When he came the house unto,
His breath both quick and short he drew.
When he came before the door,
His face grew paler than before.
When he turned the handle round,
[10] The man fell fainting to the ground.
When he crossed the lofty hall,
Once and again I heard him fall.
When he came up the turret-stair,
He shrieked and tore his raven hair.
When he came my chamber in,
(And o! but a hog is fat!)
I ran him through with a golden pin,
(And what care I for that?)
J.V.
Terrors
See the planets as they rise,
Each upon his starless way,
Look on us with angry eyes,
Do they not appear to say,
“Stupid fellow! Hold your tongue!
Seek not thus to goad us on!
You in fact are much too young,
To offer your opinion!
“Seest thou not the mountains swell?
[10] Seest thou not the trees draw near?”
Ah me! I hear an angry bell!
Ah me! I see a waving spear!
Is not that an angry snake?
Lo! he twists his writhing tail!
Hear the hisses he doth make!
See his yellow coat of mail.
Distant howls still louder grown,
Angry mutterings sounding near,
All proclaim with solemn tone,
[20] Something dreadful coming here!
Lo! it comes, a vision grim!
Puffing forth black coils of smoke!
While amid these terrors dim
I listened, thus the monster spoke,
“Clear the line there! Clear the rails!
Stop the engine! hold there! steady!
Stoker! hand me up those pails!
Euston station! tickets ready!
“Tickets ready! tickets! tick –”
[30] Thus it spoke, and thus I acted;
Left these scenes of terrors quick,
And rushed home like one distracted.
B.B.
Woes
With rapid start,
And forward dart,
As when it left the cannon,
Along the ground,
With swift rebound,
The cannon-ball it ran on.
Through hill and dale,
Through many a vale,
Through country, town, and village:
[10] Now onward borne,
Through fields of corn,
Rich recompense for tillage.
Still hop, hop, hop,
No pause nor stop,
O’er precipice and mountain,
Through briar and brake,
Through pool and lake,
By stream and sparkling fountain.
Across the plain,
[20] Along the main,
Of ocean loudly roaring,
Now here, now there
Now in the air
Like swallow lightly soaring.
And still hop, hop,
No pause nor stop,
The cannon-ball it ran on,
With swift rebound,
Along the ground,
[30] As when it left the cannon.
Along the ground,
Through hill and mound
It passed, no pause nor warning,
When, see! oh see!
Beneath a tree,
A lion grimly yawning!
Deep yawning, grim,
Of massive limb,
And jaws with blood be-spattered:
[40] While all around,
Upon the ground,
White skulls and bones were scattered!
With rapid bound,
Along the ground,
The cannon-ball did fly on,
No pause, nor stop,
Till it entered, pop!
The deep throat of the lion.
Two chokes, one howl,
[50] A stifled growl,
It died without a struggle:
And the only sound
That was heard around
Was its last expiring guggle.
B.B.
Yang-ki-ling
His highness Yang-ki-ling,
Great China’s mighty king,
Upon his throne was sitting,
Around him courtiers all,
Lay prostrate in the hall,
In attitude most fitting.
“Approach, Feefifofum!
Great western traveller, come!
Of science learned lover!
[10] Among my cooks not one,”
Thus spake the crowned one,
“Can a new dish discover!
“Of bird-nest soup I’m tired,
A dish, though much admired
Which yet well bears omission:
Baked puppies and stewed snails,
Like oft-related tales,
Disgust on repetition!”
He spoke: “Sire”, Fum replied,
[20] “I’ve travelled far and wide,”
His robe with terror crumpling,
“But in all the world combined
No better dish could find,
Than an English apple-dumpling!”
F.X.
Misunderstandings
If such a thing had been my thought,
I should have told you so before,
But as I didn’t, then you ought
To ask for such a thing no more,
For to teach one who has been taught
Is always thought an awful bore.
Now to commence my argument,
I shall premise an observation,
On which the greatest kings have leant
[10] When striving to subdue a nation,
And e’en the wretch who pays no rent
By it can solve a hard equation.
Its truth is such, the force of reason,
Can not avail to shake its power,
Yet e’en the sun in summer season
Doth not dispel so mild a shower
As this, and he who sees it, sees on
Beyond it to a sunny bower –
No more, when ignorance is treason
[20] Let wisdom’s brows be cold and sour.
Q.G.
Screams
Grim was the scowl of his face that day,
As he led me by the wrist:
Ever and anon he paused on the way,
And beat me with his fist.
Dread was the sneer of his evil leer,
Dread was the glance of his eye,
My heart within me shrunk for fear,
And my parched mouth was dry.
With massive club he beat me down,
[10] He kicked me as I lay,
And cried, “get up you lazy clown,
Don’t keep me here all day!”
A rascal by me chanced to rove,
I would I could have shot him!
He asked another, “Who’s that cove?
And why’s the Peeler got him?”
His friend replied, as on they went,
“He’s rather gone in liquor,
He prigged the shiners off a gent,
[20] And neatly nabbed his ticker.”
B.B.
“Peeler”.. Policeman .. “shiners” .. money .. “ticker” .. watch ..
Thrillings
Uncertain was his hazy pace,
His blood shot eye was dim:
I gazed in wonder on his face,
In wonder gazed on him.
All haggard was his cold-pale cheek,
All haggard was his brow:
Me thinks again I hear him speak,
Me thinks I hear him now.
As he paced across his lonely room
[10] With tightly clenched fist,
As his glaring eyes did hideous loom,
Through the
blackly gathering mist.
As with desperate hand he struck his brow,
And stamped upon the floor,
Me thinks I hear his accents now,
In solemn tone once more,
“I gave my pen a careless flirt,”
He said midst deep-drawn sighs,
“And the scratchy thing the ink did spirt,
[20] Right into both my eyes.”
B.B.
The Rectory Umbrella (c. 1850–53)
Ye Fatalle Cheyse
Ytte wes a mirke an dreiry cave,
Weet scroggis1 owr ytte creepe,
Gurgles withyn ye flowan wave
Throw channel braid an deip.
Never withyn that dreir recesse
Wes sene ye lyghte of daye,
Quhat bode azont2 yt’s mirkinesse3
Nane kend an nane mote saye.
Ye monarche rade owr brake an brae,
[10] ’An drave ye yellynge packe,
Hiz meany4 au’, richte cadgily,5
Are wendynge6 yn hiz tracke.
Wi’ eager iye, wi’ yalpe an crye
Ye hondes yode7 down ye rocks:
Ahead of au’ their companye
Renneth ye panky8 foxe.
Ye foxe hes sought that cave of awe,
Forewearied9 wi’ hiz rin,
Quha nou ys he sae bauld an braw10
[20] To dare to enter yn?
Wi’ eager bounde hes ilka honde
Gane till that cavern dreir,
Fou11 many a yowl12 ys13 hearde around,
Fou11 many a screech of feir.
Like ane wi’ thirstie appetite
Quha swalloweth orange pulp,
Wes hearde a huggle an a bite,
A swallow an a gulp.
Ye kynge hes lap frae aff hiz steid,
[30] Outbrayde14 hiz trenchant brande;
“Quha on my packe of hondes doth feed,
Maun deye benead thilke hande.”
Sae sed, sae dune: ye stonderes15 hearde
Fou many a mickle16 stroke,
Sowns17 lyke ye flappynge of a birde,
A struggle an a choke.
Owte of ye cave scarce fette18 they ytte,
Wi pow19 an push an hau’20 –
Whereof Y’ve drawne a little byte,
[40] Bot durst nat draw ytte au.21
The Storm
An old man sat anent a clough,1
A grizzed2 old man an’ weird,3
Deep were the wrinks in his aged brow,
An’ hoar his snowy beard,
All tremmed4 before his glance, I trow,5
Sae savagely he leared.
The rain cloud cam frae out the west,
An’ spread athwart6 the sky,
The crow has cowered7 in her nest,
[10] She kens the storm is nigh,
He folds his arms across his breast,
Thunder an’ lightning do your best!
“I will not flinch nor fly!”
Draggles8 with wet the tall oak tree,
Beneath the dashing rain,
The old man sat, an’ gloomily
He gazed athwart the plain,
Down on the wild and heaving sea,
Where heavily an’ toilsomely
[20] Yon vessel ploughs the main.
Above the thunder cloud frowns black,
The dark waves howl below,
Scarce can she hold along her track,
Fast rocking to an’ fro,
And oft the billow drives her back,
And oft her straining timbers crack,
Yet onward she doth go.
The old man gazed without a wink,
An’ with a deadly9 grin:
[30] “I laid a wager she would sink,
Strong hopes had I to win;
’Twas ten to one, but now I think,
That Bob will sack the tin.”10
Then from the precipice’s brink
He plunged headforemost in.11
Lays of Sorrow – Number 1
The day was wet, the rain fell souse
Like jars of strawberry jam,1 a
Sound was heard in the old hen-house,
A beating of a hammer.
Of stalwart form, and visage warm,
Two youths were seen within it,
Splitting up an old tree into perches for their poultry
At a hundred strokes2 a minute.
The work is done, the hen has taken
[10] Possession of her nest and eggs,
Without a thought of eggs and bacon,3
(Or I am very much mistaken:)
She turns over each shell,
To be sure that all’s well,
Looks into the straw
To see there’s no flaw,
Goes once round the house,4
Half afraid of a mouse,
Then sinks calmly to rest
[20] On the top of her nest,
First doubling up each of her legs.
Time rolled away, and so did every shell,
“Small by degrees and beautifully less,”
As the sage mother with a powerful spell5
Forced each in turn its contents to “express,”6
But ah! “imperfect is expression,”
Some poet said, I don’t care who,
If you want to know you must go elsewhere,
One fact I can tell, if you’re willing to hear,
[30] He never attended a Parliament Session,
For I’m certain that if he had ever been there,
Full quickly would he have changed his ideas,
With the hissings, the hootings, the groans and the cheers.
And as to his name it is pretty clear
That it wasn’t me and it wasn’t you!
And so it fell upon a day,
(That is, it never rose again,)
A chick was found upon the hay,
Its little life had ebbed away.
[40] No longer frolicsome and gay,
No longer could it run or play.
“And must we, chicken, must we part?”
Its master7 cried with bursting heart,
And voice of agony and pain.
So one, whose ticket’s marked “Return,”8
When to the lonely roadside station
He flies in fear and perturbation,
Thinks of his home – the hissing urn –
Then runs with flying hat and hair,
[50] And, entering, finds to his despair
He’s missed the very latest train!9
Too long it were to tell of each conjecture
Of chicken suicide, and poultry victim,
The deadly frown, the stern and dreary lecture,
The timid guess, “perhaps some needle pricked him!”
The din of voice, the words both loud and many,
The sob, the tear, the sigh that none could smother,
Till all agreed: “a shilling to a penny
It killed itself, and we acquit the mother!”
[60] Scarce was the verdict spoken,
When that still calm was broken,
A childish form hath burst into the throng;
With tears and looks of sadness,
That bring no news of gladness,
But tell too surely something hath gone wrong!
“The sight that I have come upon
The stoutest10 heart would sicken,
That nasty hen has been and gone
And killed another chicken!”
Lays of Sorrow – Number 2
Fair stands the ancient1 Rectory,
The Rectory of Croft,
The sun shines bright upon it,
The breezes whisper soft.
From all the house and garden,
Its inhabitants come forth,
And muster in the road without,
And pace in twos and threes about,
The children of the North.
[10] Some are waiting in the garden,<
br />
Some are waiting at the door,
And some are following behind,
And some have gone before.
But wherefore all this mustering?
Wherefore this vast array?
A gallant feat of horsemanship
Will be performed today.
To eastward and to westward,
The crowd divides amain,
[20] Two youths are leading on the steed,
Both tugging at the rein:
And sorely do they labour,
For the steed2 is very strong,
And backward moves its stubborn feet,
And backward ever doth retreat,
And drags its guides along.
And now the knight hath mounted,
Before the admiring band,
Hath got the stirrups on his feet.
[30] The bridle in his hand.
Yet, oh! beware, sir horseman!
And tempt thy fate no more,
For such a steed as thou hast got,
Was never rid before!
The rabbits3 bow before thee,
And cower in the straw;
The chickens4 are submissive,
And own thy will for law;
Bullfinches and canary
[40] Thy bidding do obey;
And e’en the tortoise in its shell
Doth never say thee nay.
But thy steed will hear no master,
Thy steed will bear no stick,
And woe to those that beat her,
And woe to those that kick!5
For though her rider smite her,
As hard as he can hit,
And strive to turn her from the yard,
[50] She stands in silence, pulling hard
Against the pulling bit.
And now the road to Dalton
Hath felt their coming tread,
The crowd are speeding on before,
And all have gone ahead.
Yet often look they backward,
And cheer him on, and bawl,
For slower still, and still more slow,
That horseman and that charger go,
[60] And scarce advance at all.
And now two roads to choose from
Are in that rider’s sight:
In front the road to Dalton,
And New Croft upon the right.
“I can’t get by!” he bellows,
“I really am not able!
Though I pull my shoulder out of joint,
I cannot get him past this point,
For it leads unto his stable!”
[70] Then out spake Ulfrid Longbow,6
A valiant youth was he,
“Lo! I will stand on thy right hand,
And guard the pass for thee.”
And out spake fair Flureeza,7
His sister eke was she,
“I will abide on thy other side,
Jabberwocky and Other Nonsense Page 6
