The bells rang out a triple bob:
Oh, how our widow's heart did throb,
As thus she heard their burden go,
"Marry, mar-marry, mar-Guillot!"
Bells were not then left to hang idle:
A week,—and they rang for her bridal.
But, woe the while, they might as well
Have rung the poor dame's parting knell.
The rosy dimples left her cheek,
She lost her beauties plump and sleek;
For Guillot oftener kicked than kissed,
And backed his orders with his fist,
Proving by deeds as well as words
That servants make the worst of lords.
She seeks the priest, her ire to wreak,
And speaks as angry women speak,
With tiger looks and bosom swelling,
Cursing the hour she took his telling.
To all, his calm reply was this,—
"I fear you've read the bells amiss:
If they have led you wrong in aught,
Your wish, not they, inspired the thought.
Just go, and mark well what they say."
Off trudged the dame upon her way,
And sure enough their chime went so,—
"Don't have that knave, that knave Guillot!"
"Too true," she cried, "there's not a doubt
What could my ears have been about?"
She had forgot, that, as fools think,
The bell is ever sure to clink.
THE DEATH OF ISHMAEL.
[This and the six following poems are examples of that new achievement of modern song—which, blending the utile with the dulce, symbolises at once the practical and spiritual characteristics of the age,—and is called familiarly "the puff poetical.">[