Part 4 (1/2)

I care not for Spring; on his fickle wing Let the blossoms and buds be borne: He woos them amain with his treacherous rain, And he scatters them ere the morn.

An inconstant elf, he knows not himself Nor his own changing mind an hour, He'll smile in your face, and, with wry grimace, He'll wither your youngest flower.

Let the Summer sun to his bright home run, He shall never be sought by me; When he's dimmed by a cloud I can laugh aloud, And care not how sulky he be!

For his darling child is the madness wild That sports in fierce fever's train; And when love is too strong, it don't last long, As many have found to their pain.

A mild harvest night, by the tranquil light Of the modest and gentle moon, Has a far sweeter sheen, for me, I ween, Than the broad and unblus.h.i.+ng noon.

But every leaf awakens my grief, As it lieth beneath the tree; So let Autumn air be never so fair, It by no means agrees with me.

But my song I troll out, for CHRISTMAS stout, The hearty, the true, and the bold; A b.u.mper I drain, and with might and main Give three cheers for this Christmas old!

We'll usher him in with a merry din That shall gladden his joyous heart, And we'll keep him up, while there's bite or sup, And in fellows.h.i.+p good, we'll part.

In his fine honest pride, he scorns to hide One jot of his hard-weather scars; They're no disgrace, for there's much the same trace On the cheeks of our bravest tars.

Then again I sing 'till the roof doth ring, And it echoes from wall to wall-- To the stout old wight, fair welcome to-night, As the King of the Seasons all!

III.--GABRIEL GRUB'S SONG

GABRIEL GRUB'S SONG

The s.e.xton's melancholy dirge, in the twenty-ninth chapter of _Pickwick_, seems a little incongruous in a humorous work. The sentiment, however, thoroughly accords with the philosophic gravedigger's gruesome occupation.

'The Story of the Goblins who Stole a s.e.xton' is one of several short tales (chiefly of a dismal character) introduced into _Pickwick_; they were doubtless written prior to the conception of _Pickwick_, each being probably intended for independent publication, and in a manner similar to the 'Boz' Sketches. For some reason these stories were not so published, and d.i.c.kens evidently saw a favourable opportunity of utilising his unused ma.n.u.scripts by inserting them in _The Pickwick Papers_.

GABRIEL GRUB'S SONG

Brave lodgings for one, brave lodgings for one, A few feet of cold earth, when life is done; A stone at the head, a stone at the feet, A rich, juicy meal for the worms to eat; Rank gra.s.s over head, and damp clay around, Brave lodgings for one, these, in holy ground!

IV.--ROMANCE

ROMANCE

It will be remembered that while Sam Weller and his coaching-friends refreshed themselves at the little public-house opposite the Insolvent Court in Portugal Street, Lincoln's Inn Fields, prior to Sam joining Mr.

Pickwick in the Fleet, that faithful body-servant was persuaded to 'oblige the company' with a song. 'Raly, gentlemen,' said Sam, 'I'm not wery much in the habit o' singin' vithout the instrument; but anythin' for a quiet life, as the man said ven he took the sitivation at the light-house.'

'With this prelude, Mr. Samuel Weller burst at once into the following wild and beautiful legend, which, under the impression that it is not generally known, we take the liberty of quoting. We would beg to call particular attention to the monosyllable at the end of the second and fourth lines, which not only enables the singer to take breath at those points, but greatly a.s.sists the metre.'-_The Pickwick Papers_, chapter xliii.

At the conclusion of the performance the mottled-faced gentleman contended that the song was 'personal to the cloth,' and demanded the name of the bishop's coachman, whose cowardice he regarded as a reflection upon coachmen in general. Sam replied that his name was not known, as 'he hadn't got his card in his pocket'; whereupon the mottled-faced gentleman declared the statement to be untrue, stoutly maintaining that the said coachman did _not_ run away, but 'died game--game as pheasants,' and he would 'hear nothin' said to the contrairey.'

Even in the vernacular (observes Mr. Percy Fitzgerald), 'this master of words [Charles d.i.c.kens] could be artistic; and it may fairly be a.s.serted that Mr. Weller's song to the coachmen is superior to anything of the kind that has appeared since.' The two stanzas have been set to music, as a humorous part-song, by Sir Frederick Bridge, Mus. Doc., M.V.O., the organist of Westminster Abbey, who informs me that it was written some years since, to celebrate a festive gathering in honour of Dr. Turpin (!), Secretary of the College of Organists. 'It has had a very great success,'

says Sir Frederick, 'and is sung much in the North of England at compet.i.tions of choirs. It is for men's voices. The humour of the words never fails to make a great hit, and I hope the music does no harm. ”The Bishop's Coach” is set to a bit of old Plain-Chant, and I introduce a Fugue at the words ”Sure as eggs is eggs.”'

ROMANCE

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