  A LAY OF THE GUNPOWDER PLOT.
They've done their task, and every cask Is piled within the cell: They've heaped the wood in order good, And hid the powder well. And Guido Fawkes, who seldom talks, Remarked with cheerful glee— "The moon is bright—they'll fly by night! Now, sirs, let's turn the key." The wind without blew cold and stout, As though it smelt of snow— But was't the breeze that made the knees Of Tresham tremble so? With ready hand, at Guy's command, He rolled the powder in; But what's the cause that Tresham's jaws Are chattering to the chin? Nor wine nor beer his heart can cheer, As in his chamber lone He walks the plank with heavy clank, And vents the frequent groan. "Alack!" quoth he, "that this should be— Alack, and well-a-day! I had the hope to bring the Pope, But in a different way. "I'd risk a rope to bring the Pope By gradual means and slow; But Guido Fawkes, who seldom talks, Won't let me manage so. That furious man has hatched a plan That must undo us all; He'd blow the Peers unto the spheres, And throne the Cardinal! "It's time I took from other book Than his a saving leaf; I'll do it—yes! I'll e'en confess, Like many a conscious thief. And on the whole, upon my soul, As Garnet used to teach, When human schemes are vain as dreams, 'Tis always best to peach! "My mind's made up!" He drained the cup, Then straightway sate him down, Divulged the whole, whitewashed his soul, And saved the British crown:— Disclosed the walks of Guido Fawkes, And swore, with pious aim, That from the first he thought him cursed, And still opined the same. Poor Guido died, and Tresham eyed His dangling corpse on high; Yet no one durst reflect at first On him who played the spy. Did any want a Protestant, As stiff as a rattan, To rail at home 'gainst priests at Rome— Why, Tresham was their man! 'Twas nothing though he'd kissed the Toe Abroad in various ways, Or managed rather that his wife's father Should bear the blame and praise. Yet somehow men, who knew him when He wooed the Man of Sin, Would slightly sneer, and whisper near, Who rolled the powder in? MORAL. If you, dear youth, are bent on truth In these degenerate days, And if you dare one hour to spare For aught but "Roman Lays;" If, shunning rhymes, you read the Times, And search its columns through, You'll find perhaps that Tresham's lapse Is matched by something new. Our champion John, with armour on, Is ready now to stand (For so we hope) against the Pope, At least on English land. 'Gainst foreign rule and Roman bull He'll fight, and surely win. But—tarry yet—and don't forget Who rolled the powder in! |
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