Phantasmagoria And Other Poems Part 12

"Now thirty years are gane and past, I am come frae a foreign land: I am come to tell thee my love at last- O Ladye, gie me thy hand!"

The ladye she turned not pale nor red, But she smiled a pitiful smile: "Sic' a coortin' as yours, my man," she said "Takes a lang and a weary while!"

[Picture: And out and laughed the popinjay]

And out and laughed the popinjay, A laugh of bitter scorn: "A coortin' done in sic' a way, It ought not to be borne!"

Wi' that the doggie barked aloud, And up and doon he ran, And tugged and strained his chain o' gowd, All for to bite the man.

"O hush thee, gentle popinjay!

O hush thee, doggie dear!

There is a word I fain wad say, It needeth he should hear!"

Aye louder screamed that ladye fair To drown her doggie's bark: Ever the lover shouted mair To make that ladye hark:

Shrill and more shrill the popinjay Upraised his angry squall: I trow the doggie's voice that day Was louder than them all!

[Picture: O hush thee, gentle gentle popinjay!]

The serving-men and serving-maids Sat by the kitchen fire: They heard sic' a din the parlour within As made them much admire.

Out spake the boy in b.u.t.tons (I ween he wasna thin), "Now wha will tae the parlour gae, And stay this deadlie din?"

And they have taen a kerchief, Casted their kevils in, For wha will tae the parlour gae, And stay that deadlie din.

When on that boy the kevil fell To stay the fearsome noise, "Gae in," they cried, "whate'er betide, Thou prince of b.u.t.ton-boys!"

Syne, he has taen a supple cane To swinge that dog sae fat: The doggie yowled, the doggie howled The louder aye for that.

[Picture: The doggie ceased his noise]

Syne, he has taen a mutton-bane- The doggie ceased his noise, And followed doon the kitchen stair That prince of b.u.t.ton-boys!

Then sadly spake that ladye fair, Wi' a frown upon her brow: "O dearer to me is my sma' doggie Than a dozen sic' as thou!

"Nae use, nae use for sighs and tears: Nae use at all to fret: Sin' ye've bided sae well for thirty years, Ye may bide a wee langer yet!"

Sadly, sadly he crossed the floor And tirled at the pin: Sadly went he through the door Where sadly he cam' in.

"O gin I had a popinjay To fly abune my head, To tell me what I ought to say, I had by this been wed.

"O gin I find anither ladye,"

He said wi' sighs and tears, "I wot my coortin' sall not be Anither thirty years

"For gin I find a ladye gay, Exactly to my taste, I'll pop the question, aye or nay, In twenty years at maist."

[Picture: Sadly went he through the door]

FOUR RIDDLES

[THESE consist of two Double Acrostics and two Charades.

No. I. was written at the request of some young friends, who had gone to a ball at an Oxford Commemoration-and also as a specimen of what might be done by making the Double Acrostic _a connected poem_ instead of what it has. .h.i.therto been, a string of disjointed stanzas, on every conceivable subject, and about as interesting to read straight through as a page of a Cyclopaedia. The first two stanzas describe the two main words, and each subsequent stanza one of the cross "lights."

No. II. was written after seeing Miss Ellen Terry perform in the play of "Hamlet." In this case the first stanza describes the two main words.

No. III. was written after seeing Miss Marion Terry perform in Mr.

Gilbert's play of "Pygmalion and Galatea." The three stanzas respectively describe "My First," "My Second," and "My Whole."]

I

THERE was an ancient City, stricken down With a strange frenzy, and for many a day They paced from morn to eve the crowded town, And danced the night away.

I asked the cause: the aged man grew sad: They pointed to a building gray and tall, And hoa.r.s.ely answered "Step inside, my lad, And then you'll see it all."

Yet what are all such gaieties to me Whose thoughts are full of indices and surds?

_x_2 + 7_x_ + 53 = 11/3

But something whispered "It will soon be done: Bands cannot always play, nor ladies smile: Endure with patience the distasteful fun For just a little while!"

A change came o'er my Vision-it was night: We clove a pathway through a frantic throng: The steeds, wild-plunging, filled us with affright: The chariots whirled along.

Within a marble hall a river ran- A living tide, half muslin and half cloth: And here one mourned a broken wreath or fan, Yet swallowed down her wrath;

And here one offered to a thirsty fair (His words half-drowned amid those thunders tuneful) Some frozen viand (there were many there), A tooth-ache in each spoonful.

There comes a happy pause, for human strength Will not endure to dance without cessation; And every one must reach the point at length Of absolute prostration.

At such a moment ladies learn to give, To partners who would urge them over-much, A flat and yet decided negative- Photographers love such.

There comes a welcome summons-hope revives, And fading eyes grow bright, and pulses quicken: Incessant pop the corks, and busy knives Dispense the tongue and chicken.

Flushed with new life, the crowd flows back again: And all is tangled talk and mazy motion- Much like a waving field of golden grain, Or a tempestuous ocean.

And thus they give the time, that Nature meant For peaceful sleep and meditative snores, To ceaseless din and mindless merriment And waste of shoes and floors.

And One (we name him not) that flies the flowers, That dreads the dances, and that shuns the salads, They doom to pa.s.s in solitude the hours, Writing acrostic-ballads.

How late it grows! The hour is surely past That should have warned us with its double knock?

The twilight wanes, and morning comes at last- "Oh, Uncle, what's o'clock?"