THE GOBLIN GROOM.
Introduction to Canto Second.
TO BENJAMIN BUFFET,
BUTLER TO HIS GRACE THE D—OF B— —H.
Edinburgh.
The cracking cork has pleased my ear,
Has silenced grief, has banished fear;
Has made dark winter’s dreary night
Seem to my senses noonday bright.
December’s cold was then forgot;
The wine was good, the fire was hot:
Thus many a heedless evening flew,
In table-talk, dear Ben, with you.
Though mentioned last in mintrel’s lay,
First in my heart you hold the sway:
For love and interest must combine;
And you are love, and interest wine:
And what must make you still more dear,
They say you have your master’s ear;
And if this rumour, Ben, be true,
Speak well of me to bold B— —h.
Pleasing to me is every scene,
Where, with my dearest friends, I’ve been.
I love the green, I love the grove,
The cavern vast, the neat alcove,
The mountain high, the valley low,
The scenes of friendship all may show.
These scenes I’ve loved, and still adore,
But, Oh! I love the pantry more.
There have I sat, there have I sung,
Have twirled a cork, or rolled a bung;
As infant fancy played her part,
That was a coach, this was a cart.
Those were the days of childish youth,
That promised parts, that promised truth;
For fancy shewed herself in play,
E’en in my earliest infant day:
When older grown, the pantry still
Was dear to me, against my will.
What there was done, I may not tell;
It might not please your master well;
So please me joy, or pierce me woe,
The bold B— —h shall never know.
Enough, the claret is not there;
But you and I both had a share.
And joy, you know, by danger bought,
Is always sweeter, dearer thought:
Regrets for past mistakes are vain,
And pleasure often follows pain.
Pleasure is but an empty sound,
And surely never yet was found:
It reigns but in the poet’s brain;
Reality is always pain:
And reasoning thus, it is my plan,
To be as merry as I can:
And though they say the claret went,
I don’t repine, I won’t repent.
It scarcely seems a summer’s day,
Though years and years have past away,
Since in the pantry’s snug retreat,
I, at the fire, first took my seat.
Oh! how I loved those moments dear;
Oh! how your lessons pleased my ear.
How oft you spoke of N— —k’s tower,
Forgetful of the midnight hour;
Of noble dames, of valiant knights,
Of bloody fields, and listed fights;
Of ancient manners, past and fled;
How S—tts, victorious, fought and bled;
In every combat, strife, or fight,
S—tt was victorious, S—tt was right.
And said I to myself, that they
Shall one time hear my minstrel lay:
That all my powers should then combine,
To praise B— —h’s illustrious line.
Yet whilst I sing the noble race,
My humbler friend shall have a place.
What though the oak be grand to see?
The humbler shrub is dear to me.
The sturdy oak unused to bend,
Too stately looks to be my friend.
So I’m content, and amply paid,
To crouch beneath the expansive shade.
There, wondring at the form sublime,
To friendship’s heights, I dare not climb;
And so I tune my humbler lays,
To notes of wonder, notes of praise.
And thus the minstrel’s efforts tend,
To claim a patron, not a friend.
In you, dear Ben, the shrub I see,
That lowly bows his head like me:
And thus I choose thee for my friend;
For both alike are doomed to bend:
And whilst we bend, and whilst we bow,
The adverse winds may rage and blow.
We need not fear misfortune’s stroke,
While couched beneath the stately oak:
And may that oak long live and last,
That guards us from misfortune’s blast.
Dear Ben, the oak shall have his due,
If bows, and flattering praise will do.
And those, you know, who bow and bend,
Ne’er want a patron, or a friend.