  THE SHROPSHIRE BLUEBEARD. A LEGEND OF "THE PROUD SALOPIANS."
Oh! why doth thine eye gleam so bright, Bloudie Jacke? Oh! why doth thine eye gleam so bright?— The Mother's at home, The Maid may not roam, She never will meet thee to-night! By the light Of the moon—it's impossible—quite! Yet thine eye is still brilliant and bright, Bloudie Jacke! It gleams with a fiendish delight— "'Tis done— She is won! Nothing under the sun Can loose the charm'd ring, though it's slight! Ho! ho! It fits so remarkably tight!"— The wire is as thin as a thread, Bloudie Jacke! The wire is as thin as a thread!— "Though slight be the chain, Again might and main Cannot rend it in twain—She is wed! She is wed! She is mine, be she living or dead! Haw! haw!!"— Nay, laugh not, I pray thee, so loud, Bloudie Jacke! Oh! laugh not so loud and so clear! Though sweet is thy smile The heart to beguile, Yet thy laugh is quite shocking to hear, O dear! It makes the blood curdle with fear! The Maiden is gone by the glen, Bloudie Jacke! She is gone by the glen and the wood— It's a very odd thing She should wear such a ring, While her tresses are bound with a snood. By the rood! It's a thing that's not well understood! The Maiden is stately and tall, Bloudie Jacke! And stately she walks in her pride; But the Young Mary-Anne Runs as fast as she can, To o'ertake her, and walk by her side: Though she chide— She deems not her sister a bride! Mary-Anne is gone over the lea, Bloudie Jacke! Mary-Anne, she is come to the Tower; But it makes her heart quail, For it looks like a jail, A deal more than a fair Lady's bower, So sour Its ugly grey walls seem to lour. For the Barbican's massy and high, Bloudie Jacke! And the oak-door is heavy and brown, And with iron it's plated And machecollated, To pour boiling oil and lead down; How you'd frown Should a ladle-full fall on your crown! The rock that it stands on is steep, Bloudie Jacke! To gain it one's forced for to creep; The Portcullis is strong, And the Drawbridge is long, And the water runs all round the Keep; At a peep You can see that the Moat's very deep! The Drawbridge is long, but it's down, Bloudie Jacke! And the Portcullis hangs in the air; And no Warder is near With his horn and his spear, To give notice when people come there.— I declare Mary-Anne has run into the square! The oak-door is heavy and brown, Bloudie Jacke! But the oak-door is standing ajar, And no one is there To say, "Pray take a chair, You seem tired, Miss, with running so far— So you are— With grown people you're scarce on a par!" She looks at your Arras so fine, Bloudie Jacke! So rich, all description it mocks; And she now and then pauses To gaze at the vases, Your pictures, and or-molu clocks; Every box, Every cupboard, and drawer she unlocks. She looks at the paintings so rare, Bloudie Jacke! That adorn every wall in your house; Your impayable pieces, Your Paul Veroneses, Your Rembrandts, your Guidos, and Dows, Moreland's Cows, Claude's Landscapes,—and Landseer's Bow-wows. She looks at your Statues so fine, Bloudie Jacke! And mighty great notice she takes Of your Niobe crying, Your Mirmillo dying, Your Hercules strangling the snakes,— How he shakes The nasty great things as he wakes! Your Laocoon, his serpents and boys, Bloudie Jacke! She views with some little dismay; A copy of that I can See in the Vatican, Unless the Pope's sent it away, As they say, In the Globe, he intended last May. There's your Belvidere Phoebus, with which, Bloudie Jacke! Mr. Milman says none other vies. (His lines on Apollo Beat all the rest hollow, And gained him the Newdigate prize.) There's a room full of satins and silks, Bloudie Jacke! There's a room full of velvets and lace, There are drawers full of rings, And a thousand fine things, And a splendid gold watch with a case O'er its face, Is in every room in the place. There are forty fine rooms on a floor, Bloudie Jacke! And every room fit for a Ball, It's so gorgeous and rich, With so lofty a pitch, And so long, and so broad, and so tall; Yes, all, Save the last one—and that's very small! It boasts not stool, table, or chair, Bloudie Jacke! But one Cabinet, costly and grand, Which has little gold figures Of little gold Niggers, With fishing-rods stuck in each hand.— It's japann'd, And it's placed on a splendid buhl stand. It's hinges and clasps are of gold, Bloudie Jacke! And of gold are its keyhole and key, And the drawers within Have each a gold pin, And they're number'd with 1, 2, and 3, You may see All the figures in gold filigree! Number 1's full of emeralds green, Bloudie Jacke! Number 2's full of diamond and pearl; But what does she see In drawer Number 3 That makes all her senses to whirl, Poor Girl! And each lock of her hair to uncurl?— Wedding Fingers are sweet pretty things, Bloudie Jacke! To salute them one eagerly strives, When one kneels to "propose"— It's another quelque chose When cut off at the knuckles with knives From our wives, They are tied up in bunches of fives. Beside them are eight Wedding-rings, Bloudie Jacke! And the gold is as thin as a thread— "Ho! ho!—She is mine— This will make up the Nine!"— Dear me! who those shocking words said?— —She fled To hide herself under the bed. But, alas! there's no bed in the room, Bloudie Jacke! And she peeps from the window on high; Only fancy her fright And the terrible sight Down below, which at once meets her eye! "Oh My!!" She half utter'd,—but stifled her cry. For she saw it was You and your Man, Bloudie Jacke! And she heard your unpleasant "Haw! haw!" While her sister, stone dead, By the hair of her head, O'er the bridge you were trying to draw, As she saw— A thing quite contra-ry to law! Your man has got hold of her heels, Bloudie Jacke! Bloudie Jacke! you've got hold of her hair!— But nor Jacke nor his Man Can see young Mary-Anne, She has hid herself under the stair, And there Is a horrid great Dog, I declare! His eyeballs are bloodshot and blear, Bloudie Jacke! He's a sad ugly cur for a pet; He seems of the breed Of that "Billy," indeed, Who used to kill rats for a bet; —I forget How many one morning he ate. She has given him a bun and a roll, Bloudie Jacke! She has given him a roll and a bun, And a Shrewsbury cake, Of Pailin's It's "a pretty particular Fix," Bloudie Jacke! —Above,—there's the Maiden that's dead; Below—growling at her— There's that Cannibal Cur, Who at present is munching her bread, Instead Of her leg,—or her arm,—or her head. It's "a pretty particular Fix," Bloudie Jacke! She is caught like a mouse in a trap;— Stay! there's something, I think, That has slipp'd through a chink, And fall'n, by a singular hap, Slap, Into poor little Mary-Anne's lap! It's a very fine little gold ring, Bloudie Jacke! Yet, though slight, it's remarkably stout, But it's made a sad stain, Which will always remain On her frock—for Blood will not wash out; I doubt Salts of Lemon won't bring it about! Her hair's floating loose in the breeze, Bloudie Jacke! For gone is her "bonnet of blue." —Now the Barbican's past!— Her legs "go it" as fast As two drumsticks a-beating tattoo, As they do At RÉveillie, Parade, or Review! She has run into Shrewsbury town, Bloudie Jacke! She has called out the Beadle and May'r, And the Justice of Peace, And the Rural Police, Till "Battle Field" swarms like a Fair,— And see there!— E'en the Parson's beginning to swear!! There's a pretty to-do in your Tower, Bloudie Jacke! In your Tower there's a pretty to-do! All the people of Shrewsbury Playing old gooseberry With your choice bits of taste and virtÙ; Each bijou Is upset in their search after you! They are playing the deuce with your things, Bloudie Jacke! There's your Cupid is broken in two, And so too, between us, is Each of your Venuses, The "Antique" ones you bought of the Jew, And the new One, George Robins swears came from St. Cloud. The Callipyge's injured behind, Bloudie Jacke! The De Medici's injured before; And the Anadyomene 's injured in so many Places, I think there's a score, If not more, Of her fingers and toes on the floor. Ah! Ah!—they will have you at last, Bloudie Jacke! The chimneys to search they begin;— They have found you at last!— There you are, sticking fast, With your knees doubled up to your chin, Though you're thin! —Dear me! what a mess you are in!— What a terrible pickle you're in, Bloudie Jacke! Why, your face is as black as your hat! Your fine Holland shirt Is all over dirt! And so is your point-lace cravat! What a Flat To seek such an asylum as that! They can scarcely help laughing, I vow, Bloudie Jacke! In the midst of their turmoil and strife; You're not fit to be seen!— You look like Mr. Kean In the play, where he murders his wife!— On my life You ought to be scraped with a knife! They have pull'd you down flat on your back, Bloudie Jacke! They have pull'd you down flat on your back! And they smack, and they thwack, Till your "funny bones" crack, As if you were stretched on the rack, At each thwack!— Good lack! what a savage attack! They call for the Parliament Man, Bloudie Jacke! And the Hangman, the matter to clinch, It is useless to scuffle and cuff, Bloudie Jacke! It is useless to struggle and bite! And to kick and to scratch! You have met with your match, And the Shrewsbury Boys hold you tight, Despite Your determined attempts "to shew fight." They are pulling you all sorts of ways, Bloudie Jacke! They are twisting your right leg Nor-West, And your left leg due South, And your knee's in your mouth, And your head is poked down on your breast, And it's prest, I protest, almost into your chest! They have pulled off your arms and your legs, Bloudie Jacke! As the naughty boys serve the blue flies; And they've torn from their sockets, And put in their pockets Your fingers and thumbs for a prize! Your trunk, thus dismember'd and torn, Bloudie Jacke! They hew, and they hack, and they chop; And, to finish the whole, They stick up a pole In the place that's still called the "Wylde Coppe," And they pop Your grim gory head on the top! They have buried the fingers and toes, Bloudie Jacke! Of the victims so lately your prey. From those fingers and eight toes Sprang early potatoes, "Ladyes' fyngers" they're called to this day; —So they say,— And you usually dig them in May. What became of the dear little girl? Bloudie Jacke! What became of the young Mary-Anne? Why, I'm sadly afraid That she died an Old Maid, For she fancied that every Young Man Had a plan To trepan her like "poor Sister Fan!" So they say she is now leading apes, Bloudie Jacke! And mends Bachelors' small-clothes below; The story is old, And has often been told, But I cannot believe it is so— No! No! Depend on't the tale is "No Go!" Moral. And now for the moral I'd fain, Bloudie Jacke! That young Ladies should draw from my pen,— It's—"Don't take these flights Upon moon-shiny nights, With gay, harum-scarum young men, Down a glen!— You really can't trust one in ten!" tb FOOTNOTES: Arms.—1st and 4th, Quarterly, Argent and Sable; in the first quarter a Gibbet of the second, noosed proper, Callcraft. 2nd, Sable, three Nightcaps Argent, tufted Gules, 2 and 1, Ketche. 3rd, Or, a Nosegay fleurant, Kirby. Supporters.—Dexter: a Sheriff in his pride, robed Gules, chained and collared Or.—Sinister: An Ordinary displayed proper, wigged and banded Argent, nosed Gules. Motto.—Sic itur ad astra! Her niece, of whom I have before made honourable mention, is not a whit behind Mrs. Botherby in furnishing entertainment for the young folks. If little Charles has the aunt to sol fa him into slumber, Miss Jenny is equally fortunate in the possession of a Sappho of her own. It is to the air of "Drops of Brandy" that Patty has adapted her version of a venerable ditty, which we have all listened to with respect and affection under its old title of |
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