  OR, THE BUCCANEER'S CURSE. A FAMILY LEGEND. It has a jocund sound, That gleeful Marriage chime, As from the old and ivied tower, It peals, at the early Matin hour, Its merry, merry round; And the Spring is in its prime, And the Song-bird, on the spray, Trills from his throat, in varied note, An emulative lay— Gently! gently, Miss Muse! Mind your P's and your Q's! Don't be malapert—laugh, Miss, but never abuse! Calling names, whether done to attack or to back a schism, Is, Miss, believe me, a great piece of Jack-ass-ism, And as, on the whole, You're a good-natured soul, You must never enact such a pitiful rÔle. No, no, Miss, pull up, and go back to your boys In the churchyard, who're making this hubbub and noise— But hush! there's an end to their romping and mumming, For voices are heard—here's the company coming! And see!—the avenue gates unfold, And forth they pace, that bridal train, The grave, the gay, the young, the old, They cross the green and grassy lane, Bridesman, Bridesmaid, Bridegroom, Bride, Two by two, and side by side, 'Tis o'er;—the holy rite is done, The rite that "incorporates two in one," —And now for the feasting, and frolic, and fun! Spare we to tell of the smiling and sighing, The shaking of hands, the embracing, and crying, The "toot—toot—toot" Of the tabour and flute, Of the white wigg'd Vicar's prolonged salute, Or of how the blithe "College Youths"—rather old stagers, Accustom'd, for years, to pull bell ropes for wagers— Rang, faster than ever, their "triple-bob-mayors;" (So loud as to charm ye, At once and alarm ye; —"Symbolic," of course, of that rank in the army.) Spare we to tell of the fees and the dues To the "little old woman that open'd the pews," Of the largesse bestow'd on the Sexton and Clerk, Of the four-year-old sheep roasted whole in the park, Of the laughing and joking, The quaffing and smoking, And chaffing, and broaching—that is to say, poking A hole in a mighty magnificent tub Of what men, in our hemisphere, term "Humming Bub," Spare we to tell of the Horse-collar grinning; The Cheese! the reward of the ugly one winning; Of the young ladies racing for Dutch body-linen,— —The soapy-tailed Sow,—a rich prize when you've caught her,— Of little boys bobbing for pippins in water; The smacks and the whacks, And the jumpers in sacks, These down on their noses and those on their backs;— Nor skills it to speak of those darling old ditties, Sung rarely in hamlets now—never in cities, The "King and the Miller," the "Bold Robin Hood," "Chevy Chase," "Gilderoy," and the "Babes in the Wood!" —You'll say that my taste Is sadly misplaced, But I can't help confessing these simple old tunes The "Auld Robin Grays," and the "Aileen Aroons," The "Gramachree Mollys," and "Sweet Bonny Doons," Are dearer to me, In a tenfold degree, Than a fine fantasia from over the sea; And, for sweetness, compared with a Beethoven fugue, are As "best-refined loaf" to the coarsest "brown sugar;" But enough of the rustics—let's leave them pursuing Their out-of-door gambols, and just take a view in The inside the Hall, and see what they are doing; And first there's the Squire, The hale, hearty Sire Of the Bride,—with his coat-tails subducted and higher, A thought, than they're commonly wont to aspire; His back and his buckskins exposed to the fire;— —Bright, bright are his buttons,—and bright is the hue Of his squarely-cut coat of fine Saxony blue; And bright the shalloon of his little quilled queue; —White, white as "Young England's," the dimity vest Which descends like an avalanche o'er his broad breast, Till its further progression is put in arrest Then, there are the Bride and the Bridegroom, withdrawn To the deep Gothic window that looks on the lawn, Ensconced on a squab of maroon-coloured leather, And talking—and thinking, no doubt—of the weather. But here comes the party—Room! room for the guests! In their Pompadour coats, and laced ruffles, and vests, —First, Sir Charles Grandison, Baronet, and his Son, Charles,—the Mamma does not venture to "show"— —Miss Byron, you know, She was call'd long ago— For that Lady, 'twas said, had been playing the d—l, Last season, in town, with her old beau, Squire Greville, Which very much shock'd, and chagrin'd, as may well be Supposed, "Doctor Bartlett," and "Good Uncle Selby." —Sir Charles, of course, could not give Greville his gruel, in Order to prove his abhorrence of duelling, Nor try for, deterr'd by the serious expense, a Complete separation a thoro et mensÂ, So he "kept a calm sough," and, when asked to a party, A dance, or a dinner, or tea and ecartÉ, He went with his son, and said, looking demurely, He'd "left her at home, as she found herself poorly." Two Foreigners near, "Of distinction," appear; A pair more illustrious you ne'er heard of, or saw, Count Ferdinand Fathom,—Count Thaddeus of Warsaw, All cover'd with glitt'ring bijouterie and hair—Poles, Well—the party are met, all radiant and gay, And how ev'ry person is dress'd—we won't say; Suffice it, they all come glad homage to pay To our dear "bonnie Maud," on her own wedding-day, To dance at her bridal, and help "throw the stocking," —A practice that's now discontinued as shocking. There's a breakfast, they know— There always is so On occasions like these, wheresoever you go. Of course there are "lots" of beef, potted and hung, Prawns, lobsters, cold fowl, and cold ham, and cold tongue, Hot tea, and hot coffee, hot rolls, and hot toast, Cold pigeon-pie (rook?), and cold boil'd and cold roast, Scotch marmalade, jellies, cold creams, colder ices— Blancmange, which young Ladies say, so very nice is,— Rock-melons in thick, Pines in much thinner slices,— Char, potted with clarified butter and spices, Renewing an appetite long past its crisis— Refined barley-sugar, in various devices, Such as bridges, and baskets, and temples, and grottoes— And nasty French lucifer snappers with mottoes. —In short, all those gimcracks together were met Which people of fashion tell Gunter to get When they give a grand dÉjeÛner À la fourchette— (A phrase which, though French, in our language still lingers, Intending a breakfast with forks and not fingers.) And see! what a mountainous bridecake!—a thing By itself—with small pieces to pass through the ring! Now as to the wines!—"Ay, the Wine?" cries the Squire, Letting fall both his coat-tails,—which nearly take fire,— "Full five-and-twenty years are gone since Roger went away, As I bethink me, too, it was upon this very day! And I was then a comely dame, and you, a springald gay, Were up and down to London town, at opera, ball, and play; Your locks were nut-brown then, Squire—you grow a little grey!— 'Wild Roger,' so we call'd him then, your Grandsire's youngest son, He was in truth A wayward youth, We fear'd him, every one. In ev'ry thing he had his will, he would be stayed by none, And when he did a naughty thing, he laugh'd and call'd it fun! —One day his father chid him sore—I know not what he'd done, But he scorn'd reproof; And from this roof Away that night he run! "Seven years were gone and over—'Wild Roger' came again, He spoke of forays and of frays upon the Spanish Main; And he had store of gold galore, and silks, and satins fine, And flasks and casks of Malvoisie, and precious Gascon wine! Rich booties he had brought, he said, across the western wave, And came, in penitence and shame, now of his Sire to crave Forgiveness and a welcome home—his Sire was in his grave! "Your Father was a kindly man—he played a brother's part, He press'd his brother to his breast—he had a kindly heart, "Oh! then it was a fearful thing to hear 'Wild Roger's' ban! Good gracious me! I never heard the like from mortal man; 'Here's that,' quoth he, 'shall serve me well when I return at last, A batter'd hulk, to quaff and laugh at toils and dangers past; Accurst be he, whoe'er he be, lays hand on gear of mine, Till I come back again from sea, to broach my Gascon wine!' And more he said, which filled with dread all those who listen'd there; In sooth my very blood ran cold, it lifted up my hair With very fear, to stand and hear 'Wild Roger' curse and swear!! He saw my fright, as well he might, but still he made his game, He called me 'Mother Bounce-about,' my Gracious, what a name! Nay more, 'an old'—some 'boat-woman,'—I may not say for shame!— Then, gentle Master, pause awhile, give heed to what I tell, Nor break, on such a day as this, 'Wild Roger's' secret cell!" "Pooh! pooh!" quoth the Squire, As he mov'd from the fire, And bade the old Housekeeper quickly retire, "Pooh!—never tell me! Nonsense—fiddle-de-dee! What?—wait Uncle Roger's return back from sea?— Why he may, as you say, Have been somewhat too gay, And, no doubt, was a broth of a boy in his way; But what's that to us, now, at this time of day? What if some quarrel With Dering or Darrell— —I hardly know which, but I think it was Dering,— tb THE BUCCANEER'S CURSE. Away go the clan, With cup and with can, Little Jack Ingoldsby leading the van; Little reck they of the Buccaneer's ban: Hope whispers, "Perchance we'll fall in with strong beer too here!" Blest thought! which sets them all grinning from ear to ear! Through cellar one, through cellars two, Through cellars three they past! And their way they took To the farthest nook Of cellar four—the last!— Blithe and gay, they batter away, On this wedding-day of Maud's, With all their might, to bring to light "Wild Roger's" "Custom-house frauds!" And though stone and brick Be never so thick, When stoutly assailed, they are no bar To the powerful charm Of a Yeoman's arm When wielding a decentish crow-bar! Down comes brick, and down comes stone, One by one— The job's half done!— "Where is he?—now come—where's Master John?"— —There's a breach in the wall three feet by two, Yet were there those, in after days, Who said that pale light's flickering blaze, For a moment, gleam'd on a dark Form there, Seem'd as bodied of foul black air!— —In Mariner's dress,—with cutlass braced By buckle and broad black belt, to its waist,— —On a cock'd-hat, laced With gold, and placed With a degagÉe, devil-may-care, kind of taste, O'er a balafrÉ brow by a scar defaced!— That Form, they said, so foul and so black, Grinn'd as it pointed at poor little Jack.— —I know not, I, how the truth may be, But the pent-up vapour, at length set free, Set them all sneezing, And coughing, and wheezing, As, working its way To the regions of day, It, at last, let a purer and healthier breeze in! Of their senses bereft, To the right and the left, Those varlets so lately courageous and stout, There they lay kicking and sprawling about, Like Billingsgate fresh fish, unconscious of ice, Or those which, the newspapers give us advice, Mr. Taylor, of Lombard-street, sells at half-price; —Nearer the door, some half dozen, or more! Scramble away To the rez de chaussee, (As our Frenchified friend always calls his ground-floor,) And they call, and they bawl, and they bellow and roar For lights, vinegar, brandy, and fifty things more. At length, after no little clamour and din, The foul air let out, and the fresh air let in, They drag one and all Up into the hall, Where a medical Quaker, the great Dr. Lettsom, Who's one of the party, "bleeds, physicks, and sweats 'em." All?—all—save One— —"But He!—my Son?— Merciful Heaven!—where—where is John?" Enough!—I may not,—dare not,—show The wretched Father's frantic woe, The Mother's tearless, speechless—No! I may not such a theme essay— Too bitter thoughts crowd in and stay My pen—sad memory will have way! Enough!—at once I close the lay, Of fair Maud's fatal Wedding-day! It has a mournful sound, That single, solemn Bell! As to the hills and woods around It flings its deep-toned knell; That measured toll!—alone—apart, It strikes upon the human heart! —It has a mournful sound!— Moral. Come, come, Mrs. Muse, we can't part in this way, Or you'll leave me as dull as ditch-water all day. Try and squeeze out a Moral or two from your lay! And let us part cheerful, at least, if not gay! First and foremost then, Gentlefolks, learn from my song, Not to lock up your wine, or malt-liquor, too long! Though Port should have age, Yet I don't think it sage To entomb it, as some of your connoisseurs do, Till it's losing in flavour, and body, and hue; —I question if keeping it does it much good After ten years in bottle and three in the wood. If any young man, though a snubb'd younger brother, When told of his faults by his father and mother, Runs restive, and goes off to sea in a huff, Depend on't, my friends, that young man is a Muff! Next—ill-gotten gains Are not worth the pains!— They prosper with no one!—so whether cheroots, And "now to conclude,"— For it's high time I should,— When you do rejoice, mind,—whatsoever you do, That the hearts of the lowly rejoice with you too!— Don't grudge them their jigs, And their frolics and "rigs," And don't interfere with their soapy-tail'd pigs; Nor "because thou art virtuous," rail, and exhale An anathema, breathing of vengeance and wail, Upon every complexion less pale than sea-kail! Nor dismiss the poor man to his pump and his pail, With "Drink there!—we'll have henceforth no more cakes and ale!!" tb FOOTNOTES: This rhyme, if, when scann'd by your critical ear, it Mox Regina filium peperit a multis optatum et a Deo sanctificatum. Cumque Infans natus fuisset, statim clar voce, omnibus audientibus, clamavit "Christianus sum! Christianus sum! Christianus sum!" Ad hanc vocem Presbyteri duo, Widerinus et Edwoldus, dicentes Deo Gratias, et omnes qui aderant mirantes, coeperunt cantare Te Deum laudamus. Quo facto rogabat Infans cathecumenum a Widerino sacerdote fieri, et ab Edwoldo teneri ad prÆsignaculum fidei et Romwoldum vocari.—Nov. Legend. Angl. in Vita Scti Romualdi. |
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