Part the First.
There is weeping and wailing in Allinghame Hall,
From many an eye does the tear-drop fall,
Swollen with sorrow is many a lip,
Many a nose is red at the tip;
All the shutters are shut very tight,
To keep out the wind and to keep out the light;
While a couple of mutes,
With very black suits,
And extremely long faces,
Have taken their places
With an air of professional esprit de corps,
One on each side of the great hall door.
On the gravel beyond, in a wonderful state
Of black velvet and feathers, a grand hearse, and eight
Magnificent horses, the orders await
Of a spruce undertaker,
Who’s come from Long Acre,
To furnish a coffin, and do the polite
To the corpse of Sir Reginald Allinghame, Knight.
The lamented deceased whose funeral arrangement
I’ve just been describing, resembled that strange gent
Who ventured to falsely imprison a great man,
Viz. the Ottoman captor of noble Lord Bateman;
For we’re told in that ballad, which makes our eyes water,
That this terrible Turk had got one only daughter;
And although our good knight had twice seen twins arrive, a
Young lady named Maude was the only survivor.
So there being no entail
On some horrid heir-male,
And no far-away cousin or distant relation
To lay claim to the lands and commence litigation,
’Tis well known through the county, by each one and all,
That fair Maude is the heiress of Allinghame Hall.
Yes! she was very fair to view;
Mark well that forehead’s ivory hue,
That speaking eye, whose glance of pride
The silken lashes scarce can hide,
E’en when, as now, its wonted fire
Is paled with weeping o’er her sire;
Those scornful lips that part to show
The pearl-like teeth in even row,
That dimpled chin, so round and fair,
The clusters of her raven hair,
Whose glossy curls their shadow throw
O’er her smooth brow and neck of snow;
The faultless hand, the ankle small,
The figure more than woman tall,
And yet so graceful, sculptor’s art
Such symmetry could ne’er impart.
Observe her well, and then confess
The power of female loveliness,
And say, “Except a touch of vice
One may descry
About the eye,
Rousing a Caudle-ish recollection,
Which might perchance upon reflection
Turn out a serious objection,
That gal would make “a heavenly splice.”
From far and wide
On every side
The county did many a suitor ride,
Who, wishing to marry, determined to call
And propose for the heiress of Allinghame Hall.
Knights who’d gathered great fame in
Stabbing, cutting, and maiming
The French and their families
At Blenheim and Ramilies,
In promiscuous manslaughter
T’other side of the water,
Very eagerly sought her;
Yet, though presents they brought her,
And fain would have taught her
To fancy they loved her, not one of them caught her.
Maude received them all civilly, asked them to dine,
Gave them capital venison, and excellent wine,
But declared, when they popp’d, that she’d really no notion
They’d had serious intentions—she owned their devotion
Was excessively flattering—quite touching—in fact
She was grieved at the part duty forced her to act;
Still her recent bereavement—her excellent father—
(Here she took out her handkerchief) yes, she had rather—
Rather not (here she sobbed) say a thing so unpleasant,
But she’d made up her mind not to marry at present.
Might she venture to hope that she still should retain
Their friendship?—to lose that would cause her such pain.
Would they like to take supper?—she feared etiquette,
A thing not to be set
At defiance by one in her sad situation,
Having no “Maiden Aunt,” or old moral relation
Of orthodox station,
Whose high reputation,
And prim notoriety,
Should inspire society
With a very deep sense of the strictest propriety;
Such a relative wanting, she feared, so she said,
Etiquette must prevent her from offering a bed;
But the night was so fine—just the thing for a ride—
Must they go? Well, good-bye,—and here once more she sighed;
Then a last parting smile on the suitor she threw,
And thus, having “let him down easy,” withdrew,
While the lover rode home with an indistinct notion
That somehow he’d not taken much by his motion.
Young Lord Dandelion,
An illustrious scion,
A green sprig of nobility,
Whose excessive gentility
I fain would describe if I had but ability,—
This amiable lordling, being much in the state
I’ve described, i. e. going home at night rather late,
Having got his congé
(As a Frenchman would say)
From the heiress, with whom he’d been anxious to mate,
Is jogging along, in a low state of mind,
When a horseman comes rapidly up from behind,
And a voice in his ear
Shouts in tones round and clear,
“Ho, there! stand and deliver! your money or life!”
While some murderous weapon, a pistol or knife,
Held close to his head,
As these words are being said,
Glitters cold in the moonlight, and fills him with dread.
Now I think you will own,
That when riding alone
On the back of a horse, be it black, white, or roan,
Or chestnut, or bay,
Or piebald, or grey,
Or dun-brown (though a notion my memory crosses
That ’tis asses are usually done brown, not horses),
When on horseback, I say, in the dead of the night,
Nearly dark, if not quite,
In despite of the light
Of the moon shining bright-
ish—yes, not more than -ish, for the planet’s cold rays I
’ve been told on this night were unusually hazy—
With no one in sight,
To the left or the right,
Save a well-mounted highwayman fully intent
On obtaining your money, as Dan did his rent,
By bullying, an odd sort of annual pleasantry
That “Repaler” played off on the finest of peasantry;
In so awkward a fix I should certainly say,
By far the best way
Is to take matters easy, and quietly pay;
The alternative being that the robber may treat us
To a couple of bullets by way of quietus;
Thus applying our brains, if perchance we have got any,
In this summary mode to the study of botany,
By besprinkling the leaves, and the grass, and the flowers,
With the source of our best intellectual powers,
And, regardless of habeas corpus, creating
A feast for the worms, which are greedily waiting
Till such time as any gent
Quits this frail tenement,
And adopting a shroud as his sole outer garment,
Becomes food for worms, slugs, and all such-like varmint.
My Lord Dandelion,
That illustrious scion,
Not possessing the pluck of the bold hero Brian,
(Of whom Irishmen rave till one murmurs “how true
Is the brute’s patronymic of Brian Bore you”),
Neither feeling inclined,
Nor having a mind
To be shot by a highwayman, merely said “Eh?
Aw—extwemely unpleasant—aw—take it, sir, pway;”
And without further parley his money resigned.
Away! away!
With a joyous neigh,
Bounds the highwayman’s steed, like a colt at play;
And a merry laugh rings loud and clear,
On the terrified drum of his trembling ear,
While the following words doth his lordship hear:—
“Unlucky, my lord; unlucky, I know,
For the money to go
And the heiress say ‘No,’
On the self-same day, is a terrible blow.
When next you visit her, good my lord,
Give the highwayman’s love to fair Mistress Maude!”
Away! away!
On his gallant grey
My Lord Dandelion,
That unfortunate scion,
Gallops as best he may;
And as he rides he mutters low,
“Insolent fellar, how did he know?”
In the stable department of Allinghame Hall
There’s the devil to pay,
As a body may say,
And no assets forthcoming to answer the call;
For the head groom, Roger,
A knowing old codger,
In a thundering rage,
Which nought can assuage,
Most excessively cross is
With the whole stud of horses,
While he viciously swears
At the fillies and mares;
He bullies the helpers, he kicks all the boys,
Upsets innocent pails with superfluous noise;
Very loudly doth fret and incessantly fume,
And behaves, in a word,
In a way most absurd,
More befitting a madman, by far, than a groom,
Till at length he finds vent
For his deep discontent
In the following soliloquy:—“I’m blest if this is
To be stood any longer; I’ll go and tell Missis;
If she don’t know some dodge as’ll stop this here rig,
Vy then, dash my vig,
This here werry morning
I jest gives her warning,
If I don’t I’m a Dutchman, or summut as worse is.”
Then, after a short obligato of curses,
Just to let off the steam, Roger dons his best clothes,
And seeks his young mistress his griefs to disclose.
“Please your Ladyship’s Honour,
I’ve come here upon a
Purtiklar rum business going on in the stable,
Vich, avake as I am, I ain’t no how been able
To get at the truth on:—the last thing each night
I goes round all the ’orses to see as they’re right,—
And they alvays is right too, as far as I see,
Cool, k’viet, and clean, just as ’orses should be,—
Then, furst thing ev’ry morning agen I goes round,
To see as the cattle is all safe and sound.
’Twas nigh three veeks ago, or perhaps rather more,
Ven vun morning, as usual, I unlocks the door,—
(Tho’ I ought to ha’ mentioned I alvays does lock it,
And buttons the key in my right breeches pocket)—
I opens the door, Marm, and there vas Brown Bess,
Your ladyship’s mare, in a horribul mess;
Reg’lar kivered all over vith sveat, foam, and lather,
Laying down in her stall—sich a sight for a father!
Vhile a saddle and bridle, as hung there kvite clean
Over night, was all mud and not fit to be seen;
And, to dock a long tale, since that day thrice a-week,
Or four times, perhaps, more or less, so to speak,
I’ve diskivered that thare,
Identical mare,
Or else the black Barb, vich, perhaps you’ll remember
Vas brought here from over the seas last September,
In the state I describes, as if fairies or vitches
Had rode ’em all night over hedges and ditches;
If this here’s to go on (and I’m sure I don’t know
How to stop it), I tells you at vunce, I must go;
Yes, although I’ve lived here
A good twenty-five year,
I am sorry to say (for I knows what your loss is)
You must get some vun else to look arter your ’orses.”
Roger’s wonderful tale
Seemed of little avail,
For Maude neither fainted, nor screamed, nor turned pale,
But she signed with her finger to bid him draw near;
And cried, “Roger, come here,
I’ve a word for your ear;”
Then she whispered so low
That I really don’t know
What it was that she said, but it seemed apropos
And germane to the matter;
For though Roger stared at her,
With mouth wide asunder,
Extended by wonder,
Ere she ended, his rage appeared wholly brought under,
Insomuch that the groom,
When he quitted the room,
Louted low, and exclaimed, with a grin of delight,
“Your Ladyship’s Honour’s a gentleman quite!”
’Tis reported, that night, at the sign of “The Goat,”
Roger the groom changed a £20 note.