"Come, now tell me, Clarabella, How that wondrous thing befell, Why you took that sorry fellow, Leaving me who loved you well? It was, good faith! a sad miscarriage, And cost me many a pang of pain; Indeed, when I heard of your marriage, I vowed I ne'er would love again."
"Well, I don't mind, since you're pathetic, And so the reason you shall hear: Th' affair was one of arithmetic-- A matter of so much a year. His father left five thousand good Of pounds per annum, as you know, And you possessed, I understood, Of yearly thousands only two."
"Well, why did I, who knew of Cupid, Display so much stupid-ity As not to know--the thing was lucid-- From Cupid comes Cupid-ity?" "But not too late," cried Clarabella: "My husband dear has gone to heaven; He left the five to me, good fellow! And five and two, you know, make seven."
I laughed and bowed to Clarabella, And quickly homewards bent my way, And there became a rustic fellow, And donned a suit of hodden-grey. And then I hired me to a farmer, Concealing every sign of pelf, One Hodge, who had a pretty charmer, Who might love me for myself.
I laid bold siege to fair Lucinda, And tho' she loved another swain (I had observed them through the window), I was resolved her love to gain Then I would be a lucky fellow, Assured one loved me for my merit, And not, like widowed Clarabella, For the lucre _I_ inherit.
At length I boldly purposed marriage, And found Lucinda at my call, And soon thereafter in my carriage I drove my wife to Border Hall. Well! she wondered at the mansion, And all the grandeur that was there, The servants bowing all attention To the lady of their squire.
I had a call from Clarabella, Who said my choice was very good; But though her speech was calm and mellow, I thought her in an envious mood. Indeed I had some small suspicion She had avenged a woman's grudge, And had conveyed my true condition To the ears of Farmer Hodge.
Sometime thence I met Bill Hedger, Who knew me spite of my changed dress. "Squoire," said he, "I think I'd wager There is a something thee doan't guess; Lucinda's father knew by letter Thee wert a squoire in low disguise, And she, altho' _she loiked me better_, Agreed to take the richer prize."
XXII.
THE SONG OF ROSALIE.
Row on! row on! to flowing Tay, Thou Dighty, who art dear to me; For here upon thy flowery brae I parted last frae Rosalie. Her hair, so rich in gowden hue, Ilk plait was like a gowden string, Her eyne were like the bonnie blue That shines upon the halcyon's wing.
There is a worm that loves the bud, And there is one that loves the bloom, And there is one that seeks its food Within the dark and silent tomb.
Thou speckled thrush, with tuneful throat, Who sing'st within yon greenwood dell; Sing on, for every trembling note Brings back the voice I loved so well. Thou little pansy, raise thy head, And turn thine azure eye to me, And so remind me of the dead, My dearest, long lost Rosalie.
There is a worm that loves the bud, And there is one that loves the bloom, And there is one that seeks its food Within the dark and dreary tomb.
Thou lambkin on yon hillock's brow, That sportest in thy gamesome mood, Play on! for thou remind'st me now Of one as innocent and good; All emblems dear, for thoughts you bring Of her who loved you all to see, When through the woods in early spring Ilk bird seemed calling "Rosalie."
But there's a worm that loves the bud, And there is one that loves the bloom, And there is one that seeks its food Within the dark and dreary tomb.
Far have I roamed for years and years, As from my thoughts I fain would stray; But here once more I weep my tears O'er her now mouldering in the clay. Oh! would that happy day were come When death shall set my spirit free, And I shall rise to yonder home, And be again with Rosalie,
Where is no worm to gnaw the bud, And none to blight the youthful bloom; Where spirits sing in joyful mood, "Behold our triumph o'er the tomb!"
XXIII.
THE BALLAD OF THE WORLD'S VANITY.
I.
Mournfully maundering, Life's last moments squandering, Weary, weary, wandering, Through this world of sin, Hermit-shade! I call thee; Lead me to the valley-- That mysterious alley, Where I may creep in.
World of strange illusion! Fancy-born delusion! Reason-bred confusion! Phantasmagoria! Love, where shall I find thee? Faith, how shall I bind thee? Truth, who has defined thee? Changing every day.
Streets of hurry scurry! Fields of fire and fury! Homes of wear and worry! Passing quickly by; Pleasure a wild snatching, Dying in the catching, Pain eternal watching With relentless eye.
Sorrow, old Sin's daughter! Screams of eldritch laughter! Burning tears thereafter! I've felt the vanity; Still the hope pursuing, The pursuit ever rueing, Possession still undoing The hope's fond prophecy.
II.
Sun! I've seen thy grandeur, Scenes of gorgeous splendour, Visions passing wonder In ocean, sea, and sky; Thunders o'er us pealing, Earthquakes 'neath us reeling, Fiery comets wheeling Through all immensity.
Virtue! man has crowned thee, For beautiful he found thee; Yet millions have disowned thee, And seek dark Vice's way, Hypocrisy, deep-hooded, Injustice still obtruded, Stern Cruelty, cold-blooded, Make brother man their prey.
Kind Love's pure affection! Pity's benediction! Charity's sweet action! All blessed urbanities; Man on man still preying; Bleating lambkins slaying! Devouring blood, and saying All soft humanities.
III.
Dreaming, doubting, moping, Hopelessly still hoping, Dimly, darkly groping My being's mystery; This sobbing and this sighing, This laughing and this crying, This living and this dying-- Man's mortal history!
Why this wild contention? This mocking, cruel invention-- What the deep intention? Who shall give replies? Demons wildly sporting, God's beautiful distorting, Or His own hand extorting Sin-born penalties?
IV.
Those with whom I started Oceans wide have parted: Some are broken-hearted, Some lie in the clay; Those I once heard prattle, For whom I shook the rattle, Engaged in life's vain battle, Push me off the way.
The world's laugh it jeers me, Their looks they seem to fear me, I hear them whisper near me, "Old man, why linger here?" She who loved me dearly, Wandered with me cheerily, Is now a phantom merely, Seen through memory's tear.
Pale ghost, flitting yonder! With drooping head you wander. Deep in thought you ponder Why I stay from thee; Cease those hands to beckon, Vain, vain, may you reckon; Alas! I cannot quicken Death's desired decree.
Weary, weary wandering, Life's last moments squandering, Weary, weary wandering Through this world of sin, None can undeceive me, None but ONE relieve me, None but ONE receive me, His peace to enter in.
XXIV.
THE SIEGE: A DRAMATIC TALE.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.--SIR ALEXANDER SETON, Governor of Berwick; RICHARD and HENRY, his sons. PROVOST RAMSAY. HUGH ELLIOT, a traitor. KING EDWARD. EARL PERCY. MATILDA, wife of Seton; etc.
SCENE I.--_A Street--the Market-place_.
_Enter_ SIR ALEXANDER SETON, RICHARD _and_ HENRY (_his sons_), PROVOST RAMSAY, HUGH ELLIOT, _and others of the People_.
_Provost Ramsay_.--Brither Scotchmen! it is my fixed an' solemn opinion, that the King o' England has entered into a _holy alliance_ wi' the enemy o' mankind! An' does he demand us to surrender!--to gie up our toun!--our property!--our lives!--our liberty!--to Southern pagans, that hae entered into compact wi' the powers o' the air! Surrender! No, Scotchmen! While we breathe, we will breathe the _breath o' Freedom!_ as it soughs down the Tweed, between the heathery hills o' our ain auld country! I am but provost o' Berwick, Sir Alexander, an' ye are its governor; an' in a time like this, the power o' defending or surrendering the gates is yours; but though ye gie up the keys this very hour, an' were every stane o' the walls turned are upon anither--here!--the power to defend this market-place is mine!--and _here_ will I stand, while this hand can wield a sword, or a Scotchman is left to die by my side!
_Sir Alex_.--Fear not, good provost; I through life have learned To live with honour, or with honour fall.
_Richard_.--And as the father dies, so shall his sons. What sayest thou, Henry?
_Henry_.--I would say but this-- (If one with a smooth chin may have a voice)-- When thou dost nobly fall, I'll but survive To strike revenge--then follow thy example.
_Provost Ramsay_.--Bravely said, callants! As sure as death, I wish ye were my sons! Do ye ken, Sir Alexander, the only thing that grieves me in a day like this, is, that I hae naebody to die for the glory an' honour o' auld Scotland but mysel? But, save us, neebor Elliot! ye look as douf an' as dowie-like as if ye had been forced to mak yer breakfast o' yer coat-sleeve.
_Hugh Elliot_.---In truth, methinks, this is no time for smiles-- In every street, each corner of the town, Struck by some unseen hand, the dead are strewed; From every house the children's wail is heard, Screaming in vain for food; and the poor mother, Worn to a skeleton, sits groaning by! My house, 'tis known, o'erlooks the battlements; 'Tis not an hour gone that I left my couch, Hastening to speed me hither, when a sound, Fierce as the thunders, shook our firm-built walls: The casements fell in atoms, and the bed, Which I that moment left, rocked in confusion: I turned to gaze on it, and I beheld!--beheld My wife's fair bosom torn--her heart laid bare! And the red stream came oozing to my feet! _Is this a time for smiles!_