The Willow Tree

Why should I stay? No worse art thou,
My country! on thy genial shore
The local east-winds whistle now,

The local fogs spread more and more;
But in the sunny south, the weather
Beats all you know of put together.

I cannot eat-I cannot sleep

The waves are not so blue as I;
Indeed, the waters of the deep
Are dirty-brown, and so's the sky:
I get dyspepsia when I dine-
Oh, dash that pint of country-wine!

439

Herman C. Merivale.

THE WILLOW-TREE

ANOTHER VERSION

LONG by the willow-trees

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

Rouse thee and look;
Fisherman, bring your net,
Boatman, your hook.

Beat in the lily-beds,

Dive in the brook!"

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, Gloomily napping, 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"Lor'! it's Elizar!"

Yes, 'twas Elizabeth

Yes, 'twas their girl; Pale was her cheek, and her Hair out of curl. "Mother," the loving one, Blushing exclaimed, "Let not your innocent Lizzy be blamed.

"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.

A Ballade of Ballade-Mongers

MORAL

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.

441

W. M. Thackeray.

A BALLADE OF BALLADE-MONGERS

AFTER THE MANNER OF MASTER FRANÇOIS VILLON OF PARIS

IN Ballades things always contrive to get lost,
And Echo is constantly asking where

Are last year's roses and last year's frost?

And where are the fashions we used to wear?
And what is a " gentleman," and what is a "player"?
Irrelevant questions I like to ask:

Can you reap the tret as well as the tare?
And who was the Man in the Iron Mask?

What has become of the ring I tossed

In the lap of my mistress false and fair?
Her grave is green and her tombstone mossed;
But who is to be the next Lord Mayor?
And where is King William, of Leicester Square?
And who has emptied my hunting flask?

And who is possessed of Stella's hair?
And who was the Man in the Iron Mask?

And what became of the knee I crossed,

And the rod and the child they would not spare?
And what will a dozen herring cost

When herring are sold at three halfpence a pair?
And what in the world is the Golden Stair?
Did Diogenes die in a tub or cask,

Like Clarence, for love of liquor there?

And who was the Man in the Iron Mask?

ENVOY

Poets, your readers have much to bear,

For Ballade-making is no great task,
If you do not remember, I don't much care
Who was the man in the Iron Mask.

Augustus M. Moore.

VIII

BATHOS

THE CONFESSION

THERE'S Somewhat on my breast, father,
There's somewhat on my breast!
The livelong day I sigh, father,
And at night I cannot rest.
I cannot take my rest, father,
Though I would fain do so;
A weary weight oppresseth me-
This weary weight of woe!

'Tis not the lack of gold, father,
Nor want of worldly gear;

My lands are broad, and fair to see,
My friends are kind and dear.
My kin are leal and true, father,
They mourn to see my grief;
But, oh! 'tis not a kinsman's hand
Can give my heart relief!

'Tis not that Janet's false, father,
'Tis not that she's unkind;
Though busy flatterers swarm around,
I know her constant mind.

'Tis not her coldness, father,
That chills my laboring breast;
It's that confounded cucumber

I ate, and can't digest.

Richard Harris Barham.