The Book of Ballads Part 7

"My head! Oh, that tenth tumbler!

'Twas that which wrought my woe!"

The Biter Bit.

The sun is in the sky, mother, the flowers are springing fair, And the melody of woodland birds is stirring in the air; The river, smiling to the sky, glides onward to the sea, And happiness is everywhere, oh mother, but with me!

They are going to the church, mother,--I hear the marriage-bell; It booms along the upland,--oh! it haunts me like a knell; He leads her on his arm, mother, he cheers her faltering step, And closely to his side she clings,--she does, the demirep!

They are crossing by the stile, mother, where we so oft have stood, The stile beside the shady thorn, at the corner of the wood; And the boughs, that wont to murmur back the words that won my ear, Wave their silver blossoms o'er him, as he leads his bridal fere.

He will pa.s.s beside the stream, mother, where first my hand he pressed, By the meadow where, with quivering lip, his pa.s.sion he confessed; And down the hedgerows where we've strayed again and yet again; But he will not think of me, mother, his broken-hearted Jane!

He said that I was proud, mother,--that I looked for rank and gold; He said I did not love him,--he said my words were cold; He said I kept him off and on, in hopes of higher game,-- And it may be that I did, mother; but who hasn't done the same?

I did not know my heart, mother,--I know it now too late; I thought that I without a pang could wed some n.o.bler mate; But no n.o.bler suitor sought me,--and he has taken wing, And my heart is gone, and I am left a lone and blighted thing.

You may lay me in my bed, mother,--my head is throbbing sore; And, mother, prithee, let the sheets be duly aired before; And, if you'd do a kindness to your poor desponding child, Draw me a pot of beer, mother--and, mother, draw it mild!

The Convict and the Australian Lady.

Thy skin is dark as jet, ladye, Thy cheek is sharp and high, And there's a cruel leer, love, Within thy rolling eye: These tangled ebon tresses No comb hath e'er gone through; And thy forehead, it is furrowed by The elegant tattoo!

I love thee,--oh, I love thee, Thou strangely-feeding maid!

Nay, lift not thus thy boomerang, I meant not to upbraid!

Come, let me taste those yellow lips That ne'er were tasted yet, Save when the s.h.i.+pwrecked mariner Pa.s.sed through them for a whet.

Nay, squeeze me not so tightly!

For I am gaunt and thin; There's little flesh to tempt thee Beneath a convict's skin.

I came not to be eaten; I sought thee, love, to woo; Besides, bethink thee, dearest, Thou'st dined on c.o.c.katoo.

Thy father is a chieftain!

Why, that's the very thing!

Within my native country I too have been a king.

Behold this branded letter, Which nothing can efface!

It is the royal emblem, The token of my race!

But rebels rose against me, And dared my power disown-- You've heard, love, of the judges?

They drove me from my throne.

And I have wandered hither, Across the stormy sea, In search of glorious freedom,-- In search, my sweet, of thee!

The bush is now my empire, The knife my sceptre keen; Come with me to the desert wild, And be my dusky queen.

I cannot give thee jewels, I have nor sheep nor cow, Yet there are kangaroos, love, And colonists enow.

We'll meet the unwary settler, As whistling home he goes, And I'll take tribute from him, His money and his clothes.

Then on his bleeding carca.s.s Thou'lt lay thy pretty paw, And lunch upon him roasted, Or, if you like it, raw!

Then come with me, my princess, My own Australian dear, Within this grove of gum-trees We'll hold our bridal cheer!

Thy heart with love is beating, I feel it through my side:-- Hurrah, then, for the n.o.ble pair, The Convict and his Bride!

The Doleful Lay of the Honourable I. O. Uwins.

Come and listen, lords and ladies, To a woeful lay of mine; He whose tailor's bill unpaid is, Let him now his ear incline!

Let him hearken to my story, How the n.o.blest of the land Pined in piteous purgatory, 'Neath a sponging Bailiff's hand.

I. O. Uwins! I. O. Uwins!

Baron's son although thou be, Thou must pay for thy misdoings In the country of the free!

None of all thy sire's retainers To thy rescue now may come; And there lie some score detainers With Abednego, the b.u.m.

Little recked he of his prison Whilst the sun was in the sky: Only when the moon was risen Did you hear the captive's cry.

For till then, cigars and claret Lulled him in oblivion sweet; And he much preferred a garret, For his drinking, to the street.

But the moonlight, pale and broken, Pained at soul the baron's son; For he knew, by that soft token, That the larking had begun;-- That the stout and valiant Marquis {97} Then was leading forth his swells, Milling some policeman's carca.s.s, Or purloining private bells.

So he sat in grief and sorrow, Rather drunk than otherwise, Till the golden gush of morrow Dawned once more upon his eyes: Till the sponging Bailiff's daughter, Lightly tapping at the door, Brought his draught of soda-water, Brandy-bottomed as before.

"Sweet Rebecca! has your father, Think you, made a deal of bra.s.s?"

And she answered--"Sir, I rather Should imagine that he has."

Uwins then, his whiskers scratching, Leered upon the maiden's face, And, her hand with ardour catching, Folded her in close embrace.

"La, Sir! let alone--you fright me!"

Said the daughter of the Jew: "Dearest, how those eyes delight me!

Let me love thee, darling, do!"

"Vat is dish?" the Bailiff muttered, Rus.h.i.+ng in with fury wild; "Ish your m.u.f.fins so vell b.u.t.tered, Dat you darsh insult ma s.h.i.+ld?"

"Honourable my intentions, Good Abednego, I swear!

And I have some small pretensions, For I am a Baron's heir.

If you'll only clear my credit, And advance a _thou_ {99} or so, She's a peeress--I have said it: Don't you twig, Abednego?"

"Datsh a very different matter,"

Said the Bailiff, with a leer; "But you musht not cut it fatter Than ta slish will shtand, ma tear!

If you seeksh ma approbation, You musht quite give up your rigsh, Alsho you musht join our nashun, And renounsh ta flesh of pigsh."

Fast as one of f.a.gin's pupils, I. O. Uwins did agree!

Little plagued with holy scruples From the starting-post was he.

But at times a baleful vision Rose before his shuddering view, For he knew that circ.u.mcision Was expected from a Jew.

At a meeting of the Rabbis, Held about the Whitsuntide, Was this thorough-paced Barabbas Wedded to his Hebrew bride: All his previous debts compounded, From the sponging-house he came, And his father's feelings wounded With reflections on the same.

But the sire his son accosted-- "Split my wig! if any more Such a double-dyed apostate Shall presume to cross my door!

Not a penny-piece to save ye From the kennel or the spout;-- Dinner, John! the pig and gravy!-- Kick this dirty scoundrel out!"