MERRY GESTES

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Frances Jenkins Olcott

William Makepeace Thackeray
From Chamisso

HE TURNED HIM ROUND;
BUT STILL IT HUNG BEHIND HIM

“First let me say my catechism,
Which my poor mammy taught to me.”
“Make haste, make haste,” says guzzling Jimmy,
While Jack pulled out his snickersnee.
So Billy went up to the main top-gallant mast,
And down he fell on his bended knee.
He scarce had come to the twelfth commandment
When up he jumps. “There’s land I see:
“Jerusalem and Madagascar,
And North and South Amerikee:
There’s the British flag a-riding at anchor,
With Admiral Napier, K. C. B.”
So when they got aboard of the Admiral’s,
He hanged fat Jack and flogged Jimmee;
But as for little Bill he made him
The Captain of a Seventy-three.

William Makepeace Thackeray

He rode till he came to Wilson Hall,
There he rapped, and loud did call;
Mistress Ann came down straightway,
And asked him what he had to say.
“Don’t you know me, Mistress Ann?
I am Dicky of Ballyman;
An honest lad, though I am poor,—
I never was in love before.
“I have an uncle, the best of friends,
Sometimes to me a fat rabbit he sends;
And many other dainty fowl,
To please my life, my joy, my soul.
“Sometimes I reap, sometimes I mow,
And to the market I do go,
To sell my father’s corn and hay,—
I earn my sixpence every day!”
“Oh, Dicky! you go beneath your mark,—
You only wander in the dark;
Sixpence a day will never do,
I must have silks, and satins, too!
“Besides, Dicky, I must have tea
For my breakfast, every day;
And after dinner a bottle of wine,—
For without it I cannot dine.”

“If on fine clothes our money is spent,
Pray how shall my lord be paid his rent?
He’ll expect it when ’tis due,—
Believe me, what I say is true.
“As for tea, good stirabout
Will do far better, I make no doubt;
And spring water, when you dine,
Is far wholesomer than wine.
“Potatoes, too, are very nice food,—
I don’t know any half so good:
You may have them boiled or roast,
Whichever way you like them most.”
This gave the company much delight,
And made them all to laugh outright;
So Dicky had no more to say,
But saddled his dapple and rode away.
Diddle dum di, diddle dum do,
Diddle dum di, diddle dum do!

Out spoke the ancient Fisherman,—“Oh! what as that, my daughter?”
“’T was nothing but a pebble, sir, I threw into the water.”
“And what is that, pray tell me, love, that paddles off so fast?”
“It’s nothing but a porpoise, sir, that’s been a swimming past.”
Out spoke the ancient Fisherman,—“Now bring me my harpoon!
I’ll get into my fishing-boat, and fix the fellow soon.”
Down fell that pretty innocent, as falls a snow-white lamb,
Her hair drooped round her pallid cheeks, like seaweed on a clam.
Alas, for those two loving ones! she waked not from her swound,
And he was taken with the cramp, and in the waves was drowned;
But Fate has metamorphosed them, in pity of their woe,
And now they keep an oyster-shop for Mermaids down below.

Oliver Wendell Holmes

Modern, anon.

“By my soul! honest fellow, the truth thou hast spoke,”
And straight he sat down with the Tinkler to joke;
They drank to the King, and they pledged to each other;
Who’d seen ’em had thought they were brother and brother.
As they were a-drinking the King pleased to say,
“What news, honest fellow? come tell me, I pray?”
“There’s nothing of news, beyond that I hear
The King’s on the border a-chasing the deer.
“And truly I wish I so happy may be
Whilst he is a-hunting the King I might see;
For although I’ve travelled the land many ways
I never have yet seen a King in my days.”
The King, with a hearty brisk laughter, replied
“I tell thee, good fellow, if thou canst but ride,
Thou shalt get up behind me, and I will thee bring
To the presence of Jamie, thy sovereign King.”
“But he’ll be surrounded with nobles so gay,
And how shall we tell him from them, sir, I pray?”
“Thou’lt easily ken him when once thou art there;
The King will be covered, his nobles all bare.”

He got up behind him and likewise his sack,
His budget of leather, and tools at his back;
They rode till they came to the merry Greenwood,
His nobles came round him, bareheaded they stood.
The Tinkler then seeing so many appear,
He slily did whisper the King in his ear;
Saying, “They’re all clothed so gloriously gay,
But which amongst them is the King, sir, I pray?”
The King did with hearty good laughter, reply,
“By my soul! my good fellow, it’s thou or it’s I!
The rest are bareheaded, uncovered all round”—
With his bag and his budget he fell to the ground,
Like one that was frightened quite out of his wits,
Then on his knees he instantly gets,
Beseeching for mercy; the King to him said,
“Thou art a good fellow, so be not afraid.
“Come, tell thy name.” “I am John of the Dale,
A mender of kettles, a lover of ale.”
“Rise up, Sir John, I will honour thee here,—
I make thee a Knight of three thousand a year!”
This was a good thing for the Tinkler indeed;
Then unto the Court he was sent for with speed,
Where great store of pleasure and pastime was seen,
In the royal presence of King and of Queen.
Sir John of the Dale he has land, he has fee,
At the Court of the King who so happy as he?
Yet still in his hall hangs the Tinkler’s old sack,
And the budget of tools which he bore at his back.

In garments fit for such a life
The good King Alfred went,
Ragged and torn as from his back
The beggar his clothes had rent.
A sword and buckler good and strong,
To give Jack Sauce a rap;
And on his head, instead of a crown,
He wore a Monmouth cap.
Thus coasting thorough Somersetshire:
Near Newton-Court he met
A shepherd swain of lusty limb,
That up and down did jet:
He wore a bonnet of good grey,
Close-buttoned to his chin;
And at his back a leather scrip,
With much good meat therein.
“God speed, good Shepherd,” quoth the King
“I come to be thy guest,
To taste of thy good victuals here,
And drink that’s of the best.
“Thy scrip, I know hath cheer good store”:
“What then?” the Shepherd said,
“Thou seem’st to be some sturdy thief,
And mak’st me sore afraid.

“Yet if thou wilt thy dinner win,
Thy sword and buckler take:
And, if thou canst, into my scrip
Therewith an entrance make.
“I tell thee, roister, it hath store
Of beef and bacon fat,
With sheaves of barley-bread to make
Thy chaps to water at!
“Here stands my bottle, here my bag,
If thou canst win them, roister;
Against thy sword and buckler here,
My sheep-hook is my master.”
“Benedicite!” quoth our good King
“It never shall be said,
That Alfred, of the Shepherd’s hook,
Will stand a whit afraid.”
So foundly thus they both fell to ‘t,
And giving bang for bang;
At ev’ry blow the Shepherd gave
King Alfred’s sword cried twang!
His buckler proved his chiefest fence;
For still the Shepherd’s hook
Was that the which King Alfred could
In no good manner brook.

At last, when they had fought four hours,
And it grew just midday,
And wearied both, with right good will,
Desired each other’s stay:
“A truce, I crave,” quoth Alfred then
“Good Shepherd, hold thy hand,
A sturdier fellow than thyself
Lives not within the land!”
“Nor a lustier roister than thou art,”
The churlish Shepherd said;
“To tell thee plain, thy thievish look
Now makes my heart afraid.
“Else sure thou art some prodigal,
Which hast consumed thy store,
And now com’st wand’ring in this place
To rob and steal for more.”
“Deem not of me, then,” quoth our King,
“Good Shepherd, in this sort.
A gentleman well known I am
In good King Alfred’s Court.”

PART II—WHEREIN KING ALFRED BECOMES
A SHEPHERD

“The Devil thou art!” the Shepherd said,
“Thou go’st in rags all torn;
Thou rather seem’st, I think, to be
Some beggar basely born.

“But if thou wilt mend thy estate,
And here a shepherd be;
At night, to Gillian, my sweet wife,
Thou shalt go home with me:
“For she’s as good a toothless dame
As mumbleth on brown bread;
Where thou shalt lie in hurden sheets,
Upon a fresh straw bed.
“Of whig and whey we have good store,
And keep good pease-straw fire;
And now and then good barley cakes,
As better days require.
“But for my master, which is Chief
And Lord of Newton-Court,
He keeps, I say, his shepherd swains
In far more braver sort;
“We there have curds and clouted cream
Of red cow’s morning milk;
And now and then fine buttered cakes
As soft as any silk.
“Of beef and reifed bacon store,
That is most fat and greasy,
We have likewise, to feed our chaps
And make them glib and easy.

“Thus if thou wilt my man become,
This usage thou shalt have;
If not, adieu; go hang thyself;
And so farewell, Sir Knave.”
King Alfred hearing of this glee
The churlish Shepherd said,
Was well content to be his man;
So they a bargain made;
A penny round the Shepherd gave
In earnest of this match,
To keep his sheep in field and fold,
As shepherds use to watch.
His wages shall be full ten groats,
For service of a year,
Yet was it not his use, old lad,
To hire a man so dear:
“For, did the King himself,” quoth he,
“Unto my cottage come,
He should not, for a twelve-month’s pay,
Receive a greater sum.”

PART III—WHEREIN KING ALFRED BURNS THE CAKES

Hereat the bonny King grew blithe,
To hear the clownish jest;
How silly sots, as custom is,
Do descant at the best.

But not to spoil the foolish sport,
He was content, good King,
To fit the Shepherd’s humour right
In ev’ry kind of thing.
A sheep-hook then, with Patch his dog,
And tar-box by his side;
He, with his master, cheek by jowl,
Unto old Gillian hied,
Into whose sight no sooner come,
“Whom have you here?” quoth she,
“A fellow, I doubt, will cut our throats,
So like a knave looks he.”
“Not so, old Dame,” quoth Alfred straight,
“Of me you need not fear;
My master hired me for ten groats,
To serve you one whole year:
“So, good Dame Gillian, grant me leave
Within your house to stay;
For, by St. Anne, do what you can,
I will not yet away.”
Her churlish usage pleased him still,
And put him to such proof,
That he at night was almost choked
Within that smoky roof.

But as he sat with smiling cheer
The event of all to see,
His dame brought forth a piece of dough
Which in the fire throws she.
Where lying on the hearth to bake,
By chance, the cake did burn:
“What! canst thou not, thou lout,” quoth she,
“Take pains the same to turn?
“Thou art more quick to take it out,
And eat it up half dough,
Than thus to stay till’t be enough,
And so thy manners show!
“But serve me such another trick,
I’ll thwack thee on the snout:”
Which made the patient King, poor man,
Of her to stand in doubt.

PART IV—WHEREIN KING ALFRED BLOWS HIS
BUGLE-HORN

But, to be brief, to bed they went
The old man and his wife;
But never such a lodging had
King Alfred in his life!
For he was laid in white sheep’s wool,
New-pulled from tanned fells;
And o’er his head hanged spiders’ webs
As if they had been bells.

“Is this the country guise?” thought he,
“Then here I will not stay,
But hence be gone, as soon as breaks
The peeping of next day!”
The cackling hens and geese kept roost,
And perched at his side;
Where, at the last, the watchful cock
Made known the morning tide.
Then up got Alfred, with his horn,
And blew so long a blast,
That it made Gillian and her groom,
In bed, full sore aghast.
“Arise,” quoth she, “We are undone!
This night we lodged have,
At unawares, within our house,
A false dissembling knave.
“Rise! husband, rise! he’ll cut our throats!
He calleth for his mates.
I’d give, old Will, our good cade lamb,
He would depart our gates!”
But still King Alfred blew his horn,
Before them, more and more,
Till that an hundred Lords and Knights
All lighted at the door.

Who cried, “All hail! all hail, good King!
Long have we sought your Grace!”
“And here you find, my merry men all,
Your Sov’reign in this place.”
“We surely must be hanged up both,
Old Gillian, I much fear,”
The Shepherd said, “for using thus,
Our good King Alfred here.”
“Oh, pardon, my Liege!” quoth Gillian then,
“For my husband, and for me.
By these ten bones, I never thought
The same that now I see!”
“And by my hook,” the Shepherd said,
“An oath both good and true!
Before this time, O noble King,
I ne’er your Highness knew!
“Then pardon me and my old wife,
That we may after say,
When first you came into our house,
It was a happy day.”
“It shall be done,” said Alfred straight,
“And Gillian, thy old dame,
For this her churlish using me,
Deserveth not much blame;

“For ’tis thy country guise, I see,
To be thus bluntish still,
And where the plainest meaning is,
Remains the smallest ill.
“And, Master, lo! I tell thee now;
For thy late manhood shown,
A thousand wethers I’ll bestow
Upon thee, for thy own;
“And pasture-ground, as much as will
Suffice to feed them all:
And this thy cottage, I will change
Into a stately hall.”
“And for the same, as duty binds,”
The Shepherd said, “good King,
A milk-white lamb, once ev’ry year,
I’ll to your Highness bring:
“And Gillian, my wife, likewise,
Of wool to make you coats,
Will give you as much at New Year’s tide,
As shall be worth ten groats.
“And in your praise my bag-pipes shall
Sound sweetly once a year,
How Alfred, our renowned King,
Most kindly hath been here.”

“Thanks, Shepherd, thanks,” quoth he again:
“The next time I come hither,
My Lords with me, here in this house,
Will all be merry together.”


                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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