  “The course of true love never did run smooth.”—Shakespeare. I.Maidens, say, heard ye the sorrowful story Of a turreted castle all mossy and hoary, That stood on the banks of the dark-flowing Rhine, Where the tall hills are clad with the grape-laden vine, Where the strains of the flute and the plaintive guitar Are echoed each night ’neath the glow of the star, Where the days glide as smooth as the waves of the river, And swift as the shaft from an Indian quiver? Oh, Heaven has showered with a bountiful hand All, all that is lovely and gorgeous and grand On the Rhine’s noble valley, that beautiful land, Yet alas!—for the tale I am going to tell Is as sad as the chime of a funeral bell, And oft as they pause at their leisure to listen, The tear on the pale cheek of beauty will glisten. Weeping they will turn away, Sighing have I heard them say, “Of all the woes that blight us from above, The saddest is the pang of unrequited love.” II.In a castle gloomy and old Once there dwelt a Baron bold, Rich in acres and flocks and gold; Sooth but he was a gallant knight, Fond of his lager and fond of fight. He was ever in the front Of the battle or the hunt, And of each struggle he bore the brunt! None like him could wield the spear, Or run down the flying deer, Or drain the flagons of lager beer. III.The Baron had a daughter Adored by all the swains: Oh, she had wealth and beauty And very little brains Her breath was sweet As the morning dew, Her tresses were black, And her eyes were blue. Her foot was cased In a delicate shoe, If I remember, a one and a half, Made of the finest Parisian calf, So instead of walking, Of course she flew, As some of my female Acquaintances do. Her food was turnips And cabbage and steak And milk and peaches And pudding and cake, Weinies and kraut and the essence of bees, That is to say, honey and Limberger cheese, Horseradish to make an elephant sneeze. So by high feeding And very little reading, Her waist did gradually acquire considerable diameter, And her apron-strings were full as long as Tennyson’s hexameter. IV.Beneath the castle window Each night were heard the strains Of a poor love-smitten noble, Who lived away out on the plains, And walked ten weary miles each night, To woo the Baron’s daughter, Who lived in the gloomy castle That stood by the Rhine’s blue water. And he fixed it in music somewhat to this fashion: “Oh transcendental Hinda, Look from thy latticed window, As here I sadly linger And with a trembling finger I thrum the strings Of my sad guitar, Or knock the ashes From my fragrant cigar Fairest of Heaven’s handiwork, Sweetest of nature’s candy-work, Here I pledge upon thine altar, Love that knows not how to falter. Grant, oh, grant some sweet return, Nor my deep devotion spurn; Let me have thy gentle heart or Even a buckle of your garter!” V.Now Kleinfelter’s singing Was undoubtedly splendid, And its musical ringing Could not easily be mended It was soft and sweet and then it was loud As a singing saint’s on a shining cloud; Clear as the lark’s own morning call, With a silvery chime like a waterfall. So he had scarcely uttered a note, When Hinda’s heart rose up in her throat, Her breast felt a pang and her head felt a dizziness, Oh, Kleinfelter’s serenade finished the business! VI.I know a maiden, Her eyes are black As the flying cloud Of the tempest’s rack, Of their glorious fire Would quell and tame A lion’s ire. Sometimes they brighten And lighten in gladness, Sometimes their dark depths Are shadowed with sadness, But pensive or mirthful, A soul flashes through, That will silently charm you And win and subdue. Often have I heard her play On the guitar some roundelay, And as her white hands swept the strings, Melody unsealed its springs, And her sweet voice, though low and soft, Rose like a seraph’s hymn aloft, Rising and sinking in gentle swells; Like a murmuring brook with its liquid bells, Till the vanquished soul was borne along On the rushing tide of resistless song. VII.But I am digressing— I was going to say, That just as Kleinfelter Got in good way, The Baron, hearing Kleinfelter’s song, Thought he was piling it on rather strong, So taking along a burly old vassal, He quickly sneaked up to the top of his castle He lay down on his stomach And stuck his head over, And there was Miss Hinda And below was her lover. He gritted his teeth and he held his breath, And he inly vowed Kleinfelter’s death. So jumping up and wheeling about, He picked up a barrel of sour kraut, Plump on the head of the wretched lover. Of course it ended Kleinfelter’s strains, For it mashed his skull and scattered his brains, And knocked the musician out of time Into Eternity—horrible crime! So ended Kleinfelter, and so ends my rhyme. |
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