The Massacre of the Macpherson.

[from the gaelic.]

Fhairshon swore a feud
Against the clan M’Tavish;
Marched into their land
To murder and to rafish;

For he did resolve
To extirpate the vipers,
With four-and-twenty men
And five-and-thirty pipers.

II.

But when he had gone
Half-way down Strath Canaan,
Of his fighting tail
Just three were remainin’.
They were all he had,
To back him in ta battle;
All the rest had gone
Off, to drive ta cattle.

III.

“Fery coot!” cried Fhairshon,
“So my clan disgraced is;
Lads, we’ll need to fight,
Pefore we touch the peasties.

Here’s Mhic-Mac-Methusaleh
Coming wi’ his fassals,
Gillies seventy-three,
And sixty Dhuinéwassails!”

IV.

“Coot tay to you, sir;
Are you not ta Fhairshon?
Was you coming here
To fisit any person?
You are a plackguard, sir!
It is now six hundred
Coot long years, and more,
Since my glen was plundered.”

“Fat is tat you say?
Dare you cock your peaver?
I will teach you, sir,
Fat is coot pehaviour!

You shall not exist
For another day more;
I will shoot you, sir,
Or stap you with my claymore!”

VI.

“I am fery glad,
To learn what you mention,
Since I can prevent
Any such intention.”
So Mhic-Mac-Methusaleh
Gave some warlike howls,
Trew his skhian-dhu,
An’ stuck it in his powels.

VII.

In this fery way
Tied ta faliant Fhairshon,
Who was always thought
A superior person.

Fhairshon had a son,
Who married Noah’s daughter,
And nearly spoiled ta Flood,
By trinking up ta water:

VIII.

Which he would have done,
I at least pelieve it,
Had ta mixture peen
Only half Glenlivet.
This is all my tale:
Sirs, I hope ’tis new t’ye!
Here’s your fery good healths,
And tamn ta whusky duty!

[The six following Poems were among those forwarded to the Home Secretary, by the unsuccessful competitors for the Laureateship, on its becoming vacant by the death of Southey. How they came into our possession is a matter between Sir James Graham and ourselves. The result of the contest could never have been doubtful, least of all to the great poet who then succeeded to the bays. His own sonnet on the subject is full of the serene consciousness of superiority, which does not even admit the idea of rivalry, far less of defeat.

Bays! which in former days have graced the brow
Of some, who lived and loved, and sang and died;
Leaves that were gathered on the pleasant side
Of old Parnassus from Apollo’s bough;
With palpitating hand I take thee now,
Since worthier minstrel there is none beside,
And with a thrill of song half deified,
I bind them proudly on my locks of snow.
There shall they bide, till he who follows next,
Of whom I cannot even guess the name,
Shall by Court favour, or some vain pretext
Of fancied merit, desecrate the same,—
And think, perchance, he wears them quite as well
As the sole bard who sang of Peter Bell!]

The above note, which appeared in the first and subsequent editions of this volume, is characteristic of the audacious spirit of fun in which Bon Gaultier revelled. The sonnet here ascribed to Wordsworth must have been believed by some matter-of-fact people to be really by him. On his death in 1857, in an article on the subject of the vacant Laureate-ship, it was quoted in a leading journal as proof of Wordsworth’s complacent estimate of his own supremacy over all contemporary poets. In writing the sonnet I was well aware that there was some foundation for his not unjust high appreciation of his own prowess, as the phrase “sole bard” pretty clearly indicates, but I never dreamt that any one would fail to see the joke.

The Laureates’ Tourney.

by the hon. t--- b--- m---.

FYTTE THE FIRST.

“What news, what news, thou pilgrim grey, what news from southern land?
How fare the bold Conservatives, how is it with Ferrand?
How does the little Prince of Wales—how looks our lady Queen?
And tell me, is the monthly nurse once more at Windsor seen?”

“I bring no tidings from the Court, nor from St Stephen’s hall;
I’ve heard the thundering tramp of horse, and the trumpet’s battle-call;

And these old eyes have seen a fight, which England ne’er hath seen,
Since fell King Richard sobbed his soul through blood on Bosworth Green.

‘He’s dead, he’s dead, the Laureate’s dead!’ ’Twas thus the cry began,
And straightway every garret-roof gave up its minstrel man;
From Grub Street, and from Houndsditch, and from Farringdon Within,
The poets all towards Whitehall poured on with eldritch din.

Loud yelled they for Sir James the Graham: [157] but sore afraid was he;
A hardy knight were he that might face such a minstrelsie.
‘Now by St Giles of Netherby, my patron Saint, I swear,
I’d rather by a thousand crowns Lord Palmerston were here!—

‘What is’t ye seek, ye rebel knaves—what make you there beneath?’
‘The bays, the bays! we want the bays! we seek the laureate wreath!
We seek the butt of generous wine that cheers the sons of song;
Choose thou among us all, Sir Knight—we may not tarry long!’

Loud laughed the good Sir James in scorn—‘Rare jest it were, I think,
But one poor butt of Xeres, and a thousand rogues to drink!
An’ if it flowed with wine or beer, ’tis easy to be seen,
That dry within the hour would be the well of Hippocrene.

‘Tell me, if on Parnassus’ heights there grow a thousand sheaves:
Or has Apollo’s laurel bush yet borne ten hundred leaves?

Or if so many leaves were there, how long would they sustain
The ravage and the glutton bite of such a locust train?

‘No! get ye back into your dens, take counsel for the night,
And choose me out two champions to meet in deadly fight;
To-morrow’s dawn shall see the lists marked out in Spitalfields,
And he who wins shall have the bays, and he shall die who yields!’

Down went the window with a crash,—in silence and in fear
Each raggèd bard looked anxiously upon his neighbour near;
Then up and spake young Tennyson—‘Who’s here that fears for death?
’Twere better one of us should die, than England lose the wreath!

‘Let’s cast the lot among us now, which two shall fight to-morrow;—
For armour bright we’ll club our mite, and horses we can borrow;
’Twere shame that bards of France should sneer, and German Dichters too,
If none of British song might dare a deed of derring-do!’

‘The lists of Love are mine,’ said Moore, ‘and not the lists of Mars;’
Said Hunt, ‘I seek the jars of wine, but shun the combat’s jars!’
‘I’m old,’ quoth Samuel Rogers.—‘Faith,’ says Campbell, ‘so am I!’
‘And I’m in holy orders, sir!’ quoth Tom of Ingoldsby.

‘Now out upon ye, craven loons!’ cried Moxon, [160] good at need,—
‘Bide, if ye will, secure at home, and sleep while others bleed.

I second Alfred’s motion, boys,—let’s try the chance of lot;
And monks shall sing, and bells shall ring, for him that goes to pot.’

Eight hundred minstrels slunk away—two hundred stayed to draw,—
Now Heaven protect the daring wight that pulls the longest straw!
’Tis done! ’tis done! And who hath won? Keep silence one and all,—
The first is William Wordsworth hight, the second Ned Fitzball!

FYTTE THE SECOND.

Oh, bright and gay hath dawned the day on lordly Spitalfields,—
How flash the rays with ardent blaze from polished helms and shields!
On either side the chivalry of England throng the green,
And in the middle balcony appears our gracious Queen.

With iron fists, to keep the lists, two valiant knights appear,
The Marquis Hal of Waterford, and stout Sir Aubrey Vere.
‘What ho! there, herald, blow the trump! Let’s see who comes to claim
The butt of golden Xeres, and the Laureate’s honoured name!’

That instant dashed into the lists, all armed from head to heel,
On courser brown, with vizor down, a warrior sheathed in steel;
Then said our Queen—‘Was ever seen so stout a knight and tall?
His name—his race?’—‘An’t please your grace, it is the brave Fitzball. [162]

‘Oft in the Melodrama line his prowess hath been shown,
And well throughout the Surrey side his thirst for blood is known.

But see, the other champion comes!’—Then rang the startled air
With shouts of ‘Wordsworth, Wordsworth, ho! the bard of Rydal’s there.’

And lo! upon a little steed, unmeet for such a course,
Appeared the honoured veteran; but weak seemed man and horse.
Then shook their ears the sapient peers,—‘That joust will soon be done:
My Lord of Brougham, I’ll back Fitzball, and give you two to one!’

‘Done,’ quoth the Brougham,—‘And done with you!’ ‘Now, Minstrels, are you ready?’
Exclaimed the Lord of Waterford,—‘You’d better both sit steady.
Blow, trumpets, blow the note of charge! and forward to the fight!’
‘Amen!’ said good Sir Aubrey Vere; ‘Saint Schism defend the right!’

As sweeps the blast against the mast when blows the furious squall,
So started at the trumpet’s sound the terrible Fitzball;
His lance he bore his breast before,—Saint George protect the just!
Or Wordsworth’s hoary head must roll along the shameful dust!

‘Who threw that calthrop? Seize the knave!’ Alas! the deed is done;
Down went the steed, and o’er his head flew bright Apollo’s son.
‘Undo his helmet! cut the lace! pour water on his head!’
‘It ain’t no use at all, my lord; ’cos vy? the covey’s dead!’

Above him stood the Rydal bard—his face was full of woe.
‘Now there thou liest, stiff and stark, who never feared a foe:

A braver knight, or more renowned in tourney and in hall,
Ne’er brought the upper gallery down than terrible Fitzball!’

They led our Wordsworth to the Queen—she crowned him with the bays,
And wished him many happy years, and many quarter-days;
And if you’d have the story told by abler lips than mine,
You’ve but to call at Rydal Mount, and taste the Laureate’s wine!”