Number 1 was a follower of the classic models, and rendered the story in Homeric fashion.
Attend, ye Nine! and aid me, while I sing
The cruel fate of two whom heaven’s dread king
Hurled headlong to their doom. Scarce had the sun
His blazing course for one brief hour run
When Jack arose and radiant climbed the mount
To where beneath the summit sprang the fount.
Nor went he single; Jill, the beauteous maid,
Danced at his side, and took his proffered aid.
Together went they, pail in hand, and sang
Their love songs till the leafy valleys rang.
Alas! the fount scarce reached, the heedless swain
Turned on his foot and slipped and turned again.
Then fell he headlong: and the woe-struck maid,
Jealous of his fell doom, a moment stayed
And watched him; then to the depths she rushed
And shared his fate. Behold them, mangled, crushed.
Weep, oh my muse! for Jack, for Jill your tears outpour,
For hand-in-hand they’ll climb the hill no more.
After this somewhat severe version of the story it is a relief to turn to the lighter rendering of the same affecting theme by Number 2. Number 2 was evidently an admirer of that species of poetry which begins everything at the wrong end, and seems to expect the reader to assist the poet in understanding what it is the latter is driving at.
What’s the matter, Jack? Lost your head, poor wight!
I always told you the block wasn’t screwed on too tight.
Tumbled? Is that it? It’s a mercy you lit on your head.
Nothing brittle in that;—if you’d come on your feet instead—
Broke it? No, never! You have? I knew it was slightly cracked:
Never mind that there was nought to come out—that’s a comforting fact!
What! two of you? Who is the other? Not Jill, I declare!
Is her head cracked too? On my word, you’re a pair.
Have I seen a pail lying about? Why, no, I have not.
Pails don’t grow wild on this hill—that is, that I wot.
Oh, you dropped it, you did? Oh, I see, ’twas your pail,
And it tumbled you both o’er the rock? That’s your tale.
It may turn up somewhere, perhaps. So you fell
Off the edge of the path that leads up to the well?
Well, all’s well that ends well, at least so ’tis said;
But next time you’d better stay down, and try to fall uphill instead.
Some of us at the time thought highly of this performance. I remember one fellow saying that Number 2 seemed to have caught the spirit of Mr Browning without his vagueness, which was a very great compliment.
Number 3’s poetry ran chiefly in dramatic lines. He therefore boldly threw the narrative into dialogue form:—
Shepherdess.—Alas, my Jack is dead!
Shepherd.—I mourn for lovely Jill.
Both.—A common fate o’ertook them on the hill.
Shepherdess.—I watched them go—him and the hateful minx.