Volume I Part 29 (1/2)

He this time the laughter led, Dabbling his oily bullet head.

'--Give me, to suit my moods, An ale-house on a heath, I'll hand the crags and woods To B'elzebub beneath.

A fig for scenery! what scene Can beat a Jacka.s.s on a green?'

Gravely he seem'd, with gaze intense, Putting the question to common sense.

'--Why, there's the ale-house bench: The furze-flower s.h.i.+ning round: And there's my waiting-wench, As lissome as a hound.

With ”hail Britannia!” ere I drink, I'll kiss her with an artful wink.'

Fair flash'd the foreign landscape while We breath'd again our native Isle.

'--The geese may swim hard-by; They gabble, and you talk: You're sure there's not a spy To mark your name with chalk.

My heart's an oak, and it won't grow In flower-pots, foreigners must know.'

Pensive he stood: then shook his head Sadly; held out his fist, and said:

'--You've heard that Hungary's floor'd?

They've got her on the ground.

A traitor broke her sword: Two despots held her bound.

I've seen her gasping her last hope: I've seen her sons strung up b' the rope.

'Nine gallant gentlemen In Arad they strung up!

I work'd in peace till then:- That poison'd all my cup.

A smell of corpses haunted me: My nostril sniff'd like life for sea.

'Take money for my hire From butchers?--not the man!

I've got some natural fire, And don't flash in the pan; - A few ideas I reveal'd:- 'Twas well old England stood my s.h.i.+eld!

'Said I, ”The Lord of Hosts Have mercy on your land!

I see those dangling ghosts, - And you may keep command, And hang, and shoot, and have your day: They hold your bill, and you must pay.

'”You've sent them where they're strong, You carrion Double-Head!

I hear them sound a gong In Heaven above!”--I said.

”My G.o.d, what feathers won't you moult For this!” says I: and then I bolt.

'The Bird's a beastly Bird, And what is more, a fool.

I shake hands with the herd That flock beneath his rule.

They're kindly; and their land is fine.

I thought it rarer once than mine.

'And rare would be its lot, But that he baulks its powers: It's just an earthen pot For hearts of oak like ours.

Think! Think!--four days from those frontiers, And I'm a-head full fifty years.

'It tingles to your scalps, To think of it, my boys!