneath them that's shaped like
a bow ;
I was greatly astounded to think that that Round-
Should find an admission to famed Pimlico.
THE PIMLICO PAVILION. 167
lovely's each fresco, and most picturesque O ;
And while round the chamber astonished I go,
1 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 cn-
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
But Sir Ross's best faiture is small miniature â€”
He shouldn't paint frescoes in famed Pimlico.
There's Leslie and Uwins has rather small
There's Dyce, as brave masther as England
can show ;
And the flowers and the sthrawberries, sure he
no dauber is.
That painted the panels of famed Pimlico.
In the pictures from Walther Scott, never a fault