 
Come hither, come hither, my little boy Ned! Come hither unto my knee— I cannot away with that horrible din, That sixpenny drum, and that trumpet of tin. Oh, better to wander frank and free Through the Fair of good Saint Bartlemy, Than list to such awful minstrelsie. Now lay, little Ned, those nuisances by, And I'll rede ye a lay of Grammarye.
I love thy tower, Grey Ruin, I joy thy form to see, Though reft of all, Cell, cloister, and hall, Nothing is left save a tottering wall That, awfully grand and darkly dull, Threaten'd to fall and demolish my skull, As, ages ago, I wander'd along Careless thy grass-grown courts among, In sky-blue jacket, and trowsers laced, Full many a tale would my Grandam tell, In many a bygone day, Of darksome deeds, which of old befell In thee, thou Ruin grey! And I the readiest ear would lend, And stare like frighten'd pig! While my Grandfather's hair would have stood up on end, Had he not worn a wig. One tale I remember of mickle dread— Now lithe and listen, my little boy Ned! Thou mayest have read, my little boy Ned, Though thy mother thine idlesse blames, In Doctor Goldsmith's history book, Of a gentleman called King James, In quilted doublet, and great trunk breeches, Who held in abhorrence Tobacco and Witches. Well,—in King James's golden days,— For the days were golden then,— They could not be less, for good Queen Bess Had died, aged threescore and ten, And her days we know, Were all of them so; While the Court poets sung, and the Court gallants swore That the days were as golden still as before. Some people, 'tis true, a troublesome few, Who historical points would unsettle, Have lately thrown out a sort of a doubt Of the genuine ring of the metal; But who can believe to a monarch so wise People would dare tell a parcel of lies! —Well, then, in good King James's days,— Golden or not does not matter a jot,— Yon Ruin a sort of a roof had got; For though, repairs lacking, its walls had been cracking Just in that farthermost angle, where There are still the remains of a winding-stair, One turret especially high in air Uprear'd its tall gaunt form; As it defying the power of Fate, or The hand of "Time the Innovator;" And though to the pitiless storm Its weaker brethren all around Bowing, in ruin had strew'd the ground, Alone it stood, while its fellows lay strew'd, Like a four-bottle man in a company "screw'd," Not firm on his legs, but by no means subdued. One night—'twas in Sixteen hundred and six,— I like when I can, Ned, the date to fix,— The month was May, Though I can't well say At this distance of time the particular day— But oh! that night, that horrible night! —Folks ever afterwards said with affright That they never had seen such a terrible sight. The Sun had gone down fiery red; And if, that evening, he laid his head In Thetis's lap beneath the seas, He must have scalded the goddess's knees. He left behind him a lurid track Of blood-red light upon clouds so black, That Warren and Hunt, with the whole of their crew, Could scarcely have given them a darker hue. There came a shrill and a whistling sound, Above, beneath, beside, and around, Yet leaf ne'er moved on tree! So that some people thought old Beelzebub must Have been lock'd out of doors, and was blowing the dust From the pipe of his street-door key. And then a hollow moaning blast Came, sounding more dismally still than the last, And the lightning flash'd, and the thunder growl'd, And louder and louder the tempest howl'd, Rob Gilpin "was a citizen;" But, though of some "renown," Of no great "credit" in his own, Or any other town. He was a wild and roving lad, For ever in the alehouse boozing; Or romping,—which is quite as bad,— With female friends of his own choosing. And Rob this very day had made, Not dreaming such a storm was brewing, An assignation with Miss Slade,— Their trysting-place that same grey Ruin. But Gertrude Slade become afraid, And to keep her appointment unwilling, When she spied the rain on her window-pane In drops as big as a shilling; She put off her hat and her mantle again,— "He'll never expect me in all this rain!" But little he recks of the fears of the sex, Or that maiden false to her tryst could be, He had stood there a good half hour Ere yet had commenced that perilous shower, Alone by the trysting-tree! Robin looks east, Robin looks west, But he sees not her whom he loves the best; Robin looks up, and Robin looks down, But no one comes from the neighbouring town. The storm came at last,—loud roar'd the blast, And the shades of evening fell thick and fast; The tempest grew; and the straggling yew, His leafy umbrella, was wet through and through; Rob was half dead with cold and with fright, When he spies in the Ruins a twinkling light— A hop, two skips, and a jump, and straight Rob stands within that postern gate. And there were gossips sitting there, By one, by two, by three: As they sat in that old and haunted room, In each one's hand was a huge birch broom, On each one's head was a steeple-crown'd hat, On each one's knee was a coal-black cat; Each had a kirtle of Lincoln green— It was, I trow, a fearsome scene. "Now riddle me, riddle me right, Madge Gray, What foot unhallow'd wends this way? Goody Price, Goody Price, now areed me aright, Who roams the old Ruins this drearysome night?" Then up and spake that sonsie quean, And she spake both loud and clear: "Oh, be it for weal, or be it for woe, Enter friend, or enter foe, Rob Gilpin is welcome here!— "Now tread we a measure! a hall! a hall! Now tread we a measure," quoth she— The heart of Robin Beat thick and throbbing— "Roving Bob, tread a measure with me!" "Ay, lassie!" quoth Rob, as her hand he gripes, "Though Satan himself were blowing the pipes!" Now around they go, and around, and around, With hop-skip-and-jump, and frolicsome bound, Such sailing and gliding, Such sinking and sliding, Such lofty curvetting, And grand pirouetting; Ned, you would swear that Monsieur Gilbert And Miss Taglioni were capering there! And oh! such awful music!—ne'er Fell sounds so uncanny on mortal ear, There were the tones of a dying man's groans Mix'd with the rattling of dead men's bones: Had you heard the shrieks, and the squeals, and the squeaks, You'd not have forgotten the sound for weeks. And around, and around, and around they go, Heel to heel, and toe to toe, "Goody Price, Goody Price, now riddle me right, Where may we sup this frolicsome night?" "Mine host of the Dragon hath mutton and veal! The Squire hath partridge, and widgeon, and teal; But old Sir Thopas hath daintier cheer, A pasty made of the good red deer, A huge grouse pie, and a fine Florentine, A fat roast goose, and a turkey and chine." —"Madge Gray, Madge Gray, Now tell me, I pray, Where's the best wassail bowl to our roundelay?" —"There is ale in the cellars of Tappington Hall, But the Squire "Now away! and away! without delay, Hey Cockalorum! my Broomstick gay! We must be back ere the dawn of the day: Hey up the chimney! away! away!"— Old Goody Price Mounts in a trice, In showing her legs she is not over nice; Old Goody Jones, All skin and bones, Follows "like winking."—Away go the crones, Knees and nose in a line with the toes, Sitting their brooms like so many Ducrows; Latest and last The damsel pass'd, One glance of her coal-black eye she cast; She laugh'd with glee loud laughters three, "Dost fear, Rob Gilpin, to ride with me?"— It's a very fine thing, on a fine day in June, To ride through the air in a Nassau Balloon; But you'll find very soon, if you aim at the Moon In a carriage like that, you're a bit of a "Spoon," For the largest can't fly Above twenty miles high, And you're not half way then on your journey, nor nigh; While no man alive Could ever contrive, Mr. Green has declared, to get higher than five. And the soundest Philosophers hold that, perhaps, If you reach'd twenty miles your balloon would collapse, Or pass by such action The sphere of attraction, Getting into the track of some comet—Good-lack! 'Tis a thousand to one that you'd never come back; And the boldest of mortals a danger like that must fear, Rashly protruding beyond our own atmosphere. No, no; when I try A trip to the sky, I shan't go in that thing of yours, Mr. Gye, Though Messieurs Monk Mason, and Spencer, and Beazly, All join in saying it travels so easily. No; there's nothing so good As a pony of wood— Not like that which, of late, they stuck up on the gate At the end of the Park, which caused so much debate, And gave so much trouble to make it stand straight,— But a regular Broomstick—you'll find that the favourite— Above all, when, like Robin, you haven't to pay for it. —Stay—really I dread— I am losing the thread Of my tale; and it's time you should be in your bed, So lithe now, and listen, my little boy Ned! The Vicarage walls are lofty and thick, And the copings are stone, and the sides are brick, The casements are narrow, and bolted and barr'd, And the stout oak door is heavy and hard; Moreover, by way of additional guard, A great big dog runs loose in the yard, And a horse-shoe is nail'd on the threshold sill,— To keep out aught that savours of ill,— But, alack! the chimney-pot's open still! —That great big dog begins to quail, Between his hind-legs he drops his tail, Crouch'd on the ground, the terrified hound He snores, 'tis true, but he snores no more As he's aye been accustom'd to snore before, And as men of his kidney are wont to snore;— (Sir Thopas's weight is sixteen stone four;) He draws his breath like a man distress'd y pain or grief, or like one oppress'd By some ugly old Incubus perch'd on his breast. A something seems To disturb his dreams, And thrice on his ear, distinct and clear, Falls a voice as of somebody whispering near In still small accents, faint and few, "Hey down the chimney-pot!—Hey after you!" Throughout the Vicarage, near and far, There is no lack of bolt or of bar; There are plenty of locks To closet and box, Yet the pantry wicket is standing ajar! And the little low door, through which you must go, Down some half-dozen steps, to the cellar below, Is also unfastened, though no one may know By so much as a guess, how it comes to be so; For wicket and door, The evening before, Were both of them lock'd, and the key safely placed On the bunch that hangs down from the Housekeeper's waist. Oh! 'twas a jovial sight to view In that snug little cellar that frolicsome crew!— Old Goody Price Had got something nice, A turkey-poult larded with bacon and spice;— Old Goody Jones Would touch nought that had bones,— She might just as well mumble a parcel of stones. Goody Jones, in sooth, hath got never a tooth, And a New-College pudding of marrow and plums "Now pledge we the wine-cup!—a health! a health! Sweet are the pleasures obtain'd by stealth! Fill up! fill up!—the brim of the cup Is the part that aye holdeth the toothsomest sup! Here's to thee, Goody Price!—Goody Jones, to thee!— To thee, Roving Rob! and again to me! Many a sip, never a slip Come to us four 'twixt the cup and the lip!" The cups pass quick, The toasts fly thick, Rob tries in vain out their meaning to pick, But hears the words "Scratch," and "Old Bogey," and "Nick," More familiar grown, Now he stands up alone, Volunteering to give them a toast of his own. "A bumper of wine! Fill thine! Fill mine! Here's a health to old Noah who planted the Vine!" Oh then what sneezing, What coughing and wheezing, Ensued in a way that was not over pleasing! Goody Price, Goody Jones, and the pretty Madge Gray, All seem'd as their liquor had gone the wrong way. But the best of the joke was, the moment he spoke Those words which the party seem'd almost to choke, As by mentioning Noah some spell had been broke, Every soul in the house at that instant awoke! And, hearing the din from barrel and binn, Drew at once the conclusion that thieves had got in. Up jump'd the Cook and caught hold of her spit; Up jump'd the Groom and took bridle and bit; Up jump'd the Gardener and shoulder'd his spade; Up jump'd the Scullion,—the Footman,—the Maid; (The two last, by the way, occasioned some scandal, By appearing together with only one candle, Which gave for unpleasant surmises some handle;) Up jump'd the Swineherd,—and up jump'd the big boy, A nondescript under him, acting as Pig-boy; Butler, Housekeeper, Coachman—from bottom to top Everybody jump'd up without parley or stop, With the weapon which first in their way chanced to drop,— Whip, warming-pan, wig-block, mug, musket, and mop. tb GRANDPAPA'S STORY; OR, THE WITCHES' FROLIC. Last of all doth appear, With some symptoms of fear, Sir Thopas in person to bring up the rear, In a mix'd kind of costume half Pontificalibus, Half what scholars denominate Pure Naturalibus; Nay, the truth to express, As you'll easily guess, They have none of them time to attend much to dress; But He, or She, As the case may be, He or She seizes what He or She pleases, Trunk-hosen or kirtles, and shirts or chemises, And thus one and all, great and small, short and tall, Muster at once in the Vicarage-hall, With upstanding locks, starting eyes, shorten'd breath, Like the folks in the Gallery Scene in Macbeth, When Macduff is announcing their Sovereign's death. And hark!—what accents clear and strong, To the listening throng came floating along! 'Tis Robin encoring himself in a song— "Very good song! very well sung! Jolly companions every one!" On, on to the cellar! away! away! On, on to the cellar without more delay! The whole posse rush onwards in battle array— Conceive the dismay of the party so gay, Old Goody Jones, Goody Price, and Madge Gray, When the door bursting wide, they descried the allied Troops, prepared for the onslaught, roll in like a tide, And the spits, and the tongs, and the pokers beside!— "Boot and saddle's the word! mount, Cummers, and ride!"— Alarm was ne'er caused more strong and indigenous By cats among rats, or a hawk in a pigeon-house; Quick from the view Away they all flew, With a yell, and a screech, and a halliballoo, "Hey up the chimney! Hey after you!"— The Volscians themselves made an exit less speedy From Corioli, "flutter'd like doves" by Macready. They are gone,—save one, Robin alone! Robin, whose high state of civilisation Precludes all idea of aËrostation, And who now has no notion Of more locomotion Than suffices to kick, with much zeal and devotion, Right and left at the party, who pounced on their victim, And maul'd him, and kick'd him, and lick'd him, and prick'd him, Morning grey Scarce bursts into day Ere at Tappington Hall there's the deuce to pay; The tables and chairs are all placed in array In the old oak-parlour, and in and out Domestics and neighbours, a motley rout, Are walking, and whispering, and standing about; And the Squire is there In his large arm-chair, Leaning back with a grave magisterial air; In the front of a seat a Huge volume, called Fleta, And Bracton, a tome of an old-fashion'd look, And Coke upon Lyttleton, then a new book; And he moistens his lips With occasional sips From a luscious sack-posset that smiles in a tankard Close by on a side-table—not that he drank hard, But because at that day, I hardly need say, The Hong Merchants had not yet invented How Qua, Nor as yet would you see Souchong or Bohea At the tables of persons of any degree: How our ancestors managed to do without tea I must fairly confess is a mystery to me; Yet your Lydgates and Chaucers Had no cups and saucers; Their breakfast, in fact, and the best they could get, Was a sort of a dÉjeÛner À la fourchette; Instead of our slops They had cutlets and chops, And sack-possets, and ale in stoups, tankards, and pots; And they wound up the meal with rumpsteaks and 'schalots. Now the Squire lifts his hand With an air of command, And gives them a sign, which they all understand, To bring in the culprit; and straightway the carter And huntsman drag in that unfortunate martyr, Still kicking, and crying, "Come,—what are you arter?" The charge is prepared, and the evidence clear, "He was caught in the cellar a-drinking the beer! And came there, there's very great reason to fear, With companions,—to say but the least of them,—queer; Such as Witches, and creatures With horrible features, And horrible grins, And hook'd noses and chins, Who'd been playing the deuce with his Reverence's binns." The face of his worship grows graver and graver, As the parties detail Robin's shameful behaviour; At words so profound Rob gazes around, But no glance sympathetic to cheer him is found. —No glance, did I say? Yes, one!—Madge Gray!— She is there in the midst of the crowd standing by, And she gives him one glance from her coal-black eye, One touch to his hand, and one word to his ear,— (That's a line which I've stolen from Sir Walter, I fear,)— While nobody near Seems to see her or hear; As his worship takes up, and surveys, with a strict eye, The broom now produced as the corpus delicti, Ere his fingers can clasp, It is snatch'd from his grasp, The end poked in his chest with a force makes him gasp, And, despite the decorum so due to the Quorum, His worship's upset, and so too is his jorum And Madge is astride on the broomstick before 'em. "Hocus Pocus! Quick, Presto! and Hey Cockalorum! Mount, mount for your life, Rob!—Sir Justice, adieu!— —Hey up the chimney-pot! hey after you!" Through the mystified group, With a halloo and a whoop, Madge on the pommel, and Robin en croupe, The pair through the air ride as if in a chair, While the party below stand mouth open and stare! "Clean bumbaized" and amazed, and fix'd, all the room stick, "Oh! what's gone with Robin,—and Madge,—and the broomstick?" Ay, "what's gone" indeed, Ned?—of what befell Madge Gray, and the broomstick, I never heard tell: But Robin was found, that morn, on the ground, In yon old grey Ruin again, safe and sound, Rob from this hour is an alter'd man; He runs home to his lodgings as fast as he can, Sticks to his trade, Marries Miss Slade, Becomes a Te-totaller—that is the same As Te-totallers now, one in all but the name; Grows fond of Small-beer, which is always a steady sign, Never drinks spirits except as a medicine; Learns to despise Coal-black eyes, Minds pretty girls no more than so many Guys; Has a family, lives to be sixty, and dies! Now, my little boy Ned, Brush off to your bed, Tie your night-cap on safe, or a napkin instead, Or these terrible nights you'll catch cold in your head; And remember my tale, and the moral it teaches, Which you'll find much the same as what Solomon preaches. Don't flirt with young ladies; don't practise soft speeches; Avoid waltzes, quadrilles, pumps, silk nose, and knee-breeches;— Frequent not grey Ruins,—shun riot and revelry, Hocus Pocus, and Conjuring, and all sorts of devilry;— Don't meddle with broomsticks,—they're Beelzebub's switches; Of cellars keep clear,—they're the devil's own ditches; And beware of balls, banquettings, brandy, and—witches! Above all! don't run after black eyes!—if you do,— Depend on't you'll find what I say will come true,— Old Nick, some fine morning, will "hey after you!" FOOTNOTES: tb Strange as the events detailed in the succeeding narrative may appear, they are, I have not the slightest doubt, true to the letter. Whatever impression they may make upon the Reader, that produced by them on the narrator, I can aver, was neither light nor transient. |
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