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?